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.

Jump for Joy: Write a "Ta Da!" List

You're not the boss of me.

You might think that, as a writer, I'd be naturally inclined toward participating in a daily journalling practice and that, without effort, I'd be able to stick to a regular routine, greeting any opportunity to write with abundant enthusiasm!  The truth is that I'm a haphazard, inconsistent journaller, at best.  I'll get in a good groove of writing every night for weeks on end and then suddenly I'll fall off the cliff of responsibilities, descending into the abyss of tasks, emerging many, many weeks later with only a foggy memory of this little book here.  So although I've kept diaries and journals for most of my life, it is not uncommon for me to start entries with "The last three months of my life have been busy.  To recap..."

I've been trying, TRYING, to get back into the habit because I have found that when I stick to it, the practice of taking a few minutes every evening to write about what's going on (AND ALL THE FEELINGS) has an immensely positive impact on my life.  My journal becomes a place to let things out - the good, the bad and the ugly - that I otherwise tend to keep in, and the practice of writing about how I feel about things, and the choices I'm considering making in my life along with their pros and cons, helps me to process what's going on inside my often far-too-busy brain.  When I write in my journal before bed, I sleep better, and wake up with a healthier, more positive outlook on my life and any challenges I'm facing.

When I manage to write in my journal, I make it a point to end my entries with a list of three things I'm grateful for that day.  This is not a revolutionary idea, by any means, and it is backed by scientific research that strongly supports "an association between gratitude and an individual’s well-being."  In my experience, I've found that this exercise alone allows me to gain some perspective and set aside my troubles, at least for the moment.

Recently, though, I've added another exercise to my journalling routine, an exercise that I've come to think of as writing my "Ta Da!" List.  Following my list of the three things I'm grateful for, I write a list of three things I did well that day (Get it?  "I did this!  Ta Da!"  Corny? Yes.  Clever?  If you say so).  My far-too-busy brain is exceptional at drafting long To Do lists but not so great at celebrating the things I actually do and this exercise helps me to do just that.  These accomplishments don't have to be of the climbed-Kilimanjaro variety.  They can be simple, simple things and in fact, I have found that acknowledging the seemingly simplest of my day's accomplishments is the fastest route to a sense of satisfaction and success.

Some examples from my journal of the things I did well: 

• "I washed my face"

• "Laughed and had fun with the girls"

• "Ate healthy things"

• "Stayed calm with my daughter when she was trying my patience"

• "Didn't beat myself up"

• "Went to the park even though I was tired"

• "(Mostly) had a positive attitude!" TA DA! You're welcome, family!

Several years ago, I came across what I consider to be one of my favourite things on the Internet.  In a forum about "things you like to tell or remind yourself about when you have 'woe is me' moments to steer yourself out of self-pity/moments of weakness and back into awesomeness", contributor Zozo offers this gem:

"I start going down a list of my accomplishments. If my mood is particularly crappy, I'll do a lot of "oh, well, that doesn't really count," but I can eventually wear myself down by sheer volume, even if it means counting "remembered to buy cat food" and "emptied the dishwasher" as accomplishments. 'Cause you know what? I emptied the fuck out of that dishwasher."

I heart this 4eva.

This is what the "Ta Da!" List is all about.  It's about emphatically celebrating your successes, no matter how insignificant they may seem, because the thing is they are NOT insignificant.  These successes are important because, on the whole, our days are not made up of Kilimanjaro moments.  They are made up of washing our face, and staying calm with trying toddlers, and emptying the dishwasher moments.

So go ahead and give yourself the credit you're due, and consider making it a daily practice to do so, whether in writing or not.  

What have you accomplished today? 

You gave the dog his medication.  TA DA!

You didn't eat the entire bag of chips.  TA DA!

You emptied the fuck out of the dishwasher. 

TA fucking DA! 

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

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.

The Larks, Still Bravely Singing, Fly

Sometimes life places one thing in bold contrast to another, a juxtaposition that imprints meaning on the parts that they may not have had alone.

On September 11th, 2001, as the World Trade Center fell, I was volunteering in the paediatric oncology clinic at my local hospital.  With no TVs and radios, before the days of internet in our pockets, reports filtered down to us in the basement waiting room in pieces.  The towers had fallen.  Something had happened at the Pentagon.  Lives had been lost.   

