Shelley Sim

The Size of Life…..

Size seems to matter and almost everything that seems to matter needs to be measured for size. What size are your jeans, how big is your bank account, what size of coffee would you like, how big is your house, how large is your car….. We upsize, downsize and supersize. We measure our success and count our failures. We try and “fit in” and lament when we spill over. We “size” up our situation and question if and how we “measure up”. Sizing can be an exhausting narrative of endless comparison. Does size really matter?

In our house, size does matter. When we were first building our house, we all lived in 920 square feet. Aiden and Megan shared a bedroom, Owen slept in the hall and when people came for dinner, we ate outside. Yes, even in the winter. One bathroom for five people was tight.

The house grew and so did the kids. Their growth documented on the bedroom door frame; multiple lines in various colors, marking dates and attaching names. A vertical measurement of time and moments. Owen uses it to see where he is compared to where Aiden was at the same age. Aiden is 24 and 6’2. Owen is 14 and hopes to be 6’3. He is so desperate to get big that he sometimes measures on his tip toes, trying to cheat time and reality. I get it, he wants to get bigger. Time is so slow at 14 and leaves you wondering “will I ever get bigger?”

But back to size. Given that Owen is 14, he should fit pants size 14 – 16. That’s what the label says. This means that we shop in the youth section of stores. This is an important section; it’s less expensive than the men’s section.

He says that the 14-16 is too small. I reluctantly stretch to size 16-18. We are brushing up very close to the adult world and pricing. I walked through that door with shoes, it hurts the wallet. I am skeptical. How can a 14 year old boy need a size 18? Is this Owen standing on his tip toes? I shake my head; thankfully the pants fit. It’s the underwear that is now the problem. I am perplexed with “Mom, they don’t fit“.

“Owen, they do fit. They are size 14-16 just like you”. “Mom, they are too tight”. “They can’t be too tight, I bought the right size”. “Mom, they don’t fit!”. At this point, I am a little bit annoyed. First of all, in a small town, it is practically impossible to buy anyone underwear. Second, since I can’t find the “essentials” in town, I have to either drive to the nearest town which is 1 1/2 hours away or I have to brave online shopping. On line shopping is scary for me. I get overwhelmed with choices. Also, you have to pay attention to what currency you are shopping in.

I brave going on line. Why get dressed when you don’t have to? I am tempted to buy Hanes. I like Hanes. They have value packs. Owen wants something a bit more exciting. Exciting is more expensive. I bend and buy exciting. They don’t fit.

I move to size 16 – 18. Surely exciting and expensive will fit at this point. The word “SUCKER” comes to mind. Undergarments are hard to return. Why is this so difficult?

He may be 14 but he is 5’7 and weighs 130 pounds. When I stepped back I realized that he was bigger than I thought. Here was my epiphany. I have been keeping him small.

I thought I was an enlightened mother. I understand my job description. My role and goal is to give them roots so that they can fly…..blah, blah, blah. It’s just that the flight to new heights leaves a hole in my heart that hurts. I know this hurt, I felt it when Aiden and Megan both left. It’s a feeling of empty that tempts me to pack my bags. They can fly while I drive. Sounds fun, except that it doesn’t work that way.

Owen, I am sorry that I have to tried to keep you small when you have been doing what you were raised to do which is to rise strong and stand tall. You are not the “baby” of the family; you are simply the youngest.

I looked back on all the other ways that I have kept Owen small. It wasn’t just shopping where I tried to keep him small, it was with chores and enabling him to do less because I wasn’t ready to see him do more. And as for that glimmer of fuzz on the upper lip, I am pretty sure that was just my imagination. I hate awakenings. Another scoop of ice cream for my humble pie.

The days are long, the years are short. Owen, while I selfishly wish you could stay small, I truly wish you a big life that meets or exceeds all of your dreams. You are bigger than any potential label. Don’t let anyone tell you where to fit. The size of your life is whatever you make it. You are the only measure that matters. Be as big as you want. Live your life more like the doorframe and mark the moments that matter while standing on tipped toes.

I learned a few lessons this week. Living small is like being squished into the wrong size of underwear. It’s not very comfortable. Lately, I have been living small and maybe being labeled as something I am not. While this concept is possibly true for everyone, I look at it through a pink lens for women and wonder why it is hard to stand tall and strong. With all my questions, I consult the world of GD (Glennon Doyle) and think she might have it right. “Women who are brazen enough to break rules irk us. Their brazen defiance and refusal to follow directions make us want to put them back in the cage.” “Girls and women sense this. We want to be liked. We want to be trusted. So we downplay our strengths to avoid threatening anyone and invoking disdain. We do not mention our accomplishments. We do not accept compliments. We temper, qualify, and discount our opinions. We say “I feel” instead of “I know”. We ask if our ideas make sense instead of assuming they do. “

And that’s just the start. That’s living small.

This is my commitment. Not only am I going to practice standing taller and stronger, I am going to work to elevate all those around me; especially the women. Women in the workplace or within the volunteer networks. These women are getting shit done but often have to shrink so they don’t offend.

Enough.

Strong, competent women don’t fit the mold and definitely not the label so rather than trying to squish, let’s toss the mold and cut out the label. Elevation is an action; like encouraging someone who is ready to fly.

Here’s to stretching and giving wings to our dreams while refusing to be small. Here’s to living our best life and be damned with measuring the size.

With love,

Shelley

Hey Siri, who does the laundry? Asking for a friend….

I am struggling to remember at what point I put my hand up and said “I’ll do it! I’ll do ALL the family laundry for the rest of my life”. With my son’s hockey team, people sign up to wash the jerseys for one season. That seems sensible. Laundry as a lifetime commitment is unreasonable.

I say this because lately I have been feeling like I run a laundry mat which would be ok if I got paid. Finding change in pockets is not being paid, often it’s not even enough to be considered a tip.

