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I used to call her my Christmas tree Grandma. She had these bright green pants that she often wore with a bright red sweater. I saw this wardrobe for years of my life. We would watch endless slides of my grandparents adventures traveling the world.  I used to love the sound of the projector changing slides.

She was a peculiar lady. In many ways the typical grandma with warm yummy cookies, knitted sweaters and big hugs for all her grandchildren. She was a family matriarch that always gathered family together and did everything to keep the generations connected to a common history.  She also never cared what people thought of her as evidenced by her wardrobe. She enjoyed sitting with the kids at restaurants making the napkins dance.  She was an awful cook. Never used salt and made tasteless mush out of any vegetable she touched.  She was kind, warm, accepting and a bit eccentric.

In the end she used to tell stories to us grandchildren until we would all laugh our heads off, usually about Blackie the family dog running away.  She would smile at our laughter and then say: “That reminds me of a story…” and then tell us the same story again. I know more about dementia now than I did then.  At the time I thought it was endearing, now thinking back it makes me a bit sad.

She died after a bowel blockage erupted shortly after my grandfather went in for a quadruple bypass. We all had said our goodbyes to him in case he didn’t make it through the surgery. I have always felt a bit cheated that I ended up missing out on saying goodbye to her. I was so focused on saying goodbye to him that it never occurred to me that I might lose her. My grandfather lived for 8 more years after his surgery, some good others not.

I have been reflecting on my grandmother lately.  There is no mystery as to why.  It is Christmas and the colour combination of green and red will always remind me of her.  There is another reason, the last few weeks my husband’s 92-year-old grandmother has been gravely ill.

GG as we call her is also a quirky lady. She can be grumpy, opinionated and crotchety. You don’t get to 92 by being passive. She has authentic unfiltered emotions and this makes her wildly funny. She has not often missed an opportunity to tease me or give me a devilish smile not to mention occasionally call me inappropriate names. She is one of the lucky ones. While her memory isn’t what it used to be she has her wits about her.

When she was acutely ill we all pulled together and spent turns with her in the hospital. No one wanted her to go through it alone. She is a lucky woman to have so many people love her. We are lucky too. At the end of life, luck is a funny thing. It really depends on how you look at it.

The gifts of getting near the end of life is that you get to see what is important. She talks a lot about the past and people in it. She talks about the simple things like how good food will taste when her taste buds start working again. Mostly she talks about being scared of dying. She isn’t scared of being dead but she’s not looking forward to how it will happen. I can understand that.

End of life is something we often try to avoid. It makes us think of our own death and the potential of losing people close to us. I have worked with people dying of cancer, dealing with trauma and struggling with mental health.  One thing I have learned is that most of us want to avoid these intense feeling like the plague so we miss out. We miss out on the journey and the victories along the way. Mostly we miss out on the deep connections that are forged when we are most vulnerable.

There are gifts in being present to our loved ones through their dying process just like there are gifts to the experience of childbirth. Transitions are always hard. They are also intensely intimate. We learn a lot about ourselves our loved ones and about humanity during these times.

People dying or near death are sometimes inconveniences in our busy lives. They demand our attention and our time. Depending on the person we either make room or don’t. That usually says more about us than them.

GG is getting stronger. We are hopeful that she will fully recover although I am sure we are all a little scared she won’t. I know she is. She is at home now and I am grateful for that.

Christmas is a time of celebration. While I can’t honestly say I feel like celebrating GG’s current state, I can say that she is worth celebrating.

**Note: GG can be a private person. My mother-in-law read her this post to make sure she was OK with me posting it.  GG would like it to be known that she doesn’t remember calling me names. I think that she uses her age to conveniently forget but for the record I may have been asking for it. :-)**

I admit it. I am fed up. The news has been littered lately with headlines that highlight how our society collectively treats women. The most recent attack that made the news was of a brutal sexual assault in Winnipeg.  A 16-year-old girl was left for dead.

Teen girls being victims of sexual violence is not new to me. I have helped clients for years with this kind of trauma. The stories are always painfully similar. First the perpetrator finds a girl that is in a vulnerable situation. She may be drinking, at a party or just walking down the street. The perpetrator either slowly over the course of years, months, or seconds systematically dismantles any power or control the victim has to avoid what is probably inevitable. Then the violence happens.

