Olympics! I felt slightly smug after we crushed the Russians last night. But my smugness only came after the 7th goal; I couldn't watch the first period because my smugness was pre-empted by terror. So, yes, I was jumping upa nd down in my livingroom at the end of the game, looking around for someone to hug or at least to high-five, but the only other spectator was Henry and he was busy investigating his fluffy paws before he dozed off. Obviously not a hockey fan or even all that patriotic.
I felt my Canadian pride surge to the surface (though it may have been a menopause-moment) all evening when the bobsledders got gold and silver and we owned the podium left right and centre. But it was Clara Hughes who put a lump in my throat accompanied by a helping of tears in my eyes. A remarkable woman, without a doubt. I wish all young children from the age of 3 to 98 could have heard her say that she wants to be remembered not for her medals but for her "doing my very best and never giving up".
We grow up thinking we have to be the best at something to even bother showing up. The Olympics even supports that notion to some degree. We give up on many levels not because others judge us, but because we judge ourselves.
I saw the look on Clara Hughes' face when she crossed the finish line on the speed-skating track. She had sawn off a bunch of seconds off the record but the glory on her face said, "I gave it my all!"
I was moved. I brushed the crumbs off my chest and jumped into my desk chair and began scribbling notes of what I want to accomplish.
Drinking more water every day.
That was the top of my list. It may seem hardly medal-worthy but .... I can start small. Besides. I've already had one and a half cups of water and it's only 7 a.m. The day's looking good. Now back to my list.
ending world poverty (too big)
abolition of donuts (unreasonable)
Well, I'll have some more water and see what I can come up with.
written by W A Stewart, February 25, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
To Tell The Truth
I was wondering today about the truth. Truth is rarely writ in ink; it lives in nature, so says Martin H Fischer (I know, I didn't know who he was either). So, if we can't write truth, but were obligated to say the truth or say nothing at all ... then I wonder how silent the world might become. No small talk. No how are you, because who would have the time to listen. And certainly no, what do you think of my shoes?
If I could only speak the truth would I be able to tell my children they can be anything they want to be, because I'm not convinced being an astronaut is within their reach, despite my comments to the contrary.
The hairdresser who cuts your hair would have to fess up when holding the mirror behind your head. "There," she would have to say with a distinct grimace. "That does look like hell. I can't possibly take your money. You look just as bad as you did before. Guess it wasn't the haircut?"
When you buy socks and pay eight dollars a pair you could ask the salesclerk, "Is this a fair price for a bit of cotton and nylon" and the clerk would just bow her head in shame. On a bad day she might hurl out accusations such as, "You're shopping at The Bay, do you really think any of these prices are fair?" and her arm would sweep in a wide demonstrative arc. I'd concede with, "Sorry, stupid question."
When you go through the check-out and the friendly salesclerk asks, "Did you find everything you were looking for today?" you could counter with, "Do you really care?" and the conversation would halt and you wouldn't have to go into an explanation about why you forgot your resuable bags because today (though not every day) you don't really care about the environment. You want to care but today isn't the day for it.
And when you had an ultrasound on your breast after your breast was put through a mini torture test that would rival "the rack" of medieval times (You've Come A Long Way, Baby does not play in the mammagram room) the technician would be obligated to turn to you and say, "This isn't looking good," rather than that sorry smile when she tells me to have a good day and that my doctor will call. I didn't think she meant my doctor would call before I even got home. She should have said, "Just don't bother sleeping for the next two weeks." I think it is better to know upfront.
And of course, the obvious, "Do I look fat to you?" would become redundant.
I've been lied to a few times in my life that really counted and I've also heard the truth when I wasn't prepared. I'm not sure where the balance is. I know I fear a lie far more than I fear the truth. Though the truth may knock us down and put its heavy foot on our throat, it is not an evil adversary. They (and I have no idea who they are) don't say the truth shall set you free for nothin'.
Would truth eliminate the need for kindness and gentleness? Would we love all the people we say we love? And do we really hate all the things we think we hate? I'm positive that I hate winter, at least I think I'm positive.
I suppose all I can say is, "What does it all mean, Basil?"
submitted by W A Stewart February 17, 2010.
