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Posts Tagged ‘balance’

This is the time of year when social media feeds are filled with resolutions and promises for new life and new living. A time to say “out with the old” and “in with the new”. If there’s anything that 2020 has taught me is that we cannot possibly imagine what the future holds.

In January I prepared myself to have surgery. I was spayed in the middle of the month, and had to take six weeks off. I’m not good at sitting still to start with. And doctor’s orders made it only marginally more do-able. So, I had surgery, all went well, waited on biopsy results. Ovarian cancer. The good news was that those were biopsies of already removed ovaries. So, yay! I stayed with a friend for the first four weeks and struggled with pain management, sleep management and trying not to do too much. So I came home and the Parish gifted me with a meal-train meaning every evening between 5:00 and 6:00 pm a freshly cooked meal was delivered to my door. That lasted for two weeks and was fabulous!

February I was back to work and dove in with back to back AGM’s. It was Lenten Planning, Book Study, Bible Study and Worship Services. Worshipping at 9:00 am at the Anglican Church and 11:00 am at the United Church. Learning a new hymn book and new ways of worshipping. Celebrating Communion in a different yet familiar way. And just when we were getting into the swing of things there was a virus that was developing and spreading in China.

March saw us ramping up for Holy Week and Easter, listening to the news with fear as it seemed that this virus was now in Europe and would eventually make it’s way to North America. Discussions were held with respect to suspending Worship and investigating online Worship. Zoom. And then all hell let loose. On the 18th of March we were ordered to shutter the buildings. Pivoted to online worship, then added slides, all the time thinking we were going to be back in the building in time for Holy Week, then for Easter, then for Pentecost. Then someone finally said it…it will be months, if not years.

April, May, June all went in a blur and it was obvious that I would not be able to go to Ontario in August to visit my family, friends and my Beloved. I was gutted. I visited a friend on the other side of B.C. and was more hyper-aware of everywhere I was going then ever before. I brought home a friend’s senior cat, Vinnie, who has been a constant companion since June.

The summer meant taking some vacation but not going far. I took two weeks, then another week, and banked a fourth week, hoping I could travel in the fall or at the end of the year. Nope.

My Beloved and I talked by phone every week, sometimes more often. We were both struggling with what would happen if either of us contracted COVID-19. He had respiratory issues and I am immuno-compromised. My M.E. was out of control due to the constant stress on the body and mind.

I felt as though I was running as fast as I could and remaining, firmly in the same place. My mental health was suffering. Sleep began to be affected and I heard the word “Self Care” used a lot by my family doctor as well as my new therapist. September loomed and the Joint Church Committee made a decision to celebrate our First Anniversary of Shared Ministry the last Sunday in August in what would be a communion service. The first communion for us since the 14th of March. It was a simple, yet powerful online service with a half dozen people in the Church providing worship leadership.

Those same words had been used to describe the Holy Week and Easter Services, simple, yet powerful. We would send out a Zoom link for Worship every Saturday and on Sunday we would have 20 – 25 people, with those numbers steadily climbing to close to 50. We have folks from Fernie, from the Elk Valley, from other parts of B.C., and other parts of Ontario. We have folks from Alberta, Montana and even England. And over those ten months we have become a Parish Community. We have become family.

Every Saturday night I would hear from my Beloved. We would talk about his email reflection and I would read him my Sermon. We would talk about the state of the world, the rioting, Black Lives Matter, white priviledge, systemic racism, the upcoming U.S. election and what the world was looking like. On the 20th of November we chatted in the afternoon. Neither of us were feeling great, so we said goodbye and agreed to talk that next day. Except we didn’t talk that next day. He died.

His death broke me open as I couldn’t make the trip to his funeral. I was devastated that I couldn’t be there in person. I had made him a promise a decade ago that I would arrange his funeral and would preach/deliver the eulogy. It was the most difficult thing I have ever written, and delivered. I told the truth, which is what he wanted me to do.