The worst part of the story is not the sexual assault. That, after all, often only happens for a few seconds or minutes. The real violence is what happens before and after. Every survivor I have ever spoke to tells me about a particular moment in their assault. It is the moment that they feel they lost control. They feel like they made the wrong move, the wrong decision. Often it is the one thing they would fixate on for years after.

For some the moment is when they didn’t say no, when they let it happen, when they gave in. This can be when they stopped fighting or for some when they actively participated so that it would get over with faster. It is that moment that makes them question themselves forever.

The reality is that in that moment they likely did the smartest thing they could do. It may have saved them from further damage and in some cases saved their life. But it is that moment that they often felt the weakest. Their perpetrator arranged it that way. It is that moment that often confuses them into desperately wanting to believe the perpetrator somehow misunderstood what he was doing, that he didn’t mean it. Some women even continue to date, live with or communicate with their attacker. The worst part of a sexual assault is how it makes you second guess yourself.

The second worst part of the sexual assault is how others second guess you. I have had many parents talk to me about how their child shouldn’t have drank, dated that guy, worn that sexy shirt, walked home alone… fill in the blank. I know that these parents are trying to protect their child but what they are inadvertently doing is reinforcing that it was the girl’s fault. Most of the time the survivor was only doing what many of us have done countless times without being assaulted.

The most important thing you can do for some one that has been assaulted is to believe them. Often they struggle to believe it happened.  Trauma Training 101: Believe the victim.

Part of the reason I am so enraged lately is that I recently failed my trauma training. A certain charismatic radio personality had me totally duped. When he pointed the finger at a jilted ex-lover my instincts told me that he was telling the truth.  As more information came out I became angry at myself. I know better, I should have done better.

My anger has only grown. The accusations of sexual harassment at the House of Commons, a recent report on street harassment, and then the recent reports of sexual assaults across the country have only fueled the fire. We are all to blame. We have not done a good job of protecting our women. As a society we have come a long way but not nearly far enough.

I know that men experience violence as well. I know that this isn’t only a women’s issue. But right now I am mad about violence against women. As a woman I experience first hand the underlying societal violence women experience. I am particularly mad that my daughter will also experience this insidious truth. Society tells us that we are not good enough, not smart enough, or not sexy enough. It also tells us that we are too good, too smart and too sexy.  There is no win.

There is hope. I hear daily conversations, debates and news items starting to challenge what is happening in our society. I haven’t heard the sensitivity, communal rage and desire to change before. I am particularly hopeful for the future when I hear stories of men stepping forward to take on the cause of violence against women through the White Ribbon Campaign and He for She.

November is Family Violence Prevention Month. Violence against women is a family issue. It is our mother’s, sister’s, aunt’s and cousin’s issue and therefore it is all of ours. We all need to feel some outrage.

If you need help there are organizations like Stop Abuse in Families, The Crisis Support Centre and the Edmonton Sexual Assault Centre that are here to help.

Here we go again. I am excited to announce that Mental Health Bootcamp is back.  This time will be even better!

What is a Mental Health Boot Camp?

A Mental Health Boot Camp is at its heart a commitment. It is a commitment to taking care of yourself. For the month of November I will post one self-care exercise every day on my Facebook Page and on Twitter (#mhbootcamp).

The exercises will be relatively short and easy to accomplish within half an hour or less.  The idea is that we make this a group effort. We can support each other in following through on our commitment and hopefully inspire others to get involved. The best way to show our children, friends and families that mental health matters is by being a good role model.

What’s new in Mental Health Boot Camp 2.0?

One of my goals with the Mental Health Boot Camp has been to help us all feel connected. I was overwhelmed last year with how many people reached out to me to thank me and share some stories. It instilled in me a real passion for this event. The point however is not for people to become attached to me. It is for people to feel connected to each other and our community. The point is to have us all slow down and enjoy life rather than run to the next thing on our “To Do” list.

The first new addition to Mental  Health Boot Camp is that there will be an activity once a week that has the option of meeting as a group to do together. Our first group activity will be the Mental Health Boot Camp kick off event.  It will be held on November 1st from 3:00-5:00 at the St. Albert Food Bank and Community Village. (Don’t worry if you can’t be here in person, there will always be tasks posted for those who can’t make for whatever reason).

