What Story?

For the longest time, I didn’t think I had a story. No major traumas, no near death experiences, no escaping from a cult or whatever else makes an “amazing” story. I thought I was too ordinary to have a story that anyone would want to know about. Ordinary compared to what?

That was the problem, I was comparing myself and my story to others. Trauma is relative, and because I had grown up under a veil of shame I don’t even think I realized I had traumas for the longest time. Living with that much shame is a trauma in itself I think, but I’ll get into that in another post.

Another aspect of my hesitancy is that I don’t want to be a victim. I don’t want to be seen or labeled as a victim by anyone else because I don’t feel like one, at least not anymore. Sometimes, when I think about telling my story, I imagine other moms reading it thinking “oh that poor girl, if only…” focusing on how tragically pathetic I was and how I needed to be saved. I don’t want anyone’s pity. I just want to be seen. I want others to be able to read my story and realize that the kid, teenage girl, or the young woman, they are secretly or not so secretly judging––assuming she knows she’s wasting her potential, or assuming she’s making stupid choices on purpose––is maybe just floundering around in life, feeling invisible and in need of some love and guidance. She doesn’t need your pity, she needs your authenticity.

I just believed that all the stuff that happened to me or the things I experienced in my life were a result of my own clueless naivete and that if I hadn’t been so stupid none of it would have happened. And maybe that’s true, but it doesn’t disqualify me from having a story and needing to tell it. After all, I’ve learned from it, maybe someone else can too.

I Know What I Know

I am guided by what used to be common sense; it’s not so common anymore, but it still makes sense. I don’t need a doctor to tell me when I’m sick, or the news to tell me when there’s an actual pandemic out there––I can feel it and I can see it.

I’ve lived almost 40 years of my life, my mother and grandmother and great grandmother many years collectively before that. I’ve watched them and the wisdom that has carried our species for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Clean water and fresh air, sunshine and healthy, fresh foods, plenty of exercise, rest and laughter, and good old TLC is what has kept us going and going strong. If the fact that we are here as living proof of that isn’t enough, until 2020, it was common knowledge, backed up by decades of research, that the preceding list is what has always worked best.

When scurvy was an issue, what was the answer? Vitamin C from citrus fruit. When rickets was a problem, and also seasonal affective disorder (SAD), what was the solution? Vitamin D, through both sunshine and supplementation. Babies cared for in orphanages were shown to thrive when they were held and given affection in addition to the basic needs such as food, water and shelter. Research over the years has shown that children learn best through play and socialization, and school curricula were even adapted to account for this. I could go on. But now, suddenly in 2020-21 all the aforementioned findings seem to be moot according to the “new science”.

Do they really want us to believe that we have evolved so much from one year to the next, such to the point that now the opposite of what used to work in the past is what we really need? I wouldn’t even call that evolution, then. If we need to rely on even more crutches and “outside” solutions like masks and vaccines and curfews to keep us safe, I’d say we’ve devolved––that does not sound like a species that is getting smarter and more well adapted to its surroundings, if you ascribe to the theory of evolution.

No, I know what I know. My faith has been tested time and time again, and here is what I know: My God shall supply all my needs according to His riches, not my limited knowledge or experience, but according to the goodness and richness of His supply. I know that we are made in the image of God, little replicas, we are made to imitate and be like the Almighty God. The God who spoke and brought the Universe forth with the sheer power of His word. I know that when I read and listen to His Word, written for me full of promises from Him, my faith grows stronger and drowns out fear. I have learned that whether you want to take the Bible literally or figuratively, it works, it’s that powerful. I know that when I speak to mountains, they move––whether that mountain is called sickness, or lack, or fear or any other name you want to put on it.

I know that my body was made by the Divine Designer and therefore it is not flawed, but perfectly equipped to give and get what it needs to and from its environment. I do not need to inject toxins and extra chemicals and substances into my body in order for it to learn something. My body is a highly intelligent operating system that processes all kinds of information about my environment and surroundings. I know that my body interprets the collective wisdom from the Great Spirit and translates it in a way that is relevant to me, and that when I pay attention to what is needed at the time I will always have everything I need. And, that it comes from within.

The Gift on the Other Side

When my youngest was a baby, in her first year of life, she was dealing with severe eczema. No big deal, you might say, if you know nothing about eczema–– before this trial, I knew nothing of eczema. I heard eczema and I thought dry skin on your knees and elbows, maybe a little itchy, whatever.

I learned that there are different types of eczema, that had varying symptoms of varying degrees caused by many different things. G had weeping eczema with an insatiable itch. This meant that she could scratch herself till she bled and still, scratching the itch would be the only thing that would satisfy it, even if she was cutting through her skin and bleeding, which she did.

