Category: 2020 And Stories From Life

Project Pigs….Part Two


Sometimes there is something to be said for doing a bit more research on a proposed project. When I was researching pigs, there were many images of well behaved pigs obediently following their “people”. Had I dug a little deeper, I would have realized that the pigs I had been looking at were show pigs not the main course. Show pigs are scrubbed clean and paraded around a ring and judged for money; like getting ready for a job interview. Sort of.

We don’t judge our pigs. We see them each for what they offer, namely bacon, sausage and pork chops. I think they must have a sense that we don’t have long term commitment and that is why they put up a fuss when we had to move them to a new pen. It’s either that or maybe they are more like kids than I thought. Sometimes you have to push and prod to get them to where you want them to be and in both cases, that gets mucky.

I am truly aghast that I ordered pigs without any meaningful research. I just looked at the pictures and thought “how hard can this be?”. Ignorance is not bliss, it is stupidity. How stupid to think that just because I had a bucket of food, the pigs would follow.

To successfully move pigs, you need patience. You also can’t yell at them. They don’t like yelling. They like to be gently nudged. They like to quietly move at their own pace when they feel it is safe and convenient. Kind of like my husband.

Of course, we didn’t know this when we started. We started with a more assertive approach. Actually, it was Wayne that started it. His idea was to crouch down like a sumo wrestler and spread his arms out wide. I think he thought by spreading his arms out, the pigs would feel the urge to be herded and as they herded, he could reach down and grab one. That’s not what happened. Pigs are faster than you think. I will also share that pig manure does not wash easily out of clothes.

A new approach was needed. We needed the full family for a five on four full court press. In case you were wondering, we were the five; the pigs were the four. Although we had the advantage of height and numbers, they had us on weight and unwillingness.

The first hour was a bust and no matter what we tried, we mainly just ended up yelling and blaming each other. The end game was to get them to move a mere 300 feet. The reward would be that they would have new grass to graze, trees to chomp and even a pool. OK, it was a pond but whatever. We were offering an upgrade but they were still keen to stay in the studio apartment with the bad plumbing and no view.

It was fear. I get that. Change is courage in action and that even applies for pigs. Sometimes, in order to make change, you need a team to get behind you to push and guide you. Lucky me, I got to get behind the pigs with a large piece of plywood. My role was to gently “push”. I also had to speak quietly and nice to them. I told them about their new home and the new pool. As I talked, I gently moved them forward. This was second nature to me; 23 years of being a mom finally paid off. I am now a “pig whisperer”. I am not sure if this is worthy of celebration or a shot of whiskey.

Everyone had to be still. One sudden move would cause chaos. Megan and Owen held hockey sticks to create an illusion of fence lines or borders. Aiden held out food as the overarching incentive and Wayne held the gate open to the promised land. It was all going great until it wasn’t.

Wilbur was the leader. As soon as we “pushed” too much, he sensed it and led the revolt and bolted! Pigs went wild, running through the electric fence, crashing through the garden and charging out onto the driveway. Four pigs on the run. One step forward, two steps back and how the hell do you capture pigs on the run?

While the rest of the family was back to yelling, I was ok by the chaos. After all, this was just an extension of the dance of motherhood. You talk nicely, you gently push and just when you think you are making progress, there is a revolt and you have to start again. What’s interesting about the pigs is that they didn’t want “freedom”, they wanted security. How’s that for a great life metaphor? I couldn’t believe how easy it was to get them back to their beginning. They gravitated to what they knew and was comfortable. I get you Bacon. I like comfortable too. It’s that stretching to the promised land that freaks me out. What if the brochure is a lie and the “pool” is really a “pond”?

It took three hours but they finally passed through the gates and found their new home. It was exhausting. Also, being charged by four pigs is something I never even thought to imagine. Did I mention it’s hard to wash out pig manure?

The pigs found their happy place. They have dug their own mud puddles and then waddle into the pool (ok, pond) to cool off. I know their destiny is the freezer and I kind of feel bad. I wouldn’t have thought that pigs are cute but they are. They like having their ears rubbed. They like nuzzling their nose into the palm of my hand. They like to run and then flop. Each of them have such distinct characteristics. I see why it is bad to name them. There is going to come a day when we have to slit their throats. I feel that Shakespeare would have a field day with our duplicity. “Here pigs….come swim in the swimming pool; bathe in the mud, indulge in the green, green grass, come sit by me while I hold up a knife…..”. Talk about a dystopian tale of epic proportion.