The second new addition is that throughout the month we will be working on a communal art project.  I am thrilled that my favorite local painter Samantha Williams Chapelsky will be leading us on an easy and fun project that will help us slow down and get in touch with our creative side. I promise that even the most amateur artist will be able to get this one done. My hope is that we will be able to share our work with each other so that we can create something awesome in the end. Kits for the project will be available at the launch and at my office for pick up (send me a message first if you need to arrange to pick one up). We will start the art project on November 4th which will be another of our optional group gathering days.

LAUNCH PARTY

Join us at the St. Albert Food Bank and Community Village (30 – 50 Bellerose Drive) on November 1st from 3:00-5:00.  We will be doing our first activity together. Please bring a donation to the Food Bank and some soul food to share.  Soul food is anything that you eat that brings a smile to your face.  If you don’t have time to whip something up or head to the store, come anyway. We want your presence, not to stress you out. If you are planning on coming please RSVP to me by commenting here, on the Facebook Page or on Twitter so I know how many to prepare for. I can’t wait to spend some time with others focused on their mental health.

Again, if you can’t make it to the launch or any of the other in person events, no worries. The tasks will also be posted online.

Inspirational Ideas from the first Mental Health Boot Camp

Last Boot Camp I got a ton of feedback during the month on how people were getting involved. Many parents told me that they decided to do the Boot Camp as a family to help show their children that self care is learned and a skill that everyone should practice. One woman did the camp with an elderly woman that she was caring for and told me how she modified any exercises to work for them.

I was even asked to go to an Edmonton High School to talk about the Boot Camp. Those students then decided to organize a “Free Hugs” event at their school.

How can I get involved?

The easiest way to get involved is to “Like” my Facebook Page and ask to get notifications for my Page. You can do this by going to my Page, clicking on “Liked” and then selecting “Get Notifications.” Sometimes Facebook is determined not to show everything in your newsfeed, so if you haven’t seen the post for the day, just check on the Page, it will be there. Twitter is a bit easier, just follow me @kristaosborne or use the hashtag #mhbootcamp.

Inspire Other to Get Involved

The more vocal we get about Mental Health Boot Camp the better. It helps other prioritze self-care too. Facebook shows only posts on users timelines that get attention. So make sure to like, comment and share often. I will also send out invitations on Facebook to the face-to-face events. Invite anyone that you think would like to come. If you are following on Twitter don’t forget to retweet.

What Mental Health Bootcamp is NOT

Mental Health Boot Camp is not a replacement for therapy. If you are struggling with things in your life then the Boot Camp can help you slow down and take better care of yourself. It is not a good place to deal with the really hard stuff like loss, trauma and mental illness. We can share our stories during boot camp but be cautious of airing anything online that is too intense, recent or that could make you feel vulnerable later.  I am happy to make referrals and get you connected if you need more help than the boot camp can offer.

Boot Camp is not supposed to stress you out! If you don’t like a task, forgot to do one or just find that you can’t finish the month then don’t worry. Life has too many pressures to add more of them. Feel free to share, modify and ignore anything that doesn’t fit for you and your life.

That’s all you need to know and I hope everyone has as much this time as we all did last time. 

One thing I know for sure is that most of us are our own worst enemy, at least I am. I am quick to forgive, very understanding of others and I have built my career around empathy. I am ruefully incompetent at using these qualities on myself.

This has led me to be overworked, injured, in pain and at times burnt out. I have put myself last on my own to do list for years.  The first time I overdid it I became obsessed with reading self-help books. You know the Oprah Winfrey endorsed kinds that have you bare your soul and set impossible intentions for your enlightenment. These books can be good for some people but after reading my fifth or sixth one I became angry enough with the author’s insistence that there was something wrong with me that I stopped reading and threw the book across the room. There was nothing wrong with me other than my own impossible expectations.

Last year when I was feeling particularly sloth-like and lethargic I decided it was important that I take action for me. I needed to start taking better care of myself. Okay, that was a bold faced lie. I actually was also sick of the dog being crazy with nervous energy. In classic care-giver fashion someone else was the primary motivator. My dog needed more exercise. We were all going a little crazy with her constant fidgeting and pacing while we were trying to watch TV in the evening.

