Blog Faves – And Then I Jumped……

Crossing the Bridge and Finding H.O.P.E

The bags were packed, not to be carried, but to be set down and left behind. When I took that first step, I have never felt more free.

I had a picture in my head of how my life was “supposed” to be and when I looked in the mirror, it was anything but. I thought by 50, I would have braved the crocodiles and somehow emerged onto safe ground which was defined by accolades that I could hang a sense of relief on.

What kind of accolades? I’m going to go with a fairly average vision; successful career, comfortable retirement, healthy savings, good family and friends and maybe a house that had a linen closet, more than one bathroom and possibly even a place to iron my clothes other than my bed. I saw myself as stylish; owning clothes that said “dry clean only” instead of a wide variety of items that require a mere 5 minutes in the dryer with a damp towel. My husband and I would grow gracefully old; him looking great wearing khakis and a blue button down shirt and me in my white and blue linens. I see the flaw. I think that my life aspirations were modeled after a retirement ad that I saw on TV…..

As I hit my 50’s and certainly what most would describe as a mid-life meltdown, I found myself taking stock of life and looking at where I had fallen short. What have I done versus what others have done? The expectations that I had of myself and what I had wanted to achieve were certainly less than and my disappointment in myself was was deep and I felt shame that somehow I had fucked it all up based on poor decisions.

I started writing this blog in April 2020 with the ambition of documenting the journey of what it was to fall apart and have the courage to start again. I envisioned a process that had eloquent insight into what it is to muddle through midlife despite things being not exactly as one dreamed and being able to rise.

I saw 2021 as the Revival Tour where I rocked out on stage and sang HALLELUJAH with relief at having made it to the other side.

I enjoyed all my new paths of exploration. I took up gardening, raising pigs and chickens. I bought a mountain bike, went back to school and got back into hiking, camping and canoeing. I took on new work opportunities, started an exercise program and even joined NOOM.

While I was keen on food security, I sucked at gardening. Don’t hate me but after two years, I can honestly say that I do not find love in the dirt. All spring and summer, I watched people show their amazing gardens and I so wanted to be like them. I wanted to dig in the earth and find a spiritual sense peace and beam with pride as a I served a “garden fresh” salad to the table. Unfortunately, that’s not me. Anyone who knows me, knows that I don’t like cooking. I’m not even a fan of food. Why did I think I would love to garden? I have never felt it an honour to feed and nourish my offspring; I sort of saw it as retaliation for something I did in a past life.

I turned my attention to mountain biking. I bought a bike in hopes that an equipment upgrade would enhance my performance. I did improve. Slightly. I just could not find the love of grinding up hills while sucking wind only to risk life and limb on the downhill. I did enjoy being out with my son and husband but as a mountain “braker”, I’m not sure they loved the outing the same way I did.

Hiking? Canoeing? OK. I’m keen as long as I don’t have to go with my family but I sure did like those little meals that come in a bag.

My lumps and bumps are still there. I had some losses but I worked it out that my losses came at a cost of approximately $37 / pound. It was a good program, just not for me and we had to break up. We had what I call some “creative differences” over how to count calories.

So there you have it. I won’t even bore you with how to revive a travel business during a pandemic. There was a brief glimpse of hope before the door slammed shut once again. Surely one of those things that I started would have been the catalyst that would lead to joy and yet…. I just felt the same.

All my talk about “jumping” and courage and trying to be brave was all stuff best left to inspirational t-shirts and podcasts. It wasn’t working and I felt like a fraud. The mic dropped, the bus broke down and the tour got cancelled.

I believe in hope and with this belief, I was going to give it one more go to reboot my connection to life and getting back on tour. I joined seven of my dearest friends on Saturday September 18th to rappel down a 23 story building in Vancouver, BC to help raise funds for children and families with disabilities. A big jump for sure.

I had done this before in 2019 but I did it with my eyes closed. No lie but honestly, can you blame me? The hardest part is climbing over the edge of the building and trusting that the ropes will hold. The vision of the robes breaking and free falling to a messy death is real.

In 2019, my Super Hero partner was not only an inspiration then but remains an inspiration now. She really does leap over tall buildings and throws her arms out wide to embrace the experience. She kept saying to me “Shelley, just look at the view!”. My fear of heights is often paralyzing and it took all I had to unclench my eyelids and take a brief peek at the view. That millisecond glance was nice but my goal was to quite simply “arrive alive“.

