Being Beloved

Me... Adulting

All my life I’ve felt like a complete fake when it comes to being a grownup. Oh sure, I’ve got the years behind me – too many years to be honest. And the experience. No doubt about it. But really…what IS a grownup? Are we fully grown when we turn 18 and can legally make all of our own life decisions? Or is it when we land our first real job, or pick up the keys to our first house, or when we’re tiredly changing stinky diapers? I can’t say that I felt very grownup at any of those life-changing moments. I guess growing up is different for each of us. For me, the defining moment was when my son made a choice that mimicked one I made myself during my very turbulent youth. And it was my inner reaction that finally led me to believe I might be growing up. That was last year.

Since the epiphany, I’ve realized so many things. First and foremost, I’ve accepted that despite my parents’ assurances to the contrary, I’m not really that special. There are no fireworks on my birthday (unlike both of my brothers - July 4th & May 24th). Confetti doesn’t rain when I roll out of bed in the morning. No one is cheering from the sidelines just because I manage to do something I’m actually responsible for. And let’s face it…none of that stuff should happen either. I’ve learned that all I need are a couple of people who love and appreciate me for exactly who I am. That’s it. Kindred spirits who feel like that about me are precious and few, and my being thankful for their belief in me and appreciative of their love is a huge clue that I’m a grownup.

I’ve also determined that my choices cannot ever be blamed on others – they are all on me. For better or for worse, I am in charge of my own physical, mental, and emotional well-being. I can eat properly, or not eat properly. I can exercise or sit on the couch watching Netflix. I can make sure my vaccinations are up-to-date or simply forget about it. The universe doles out natural consequences, and it’s up to me to decide which ones I want. One choice or the other doesn’t define me as good or bad, but I have accepted that there is only one person in the world who can make these choices…and that’s me. Whatever my choice, the consequence is also my own. Now how adult is that?

My most significant lesson is that I always need to give more than I get. In today’s world we’re brainwashed to feel that our most important purpose is to pursue happiness. We believe we deserve happiness – that it’s our birthright. I’ve come to believe that the pursuit of happiness is a short-sighted ambition. Focusing on simply making myself happy just turns me into a self-oriented taker. That’s not who I want to be. Instead, I try to focus on bringing meaning to my life. Creating meaning might involve putting another person’s needs ahead of my own, and that could mean my own happiness level declines for a bit. But that contribution to the other person’s well-being increases their happiness. And happiness begets happiness. So the happy vibes in my environment increase…and that multiplies and makes more happy vibes. Pretty soon my world is looking very happy. And that happy world feeds my happiness. So the more happiness I infuse in the lives around me, the happier I am. Every moment that I set aside my own happiness for the sake of others is an investment back into my own happiness. Knowing this makes me feel so grownup!  

Check it out. This is me…adulting. 

This is my life.

My life has been…well…interesting so far. 

 

I’ve experienced being a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, a friend, a colleague…and each of those roles has been the making of me…and the breaking of me. 

 

I’ve been hurt. Badly. So badly that I never want to see anyone else hurt. Sometimes I go too far trying to accept, encourage, and protect others. 

 

I’ve become educated, and made money. And I’ve given money away without a thought. Because there are more important things than status and fortune. 

 

I have, at times, set myself on fire to keep others warm. But now it’s rare. I’ve loved deeply, and been betrayed. The pain is still like the sharp twist of a knife in my heart. 

 

Creativity has come easily to me. So has boredom. Therefore, I’ve had several careers. And I’ve found work that fulfils me. That’s a blessing I’ll never take for granted.

 

I’ve had incredible friends in my life who’ve been like family. The kind I can trust to tell me the real truth - even when it isn’t easy - and who stay to help me through the pain. I want more of them. I want to be that friend to others.

 

I’ve had 15 minutes of fame and years of obscurity. I’m more comfortable with the latter. 