Last year we also had some family pictures done and I felt like I looked too “puffy” for my own comfort. Vanity is not one of the seven deadly sins that usually plagues me. I have been blessed with good metabolism and I am too lazy and cheap for make up and manicures.

For the most part I am pretty comfortable in my own skin but not after I saw those pictures. Aging is taking a toll on my resolve to remain natural. Wrinkles are creasing my skin, grey hair is sprouting quickly and my metabolism is slowing down. So I started to run.

Take control… Good idea, right?  That’s what I thought, so I started training for my 10 km run. I trained hard and fast. My summer felt like a constant training program. I was either running or recovering from a run. This was supposed to be good for me.

A week before the race I went to my chiropractor because the stiffness I assumed was natural for someone running as much as I was, wasn’t in fact natural.  My IT band was tearing. I ran for a month in almost constant pain assuming that this was part of pushing my training routine. In the end I was too injured to run the race I was training for.  I trained for nothing.

Okay…maybe not nothing. I have always considered myself a runner. It was nice to actually start running to add some validity to the label. As is the case with my dog, I now recognize the nervous energy and clouded thinking that is easily cleared up with some fresh air and a pair of runners. Ask most runners and they will tell you it is addictive.

This year I have taken a whole new approach to running. I am preparing for my first half-marathon in almost 15 years. When I find myself getting frustrated by missed runs or a meandering pace I try to remind myself that I am good enough, irregardless of the outcome. This time I will cross the finish line with a few more wrinkles and a few more grey hairs but I will finish. I am good enough and I always have been. Sometimes I just forget.

 

Not all parents and students look forward to the school year ahead. As the school year approaches, my phone has been ringing more frequently with panicking parents. Many of the parents I talk to just need a pep talk and a bit of guidance. Here are some tips that I often share with these families.

1. Freaking out leads to more freaking out. This is especially true with anxiety.  Forcing your kid into situations that freak them out usually just makes the anxiety worse.  The problem is avoiding anxiety only amplifies it. So if your teen is worried about the upcoming school term try to ease them in slowly. Start incorporating routines that will be typical of school time such as curfews, bedtimes and study times slowly so they can get used to gradual change. The key is to expose them to the things that cause them anxiety in small manageable bits so they stay calm, experience success and work with their anxiety rather than let it take over.

2. Stay calm. Getting angry, yelling or punishing your anxious teen will only lead to more anger, yelling and punishing. The same is true if you’re an anxious parent. You worrying only leads to your child worrying.  It doesn’t actually change anything. If you obsess about how your teen is doing in school academically or socially this will only lead to them worrying about how they are going to do in school.  Anxiety is contagious. Get your own anxiety and/or anger in check first before dealing with your adolescent’s emotions.

3. You can not rationalize with an irrational person. I can recall vividly talking quietly and calmly to my daughter about not screaming in the car while I was driving. I was in the car, and she had lost her head. I told her how it was dangerous and how she needed to keep her voice down even though she dropped her favorite stuffy on the ground. I was totally rational and in control. She was not. Not surprisingly she wasn’t on board with my thought process.  She didn’t say to me “Mommy, that makes sense, I will calm down and wait for you to come to a full and complete stop.” I thought I was being a good parent. I was calm. What I was missing is that you can not rationalize with someone being irrational.

This is true for toddlers, teenagers, and spouses. If your teen is upset about something that makes no sense to you, try talking about feelings rather than facts. We often try to make sense of the facts.  Facts really don’t matter. It is what your teen believes and feels that are causing their concerns.  They may or may not be rational but they are real. You can only have a rational conversation when everyone is calm and willing to listen. So comfort now, talk later.

4. Anxiety is not the enemy. Anxiety often comes from things that are important in our life. All the best things of life are often also the scariest. Think of weddings, graduations and births. These are all very anxiety ridden events but they are also often the highlights of our lives. Teach your child how anxiety is kind of like an exclamation point. It emphasizes to us what is important in our lives. Anxiety is a physical reaction to what is happening in the world. It helps you avoid danger and prepares you to survive. It is something generally that should be embraced rather than feared.