The night of his funeral, a parishioner died by suicide. He was someone who struggled with depression and was bipolar. We would talk about depression with gallows humour, as one does. When his wife called me I was in shock. She wanted the funeral to be on their wedding anniversary, the 24th of December. So, that’s what we did. His funeral at 10:30 am, following a procession of fire trucks from his home to the Church, passing their studio one final time. It was a poignant service with people tuning in by Zoom from Canada and England.

Christmas was very different. Three completely different services on Christmas Eve, one on Christmas Day. By the time I got home from Christmas Eve Service at 10:00 pm I was shattered. I tried to watch a movie, but couldn’t settle into it. So I gave up, went to bed, woke up the next morning and after washing my face and brushing my teeth, I celebrated Christmas Day Communion with 30 people online, broadcasting from my flat.

My mental health is fragile. I’m resting as much as I can. I’m working at a slower pace. This was solidified when I fell down a flight of stairs (only about 6, indoor, carpeted stairs) on Tuesday. December has always been a difficult month, gravity-wise. I scuffed up both knees and landed on my nose. It’s not broken, but I will have lovely bruises under my eyes. I will find out just how skilled I am at concealer makeup.

What I have learned is this…no matter how much you do, there will be someone who is in awe of what you’re doing. No matter how much you do, you will feel insignificant in comparison with someone else. The entire world is in a state of stress and prolonged stress isn’t good for anyone.

Over the past week I have set up an office at the United Church and at the Anglican Church. I have reference books and files there that I don’t have at home, which means if I wake up in the middle of the night and want to work, I can’t as easily as before. I’m hoping this will mean I can try new things, read fiction, listen to a podcast, take up drawing. Learn some skills and hobbies rather than working all the time. Learn to balance life and work.

Learn that taking a nap is important and sometimes necessary. Learn that eating proper food is important. Learn that having friends in important. Learn that grieving takes a long time and, like God, works on it’s own time (much to my obvious chagrin).

My body hurts. My nose is swollen. I ache everywhere. And I feel numb. I miss my Beloved. I write in a journal every night to him. It helps. I haven’t yet cried for him. I know it will come, when the time is right. Last Christmas, among other things, he gave me a cloth cozy for hot drinks. It’s green quilted fabric and I take it everywhere with me. It’s amazing. Except I’ve lost it. Now, usually I don’t freak out about physical things. However, this thing I am freaking out about.

I’ve checked the pocket of every coat. The inside of every handbag. In my work bag. I’ve checked the nooks and crannies of my car, my flat, both Church offices. I asked a friend if I left it at her place when I was last there. I pray to St. Anthony that it is there because if not I will be devastated. Not because of what it is…but because it came from him, and he’ll never be able to give me another.

It feels like, if I have lost it, I’ll have lost another piece of him.

Anyway, I will keep looking, if I am meant to find it again I will. Hopefully my friend has it and all shall be well. And if not, I’ll learn the lesson in that too, eventually.

SO, here’s to balance. Here’s to finding joy in the small things. Here’s to plodding along one step at a time, one day at a time. Here’s to remaining kind. Here’s to therapeutic naps, weighted blankets, new bedding and purring cats. Here’s to 2021.

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I reached a major milestone this week…I drove home on Wednesday. Loading the car was an adventure as I overthought about putting the back seat down or what order to load things in. I made sure everything was at a weight I could safely lift so I put twice as many bags into the car to come home as I did when I left home.

Stopping half-way at a caf√© for a Chai Latte (first time I’ve had one of those) was quite good. I drove the last half hour home feeling determined and relatively pain-free. When I got home a friend was waiting to unload the car which was wonderful. We had a quick visit and she left.

A friend and colleague stopped by with his adorable new puppy and we had a cup of coffee and a lovely visit for about an hour.

I unpacked my clean clothes, toiletries, electronics and groceries. I took my time as I did all these things, stopping for a sit down and a cup of tea or glass of water. Then I had a lovely hot shower in my own shower, put on clean pajamas and snuggled into a freshly made bed. Bliss.

I was wide awake at 2:00 am. I wasn’t fretting about it, I realised it was because I’d had a cup of coffee at 4:00 pm and that was my first cup of coffee since I’d left home. Jeez.