And so it is. Much like life. Taking chances on moving forward. It’s easier to take chances when people stand behind us. So many life experiences are kept in silos. How many challenges do we face alone for fear of asking for help? Does anyone else have dark thoughts that they are afraid to reveal because they don’t want to “burden” anyone? There is a need for courage to take the next step to get the house with the pool but also to ask for help and see if someone will stand behind us to help push us forward.

Brene Brown says “we can’t be brave in the big world without at least one small safe space to work through our fears and falls“. We need safe spaces. I saw that with the pigs and I see it in myself. My safe space needs to be the people that care about me and SEE me. It is super hard being vulnerable and saying “I fucked up“, “I don’t know the next step“, “I don’t know if I can” and likely the biggest one which is “what if I can’t?” Moving and changing is paralyzing. This is where the demons can get you unless you are willing to reach out for a way up. But we have to speak out when we need the lift up. Yes, another call for courage.

Our pigs hold space in our lives. It is so easy to spend time with them and enjoy them for who they are. Who wants to “fix” a pig and make them “better”? They are perfect the way they are. I can’t believe that I am saying this but it is so easy to spend countless moments just watching them BE pigs. I’ve likely lost my mind but maybe gained perspective.

I wonder what it might be like to let go of the armor and all the everything that holds us back from making change. It’s time to find the place with a pool (not a pond) and stretch through the unknowingness.

With love for all who take the next steps, even if it means getting a bit muddy.

Shelley

Project Pigs…..Part One


Cauliflower, Bacon and Pork Chop

Good news!!! My underwear fits again and I can finally breathe. Bad news…..the neighbors called and complained about the smell of our pigs. I’m not talking the next door neighbor, I am talking the neighbor that lives across the hayfields and then some. I hadn’t factored in the aroma when I started Project Pigs. Let’s be honest, I hadn’t factored anything in because I was completely ignorant about pigs. It just seemed like a good idea.

I blame COVID. I blame COVID for most things but in this case, it’s true. When the world is calling for the sky to fall and you start feeling guilty for buying the toilet paper you actually need, it was a call for rethinking life and food supplies. I should have stopped at “let’s make the garden bigger“. Actually, I should have stopped at that first glass of wine because it was the second glass of wine that caused me to text “YES. I’LL ORDER 4 PIGS“.

“What did I do?” was reserved for my twenties and late night parties not something in my 50’s. I knew nothing about pigs and had just ordered four. My husband was ecstatic; I looked for a therapist because clearly I was NUTS!

One needs the right shoes for pigs…

My rationale for pigs went something like this…… If the world thinks that we are going to run out of toilet paper, chances are we might run out of options at the grocery store. What happens if the border closes and the food chain is interrupted? We live six hours away from Vancouver and the grocery store gets their deliveries twice a week. What you see on the shelves is what you get. In the winter, if the highway is closed due to weather, the selection is skinny. If the selection is skinny due to snow, I wondered what a world wide pandemic might do?

Food security has always been something I have believed in but as long as I could still buy red peppers whenever I wanted (and toilet paper), I kept food security issues in a file marked “to think about later“. My fall back position was “it’s good to support Farmer’s Markets” which masked my inherent laziness when it came to working a garden. COVID brought chaos and I joined thousands of others in planting the makings for salads and more.

We’ve always had a garden. Sometimes I even watered it and pulled out weeds; mostly I just liked growing tomatoes. Our garden had some flaws namely the soil wasn’t terrific. Pigs were the perfect solution. They are natural rototillers and they leave behind great fertilizer as they “go” and when their work is done, they can rest comfortably in the freezer. This sounded like the perfect plan.

My knowledge of pigs was limited to what I learned from reading Charlotte’s Web. Wilbur was cute and compliant. Nothing like using a non-fictional character as the basis for raising pigs. I am the reason people call the SPCA.

Our pigs arrived big and squealing hard and loud. They also arrived a little sick from the transport truck. “Houston, we have a problem“.

Since I am not a vet or have any experience, this was a good time to learn something about pigs other than what I had read in story that starred a spider that could spell. Our pigs had a really bad barking cough. Dr. Google advised that our pigs likely had arrived with bordetella bronchiseptica. In english, this meant that they had swine flu which was likely brought on by the stress of traveling in the transport truck and without proper treatment, could die. Great. My career as a pig farmer clearly wasn’t going to make it onto my resume.

While I I spent hours looking on how to cure the pigs. Wayne looked for bullets. He’s more practical than I am.

I was determined to figure this out and leaned into the challenge. I also called a farmer friend who came over to administer antibiotics. This sounded simple. Antibiotics are good and they are…..if you can catch the pigs.

