Small Towns With Big Hearts

And there it is….I like happy endings. I like the dreams, the challenge and the tears that flow because they never believed it could be true and then it was. Call me corny but I love it when it all works out and I confess to shedding a tear or two myself.


Recently, I seem to have found joy in watching design shows. This is surprising. I am perplexed at my joy. I have come up with a theory. I don’t love all design shows, I lean towards the shows where the hosts love the people and there is crying involved.

I could spend all day watching the sappy and sentimental shows. I like it when the hosts say things like “we’re going to make sure that they get their “forever” home” and then they give the backstory about how wonderful the family is and some of the hardships they have faced and how they want to do all they can to make sure that the family is happy in their new home….blah, blah, blah. Thirty minutes later, everyone is crying because the home transformation so much more than they ever imagined.

And there it is….I like happy endings. I like the dreams, the challenge and the tears that flow because they never believed it could be true and then it was. Call me corny but I love it when it all works out and I confess to shedding a tear or two myself.

Not all shows hit the mark but one that does is Home Town. This is a definite fave! A super fave in fact. If you haven’t seen it and need some feelings of “feel good“, check it out. www.hgtv.com/shows/home-town

Home Town is about bringing life back into small towns. The show is based in Laurel, Missippi and is about the community that you find within a small town. The magic comes from the hosts, Erin and Ben. In addition to being the most adorable married couple in the world, it’s evident that they live their purpose which is to welcome new people to their town and help these people choose and renovate historical homes to their original glory. It’s a real town with real people.

Ben is 33 and is a skilled woodworker and used to be a former youth minister with a degree in history. He’s also 6’6 and comes across as a teddy bear! Erin is the cutest little pixie of a thing. She’s 31, an artist and a former stationer with a degree in graphic design. They own a store called Laurel Mercantile with four of their close friends. Ben adores Erin and Erin adores Ben and together, they infuse love into the world as they welcome people to join their little town.

It’s delightful and so lovely that some cynics might think that it is all staged. I am an eternal optimist and am completely immersed in what I see to be genuine authenticity that reminds me of all that is good in the world. In my mind, they are the real deal and live from the heart.

“As far as our marriage goes, it’s me and Erin and God. We work everything out together, and everything has worked out so far” ~ Ben Napier, Home Town

Yes, I love this show and love their love of small town and of each other. It gives me hope and a sense of happiness and purpose. “Every town needs their people“. Yes we do Erin. Yes we do.

I moved to my small town over 25 years ago. I arrived and the population was around 2500 people. Today, it’s pretty much the same. There are no stop lights and rush hour consists of having to wait at the Highway 5 intersection behind 4 trucks or cars. People still don’t lock their doors, I know I have left my wallet a million times in the grocery store and they always call me to let me know. I figure if anyone needs to steal from me, well, they need it more than I do in which case, I am happy to give it to them.

People may have street addresses but it’s rare that this is given out. You are more likely to hear things like, “we’re the fourth house down on the right, just after the old McCracken House”. You could live in a house for ten years and it would still be called by another historic family name. “Where do you live?” “We live in the Smith House“. Far more effective than a number address.

When I moved here, I came from the big city. It took me a while to get used to the small town vibe. I came from “bigger is better”. There was a comfort in nobody knowing my name. When I first arrived, I was given a tour of the town and was relieved when my guide said, “let me show you the mall”. Thank goodness. A mall. I can understand a mall. A mall meant that I was still attached to civilization. I was not lost, I was found!

Small problem. A city mall and a small town mall are different. Very different. I had come from the BIG mall with 200 stores that offered everything and anything. The small town mall mall consisted of two banks, a pharmacy, grocery store and of course….the liquor store. And we’re done.

While the lack of diversity was frustrating, it was also kind of soothing. Going “shopping” was an outing. A social outing. Kind of nice. I remember one year, it was December 31st which is Megan’s birthday. We were having a party for her and I had to stock up on the party items. Owen was maybe 2 years old and dragged along. Halfway through my list, he just gave up. He was tired. He lay down in aisle 4 and was having a nap. I assessed the situation. A better parent would have picked him up and taken him home for a nap. I am not that parent. I turned to the Dairy Guy and said, “Owen needs a nap and I need to finish shopping for Megan’s birthday and run to the pharmacy, do you think I could leave him here for 20 minutes?“. No one called the RCMP. In fact, the Dairy Guy took a picture and presented it to Owen on his 10th birthday. He took pride in being one of his first babysitters. I know…..small towns. Go figure. I wonder if I could get away with that today? Probably not. It was good while it lasted. I get a kick out the imagery. People having to step over Owen while he napped to reach whatever they needed and no one thought twice. Dairy Guy just explained I needed to pick up a few more things and everyone just went along with it. I’m pretty sure that by today’s standards, I would be in jail or at least serious rehab.

Over time, there have been changes. A new developer came in and built a new mall with a new grocery store. On opening day, almost the entire town came out to the ribbon cutting ceremony. It was a big deal. Everyone walked through the store with wide eyes. It was so new. So bright. So modern. It was like discovering electricity or the phone or even sliced bread. A big deal.

There is a rhythm in a small town that beats a little softer than in the city. Things are slower. If you need to be somewhere in a hurry, DO NOT stop at the grocery store. It’s impossible to be “in and out” of the grocery store without a 15 minute conversation. Going to the store is a silent understanding that you are going to chat. Some people say that deals get done in the bar, that is true but things also get done in the produce section. I kid you not.

I also love the rural essence of small towns. One of my favourite images is the iconic blue cooler on the side of the road. We have one. It’s our version of a store front to sell eggs. Owen fills the cooler once a week with eggs. He puts a jar in the cooler with “change”. People come by. They pick up their eggs and leave their money. Egg coolers run on the honour system and so far, it works. Inherently, I believe that people take homage in being trustworthy. It is part of the small town code of conduct. “Thou shall not steal from an egg cooler”. I love that.

In a small town, you know your people. I remember being in the bank several years ago. I was standing behind this tiny elderly woman. She couldn’t have been more than 4’10. My eldest son was just a baby and she turned to me and said, “oh how I miss babies“. We started to chat (as you do) and I almost fell over when she told me her story. She was a mother of triplets and regaled me with tales of cloth diapers and homesteading. Remarkable. When it was her turn to go to the teller, the teller asked “can I see your client card?” The woman just couldn’t understand this. “Why do you need to see my client card? You know me. You’ve known me all your life“. True. Small towns don’t need client cards. It kind of kills the vibe.

Despite my homages to the small town, I have to confess that I had always wanted to live in a big city. I took pleasure in the vision of being anonymous yet “important” to whatever “firm” I was going to be working with. When I moved to Clearwater, BC, it became clear that I was never going to be anonymous and never be a part of a “firm”. I was destined to be a part of something more.

When my husband I bought our first house, we lived in a little village called Birch Island which was about 10 km north of Clearwater with a population of barely 200. We had a cute little house on the river. My neigbour was Pauline Gregory. Pauline had served on just about every volunteer organization in the valley. You couldn’t meet Pauline without her selling you a raffle ticket for whatever charity she was representing that month. Even when she broke her leg (in her 60’s!), she still fired up the phone and made everyone she knew come to her to buy raffle tickets that month. Pauline was a force. Her husband was Greg. Greg Gregory. He was a retired railway worker and equally devoted to the community and Pauline. They taught me humility. They taught me that “greatness” often shows up in coveralls. They taught me that a community is only as strong as its people. In a small town, you aren’t judged by the amount of money you make, the car you drive or the “firm” you might work for, you are judged by what kind of a neighbor you are. What do you give back? Humbling.