Since I got home I’ve continued unpacking and making lists of chores to do, all fun little things like setting up a new recycle station in my storage cupboard. I bought some indoor plants and plant pots and plan to transplant them into pots with better drainage. I have two small sewing projects to take on.

I’ve been out to appointments, and while I’ve seen parishioners, given and received hugs, “shop talk” has been an absolute minimum. And I don’t feel guilty about that.

I’m still working on the “deep dive” and there’s still some yucky stuff to deal with, yet I’m striking a balance.

Yesterday I saw my family doctor in the morning and my counsellor in the afternoon. At the end of our session she remarked that this was the first session we’ve had where I didn’t talk about work for the entirety of the session. She said I look calmer, happier and healthier then she’s ever seen me. She said she was proud of me! I said I was proud of me too! Then she asked the difficult question…”So, how are you going to maintain this level of self-care when you go back to work?”

Fair Question.

The answer is difficult but necessary. Boundaries, communication and the realisation that I am just as entitled to look after myself as I am to look after everyone else. I don’t have to and shouldn’t have to put my needs last.

It’s taken me 52 friggin’ years, and I am finally understanding that I am a good person, a kind person, and I matter. I am going to continue treating myself as well as I treat everyone else. And sometimes even better. ūüôā

My relationship with food is still a big trigger and it’s part of the icky stuff I need to work through. I weighed myself before I had surgery and again when I got home and was shocked that I had lost 7 lbs. I’m not yet back to full-strength. I can’t walk as quickly as I was able to before because of an issue with my left foot.

I have not yet learned to be bored. I’ll need to apologise to my Bishop for that. Instead I’ve begun to daydream again. To take notice of my surroundings, be fully present when I eat and drink. To sit comfortably in silence or listen to music.

I’ve started writing poetry again…which I haven’t done since 1991.

This is work I’ve needed to do for years, no, decades. It’s brutally difficult work and I’m nowhere near finished. And yet I cannot imagine making time to do this work. I’m so very grateful that I’ve taken the time.

All it took was a hysterectomy and oopherectomy to make me take the time to do it.

I’ve missed my Parish and parishioners. I’m looking forward to being back to work, and doing God’s work in our small corner of Creation.

For the first time in a very long time I feel content.

Thanks be to God.

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It’s been a rough week. I’m struggling physically to balance how I think I feel and how I actually, physically feel. When I wake up in the morning I assess how I’m feeling and what I think I can do. Most days I wake up feeling relatively okay. My sleep is not great yet, I have very vivid and strange dreams that I’m putting down to the anaesthetic leaving my system.

I start my day with prayer and then make a cup of tea, decide what to eat for breakfast and what I think I can/should do.

The other day I woke up feeling pretty good. Said my prayers, had some tea and toast and then decided to clean the bathroom. Not the floors, just the sinks, counters and toilets. Shouldn’t have cleaned the toilets. Probably shouldn’t have cleaned any of it, but I like restoring order and making things clean.

I decided to go for a walk, just to get out of the house. Got to the end of block in front of the house and fell. I stepped on some ice covered snow, which I thought was just snow. I fell onto my backside, much to the amusement of a family of deer who were reclining on the front lawn. It took awhile to get myself upright and once I did I came back into the house, had a shower and put clean pajamas on. Enough adventure for one day.

My car is buried. Not completely, but there is a burm in front of it that I have no idea how to move. I know right now I can’t physically move it. Honestly, I don’t know if I am strong enough yet to drive.

It’s frustrating.

I see all kinds of things that I’d like to do, little things I’d like to take care of, and I absolutely physically cannot do them. It makes me feel helpless. For someone who prides herself on being fiercely independent, this is an awful struggle.

I’d like to change my bed, but I can’t. I’d like to do the laundry, but I can’t. And before I allow myself to surrender, I feel completely helpless.

I’ve started a journal – a deep dive – into discovering who I am. I take great pride in being a pastor, priest, prophet, and minister. I am proud of the education I have, especially how hard I worked to obtain it. It makes me feel very good when I am recognized in the community where I live and introduced as the pastor, priest or minister to another person.