Wayne and I had never done pig wrestling as a couple but now we have. It’s not a bonding experience. It involves tons of yelling and shouting. It also meant Wayne had to jump on the pig and I had to jump on Wayne while holding the needle in one hand. It was a miracle I hit the pig with the needle and not Wayne.

Thanks to the antibiotics, three pigs improved but Cauliflower got worse. We named her Cauliflower because one of her ears looked like a cauliflower. Likely, her ear had been trampled in the transport which caused the deformity and the more severe cough. Her cough got so bad that she ended up with a prolapsed rectum. This definitely didn’t happen to Wilbur.

**ALERT**GRAPHIC IMAGE**

We had never wrestled pigs and we had certainly never had to push a rectum back into a pig. A rectum is not something you can just “leave out” and hope it gets better. To make it worse, if we didn’t deal with it, there was a good chance the other pigs would eat it off. This wasn’t Charlotte’s Web, this was Lord of the Flies.

More wrestling ensued and Wayne pushed the prolapse back in and we taped it things together. Fingers crossed.

The next day, Wayne went to work, he also left the bullet out just in case. As if. When I went to check on Cauliflower, the prolapse wasn’t better. It was worse. Time to call the vet. Another round of pig wrestling was launched and because my fingers were smaller, I had to do the first push of the prolapse. Sticking a needle in a pig seemed like a walk in the park compared with sticking my fingers down long dark alleys. The bullet called out to me…..

We persevered and the vet was able to sedate the pig and then massaged all the bits back in place and sewed it up. Now I had to nurse Cauliflower back to health. We separated her from the other pigs. I made her porridge and spoon fed her. I also asked the vet to leave pill form antibiotics as I was done with needles.

After a few days of specialty feeding, it seemed obvious that she was lonely. She needed her friends. The stitches had held and we moved her back with the rest of the crew. Pigs are social creatures and it was quite something to watch how quickly she recovered once she was back with the others. She also realized that the days of room service were over and she had to get to the trough which kept her moving.

Those first two weeks were illuminating. Unlike lettuce that you just plant and water, pigs are complex but despite the challenges, they have been amazing. In those first few weeks, they rototilled the heck out of the land making it possible for us to expand the garden.

We’ve now got space for a green house, peas, carrots, lettuce and yes, I went a big crazy with 72 tomato plants and more but it’s happening. I still hate weeding but thanks to a friend who suggested we place hay over the crops, I might not have to. The hay keeps the weeds down but the plants can thrive. If only I could put hay on all the parts of my life I don’t like to deal with.

I had no idea what we were getting into and yes, we now have to have socialize in the backyard to escape that special pig aroma but we’re learning. Will we do pigs again? I’m not sure. Wayne has all sorts of ideas for the butchering. This makes me nervous. I had visions of a professional butcher and that wasn’t me in an apron with knife but you never know. What I do know is that Wilbur had a long and happy life, we will have bacon and an abundance of ham along with a nice green salad and plenty of squash with a side dish of salsa.

COVID19 has made us all think differently and in many ways, that’s been good for everyone. Who we were before COVID is likely different than who we are now. Thinking about our world and our opportunities has become gratifying in the simplicity. It seems to me that many of us take pleasure in doing things that we used to take for granted. That includes food supplies and our relationships. Both of these have been enriched.

I wasn’t expecting was to find joy in these new beginnings but overcoming the challenge of being more self-sustainable has been rewarding. Life has served so many of us curve balls and we have had to adapt. That’s scary but it shouldn’t stop us from making the leaps into the unknown. Maybe who wer “thought” we were was just foreshadowing to what we can become.

Now…..if only the 40 meat birds that we ordered can behave themselves. But that is another story…..

Here’s to learning new skills and trying new things even if it means wearing rubber gloves and pushing things back together. Life if messy but we can do it. Stay tuned for more adventures.

With love to all and the hopes for a stronger and more sustainable world.

Shelley

Spa Day!
Cauliflower….

Desperate Times, Desperate Housewife….


If anyone were to walk into my bedroom at 2am in the morning, they would see me wide awake and would wonder why . My husband wouldn’t ask this because he is fast asleep and snoring. He has no idea that every night, I wake up at 2am and sweat. Not panic sweat, just life after 50 sweat. It lasts long enough that I get a nap before I have another nighttime workout. In fact, I usually “work out” three times a night.

I am desperate for a good night sleep, to wake up refreshed and not sweaty. I am also desperate to find my waist again.