In January 2005, our family was evacuated from our little Birch Island home after an ice jam caused the North Thompson River to spill over its banks and run right through our living room. The night before, the community was on alert and the local store had organized a phone tree. At 4am, the phone rang. The jam had burst and the pent up fury of the river was on its way towards us. I had put Aiden (8) and Megan (6) to bed in their snowsuits. Once we got the call, Wayne drove up river to figure out how long we had. It was faster than we thought. I will never forget the WHOOSH that took hold of the whole house as water poured over the bank and started to rise. I had to call Greg and Pauline but the water was coming in so fast and I also knew that I had to get Megan and Aiden out of the path of disaster. It was dark and cold and I looked at the kids bundled in their snowsuits and said, “head to the road and take the first car out. You have to go. You will be fine and I will find you.” They held hands and ran down the driveway to get to the road. Our small town invoked this sense of trust. I can hardly breathe as I write this. Our two small children had such faith and their faith and trust was rightly felt. I finally reached Greg and Pauline and got them out. Alas, their house was so damaged, they were never able to return. The river took more that night than I ever could have imagined.

We waited 48 hours before we could get back to the house and see the damage. When we go there, it was like everything was floating. For a flat piece of property, wading into the house in waist deep water will always be imbedded in my memories.

I don’t recall reading “how to survive a flood” when I was in my big city apartment. Thankfully, my neighbors were more savvy than us. It was 9am and I was sitting on a milk crate trying to figure out what was next. Our neighbor from “down the way” came around the corner of the house and saw me sitting on my milk crate. He looked me in the eye and dropped off a 24 pack of beer and an industrial pump. He knew that things were bad, that’s why he brought beer. He knew it was going to be ok, that’s why he brought the pump. We didn’t have to say anything more than that. That moment was enough. I saw his care for our family and I hope he saw my gratitude. It’s what you give that makes you part of a community.

That was a long time ago and yet, that moment was one of many that helped me define a new “me”. I had arrived in this little town with little understanding of how rich life could be. The goodness was had in the giving, the sharing, the commitment to caring. It wasn’t the “stuff” that I had imagined.

This town that I call home is not wealthy. People wear their “best jeans” to ceremonies. Graduation from the high school often takes place in the curling rink. The community lines the streets as the grads drive through en route to prom and we all cheer. We cheer because we were a part of their upbringing. We were part of the community that committed to helping each of them rise to their best ability. This prom, this doorway is where we we hug them and wish them well in their journey. In small towns, our children our raised to leave and it’s hard to watch them go. They need to leave. They need to see bigger horizons and all we can hope is that they remember that they were loved, they were cherished and they come from a place where people showed up when it mattered.

We do show up and our favourite times are when we get to cheer. Small towns love to cheer. We fill our hockey arenas and you would think that we were watching the gold medal round of mens hockey in the Olympics and not just our U18 team playing for first place in the Provincials. I kid you not. Finals for U18 is a BIG deal and everyone comes out. The stands are packed. When we host a tournament, it’s not just the club, it’s the whole community and all hands are on deck. We serve with pride.

While celebrating together is magical, we also come together to grieve. I remember reading a quote that says “everyone is a celebrity in a small town“. I know that to be true. Many a time has the school gym been filled to collectively mourn. Notices of those who have passed are posted outside the grocery store; it’s the truest form of social media. Often a hat is passed if there are financial needs and there is always a flurry of casseroles to be shared. Grief is collective, grief impacts us all. Things stop and the passing is felt not as a murmur but as a whole loss. Someone is missing and it’s not the same.

I love that about my town. The deep sense of “feeling”. It makes up for things that we don’t have. When you come from rural, it’s just normal to accept that you don’t have access to the same amenities found in larger city centres. Our kids learn to swim in the lake, there aren’t any “try outs” for teams because our numbers are so small that “everyone gets to play“. Our high school is grade 8-12. There are less than 200 students. A senior sports team is normally made up of grade 11 and 12 students. In our case, a senior team is anyone who makes practice regardless of age. We’re just excited that there is a team! We’re even more excited when there is a coach too!

What bonds me to this community is the depth of generosity. If there is just cause that needs to be financed, this is a community that gives from heart. This is true in so many cases but especially when it comes to our kids. We know that they are the underdogs but by gosh, any kid that plays, doesn’t play alone.

This was proven a couple of years back. We had a rag tag senior girls soccer team. Many of them hadn’t played before but they were keen. The coach was a volunteer from the community. He saw their spirit which was definitely a little higher than their ability and yet, he was enthusiastic. He was constantly quoted saying, “They can be out-skilled by another team, but they will not be out-hustled by another team.”

The girls hit the pitch every single game with determination. Their uniforms didn’t match (often they didn’t even fit), they didn’t always know the rules but they played with abandon and their goal was to put more balls in the other net than any team could put in their net. Simple. And it worked.

Game after game, they won. Their grit brought them to the final game. If they won, they would make it to Provincials. No girls soccer team had ever made it this far. It came down to a single penalty kick. Here’s the thing. The player that was going to make the kick was in grade 9. She was a beautiful young player and as shy as they could come. The anxiety was overwhelming. The coach called a time out. The team circled the player. She was afraid. The team huddled closer. They told her they believed in her. They said “do your best” and she found the courage to take to the field. We all held our breath. The tension was enormous. We all wanted this so badly. Silence. Total silence and then the kick. Slow motion. We watched the trajectory of the ball find the back of the net and we erupted with enthusiasm! THE WIN!! THE WIN!! THEY WON!!!

While all of this was beyond exciting. There were some financial realities that came with the win. Because no one had expected the girls to win, there was no budget for them to travel to provincials. They had one week to raise over $7500. Many of the girls held down part time jobs just to pay for family groceries. This wasn’t a team where everyone could just write a cheque. This “win” required more.

Here’s the other thing. The team said that they wanted to go to Provincials. The community said “you betcha”. I love my town. When the girls held a car wash to raise funds, I watched cars and trucks stretch for blocks. They waited their turn to be a part of the financial equation and contribution to something “more”. And it wasn’t just cars and trucks, it was logging trucks that lined up too. Everyone came to give their share. Our “girls” needed their “people” and their call was answered. Donations came all up and down the valley. In less than a week, the team raised more than double what they needed. They had what they needed to travel. The extra was put in a fund to help future students cover costs. Why was this incredible? They never said that they could win, they didn’t even know if they could place but they knew they wanted the chance to compete and the town said “Yes, you can“. There was no expectation other than best effort and in turn, the girls gave their very best and more. They didn’t win. I don’t even think that they placed but in our hearts and minds, they won it all.

My town is a giving town. A kind town. A town that tries to give everyone a sense of place and space. My town has endured tidal waves of job losses in the forestry sector. We’ve been ravaged by wildfires, flooding and now a pandemic. And yet, we’re still standing side by side. No one is left behind.

I share these stories because each of us lives in a small town. Maybe our physical address is that of a big city with stop lights and sushi bars but on a granular level, we have our circles of community that work like a small town. We have places where we are seen and heard.

This month marks one year of a world pandemic. One year of change, upheaval and often heart ache. In this year, many of us have had time to re-evaluate what matters, what is important and who is important. For me, I reflect on those early days where a fog of disbelief took over my life. Anna Quindlen refers to moments of losses as “before and after”. I feel that. “Before” the pandemic and “after“. I know I am not the same.

I remember things as a blur but what remains starkly clear is the clamoring to connect. Family. Friends. While family connects in a more natural pattern, it was the connection of friends that I will never forget. I felt like I was floating away and yet, the circling of the wagons brought me back to earth. It was friendship that grounded me, that gave me a centre and reminded me that no matter what I lost in the pandemic, I could not be robbed of my friendships and their power to hold tight in the storm.

I am not the same. I am different and I am richer because of the year. I have loved the unspoken code of conduct of a small town for decades and yet, in this past year, I have lived it more passionately than ever before and in many different circles. I am better because of those that held my hand and held me close while the storm raged. Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you. I needed you. If I had been left alone, I would have become undone. Being a part of community ensured that I was a part of a whole. Thank you.

If anything, what I have learned is that the deep contribution to life is love. It’s not the “stuff”, it’s the people. It’s the glue that holds the messiness together and allows for new steps. I am the sum parts of those that choose to believe in me, care for me and love me. I hope that maybe I have been able to return the gift. All the stories I have told have been of moments that mattered, gifts that build bridges of connection. This is not a story of monetary wealth, rather that of sharing what we have to give to make the world a better place in spite of what happens.