Yet when you peel all of that away…when it’s just me and God, who am I? Can I be me without the titles? Without the education? Without the knowledge?

Anyway, that’s what I am exploring in bits and pieces and it’s really difficult work. The answer to “Who am I”? is “I am a Child of God”. Yet the examination of the pieces of me, the motivation for doing what I do and being who I am is difficult. It’s dark and it’s lonely and it’s work only I can do.

So as I continue to heal internally, and recognize that the doctor’s told me 6 weeks recovery FOR A REASON, I am shifting my focus from the physical to the spiritual, mental, internal me. She has not had a lot of care given to her for a long, long time. And as much as my body needs to be nurtured, so does she.

I will continue to physically heal. I will continue to emotionally dive. And I pray by the time I am back to work, both will be in good order. A lot of work between now and then, but I’m worth it.

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It’s been awhile since I logged on to my blog. When I tried tonight it asked for my password and it wouldn’t work. So I had to reset my password and taaa daaa it now works!

I’ve been waiting for awhile to have surgery. A hysterectomy. It’s happening the day after tomorrow. I don’t know what time yet as I have to call in the morning to find that out. I’m going to be off work for 6 weeks, which is the longest I’ve ever been away from work in my 52 years of living. I’m quite anxious about that.

I’ll be staying with a good friend in the community where the surgery is happening. It’s an hour+ drive from home. He is listed as my Emergency Contact, also known as The Responsible Adult. It’s a title he QUITE enjoys. Me? Not so much.

It will be a challenge to listen to my body for 6 weeks and not overdo it. I am fiercely independent and also quite private. Asking for help is not something I do well. Both congregations have been incredible in offers of help. From driving me to the hospital and picking me up to arranging meals once I am back in my own flat. It’s difficult for me to accept the help and yet I know accepting it is the right thing to do.

I have a bag packed with books, crafting projects, a cake of yarn to make a baby blanket and three journals. One will be for keeping track of my post-op recuperation, i.e. pain levels, emotional space, eating, drinking, etc. A good reference for when I see the docs for follow up.

Another journal will be for my “regular’ journaling about what is happening in that crazy brain of mine. And the third is the ideas journal for when I have an “a-ha” in the middle of the day or the middle of the night. I will jot things down there and then leave them alone until I’m back to work. Hopefully.

My main intention as I heal physically is to do a deep dive into my psyche and try to unravel the root of my anxiety, depression, OCD, etc. It won’t be pretty, but it will be necessary. And my “regular” journal will be where I unravel all this stuff. I was talking with a colleague this afternoon who offered prayers and when I told him about the deep dive he asked what I’m going to do with all the “stuff” I dredge up. I told him I haven’t the foggiest idea.

We sat in companionable silence for awhile and then he told me he hoped in five years time I would look back at this hospitalisation as a wonderful opportunity for personal growth. I pray he is right.

Lately my life doesn’t seem to be working properly. I love my vocation. I’m happily busy. But my insides are a mess. I’m not eating properly. I’m not sleeping properly. My skin is itchy, my guts are a mess and I don’t feel right “in myself”.

My deepest desire is when I get back from convalescing I will be stronger mentally, physically and spiritually. I will learn to balance my time better. To build in moments of silence, of stillness and of peace.

A friend of mine is retiring in June and he’s been inundated with people asking him what he’s going TO DO with his time. He’s frustrated with the question, because it lends itself to the unhealthy ideal that we are what we do. It insinuates that once he retires he will have no personal identity.

What he plans on doing is whatever he pleases. He will focus on BEING, rather than on DOING. That is such a great message; such a great lesson for everyone. And it’s something I will be building into my convalescence.

Looking for an honest answer to “Who am I”? and then living into how I can be that person. Not by doing, by being.

Wish me luck.

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Balance is a strange word…it has multiple meanings.¬† My sense of balance isn’t great, ask anyone whose walked beside me and I careen into them.¬† ¬†The balance I’m talking about is life balance.¬† I am my own worst critic and my own worst enemy.¬† I am harder on myself then anyone else has eve been, and I’ve had some critics and enemies.

