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


The Size of Life…..


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough.

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

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

With love,

Shelley

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


True story…..

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.

“Chilly” in the tent!

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.

And we begin….

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.

SOOOOOO muddy!

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……

Roller on the beach…..

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?”

“on earth as it is in heaven…”

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

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

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

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

You can see where this is going……

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shelley

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Shelley