We don’t need “client cards” to show who we are. We need each other. We need our stories, our support, our care, our love and our generosity that gives purpose to being and creates connections that make us strong. “Every town needs its people”. So true. We all need our people, wherever we are.

May we all take time to stretch out, to connect and to ensure that we extend care to all those who make up our community regardless of size or address. For me, I know I used to live to check the boxes and there I wasn’t particularly successful possibly because it wasn’t “real”. What is real is the feelings that connect us and make us better.

To all of you, thank you for being a part of this community. I hope you feel a part of things and feel that it is safe to be brave, courageous and also ok to be afraid before you jump. We can all be part of a small town, community and share with big hearted living.

Here’s to community. To happy endings where we all find our “forever home” where we find place and space with the people we love.

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

Embracing the Wilderness, the “Suck” and Writing a New Narrative…. 2021 Begins

“with my whole soul….”. This is how I want to live again. With my whole soul, even the broken bits.


I’ve never been one for New Year resolutions; it’s been more of a gateway to “loose promises” and a gentle review of possible lifestyle modifications all which are generally forgotten by January 2nd or 3rd. “Lose five pounds” has been on the list for a few years now demonstrating that I’m not a beacon of hope or a standard of resolution excellence. I’m great for anyone who is looking for a low bar to step over.

January 1, 2021 was different. I was eager to slam the door on 2020. Enough of the COVID chaos, enough with the physical distancing, the travel restrictions, the job loss, stress, worry, financial impacts, social impacts and fight for a balance in mental wellness. Does anyone watch movies and stare in amazement when characters “shake hands“? How bizarre that in less than a year, that this traditional form of social engagement now seems so foreign?

Pandemic changes have been swift and have choked so many connections leaving many feeling alone, isolated and depressed. Hugs were always healing and an elbow bump is not a suitable replacement; rather a place holder for when we can once again be free to embrace all who we love. So much change and so many casualties with various degrees of burns and wounds that have been left in the wake of this pandemic. Yes, I am DONE with 2020.

I wanted to embrace 2021 with enthusiasm, optimism and faith that we were turning the corner. I double locked the door to 2020 and flung open the window to welcome 2021 only to find that little had changed. Delays in vaccines, extended travel restrictions, growing cases, mounting deaths, no gatherings and the proverbial “bubble” concept that hadn’t yet popped. The tide wasn’t changing. The “tide” was merely the building of a “second wave” which I believe is a description for a tsunami. Great. Now I have to buy an umbrella.

All new beginnings need a new notebook. Blank pages begging new story lines. I liked the symbolism and on January 1st, with the sun shining, I headed out early to find a beautiful vista where I could write out new goals and lay out new ambitions. I wrote down phrases that would trigger different actions. On one page, I boldly wrote “make week-ends fun”. The fact that I even had to write that makes me cringe. I often spend week-ends cleaning. Mopping is not a characteristic of a week-end warrior. I have serious work ahead of me.

On my vista, with my notebook, I spent time writing about the usual life topics….health, finances, family, fun, personal goals, professional goals and otherwise. I challenged myself to let go of habits that don’t support goals, redesigning my daily routines to become more productive and motivating myself to say “yes” more than “no”. I also took on a personal challenge and wrote down three words that would describe my best self and contemplated five skills I would like to develop along with five actions that would support all of the above.

By 10am I felt like a new person and was feeling rather invigorated. I headed home.

My 14 year old son, Owen, met me at the door and said “Come hike the ski hill with Dad and me”. This was a hard no. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Didn’t an above paragraph cite a commitment to saying “yes more than no”. It did but hiking the ski hill on New Years Day was only going to make me feel bad. The ski hill is steep. I would be gasping for air. I would likely berate myself and say negative things like “how did you get so out of shape?” or “what the hell have you been doing all pandemic that you can’t walk up a hill?”.

Hiking the ski hill would be a rerun of my 2020 life experience. I had just spent two invigorating hours purging myself of 2020 and planning a new way forward. Sorry Owen. It’s a no. Feeling the suck of the ski hill was not a good way to start 2021. I retreated to the comforts of the couch and wrapped myself up with cozy words that inspired positive vibes. End of story.

Until it wasn’t.

“Mom, you need to come”. I explained my state of not wanting to feel the suck. Owen persevered. “Did you hear about the guy who did 150 pushups?”. I shook my head. Owen continued. “There was a guy who went to a fitness trainer. The trainer told him to do 150 push ups.”

Guy: “I can’t do 150 push-ups”

Trainer: “Can you do 1 push up?”

Guy: “Yea, I can do one push up.”

Trainer: “Good. Just do 1 push up, 150 times”

“Mom, it took the guy an hour and a half but he did 150 push ups. If he can do 150 push ups, you can do the ski hill. You just have to do it one step at a time.”

Seriously? When I wrote about starting fresh, I really meant January 2nd. I saw January 1st focused more on “concept planning” not immediate action and I was sure that motivation was going to be found on a fridge magnet, not in the form of my fourteen year old son.

I put on my boots. I was positive I wasn’t going to love this.

We arrived at the ski hill and I looked up. It was still steep. This was going to suck. Big time suck.

Looking ahead…..
Looking behind…. halfway

We started up. My husband Wayne is part mountain goat and just powered forward. Owen followed him but being part rabbit, he scampered up and then back to make sure I hadn’t quit or died.

I plugged in my headphones and instead of listening to my usual playlist of “loser” or “can’t”, I listened to Dax Shepard talk about overcoming addiction and moving forward. He told his story of living free of addiction for 16 years only to stumble for 3 months. Whereas many might have focused on the falling, he focused on the success of 16 years and started again. Three months wasn’t going to rob him of 16 years of success; it was just a stumble. Good point Dax. I kept going.

When I reached the top, I felt great. I did something I didn’t think I could do and I happily proved myself wrong. Owen gave me a nod of approval.

Winning takes a team!

Since COVID shut the world down, I have felt bad about myself. Really bad. I’ve written a great deal about my self lamenting and loathing. In March, I watched twenty years plus of hard work die due to the pandemic. To stay afloat, we raided our savings and I wondered if there was any hope for the future. What was a 52 year old middle age woman going to do next? This business had helped raise our family, support our kids in their ambitions and it was financially necessary. Without this stream, what was next? Who would want to hire me? Could I shift the business? How were we going to manage? I imagined a new retirement plan that didn’t come with a cheque, rather a plain wooden box. Wayne would likely have to bury me in the backyard and throw together a homemade tombstone with some cheesy tagline like “and then it was over”. Middle of the night story lines were scary.

Going forward, I needed a new narrative. My thoughts had to shift and my belief system needed a shake up. COVID wasn’t holding me back, I was. My notebook held my goals, hopes, dreams and ambitions but how do I make it happen?

I needed a team so I filled my bedside table with books written by some of the best experts in the world. I needed insight into what others had done and what I could learn from them. It’s a tall stack of books. Jim Collins, Brendon Burchard, Erin Falconer, Mel Robbins and the legendary Zig Ziglar and Dale Carnegie, just to name a few. I have them all; it makes for one heck of an A Team.

Have you ever read these types of books and then said to yourself “well, that’s great for you but how is that going to work for me?” I’ll put up my hand. Sure, they did it and so did all the thousands of people that they reference but how is that going to work for me?

Cue the music, dim the lights…… here it is, the big thing that I have been avoiding…… I AM AFRAID. I am scared that if I actually committed to my goals, I am going to fail again. There it was. Fear. Said out loud.

What if I put everything I have into a new concept and it doesn’t work? What if I apply and get rejected? What if I work my ass off and I screw it up? What if I open my heart, face what scares me and I fail…..again? Ugh.

I wear “Failure” around my neck all the time. It’s so heavy that sometimes I can’t move. Fear and failure; like uninvited guests who come into your house, eat all the food, make a mess and then steal the china. They are not good friends. They are mean.

It was time for a shake down. I needed to get into the ring and face them down once and for all.