The still small voice gets loud at times and tells me I’m worthless, useless, lazy, stupid, etc.¬† The well part of my brain tells me to ignore the voice, or fight back against that voice.¬† The sick part of my brain says “See?¬† Told ya!”

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.¬† I find winter difficult for many reasons.¬† So knowing I’m already emotionally “down” in the darker months, why set myself up for failure with promises I mean when I make them, but don’t really think them through…so for this year, as I was sitting at home with a glass of wine and a purring cat a word came to me — BALANCE.

It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.¬† It can be both/and.¬† I can be conscious of my health and still enjoy a lazy day at home or an ice cream when I’m out.¬† I can walk 10,000 steps some days and 3,000 another.¬† I can sleep a full night and have a nap, or work through the night and sleep part of the day.¬† Balance.

I am many things to many people and I believe I treat everyone the same.¬† Or that is my intention.¬† I am drawn to the underdog…to the one who feels invisible.¬† That is the story I seek.¬† And in most cases as trust is earned and stories are shared, there is a great deal of similarity.

There was a funeral for a gentleman from the congregation in early January.¬† He was a much-loved member of the congregation and the community.¬† The Church was filled to capacity (and then some) and we laughed, cried and remembered him.¬† I have another funeral on Monday for a gentleman I knew through visiting and services at a local retirement home.¬† He has a similar story to R.¬† But a very different story as well.¬† Isn’t that the same for all of us?

Our stories overlap with others, our experiences are similar until they are not.¬† We make choices that don’t seem to matter hundreds of times a day.¬† And on occasion we make choices are that more difficult.¬† There is always choice.

I eat as well as I can but on occasion I like to treat myself.¬† I like to eat something that I don’t usually have at home…or enjoy dessert.¬† I’m beginning to learn that food is not punishment or reward…it’s simply something with which to fuel our bodies.¬† I just re-read the first sentence in this paragraph…and I’ve got some work to do with my relationship to food.¬† BALANCE.

I love the way my body feels when I move it.¬† I joined a gym and go when I can…which is not often enough.¬† I walk as much as I can and sometimes that’s just around the block or across town and back.¬† I do yoga and I meditate, focusing on breathing.¬† I will not be an extreme athlete or run triathlons because I don’t want to.

My big purchase this Spring will be a bicycle.  One with a few gears that I can use to get around town.  Not off-road or in the bush, but on the trails and streets of town.

For the first time, likely ever in my life, I’m feeling good about who I am and how I look.¬† I’m working on lowering the numbers on the scale, and I’ve realised that those numbers do not define who I am as a woman of God, as priest, as a friend.¬† I may be fat, but I’m also kind, generous, loving.¬† I am respected in my vocation and in my community.¬† In my own small way I make a difference in the lives of others, in this community and in the world.

I am me, because that’s the only person I can be.¬† Everyone else is taken.

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I tend to apologise, a lot. ¬†Often for things I don’t need to. ¬†I’m sorry… ūüôā

Back when I still had a real job (before I answered God’s call to a life of service) I was the Administrative Assistant to one VP and five Managers. ¬†It was a challenging job. ¬†One of the things I learned early on was the VP was very particular about how she wanted things done. ¬†I learned that if she received an apology for something that had gone wrong she would often take the news much better. ¬†So I became the department apologist.

When I left the working world (to enter the vocation of the priesthood) I continued to be an apologist…for the Church, for my denomination, for God, and for the world. ¬†And you know what? ¬†It’s exhausting.

I am the first to apologise when I’ve done something wrong. ¬†I think it’s important to acknowledge when I’ve done something that may have hurt someone, especially if it was unintentional. ¬†I also think it’s important to acknowledge someone’s hurt, even if I’m not the one that’s hurt them.

A few years ago I had a discussion with a friend of mine that got heated and some very hurtful things were said to me. ¬†I apologised for my friend being upset, but didn’t stand up for myself and challenge how I had been hurt by what was said. ¬† A few days later I did confront them (gently) and their reply was “I’m sorry you’re hurt”. ¬†That statement hurt almost as much as the other statements. ¬†What I wanted to hear was “I’m sorry I hurt you” or “I’m sorry what I said hurt you”. ¬†But instead I’m feeling guilty for sharing my feelings of hurt and in that guilt I almost apologised…I say almost because I didn’t.