I rarely slept as all of my waking hours were spent caring for her, being attentive, carrying her almost non-stop and watching her like a hawk when I couldn’t so she wouldn’t start scratching, because I knew she couldn’t stop once she started. I could barely sleep even when she slept because I was listening for any little stirring that would indicate she had woken up and would start scratching. I swaddled her, tightly, for longer than you would swaddle most babies, in attempts to keep her from scratching in the night. I kept her little nails trimmed at all times. I would put little mittens on her but she quickly learned how to remove them. More than once I would awake to find her sheets bloodied and her cheeks scratched raw. Her siblings all had to be more patient and settle for less attention. Our marriage required a lot of patience. Diets and activities were restricted. Everything revolved around trying to keep her safe and give her some sort of relief. Needless to say it was a trying time for all of us.

The 3:00 am feedings were spent researching everything I possibly could. One night I came across mitten sleeves! I couldn’t seem to find any stores that carried them in my city, but thankfully that week my dad happened to be in Chicago. I found a store there that carried them and asked him to bring me some. They were exactly what they sound like, a sleeve with mittens, made of silky satin, on either end. Because it was a sleeve, she couldn’t get them off; they did have openings that could be folded back during the day for play time or eating when I could be right there with her. Hallelujah!! I could finally take a shower that lasted longer than two seconds or put her down to cook dinner without worrying if her face would survive. My dad had brought me two pairs of mitten sleeves; it was what he could find, and they got non-stop use. It didn’t take long before they began to form holes from the constant use––she would still rub her face, which would give her some relief but also save her cheeks; they had to be washed and kept clean all the time. Thankfully, one of our wonderful neighbors made her two more pairs and a friend of mine was able to repair the originals. I can still remember how it felt, the relief of getting back some semblance of “normal” life when those sleeves came on the scene. I had already forgotten what it felt like to not live on edge, concerned all the time.

It hadn’t always been like that. Her first three months were amazing. She was the happiest little smiliest baby I’d ever seen. Always laughing and giggling. A very good sleeper, at about 8 weeks or so I could get a good 5-6 hours of sleep each night, but that didn’t last long. Right around her third month she began to develop eczema––I’ll talk about the whys and hows of this in another post; including why I believe those first 2-3 months were so great. From there, it was about 9 months before we would finally be able to start unravelling our tightly wound nerves from being on constant edge and alert.

I spent so much time with her, but I feel like I missed a lot of it––measuring progress on her recovery rather than growth milestones. (Thank goodness for the first-year baby calendar I kept for her, as well as a little journal; at least we can go back and read about the life we were living as opposed to the disease we were experiencing.)

One of the things that added to the difficulty of the whole situation, was that it was so visible, you could see it all over her face. All kinds of well-meaning people would approach me telling me the things they tried when their kid or grandkid had eczema. Others, would stare, some of them probably judging me with whatever reason they needed to tell themselves for why a parent would dare to leave the house with their kid suffering like that, wondering what I was doing wrong . Others I could see the pity in their eyes, and I just felt even more pitiful, because I felt there was nothing I could do and that I had already tried a million and one things.

I remember one time, while making supper, after having obtained the mitten sleeves, looking over at G in the Exersaucer where I had placed her, and my once jolly, smiley baby looked forlorn and depressed. I had never before seen a “depressed” baby. She just looked so sad and hopeless. It broke my heart. It was such a contrast from the happy, smiley baby she was in her first three months. Now, a few years later, G has beautiful skin. And, as the baby of the family is always goofing off and doing stuff to get a laugh out of us. She is a very happy, healthy little girl. (I will talk about the natural healing side of that journey in another post.) But I wondered at that moment, if I would ever see her smile again.

That’s how it is, isn’t it? When you’re in the eye of the storm, it can be very hard to see anything beyond. While I would never, ever wish to repeat this experience, nor wish it on anybody, I am grateful for the lessons I learned. Coming through this trial, and many others, has taught me to have faith in the gift on the other side.

The Burning House

When I was a kid, probably somewhere around the ages of 5-7, there was a good chunk of time when I was afraid to go to sleep because I was terrified that the house would catch fire when we were asleep. Sometimes, during the summer months when the days were long but we still had to go to sleep while the sun was out, I would sit at my window and imagine how I would escape if the house did catch fire. I wondered if I could be brave and fast enough to tie the blankets and sheets together and use them to climb down from my window.

This lasted for a long time, maybe close to a year. I don’t remember how I got over it, maybe because other circumstances would develop that would occupy my thoughts instead. Nevertheless, it was a very real fear for a good long while.

I actually forgot about that fear for a very long time, and even when it did come back to mind, I couldn’t understand why I was so afraid of our house catching fire. I didn’t know anyone who had died in a fire or even anyone whose house had burned down. I just remember that I was so afraid of this, to the point of losing sleep over it.