“Once we begin to transform, it ceases to be that [failure] any longer…..once we are ready to talk about it, we often call the event something else – a learning experience, a trial, a reinvention – no longer the static concept of failure” Dr. Sarah Lewis

I got in the ring to face Failure and Fear stood right beside me. My eyes were squeezed shut, my knees were knocking and I trembled. I tried to shake off Fear and opened one eye. I gave another shrug and opened the other eye. Standing right in front of me was Failure. Failure was big and menacing. Ugly too. I recalled a line from the book, “We’re Going On A Bear Hunt”: “we can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, we’ve got to go through it”. Although the book then says “tip toe, tip toe“, I threw a punch.

I punched hard and my eyes flew open wide. I had what Oprah would call an “AHA” moment. Failure isn’t real. It’s not a person. Failure is a descriptive of something that happened. Don’t get me wrong. Failure feels real and it’s a terrible place to be but this is what my A Team has been trying to get me to understand. Everyone who faces the humiliation and shame of something not working out, they work through it and “failure” transforms. “Failure” takes shape to become a lesson or a catalyst. People who have faced the “crash and burn” don’t speak of failures as “the end”, they speak of new beginnings and what they learned. They describe what they gained and how the experience moved them in a better direction. Crushing experiences propelled them to become better versions of themselves. We don’t always learn from winning. We learn from the losses. Aha.

When the business tanked last March, I got scared and allowed my worst fears to take hold deep in my heart. It has been a painful place and I have wallowed wondering how to move forward. Do I have it in me to rise? Am I good enough? Smart enough? Brave enough?

Thunderbolt. Here is my awakening. The business failed in the face of COVID, not me. I am not a failure. For months, I have felt so burdened by humiliation and shame that I could barely breathe. I am not a failure. Once and for all, I can lay that burden down. It’s time to move on.

2021 is my commitment to turning to a fresh page where I get to write a new chapter. It’s a beginning. I can’t promise that it’s going to be easy. Likely there will be times when it sucks. Admitting what wasn’t working is the first step. In truth, I realized that I had allowed myself to become a bit complacent. I chose Easy Street and the trade off was watching joy fade from my life. I lost my sense of purpose. To be really honest, I think part of me had already died before COVID 19 finished the job.

Slowly, I am beginning to see that failures are generous gifts if only we are brave enough to accept them.

I don’t think of myself as a failure anymore but I do think I failed myself when I stopped on Easy Street. I traded in for a sense of comfort and by doing so, lost the creativity that was exciting and invigorating. I played safe and it sucked the life out of me.

There is no creativity without risking failure. I got into the ring and knocked out Failure. Now I have to get back in there and practice courage. That’s my commitment for 2021.

Already, with a changed mindset, I feel a new surge of energy that feels authentic and pretty fabulous. I know what has to be done to make my life changes. Now I just need to do it. It’s kind of like my “loose 5 pounds” goal. Eating cookies doesn’t help me reach my goal. Procrastinating and find excuses isn’t going to help me reposition. Full disclosure, sometimes I pretend that “one cookie” won’t hurt. Same with “organizing my paperwork”. It doesn’t hurt but it sure doesn’t help. What is helping is spending time each day envisioning my future self. It’s a fun exercise but without cardio and having to wear tights.

Will I miss 2020? Not a hope in hell. It was chaos. Every corner of the planet seemed to be fraught with unrest, upheaval, pain, disease, death, social disruptions, angst and divide but some gifts have already arrived which was proven on January 20th, when we watched a brilliant young woman of just 22 years of age take the stage to speak of truth, healing and the possibility of a brighter tomorrow. Gifts after the storm.

Our people diverse and beautiful
Will emerged, battered and beautiful,
When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame, unafraid,
The new dawn blooms, if we free it,
For there was always light
If only we’re brave enough to see it
If only we’re brave enough to be it.

The Hill We Climb –
Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman at the Biden/Harris Inauguration Day

Change is possible for all of us – “If only we are brave enough to be it“. My father is a red Republican and I lean with the blue of the Democrats and yet, the first woman to become Vice President chose purple as a promise to unity. Exhale. Breathe. Feel the promise of fresh starts.

I felt palatable relief watching Joe Biden make his promise and my skin tingled when he said “My whole soul is in….” Here is a man who lost his wife, his daughter and his son. He admits to being broken, of not wanting to stand and yet, he rose to stand and at age 78, he committed to giving his whole self. Gifts to heal the madness.

I am so grateful that he rose and I feel inspired. I hope that I am not wrong. I hope that he is the man he says he is. I hope that his life experience and his pain give him strength to lead with courage, compassion and move the country forward on the many issues that have caused deep divide. I choose to see his humility and I believe him when he says “with my whole soul….”. This is how I want to live again. With my whole soul, even the broken bits.

Now. Don’t think that my rising is that of Presidential stature. It’s far more mild. My challenges are how to build a business plan, learn how to use a flat iron without burning my hair and figuring out how Instagram works and why Twitter is all the rage. I might even tackle the workings of this Blog and learn what a widget is. Yes, there is more. I’ll keep you posted on my aspirations. I have thoughts on non-profits, leaning into the hurt of my community that exists because of COVID and yes, I will even exercise when it sucks.

Owen, I don’t know how you became so magnificent but you are right. It truly is one step at a time.

Here’s to taking the jump, to new beginnings, new narratives and to making 2021 the year of opportunities that see us rise and heal our hurts.

With love,

Shelley

Post Game Comment on Christmas…..

There are more good things in the world than bad. I choose to believe this with all my heart. There is a beautiful story line that still exists in our every day life and each of us have a role. Small acts of kindness cause ripples of goodwill, moments of kindness build connections and gestures of generosity make the improbable possible.


I’ve had a few people ask me “how did the Community Christmas Eve Dinner work out?”. Excellent question and thanks for asking! It was 48 hours of shock, awe and total chaos, sprinkled with enough magical moments that I am now a true believer in miracles.

For those that are new to the story line, the Community Christmas Dinner Eve dinner was something that our family started a few years ago. We rented a hall and opened it up to anyone who wanted to share the spirit of Christmas with community on December 24th. The meal was free although people were welcome to donate. In past years, we have served up to 170 people along with some extra “to go” packages. A COVID Christmas was very different. We weren’t able to gather and yet, this year, the need to “connect” was greater than ever. Christmas 2020 felt lonely. If we couldn’t bring people together, we could figure out how to deliver a bit of Christmas with a delicious dinner.

Typically, we would serve a full turkey meal. Nothing about 2020 was typical so we simplified and chose to offer a ham dinner with veggies, dinner buns and a selection of Christmas treats. Along with dinner, we gave everyone a gift bag that included soft socks, lovely chocolate, a homemade gingerbread man and a Christmas orange. With this new approach, I felt confident that we could deliver 150 meals. All was calm until the numbers started to climb over 200 and chaos took hold. I started to spiral with panic.

Have you ever done that? Started something with all good intentions and realized part way through that you were in some serious trouble?

First confession. I hate to cook. I know, the irony is not lost on me. I struggle cooking for our family of 5 and yet I still chose to pretend that I could be a Christmas caterer. There was also a small matter of finances. With growing numbers, came growing costs. Yup. I was totally in over my head.

Whenever I get overwhelmed, I find calm in spreadsheets. Spreadsheets make sense. There is order and I like the automatic formulas and being able to bold things and highlight other things. My spreadsheets are like maps to a traveler, they give direction and an overview of the journey.

My first task was to figure out how much food was needed. This is where I love Google. “Hey Google, how many vegetables do I need to cook for 250 people?”. Google was obviously as perplexed as I was because the answer was rather unsatisfying. Siri had put an “out of office” alert when I tried to reach her with the same question.

Since I didn’t know what I was doing, I closed my eyes and made my best guess. I ordered potatoes, beets, parsnips, carrots, brussels sprouts and yams for a total of 600 pounds. I also included 12 hams at 13 pounds each and a 50 pound roast beef. Since everything is better with butter, I made sure to have 20 pounds on hand along with plenty of maple syrup, sour cream and whipping cream.

In my head and on my spreadsheets, I thought it would all work. In the middle of the night, I wondered how long it would take to peel all those vegetables who would help me make the desserts?