 

I’ve travelled. I’ve seen wonders and horrors. And I’ve returned home with a deeper capacity for empathy...as well as a disillusioned soul. I’m working on reviving. 

 

I’ve been courageous and I’ve been cowardly. Sometimes, I’ve found it difficult to distinguish between being smart and being afraid. 

 

I’ve lost people along the way. It hurt like hell. I’ll never get over the heartache. But I’ll cherish the memories.

 

Many have walked in and out of my life. I remember each of them with appreciation - even the ones who broke my heart. I regret nothing.

 

This is my life. And I cherish it. 

 

Every moment counts.  

That 70s Life

Growing up in the 70’s was a headrush. The world was in glorious technicolour, music was our guide to political understanding and women were becoming “equal” in our minds. Although our social consciousness was elevated, our ability to manage the effect of change on ourselves as individuals was sadly lacking. There were a lot of conflicting emotions and needs running though us. Not surprisingly, a lot of us have had a difficult time growing into the person we were created to be. Myself included.

I’ve finally reached an age that seems to bring it all into perspective. So I’ve spent the past few years reflecting on the experiences I’ve lived, the choices I’ve made and the life issues I expect to face in my future. I’ve made mistakes, stumbled a lot, and grown exponentially. This inner exploration has been at times, frightening, disturbing, enlightening and exhilarating. My learnings are short, but sweet:

Choose to be Happy:  Happiness is all in our heads. We can choose to be happy (or not to be) every single moment. We can be unhappy regardless of money, status or fame. We make the choice. We can even be happy when we have cancer. I’ve seen it more than once.

Take Care of My Body: I did not do this. I wish I had. Staying fit and healthy is a lot easier than regaining fitness and health. Now I’m focusing on regular exercise, healthy eating, and feeling good about my body – no matter what. It’s the only one I’ve got. 

Pay Attention to My Inner Wisdom: I haven’t always understood what mine’s been saying to me. But what I’ve learned through extensive trial and error is that when my heart or my gut is sending me a message that something’s wrong, I gotta pay attention. It’s always right.

Accept What Is:  Crappy stuff happens to everybody. There’s no way to avoid this fact. It’s uncontrollable. The only thing we can control is how we deal with what happens. If we live each day with mindfulness and love, we will be able to find something to appreciate and learn from in every experience.

Grow to Love Myself: I’ve decided that this is the single most important action I can take in my life. Whatever it takes to love who I really am in my deepest heart (the good, the bad, and the ugly), that’s what I’m going to do. So I’m finding my authentic uniqueness, discovering what I really value, and I’m never going to measure myself against anyone else’s standards ever again. Loving ‘me’ makes all the difference to my happiness.

Growing up in the 70s was simply bigger than life: sexual experimentation, revolving-door relationships, disdain for rules, the smashing of boundaries and taboos... It was a time of upheaval. Like all youth of any generation, we left a changed landscape in our wake. We questioned things that had been silent and hidden...even shameful. We were instrumental in exposing and demanding action on rape, domestic violence and sexual abuse in the home. We transformed women’s roles in the workplace. The changes in technology that our era developed speak for themselves today – literally. In contradiction, the pop culture of that decade was incredibly superficial: disco and Kiss and spray-painted cities… But what I remember best are the halcyon days of freedom and adventure we all enjoyed. Somehow, we allowed that to slip away in the subsequent years. 

And finally, I find myself taking that lost freedom back. Realizing now that it was always within my grasp, I've recreated myself in my original form - but with refinements to fit my new age. Inner exploration has unearthed the me that was always meant to be. And I'm so grateful. My life is full and fun. I love that. In fact, I smiled all the way through writing this. Unlike many women I talk with, I’m not at all upset about aging. In fact, with all the new learnings this age is blessing me with, I’m pretty excited about it.

My time in the 70s jumpstarted lesson after lesson after lesson. They're not complex lessons. In fact, they're pretty simple. And I'm finally applying them.