And then one day, while describing to someone how my dad loved to take pictures, and it all came flooding back. (He was very meticulous about pictures––of course, this was in the day when you didn’t want to waste your film so you had to get the shot just right. He still takes pictures like this, mind you, just with his smartphone now so it’s even more annoying when you have to hold your smile for 7 minutes.) We had all been on the way somewhere, most likely on one of our annual road trips down to Mexico, and if Dad saw something that he wanted to photograph we had to pull over so he could. This one time, there was a big house in the middle of nowhere all ablaze. I don’t remember anything or anyone else around, just a big house on fire in the middle of the prairies, and my dad had to photograph it. Did I bother to ask why the house was on fire or how it happened? I don’t know. All I knew was that if it was possible for that house, in the middle of nowhere with no one else around to catch fire, how much more likely was a house with people who lived and cooked and sometimes lit candles in it to catch fire?

I didn’t realize, of course, that my brain had made that association at the time, so my fear of our house burning down made no rational sense. I wonder if I ever even told anyone in my family how I felt. Did they have any idea how terrified I was about this?

Now, with my work in holistic energy practices, it’s easy to understand that the brain makes those subconscious connections. Still it is nonetheless fascinating to see how all those things come together to bring us to the paradigms, beliefs and stories we come to live our lives by. And even more wonderful and fascinating that we have the power and the ability to change those stories to better serve us; that we can be empowered and emboldened to live beyond just the sum of our experiences.

Missing: You Don’t Know What You’ve Got ’til it’s Gone

I miss singing. I had no idea this would ever be something I would miss. But, now that it’s practically illegal (who actually comes up with this shit?!?!), I miss it so much.

It’s not even the signing I miss as much as the unity/unison I could experience through it. I’m not a singer by any stretch, not really even in the shower, but I used to sing every week at church with about a thousand other people, maybe more. There is something about signing in praise and worship, it’s called heart coherence, that feels amazing.

I don’t think I could specifically say “I think I’m missing the feeling of coherence,” if I wasn’t intentionally conscious of my mental, emotional and spiritual state. I don’t think it’s one of those immediately obvious things you know you are missing, like food on the other hand––you know when you are missing food because your stomach likes to remind you with a very noticeable grumble. No, this is more like a deep yearning of the soul kind of missing; aching to create unity and harmony with other people. I know I can do that each time I meditate, and I still do that, but I guess I’m just missing the whole experience of it: the crowds, the music, the singing, feeling God right there in the midst of us.

I’m sure, because of my somewhat rebellious nature, that part of this also has to do with the simple fact that we’ve been “told” not to sing, so naturally that’s what I want to do. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.” “What? What curtain? What man? Where? I wanna see!” It’s like, “No singing!” “Do, Re, Me, Fa, So…. what were you saying?”

So, I have decided that, in addition to the personal growth things I am focusing on during meditation, I am going to set aside special time, even if it’s just a few minutes while I’m drifting off to sleep, to visualize and really feel and experience what it would be like to be singing at church again. And I am going to do this everyday until we’re physically “allowed” to again.

Haircut

I got my haircut yesterday––yes, I know, I’m a rebel. Or maybe the person who cut my hair is a rebel. Maybe we both are. Personally, I see nothing criminal about getting a haircut, but the way things are going these days, people are being treated like criminals for a heck of a lot less; just for daring to breathe freely while buying groceries, for example.

But anyway, that’s not what this post is about. Because I went and got my bootleg haircut, my eight-year-old daughter wanted one too. And, because you can’t just go out and get a haircut these day, she wanted me to do it.

Aside from the haircut I gave my two-year-old sister when I was four, and maybe the infamous self-directed bangs that seem to be a rite of passage for all teenage girls, I have never cut hair. What I can appreciate here in this situation is my daughters complete confidence in my ability to give her what she wants. I told her I have basically zero experience in cutting hair and that I had to first see if I even still had the pair of old hairstyling shears which, despite the fact that I never cut hair, I do still have. (Ask me where they came from, I couldn’t really tell you; probably my dad because he seems to think it’s important to be prepared for every situation with items that you would rarely use otherwise––thanks Dad!) Nonetheless, none of these minor attempts to discourage the idea that I should be the one to cut her hair deterred my daughter.

I watched a few videos about how to layer hair and how to cut curly hair, etc. I know a thing or two about taking care of curly hair thanks to my own curls, but I never cut my own hair. However, we are in extraordinary circumstances and I’m sure many people have resorted to experimenting with things they never would have otherwise. One of the beautiful things about this is that I am learning that I am capable of so much more than I have given myself credit for.