The magic of Google is you can just punch in a question and it spits out thousands of answers. When I asked “How can I get a better sleep and find my waist”, herbal remedies made the first search page. Flaxseed, black cohosh, evening primrose oil, Vitamin E, B and D and more. I learned about phytoestrogen which I quite liked. It’s well known for its presence in red wine. It has been shown to reduce chronic pain. I don’t have chronic pain but perhaps that’s because I drink red wine. I searched to see if drinking white wine might help me sleep. That wasn’t successful.

There comes a point when the information is so overwhelming that you just want it packaged in a little box. Like my red wine. Keep it easy.

I looked at all the suggested herbs and Google pinpointed me to a site that declared ” Thermogenic Probiotics do more than just provide support to the gut, immunity and digestive function. They have also been studied to impact fat storage, calorie absorption, & provide support for a prime metabolic state.” WOW! “prime metabolic state”. This sounded good and gave hope for sleep with a sign of skinny! Just two capsules a day and I would start feeling like “me” again. I quickly got out my credit card.

My gift with purchase should have been a t-shirt that said “hook, line and sinker” or better yet “SUCKER“.

The next morning I woke up with buyers remorse. Let me simplify what happened. I started off as desperate. I then listened to a man tell me that he had the answers. He played his magic flute and the lovely ladies appeared to confirm that my desperation could be solved by buying a bottle of thermogenic probiotics. In other words, I likely just spent $109 US dollars on snake oil.

In the sanity of the morning sun, I looked up thermogenic probiotics and sure enough, they supress appetite and have been known to be effective in conjunction with diet and exercise. No shit Sherlock. Everything is effective with diet and exercise except I can’t quite figure out the new diet or exercise.

And here’s my next confession. That wasn’t my only purchase. In the sanity of the morning sun, it got cloudy and I found myself listening to someone else tell me how I had been exercising all wrong and likely not eating the right food combinations. Oh. Look at that, the answer to my diet and exercise program. Did you know that for women over 50, we should be eating more and only exercising 20 minutes a day. True story. I read it on the internet and hit “pay now”.

Sleep deprivation has been a documented means of torture. Ask any new mother. With very little sleep, one does not function well or make good decisions. I can attest to this. I am waiting for snake oil while I browse through my new pdf cookbook that came with a FREE bonus of extra HIIT workouts. All which likely could have been found individually on the internet. Idiot. I am an idiot. Perhaps I should consider swampland in Florida.

I am guilty of wanting the quick fix and doing anything to feel “normal”. Most days, I feel like a piece of bread that has been left to soak in water and then set out on the counter to mold. It makes me think that women’s health is still on the backburner and not front and centre. I also have to admit that I am annoyed that people are making money off my desperation. My silent suffering is possibly because this is what women have always done but do we have to keep doing it?

I have been thinking a great deal about silent suffering and it’s bigger and broader than what I imagined. Look at the social movements that have been activated all over the globe. There is a spotlight shining on systems that have created to take advantage of circumstance. I have found this to be uncomfortable because somehow I am complicit. I can relate. Like reading about natural remedies, reading historical wrongs is complicated. There is no “quick fix” for my middle or the conversation around race. You can’t hit “pay now” and it’s going to be ok. The genie is out of the bottle.

I want to admit that I closed my eyes and ears. Racism is a painful subject and I don’t know where to begin. I have decided to “jump”. I am going to lean in and start reading and learning. I will keep my eyes wide open, even when things get ugly, uncomfortable and my insides start to squirm.

This week, in between my magic potion binge purchases, I ordered the following books:

White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo

How to Be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi

White Like Me by Tim Wise

21 Things You May Not Know About the Indian Act by Bob Joseph

I’m Still Here by Austin Channing Brown

What is becoming clear to me is that somehow “we” have to make things right. My favourite quote for the week is “the system isn’t broken, it was built this way“. I reflect on structures of power and realms of discrimination and believe that we have to rebuild with new purpose and intent. I want to start this work and I hope that the above reading list will help give me language that will allow me to participate with clear and constructive contribution. Policies that foster racism have to be changed. I want to be part of the solution and no longer complicit by sitting on the sidelines.

I listened to the podcast by Austin Channing Brown and it made me upset and uncomfortable and yes…. a little bit mad. She hit a nerve. I think that means I have to peel back layers of the onion.

I live by the bumper sticker “change is a long conversation” but I am thinking that this conversation has been going on for far too long and it’s time for action and to get into the game. This makes me nervous because I don’t have the playbook. This whole “white privilege” is really unnerving and to understand it, I have to learn about it and then “own” it and then change it. It’s going to be an uncomfortable ride.

