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

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

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