5. Celebrate success. Even small steps forward need positive feedback. Sometimes just showing up is a victory. So if your teen went through some social issues at school last year encourage them just to keep moving forward even if it is slowly. Focusing on failure or anxiety often amplifies its intensity. It is better to acknowledge hard feelings and then encourage positive movement towards small goals. Don’t forget to celebrate.

6. When in doubt, ask. Some people do suffer from debilitating anxiety. For them, anxiety is more difficult to control. I believe that most teens can be taught skills to manage their anxiety. There are some, however, that live in a constantly anxiety aroused state. This is not healthy for their physical or mental health. For these people it is a biological issue that may require extra help through a therapist or a Family Physician. If you aren’t sure, an assessment by a professional will not hurt.

7. Talk less, listen more. We all have had that experience of asking our kids about their day around the dinner table only to get a blank stare back. I find teens talk more the more time you spend with them. The best conversations usually happen in the car when you are driving them somewhere or when you are watching a show, shopping or playing video games.  Try “hanging out” with your kids just doing stuff and you will be surprised what they tell you when you are listening.

8. Connect, connect, connect.  The reality is that once our children are too big to be carried to their room against their will, we have little direct control of them. We can make all the rules and consequences that we can think up but our kids eventually learn that they don’t have to listen to what we have to say. They have us by the emotional neck. Our only recourse comes down to whether or not we are willing to throw them out and whether we choose to financially support them. Depending on their age even this may not be a choice. Some teens realize that we parents have no real power earlier than others.

The only influence we really have in our adolescents’ lives come through our relationship with them. If we have a good relationship with them, then we can use that relationship to influence them through our words, expectations and our values. If our relationship is strained then they may not feel the need to follow our rules and therefore discount our efforts to keep them safe. All relationships cycle through phases of closeness and some distance. Our job as parents is to hang in there and do everything we can to make sure our kids know they are loved. It is better to choose parenting approaches that are firm yet always caring than approaches that may undermine your relationship with your teen.

When in doubt you only need to remember one thing: relationship is everything.

 

I have seen extraordinary people do extraordinary things in my career.  A few years ago I got to be there when one of my clients finally got the courage to tell his mom that he is gay. I sat there during this incredibly intense conversation and watched as this boy’s life changed in front of my eyes.  From that day forward his life was going to be different.  Not necessarily better, but more real. He wouldn’t have to pretend anymore to be something he was not.  I still tear up when I think about those moments.  I cannot believe that he trusted me enough to be part of it.  He wanted me to be there to help him find the courage to talk.

There is the other side however.  It wasn’t a Hollywood moment.  That day I watched her life change too. It was a process of grieving that she had to go through that she didn’t ask for or expect.  Her feelings were complicated, dynamic and she had a right to them.

I know it is not a scientific survey, but as I scan my memories of the clients I have worked with over my almost 20 years in helping professions I can tell you that a large percentage of the people I work with identify as a sexual minority.  I have found it quite alarming. Statistically speaking the LGBTQ population is small compared to the general population, therefore it should only be a small part of my practice. It is not.

Our society has come a long way towards acceptance.  Gay marriage is legal, not something I expected to see in my lifetime. Gay couples and relationships are becoming more present in the media. Ontario even elected a gay Premier with little or no attention given to her sexual identity. She was judged based on her politics.

Even Albertans, stereotyped for our intolerance, have accepted sexual identity and equality as a human rights issue at least legally. A few years ago I had a particularly “redneck” couple bring their effeminate son to the gay pride parade “just in case he turns out to be one of those.” Not eloquent but genuine. They wanted him to know that they accepted him. There are times that people surprise me. I am so glad.

This brings me hope. I wish I didn’t have to talk to another client struggling with how to tell their parents about who they find attractive. The reality is that kids are still kicked out and disowned over something they cannot and should not have to change. What also brings me hope is that many of the families I have worked with have been supportive and unashamed of their children.  A dad of a transgendered client I worked with once told me “I just want her to get out of bed and do the dishes every once and a while.”

As far as we have come, we have further to go. I often deal with the aftermath of bullying, trauma and anxiety stemming from the treatment of LGBTQ clients. If it wasn’t still a huge issue in our society, I wouldn’t see it so often in my office. It makes me mad.

