1000 Voices Speak For Compassion, Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, Memoir and Reflections, Piece of Cake, SoCS, Special Occasions

Mothers Are Saviours, #SoCS

Safe to say: Happy Birthday Mom!

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The idea came from a cousin when I couldn’t think of anything good enough on my own.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday, #SoCS

How perfectly coincidental that the big 60 falls on a stream of consciousness day.

So many people care and wanted to be included in my present to my mom, and I am not done yet.

Whether birthday card greeting or nostalgia and memory, it isn’t hard to find positive things to say about her. The things flow from her, through her, if you’ve even just barely met her. I didn’t think the challenge I was putting out there was so hard.

Some people doubt their ability to use their words for self expression and toward another. They feel my expectation, perhaps, but I only wanted them to feel safe enough in saying whatever came to mind when they thought of my mom and the woman they all know and love.

Even those closest to her might have struggled, but that is just because the feelings are a little too close for comfort and, in having to put into words just what she means to them, it may have felt uncomfortable in the moment. I thought it, thought her, worth the immediate feelings of uncertainty as one sat down to write.

I wanted her to know how safe she made me feel, as her daughter, and how she has saved me, dozens and hundreds of times, from my biggest fears and from myself and the world at large.

Anyone can and soon does feel safe in talking to her, in opening up to her. That’s her gift to the rest of us who have the privilege of her in our world.

All the times I felt so sick, so much pain, and like nobody believed it, she saved me and made me feel safe again..

She was surprised by her gift and more is being added, even just today in fact.

A mother should want to do it, protect their children/grandchildren, and she does. My mother for the save.

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Kerry's Causes, Piece of Cake, SoCS, Spotlight Saturday

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head, #ChronicPainAwareness #SoCS

Do what is best for you, what works to help with the pain, I tell myself. You have that right.

Do something, everyday, that makes you happy, I tell myself, to distract from the pain.

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I do this, so I can find relief and discover, at least, some quality of life.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday, #SoCS

Do something that will challenge you, I prod myself.

I pitch. I am accepted. I panic that I can’t do this and they couldn’t possibly know what they are getting when they have agreed to share my words with their readers.

Then I feel silly and stupid for my lack of confidence…because, though I have a lot to learn, I know I can write.

Those due dates from back in my school days are now out of a binder and my braille list of assignments I had in the eighth grade and into the organization I don’t quite have figured out yet for my freelance/writing work.

All over Facebook are people, those I went to school with and are now becoming mothers’ and posting their happy news.

The baby is due on this date or that.

I will likely never have this moment of joy, many moments of anticipation, with a baby growing inside of me.

So, I focus on the life I am living, the pain I do live with included, and the joy that my writing gives.

My due dates are for Catapult or SiriusXM or Hippocampus or Panorama. I am lucky.

The grass on an early morning: a robin hops across the ground and my feet are wet from the dew.

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1000 Voices Speak For Compassion, Feminism, Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, History, IN THE NEWS AND ON MY MIND, Kerry's Causes, Memoir and Reflections, RIP, SoCS

The Heather By The River, #SoCS

Journalists. Photographers. And I use the term loosely.

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As a woman in my thirties, one who writes about things as my oxygen, I wonder what any of us would do for enough money. Would I write about people, even intrusively, for a living if given the chance?

Have I done it now? Already? Before?

How can it make anyone feel good about themselves to hound another human being, with their camera or their pen?

Responsibility: direct or indirect.

A world’s grief. Anger toward someone, needing to direct blame somewhere, the press. The press reports. The papers are printed. People buy the papers and mags.

More. More. More. We always want more.

From birth,
the two boys asked for none of it. That’s mostly where my thoughts return to.

I am not British and barely knew who Princess Diana was when she died. I wasn’t alive for the wedding seen around the world.

A sea of people, rather than water. That is what Diana must have seen when she looked from her vantage point, after saying her vows.

I would rather see a sea of Red or Black, blue or green, but the press fed off of the woman and she fed off of them, in a way, at least at first and for a long time afterward.

She was a fashion icon and a princess, but not only that. She used her position as a bit of an outsider, under the thumb of the monarchy, to become a change maker, by reaching out to those in need, those no one else wanted to associate with.

HIV and AID’s, in the 80s, when the hysteria about both was growing and at its greatest fever pitch. She shook hands, hugged those diagnosed and dying of the feared and misunderstood disease.

She came here, to Toronto, to sit by the beds of dying patients in hospice care. She walked a minefield, literally and figuratively. Danger signs.

Such grief of so many, I would not cry. As a fourteen-year-old child, fresh off of a kidney transplant and a thrilling wedding – I attended, my first of my oldest cousin. That was my wedding of the century.

Of royalty, I knew nothing. A fairytale life gone wrong is more like it.

Fairytales. I was familiar with these…the concept, the ideals, as a young girl. My Disney fairytale movies were my favourite. Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, with the bright pink dresses and dancing with their handsome princes. I may have had similar dreams at the time, but what did I know? A lack of life experience and my own understandable immaturity.

What do titles represent, really? Sometimes, they bring just the right kind of attention and sometimes the wrong kind.

Now, upon reflection, twenty years later I do feel sad. I know of celebrity of her two sons. They are the British royalty of my generation.

I do perk up when I hear their names on the news. I bought the fake imitation giant ring, modelled after that of the one worn by both Kate and her mother-in-law, still lounging in my drawer. I woke to watch the wedding, once again broadcast live.