Sometimes I wonder why I apologise so much. ¬†There are things for which I have no control…I can’t control my height…my hair colour…my sexuality…my left-handedness. ¬†I can control my hair colour (until I decide to stop colouring it). ¬†I can control what I eat and how much I exercise.

I know I am not society’s “ideal” anything. ¬†And in fact, I take some pride in that. ¬†I am unique in who I am. ¬†There is not another me in the world…and I thank God for that.

I refuse to apologise for my size.  For how I dress.  For what I say (unless it is something hurtful).  For who I love.  For my faith.  For my denomination.

Yesterday I was getting a pedicure and was sitting next to a lady who looked to be about the same age. ¬†We were talking about the freedom that comes with aging. ¬†I’m much less self-conscious about how I dress now then I’ve ever been. ¬†I really don’t care how people look at me. ¬†I temper what I say carefully (most of the time) to not intentionally upset or inflame, yet I don’t apologise for speaking from my heart.

One of the most powerful homilies I preached contained the phrase “If you speak the truth in love, you will always find the strength to speak the truth”. ¬†This phrase was repeated multiple times in the course of the homily. ¬†And I still believe it to be true.

Many of my opinions may not be popular opinions. ¬†Much of what I do may not be perceived as important or necessary ¬†or relevant in society. ¬†And I’m okay with that. I am who God created. ¬†I am my father’s daughter, with my sarcastic humour and ferocious protection of the innocent. ¬†I am my mother’s daughter, with my blunt speech and fierce determination. ¬†But most of all, I am me.

And for that I will not apologise.

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I’m exhausted. I’m not really sure why…but I suspect it has more to do with emotional than physical exhaustion. Usually I’m up to date with emails and phone calls. I’m terrific at keeping up to date with filing, correspondence and all that kind of stuff. And yet lately, I’m finding myself getting behind, and while aggravated, I’m not worried about getting it done…as I guess I know it will get done.

I decided a week or so ago that it was time to put the paperwork together to file for divorce. As an educated woman I thought the process would be relatively simple…and after spending far too much time on the provincial website, only to discover that the jpg reader was out of date on my laptop, I debated about spending the $1,000 to get someone else to file the paperwork.

I had a cup of tea, a frustrated cry and started again the next day. And much to my amazement, I was able to navigate the forms with relative ease. This afternoon I took the carefully prepared forms to the court hours in the next largest city to the one where I live. The Registrar was very helpful and found a couple of mistakes. She also told me I needed to present her with 4 copies of all the documents. So I went to a friend’s home and made the corrections, then made copies of the forms and took them back to the Court House.

I now have a court file number that needs to go on all the other forms. As soon as I can arrange it, my soon-to-be ex-husband will be served with the primary document. The challenge of that is he lives in a different province…but it is doable.

Tonight when I got home I realised just how weary I was. I had an hours sleep and was supposed to meet with a couple for pre-marriage planning but I was simply too tired, so we’ve rescheduled for next week. Easy enough.

I’ve been looking at short hairstyles on Pinterest. I’ve decided I need a change in my appearance…and hair is the ultimate fashion accessory. I’m going to see my hairdresser tomorrow and hopefully either get it cut or make an appointment to get it cut. It’s time for a change.

My summer wardrobe is flowy dresses, capri’s and sandals. When its necessary to wear a clergy shirt, I wear one with one of the dresses. Definitely built for comfort this time of year.

As I reflect back on who I was before I came West I can see a significant shift in me. I’m more confident that I was before. I am far less afraid. I am as good a preacher as I ever was and as skilled a liturgist as I’ve ever been, but I feel, in some ways, as though I’m seeing the world differently.

I’m excited to be who I am. I’m excited at who I’ve become. I’m claiming back my identity and I will not surrender it again. Nobody will prevent me from being me. Not even myself.