And while I was glad to find firm footing at the end of that day, a part of me yearned to do it again and stretch that comfort zone. When my gal pals all signed up for 2021, it was a no brainer that I would join them.

It was an amazing morning. The weather looked good, the skies were bright and the gale force winds that had ravaged the city the day before seemed to be quiet. Everyone was nervous in their own way yet we all shared a commitment to overcoming our fears in pursuit of a great cause (www.eastersealsbcy.ca). One by one, we headed to the roof, each with our own narrative. It was amazing, in fact, it was a metaphor for life. Each one of us lived the same experience but differently and in that, I found inspiration.

Some of us were happy to just get over the ledge and find our way down while others took to the sky like birds in the wind. My Super Hero partner from 2019 was as magnificent as ever and continued to take in the views and live every moment of being up so high. Another friend found so much joy that she looked like someone from Cirque du Soleil the way she somersaulted in the sky. I was in awe watching her find joy in the journey and without fear or hesitation. What is even more remarkable is that her real life journey has given her scars and yet, in that moment, she chose to soar.

For me, while I did not use the opportunity to try out for Cirque du Soleil, I was happy that my Super Hero friends inspired me to open my eyes, to love the journey and to even let go of the rope and feel secure enough to dance with delight at being able to push back the fears of “what if” and trust that all would be well.

It was a day of celebration. Many other friends and family came to cheer and I am delighted to say that thanks to tremendous support and generosity, our team raised a little under $15,000. We are stronger together and together, we make a difference.

There wasn’t ever any question that I wouldn’t do the jump. Let’s be honest…..how does one write a blog called “And Then I Jumped” and not actually do it? I needed to fix the bus and get back on tour.

I returned home but no matter my efforts, I couldn’t get the bus to start.

This is the hard part where I tell you what happened and why I stopped writing. I fell down a really dark hole and couldn’t get out. I had this idea of what life would be like for me and I didn’t measure up. I felt that I had failed myself and my potential.

While I had always been quite mean to myself, in October, the voices in my head became vicious. The rhetoric was awful and just a barrage of vile. The monsters who I call Shame and Blame had a firm hold on me. All day they kept yelling at me, reminding me of all my failures, hitting me with memories of when I could have made a different choice. I sat there and took it, feeling like I deserved no better than the beating I was receiving.

Once a day, my monsters let me out of the hole. I could pop up for just long enough to make dinner for the family and ask everyone how they were doing but right afterwards, I was dragged back down to ensure that I didn’t get to bed without further feeling like I was worth nothing.

To escape, I did everything I could to numb the pain. 5pm would come along and I would count the minutes until I could go to bed and find reprieve. Sure that worked but at 3am, they found me and dragged me back down that hole of pain and the beatings and berating would start again. Every reminder of being less than; like glass cutting skin.

I was down in that dark hole for a long time and to be deeply honest, endings looked easier than beginnings and to this, I gave true contemplation. I felt the anguish that my life was hopeless and likely without purpose. I can honestly say that I felt that I was a waste of space. And yet, somewhere in that darkness, a small slice of light came through and the dream of being back on tour held me back from a final jump.

It was just enough light and I called a friend. I knew she had faced monsters and could possibly understand. She put everything aside and listened. I asked her not to counter anything I said with something positive. I needed her to hear what the monsters were saying. I needed to confess what the voices were yelling. Even though she was on the phone, I felt as though she was holding my hand and she listened with her heart. Grace. In that moment, I was granted grace.

When all was said and done, I asked her how she makes the changes she makes. I asked how and where do I make the jump? “Shelley, it doesn’t have to be a jump. It’s a bridge. You look to where you want to go and you take one step at a time”

A bridge. A connection to tomorrow. Suddenly, I knew where I wanted to go.

Crossing a bridge took more courage than making a jump but if I hadn’t practiced jumping, I wouldn’t have been able to take the first step. I was scared. I was scared to own the life that I actually wanted. What if it wasn’t enough? What if I wasn’t enough? And here’s the rub. Living life safe was only making me miserable. I was too busy living the life I thought I should live based on the comparisons of what others were doing. I tried to be someone I wasn’t and in that place of pretending, it’s why I could never measure up.