I love that I'm experiencing so much happiness at my current age.

It would seem that the lessons are working.

Finding My People

I want to find my people. I know they’re out there because I’ve found a few of them already. And I know that there are more. Enough to build a community.

I’ve always visualized community as a tapestry; unique strands and individual stitches combining to create amazing patterns and harmony of composition. The common thread that runs through all human beings is that we can’t do it alone. We need a network of friends.

With deep friendship, we risk possible dishonesty, betrayal, or manipulation, so it’s a bit scary…and yet we can’t function properly without it. Friendship – the powerful connection that runs between us - is the lifeblood of human relations. It’s an interesting concept. Unrelated people choose each other through some mysterious mix of alchemy and circumstance. On the surface, the reason for our choice seems obvious; they share our interests, they make us laugh... But is there more to it than that? Lately, I’ve been asking myself why *this* person and not another is helping me weave my tapestry – becoming one of my people? 

So what do I mean by my people?

“Find Your Tribe. You know, the ones that make you feel the most YOU. The ones that lift you up and help you remember who you really are. The ones that remind you that a blip in the road is just that, a blip, and not to mistake it for an earthquake, and even it were to be an earthquake, they’d be there with the Earthquake Emergency Supply Kit. They are the ones that, when you walk out of a room, they make you feel like a better person than when you walked in. They are the ones that, even if you don’t see them face-to-face as often as you’d like, you see them heart to heart. You know, that kind of tribe?”

~ Jennifer Pastiloff 

That’s what I mean.

For the last two decades, I’ve focused the bulk of my time on being the best mother I can be, the best wife I can be (well, I tried), and the best daughter I can be. Any time I had left over went into paid work, household management, and random urgencies. Now things are settling down. My son is an independent man, marriage isn't even an issue anymore, my mom is focused on walking the new leg of her life journey, and frankly, I’ve decided that perfect house-hold management is unachievable. 

In this stage of my life, I want more. I want to be part of a naturally-created network of mature, marvellous people; an informal social group of like-minded souls who want inspiration for growth, and encouragement in taking their next self-directed step in life.  A community of positive, warm, fun-loving individuals on a journey to explore, grow, and celebrate life…now that’s something I’d love to invest my time in. I’ve been waiting for a community to develop organically, but it occurs to me that I should just build one...

So I am…

• discerning who the people are that I fit with best and who would want to fit with me
• investing myself in getting to know a small number of people a lot better
• reaching out - I’m a serious introvert, and this part is really challenging for me - wish me luck.

And that's it. No more tiptoe-ing around my need to find a group of people among whom I can be unconditionally loved and accepted, while still staying in alignment with my true nature. I’m choosing unique strands of friendship and initiating individual stitches to create a fabulous life pattern of harmonious composition.

Slowly, but surely, I am going to build the community I’ve always dreamed of being a part of.

I’m finding my people.

Here I Am

Here I am

a woman in mid-life

with thick thighs and a rounded belly.

The mirror declares my years with strands of silver 

and nicely lined eyes. This can't be true.

I thought I'd be a famous writer when I looked like this.

Youthful expectations.

I had time. So much time. And suddenly...

I am matured. When did this happen to me? 

It was only a few months ago that I was

a native princess, placing one foot in front 

of the other, quietly making a trail through the woods.

Watching a stick boat float across the lane way

on it’s journey into my brother’s side of the yard.

Stacking books into the treehouse 

my father made in the willow tree 

and lying back on piles of pillows 

to read and read and read.

Mere weeks since I pressed my lips

against those of a sweet, shy boy

with big brown eyes for the very first time.

I loved him with all my heart. But it wasn’t enough

to save me from the devil.

And when my life became a dark passageway

my heart shut down. 

But a few days ago, Africa. Oh Africa. It’s true what they say.

Africa gets in your blood. And makes it sing.

It was just yesterday that my heart awoke, grew legs,

and began to run around outside my body.