Recently I was invited by a parent of one of my clients to attend the PFLAG meeting in St. Albert. The group has only just begun its work in this community.  PFLAG stands for Parents and Friends of Lesbian and Gays.  It is an organization available for friends, family and other allies of the LGBTQ community.  It was an honour to sit and listen to these families’ stories. If you or anyone you know would like to support or be supported by this group, you are welcome to go as well.  I learned a lot in the two hours I was there about how far we have come and how far we have yet to go.

PFLAG St. Albert’s Facebook Page 

PFLAG Canada’s website

***while the spirit of client stories are genuine, the details are changed in order to respect their confidentiality***

I was 15 years old when St. Albert was shaken by the deaths of an entire family.  A young man my age systematically shot his mother (Susan, 41), step-father (Maurice, 46) and two sisters (Islay, 12 and Janelle, 10) at their family home in Valleyview.  I did not know the murderer, nor will I name him.  He did go to a school in St. Albert just down the street from mine.

It was the summer between junior high and high school.  In September I went to school with people who knew the boy. Even that seemed inconceivable to me. I was one degree of separation from a murderer. Somehow that made me feel responsible. It was the first time in my life that murder seemed so real.  It was the first time in my sheltered life that something like this happened in my community. In many ways I feel like I lost something of my childhood in those moments when those people, people I never met, died. Years later I worked with Maurice’s sister. I felt privileged to be able to share what her brother’s death meant to me.  Their deaths were not meaningless.

There were other events growing up that also had a similar impact on me.  In junior high, the father of one of the girls I went to school with died.  I recall the girls crying in the bathroom and I remember being perplexed because most of them didn’t know him. I understand better now. In high school one of the girls in a younger grade died in a car accident while heading back to school from McDonalds.  I still think of her whenever I make a left hand turn on the corner of St. Albert Trail and Sturgeon Road.

Closest to home was when a good friend of mine lost his father. His dad killed himself in the family home after struggling with depression. I can still hear the sobbing of his sister’s grief from the very first funeral I ever witnessed. I recall vividly the feeling of tension as the minister talked of his death while trying to avoid talking about how he died.  It was this funeral that solidified what would become the basis of my career.

Even after years of study and multiple Degrees I still have so much to learn.  Not even a year ago I felt compelled to write a blog about children and grief after Thomas Wedman died while crossing a street on his way to school. It was the only thing I could think to do. It still doesn’t feel like nearly enough. I still find myself hugging my children tighter before they head off to school.

While many other tragedies happen all the time around the world, it is the ones that are closest to home that remind us of our own mortality and the fragility of the lives of the people around us.  We often judge our own and other people’s reactions: “I didn’t even know the person”, “Why am I so sad?” or “How come she can’t get over it?” Feelings are not always easily understood.  Sometimes they are just there.

My daughter was very upset the other night while reading a book with her dad. The main character, a cat, died at the end of the story.  My daughter was inconsolable.  She said to me, “The cat isn’t even real, why am I so sensitive?”  We spoke of how the book brought up for her the worry she has about how she will feel when our precious cats die.  They are 14 years old and aging quickly.  The concern is understandable, still I am proud of her empathy.

Like many of us, I have spent the last few weeks following the story of the O’Brien-Liknes. The tragedy and grief will impact that community for generations just as I think of the tragedies in my childhood. These events change people, in good and bad ways. My heart goes out to the families involved and the community that supports them. It is these moments that connect us in the most visceral ways. It is proof of our fragile yet undeniable humanity.  It is about our grief for them but also about our grief for ourselves.

My son and I were reading the final chapters of Charlotte’s Web a few nights ago. He lay quietly with his finger in his mouth wiggling a loose tooth. At one point I stopped reading and told him that twisting it was usually more effective than the back and forth motion he was so valiantly attempting.

I returned to reading. I get to the point in the story when Charlotte tells Wilbur that she hasn’t the energy to return with him home from the fair and Wilbur desperately tries to retrieve Charlotte’s egg sack from the rafter so that he will be able to have a piece of her with him back at the farm.

My son looks at me. “Mom it’s just a story, you’re okay.” He says this so sweetly but I can see that he is a bit shaken by my tears. He then returns to his wiggling and I continue reading. My son, as is the case with many kids his age, has always been a bit worried about death. He knows that people die and isn’t impressed with the inevitability of it. I was apprehensive about his reaction to this part of the story. I was tired and looking forward to some quiet time. I had no desire to freak him out. I am also not a parent that shelters my kids from the hard stuff in life, so I read on.