Under new health parameters, it became clear that I would have to rally my volunteers over two days to ensure the necessary physical distancing. My biggest fear was delivering dinner with a side of the COVID.

The Clearwater Ski Lodge was generously donated to us and we would have plenty of space plus a big kitchen. On December 23, I arrived early with the car loaded. Even though it was “just vegetables”, 600 pounds of veggies still made the car sag and I did worry about the damage that might occur as I drove over the speed bumps. THUMP, THUMP was concerning. I kept my eyes closed. Everything seems to be fine when I keep my eyes closed.

By 10am, the first wave of volunteers arrived and the peeling began with a frenzy. At 11am, the second wave flew in and started filling the gift bags. The phone started to ring and more orders started to arrive. How do you say “no” at Christmas?

Once the peeling was complete, the chopping began. We ran out of bowls, we ran out of counter space and then we ran into some trouble. There were two sheet pans and one oven. All my spreadsheets had negated a key question. How was all of this going to be cooked in less than 24 hours? Houston, we have a SERIOUS problem.

One oven. If we worked fast enough, we would be ready for Christmas Eve Dinner 2021…

Here’s the recap. Dinner requests have now reached 290, I have 600 pounds of veggies, 12 hams and a roast beef and there is no way that one oven will cook all of this. I have been made aware that we don’t have enough socks for everyone and I have run out of money. Great.

This event was born out of a belief that everything works out and the mantra has always been “fishes and loaves, fishes and loaves. It will be ok“.

Sometimes I have moments of brilliance and in this case, I called a friend who actually knew how to cook and asked “could you please help me“. She arrived like the Christmas Star and took over the kitchen.

We borrowed three roaster ovens for the hams and a local restaurant owner called down and said “come use our convection ovens“. Miracles.

A woman walked into the lodge gave me an envelope and said “this is from my mom. She wanted to donate.” The second wind of miracles sparkled. I ran to the local store to buy more socks and the belief that it would be ok took hold amongst us all.

Despite a reprieve from stress, chaos still ensued. There is no other way to describe December 23rd. We shuttled vegetables all day between venues to get things cooked and cooled. It was 6.40pm and we were packing the first half of the dinners and realized that we would need another 100 pound of potatoes. OMG! The store closed at 7pm and a I made a mad dash.

My friend Shirley (another angel) arrived with a trunk load of Christmas treats and a desserts. We laid it all out and carefully made up the first round of dessert boxes.

It’s a start….

At 11.30pm, we locked the doors and said good night. It wasn’t the Tour de France or the Iditarod, but it felt like it. The first half of the race was done.

On the 24th, a new cast of volunteers arrived. The final pounds of potatoes were peeled, cooked and mashed and all the last to go containers were filled, labeled and packaged. The phone rings again and 12 more meals are needed. Sure, what the heck.

My last Christmas challenge was finding someone who could make a delivery for a family that lived in a small northern community, almost an hour away. Who could I get to drive that distance on Christmas Eve? More miracles ensued. I put out the call to all those who had raised their hand to volunteer. One woman replied saying that her husband had passed away in November and she was looking to make a difference. When I put out the subsequent 911 for a long distance delivery she emailed and said, “I will happily do this drive. I used to be a long haul trucker“. My skin tingled as I read her reply. Miracles comes from all directions.

The final wave of volunteers arrived in masks. We loaded the delivery bags, consulted the spread sheets, double checked the delivery details and sent everyone out the door. Somehow, we crossed the finish line just in time.

I knew I wanted this dinner to be meaningful but there were some hurdles. Things like, I didn’t know how to cook, I didn’t know how much food we would need and I certainly didn’t have the money to pay for it and I wasn’t sure who would help and yet….. the stars aligned and the magic was had. Over the two days, we saw over 30 volunteers and somehow raised in excess of $5,000 to serve over 291 meals. The gentle spirit of Christmas arrived, dressed as abundance and joy.

I sat down and pondered about how it had all come about and how it all came together. I wondered if this was possible, I wonder what more could be done?

The pandemic has been divisive and harsh. World events show chaos, cruelty and a sense that evil has taken a foothold. Special interest groups are gaslighting issues that are causing us to to question leadership, intent of decisions (or lack thereof) as well as wondering about faith in democracy, social values and even humanity. I wonder if I am alone in asking “who can I trust?” along with “what can I trust to be real?”. I feel afraid. Hollywood and world politics don’t seem to be too far apart.

This past week we watched a President tell his supporters to “fight” to stop the “steal” of the election while his personal lawyer, called for “trial by combat” which led to an insurgence of violence that desecrated what I always saw to be the Holy Grail of freedom and democracy. Has everything been a lie? I felt an urgent need to replay the Matrix and contemplated if I would fit into a leather suit like Trinity. Probably not.

I settle down and find calm as I reflect back to the Community Christmas Eve dinner and what it meant for everyone involved. Volunteers came and felt joy at being part of something bigger than themselves. The ache of being apart was replaced by coming together to give. Funders were keen to make a difference and gave generously. Those receiving meals were reminded that they were part of a community that cares. My favourite envelope held $4 in change and a note that said “thank you”. Everyone folded into a warm winter blanket that posed as love during a COVID Christmas.

There are more good things in the world than bad. I choose to believe this with all my heart. There is a beautiful story line that still exists in our every day life and each of us have a role. Small acts of kindness cause ripples of goodwill, moments of kindness build connections and gestures of generosity make the improbable possible.

My post game comment on Christmas? I used to see Christmas as something that happened at the end of the year. What I saw this year makes me think that maybe Christmas is actually the beginning and sets the stage for the year to come.

I feel immense peace when I think about a year filled with beautiful moments, random acts of kindness and more love. Imagine what could happen if we extended our embrace to include more parts of our community.

It can feel dark but for 2021, I am going to keep the lights on. I am going to choose to see the positive while holding the vision all that is possible if we act with the collective good at heart. We need our dreams and we need each other. Small steps taken with open hearts. After all, a ripple creates a wide circle.

Here’s to more magic and miracles.

With love,

Shelley

Finding the Happy.

“Look at me, I’ve taken up pottery and now I am an international success doing what I’ve always dreamed of doing! ” or “Look at me, I lost my job but now I have time to do yoga and eat avocado and I’m 30 pounds lighter”. Go team. I grew out my hair and became a connoisseur of boxed wine. I see where there is room for improvement.


It’s 12 days until Christmas. I keeping trying to find the happy of the season. I try singing. Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la…. Yup, I’m still not feeling it.

There is a lot of noise this Christmas. Also some shouting and that box of Lindt chocolates keeps yelling my name. I am ignoring that plea for attention. I’m trying to fit into my PJ’s before Christmas Day.

For our family, Christmas is definitely about the food and the chocolate and certainly pairing of the “spirits”. In preparation for the calories of Christmas, I thought I should practice some self-discipline. I decided to give up having milk in my coffee.

After one day, I didn’t notice any change. Maybe giving up milk wasn’t enough so I also gave up breakfast and started just having “brunch”. Fancier fitness programs refer to this as “intermittent fasting” but really, it’s brunch with dinner being 8 hours later. I am unclear how whole books have been written on this topic and become best sellers. Here’s the summary…..eat less and eat less often. No need to buy the book. You can thank me later.

Anyways, this little tweak to my lifestyle was made in preparation of Christmas. I want to have my own little COVID success and being able to fit my PJ’s seemed attainable. I’ve been envious of all the COVID success stories floating around.

“Look at me, I’ve taken up pottery and now I am an international success doing what I’ve always dreamed of doing! “ or “Look at me, I lost my job but now I have time to do yoga and eat avocado and I’m 30 pounds lighter”. Go team. I grew out my hair and became a connoisseur of boxed wine. I see where there is room for improvement.

I wanted something to change for me that was more positive than what I had “before”. I want my own post pandemic story that is kind of fabulous and fun. I just feel my path forward is a little blurry at the moment. I think I might be a late bloomer.

My new “brunch” routine allowed me to lose four pounds. Then I stalled. I was hoping to hit at least 5 pounds. I looked at what else I could do. I thought about giving up my glass of wine but I still worry about my cholesterol. I decided to shave my legs instead. Incredible. I’ve now lost a total of 6 pounds.