I named it Michael and it beats and pumps

as he lives each day of his life. 

I didn’t know how much he would mean to me

until he was part of me. 

Just moments ago I thought perhaps if I married a man

who is everything I’m not...

that together we would fit. Even with jagged edges.

But the light flooding through the holes

illuminated separate journeys. 

Reality can be sad.

Years have simply passed. While my life unfolded.

So here I am. A middle-aged woman

with a past of untrodden paths

who is finding her way through the dark. 

Time passes. Pain eases. Life moves ahead.

I never knew that this is who I wanted to be

until I got here. And right now I know. 

Here I am. 

At last. 

I call BULLSHIT!

Growing through my 50s hasn’t perturbed me one little bit. This half of my life is an abundant field of dreams, rich with opportunity. I can do anything, be myself, and build the life I want. It’s time for me to become the person I was created to be.

Buuuu-uuutttt…

Not everyone seems to agree with my vision for how this segment of my life should look. There’s this insane social belief that women over 50 are less attractive, less useful, less able to understand technology, less likely to be invested in at work, and no longer “f**kable” (hat tip to Amy Schumer)…and therefore aren’t worth much.

We’re “told” a lot of things about life after 50…

We’re not supposed to “look our age”.  Because that would be a fate worse than death.  It’s bad enough to be over 50 – but to look over 50??? God forbid! It’s important to hide aging, doncha know… What a crock of shit! To replace the airbrushed tween models (that appear in every facet of current media advertising to mature, intelligent women) we need more examples of all-ages, all sizes, all types women who look comfortable looking like themselves. When we get them, it'll be much clearer that what matters about being a woman isn't about what we look like, and that our experience of the way we look shouldn't revolve around trying to look younger (or different in any way) than we are. It’s not just about aging women…young women need that message too. We are immersed in a culture of get-skinny-quick fads, cosmetic surgery, and completely unrealistic (and deeply unhealthy) beauty standards. Let’s get real.

Makeup will save us. First of all, look what we're doing to ourselves with this crap. If we're gonna use makeup, we need to be demanding (with our dollars!) non-toxic varieties. I admit, it’s fun to use makeup as a way to express yourself and highlight certain interesting facets of your looks. That’s all good in my opinion. Same thing goes for hair – there’s a big difference between expressing who you are and hiding who you are or what age you are. When I see articles directed at aging women that read “use primer to hide wrinkles”, I want to vomit.  Are they crazy?? Hide my wrinkles? My wrinkles are my stripes! I’m wearing them loud and proud, baby. And primer? What am I? An old car??? I have never and will never use primer, foundation, powder, or anything other than moisturizer on my face. If you don’t like it, don’t look at me.

There are fashion rules. No stilettos, no leggings, no skinny jeans, no mini-skirts, no bikinis, no sleeveless dresses, no low necklines… Seriously? No freakin’ way! I will wear what I choose, when I care to, and as I want! Myself, I err on the side of comfort – but hey, we each choose for ourselves. You like heels? Go ahead, kill your feet. It’s your choice – no one else’s. Your legs are beefy? Tights and skinny jeans might show ‘em, but they’ll also hold ‘em firm. Yay for that. Got a juicy butt? Wear “Juicy” sweats - if you wanna pay for ‘em. A wrinkled décolletage? If you got it, flaunt it. Your tummy pops out of your teeny-weeny bikini? Yeah, tummies tend to do that. Embrace it. A bit of arm flap? Why not? You’re transitioning into a symbolic butterfly. So it makes sense to me… Fashion is for fun and self-expression. Not for rules and conformity to a set of arbitrary imperatives. Not for me. No way. No how.