I believed in magic, spells and potions. Anything that would take a complicated hurt and make it better. I put my money into the “quick” fix because that was easy. Real change will take real action. There is no room to profit off circumstance and struggle. That doesn’t resonate as the “right” thing to do. We can do better. I can do better. The call to action is now.

This is not an easy place to be and as a white woman, it feels super awkward. I feel the need to take the blame and in that blame, I feel shame and I also feel confused because I thought I was a good person. What I am learning is that is not enough. I closed my eyes to the awfulness and found ways to ignore what was happening. I numbed myself to a constant reality and that is not ok. Things are not right and that has to be said out loud along with a demand for systemic change sooner than later.

If ever there was a time of desperation, I think it might be now. This is a full on call to action for each of us. Together, we can do hard things that make a difference.

With love & commitment for a better tomorrow, for everyone.

Shelley

QUOTE BY AUSTIN CHANNING BROWN

“I will not and cannot prioritize trying to change someone’s mind/heart. We’d have to consult with historians but my guess is that a changed heart was rarely the catalyst for change. My guess is money, politics, media or the voice of the people was the real catalyst”

WRINKLED…..and I don’t mean my clothes


Gosh I am wrinkled. They are everywhere. Like mosquito bites. It’s incredible where you find them. Technically, my “wrinkle” on my back isn’t really a wrinkle but it sounds nicer than “back fat” so I am counting it.

It’s the hands and face that are the worst. And my neck. OK, I should add in my chest too. There are many parts that are beginning to look like fruit leather. I think my triceps are ok but only because they keep flapping in the wind and I can’t get a good look at them.

Some people are aging beautifully. Not me. Yesterday I was asked if I was “retired”. No, just currently unemployed. It’s kind of the same thing but without an income. But I digress. I have a friend who is rocking the house as she gets older. She is tall, graceful and when she walks in a room, she holds an audience with her spectacular sense of style. It also doesn’t hurt that she is smart, funny, kind and can make a mean martini. She also has flawless skin that makes most women envious.

One day I was talking to her and I kept wondering what was different. She always looks great but this day, it was beyond radiant. At the risk of sounding like a commercial, I asked her what her secret was. She told me that she had been doing “facial fitness”. Yes, it’s a “thing”.

I had to look this up because she looked AWESOME! What was this miracle of miracles? It turns out that facial fitness is like going to the gym with a personal trainer except you get to lie down, not sweat and you come out looking amazing. The treatment series involves microcurrents that stimulate facial muscles so that they regain their tone. Your skin gets plumped up (in a good way) and fine lines and wrinkles are diminished. Eyes open up, upper cheeks fill out with a slimmer and more structured jaw line. Now that’s a WOW!

In particular, it was my friend’s eyes that looked amazing! Wide open. Her experience was that the sessions had helped her face “lift”. Think about pulling your forehead up and back over your skull. The face literally “lifts”. I know this because I tried it and realized that my eyes had developed a bit of a “hood”. More than a “bit”. At this rate, I am likely going to be blind.

Gravity is a tough gig. My face is not just “falling”, it is avalanching. Everything is falling from the top down. It explains why my breasts have fallen into my stomach.

In a small town, we don’t have facial fitness facilities. I told my husband we should look at moving to the city for facial fitness options. He said he could hang me up in a tree like a deer and see if that would work. He also said he wouldn’t charge me. I don’t find him helpful.

Without access to facial fitness, I had to come up with my own home remedies. Betty White said that “the secret to aging better is getting 8 hours of sleep; 9 if you are ugly”. I need at least 12.

How am I going to age gracefully without being hung up in a tree? I’m trying to learn that lesson. I’m trying to transition. This is a metaphor for many things right now. I am trying to accept external changes and find ways to wear them so that they look good and not awkward.

Lately, with COVID19, I feel that many things in my life have been falling; not just my forehead but my career, my bank account and my dreams of where I thought I would “be” at this stage of my wrinkles. COVID 19 is definitely deepening my “WTF” lines.

This week, I have to write a new business plan and possibly a resume. The only thing worse than writing a resume is trying on bathing suits and we covered that topic in a previous blog. More courage is required. I have to stand up and admit that things are falling. It’s not comfortable. It’s like jeans that are too tight or my forehead falling over my eyes.

I talk about letting things go but it’s hard. Harder than I thought. I am dropping a business that operated for 25 years and enhanced my life in many ways. It helped get my husband through school, contributed to raising three kids and allowed me to flex my life so that I could serve my community and be a voice. And now it’s going to be different and I have no idea what that might look like.

Glennon Doyle is a beautiful author who has become a travelling companion for me. She wrote “what screws us up most in life is the picture we had in our head of what it was supposed to be“. True that.