If I could only speak the truth would I be able to tell my children they can be anything they want to be, because I'm not convinced being an astronaut is within their reach, despite my comments to the contrary.
The hairdresser who cuts your hair would have to fess up when holding the mirror behind your head. "There," she would have to say with a distinct grimace. "That does look like hell. I can't possibly take your money. You look just as bad as you did before. Guess it wasn't the haircut?"
When you buy socks and pay eight dollars a pair you could ask the salesclerk, "Is this a fair price for a bit of cotton and nylon" and the clerk would just bow her head in shame. On a bad day she might hurl out accusations such as, "You're shopping at The Bay, do you really think any of these prices are fair?" and her arm would sweep in a wide demonstrative arc. I'd concede with, "Sorry, stupid question."
When you go through the check-out and the friendly salesclerk asks, "Did you find everything you were looking for today?" you could counter with, "Do you really care?" and the conversation would halt and you wouldn't have to go into an explanation about why you forgot your resuable bags because today (though not every day) you don't really care about the environment. You want to care but today isn't the day for it.
And when you had an ultrasound on your breast after your breast was put through a mini torture test that would rival "the rack" of medieval times (You've Come A Long Way, Baby does not play in the mammagram room) the technician would be obligated to turn to you and say, "This isn't looking good," rather than that sorry smile when she tells me to have a good day and that my doctor will call. I didn't think she meant my doctor would call before I even got home. She should have said, "Just don't bother sleeping for the next two weeks." I think it is better to know upfront.
And of course, the obvious, "Do I look fat to you?" would become redundant.
I've been lied to a few times in my life that really counted and I've also heard the truth when I wasn't prepared. I'm not sure where the balance is. I know I fear a lie far more than I fear the truth. Though the truth may knock us down and put its heavy foot on our throat, it is not an evil adversary. They (and I have no idea who they are) don't say the truth shall set you free for nothin'.
Would truth eliminate the need for kindness and gentleness? Would we love all the people we say we love? And do we really hate all the things we think we hate? I'm positive that I hate winter, at least I think I'm positive.
I suppose all I can say is, "What does it all mean, Basil?"
submitted by W A Stewart February 17, 2010.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
A COUCH BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD NOT FEEL AS SWEET
Most people have a couch. Wouldn't you agree? We call them sofas, chesterfields, settees (well, no one I know calls them that but ..), davenports, all nature of words. But I like couch.
A couch should be an invitation, someone sitting on it patting her hand to welcome you into her world. A couch should say,"Come on in, sit a minute with me." The nap and weave of a couch's surface should make you want to put your face against it like you did with your baby blankets on your upper lip when you were little, the baby blanket that you were traumatized about when it went to the place where all worn out baby blankets go to die. (Twelve years of therapy and I still can't talk about it). When you sit on the couch it should envelop you with warmth and comfort and make you exhale in a cleansing fashion, an "ahh, I'm home" kind of breathing out.
I have a friend who has a leather couch. In fact, I won't call it a couch. It isn't worthy. I shall call it a settee; even the word makes me grimace. She used to have a lovely cream-coloured couch that I could jump on and pull one of her several aphghans over me and tuck my feet against hers. We would share stories, real stories about us, our wounds, our confessions. We'd turn our heads occasionally and stare at the television, but mostly we just snuggled in, glad to be together, cosy and safe and warm.
Somewhere along the line this friend decided she needed something new in her livingroom. She gave into the dark side of decorating fashion and bough a leather squarish thing (I can hear the cows crying out in anguish) in a colourless beige. This piece of furniture looks like a cast-off from the Jetsons. Even Leroy didn't find it acceptable. It is like sitting on a park bench only less friendly.
I jump on it, but its surface doesn't give. I'm willing to bet this hideous excuse for a sitting apparatus would survive re-entry into the atmosphere without benefit of a heat shield. This one piece of leatherwork has forced me to reconsider my friendship. For thirty-one years we've snuggled under yellow aphgans, green ones, beige ones, ones of every colour, our toes and legs entwined, she at one end, me at the other, pausing only to listen to her husband when he entered our sacred space.
I can't compromise my standards. Sometimes you just have to take a stand.
The leather sofa goes or ... I do.