My family needs to understand that you keep the gas tank full, not the laundry basket. They are not the same thing and the rationale is totally different. For whatever reason, no one seems to run out of laundry, yet I have found the car on empty several times. If we are going to be consistent, let’s do better. Same with the milk. Leaving a small swig in the milk jug isn’t helpful and don’t try telling me that’s for my coffee. I don’t take milk in my coffee. I think that might be one for the “lazy” category.

I am beginning to see that “lazy” isn’t just the milk, it’s also leaving the last scoop of ice cream in the bucket and it’s definitely getting lazy with the laundry. I see how it goes. There is the thought to take off the clothes and fold them but then that little voice encourages a little “sniff, sniff” and suddenly it’s easy to think “I think this is dirty” and suddenly it’s popped into the basket. It’s almost as though they think they are doing the world a favour by putting the clothes in the basket. After all, they’re “dirty”. Insert rolling eyeballs. As if.

I tried moving the laundry basket but people just piled their stuff in front of the washing machine. Really? On the floor IN FRONT of the washing machine? You know that one step further could have seen you actually doing the laundry and being a success story…..

I know. Why would I keep doing the laundry? Why not take a stand? Get firm, make a job chart, delegate. Good input people. Been there done that. Like acid wash jeans, it was a great fad until it wasn’t.

My family can rise to the occasion and it’s not like they don’t know how to do laundry, it’s that they like it better when I do it. I get that. I want a laundry fair too. Since that’s unlikely, what happens in our house is the pressure builds until I snap and then I yell. Not little yelling but big yelling with bad words. Suddenly they remember how to help out until they somehow forget and I start to find the laundry on the floor. Siri….. do clothes compost?

For a while, I stopped yelling. I took a new approach. I took their clothes and threw it all in the dryer with a Bounce sheet. Fresh and kind of clean. My other tactic was to put the “dirty” clothes on the the clothes rack and pretend that they were drying. This made made me laugh, until it became obvious that sometimes things really do have to be washed.

I blame our culture. We have nurtured the story and myths of Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. We tell our children how wonderful these characters are. We foster the tale that at night they come out and do magical things and leave behind wonderful treats. If the Tooth Fairy leaves money for teeth, of course my family would think that fairies and elves would clean the house. Isn’t why I find coins in the dryer??? OMG!

I reflect on all of this because of my changing life circumstance. Not working full time sees me more at home and I am dialing into old DNA that keeps running the story that says “Your job is now to look after the home. Everyone else is busy so this will fall on your shoulders because you have the time. It’s only fair.” If this is my new “job”, who do I see about a paychque? Gloria Steinem would not be impressed.

I live in a small town and I can’t say that there is an abundance of jobs. I might have to stretch out and get creative. It makes me ponder. We live here because my family loves it here. I love it here but am I going to love it as much when I feel I got the default job of doing all the chores because there wasn’t anything else “here”? I am pretty sure going elsewhere would have expanded opportunities. How do I balance the needs of the family against my desire to foster a career? I am wondering how many other women ask this question. “What do I do when I grow up but have a family in tow”? Is “motherhood” a default position even after all these years?

And don’t misunderstand me, there are many women AND men who choose to stay home because it’s what they want. I get that and support that choice. My question is for people like me who haven’t necessarily chosen that route, rather, felt relegated to the role. Without a full time job, do I have the right to delegate chores? A conundrum for sure.

If I were to be honest, I would have to that I consider the state of my house to be a reflection of myself. OUCH. Erma Bombeck said “no one died living in an unmade bed“. True but the judgment I have of myself might not allow me to close the door and not care. It’s a little chaotic. Also, I am a little uncertain of my professional life so I kind of groove on the concept that if the bed is made, life is ok. Likely a cause for therapy.

Last night was the Blue Moon. A blue moon is when a month sees two full moons. This morning I woke up and wondered why I didn’t go to some super cool place to see the moon. A viewing platform in our local park or maybe from the top of a mountain. When did I stop taking chances and doing fun things? When did I become so boring???? When did I get so obsessed with doing the laundry? This got me thinking. Have I been the one to relegate myself to the position of Haus Frau? Maybe I have been hiding there and avoiding thinking of fun, adventure and possibly my future. In shrinking from being brave and challenging myself to dreaming about next steps, I think I have been a coward in the closet counting the towels.

A part of being brave is being honest. I can honestly say that I hate doing housework. That’s the easy part. The harder part is that I am honestly afraid of not knowing what is next.

I’ve slipped into my COVID comfy clothes for too long. I’ve avoided taking next steps and defaulted to “I hope it will all work out” while scrubbing the tub. The question to Siri isn’t “who does the laundry?“, the question for me is “what do you really want to do with the rest of your life?” Big questions. Maybe it’s safer to learn how to fold fitted sheets.

I do the housework out of default. It’s so easy to stay comfy and complain. I guess I am a bit overwhelmed. I might have forgotten what it is to dream. I can’t even answer the question “what do you want to do” because I am so intertwined with what I think I “should” be doing. I see I have some work to do; to figure out what I want to do instead of what’s “good” for everyone else. I have chosen comfy but to complete the mission of being brave, I need to choose courage and take next steps. Not little steps like making a job chart but big steps like “if you could do anything, what would it be”. I need to make this jump, to take the leap while closing my eyes and yelling TOWANDA at the top of my lungs. I’m going to have to give this some thought. Anything to save me from a lifetime of laundry.

So Siri…..who does the laundry? Right now it’s still me but I think this can change. I am going to lean into my big life questions and will keep you apprised. In the meantime, here’s to having the courage to make the changes we need to live a full life. Here’s to leaving the bed unmade!

With love,

Shelley

Arrive Alive….What I learned from a canoe trip

OMG! What I have I gotten myself into????

We recently survived a multi-day canoe trip on the Bowron Lakes. This canoe circuit is considered “iconic” in the canoe world. Is “iconic” the same as “epic”? I’m just asking for a friend…..

I surprised myself by signing up for the trip. I am not a huge fan of canoeing. The first 30 minutes is pleasant but after that, we should probably think of something else to do. The Bowron circuit was 116 km. During the trip, our top paddling speed was 4km per hour. 116 km…. you do the math. Epic was often a good daily descriptive.