So this week, I will write a new business plan, a resume and a rough draft for my next chapter. Right now my wrinkles are from worry. I am wondering what would happen if I could move worry aside to make room for more creativity? Surely these next steps can be mastered with a positive mindset of “what if” as opposed to “don’t fuck up“.

This blog is about bravery and trying new things. Not in the scope of “world peace” but rather in the ordinary realm of being just “normal”. Think job loss, heart ache, injustice, indignity and messiness not to mention a whole lot of “fuck am I pissed off”.

My goal for the week is to breathe into my “moreness” and keep a lid on the feeling of being “less than“. Again, my traveling companion Glennon, has good advice. “We can do hard things”. My hard might not be your hard and your hard might not be my hard, but regardless, it all involves that first scary step and that’s why we need each other. We need to reach out and help one another to rise up.

Courage cannot be measured. It’s a verb, not a noun and intensely personal not to mention it requires tons of bravery.

Here’s to having the courage to do hard things. Here’s to wrinkles that show a life that was lived with largeness and then some….

With love,

Shelley

And then they leave….


I’ll love you forever

I’ll like you for always

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be

Robert Munsch from Love You Forever

The people that stole my heart, call me “Mom”…… I love you forever.

I think I have mentioned that I never planned to have kids. Diapers, sticky hands, obnoxious behavior were all “no go” for me. Other people could have children. I was keen on a life. Also, I had no idea how to raise children. That sounded like a bad idea. I don’t fix my own car and I certainly shouldn’t be in charge of small people looking to grow up.

I have three children. The irony is not lost.

Like anyone who has been touched by kids, your heart expands in ways that you never imagined. They touch a part of your core that you didn’t know you had and they ignite a love that is impossible to describe. Kids have a magic and they weave their way into your heart. Ask anyone who has had a child sit on their lap, wrap their arms around your neck and nestle in for a total “love in”. If you want unconditional love, hug kids.

I didn’t know that this would happen but I tightened my seat belt and held on. As much as loving my kids was great, there were many times when watching them sleep were my best memories. Also, it meant that the chaos of the day had come to a conclusion.

Our kids are 23, 21 and 14. I have been through terrible 2’s, hellish 3’s, horrible 4’s and more. I lived through colic, tantrums, testosterone and teenage chaos. There were many days when I felt there was a loud speaker shouting “clean up in aisle three” and I would go running. It wasn’t easy and we had to lean in.

“The days are long, the years are short” Dammit. It’s true. There were days that felt like years and then suddenly, it was over. They left. At least the older two did. In a blink, they were gone. All that messiness, all those moments, all those years and with a click of a suitcase, they jumped out. I had done my job. I raised them to leave and become independent and pursue their dreams. They were ready for their next steps. This was way too whacked and certainly NOT the job satisfaction I imagined.

COVID 19 brought them all home. Yes, there was chaos and yes, they all acted like they were 14, 12 and 4 but gosh it was fun. Especially having Aiden and Megan home. It was a gift being all together. It was also incredibly gorgeous to spend time with my adult children. The “things” that they had turned into after all the muck. This was job satisfaction. Being able to adore them as people and loving conversations and insights and moments. All those tough moments of “holding the line” and helping them was realized as we sat on the porch and enjoyed an adult relationship. This was joy. I could stay in this Nirvana forever, even if it meant I was still doing clean up in aisle three.

But things change. My eldest, Aiden, graduated from the University of Victoria this year. Or, he was supposed to. Thanks to COVID19, I think his degree is being mailed. He’s now an electrical engineer. I’m super proud of him. I never got a degree so the fact that my eldest has one is super awesome. He has become exactly what I wanted. He has achieved more than me. Thank God. And don’t think it was easy because that first year was a major fuck up but he didn’t quit. He brushed himself off and started again. He worked uphill and then he finished. Wow. Did I mention that I am super proud?

He didn’t have a job due to COVID 19. That was stressful but he practiced peace and trusting the process. Sure enough, it worked out. Just recently he was offered the job he wanted. Before he starts, he left to visit his girlfriend. That was tricky. I wanted him to stay. Our last night wasn’t fabulous. I said, “if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back”. He took this as a slight; it got a bit tense and there might have been some heated exchanges.

Here’s the thing. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always come back” was meant as, “I will love you forever and you always have a place“. This wasn’t articulated well. He is carving out his life and excited for new beginnings. His life landscape is all new. I wasn’t criticizing him, I was missing him. “Clean up in aisle three” has been my role. There isn’t one time that I wouldn’t be there for my kids and not to be a part of this next chapter is killing me. When I said “if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back”, it was intended to mean, “I am always here for you“. I miss him. We miss him. Life is empty without him. He adds to our life and for a few weeks, with him here, life felt whole.