With a shiny new haircut and a “go get ’em” attitude, I will have a new lease on life.

But right now it’s time for a cup of sleepytime tea and an early night. The only thing I’m after right now is my pillow…

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One of the challenges with moving provinces is re-establishing health care. ¬†The first health care provider I procured was a Chiropractor, followed by a Registered Massage Therapist. ¬†Next was the Pharmacist, and today I saw my new Family Doctor. ¬†I had a list nearly as long as my arm with things to discuss with her. ¬†She listened and acknowledged; she’s young and has a wonderfully warm demeanor. ¬†I enjoyed sharing my list of concerns with her and she has started the referral process for many of the ailments I now have. ¬†For the record; aging is NOT for the faint of heart…

One of the questions she asked was my form of birth control, to which I answered “my face”. ¬†She blinked and looked blankly at me, then started laughing uncontrollably. ¬†I think Dr. B and I will be getting along well. ¬†She gave me a requisition for blood work, a number to call to schedule a mammogram, a referral in process for a gynecologist, a renewal for my prescription antidepressants and I see her again in a month for a physical. ¬†Phew. ¬†All that was discussed in 10 minutes.

Another of the things on my “to do” list is putting together the paperwork for separation and divorce. ¬†I spoke recently with A and we agreed on a separation date and we’ve already separated our assets and liabilities. ¬†For all intents and purposes, it should be an “easy” divorce…well, as far as administration goes. ¬†Emotionally, it is an ending. ¬†And although we both agreed that this was “for the best”, there is still a process of grieving. ¬†The end of something that we once promised would last forever.

As I reflect on the end of our marriage and the rebirth of myself, I realise, once again, that sometimes love is not enough. ¬†I love him as a person. ¬†I love him as a friend. ¬†But I am no longer in love with him, and if I were honest, I haven’t been for a long time. ¬†Too many things unsaid, too many broken promises. ¬†Too many times when one thing was said and another done. ¬†Too many times when it was simply too much effort to work at our relationship. ¬†The precedent scares me…unfortunately I’ve been down this road before.

And while I have said that I will never love another again…is it really fair of me to close my heart off from the world? ¬†I don’t know…I suspect God does…

For now, the wall around my heart remains firmly in place. ¬†I will mourn and grieve the loss of something that once meant the world to me. ¬†I will survive. ¬†I will come through the other side stronger then ever…knowing myself more than I ever have…and learning to love again. ¬†Beginning with myself. ¬†As a wise friend recently said “I’m worth it”.

And you know what?  I believe that to be true.

So while I mourn the ending of a marriage/relationship/partnership, I rejoice in the knowledge that I am coming back to life…I am experiencing my own re-birth. ¬†I revel in the sounds of birdsong, of the gentle and often not-so-gentle winds that blow through my life. ¬†I revel in the smells of Spring flowers, of walking around the village where I live and breathing in the fresh mountain air. ¬†As I reflected to a parishioner at the induction service last week “I am home”. ¬†In so many ways, British Columbia has become my home.

And in this home I find my heart, my soul and my life.  Thanks be to God.

 

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For many years I have closed off parts of myself…parts that held secrets or had been damaged. ¬†Parts that I felt were no longer a part of me…that impeded me being who I have chosen to be.

Until recently…

Moving West has been, in many ways, a re-birth for me. ¬†When I was packing up the myriad of books that have traveled with me for decades, I came across my old sketch pad from the early days at Waterloo Lutheran Seminary. ¬†The pastels were dried up and useless, and yet the drawings held as much emotion as they had when I first drew them. ¬†I must admit, at first I wasn’t sure what some of the images represented…and then I read the titles of the pieces…and a switch flicked.

I adore the mountains…and I’m feeling a creative part of myself awaken to capture them. ¬†I’m not artistically talented in any way, and I have no idea what the images will look like when they are finished…but I do look forward to the creative process once again.

My wardrobe consists of predominantly black and neutral pieces…the occasional burst of yellow or orange. ¬†I liken my wardrobe to that of a female robin…subdued. ¬†However, I do have one dress that is my favourite…it’s a subdued rainbow tie-dye dress that I absolutely adore. ¬†I bought it because it was on sale, and because it made me smile. ¬†And yet I didn’t wear it much because I was uncomfortable attracting attention to myself.