The week before we left was not peaceful in our house. I had never packed for a wilderness trip and due to the nature of the trip, we could only pack 60 pounds per canoe. Anything over 60 pounds would have to be carried in backpacks. We had 2 canoes for myself, my husband Wayne and two of our kids Owen (14) and Megan (21). Between the four of us, we needed to plan to be self sufficient for 8 days and 7 nights. This included food, tents, sleeping bags, stoves, personal gear, toilet paper, coffee and red wine. And in that order. Sixty pounds seems ample until you start packing. My stress level started to rise.

We arrived at Bowron Lakes on September 7th. It was not warm. I don’t often have to go to bed with a toque, gloves and down jacket, If I was worried about fitting 60 pounds in a canoe, my new worry was potentially fighting frost bite. Huddling for warmth was a new family game. The next day we hit the registration office and got the run down on what to expect for our canoe expedition. My favourite line was “some portage trails might be wet“. That was truly the biggest understatement of the year. It was like saying the rain forest might be “damp”.

To start the circuit, you have to weigh your gear. I dislike scales at the best of times and this time was no different. It became clear that I had overpacked. I thought the 16 litre jug to hold water was a great idea. Also, I had filled it from home so we could have “nice” water. Wayne looked at me like I was crazy. How would we carry 16 litres of water? Also, we were canoeing on lakes where we would likely have access to water; plenty of water. He pulled out a collapsible bucket. Fine. The jug, along with my fanny pack, pillow and other small incidentals went back to the truck but I wasn’t budging on the wine or the Fireball.

Through the grace of the ranger turning a blind eye, we made the 60 pound limit per canoe and headed off on the trail. Keep in mind, to make that 60 pounds, my other “extra’s” had to fit in our backpacks. Great. Crossfit just became part of our canoe experience.

The first leg of the trip was a 2km portage. Uphill. When you say “2 km” it feels manageable, when you have to do it while pulling / pushing a canoe, it’s a whole other experience. Also there is swearing involved. Plenty of swearing. And that section of the portage that might be “wet”? Try knee deep in mud. As I continued to pull (and swear), I also had to eat humble pie. That damn water jug never would have made it past the first km. Wayne was right but I don’t think he had to smile smugly.

At the end of day one, we were very pleased having completed 6km of portages and then paddling 11km. Our sense of success was short lived as we ran the numbers and realized that if we kept this pace, we would likely run out of food (and red wine). We needed to take it up a notch. Day two saw us complete 35 km in the canoe. For someone who doesn’t love canoeing, this was a stretch for me. I was paired with my daughter Megan (21) who was dubbed the Captain. She was magnificent. I was the Assistant to the Captain and possibly mediocre. After nine hours of being on the lake, we made camp for the night. Thank goodness because at hour eight, I had stopped feeling my arms and shoulders. If only a good night sleep could be had on a thermarest.

Since my training for this canoe trip had been exactly “nothing”, I shouldn’t have been surprised that I could barely lift my arms or even bust a move on day three. I knew I should have packed my foam roller. Note to self, leave water jug and pack the damn roller. Without a roller, I improvised and found a log round on the beach; not perfect but enough to crack everything back into action. Just another 65 km to go……

I went on this adventure because I was standing still in my life. I was hoping that this trip would bring an epiphany of new direction, maybe inspiration and certainly some connection. I was drawing upon all sorts of cheesy metaphors as I paddled my way through pain; “the best view comes after the hardest climb”, “it’s not the mountain we conquer, it is ourselves”, “and into the wild I go to lose my mind and find myself”…… Inspiring but not overly helpful. Advil is helpful.

I kept up the cheesy metaphors and let the Advil take hold. I watched how the scenery unfolded. It was immense and beyond spectacular. The water was so still and everything was quiet. The mountains were perfectly mirrored on the lake and it was hard to figure out where one started and the reflection began. It was like heaven and earth meeting as one. Matthew 6:10 kept coming to mind; “on earth, as it is in heaven“. What if this is really true? I thought about my feeling of smallness in context of the larger world. Where do I fit and why. What do I bring to the table of life? What have I been given that I could give more of and why do I allow my mental madness to muck things up? So often my thoughts are centred on “what might happen” and not in a good way. Here is a sample of my mental commentary……. “What if the canoe tips?” “What if we can’t find a camping spot?” “What if all my menu planning is all wrong?” What if we run out of wine?” “What if I can’t figure out what to do for the rest of my life?”

So often my “What If…..” movie is long and kind of negative. As I gazed upwards and reflected inwards, I decided I could change the story line. I asked myself “what might happen” in the spirit of wonder and optimism instead of fear and worry. I asked “what could happen” with an expectation of things working out. It’s me that has to change the story line.

OK. So I have now solved my inner dialogue issues. Good talk. My next challenge was to try canoeing with my husband.

This should be easy, except that marriage isn’t easy. Canoeing is an ideal metaphor for marriage. It is beautiful to glide over the calm but it sure gets tippy in rough waters. I put on the life jacket and looked for the bailing bucket.

For the record. I was paddling hard. I didn’t feel that there was any need for him to keep saying “you never listen“. That’s not true. I always listen to Wayne. It’s that sometimes I think my way is better and I choose to ignore what he said. That is very different than not listening.

You can see where this is going……

One “thing” becomes the next “thing” which suddenly becomes that “thing” that you have been avoiding talking about. In our case, we weren’t paddling in the same direction and that’s been the case for a while. Without anywhere to go, or any distractions, we had a sudden opportunity to talk about this “thing”.

I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say that I was left wondering if I should have just listened to his canoe instructions. Instead, I heard that I could be the new star in the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You”. Not the role I was hoping for after 26 years of marriage. I learned that I have been an irritant to my husband. My spreadsheets (control), my constant concern (panic / worry) and a few other choice attributes had lost their endearment over the past little while.