It’s not easy moving from active participant to supportive bystander. All those years, I gave everything I had. Some days I was a rock star, other days I likely could have done with professional coaching and there were certainly moments that if I had a supervisor, they would have written me up in my file. But each day, I gave it my all because my only goal was to make sure that they could be so much more than me.

I write this because when we lean into the lives of children, we sign up for heart break. The love we give is the inspiration they use to spread their wings, fly and then soar. I can only hope that sometimes they come back to say hello.

My children are my greatest surprise. I didn’t know “love” until I knew them and there is NOTHING that they could do to disappoint me. Well, except not come home for Thanksgiving because that’s an upspoken rule and expectation. Also, it’s a super fun week-end.

Here’s the deal. My heart grew when I met them and now it breaks as they leave. I know it’s supposed to be this way but it doesn’t make it easier. Our home will always be their home. More than anything, I want to ensure that they feel we are the safe haven when the world of life gets rocky and they need reprieve. I am so proud of each of them. They are gorgeous souls who bring joy. I didn’t know that I would feel split in two when I started this journey. Deep love equals deep loss. Watching them fly is beautiful but heartbreaking. Their new life is another chapter. These three creatures are the story of my life and I would give my everything to them to ensure they had what they needed to live a whole and fulfilling life.

“If it doesn’t work out, you can always come back” is a mother’s message of love. I know you’ll be fine and better than fine but let me have my moment. My heart is breaking knowing that you are moving on. Hear me. I love you. I like you. I miss you. Who would have guessed that hearing “clean up on aisle three” would be missed and give me ponder to consider where I fit now. When you give it your all, it’s hard to transition to ordinary.

To you my beautiful children, “as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be”. Bear with me as I adjust and if you hear anything in my words, let it be “I love you“.

Here’s to the messiness of relationships, the chaos of connection and the growth that comes from caring deeply. Loving kids is possibly one of the greatest gifts we can give and that includes everyone.

With love,

Shelley

The “Ugh” of Running….


I am determined to keep running but while running, I derive absolutely no joy. Sorry all you passionate, fabulous runners, it’s just not my jam – yet.

My running routine generally involves spending more time choosing my playlist than actually running.

Nothing has changed, those first 10 seconds hurt. The second 10 seconds aren’t any better. How can ten seconds feel like ten hours?

If my playlist sucks, I feel the need to stop. Music is motivating. The pain of my lungs exploding, my muscles yelling and the agony of “I have so much further to go” is not motivating.

There is that little voice that speaks to me and says “walking allows you exercise your hip flexors which is a good thing“. I like that little voice. I like it more than my muscles yelling at me. I stay stubborn and ignore the yelling. I have been a mother for 23 years, I am used to people yelling at me and ignoring them.

How can 30 minutes surfing the net go by so fast and 30 minutes running feel like eternity?

I keep running. It still hurts. I don’t know which is better. Should my goal be to run 5km or should I set a “time goal”? If I run 5km, I run faster so that I can get through it quicker. If I set a time goal, I tend to slip in more “walking”. Longer could help me burn off that second glass of wine. Sprinting through the experience gets me home faster and still a “check” on the “to do list” but only a small taste of dessert. First world problems.

I keep running. I like dessert. I also like wine. I find it depressing that I push through pain and I still have not burned enough calories to compensate for either of my vices. This of course means I need to run longer (with less walking). Ugh.

I run where no one can see me. The joy of living rural. If I do see someone, my ego takes centre stage. I pick up the pace to give the impression that I am an awesome runner. At least I hope this is the impression that I am leaving. There is a good chance that my idea of a “fast run” is a turtle sprinting. If I am running fast enough, they might not see the look of pain on my face or the fact that my hamstring has seized and I may never walk again. Ego is not a healthy habit.

The good news is that I can run and my belly bulge has not yet heaved up to hit me in the face. I am making progress and running is getting easier. The “hate” is still there but I reluctantly admit that I feel better after doing it. Maybe it is relief that I didn’t have to call for an ambulance. I’m not sure.

I will keep at it. I ponder that running is like Vegemite…. an acquired taste. We’ll see. In the meantime, I didn’t have to call for a ride. Success is relative and incremental. Here’s to one step at a time.

Love,
Shelley

Braving the Bikini….