Change is incremental. Tiny grains of sand eventually make a beach. I’m just trying to build a new sandbox and finding that tough. Actually, I’m finding a number of things kind of tough. Namely finding happiness. I try to look for happiness but often, I just seem to find wave after wave of unrelenting sadness. I can’t seem to get past the grieving on what “was”. I’m still stuck.

On good days, I can brush away the tears and push all those sad feelings back in the box. On my not so good days, the tears keep rolling and they don’t stop. I try everything. I clench my jaw, tighten my face and I will my soul to stop feeling sad but the ache is flamed and the pain grows hot. My stomach churns and I wage a war with my inner self begging my emotions to stand down.

I am a bit like a grenade. I keep stuffing the hurt, the pain and the shame into the box but the box is getting full and starting to overflow. I fight with myself. I berate myself for not being able to financially pivot the way others do and have. I harbour a sense of failing because I didn’t anticipate a pandemic and hadn’t yet strengthened the business to be more diverse.

First off….. did anyone predict a world pandemic? Surely I can’t be the only one that didn’t get the memo. This is the irony. I am beating myself up over something I had no control over. The Titanic had a similar fate.

I had a plan. We had just recovered from the last recession and in four years, tripled our revenues and were working towards that state of diversification. I wasn’t blind, I just ran out of time. The rationale falls on deaf ears. My sensible side isn’t getting through to my inner mean girl.

I know these feelings are in response to nine months of weirdness thanks to COVID 19. I am triggered with how many things seem so wrong and unfair. I am enormously frustrated with COVID convenience, COVID chaos and COVID confusion. There is one game, a million different rules and so many people playing different versions. It’s all utterly confusing and deeply distressing.

The casualties are mounting and I struggle with the selection process of who gets through the gates, whether that be physically, emotionally or financially.

Looking around, I see widening gaps of disproportion. Seniors silently dying in solitude, business owners holding onto the ledge with bloodied finger nails, social disconnection that is fracturing and so many layers of duplicity and hypocrisy that I can hardly breathe.

Yes, the news of the vaccine is fantastic but it’s not for everyone, not yet. We still have a ways to go.

It is not fair to criticize. I’ve searched Google and truth be told, there are not many handbooks on “how to handle a pandemic”. I honestly believe that people did their best in the middle of the storm. What I do wish is that as we move forward, we develop some guiding principles that become foundations to our next stages of decision making. I am not naive. Governments can’t make decisions that will benefit everyone. They can only work to make better decisions as time goes by. It is an imperative to look at unintended consequences as a result of taking too quick of an action that might give way to double standards and erode social codes of conduct.

After nine months, I wish that there was more room in the conversation to ask questions and say out loud “help me understand what makes you confident that this is the right path forward?”

Guiding principles would be helpful to understanding decisions. Why do some industries and businesses get the green light while others are still locked? After all this time, is there room to ask how we might do this better moving forward without being accused of causing concern of conspiracy? There is no denying the many tragic impacts to the pandemic. The opioid crisis cannot just be a “drug” problem; surely there is more when we look honestly at the casualties. What happens when people are broken and feel that there is no where to turn? The stigma of not being able to cope is enough to want to crawl into the closet of shame. I wonder what means are used to help manage the pain. The numbers beg us to pay attention to the whole story. COVID is not the only headline.

I hear a great deal about “mental health“. “We need more mental health“. Yes. Yes we do. Here’s my question. How do we make that available? Counselling is terrific if you have extended health benefits which is taken away when the job is lost. Is there a way to look at how we stretch those government pockets to carry over benefit plans? I feel frustrated that the resources that people could use have been either taken away in the waves of pandemic job loss or worse, never there in the first place. A social question is “do those that need, have access to what they need?” This question isn’t just for those that fall below a mathematical threshold for income, this question is on behalf of all those who don’t have access for whatever the reason. Just ask a small business owner about their benefit plan.

Deep sigh.

So this is it. I wonder if we need to feel pain so that we can move forward with better clarity and defined purpose to change our conditions and that of others. Pain hurts. It hurts even more when it is ignored. What happens if we name our pain and we say it out loud. What would happen if instead of stuffing my pain into a box, I let it out to and let it wash over me. What if pain without confine became a way to rise with a deeper sense of compassion, connection and commitment to live a better life. Maybe shared pain becomes our bridge to joy and one another.

I have felt adrift and I am angry at myself that my healing process is taking longer than I want. “Just get over it” is a bumper sticker I would buy except that I’m not just “getting over it”. I am feeling things on deeper levels and working to gain courage to live life more vibrantly. I want a story of adventure and up until now, the plot has been a little thin and as a main character, I could go a little deeper. Giving up milk with my coffee and having “brunch” seems lame.

I’m getting there. I used to just see walls that confined me and stopped me from going further. For months, I have sat with my back to the wall, banging my head. This week, I chose to look left, and suddenly I saw a door. I haven’t been enclosed by four walls, I have been restricted by my own perceptions. Progress.

My hurt, my pain caused me to stop dead in my tracks. I’m embarrassed to admit this. I never thought I would one that would take so many months to find a door. I had to wallow but now my pain is my fuel to lay aside my hurt to recreate a life where I live with more passion, more joy and I never let the “other stuff” take me away from being with those that I adore.

That’s what it was. So many years I spent working on work that took me away from the fun. I said “no” more times than I said “yes”. I put work before almost everything and now, everything I missed was really the core of happiness.

This Christmas, what brings me joy and a sense of happy isn’t found under the tree, it is the people I love who have a place in my heart. Maybe part of my COVID craziness is that I crave connection with those who I miss. Am I the only one who watches a movie and marvel when the characters shake hands?

I miss the hugging, the touching, the laughing, the connections of moments that create memories that make me laugh and allow me to reminisce with love and return to a state of happiness.


Today I share all this because we all know someone who wishes that they had more days. They are counting in weeks and and months rather than years. I marvel at their bravery; to fight for each day and every moment and understand the value is in the living no matter the cost.

That’s pain. Saying goodbye to someone who you love with all your heart and more. Pain is wishing you could take their place. Why? Why them? Why take someone who is so good, so fantastic and worthy of so many more memories. It is incredibly unfair. I can only stand in the wings and be humbled by their bravery to live each moment with courage and love. I wonder if the best people are chosen to leave early so that we are reminded to live more thoughtfully and passionately in their honour.

COVID has brought loss. I would hate to move to comparative loss of who “lost” more. Suffice to say that the world has shifted and we all have scars. If we can move through the pain, we can reach joy and maybe even attain happiness.

I share these thoughts in case you too are hiding the hurt and it’s starting to spill over. I used to think that being brave was pretending it was all ok. Maybe being brave is falling apart to let things go; those pieces of us that we no longer need to find a new way of living happy. Sometimes it takes time to figure out which pieces don’t fit anymore.

I close with sending you love. Tons of love to carry you over the Christmas holidays and into the New Year. May you find your happy with someone that loves you so much, that you feel whole and a part of the bigger picture that brings you peace.

See you on the other side – may 2021 be the year of “more” in the best possible way.

Shelley

A Story of a Christmas FAIL and the gift of love…

This hurts but it has to be said out loud, despite all my effort, I am a Christmas Fail. All the beautiful ideas that sit in my head are somehow misunderstood by the time the thoughts reach my hands. Nothing works the way it was supposed to. My baking burns, my fudge fails, my decorating is a disaster and my sense of holiday optimism and joy is replaced by frustration, stress and dare I say, a small bit of Christmas rage.


The Christmas season is almost here. Actually, according to Costco, it’s been here since August which is a bit annoying. To me, the Christmas season starts December 1st. Sometimes December 24th; it depends on how things are going.

I love Christmas and I only wish that each year it could be all that I want it to be. I wish I could win the lottery so that I could buy everyone, everything! I am so guilty of feeling a materialistic joy over toys! I’m actually embarrassed. I am like a kid in a candy store and would take one of everything and then some. From there, I would head out into the streets and just start passing out the treats. I love it all.