We’re technologically-challenged. It would seem that the general assumption out there today is that technology is too complex for grandmas. Who hasn’t smirked at the meme of grandma’s remote duct-taped with only the power, channel, and volume buttons showing? It’s just a silly stereotype, but sadly, an effective one. It discourages women of a certain age from even trying new technology for fear of looking stupid when they can’t figure it out. Now c’mon! The irony of grandma-proofing makes me laugh – especially coupled with the cultural inference that if grandma can use it, anyone can… While “grandma-adoption” may make for a universal headline (because y’know…pretty much everyone has one), basically the only things all grandmas really have in common is that they’re female and no longer particularly young. Realistically, we could be anywhere between the ages of 35 and 105, and our educational backgrounds, cultural experiences, income levels, geographic locations, and career paths vary as widely as any one individual is different from another. So that just brings us back to the outrageous assumption that older women are bad at tech. Tell that to this older woman, why doncha?  

Older men don’t want women their own age. While there are a few men out there who see the value of an experienced, proficient woman of maturity, everyday experience clearly  illustrates the social stigma older woman deal with in our culture. The belief is: older women are bitter and jaded…while younger women are fun, frisky and good-natured, older women have lots of baggage…while younger women are fun, frisky and good-natured, older women have timeline agendas…while younger women are fun, frisky and good-natured, older women are self-conscious of their aging bodies…while younger women are fun, frisky and good-natured.  Hmmm…bitter, loaded with baggage and hidden agendas, and insecure vs. fun, frisky and good-natured. No wonder we feel overlooked by men in our own age group and try so hard to appear younger than we are! But this ridiculous concept of a fountain of youth we’re chasing is not about biology, and it’s not solvable by science. It’s a cultural message. And we need to stop listening to it. I know plenty of “older” women who are fun and spirited and spontaneous and kick-ass awesome—single and otherwise. Why should we want to change ourselves into anything less than the amazing women we are?  If we’re happy within ourselves, it’s all good. Any man who doesn’t want our fabulous selves is losing out – and isn’t worth our efforts anyway.

Aging women lose value. It’s not just that women in our fifties are hardest hit by the gender pay gap, while most efforts for pay equality are aimed at our younger colleagues. Nor is it merely that older women “face daily insinuations in the media that we are ugly because our age shows”. As women get old, our age impacts each contribution we make and every belief we hold. Rather than highly regarding the lived experiences of older women, and the wisdom those lives have revealed, our society turns away from them, dismissing them as irrelevant. Robert Fulford illustrates it well in his article, How age (wrongly) makes women invisible.  We neglect to listen - at the exact life moment when women are able to offer the profound insight that is most worth our attention. And what the hell is that??  The truth is that we gain value as we age. We're independent thinkers. We're knowledgeable, with abundant experience. We support ourselves. Life has given us a great work ethic along with superior critical thinking and problem solving skills. We're done with drama. We know what we want. We know what we're worth.

And seriously...we're hot. 

So…

I call BULLSHIT!

Do You Like Me?

This week, I had a long conversation with an old friend who's struggling and I was reminded how painful the need for the approval of others can be. I have spent far too much of my life worrying about whether people like me or approve of me. 

I was a pretty much a model child. I did what I was told, my academic results were impressive, my friends were who society dictated they should be, and I was exceptionally polite. Stepping out of line just wasn’t part of what I understood to be correct behaviour for the “smart, firstborn and only daughter”. So I worried about saying something ‘stupid’, other kids laughing at me, my parents being disappointed in me, and whether or not I was popular.

It only got worse in high school. I was hugely preoccupied with what others thought of me. The few times I tried to articulate a maverick opinion, the teachers quickly put me in my place. My peers were in the same boat and became either contributors to the problem, or outcasts. As I heard others ridiculed for being weird and not cool, I was even less likely to express my own unique ideas or question the status quo. At least not out loud. But I was experiencing my own personal internal struggle and making my own decisions…quietly. And then – a surprise to everyone, including me – I entered a period in my teens where I rebelled whole-heartedly. I simply did whatever I wanted, followed every crazy whim and devoted myself to la vida loca. Spectacularly. So spectacularly in fact, that I lived to deeply regret a few choice decisions. And that quashed any more overt efforts to colour outside the lines for a while.