Lives had been lost.  I looked around me.  Parents weary and worried.  Children with shining scalps and ports implanted in their skin, waiting for chemo that would make them sick to maybe make them better, waiting on test results and medical charts that would chart their future.  But children smiling, as children do.  Fourteen years later and I still can't put into words how it felt to view the events of 9/11 from the sidelines of that basement battleground, although I think we're all still at a loss for words about that day, no matter where we stood.

This morning, on Remembrance Day, I sat in my counsellor's office and was stopped mid-sentence, words of my worries cut short, by an announcement on the hospital PA system noting that it was time for a moment of silence and reflection.  We paused and sat in the quiet, together but alone with our thoughts.  And after the minute had passed, our conversation resumed.  It felt weird.  There are people out there now, literally right now, fighting wars and risking their lives for me and so that others less fortunate than me can feel safe.  Just to feel safe.  And I was sitting there talking about problems that suddenly seemed so petty and small compared to what they are facing and what others have faced before them.  

I reminded myself that my problems are not petty.  I know full well that you can't logic your way out of depression and I know that these small problems can snowball and take me down.  And have done.  I decided to extend myself a bit of kindness.  But still.  Perspective is good, and that moment of silence and the moments that followed moved me, as the sacrifices of those soldiers stood in stark contrast to my own battle.  It made me want to fight harder to get out of my head and outside of those hospital walls and into the world where so many opportunities are waiting for me, for all of us, because of their sacrifices. 

Sometimes life places one thing in bold contrast to another.  Loss of life in noise up high and the fight for it in the quiet below.  The personal battles of the mind and the battles fought by our soldiers on another kind of shaky ground.  War.  And peace.  One imprinting meaning on the other.

This was not the post I planned for today, but this is the post I felt I needed to write because that was not what they planned for their lives, but it was the fight they needed to fight.  And this is still that world and there are still those who spend their lives fighting for ours.  Fighting so I can sit in my counsellor's office and get her help with my sometimes comparatively benign worries.  Fighting so those kids in the oncology clinic can have access to what they need to fight their own fight, so that they can grow up in a safe world.  Fighting so my own child can sit peacefully in a classroom with sun shining on her face making a Remembrance Day craft while not really knowing what war is all about.  

So we set aside our plans for just one day, a pitifully meagre offering but an offering nonetheless, to remember those who have fought, who continue to fight, for us to have plans at all.

(Title from "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae)

With Friends Like These

What they lack in height, they make up for in awesomeness.

As you may know, I've recently stepped out of the working world in order to recharge and re-prioritize.  In addition to my three main priorities - taking care of my health, spending quality time with my kids, and pursuing a writing career - I'm also actively working toward some other no-less-important goals, one of which is to nurture my relationships with my family and friends, old and new.  

I am a lucky woman for many reasons.  I have a roof over my head, food on my table, and (relatively) sound health and well-being.  I also have people in my life who I love and who love me in return, including some of the best friends a girl could ask for.

I have, at times, bemoaned how difficult it is to make friends as an adult.  I have, at times, told myself that I'm just not good at making friends.  And those things may or may not be true, but that's a whole other topic for a whole other day.  Let's just say that while I'm a generally friendly and, I think, well-liked person, my social awkwardness and some pretty steep walls I've built up to protect my little heart do a damn fine job of keeping people from getting too close.  No matter!  Because what I do seem to be good at is keeping friends once I have them.  I mean, that may be because they can't scale the walls to get back out.  Figuratively, of course.  I don't keep my friends in, like, a pit or anything, I swear.  (Put the lotion in the basket!)

But I digress, in a disturbing direction. 

I am particularly lucky to have in my life the three hotties you see in the photo above.  The four of us have been close friends for over 20 years and in that time we have seen each other through first break-ups and fashion disasters, math tests and marriages, the deaths of loved ones and the births of ten (10!) amazing children, amongst other milestones and hills and valleys.  These ladies have held my hands and my heart, and sometimes my hair, and really, really often smacked me hard on the ass, figuratively as well as so very literally.  I think it's just their way of showing their love?  

When I meet other people and they ask about the friends in my life, they are often astonished that the four of us have remained so close this long, despite the fact that we live four different lives in four different cities.  It is in no small part because we make our friendship a priority: we plan our at-least-quarterly get-togethers months in advance, and drop everything to help each other when needed in between.  