I get it. I live with myself and on many days, I wish that I could escape me. I have always been in awe of my family being able to put up with me and have always been indebted to them that they have turned a blind eye to some of my less than flattering attributes. Well, at least until we went canoeing.

That night, I went to bed wondering if I had somehow ended up as a cliche. Girl meets boy, girl helps put boy through school while raising children and working full time. Boy grows up, gets great job and outgrows his wife. Frick. I hate being a cliche. I never know what to wear.

If it hadn’t been for COVID, I think I could have avoided this whole conversation but COVID caused chaos. My career of 25 years went up in flames and I don’t know who or what I am anymore. I look around and it seems like everyone else is managing and I wonder why I can’t just figure it out and take next steps. The control and panic buttons were kicked up a notch and after six months of impacts from a pandemic and life uncertainty, the storm blew and the canoe almost tipped. Great trip team. I can’t wait until we do a multi day hiking holiday.

Don’t panic. It sounds bad and it wasn’t fabulous except that it was. It’s messy in the middle and this was really messy but we got to talk about it. We named the “thing” that was growing between us; growing between us all. And we kept talking and listening.

When I asked for “connection”, I’m not sure that this is what I had in mind but it’s what happened. Without life distractions, the conversation got honest and deep. There’s no exit door on a lake. What I had been feeling, my family had been feeling too. It was hard to hear it all said out loud but it was good. Really good.

There were also plenty of moments where we laughed. It was these awesome moments of laughter that cushioned the “other” moments and helped us to keep the connection.

If you want a good read that changes your heart, mind and soul, consider The Power of One. It’s incredible with a rich storyline and it is filled with meaningful and thoughtful quotes. My favourite quote has always been “if you have a question, bring it to nature and you shall find the answer.” Before the trip, I had been asking questions about how to better connect but I wasn’t getting great response. I think I had been making myself busy; too busy to really listen. It was the quiet of the lake that gave me pause and the time to hear to what my family needed to tell me. So you see Wayne, I do listen but I’m still ignoring you when it comes to buying a tractor.

And that’s what happened. It’s not what I expected. I had been hoping for my own “burning bush” moment complete with a modern day, customized version of the 10 Commandments. Ideally, it would have arrived by text and link to a podcast but I guess it doesn’t work like that. That would have been simple. No, I had to paddle 96 km and portage 10 km with my family and dive into super uncomfortable conversations. A burning bush seems so much simpler.

The realization is that I have been worried but worrying hasn’t made anything better and sure won’t make anything in the future better either. Worry is just going to make me crazy. Not a good crazy, but a “crazy” crazy. One that brings on wrinkles and makes me eat chips.

So back to the question. What would happen if I asked the “what if” question with wonder and optimism on a daily basis? What would change? Could I really start to believe that everything works out in the end?

Right now it’s messy. I am in in the mud but Bowron Lakes gave me new life, new hope and new perspective. Things are not the same thanks to COVID and I am not the same. Our canoe trip was not “perfect” but it was amazing. I will always cherish the memories. Yes, it was uncomfortable but it was also so many other things. There were as many laughs as there were awkward moments. There were also long stretches of time where I never wanted it to end. For someone who definitely doesn’t love canoeing, this was a big deal. I learned so much and let go of even more.

Epiphany…… Endings are just new beginnings in disguise…. the sun sets only to rise again.

I don’t know what is next but I do know that I have to give up a need to control outcomes and lay down worry. I am going to believe that in amidst this big, beautiful messy world, there is a plan and in that plan, I have a place. I also still have a place with my family and they have a place with me. It’s been tricky these past six months and I just want it to jump to the end of the story and see how it work out but that’s not how a journey works. It’s a continuum and the change is in the perspective.

For now, I am going to keep paddling. I will embrace the adventure and hold on to letting go. That’s an oxymoron that will keep me busy.

Here’s to making the jump; to doing hard things, embracing difficult conversations and trusting that things always work out in the end.

Shelley

For Better or Worse…..Can marriage survive a canoe trip????

My husband and I got engaged after six weeks of dating. Some might find that fast but we had known each other for ages; almost a full eight months. I won’t deny that there were more than a few who took bets on whether we would last. That was over 25 years ago, so we haven’t done too badly. Of course, that could all change next week.

We are going on a canoe trip. Not a trip where you bring the canoe and store it on the deck of the beautiful cabin that you have rented for a week. No, that would be lovely and divine. We are going to do the Bowron Lakes Canoe Circuit. This is 116 km of lakes and almost 11 km of portages. We have to carry our gear, our food and there are rules. No tetra packs, no glass, no bottles, no plastic and as a holiday souvenir, we get to pack our garbage out with us. Yes, we have paid to do this trip.

Wayne used to guide multi day canoe trips. He is not concerned and as such, hasn’t done much to prepare. He just knew that this was a trip that he has always wanted to do so he booked us. He hasn’t researched the trip, hasn’t made a colour coded spreadsheet, planned meals or anything. We leave Monday and it’s only Saturday so he feels he has time.

I started to panic about three weeks ago. My biggest worry is about the canoeing. I actually don’t like canoeing. This could be problematic. It’s seven days in a canoe and six nights on a thermarest and it looks like it will be cold. I don’t think I am keen on a trip where I have to pack a wool hat so I will be warm at night. I am trying to remember at what point during the pandemic did I agree to this? Was it a moment of day drinking or a moment when I had been reading about courage, bravery and trying new things. I’m guessing, like ordering pigs, I might have been one glass in.

Once you start telling people you are doing the Bowron Lakes trip, it seems like everyone who looks fab in gortex comes out of the woodwork and starts getting excited and asking questions like “have you started dehydrating your food?” Dehydrating food? WHOA. I barely think about dinner until 6pm each night and now I find out I should have started dehydrating food weeks ago? I feel concerned.