My university days were marked by a desire to question everything, and yet I was never quite comfortable with the concept of interjecting my thoughts and concerns.  An introvert in the extreme, the dialogue went on inside my head, but I was far more comfortable keeping the debate there than opening myself up to unfriendly fire. As a result, only a very few people really got to know me at all. Oh, I had various little crises of personal identity as an adult that led to forays outside the accepted status quo, but for the most part, I towed the line. Lots of people thought that was good. But I was really disappointed in myself. I believe in being authentic, and for most of my life, I just wasn’t.

And then Michael was born. And he changed everything. Having a child at an older than average age (38), and consciously exploring how I wanted to raise him, brought my core values to the forefront of my consciousness. I already understood that all children naturally assimilate what is modeled for them. And I wanted what I modeled for Michael to be positive, encouraging and authentic…and for our relationship to be characterized by mutual respect, joy, love, clarity and appreciation. That meant examining things like core values, boundaries, priorities, parenting roles, life philosophies, expectations, and the long-term legacy I want to offer Michael. This self-excavation was a game-changer. Suddenly, standing for who I was, modeling authenticity, and being able to self-express in a positive way became deeply important to me. Damn the consequences.

It’s taken some time and some devastating life experiences – even recently - but for the most part, now I’m pretty comfortable with letting my unique inner self shine as I uncover ‘the real me’. These days, even in challenging circumstances, I’m willing to:

Swim Against the Stream. I no longer care what everyone thinks. I care about doing what I believe is right in my heart, whether everyone else agrees or not. I understand that I may not often be part of the majority, and that’s okay with me. Not everyone is going to like me, agree with me, or value the same things I do. Alright then.

Live With Being Misunderstood. If I’m authentically being me, I tend to give more of myself than most people consider wise. It's who I am. I empathize with people. And that’s caused some grief in my life. I’ve been misunderstood, taken advantage of, slandered and judged. But if others being able to understand me means compromising who I am in my heart, well then, it’s not worth it. Not everyone can accept my parameters and boundaries – I can, and that’s what counts. Those kindred spirits who love and accept me as I am are getting an amazing and caring person in their lives.

Embarrass Myself. Okay. So I’m embarrassed. So what? I’m going to live through it, and chances are that it’s a learning experience that will ultimately enhance my life exponentially. And seriously? It’s much preferable to feeling like I’m not expressing who I really am. By stepping forward, and putting myself out there, I’m modeling authenticity – a huge core value for me – and being someone I feel really good about. 

Yes, all this makes me vulnerable. It opens me up to ridicule, gossip, ostracization, and a limited social life. But to be honest, I haven’t experienced very much of that. In fact, the few times I have, it's actually helped weed out the relationships that aren’t healthy for me anyway, and opened up my time for the ones that encourage me, breathe life into me, and support me.  It also makes me strong, courageous and liberated - a great role model for a young man who’s growing up in a world where conformity is the norm. And it makes me real. Very, very real. The big reward for me is that when my decisions and behaviours reflect my core values, my life fills with synergy, harmony and contentment. The need to be liked becomes a non-issue.

So. Do you like me? Yes? No? Maybe? It’s all good. Because now, I like me. And I’m teaching my son through example how important it is to like, honour and respect your authentic self.

And, to me, that’s what matters. 

Growth

Who's Afraid of #MeToo?

There’s a lot of backlash around the #MeToo movement. Many men are uncomfortable engaging with women at all these days – personally or professionally. I get it. There’s so much talk about it being a scary and unsafe time for men, and I’m sure it feels that way. I’m very sure it feels that way.  So sure.