And it’s not just the gift giving I love, it’s the preparation for Christmas. It’s the lights, the parties, the arrival of eggnog, oranges and the baking. I am a super keener except that I also suffer from Christmas SUCK. How I want “it” to be, is nothing like “it” actually is.

“Hope keeps the agony alive” rings true for me at Christmas.

I am terrible at almost everything Christmas. I am awful at giving gifts. I am someone who should not be allowed to shop by themselves. In fact, just this year I learned that no really loves facial cleanser in their stocking. Really? Is that the same for the new tooth brush too?

It’s not from lack of effort. I spend hours thinking about the season. I agonize over spreadsheets and making lists while I scour through cookbooks seeking the perfect Christmas cookie combination and ideal interior decore.

This hurts but it has to be said out loud, despite all my effort, I am a Christmas Fail. All the beautiful ideas that sit in my head are somehow misunderstood by the time the thoughts reach my hands. Nothing works the way it was supposed to. My baking burns, my fudge fails, my decorating is a disaster and my sense of holiday optimism and joy is replaced by frustration, stress and dare I say, a small bit of Christmas rage. I’m like a bad self help book. For over twenty years, I approach the holidays with a mind set of “this year will be different!” and then something catches fire. Think Monty Python while wearing an apron.

I try. I really do but I can’t bring myself to follow through to the state of perfection. The perfect Christmas would have the perfect tree which would be tall and bushy. I am drawn to trees who clearly suffer from anorexia. My trees are skinny and spindly but I choose them because I don’t want them to feel like they are “less than”. I want them to feel loved so I smother them with bright lights and use the remote control to create a Christmas disco. My family just stares. I am easily the winner of the worst Christmas sweater. I yearn for perfection but I sure excel at gaudy and awful.

I have a snow globe collection which is getting a bit out of control. The same can be said for my Christmas Village. This year the village has grown so big that I have to make a subdivision out on the porch. I like tinsel. I love hiding gifts and finding them in the spring. And while I forget where I hide presents, I never forget where I put the chocolate; I just forget to tell my family where it might be. Whatever. We all have our own special traditions.

I want Christmas to be perfect, except that it’s not. Christmas is messy and complicated and I don’t think that’s just me. Christmas is many things and not all of it good. Christmas is hard. It’s a mirage that leads us to believe that the season is shiny and joyous, except when its not.

For many people, it’s a season to pretend. They pretend to be happy, to have more than they do, to give more than they have. There is stress and heart ache and a pit of emptiness and a sense of loneliness. While many gather around tables surrounded by family and friends, there are just as many tables with a setting for one.

When did the Christmas season become an extension of Black Friday deals to Boxing Day sales? And the notion of Santa needs to be exposed. How can Santa bring ipads to some and tooth brushes to others? How is that fair and what does that say about a sense of self and worth? Nothing like a season of giving to make you feel less.

I’m guilty. I am so, so guilty. I loved giving gifts but I think I had it all wrong. My love of material giving grew unhealthy. I was sending a message that Christmas was something you found in a box and love was large when wrapped with a bow.

Three years ago, I took a look in the mirror and didn’t like what I saw. Why was I buying gifts for people who had more than enough? Every day is Christmas in our house. We have enough of everything and more! We are abundantly blessed right down to our one bathroom home, the gift of patience is truly year round.

The look in the mirror caused me to shift. The call of the Christmas spirit could not be bought on-line or replicated from a magazine. The call was to stretch just a little bit more.

I called a family meeting and announced that Christmas was changing. The Sim family would host a Christmas Eve dinner for anyone in the community. I couldn’t bear another holiday season knowing that some were eating by themselves and feeling alone. I felt that we, as a family, could turn our attention to breaking open the box and finding a way to share.

I would be a liar if I said that everyone loved my idea. Owen, who was 11 at the time was most unimpressed. “Why bother with Christmas if there aren’t any gifts?” Oh dear Owen, and that is the point. If we only find joy in the receiving, we are missing the reason for the season and that had to change.

We fed 170 people that year. We borrowed the community ski lodge and opened the doors to welcome people from all up and down the valley. We weren’t alone in our quest to connect; we had ample volunteers and an abundance of cheer! We offered a free turkey dinner for anyone who wanted to share in the spirit of a community Christmas. Donations were welcome but not expected. Fishes and loaves somehow fed the masses. We sang and we laughed and we wove a magic that lightened hearts and gave a warm glow.

It was hard work and my family was exhausted by the end. However, my dear little Owen was the angel of the day. He served the punch and gave out the gift bags. He met the people and saw the need. While he was giving, he felt what it was to receive and at the end of the night he said, “Mom, that was good.”

Yes Owen, it was. In fact, it was perfect and given with love.

Christmas 2020 is going to be tough. COVID has been cruel. There have been varying losses and I don’t know very many who haven’t felt changed. For months we have kept apart and with Christmas looming, the divide feels like it is growing.

The loss of social connection over the holiday season seems like the last straw. COVID fatigue feels heavy and grey. To fight the fatigue, we are moving forward with the 4th Annual Community Christmas Eve dinner. We had our concerns but have opted to pivot and the dinner will now be delivered. It won’t be the same but it will be done and shared as an expression of love. We have many new elves and several kind donations. My experience is that people are seeking ways to give, to be a part the sum that makes the greater whole.

I share this because I’ve been struggling for a few months. Nothing has gone according to plan. While I wish I could settle into a pose of perfection, I continue to learn that the real living comes from leaning into the hurt.

“Shelley, my dad is in hospice and my mom isn’t doing well. Could we please order Christmas Eve dinner?” “Is there a way I can help? My husband passed away on the 14th and I don’t want to be alone” “I’m a senior and I don’t cook very much, could I ask for a meal?” Real stories, honest needs.

My Christmas wish is that we all stand back from the easy giving and look for the gaps.

Let’s shake up the workplace $10 Secret Santa concept. What would happen if we exchanged cards instead? Notes of kindness that gave the soul a lift. And the $10 component? Create impact through collective giving and sharing that creates ripples of change.

Find a family or person that has lost their income and struggling to make ends meet. Search out a senior who needs a helping hand or maybe play the Anonymous Angel and leave a basket of treats for someone who seems all alone. I think if we listen, there is a silence that actually echoes with calls for help.

And while we can try to heal the hurts and bandage some pain, this Christmas, there still will be feelings of loss and regret. There will still be wishes that just can’t be met.

I wish I could return to life pre-COVID. I would trade almost anything to once again hug all those that I love. I want to pop and puncture bubbles so we can all be as one. I want to hug my mom, connect with my sister, sit with my dad and embrace extended family and friends and never, ever let anyone go.

This Christmas will be hard. I hope that the giving will help heal that hole.

As for my quest for Christmas perfection; it will likely still rear its head. I will still burn the cookies, take pity on the tree with less limbs but I will do my best to reach out to break down the walls of holiday pretend. I will ask more questions, “How are you? What can I do?”

I wish I was perfect but then again, maybe it is my flaws that help me feel akin to others that feel broken. Maybe imperfection is the safe space for deeper connection. Maybe it’s more fun to dance with the lights than stand on a pedestal.

So what would you give? What is your gift? If you have a minute, write a comment and share your thoughts.

Here’s to being brave and being part of the change!

With love,

Shelley

Getting ready for the 2020 Christmas tree!

I used to be pretty…..


I love my memories of being young and staying out all night and dancing with friends. Those were the days when I could just pick up anything off the floor and it would easily fit. Sometimes it was even clean. Regardless, everything and anything looked great in my twenties.

Not that I knew that then; I never looked in the mirror and saw “fantastic”. I always had an eye on what could be better. I focused on the flaws. They say that youth is wasted on the young. I get that.

That’s not to say I didn’t have moments of feeling fabulous. I did. I loved the freedom of being able to experiment with different styles. I just wish my friends had told me that wearing headscarves like the Premier’s wife wasn’t necessarily my best look but even if they had shared that little fashion tip, I’m not sure I would have cared.