I have spent most of my time trying to figure out how to pack so that I can stay warm and possibly comfortable. I was hoping Wayne would give me some insight on menus, gear needs and otherwise. “Hope keeps the agony alive“. No advice is coming. He’s fine showing up with power bars and a hammock. He’s suggesting that I stop worrying. “It’s going to be fine, everything is going to work out”. He looks at me like I don’t trust him. I look back at him and wonder if this is a good time to remind him that at one point in our marriage he seriously suggested that I put my office in a tree house or the time that I was seven months pregnant and he built me an outhouse instead of hooking up the plumbing before he went off guiding again. Trust him? I see where eight weeks of dating could have come in handy.

Recognizing that Wayne is not going to help fill in the spread sheets, I started to do my own research. “If you are a beginner canoeist and looking at doing the Bowron Lakes, it is a good idea to do some training prior to your trip“. By “prior”, I am wondering if Sunday morning is enough time? We leave Monday.

Here is my summary. I have no dehydrated food, no training and I have finally admitted out loud that I am not super keen on canoeing. Also, there is no plastic allowed on the trip so I have to come up with plan B for the boxed wine.

Acknowledging some of the deficiencies in my planning, I am spending today getting organized. I might have missed the window to train and dehydrate but I can start to vacuum seal pre-made meals and put them into labeled zipocks. This feels organized. I have printed off maps, laid out a suggested route, highlighted important things to note like the trip starts with a 2.5 km portage and at what point we are going to have to “run the rapids”. I have also stockpiled jelly beans. I am almost 100% sure that no amount of planning can keep up with Wayne Sim’s philosophy of “free flow” so I am planning ahead. If we are lost after three weeks, I will survive as I am not sharing my jelly beans. Free flow be damned.

When I fell in love with Wayne, I knew it to be true. People talk about a “thunderbolt” and that’s what happened to me. I kept shaking my head and thinking “No way. This is far too fast. This cannot be happening“. But it did. When he proposed, he promised that I would never be cold and I would never be hungry. He reminded me this week of his promises. In hindsight, I could have asked for a few more things but it sounded romantic at the time.

I think Wayne is holding onto the romance of this trip. He loves an outdoor challenge. Just last week-end he went up into the mountains with both our boys. Wayne threw up a tarp and slept on the ground. When it got to below zero, it was chilly. The boys have more of me in them, they brought a tent. Wayne is happy when he gets to test himself against the elements. He likes that sort of thing. He embraces a challenge, I tend to turn the other way and look for the safe and well marked EXIT door. He is over the moon that we are doing this trip as a family. He sees himself portaging the canoe on his shoulders and braving the rapids while starting a fire by rubbing two stones together. I see myself holding my phone up looking for a wifi signal.

I think I am nervous because it’s a challenge and I don’t know what to expect. I think that’s a good thing. I think that over the past twenty five years of building a life with Wayne, I have been following a script of what I “should” be doing and I got complacent.

Life kind of wore me out and the romance of the adventure faded. I have a sense of weariness and as such, I searched for the road that was totally traveled. I have been busy living a life with my check lists and I think Wayne’s intention of this trip is to get me out of “planning” and back into “living”. Good point Wayne. I think I need a disconnect to re-connect.

In the last few years, Wayne and I have been pulling a rope in different directions. I have been pulling towards safe and serene while Wayne is using the rope to swing into the lake.

I am doing this trip because I want a rope swing. I have followed the path of “doing the right thing” and as a result, I don’t even own rain pants because somewhere along the line, I stopped adventuring in place of making spread sheets. I am wondering what it might be like to have an adventure that comes without directions? To free flow and not get hung up on the details when things don’t go as planned? I have been feeling a bit bruised in what I saw as falling and failing but maybe I just need a new perspective? What if I became a little more flexible?

I don’t know how this is going to work out but I am going to try. For “better or worse” has carried me through over 25 years. I just need that philosophy to hold true for just one week in a canoe. “Arrive alive” is the goal as I know there will be moments when I might want to leave Wayne at the bottom of the lake. I’m pretty sure with all my planning anxiety, Wayne has contemplated leaving me at home. He also feels it might be safer if he packs the axe. Good plan.

I will keep you posted on how it works out. As of today, I’m going with an attitude of adventure and a desire to go with the flow. Who knows, I might even share my jelly beans.

Here’s to having the courage to be brave and try new things!

Love,

Shelley

From Farm to Freezer….And Other Things I Never Expected

The “farm to freezer” story is not quite that same story. Life is messy.

**WARNING** The following has graphic images and content. Viewers may feel the need to suddenly become vegan. Viewer discretion is strongly advised**

The term “farm to table” sounds lovely. It evokes beautiful images of wide open fields, long tables dressed with linen tablecloths and lined with candles while white lights twinkle above. Dinner is divine. Everything is served fresh from the farm and shared generously with the guests. Photos are taken, Instagram viewers quickly hit “love” and the world embraces the perceived perfection of a perfect moment. The “farm to freezer” story is not quite that same story. Life is messy.

The first chapter of the farm is the arrival of the chickens. I never thought about how chickens arrived at a farm. I thought they were just there. They actually arrive by mail. I kid you not. We ordered 48 chickens in February and in mid May, I get a phone call from the post office telling me my “chicks” have arrived. So very, very weird.

For the first month, the baby chicks live in a tupperware bin in the house next to the wood fire. During those early weeks, the chicks feel as though they are on vacation in Palm Springs. The heat lamp keeps the temperature at a happy 95 degrees and they have access to food and drink 24 hours a day. Life is good!

The second month is weaning them off the holiday hangover and they move to the chicken coop. We have lost a few during this stage. Not all chickens are created equal and sometimes there is bullying. No pink t-shirts on this farm. The strong survive and the weak are fed to the pigs. I know. I understand the foundation to becoming vegetarian.

Fast forward to mid July. Cute and cuddly chicks grow to be 8 to 12 pounds of big and stinky. We start to make room in the freezer.

The path to the freezer takes a day and you have to start early. It’s best to work with another family who is also “butchering”. “Butchering” is farm language for killing. It sounds nicer. More refined and less brutish than Death Day or D-Day.

We join with three other families. The goal is to get 140 chickens into the freezer by the end of the day. I never wear white pants.