So here’s what I did. I packed my bags with all those mean words. I crammed them all in and didn’t leave anything out. “Loser, failure, inadequate, stupid, idiot, incompetent” and more were packed. It actually took two suitcases and they were heavy.

The bags were packed, not to be carried, but to be set down and left behind. When I took that first step, I have never felt more free.

People asked, “why didn’t you call me?” “Why didn’t you let me know?”

The answer is because I loved you too much. I would never want anyone to be in that dark hole, to face the monsters or feel the cold and take the beatings. It isn’t a place that you invite people to go. It is a prison with a torture chamber not a cafe with lovely lattes and warm chocolate chip cookies.

The other answer is because I didn’t know how to let go of my pain without falling apart. I was afraid. What if I let go and the ropes failed and I fell to the ground? I wasn’t yet strong enough to open the wounds. But please know this, I knew you were there. You were the light.

I share this because I made it through and if you are struggling, please know that even thought it might feel like you are alone, you aren’t and there is hope. I say that sincerely and speak from experience.

It took time (a lot of time!) but I let go of what I thought it was “supposed” to be and am now living who I want to be. I’ve also let go of comparisons and “labels” that weren’t helpful to me. I am married and have stopped calling myself a “wife“. All that did was conjure up images of loving to cook and clean which just made me feel guilty because I really hate that shit. Same thing with being a “mother“. I have had children who I love and adore but my image of what a “mother” is comes from outdated narratives and none of them involve dancing on tables while singing out loud.

My impressions of what roles “should be” weren’t my definitions. I borrowed them from other people and tried to make them fit; like trying to fit into jeans that were three sizes too small. No wonder I hurt.

My constant comparison was only crushing my own potential but now I feel free. I am who I am and I can own that; all of it. Even the messy bits. I don’t have to fit what isn’t mine or that which is destined for me. There is no one else who is meant to live my life. That spot has been saved for me. Copy and paste is done and with that, the mean voices are now quiet.

So dear readers. The bus is back on tour and Revival feels amazing. I hope if you are carrying baggage that is holding you back that you let it go. If you find yourself in dark places, find a hand that you can hold. Look ahead and see what you want and feel what it might feel like to take that first step. Letting go of fear has changed my life. For the first time ever, I have absolute confidence in what comes next. It doesn’t mean that I am not afraid, it just means that I feel more brave than scared. I have found my own passions and they are bringing me joy. The release of my labels and making comparisons is something I wish I could describe. I can only share that it feels like I am finally free.

To all those that love, thank you. Thank you for holding my hand and for seeing things that I couldn’t see for myself. Thank you for being patient and kind. You were the stars when I needed the light.

With love to all and with my love, my hope that you all find joy whether you take the first step or make the jump.

Shelley

Fitness in the Fish Bowl

Exercising is one thing but learning how to meal plan with a calculator and color coded containers designed for portion control is out of my comfort zone. I prefer containers that come with a spout.

Lately, a number of people have been asking me “how do you stay so fit at 50?” Great question, except that no one has asked me that. Ever. Maybe one day someone will ask me how I stay so fit but first I would actually have to get fit.

I’m trying but I seem to have lost interest.

I’ve turned into one of those people who are very keen to start a 14 day challenge. I work really hard and I stay super focused. It’s just that if I don’t see results by day two, I wonder what’s the point?

I want to feel motivated but life gets complicated and things happen that get in the way. Take Tuesday. I was heading to the gym (the living room) but by the time I found my shoes, water bottle and procrastinated over “what workout to do“, I was running late for my next appointment. Property Brothers starts at noon and I don’t like to miss them.

If you need new excuses for anything in your life, just call me. I can help.

I used to go to the gym. Since COVID, I’ve had to move to online and have been desperately seeking a fitness program what would keep me engaged and somewhat energized. The “21 Day Fix” sounded perfect, I have plenty to “fix”. It was a little over my usual attention span but I was game and I faithfully followed the program. This was a big commitment for me and in exchange, I was looking forward to being able to do up the top button on my jeans again. Clearly I missed the fine print. It’s exercise AND diet. Seriously? This is becoming complicated. Exercising is one thing but learning how to meal plan with a calculator and color coded containers designed for portion control is out of my comfort zone. I prefer containers that come with a spout.

Do they do take out and will they deliver?