When I was paring down my wardrobe I had to keep the dress, which actually surprised me. ¬†That dress and a very feminine summer dress that I’ve had for decades made the cut. ¬†So far it’s not been warm enough to wear the summer dress although I have worn the rainbow dress a couple of times. ¬†In fact, I’m going to wear it for my induction with a light coloured clergy shirt.

I feel as though I am shedding the extra winter layers for the bright and beautiful promise of summer. ¬†I’m wearing dresses with shorts instead of tights, and I’m walking a little bit straighter, head a little bit higher. ¬†I’m stopping to smell and admire flowers and ask to pet dogs.

After a long, long, dark moment of grief I have emerged and reawakened — as a flower pushing against the newly warmed ground, seeking the sun and the promise of warmth on my skin…the feeling of rain refreshing and washing away the doubt and debris.

I am coming alive in ways I thought were finished for me…in ways I never imagined were possible, never mind wanted…and yet – here I am.

The colours that surround me seem brighter.  The sun and sky clearer.  The air sweeter.  The water cooler.  The grass smoother.  After a long, hard hibernation, I am daring to push my head against that which has held me down and embrace the new life which flows from within me.

I am alive.  And it is grand.

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I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. ¬†It is not who I am . ¬†It does not define me. ¬†And yet there are days when I really feel it. ¬†Since moving west I’ve moved my body more than ever and I’m loving how my body is responding. ¬†My skin is glowing, I’m drinking lots of water, eating fresh foods wherever possible, getting outside into the sun or rain and walking most everywhere.

When I first got here I was absolutely exhausted.  The Archbishop asked if my soul had caught up with my body from all the traveling, and when I stopped to ponder his words I realised that it had not.  And that was sad.  So I rested myself more than usual, took things slower and generally listened to my body.

One of the challenges with CFS is chronic pain. ¬†It’s manageable…I’ve lived with it for 18 years. ¬†Most days, once I get moving, it’s barely noticeable and so, I’ll admit, I get a bit cocky…and then that’s when my old friend returns.

Late nights, early morning, poor nutrition choices, overloaded work schedule, stress, etc. etc. etc. and soon the dance of fatigue becomes more complicated.

Last night was one of those nights. ¬†I found my body getting heavy. ¬†I found my ability to concentrate diminished. I fought to stay alert and when I started to lose my horizon I lay down. ¬†It took me a little while to figure out which way was down, but once I did, gravity did the rest. ¬†I slept deeply, heavily for a couple of hours. ¬†Woke up refreshed and needing the bathroom. ¬†Returned to bed and slept deeply again…glorious, restful sleep.

So today as I look at my schedule for the week, I’m going to be a bit more gentle with myself. ¬†I’m still going to walk, but not push myself…life is a marathon, not a sprint. ¬†I’m going to eat food I enjoy, and savour it. ¬†I’m going to begin to journal again, noting the joy and challenge in my life. ¬†And I’m going to live.

Slowly, I’m learning to reframe my language into something that is positive. ¬†A wise friend recently commented that language and words define our power…define our reality. ¬†And it’s so true. ¬†“Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me” is a fallacy and a damaging one at that.

My biggest critic is the negative self-talk that permeates my being. ¬†Instead of building walls to keep people out, I’m going to build walls to surround the negative self-talk. ¬†I will acknowledge it, dismiss it, and move on with my life.

A challenge?  Most definitely.

Do-able?  Absolutely.

Because I choose to be happy. ¬†The only actions I control are my own. ¬†And so I will choose to come from a place of love — always. ¬†I will choose to come from a place of peace, of hope and of joy.

Oh there will be bad days…but they will not define me. ¬†Like my CFS does not define me. ¬†Right now we’re dancing the CFS is leading, but not for long. ¬†And when that dance concludes, I’ll send him home. ¬†Then I’ll continue to dance the dance of unbridled joy…perhaps even dancing in the rain.

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