I have been surprised by many things in my life. Living in a small town, having children and now I can add chicken catching to the list. Catching chickens is the first phase of “gross” in a day that is filled with many “gross” things. Fortunately, they are fat and can’t run terribly fast but you have to catch them by the feet and turn them upside down.

Let’s break that down for a minute, shall we? I take my nicely moisturized hands that might have seen a few manicures and have to grab a long, bony chicken leg with the three ugly pokey toes that scratch when I don’t get a firm grip. It feels cold and scaly to the touch and I fight the feelings of being repulsed. They don’t go quietly and they are heavy. They flap their wings hard and fast against my thighs. Holiday time just ended and I am sure they feel that they are being unjustly evicted. That’s kind of true.

Once they are loaded into the trailer, they are taken to “hospice” where they meet the others who are near death. It’s kind of sad. I imagine the conversations in the trailer. “Mavis, are you sure this a bus tour? Where is the buffet? I haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday!”. It’s true, they aren’t fed for 24 hours before “D” Day and that’s because it’s super yucky gutting a chicken that has food in their system. But more on that later.

While people have been loading chickens, others have been preparing the kill zone. Everyone has a job. My job in addition to chasing chickens is to help prepare lunch. I generally choose salads. Actually, I choose anything but chicken. That would be bad and in poor taste.

Once everyone is ready, the process starts. This year, my husband handled the axe. Normally my son does this but he was promoted to feather plucker. Chickens are “butchered”, drained of blood and then dunked in hot water to loosen the feathers. The bird is then moved to the electric plucker and eventually ends up on the gutting table.

At this point, I will understand moving from vegetarian thoughts to considering life as a vegan.

Since you are still reading, I am assuming that you are either contemplating becoming a farmer yourself and are genuinely interested or you have a morbid fascination of what comes next.

The first time I was part of Death Day, I almost threw up. Here were people who I liked and admired telling me how to cut open the arse of a chicken so the space is large enough for me to get my hand in there to pull out the heart, lungs and other organs. By the way, since the chickens had just been killed, the insides were still warm.

Although I had not yet adopted the bumper sticker “I can do hard things”, I would rank this first day of death as doing something hard. I followed the directions of my friends and made the cut. I had been told that you have to reach in high and you just grab all the insides and pull it out. I took a deep breath and reached in, grabbed what I could and then the chicken SQUAWKED! OMG – IT WAS STILL ALIVE! I screamed, dropped the knife and ran outside, likely with my hands waving wildly in the air. This was not one of my finer moments. This was a moment that no one will ever let me forget. EVER.

My “friends” found this moment hilarious. I don’t share that sentiment. I really thought my hand was inside a chicken that had somehow come back to life. I didn’t know that you could squeeze the voice box of a dead chicken and it would squawk. This is a farmer party trick. They think they are hilarious. I suggest they don’t give up their day job just yet.

After the laughter subsided, I had to come back to the chicken table to finish the gutting. Much to my horror, I had nicked the “crop”. This is the part of the chicken where they hold their food before it gets digested. Once nicked, brown icky stuff oozes out. I think I will just leave it at that.

What I will leave you with is a photo of my handiwork. Take this and multiply doing it about 30 times in one day. Gross.

If you are still with me after the photos, I am also leaving you with two videos. The first is one I call, “The End”. The axe might give it away. The second video is the plucker in action. I often wonder if it could double as weight loss machine that could pummel away my middle. Something to think about…..

Gross. Really gross and did I mention it’s warm???

Once all is said and dead, the day is done. We clean up, shower down and fill the freezers. For those that wonder when we eat our first chicken…..it’s not that first night for sure. It takes time for the smell of chicken guts to leave the senses and get out from under the finger nails. The upside to all this is when the chicken does hit the table, it feels fresh from the farm and is pretty delicious.

I never expected to raise chickens and I have no idea what to expect when we “butcher” the pigs but life is filled with unexpected moments. Some are amazing and others make our heart break. COVID19 is something that makes my heart break. I feel like I have been riding a roller coaster with a drink in one hand and kleenex in the other. Some days I ride downhill and scream for my life while other days, the wind is ripping through my hair, my hands are in the air and I am elated to feel so free.

It’s a wave of emotions that I never expected. For many weeks, I have been feeling awesome and strong and confident and then BAM! I am a hot mess of tears and fears and feel like Mavis on the bus tour and have no idea of what is yet to come.

There is a fabulous movie called “Auntie Mame”. It’s brilliant. My favourite line in the movie is where Mame flamboyantly exclaims “life is a banquet and most poor fools are starving to death”. I think she’s right. When I lament, I lose sight of the adventure and the inherent goodness that surrounds me. That includes moments and the many people that open their hearts to hear me.

So…..If you are ever in the neighborhood, please know that you are welcome. My freezer is full and the table is set.

Here’s to the joys of the unexpected, even when it’s hard and maybe a bit messy with a splash of “gross”.

With love,

Shelley

Learning to Breathe and Finding Me…..

I am not sure if anyone ever forgets the first time their heart was broken. That deep, searing pain that comes from being shattered into a million different pieces. There is an ache that comes from being broken and a strength that comes from learning to move forward. I don’t know if we can ever be the same after being splintered and wrecked but maybe, we don’t want to be the same. Maybe we want to be more.

A few weeks ago, I fell apart. It was pretty spectacular. I had been holding in so much for so long and working so hard to control “my story” that I finally just broke.

No one should break on their own. Breaking hurts. I am so grateful that I didn’t break on my own. I was in a safe circle of friends when I opened my vault of pain. They held my hand and listened to my hurt while looking into my eyes and never looked away. My pain was not ugly and while I was afraid of being seen as less, I actually became a little bit more.

Over that week-end, I stopped holding my breath and started to breathe. I realized that I had been holding on so tight that I wasn’t making room for what was trying to grow. My “people” heard my hurt. They stitched my wound with kindness and acceptance and then bandaged with love.