She never moved again. Next day, as the Ferris wheel was being taken apart and the race horses were being loaded into vans and the entertainers were packing up their belongings and driving away in their trailers, Charlotte died. The Fair Grounds were soon deserted. The sheds and buildings were empty and forlorn. The infield was littered with bottles and trash. Nobody, of the hundreds of people that visited the Fair, knew that a grey spider had played the most important part of all. No one was with her when she died.

I stop to await my son’s reaction. What I got was something I never imagined. He looked at me with the biggest bloody grin and yelled, “I pulled it out!” He then proceeded to jump off the bed and run into my daughter’s room to tell his father.  After a quick photo session and a happy cuddle, he told me, “I’m so happy I have tears.”

Recently I have been struggling with some big decisions about where I want to take my career. My practice is growing, so are the piles of laundry and the dust bunnies. The way my family needs me is changing. My son is going into Grade 1, my daughter wants more and more “girl time” and my husband is thriving in his new career. They are changing too and I have no desire to miss it. It is time to simplify.

Change is inevitable. I recently made the decision to quit a job I love. I quit it for all the right reasons and it was time. I will miss working with the teens at the hospital and my talented supportive colleagues. Mostly I am scared as hell. Change is hard because it is unknown and uncomfortable. Relying primarily on my private practice to pay the bills is a bit difficult to fathom. Yet here I am, taking that big scary leap.

Since I started my private practice two years ago I have been wiggling that tooth, waiting for the time to let go of the old to make room for the new. I hope I can approach this change with the reckless abandon that my 5 year old embraces the hole in his smile. The blood was only a minor distraction from his end goal. Still there is always time to reflect on change.

Wilbur never forgot Charlotte. Although he loved her children and grandchildren dearly, none of the new spiders ever quite took her place in his heart. She was in a class by herself. It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.

 

Mindfulness is one of the therapeutic buzz words of late. Basically there are various tricks, exercises and techniques people, therapists and yoga instructors use to help you become more present in the moment. The focus is on the here and now. The idea is that the more present you can be in the moment the less unproductive anxiety, fear and trauma a person will feel in the present. We can’t change the past, or predict the future. We can only control ourselves in the present.

While the buzz around mindfulness therapeutically is relatively new, mindfulness in not a new concept. This idea has been around forever.  There are quotes in the Bible, from ancient philosophers, gurus, shaman and Buddhist teachings all connected to this idea of mindful living.  You only need to look at your Tumblr account, Pinterest or Facebook page to see a deluge of inspirational quotes that try to encourage people to be more present in their lives. You would think that given my profession, and my education that I would be able to grasp this concept.  But I don’t think I really got it until today.

A few months ago I found myself drowning in people’s sorrow and stress. This is an occupational hazard.  Empathy is an amazing tool of my trade but it is one that has sharp edges. Like a knife, empathy can cause wounds and even scarring if you are careless.

I needed some “Me” time. This led me to Niagara Falls. For the past few days I joined my husband on a business trip. He is at a conference and I have five full days with no responsibility, no kids, no cleaning and nothing to do but be. Like most of us I rarely just hang out with me, doing whatever I want to do. Life is busy. So hanging out with me is a great exercise in mindfulness. It is hard to avoid yourself when no one else is around.

Yesterday I was invited on a wine tour. I spent the day walking through vineyards and wineries hearing all about the history of wine in the region, and all the hours of labour that goes into making a bottle of wine. It wasn’t until I was in the basement of winery standing next to a barrel of wine that I was overcome by the grandness of it all. That is when I experienced for the first time mindfulness.

I was uniquely privileged to be in that place at that moment in time. Many years of work went into not only the wine that was in the barrel in front of me but into my life as well. The past is what brought me there.  I was born into and remain in a place of privilege in this world.  Not everyone can afford or has the ability to tour a vineyard.  Many people struggle to make ends meet or struggle with other things that make a wine tour seem preposterously out of reach. By luck, circumstance and some hard work, I am not generally one of those people. By most of the world’s standards I am doing well. I am not wealthy but I am also not poor. I am in a happy marriage with a wonderful family that all are doing reasonably well. In that moment with my hand placed against the wine barrel instead of feeling guilty about my fortunes I felt overwhelmed with gratitude.