I know exactly how frightening it is to feel truly scared and unsafe. That horrible feeling that something unbelievably wicked is about to happen - something that will hurt you more than you can even imagine. When someone, maybe even someone you trust, will do something unspeakable to you. Not just physically hurt you – oh no, it’s so much worse than that. What happens shames you. Shatters your self-esteem. Takes away any semblance of control and leaves you feeling completely powerless. Makes you doubt others’ belief in you. Has you blaming yourself. Allows fear and anxiety to become your constant companions. Ruins your ability to trust. And leaves you with flashbacks – nightmarish, raw, and oh-so-real flashbacks.  

No matter how you feel about #MeToo, there’s no denying the validity of the movement. It’s mainstream. Almost every woman I know has experienced sexual harassment at some point. And sexual assault isn’t limited to women; many men and boys suffer rape and sexual trauma.

Few victims say anything about it. According to The Globe and Mail, “the statistics show that about 95 per cent of sexual assault survivors don’t report, and when they do, they are often not believed. Despite the reality that false reports are extremely rare, occurring at a rate of 2 per cent to 10 per cent – similar to the rate of other criminal offences – there is an entrenched suspicion of reports of sexual assault that does not seem to apply to other offences.” But hey…I can tell you it’s pretty damn real. And it haunts you for life.

My abuser was a trusted friend of the family. He was in our house all the time and made sure I knew that no one would ever believe me over him. He used to phone my parent’s house and just breathe when I picked up the phone. Just breathe. It was long before the concept of caller ID or *69 identifying the last number that called you, so he was pretty safe to do it. I couldn’t have proven it was him if I tried. But I knew. Every single time I heard that breathing on the other end of the line my stomach turned to liquid, the hair stood up on the back of my neck, and often I’d vomit.

Let me say this… No matter what you think of #MeToo, be aware that the legacy of sexual assault never ends.

One night recently, home alone by myself (Rollie away at a car show and not expected home until late – Michael out with friends), I heard my cell phone ringing upstairs. I missed the call but could see it had come from a local gas station (the beauty of technology). Since both my guys were out, I quickly picked up the voicemail. And my world turned upside down. No words, just breathing. Instantly, my stomach turned to liquid, the hair stood up on the back of my neck, and I had to run for the bathroom. I texted Michael and Rollie – asked if it was either of them. Not Michael. No reply from Rollie. Instinctively – without even stopping to think – I was closing blinds, locking doors, turning out lights. Totally panicked, I was heading up to my bedroom with every intention of barricading the door when the front door knob rattled. I froze. I couldn’t breathe. Time stood still. And then suddenly, I was blazingly angry. A red wave coated everything in sight. Without thinking, I ran back down the steps, unlocked the door and threw it open, yelling, “Who’s there?!?!?”  You should have seen it. I was ready to do battle.

But it was Rollie. Turns out he locked his keys in the car at the corner gas station on his way home (earlier than expected) and walked home because I didn’t answer my cell.

Once I could breathe, I started to cry and wasn't able to stop for over an hour. So yeah, I know exactly how frightening it is to feel truly scared and unsafe. Even forty years later. Let me say that again… Forty. Years. Later.

I've been awed by the courageous women and men who've come forward to speak out against their offenders. I'm not that brave. I didn't name him then, and I won't be naming him now. There's no real support after you speak out - and there's a sh!tload of judging, shunning, and black-balling. The response might be quiet, or it might be loud, but the backlash always manages to hit the one who had the audacity to speak of it. 

But hey… I understand why the #MeToo movement has left many men (and some women) incensed over the new – and let’s face it, more expandable – social definitions of sexual abuse. Obviously, it leaves the door open for anyone’s past or present behaviours to be reclassified as harassment and assault.

I imagine that feels very scary and unsafe.  

Sins of the Mother

Mother’s Day is always a bittersweet event for me. Why, you ask? Because. Despite having the best mom in the world, I know that I wasn’t always the best daughter in the world. That’s the bitter part.