Finding happiness in a fitness program feels a lot like dating and I’ve been doing a great deal of “swipe left”. I tried military boot camps but got tired of the constant “HARD CORE” call out. I moved to the insanity of fast and furious HIIT segments while the male instructor strutted across the screen with his shirt off, six pack sweating and shouting “DIG! DIG DEEPER!” – “HARDER! YOU’VE GOT TO PUSH HARDER!” I put up with the intensity for three weeks and then had to swipe left. I have three children and have been married for 26 years, I can attest that yelling has never been a positive motivator.

I moved on to gals with glittery gold pants. The music was good but most of the exercises seemed better suited for people who were trying out for the circus. I don’t do the “lightening bolt“. My legs do not flip up in the air and SNAP with power. I am more likely to fall on my head and get a concussion. Also, is it my imagination or does putting your hair in a pony tail automatically make you athletic? I’m just asking because I have short hair and maybe that’s my problem.

I rotated through more programs and couldn’t find my fit. I also started to wonder why the “modifier” was always a woman and at least twenty pounds heavier than the rest of the team?

“If you need to modify, follow Wendy. Wendy, is our modifier. See how Wendy is just moving her feet and not running like the rest of us? How are you doing Wendy?” “You doing ok?”

I hope Wendy is getting paid a great deal of money. Maybe I should apply as a “modifier”? I feel qualified.

I’ve been a bit harsh with my judgements but really, when the fresh faced 21 year old looks deep into the camera and says say “hold in your core“, I have to remind her that I am. What she is referring to is my wiggly bits called flab. It is the “flab” that is not listening to the instructions. Don’t get mad at my core. And as for “raising my shoulders“. They are raised. Look closer, you skinny little thing, and call me when you’ve hit 50. More swipe lefts.

My newest date is with Heather Robertson. I love her and I love her workouts. She is “tough without fluff“. Fantastic. And the best part? She doesn’t talk. No nitter natter, just great music. The workouts are hard but only 30 minutes. They are also broken down into segments and there is a little timer in the corner of the screen that tells me how long I have to endure before “rest”. I like timers almost as much as I like “rest”. I also like the little bell that rings when the segment is over and and the three beeps that warn me to get my ass off the ground and start again. Lastly, I like her because her confessed guilty pleasures include red wine and chocolate. Swipe right for the match.

I am hoping that this new match might motivate some significant change in my life. My COVID anniversary is coming up on March 17th and I’m feeling a bit anxious. This is the milestone marker that symbolizes one year of the “before” and “after”. I find myself wondering what did I do with this past year? What did I do with the new found time that I felt and said that I never had? What’s different? What’s better? What’s worse and what’s changed?

Here’s the truth. I’m not sure anything has changed and that’s a bit depressing. It’s almost one year later and I am still using my living room as my gym, we’re still being asked to stay at home and this infamous “curve” is still not crushed. It’s been a year; a very long year and I don’t think I’ve moved. My “before” picture is also my “after” photo. I think I am Wendy the Modifier. Moving my feet but going nowhere fast.

Maybe it’s winter. And even more than that, it’s COVID and the restrictions that continue to keep us confined. I feel like I am living in a fish bowl and swimming in circles.

Surely a year is long enough? And yet, the soft print news hints that our current state might continue on for months. Where is Heather? I need the timer. How much longer is this segment and when can we rest?

I hear it everywhere “I am so done with COVID!” Yes, me too. The fatigue is real. I wish I could describe it. I feel like I’m holding my breath every minute of every day in fear of doing something wrong. Everything gets tight and rigid. “Is my mask on, did I remember my mask, where’s my hand sanitizer, is this far enough away, I didn’t see the arrow and now I’m going down the aisle the wrong way…..” I know. It’s just little things, like adding just a few extras to the backpack….. eventually it gets heavy and difficult to carry.

ZOOM was helpful for a while. I liked ZOOM. I’m now done with ZOOM. “Can you hear me? Can you see me? You froze, what did you say?” ZOOM is a metaphor for what is happening in life. I can hear you, I can see you but everything is frozen.

It is not ok to put hands up against a glass and call it connection. It is torment. I wish the fish bowl would break, I wish we could join as the ocean.

I miss social so much that I could sometimes cry. Why am I making excuses about not wanting to exercise? It’s because it’s hard enough getting motivated to live each day let alone jump up and down.

Jane E. Brody wrote a piece in the New York Times and said, “social isolation is on a par with high blood pressure, obesity, lack of exercise or smoking as a risk factor for illness and early death.”