That moment wasn’t just about me. In fact it had little to do with me in many ways. That wine went through years of growing, stirring, and fermenting to bring it to that barrel.  There is a history almost as long as human history that went in to the creation of that barrel of wine; so many people with so many different stories. Some of the stories are happy and some are tragic but most of them I will never know.

The future also became alive to me in that moment. Three hundred bottles of wine were in that barrel.  If all went well that wine would be part of other stories. It will be a part of the celebration of an anniversary or part of friends reconnecting over a glass of wine.  It will be used to relax and enjoy an evening or it will be used to calm nerves. It may even help console heartache or incite the rage of an addiction. The potential of all those stories were contained in that barrel and in that moment I was merely a witness.

Mindfulness isn’t just about breathing, reflecting or appreciating the present.  For me it is also about recognizing and embracing the past and the future in the moments of my life.  So with my hand on the barrel I said a silent blessing for everyone that will drink those bottles of wine and a thank you to all those people that contributed to making it. For that moment in time I felt intimately connected with them all.

In case you are wondering the barrel was a red wine from Pilliteri Estates, likely a pinot of some variety. It should be available in 2-5 years.     

It isn’t the streaks of grey hair starting to pepper my brown hair. It isn’t the rushed and too often scolding tone I use with my kids when they are lollygagging out the door. It isn’t even the obvious family resemblance I finally recognized when I mistook my grandmother’s drivers’ license for my mom’s on a family visit to my grandparents home. After that mistake I poured through old family pictures of my mom’s childhood and realized that aside from the changes in fashion someone could have mistaken my mom for me. It is my hands that convince me that I am turning into my mother.

Even as I type these words, I recognize my hands not as my own but as my mother’s. The length of my fingers, the deepening lines on my knuckles and even the occasional patch of eczema do not feel like my own.

When I was born my mother was just over 30, about the same age as I was when I had my children. One day I was tucking my daughter to bed and rubbing her back when I recognized the age of my hands. That is when I noticed it. That is when I saw my mother’s hands. The hands she used to tuck me in at night. The ones that she used to pat me on the head or gently nudge me out the door to school. They are not the hands of my mother now but the hands of my childhood. They were caring, strong, firm and often tired but they were always there.

These time shifts happen more and more often for me as I watch my children grow.  It is in these moments that I see the full picture, the generational dance.  I often flip flop my perspective.  For example, my daughter is at the age now when I encouraged my stay-at-home mother to get a job in a fabric store. She was and still is an amazing seamstress.  So when I saw the Help Wanted sign, I was convinced it was her destiny.  That started her successful career in retail and management for the next 8 years until she decided to go back to her dream job, raising me. My mother will tell you that I wasn’t so appreciative of my suddenly constantly present parent at 16. My brothers were already well on their way in the world. So I got a lot of attention that I wasn’t used to.

It works the other way as well. I see myself in my daughter. She looks so similar to me at her age that it is at times like looking through a window into the past. This is both comforting and terrifying. It is a glimpse back to a happy time in my life but I know her teenage years are coming and life wasn’t always easy on me during that time. I’m not naive enough to believe that life will only ever throw her softballs.

Being in the middle generation is a gift. I have never felt better about who I am or where I am going. I know how beautiful I am in every way that matters. I have earned my grey hair and my stretch marks. My wrinkles, while reminders of the slipping away of time, are also tributes to a life I am proud of… well for the most part.

Like anyone there are things I wish I could change but it is impossible for me to have a low self image. My daughter is the most beautiful girl in the world in every meaning of the word and at least in appearance she is a reflection of me. That is something to feel good about. If I can’t feel good about myself now, what will she think when she recognizes parts of me in herself later. I want her to see the beauty in that.

The benefit of the strong genetic resemblance is that I also have the benefit of seeing where I am going. My mother has a beauty of which I am not sure she is aware. Her grey hair and soft eyes show wisdom, stubbornness and intense loyalty. I hope that I continue to grow into her beauty. Her hands are more wrinkled now but they are just as strong and caring as they ever have been.

So to my mother and all the mothers out there. Happy Mother’s Day.