So I cut the girls hair. I did it. I decided not to go too short so that we’d have room to get it fixed if I totally botched it. But guess what? It turned out very well! If I had a day-job I wouldn’t be quitting it, as the saying goes. But, my daughter trusted me with her look and I did something new because of it. After I cut it, we washed her hair and I showed her how to properly care for curly hair––because up to this point she would just brush it into a frizz. We washed it with special shampoo to clean it up, then washed it with conditioner to help smooth the frizz. I showed her that a more delicate, smooth towel, or even an old t-shirt to squeeze out the excess water will reduce frizz. We put in a special curl cream and then diffused it. I showed her a whole new routine; it was time just for the two of us. And she gets to go back to school with a “new look” after the Christmas break.

Sometimes, being a mom can feel like a thankless job. But moments like this make me realize how much she values me, my input and the little things I can do to care for her. And that is a gift.

The Best Thing

The best thing just happened to me. Maybe not the best thing EVER, but definitely amazing for the times we are living in.

There is a smaller-than-average Walmart near my house. Now I know many people are saying “stop giving Walmart your money” and other such stuff. But the truth is, during this whole “pandemic” I have not had any issues at this little Walmart; most people are just there to get what they need and get out. People don’t mess with you if your mask or scarf isn’t suffocating you to their liking, or scold you for walking the “wrong way” in the aisles, mostly people living their lives, just like me.

Today, I went to pick up a few things for New Years Eve, and a few things to carry us into the first week of January so I wouldn’t have to make a big shopping trip right away. Of course, I ended up putting a lot more than I planned into my basket and it was a bit of a balancing act getting over to the checkout. I had a full basket on one arm and a handful of chips in the other when one of my boxes of crackers fell to the floor in a busy intersection of the store (thankfully not many people around). And as I’m thinking to myself “How am I going to make this work?” an older gentleman who saw it happen, walks over, picks it and places it back into my basket. There was a bit of gracious chit chat along with smiles and thank yous muffled by my “mandatory” scarf, but it was an otherwise normal, friendly pre-scamdemic interaction.

Then, at the checkout, because I had loaded so much stuff into my basket, I had to tell the friendly cashier that I may have bitten off more than I can chew because I only had so much cash with me. He was super patient and friendly, chatting with me the whole time, and I did end up having to leave some stuff behind. As I was sorting through what was more essential and what I could leave behind, looking for the last item that would bring my total under the amount of cash I had, he says, “Don’t worry, if you have $75 I’ll cover the rest.” The rest was $1.82, not a huge amount, but he did that for me and it was amazing. Understand, it’s not because I don’t have the money, I had just left my wallet at home. It was amazing because kindness seems to be a rarity these days, and I said as much to him. His small act of kindness, along with the other gentleman who helped me with my full basket, made that shopping trip an amazing experience.

I used to really enjoy doing the grocery shopping, now it’s a source of stress to go out and see all the people subjected to this forced masking and ridiculous rules about what is essential and what is not (according to who???), people shaming each other for tiny infractions––things that, under normal circumstances, would not be considered infractions at all, like breathing air with your face uncovered, for example. But today, I got to experience the kindness of ordinary strangers and it made my day.

I was so tickled by the whole experience that I smiled all the way home. One lady who had to stop for me at the stop sign signalled me to cross, a bit exasperatedly at first, but because I could not get the grin off my face as I walked by she cracked a big smile too. And others smiled and nodded from their vehicles, neighbours passing on the sidewalk returned my big smile and said hello. It was one of those moments when the clouds part and the sun shines and literally everything feels right in the world. Just amazing! Thank you so much kind people! Thank you God. Thank you Universe. Thank you, thank you, thank you for that amazing experience!

Gratitude

I was already having a great day. I’d had a morning zoom meeting that went really well and left me feeling very encouraged. I had a series of productive meetings and calls after that. It was a beautiful, albeit cold, day and I was planning a delicious dinner.

I had just picked up my youngest from preschool and while the older two were off somewhere else in the house, I had a quiet moment to sit with my little one in my lap while she finished off her veggies from her afternoon snack.

I held her and watched her while she quickly and quietly chomped each of her carrot sticks. It was a very mundane moment, but I was only feeling how lucky I was to be holding her in that moment and just enjoying her presence, and being fully present with her. I wasn’t thinking about anything else. I wasn’t rushing around to get dinner made, or running through a mental list of all the things I still had to do that evening. I was just being, and so was she.

In moments like those, it feels like everything that I can possibly feel grateful for is converging all at once and it’s so big. How is it possible that I am here? That we are here, having this experience? And the very reality that I am here having this experience is enough to feel immensely grateful.

If life has taught me anything, it’s that I am so grateful that I have the capacity to feel and to experience life. Even when those those feelings and experiences are heavy and difficult and I wonder, in the moment, if I’ll ever come out of it. In those moments, I go back to gratitude for the simple fact that I can feel it and experience it. And even more gratitude for knowing that I have always lived to see the other side of grief.