Not exactly inspiring. The good news is that at least she didn’t mention red wine…..

It’s been a year. Did I do anything? Did anything change? I cleaned my fridge, washed my walls, raised chickens, bought pigs, grew a garden and survived a canoe trip with my husband and family and looked over the edge of failure and didn’t fall off.

It’s been a year; four seasons of change. I am impatient for winter to be done. I look forward to seeing that first small sprig that fights to the surface, breaks through the frost and triumphantly arrives with confidence and blooms.

I am Wendy. I am the modifier but I will dig deeper and push harder. I will keep moving my feet, I will exercise patience. I will swim in the bowl knowing the ocean is close.

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

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

A Mother’s Day Tribute to The People Who Stopped Us From Eating Our Young….Happy Aunt’s Day!

My life goals never included motherhood. Children didn’t interest me. The exception to this was when I was babysitting and I was paid.

I remain immensely surprised to be a mother to three children. Perhaps the bigger surprise was having two children and then having a third eight years later. No, this was not a result of a second marriage. Yes, there was alcohol involved but that’s another story.

When our first child was born, I went to the hospital with three sets of cue cards. One for me, one for my husband and one “just in case”. The cards outlined the three stages of birth and suggested phrases of support. If my cue cards weren’t stupid enough, I also declined “drugs” but only because I had packed a small bottle of vodka as a back up pain plan. I’m not kidding but I am super embarrassed……

No one read my dumb cue cards and I forgot I had packed the vodka. All best laid plans went to hell and I just remembering looking up at the clock after hours and hours of horrific back labour and thinking “I’m pretty sure the cue cards said that we would be done by now“. This thought was followed by “how the hell do I get to stage three“?

The awful reality was that stage three was only achieved by actually giving birth. F*CK.

If I gave birth, I would then become a parent. I took Young Drivers of Canada to learn how to drive and I went to marriage counselling prior to the wedding. How was it possible that the hospital was just going to let me leave with a baby? No screening questions, no criminal record check and no one even looked in my bag to see if I had cracked the seal on the vodka bottle. They let me leave after seeing that we had a certified car seat. OMG.

Flash forward two years when baby number two arrives. If you think a pandemic brings on day drinking, try a husband in school and living in a one bedroom apartment with an overactive toddler and a baby that has colic.

I was not a natural parent. I needed help. PLENTY OF HELP. In addition to my own Mum, what really got me through was the “aunties” of the world.

The “aunties” are my sister (my AMAZING sister!!) and extended relatives but also those other magical people who helped along the way. They were the friends that gave baby showers and who offered to babysit. They were the people that talked me out of the bathroom after I locked myself in for a “timeout”. They held my hand when things got tough and hugged and cheered during major milestones of joy. They are the ones that still remember each of the kids names which is helpful because I always forget.

These friends and family members are the honoured “aunties” and an invaluable part of my children’s upbringing. At every stage, they extended kindness and support. And never judged. OK, when our third fell in the well, there were some raised eyebrows but honestly, he’s fine and has even learned to swim. The point is that when I made mistakes, it was the “aunties”, that supported me and kept me on track. They also made me laugh.

These beautiful souls went shopping for grad dresses, took the kids for dinner, taught them to ski and surf. They remembered birthdays and when left in charge, even made French toast as a special request. They filled in where I had gaps.

Glennon Doyle wrote “Blessed are those brave enough to make things awkward, for they wake us up and move us forward“. I hope that every mom has a team of “aunties”. They ask the hard questions. “Are you sure you want to do (or say) that…” “Have you checked…..” “Did you consider…..” and of course the big question “Don’t you remember when you were ……”. That last question was always tricky because I have to be accountable to those who have proof of my teenage years. As side note, if my children ask, I was perfect, never snuck out at night AND a virgin when I got married.

My kids are better because of those outside the role of “parent”. The “aunties” are the best influences and the greatest support. They are perspective and balance and the only side they “choose” is love for all. They are the compass in the storm and the touchstones for ever after. It’s not only my kids who are better but I am better because they weighed in and weren’t afraid of the awkward moments. They woke me up and moved me forward.

This year, my version of “Mother’s Day” will include “Aunties Day”. This year, I celebrate all those women who stepped in and walked beside me to make a difference. Thanks to them, I have three great kids who are the sum parts of genetics and external moments of love. Unconditional love is not the sole lawn sign that belongs to moms, it’s a whole big team who can wear the uniform with pride.