The definition of a warrior is a brave or experienced soldier or fighter. A warrior doesn’t flee when things get tough. My village is made up of warriors; a group of people who stay to the end, who live in the circle of trust and don’t let go. I felt I was slipping away but they held on and now I can rise and nurture what is trying to grow.

Growing is putting me out of my comfort zone. There are weeds. Pulling out the stuff that doesn’t bear fruit is not fun and is often hard. My idea of “hard things” used to be taking on physical challenges like the Tough Mudder or running a half marathon. These were all challenging but they weren’t hard. Life is hard. Like really hard.

In the rising of the new me, I am struggling simple things that are causing me stress. I am not finding it easy to give myself permission to sleep in or read a book in the middle of the day. I also feel I need to clean the bathroom. Why? No one is going to die if the bathroom isn’t sparkling for one more day. It’s just that I feel that I “should” ALWAYS be busy. it’s hard to fight that conditioning but I’m trying. I am trying to do hard things. I even wore my bikini in public. That was hard. Then there are other hard things that are in the “super hard” category. These are things like asking for help, admitting that I might need a job, giving up boxed wine or telling my husband that I want to feel closer. These things require breaking my armor and standing strong while feeling immensely vulnerable.

For my adult life, I have been on a bit of autopilot. I carried a check list and went from Point A to Point B. I stayed the course and rode the waves while trying to stay dry and not having to swim. It has been fun but raising a family and having a career have kept me distracted from my dreams. Now it’s all different and I am starting to listen to the whisper that grown to a roar. I think, just maybe, there is a whole lot more.

So. In my new journey of life, I have jumped in the ocean and am playing in the waves. I am taking up hobbies and looking for things that interest me. In my old life, I rarely read for pleasure, there was always a purpose. In reflection, I was strident and likely rather rigid. Since I am now swimming, I am learning to float and look up. When did the stars start to twinkle so bright?

I am starting to trust the magic of living and trying new things. My 14 year old is teaching me to mountain bike. It’s a slow process. So far, I have gotten on the bike. I can make it to the top of the trail but I ride the brakes all the way down. No one is asking me to star in a mountain bike film as of yet. Fast and flowy is relative but I am having fun!

The glasses really make it look like I know what I am doing….. I found them on the trail and used them for the photo. I believe that this is a definition of a “poser”

I also thought I would try my hand at a DUI. At least that is what I called it until my daughter looked at me weirdly. Right. I meant DYI. Crafting is confusing. My goal was to repaint a bench. I like how happy the people on Pinterest are. They bubble with joy when describing how they lovingly restore their furniture. They seem to adore spending hours and hours on their projects. I don’t think that I will join their club. I have learned that I don’t have that kind of commitment. I wanted to but after the first 15 minutes, it felt more like work than a happy hobby. I waved the pressure washer over my chair, pulled out the sander and figured a coat of paint would cover up all the flaws. I wear makeup, I know how it works.

At the end of the project, there were no cute daisies or rainbows. I painted the chair blue. End of story. I think my career at crafting is complete. Wayne thinks blue kindling is very modern. I don’t think that was a compliment.

And this was my week. I don’t know what’s in store for next week but I’m keen! My garden is growing and my weeds are being pulled. Things are starting to fall together, namely me. In losing things, I am starting to discover the gifts that I was given. I feel an immense shift inside of me that gives me a taste of what it is to be free.

To everyone and anyone who is holding their breath, it’s ok to let go and start to breathe.

With love to you all,

Shelley

Heartache and the Rising.

Lately, I have woken up countless mornings to make sure that my duct tape is still holding all my bits and pieces together; that would be my outside and inside pieces. I have learned that you can only keep adjusting duct tape for so long. Eventually it wears out and leaves a very sticky residue that is quite messy.

No one likes messy; I certainly don’t. COVID 19 has created chaos with my life. It all seems surreal. One day I had a full agenda with plenty of appointments and meetings and the next day, I’m drinking wine in my track pants while ordering pigs!

In a blink of an eye, life as we knew it was quickly undone. Reality TV had nothing on this reality. Across the world, media images peppered us with horrible and graphic stories of people dying in hallways because hospitals were full. Social media pleas were made for everyone to take this virus seriously. Our efforts would protect our front line health care workers and ensure space in our hospitals who were ready for the pandemic flood of people who would need care. It was grim and terrifying. Death was knocking on any door and so life as we knew, came to a grinding halt.

We watched daily news updates and our anxiety grew with the visuals of graphs and lines that kept stretching upwards. We rallied behind “bend the curve” which then morphed to “crush the curve”. When we got to “hold the line”, my duct tape broke.

For me, it all fell apart in the third week of March. In that week, my work and career of 25 years in the travel trade was gone. A difficult business to manage with closed borders; so I turned off lights and locked the door. It felt like someone lit a match and torched my life, burning it to the ground. I watched the ashes toss in the wind.

My breaking point was losing my career; the structure that I had built to create a life for the family. It just ended and I have no idea when it might have Act II. I didn’t realize how much of “me” was attached to all of that. In the torching, I am empty and shattered in more than a few pieces.

It’s like being in mourning. I feel a deep loss that life will never be the same again and I don’t know what to fill it with. My family loves it. They love having me home more often. Owen, my 14 year old, asked me “why do you like being busy?”. Good question Owen. And here’s the answer. I like being busy because I like what I do and what I contribute. I know you all like me having home but that is likely because the fridge is now clean, dinner is ready before it gets dark, cookies are baked, the bathroom sparkles and the floors are no longer toxic and sticky. After 25 years with a career I didn’t expect to transition to a full time cook and cleaner. This might be fun, except it’s not. Even the perks of living in my PJ’s is not enough. I miss my other life.

There is light at the end of the tunnel. As much as my family loves this brief interlude of me as June Cleaver, I am starting to drive them crazy. My husband came home the other day and started talking about a project that he has to do at work. Ooooo. A project! I love projects! “Can I help? I am good at projects. Does it need a spreadsheet and a chart?”. Wayne looked at me like I was crazy. In what universe did I think I knew anything about forestry and the impacts of Fir Beetle in the TFL. Well, I didn’t know anything about pigs either but that didn’t stop me. I felt I could have been very helpful.

