My dreams are typically downers: Dreaded relapses into severed relationships. Transportation tragedies. Elevator quirks.
But the past two nights have been lovely.
Wednesday brought me racks full of luxurious, dressy new clothing. Last night, a freshly built, spacious new home.
In both, I was resistant. Then accepting. Then thrilled.
My real-life interests are different. My home is small, ancient and cluttered. My favourite clothes reconstructed or just plain old.
But I loved the expansiveness. The excitement. The fresh new starts.
That’s four good dreams, now.
I think I’m on a roll.
I made my very first hoop yesterday and headed, shyly, to the park to test it out.
I had hoped the park would be empty.
But no such luck.
As I stood building up my nerve, a stranger inquired about dog tricks. I answered politely, found some space and gave the hoop a timid spin.
My embarrassment subsided and I soon had the park to myself.
Then I spotted a woman and a gaggle of children. All clearly watching me from down the street.
I turned away, embarrassed, and continued spinning-and-dropping with my back to the eyes.
When I turned back, minutes later, the woman was spinning-and-dropping a hoop of her own. In her driveway. With the gaggle of children.
How cool is that?
p.s. Turns out my home-made hoop is slightly small, slightly light and slightly pointed. But absolutely dandy, for the whopping $5 it cost me.
More hooping here.
Fear of failure and regret have tortured me my whole life.
The first strangulates me, lest I do something stupid.
The second beats me ruthlessly each time I do stupid things.
Lately, I’ve been lowering my standards. Practicing accidental failure.
Turns out sloppily slipping into failure is the easy part.
The real trick is skipping the resulting regret, disappointment, embarrassment and frustration.
The not beating myself up.
Luckily, I’m giving myself loads and loads of opportunities to practice.
When this journey began, our girls were barely 8 and 10. In the two years since then, they’ve been through a lot.
They’ve endured peaks of fear, responsibility and uncertainty. Their own and ours.
They’ve been misunderstood and alienated by their peers.
They’ve pushed the limits of already maxed-out and readjusting parents. And endured the resulting wrath.
They’ve even hidden big worries and needs.
Last summer they refused to be separated from us. Even day camp was out of the question.
Yesterday, they bolted from the car to 5 days of sleepover camp. Without a hug, goodbye or backward glance.
They are happy and healthy and they’ve become confident that we are too.
We love you and miss you, Lucy and Bayla. Have a safe, healthy, happy, fabulous week at camp!!
Looking forward to reuniting with you on Friday.
In fall 2009, during the stressful 6-week wait for diagnosis of that lump, I turned my back on our beloved podcast, Just One More Book.
Weeks later, Bob Goyetche and I discussed that decision, for the Canadian Podcast Buffet.
It was hours after my biopsy. Mark was out of town.
With all the PAB2011 captured-story excitement this week, that interview bobbed to my mind’s surface. And I took the time to listen to that 15 minute chat.
Wondering how we endured the 6 week wait. How I did that interview. And how we possibly got from there to here.
I’m glad those moments were captured. I’m glad I thought to listen.
Life’s odd. In a good way.
If you’d like to listen too, the interview is at the 18 minute mark of episode 147 of CPB.
Photo Some rights reserved by Bruce Murray (The Zedcast)
I had no idea this event existed.
Thanks to my friend, Laurie, I’ll be there.
I hope you will too.
BLOG OUT LOUD 2011
WHERE: The Prescott, 379 Preston Street, at Preston and Beech
WHEN: Thursday, July 7, 2011 from 7pm to 10pm
WHO: 20+ bloggers reading their favourite post from the past year; plus several photo bloggers displaying their art
WHO’S INVITED: Anyone who likes to hear good writing.
One million times I backed out of this jolt.
But having publicly announced and collected input for a 5 minute spiel about standing up to fear, it seemed the embarrassment of backing out might actually dwarf the embarrassment of flopping.
So I did the jolt.
And I’m glad I did.
Because life is better when we take bold steps.
Thanks to Alexa Clark for the jolt photo.
For the 53 hours since PAB ended, I’ve been squeezing my brain, hoping to shrink the PAB2011 experience down to a blog-post-sized blurb.
My mind, my chest, my eyes are still swelling with swirling ideas and images. Huge laughs, huge smiles, huge buzzing, tingling emotions. Huge gratitude for the privilege of belonging.
This morning, as we attended Lucy’s grade 6 graduation, I realized that the stilted, tension-filled ickiness of that sweltering gym, thick with twelve years of inter-parental encounters, was the anti-PAB. And that helped boil the weekend down to its core…
PAB gets me. It lets me be me when I’m there. And seems to do the same for us all.
PAB’s about expressing, not impressing.
It’s about connecting and creating and stretching and sharing.
It’s a slingshot into life.
Thanks to everybody for the photos (and for the weekend, of course).
More PAB here.
Genuine, generous, creative, talented, inspiring, fun-loving PABsters.
What a wonderful weekend. Huge thanks to everyone who made it so.
Photo credit Martin Jones.
Thank you, John, for inviting me into your beautiful Women and Classic Cameras series, for your kind words, and for the opportunity to step up to big fears.
Yesterday was the end of term dance recital at our local community centre. What a fabulous show.
Hundreds of talented young people filled with energy, confidence, excitement and joy.
Even my belly dancing class troupe performed.
Did I join them? No.
Did I drop out of the class? Yes.
And yet watching that 90 minutes of dance just thrilled me.
My timid tip-toeing into dance has opened life up.
My burlesque is bashful. My belly dancing, a flop.
But I’m trying. And, although what I hoped would be an introductory class turned out to be a seasoned troupe, I’m undeterred.
I’ve signed up for five new dance classes.
I may never make it into a recital. But, you know, I’m really hoping I do.
And that’s definitely a whole new me.
I don’t dream of flying, fulfillment or fame.
Even my life-long boat, plane and elevator disaster dreams are almost always preempted, these last few years, by the horrid-family-problem theme.
But last night I had an absolutely, extremely, wonderfully atypical dream.
I dreamed the path I was walking was littered with bills. So many bills, here and there, that I began to leave most of them, stooping only to snag the curled and crumpled red fifties.
I didn’t feel greedy. Or guilty. Or even thrilled.
I felt lucky.
And I awoke feeling good.
It was so out of character, I just had to ask google:
A dream of finding money suggests that the dreamer is becoming aware of their intrinsic value to themselves and others, from a spiritual, rather than a material perspective. It can also indicate a recent success or imminent achievement in their waking life in which their self worth is visibly manifested. Often this dream indicates that the dreamer possesses special artistic or creative abilities that they are in the process of becoming aware of…
You are worth more than you think you are, and should not feel reticent about taking the chance to prove your value to yourself and others. As you become more aware of your own self worth, you will become more confident at exploring opportunities in your waking life that are to your advantage.
(Ian Wallace, Finding Money)
I’m glad I checked.
In October 2009, I was desperate to have both breasts removed.
Thanks to my insistent surgeon, I didn’t.
They’re small. They’re lopsided.
There are scars on both.
But they’re here. And so am I.