Those who remember me from my teens may not even realize what kind of a run for her money I gave my poor mother. We lived in a small town where people had an unfortunate bent towards judgmental thinking and gossip. It probably won’t surprise anyone that I was an exceptionally sensitive and emotional teenager who was very easily hurt in that environment. My very strong and progressively-minded mother had nothing but contempt for judgmental attitudes and gossip, and as a result, I was raised with the expectation that I wouldn’t worry or care about either. I did try. Hard. I didn’t conform, wouldn’t commit to any specific social group, and quietly called out those who were causing difficulty for others. Not surprisingly, that mindset did not endear me to many of my contemporaries. And it left me with little support for my opinions and ideas that were so contrary to the popular logic of the time. Yeah. People didn’t always appreciate me.  As a result, after putting out as many outrageously forward opinions as possible into my hometown environment without success, I left the area to finish my education in a larger centre. And I never looked back. Except to blame my mother for my inability to fit in anywhere.

But that was then. And this is now. Make no mistake…being a 50-something-year-old daughter is very different from being a 15-year-old daughter. I have finally figured out who I am, and what I need. Even at this age, I continue to learn and grow at warp speed, and what I’ve learned about being a daughter since my father’s passing is making me a much better daughter to my fiercely independent and forward-thinking mama. I am so blessed to have this open and redefined mother-daughter relationship in my 50s… That’s the sweet part. That…and the learnings.

My mother was always doing her best for me. No matter what it felt like at the time, she loved me with her entire being and all decisions were made with what she believed to be my best interests at heart. (Funny how easy this was to believe once I was a mother myself.)

Forgiveness is the key to happiness. The unforgiving heart is full of fear, doubt, anger and weakness. It’s important to understand that we all make mistakes, step wrongly, and hurt others – and that we are all connected to one another. Forgiveness is a gift we give our world and ourselves. My mom has always forgiven me – even when I believed I was unforgivable. 

My physical health is too important to take a back seat in my life. I wish that this particular lesson had taken hold a bit earlier than it has, but better late than never. 

There is no substitute for face-to-face contact.  We live in a society filled with fake connections. Technology has given us greater access to one another, but at what cost? We’ve sacrificed honesty, intimacy and deep connection. Choosing to be physically close to another person deepens the sense of importance of the relationship. There’s no doubting the “cool” factor of technology, but sharing real life experiences is more authentic and meaningful by far.  So while I make sure that my mom has a certain level of electronic gadget knowledge, I won’t be giving up our daily chats and regular in-person visits. Nor will my son.

The toughest times were the best learning experiences. Each painful moment has taught me a new life lesson, and for this I am very grateful. The best part is that I know how to pass my knowledge along – or how to manage the times when my son repeats my mistakes. I have been blessed with the privilege of mothering the most wonderful kid on earth. And although I have to work daily on being the best mom I can be, the effort is totally worth it.  Most of what I know about mothering came from my mom. And knowing that this mothering bit is not for the faint at heart – nor for the uncommitted – empowers me to be the best mama I can be in my own right.  

So, being a 50-something-year-old daughter means that I now realize the “why” attached to many of the things that drove me crazy about my mom. She was afraid that she couldn’t stop me from repeating her mistakes. What 15-year-old me saw as rigidity now looks like concern. Rules look like parameters. And nagging looks like the teaching of life lessons. My mother hoped and prayed that I wouldn't revisit her sins. And I didn’t. I sinned my own sins. My mother stood by me all the while. She staved off my monsters, held me close when I was afraid, fixed everything when I bled, when I cried and when my heart was broken. Every time I stumbled and fell, my mother’s heart shattered into a million little pieces and she was left to pick each one of them up. And she could only pray that I learned from it and experienced growth. Through it all, her commitment and strength were unwavering. She is the bravest person I know.

A daughter’s feelings, thoughts, wishes, expectations, and attitudes have been shaped by the power of her mother’s love for her. And gratitude for this will be with the daughter forever. The sins of the mother are used as lessons to forge the backbone of the daughter. And the almost-grown-up version knows this.

Thank you, Mom.