Owen was sympathetic. “Dad, I understand. Remember, I had to do school at home with her.” OK Owen. I hear you but I thought our work in English 8 was outstanding and I was very proud of our A.

Living in BC, we all worked hard to fight off COVID. We cheered for all the front line workers and celebrated their dedication and yes, that was real and needed and it was essential but here is my reflection. While we needed our front line workers; their bravery, compassion and dedication, it also became a stark reality of the cost of “crushing the curve” and “holding the line” was people who lost their companies, careers, jobs, income and more. I don’t hear the same amount of cheering or celebrating. In fact, I don’t hear much at all about those who have been left broken in the wake of COVID. Crushing the curve was a collective, national effort to ensure that our hospitals did not get overwhelmed and our citizens could be safe. I look around and wonder if many of our heroes are those that are left financially broken and emotionally spent.

Maybe I am wrong. Maybe because I live in a small town, I don’t get the full picture and our news outlets are talking about the other costs to fighting COVID. I do hear about all the government support and the financial aid and that is terrific. As Canadians, we are so fortunate to have these financial measures but while they are helpful, I also see it as a bit of of duct tape. I am embarrassed that I don’t feel more grateful but as I said, I am in mourning and out of sorts.

Am I the only one that feels wounded and broken by COVID? I feel I shouldn’t even speak of my pain; that I should keep my composure and keep my thoughts to myself but I don’t feel the same anymore. I feel broken, adrift, uncertain and vulnerable and definitely not secure. I am scared that I don’t have it in me to rise again. I loathe going out to the shops and not wanting to make eye contact for fear of making connection. I hate feeling guilty for being out shopping. I feel this darkness with dual messaging “restart the economy but only if you are confident you won’t unknowingly spread COVID“. Which is it? Restart or recoil? We need a consistent collective message to pull us together. Physical distance is very different than socially distanced. We need space, not emotional separation.

I worry about the COVID casualties. People who are being forced to start again, to change their business model or way of thinking and being. The financial support from government is helpful but people are going to have to dig deep and draw upon reserves of creativity to move forward. It’s exhausting to have to think of starting again or how to pivot and bounce back. COVID has casualties and I might be one. Not the person that was killed in the crash but the one that got hit by glass. Broken.

A very dear friend of mine said to me a couple of years back “But I don’t see you like that. I see you as so much more“. I try to hold her vision of me, but my mirror must have come from a carnival because my view is distorted. My cancer is my absolute “hate” of myself and my inability to feel that I did enough to prepare for the storm. These feelings have grown more acute throughout COVID 19 which has led to my sense of unraveling and now to my confession.

My confession is that I feel I am a failure. I know I should see my mishaps as stepping stones and believe me, I want to. I know on an intellectual level that failure is an event, not a descriptive but yet, I am not there yet. I want this to be purged from my deepest core to finally feel free. Unfortunately, the more I focus on failure, the deeper the concept inbeds itself into my psyche.

So. I berate myself as I watch finances dwindle. Brene Brown would call this “shame”. If I had managed things differently, maybe COVID wouldn’t have had such a strong wind to blow out my candle of hope leaving just darkness. It’s shame that shackles me and keeps me prisoner.

I know I should look around and rather than feel despair, I could choose to be grateful. I have three lovely children, a kind husband, an amazing sister and extended family as well as beautiful friends but I am in the dark and when in the dark, it is hard to see.

My tooth is aching, my heart is broken. COVID19 is incredibly unsettling. It is giving me pause to wonder if I matter or if perhaps my place in life is somewhat misguided. These are the questions of those who struggle with mental well being. I now understand the fog that exists in a state of imbalanced being. I also understand the fear of saying it out loud. If I say it, then my husband hears it, my children hear it and do they want to hear that the one who gives structure is starting to crack? How does that lend anyone a sense of safety amidst uncertain times?

I turn back to my new traveling companion, author Glennon Doyle. She tells it like this. We are passengers on a plane. I am the flight attendant. If we hit turbulence and I panic as the flight attendant, that doesn’t help the passengers. So yes, I am cracking up but I am also putting on my life vest and passing out the peanuts. I am going to be ok and so will my family. I just need them to know that right now, life jackets are probably a good idea because there is a small chance we might crash in order to land.

I don’t want to leave my family or anyone with the impression that this is the end. It’s not. The potential to “crash and burn” is an admission of honesty and the gateway to new beginnings. I can’t change my beginning, but I can start where I am. I didn’t feel that I could be that wife, mother, sister or friend in an authentic way unless I confessed that I have been falling apart. To smile, laugh and say “yes, I’m doing great” have been my means of coping during COVID. My truth is that I have been distraught and uncomfortable with how much has changed and how much has been lost.

I look around and it’s no wonder I feel somewhat bruised and beat up. This new world includes waiting in long line ups while standing 2 metres apart. Plexiglass shields divide us, masks protect us but what is the impact of all this change? When we have to “disinfect” after every interaction, it’s no wonder my box of wine goes quickly. Alcohol has always been used to clean the wound.

We didn’t ask for the world to change but so it has and so must I. We all are making change. For me, it’s getting back in the arena. Dusting off my bloodied knees and brushing the tears and sweat from eyes. I will work to restart. I will refocus my goals and rethink who I want to be and let go of who I think I “should” be. I will risk genuine authenticity for potential rejection. I will trust that maybe a new found confidence will provide structure for a new life with new opportunities, ideas and beginnings. I tentatively think that perhaps the unraveling is a fresh start.

I have a toothache, my heart is broken but I am ready to rise. It doesn’t matter what happened, it only matters what happens next. I promised a blog about bravery and this post is my deepest confession of pain. I write this for me and for anyone else who might feel adrift. COVID has not been kind; but maybe we can be kind to ourselves and to each other. Perhaps, my heart can touch yours. COVID has changed our reality but let’s not give it the power to break us apart or even at all.

With love,

Shelley

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