I am not enough. Kids need more than just the mother and the father; kids need the collective and sometimes the collective takes on different faces. My mother became the Grandmother, my sister becomes the Aunt and my friends are the “aunties”. My relationship to each of them is different than the relationship they have with my kids but it works to create the whole. Without them, I know I would have cracks. The “aunties” give kids a place to “be free” of parental judgment and nuttiness.

While I never thought I would be a mother, here I am. I still haven’t done a criminal background check but with the exception of falling in the well, being left at the hockey arena and maybe forgetting to pick them up after basketball, no one is in jail. And that includes me.

To all the amazing people who have shared in the journey of my kids, thank you! Thank you for being the safe space, the letter of reference, the person that dropped everything to listen and who always gave the gift of love. In my heart, I dedicate Sunday May 10th to you and the deep difference you have made to me and my family. You are my miracles and I am beyond grateful.

With love,

Shelley

And Then I Tried on my Pants…..

My friend Amy said that during quarantine, we should be putting on our jeans every few days to ensure they fit. Excellent advice but I wasn’t sure if by “putting on jeans” she meant just one leg or actually doing up the buttons. I would also seek clarity if this referred to the jeans that had been worn several times or the ones that just were washed…..

I braved the moment and with some encouragement, the button finally connected but the bigger issue was that I found myself busting out of the blouse.

I either need new clothes or a new exercise program. Since I am a natural shoppping disaster, I opted for a new exercise regime.

I dug in and looked at the options. Not that this was hard. It seems my entire social media feed has been hijacked by spandex. My favourite articles leaned towards “more is less”. These articles are fairly firm that I have wasted hours and hours at the gym. I could have told you that but it was nice to have it confirmed by perfect strangers promoting their own program for a mere $69.99 per year. Of the zillion programs to choose from, I really leaned towards “change in just 7 minutes”. So did my husband. I told him that the seven minutes I was looking at required clothes.

The devil is in the details. Seven minutes was only going to be effective if I also adjusted my diet. Fair comment. I chose the Mediterranean diet; specifically French. The French like red wine and cheese. Me too! In fact, I like French bread so much that I bought a bread maker I also expanded into Swiss chocolate.

So many changes and yet….. the button still had to stretch to find the hole. What do the French do differently? Oh, right. The benefits of regularly smoking.

My adapted version of the Mediterranean diet was more like being on vacation. If I was serious about more buttons finding the hole, I needed stronger action on the exercise and food front.

This led me to contemplate running. Ugh. Has it really come to this? Running hurts. Those first 10 seconds could kill me. Just thinking about it makes me crave Advil. I used to like running but then, I used to be 30.

If I run, I might feel like a blender. There is a chance that all that wiggle and jiggle might be whipped up and purified creating redistribution either that or I will die on the roadside.

Confession. Running reminds me of who I am and who I used to be. This is likely why I love the Mediterranean diet; so many comforts that cushion deep rooted denial of reality.

It’s time to let all that go. I really have no more excuses. I am unemployed, in quarantine and have reorganized the cutlery drawer. I used to wear the t-shirt that said “No Time” but even that doesn’t fit anymore.

So I laced up and ran. The first 10 seconds almost killed me. The second 10 seconds weren’t any easier but I focused on fresh starts. I also looked for any platform of inspiration. Imagine my surprise when inspiration came in the form of a podcast featuring J. Lo and shaking it big time at the Super Bowl. I was so intrigued that I googled. OMG! She just turned 50 and she has the MOVES! Also long hair but that’s another story.

If COVID19 has taught me anything, it is that there are second chances and opportunities come disguised as challenges.

I will admit that somewhere along the line I got fatigued with a sense of failure and sinking into bread, red wine and chocolate was infinitely nicer than making the effort to try again and risk defeat. My button hole wasn’t just about the fit, it was finding my whole fit in the bigger picture. It’s about taking steps towards living the life I want to live; that life that I had stuffed into the drawer and labeled “one day”.

So I opened the drawer and “one day” started “today”. One foot in front of the other. Small steps that go from 10 seconds to longer. And by the way, my “one day” gets to dress in leggings!

Here’s to opening the drawer and getting the button to fit plus a little bit more…..

With love,

Shelley

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