(I hope I don't have to put my money where my mouth is.)
written by W A Stewart January 30, 2010
A couch should be an invitation, someone sitting on it patting her hand to welcome you into her world. A couch should say,"Come on in, sit a minute with me." The nap and weave of a couch's surface should make you want to put your face against it like you did with your baby blankets on your upper lip when you were little, the baby blanket that you were traumatized about when it went to the place where all worn out baby blankets go to die. (Twelve years of therapy and I still can't talk about it). When you sit on the couch it should envelop you with warmth and comfort and make you exhale in a cleansing fashion, an "ahh, I'm home" kind of breathing out.
I have a friend who has a leather couch. In fact, I won't call it a couch. It isn't worthy. I shall call it a settee; even the word makes me grimace. She used to have a lovely cream-coloured couch that I could jump on and pull one of her several aphghans over me and tuck my feet against hers. We would share stories, real stories about us, our wounds, our confessions. We'd turn our heads occasionally and stare at the television, but mostly we just snuggled in, glad to be together, cosy and safe and warm.
Somewhere along the line this friend decided she needed something new in her livingroom. She gave into the dark side of decorating fashion and bough a leather squarish thing (I can hear the cows crying out in anguish) in a colourless beige. This piece of furniture looks like a cast-off from the Jetsons. Even Leroy didn't find it acceptable. It is like sitting on a park bench only less friendly.
I jump on it, but its surface doesn't give. I'm willing to bet this hideous excuse for a sitting apparatus would survive re-entry into the atmosphere without benefit of a heat shield. This one piece of leatherwork has forced me to reconsider my friendship. For thirty-one years we've snuggled under yellow aphgans, green ones, beige ones, ones of every colour, our toes and legs entwined, she at one end, me at the other, pausing only to listen to her husband when he entered our sacred space.
I can't compromise my standards. Sometimes you just have to take a stand.
The leather sofa goes or ... I do.
(I hope I don't have to put my money where my mouth is.)
written by W A Stewart January 30, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
TAKE THAT, JANUARY!
Every year I try new methods of how to fight back against January's rigid winter tough guy arms. I'm not usually all that successful and February finds me hiding under the bed, refusing to come out and play. So I thought I'd make a list of my favourite come-backs to cold wind and ice and snow. We all like lists, right? I thought so.
1. Watch Ellen. I just smile when I watch Ellen. It's automatic, a reflex, uncontrollable. I laugh out loud some times but most of the time I just smile and feel all hopeful inside. Corny? Notta. She is genuinely a share-the-joy person. I always feel better after an hour or any part thereof, of Ellen.
2. Watch Roger Federer play tennis. He is magic on two legs. He is strong and dignified and such a good sport. He was all angles and skinny just seven years ago and now he is ... well, just watch him play and you'll know what I mean.
3. Eat chocolate chip oatmeal cookies with reckless abandon. Let your conscience go on holidays.
4. Email an old friend from high school or a long lost cousin and tell her your favourite memories of her.
5. Carry your camera around and look for the beauty of winter. Good luck.
6. Don't watch the news. Know that there are good things going on out there that the media just can't be bothered taking time to shine the light on because it seems that they have much more fun noticing the ugliness of the world.
7. Smile at the old lady trying to find a parking place even though she is driving like a snail. Give her space to take her time and applaud her for still trying. It helps. Trust me.
8. Stop hurrying. When you feel yourself start to rush, just breathe in and out a few times and slow down. I think it is called living in the moment.
9. Giggle. Anytime you get the chance. When your teen-ager's bedroom door is left open and you fear the Ministry of Health is going to board it up and put a surgeon-general's warning on the door, just giggle. When you find more toothpaste on the sink than in the tube just giggle.
10. Look for the good stuff around you. The bad stuff is noisier and more obvious and waves its arms with greater energy at times, but look behind things, around and under. It's there. I promise.
written by W A Stewart, January 27, 2010
1. Watch Ellen. I just smile when I watch Ellen. It's automatic, a reflex, uncontrollable. I laugh out loud some times but most of the time I just smile and feel all hopeful inside. Corny? Notta. She is genuinely a share-the-joy person. I always feel better after an hour or any part thereof, of Ellen.