This is how I feel right now. A wee bit “plumpy”. Maybe I misunderstood the Mediterranean diet. Everyday, I ate French bread with cheese and red wine. I was practically a vegetarian and yet the “diet” didn’t work. I am emerging from quarantine with a little more lump to the plump and I have to contemplate summer swimwear.

I want to be brave and wear a bikini this summer. Or at least a version of a bikini. I think I am gravitating towards a “two piece” swim suit. A bikini has string, I need spandex with strategic coverage and built in enhancements.

*NOT me! Oh to be brave! My “wish” bathing suit for summer 2020.

I used to wear a bikini and then somewhere along the line, I moved to tankini which was a disaster. Tankinis sounded super cute but in fact, it’s just a version of tank top that must have shrunk to sit weirdly above the belly button allowing the muffin top to look like a dozen donuts.

I also tried the one piece. Another disaster. A “sleek” one piece on me is like wrapping cookie dough in saran wrap. I experimented with the ones that had the “textured” middle but that just fluffed out the flab.

My next gravitation was to the sporty skort with longer top. This was quite fun until my hips went horizontal and caused the skort to skimp and reveal nether regions of raciness. I can barely tweeze my brows and shave my legs. If I have to do more grooming than that, I best buy a burka.

What I need is tasteful yet fun. Like the 50’s.

Here is the reckoning. The best looking women are the ones that show up as themselves and shine. It’s not the style or physique, it’s mindset. While I am stressing about the spandex not sucking in my stomach, someone may be looking and thinking, “WOW! Great legs“.

This summer, I am committed to making the shift. I will find my shine. Even though I failed with my Mediterranean diet, I exercised everyday. I chose on line work outs and made the commitment to sweat.

When I first started, if a workout session included burpees, I hit fast forward. I hated burpees. I hated them because they are stupid and hard and make everything hurt. Even though they are kind of stupid, I realized I hated them because I couldn’t do them anymore. I would do one and then slip into downward dog and pretend that was sort of the same thing.

I don’t know what part of me felt that I had to keep up with an online fitness program. They couldn’t see me! What part of “I have a remote control” did I not understand? I stopped hitting fast forward and would just hit “pause” and do the moves and do them at my pace. Today, I can now do burpees. I still hate them but I can do them. I am in my fifties. My physique is fluffy with a splash of flab but I am getting fit. Small wins.

I am pleased with my fitness but I am uncomfortable with my shape. I am embarrassed to be in a bathing suit because everything shows. All my imperfections are out in the open. I don’t like that I am not what I used to be. That other “me” that used to be 20 pounds lighter. It’s a weird walk of shame and then it dawned on me. This feeling isn’t about fit or fat, this is a metaphor about me. I don’t want to be seen in a bathing suit or in any other context. I want to hide in the cabana.

When I go to any social function, I have to talk myself off the ledge. I need cue cards to remind me of positive social topics that are neutral in content. I wear bright pink lipstick to give me courage. I try really hard to stay with small talk and say the “right” thing but before you know it, I veer off script and am knee deep in dialogue and debate with a heavy hand of out loud commentary. No amount of spandex is going to keep me tucked in and even if I just drink water, my mouth still runs off like I’ve had a few glasses of white. This all leads to the morning sense of regret. “Did I really say that?” “I wonder if they understood what I was saying?” “Should I have said that?” “Did they enjoy the conversation or just pretend to be polite?” And my favourite part of morning after reflection, “should I call them today and explain?” I just want to put on my bathing suit cover up and hide.

My goal continues to be to stop the self loathing and negative self-talk. I am working on reframing my self perceptions to a “what if” in the positive. “What if they liked my ideas?” “What if they were interested in what I said?” “What if they admired someone being outspoken?” I am also working on accepting that generally whatever I say, is really what I mean. I need to stop pretending I like the small talk. I like debate and deep social dialogue. I like hearing new ideas and hashing out concepts and possibilities. I like weighing in on topics many prefer to avoid. I like the mental stimulation that comes from hearing what other people think. I like the second layer, even if it gets messy.

Squishing into a bathing suit is super uncomfortable and so is squashing myself into being someone other than who I am. I tend to do both to try and “fit”. I seek approval and acceptance and yet make the standards of my self acceptance so high that there is not a hope in hell that I will ever reach it.

I need to stop being afraid. My jiggly bits are my insecurities. I don’t feel I am “enough” but I am trying to ease that load.

I am afraid of wearing a bikini and I am afraid of being me. It’s time for positive action and to make a change. This summer, I will brave the bathing suit and being me.

Here’s to having the courage we need to become more than we thought we could (and to finding the bathing suit that fits to perfection). Here’s to the shine that lives within!

With love,

Shelley