Like all friendships, we came together by circumstance but, unlike many others, we have stuck together by virtue of the great amount of trust and love and fun we share.  And probably because of our shared love of bargain hunting.  And perhaps out of laziness. Did I mention how hard it is to make friends as an adult?  The trick is to befriend people early on who are as socially awkward as you, that way they never leave.  (Also, there's the pit.)

These girls are my family, as are their fantastically well-chosen spouses and incredible, adorable children.  And I know that they always will be, but I don't want to take our friendship for granted either and to that end, I intend to continue to inundate them with my stupidly long emails, advocate for more concerts and cottage weekends and epic Value Village treasure hunts, and leave my shampoo bottles at their houses so they are forced to see me again.

So I guess this post is my small way of saying, Rose, Dorothy, Sophia, thank you for being a friend. I'm looking forward to hanging out with you on our lanai in another 20 years or so (when I'm not too busy with my many, many lovers).

3.5 Heart-stopping Seconds to Gratitude

So thankful for this little mop-top.

Sometimes a close call puts everything into perspective, and reminds you of what you are most thankful for.

Yesterday, my mom and I took my daughters to a movie and then to the park.  My eldest has just figured out how to swing on the monkey bars and was desperate to show off her new talent to grandma.  My youngest, not to be outdone, recently learned how to pump her legs and swing herself and she couldn't wait to get up in the sky and close her eyes and feel like flying.

This kid, my youngest, used to be afraid of swings.  It was the one thing she was afraid of, but no more.  Now we can officially say she's fearless.  As you might expect, this means that my nerves are almost constantly frayed as she leaps from one death-defying act to another.  For a kid with no sense of danger, she has made it through four years surprisingly unscathed, but she has had her fair share of minor scrapes and spills.

Which is why, when I first heard her crying from across the playground yesterday, I wasn't overly concerned.  I looked over and saw her scooped in my mom's arms and assumed she had fallen and skinned her knee.  But there were a lot of people seemingly frozen, staring at her, and there was a man standing in front of my mom saying something which I couldn't hear over the crying, crying which wasn't stopping.  I ran.

I got to her and saw that her little face was covered in blood.  I heard the man's voice apologizing and saying that it had never happened before.  It seems my daughter, who adores dogs, had asked to pet the man's dog and he had said yes.  She was petting the dog and tried to give it a hug and the dog turned and bit her face.

She was okay.  She is okay.  A quick assessment revealed two bite marks, the most severe just an inch below her right eye and the other a minor cut on her top lip.  We rushed her into the car and to the ER (by the time we were in the car, amazingly, she had calmed right down).  And nearly four hours and two stitches later, I got to bring my little girl back home.  In one piece.  Smiling, with fistfuls of stickers from nurses, asking for a burger.

My mom and I tucked her into bed last night (her tummy full of hamburger, as requested) and, for once, this exhausted little thing didn't put up a fight.  She fell into a deep, peaceful sleep and my heartbeat finally slowed down a little.

So today, on Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful for many things.  I am thankful for my girls, for my healthy, amazing girls.  I am thankful for them every minute of every day but you can bet I held that little one even closer when she climbed into my bed for a cuddle this morning, cheerful and ready to take on the day like it was any other.  I am so very thankful that the bite was only very minor.  This was a full grown Rottweiler.  This could have ended so badly.  I am thankful for how calm my mom was as she comforted the granddaughter in her arms, for the reassuring hand she placed on my arm at the first sign of a waver in my voice as I spoke on the phone to the girls' dad, telling him what had happened.  I am thankful that I have inherited some of that strength and have the ability to quell the rising panic, set aside emotion and think clearly to get things done, and grateful too that my daughter seems to have inherited that strength in turn.  I was thoroughly floored by the incredible toughness that my only-four-years-old daughter showed as she lay perfectly still while being poked and prodded and numbed and stitched in a bright, noisy hospital far too close to bedtime.   I am thankful for free healthcare, a privilege I don't take lightly, and for the absolutely tremendous ER doctor for explaining everything to me very clearly and setting me at ease, but mostly for making my daughter giggle on a gurney while he washed her wounds and sewed her back together.  I am thankful she is home.

Tonight, full to the brim after a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with loved ones, my little girl sat back in her chair, grinned the widest grin, and said with a sigh, "This is the life."  Oh my dear one.  It most certainly is.