And that’s the point. I miss so many elements of being young and not caring. The magical time in life where anything was possible and transformation was easy and effortless. Red lipstick and black leather skirts one week, short shorts with a striped t and pink lipstick the next. Style and fashion were not finite, it was interchangeable with moods, imagination and a sense of self-expression based on a whisper of a whim.

It wasn’t just the experimentation of shirts, pants, skirts and lipstick, there was also the freedom to experiment with life on all levels. School, work, personal interactions, life concepts, social conduct and social construct. It was a time of developing a sense of self and it was fun to feel so free.

I miss who I was.

Forest Gump said that life is like a box of chocolates. No Forest, it’s not. Life is like ice cream left out to melt. A slow sense of sinking, a softening that slowly turns to mush.

I used to be pretty. Cars would stop when I crossed the street. I could talk my way out of a speeding ticket and always get help when I felt the need to ask. I flirted my way through my first thirty plus years. It was nice and definitely easier than where I am now.

Now I get called “ma’am”. Oh how I hate that. When it first started to happen, I looked for my mother. The “ma’am” led to “can I help you carry your groceries?” F U sonny, I’ve been carrying the weight of a family for twenty years so I think I can handle four litres of milk and a bag of potatoes. I don’t like being thought of as “less than”. Not yet. It’s still too soon.

This getting older comes with a sense of “settling” and that’s not just my chest finding a soft spot to rest on my belly. It’s a constant state of compromise for many different reasons. It’s in the workplace, volunteer realm, family and certainly how long I get in the bathroom. I also settle for “less” of myself in order to give “more” to those around me. When I was dancing on speakers, I had centre stage of my life without a care in the world. Now I wrestle with how to escape the confines of the consequences of settling and wonder how to stretch out for more.

The “settling” makes me feel frumpy and tad bit dumpy. I laughed when I recently watched an episode of The Crown on Netflix. Queen Elizabeth was re-playing clips of her youth including her 1954 tour to Australia when she was a young woman. Her husband Prince Phillip walks in and says:

PP: “look at all those crowds coming to see their beautiful new queen”

Queen: “now she’s old and dumpy and they want to get rid of her”

PP: “not old and dumpy; experienced and mature”

The Queen rolls her eyes. I’m with you Liz. “Experienced and mature” is a terrible consolation prize.

I think about the phrase “aging gracefully”. Why is this term seemingly focused on women and not men? Aging gracefully seems like another terrible passage that women must navigate and endure. Honest to god, haven’t we done enough? From twelve years old, we avoided wearing white pants once a month. We packed MIDOL into every bag to ensure that we didn’t inadvertently kill anyone that might piss us off. We would grind our teeth through period pain yet smile outwardly and carry on. I’m telling you, if men experienced any part of our journey, they would have fallen to floor, crashed through the glass ceiling and crawled into bed, never to be seen again.

For some, the next stage was motherhood. Lovely if you can bear it. I personally never found joy in leaking from every orifice but took it in stride. After three children, I should be an expert at stretching like an elastic band only I fear that I have finally snapped.

There was a brief reprieve in my 40’s. Freedom from diapers and packing lunches not to mention growing out of classroom festivities that required artistic talents that I certainly didn’t possess. I could leave the house without needing to remember the children and for a while, I reclaimed a part of me. It was a good stretch of time until it was over.

Suddenly I grew hot at a moment’s notice. I couldn’t sleep and although I had never been able to keep track of my children, the brain fog was so bad that name tags would have been helpful.

These changes were and are mortifying. While I could hide not being able to sleep, there was no hiding the arrival of 15 extra pounds and feeling a sense of shame. I was not who I wanted to be.

I used to be pretty. I used to feel free. I used to be someone that danced in the wind and twirled with abandon. I was the ocean and now I’m a pond.

Age gracefully. I’m not sure I know how to do it. I look to see how other women are managing. How they do it? How do they dress, behave, interact and adjust? They seem poised whereas I feel in peril. Recently my mother sent me a pair of grey cords with an elastic waist. I would be indignant if they weren’t so damn comfy.

I am determined to master this next stage and quick. I am haunted by the fact that in 8 short years, I will be 60. I don’t want to arrive at that doorway wearing grey cords and sensible shoes. I want to be sexy and sixty and rocking out a pair of jeans and a fabulous blouse. I’m hoping I can finesse the “french tuck” . This will take work as there is a good chance I won’t look french but frazzled; like someone who just forgot the full tuck as I rushed from the loo.

I want to have awesome hair and and a grounded sense of self that is kind, compassionate and confident. I want to sit in meetings and give meaningful input based on years of lived experience that matters. I want to know that I leaned in and had success with projects that had positive impact. I want to have that sense of grace that comes from running a hard race called life and being able to rejoice that I survived the moments where I thought I would quit. I want my memories to give me joy. I want to look forward with optimism and backwards with gratitude. I want to once again twirl with abandon and feel like the ocean.

Maybe the “settling” is actually an important part of the transition. This isn’t easy and I feel it’s even harder under the stormy clouds of COVID. It’s been eight months since I have felt that I have see the sun. I’m feeling an ache. The ache of sadness, of loss and often a deep despair that comes from floundering and having to constantly adapt and change. I mourn what was and I hope to God we can all arrive alive. This COVID world is crazy and creating so much chaos and confusion that it feels impossible to set the compass. These feelings are also tinged with a simmering rage that must constantly be quelled and replaced with a narrative of “be calm and be kind”. I just want my feet to touch the ground and find a path that has certainty.

I know. This sounds like self pity which is kind of true. I can’t blame aging on everything. I do have some sense of responsibility moving forward. I could start with saying “just one” instead of “just one more”. The problem is that I am craving the “more” to offset the feeling of “less”.

I used to be pretty but I also used to wear stupid scarves. To be young is to be pretty and as we move through ages and stages, we change and so must our descriptives of self. I am not pretty but I could stretch to attractive. I can land on confident and strong and celebrate that I am not afraid to speak out. When I was “pretty”, it was easy but lazy. Batting an eye didn’t require me to weigh in on what mattered. I allowed lipstick and blush to speak more loudly instead of me. I liked the easy path; until I tripped and met real life while face down. Those first hurts bruise, bleed and leave scars. But all battle wounds have a story and no good story exists without a struggle. I would like to be further into my story with the major obstacles behind me allowing me to ride into the sunset. Alas, that is not my path. I am not a short story, rather and extended version of War and Peace.

Today I write this because I am so DONE with COVID. The first few months were manageable and I welcomed the downtime to try and reinvent myself. Who knew that self-transformation would take this long and I am still not sure that there is an end in sight. I am envious of all those who have successfully used COVID to learn to meditate, take up yoga, change careers, reach a goal, tighten a belt by a notch or embrace new beginnings. I feel that I’ve stayed stuck in the same spot no matter how fast I have tried to moved my feet.

And maybe I am stuck in the same spot to learn the right lesson. I am not pretty but I am competent. I can choose to mourn my past or cherish the memories. If I stayed young, I wouldn’t know the deep connection that comes from being married, the total immersion of falling in love with each of our babies or come to understood that through pain and loss comes rebirth and new beginnings. If I stayed young, I wouldn’t have friendships that have spanned over 40 years, I wouldn’t know women who could say “I see you and you matter”. I wouldn’t be seen for what I have become, I would be landlocked in the beginning without depth or journey.

Maybe, just maybe, Forest was right after all. Maybe life is a box of chocolates and we don’t know what we might get. Yes, there are moments of pain, passages of hardship and the mortification of aging but with all that come deep friendships, rich connections and experiences that might finally allow me to settle into a real sense of self. Life is not easy. I’m a bit chagrined that I thought it would be. Silly really given that all the good bits come from falling apart. What kind of lived story is interesting if it always works out?

I’m not sure if anyone feels the same but if you are feeling adrift and COVID confused, you are not alone. I share your yearning for things to be easier and more certain but maybe we have to hold on just a wee bit more. By giving our all, maybe we can rise and shine with the sun and feel like the ocean while we twirl with abandon.

Here’s to doing hard things, believing in happy endings and celebrating the moments that matter that make us more than we thought.

With love,

Shelley