Prince William and Kate came to Canada after their marriage, the same date as my big brother’s own marriage took place. I hope one generation learns from the previous one, in certain cases, that sometimes it happens we grow wiser with enough knowledge.

They’ve come again since, since then, and with their two small children, touring parts of the country in which I live, that still sees itself as the child of Britain, past and present.

What is Kate wearing? Where are the couple going next? Are they in love, for real, or is it all just another fairytale?

But I do feel for two boys who, in August of 1997, woke up to the loss of their mother when I clung to mine for dear life, during some of the hardest and scariest times of my own childhood.

Are those boys/men in some ways like their mother, under scrutiny of duty, feeling hunted or like outsiders, wanting to reach out to those in need, perhaps not born with some of the advantages? They grew up with cameras as their mother tried to navigate a life of celebrity and being followed. She was hunted, more even than Prince Charles.

Now that I am more aware, I watch documentaries on the weekend after the anniversary of her death. I listen to stories of a nineteen-year-old who got married much too young, to an older man who shouldn’t have ever proposed to her in the first place, who was likely always in love with another woman. He should have been with this other lady all along and now appears that he is.

People marry the wrong person all the time, every single day and have babies with them. In these cases it is my hardest task not to judge because none of us are perfect. This challenges me as an adult who wants to see everyone happy, no matter whether they’re famous or not.

As a writer, this is my obituary of sorts, no matter how stream of consciousness based it may be, twenty years on.

From birth to death: Diana, 1961-1997

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Memoir and Reflections, Piece of Cake, SoCS, Spotlight Saturday

My Saturday Story and I’m Sticking To It, #SoCS

When Saturday was much less lonely.

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Sometimes, I crave solitude. Last night I craved it, after silly worry that amounted to nothing, but caring is exhausting, though oh so worth it.

Then when I wake and only want to keep on sleeping, I let my mind wander in the silence of loneliness and memories of past Saturday’s come flooding back.

I could write an essay or I could write it into a memoir. Or I could write it as
stream of consciousness
because another Saturday is upon me.

Saturday markets. Early mornings and still so dark. Getting an early start. Meat counters. Fresh juice. Outdoor fruit and veggie stands in the cool light of dawn.

Off to the mall, shopping and then lunch buffets.

Or, once, ppancakes and then McDonald’s to see how long the longest fry might be.

As I spend a quiet Saturday with my own thoughts, after a busy week in 2017, I miss the old relationships that evolve, change, and vanish into thin air.

Night lights made with delicate glass and wire. Bright lights shining on pennies in shopping mall fountains.

Christmas lights, bright lights of the midway, now dimmed and dimness and loneliness…I knew it all when.

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SoCS, Writing

In The Loop, #SoCS

Life is a series of limbo moments.

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I need to learn to deal better with the never-ending reality of it. I continue to live and write about my summer of writing.

Limbo

I am waiting to hear back from editors, one or another. Just a few more days and I can follow up, right?

I need to focus on all the other writing, completion of assignments in the works, and not think so much about what might/will happen.

This is a hard part of freelance for not just me. I could give up because it is uncomfortable. Go back to, who knows what else.

Or, I could learn extra patience, (which is what the yoga is for). Learning how to become more limber, in mind and body.

If I gave up now, I’d only be trading one type of living in limbo for all the others anyway, for not feeling like I am doing something proactive to take care of myself and be my own person, with something of value to contribute.

Any of what I’m dealing with now sounds majorly better than having to do the actual limbo, so bring on another week of the freelance writing life, still so new to me.

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SoCS, Spotlight Saturday, The Insightful Wanderer

Collapse, #SoCS

This summer has been writing, mostly all about writing, but I can only write about my Mexico trip in so many ways, from a certain number of angles, before I must leave my house again and experience new things.

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I stare at my ceiling and don’t see a whole lot, kind of like my future sometimes, but mostly because I can’t see. Still, the weight of it sometimes feels like a banging, from below and above and from all around.

Just don’t look up maybe.

I fear it collapsing on top of me while I sleep. Water marks where the pounding rain got through are, in my bad dreams, destabilizing the entire roof over my head.

But when to fix it? How to fix it?

I debate when to do something more about that, just what there is to be done to make any possible upgrades to home and life.

If I stay tucked away inside here, I fear I will eventually be sealing myself off forever.

I fear I will forever be afraid to stay and also…afraid to leave, at the same time.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday #SoCS

And so, the roof repairs will soon begin. There are many more stories for me to tell.

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Guest Blogs and Featured Spotlights, IN THE NEWS AND ON MY MIND, Memoir and Reflections, SoCS

Deep Breaths #SoCS

My mom cuts down the purple lilacs from up high and offers some to my new neighbour. She thinks to replenish a vase with fresh flowers when the previous ones begin to wilt. On my living room coffee table there sits a bunch of those purple lilacs and I bend down to touch the leaves and the petals. I detect their scent. The smell of those flowers is a sweet smell I don’t tire of.

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Something smells rotten throughout Canada’s closest neighbour and ally and many want to rid the country of what’s causing it, or should I say whom. Is there something fishy going on? Others love the smell they detect in the air and want to keep that going.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday

There is a new leader of the Conservative Party of Canada, as of this final weekend in May. Many say it is a bad choice and will likely give another win to Justin Trudeau in the next federal election. Who can possibly say which way things will go by then. I notice the air in Canada smells more of fragrant lilacs though and less of a stench is what you smell here. Our politics gets rough sometimes, but there is a certain politeness that never lifts, as Canadians. We aren’t quite as divided along party lines as our neighbours to the south. I hope it stays that way.

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