2. Watch Roger Federer play tennis. He is magic on two legs. He is strong and dignified and such a good sport. He was all angles and skinny just seven years ago and now he is ... well, just watch him play and you'll know what I mean.
3. Eat chocolate chip oatmeal cookies with reckless abandon. Let your conscience go on holidays.
4. Email an old friend from high school or a long lost cousin and tell her your favourite memories of her.
5. Carry your camera around and look for the beauty of winter. Good luck.
6. Don't watch the news. Know that there are good things going on out there that the media just can't be bothered taking time to shine the light on because it seems that they have much more fun noticing the ugliness of the world.
7. Smile at the old lady trying to find a parking place even though she is driving like a snail. Give her space to take her time and applaud her for still trying. It helps. Trust me.
8. Stop hurrying. When you feel yourself start to rush, just breathe in and out a few times and slow down. I think it is called living in the moment.
9. Giggle. Anytime you get the chance. When your teen-ager's bedroom door is left open and you fear the Ministry of Health is going to board it up and put a surgeon-general's warning on the door, just giggle. When you find more toothpaste on the sink than in the tube just giggle.
10. Look for the good stuff around you. The bad stuff is noisier and more obvious and waves its arms with greater energy at times, but look behind things, around and under. It's there. I promise.
written by W A Stewart, January 27, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
MY TURN
I love my children. There's no limit to that love, no "but", no "if only". I just love them with every fibre of my soul. It was automatic, uncontrollable from the moment I knew they were on their way.
I realized something this past year. I realized that in being their mother for thirty years, I lost sight of being me. My curiousity for the world was satisfied by Aimee's hunger for experience when she went to Thailand and travelled in east Asia. My passion for horses was calmed by Samantha's commitment and skill at riding. My love for animals was nurtured by Laurie's very soft heart and vast knowledge of animal facts. And my music ability was mirrored and surpassed by Thea's piano playing. I let go of me to celebrate all their strengths.
I'm here at middle age having little idea of who I am without seeing my girls in my reflection. So this is my year to discover the little bits of me that I have lost sight of.
What kind of music do I like?
What is my favourite colour?
Do I want to do a mini-triathlon?
Do I want to get a manicure occasionally?
Where do I want to live when I am done providing a home?
What books are on my list to read?
What accomplishments do I hope to achieve to leave the world a little better off because of my effort, no matter how small and insignificant?
I've driven girls to pony club events all over the province, soccer games, volleyball, piano lessons. I've cheered and cried, went without sleep, fretted and worried, prayed and hoped, all in the name of motherhood.
But ... I guess there is a but afterall, or maybe it's an epilogue. It's my turn. It's my turn to find happiness wherever and however I choose to. It's my turn to imagine the possibilities for me and to grab hold of something that fuels my passion and my energy. It's my turn to be me. A whole me. I'd like to get to know her. I think I might like her.
by W A Stewart, January 7, 2010
I realized something this past year. I realized that in being their mother for thirty years, I lost sight of being me. My curiousity for the world was satisfied by Aimee's hunger for experience when she went to Thailand and travelled in east Asia. My passion for horses was calmed by Samantha's commitment and skill at riding. My love for animals was nurtured by Laurie's very soft heart and vast knowledge of animal facts. And my music ability was mirrored and surpassed by Thea's piano playing. I let go of me to celebrate all their strengths.
I'm here at middle age having little idea of who I am without seeing my girls in my reflection. So this is my year to discover the little bits of me that I have lost sight of.
What kind of music do I like?
What is my favourite colour?
Do I want to do a mini-triathlon?
Do I want to get a manicure occasionally?
Where do I want to live when I am done providing a home?
What books are on my list to read?
What accomplishments do I hope to achieve to leave the world a little better off because of my effort, no matter how small and insignificant?
I've driven girls to pony club events all over the province, soccer games, volleyball, piano lessons. I've cheered and cried, went without sleep, fretted and worried, prayed and hoped, all in the name of motherhood.
But ... I guess there is a but afterall, or maybe it's an epilogue. It's my turn. It's my turn to find happiness wherever and however I choose to. It's my turn to imagine the possibilities for me and to grab hold of something that fuels my passion and my energy. It's my turn to be me. A whole me. I'd like to get to know her. I think I might like her.
by W A Stewart, January 7, 2010
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