Enough

It’s the end of January and although I’m in a dizzy haze about the speed of passing time, I realize too that nothing and everything has changed. I keep telling myself that one day I’ll sort out the future, and put the past away where it belongs.  Consequently, I find myself acrimoniously overanalyzing every comment,  every glance, every phrase, every aspect of my bromidic life. If I’m not chiding myself for something I’ve said, I’m probably blaming myself for something that happened in someone else’s life. My shoulders couldn’t be broad enough to bear the things I take upon myself to feel unworthy of, or responsible for.

My heart is continuously  castigated by torrents on non stop quivering, and motionless placidity. Even when I’m in a dull state of pure existence heavy tears find their way from my soul to my heaving chest and the reasons I cry are perpetually unchanging. Eternally amaranthine

In passing, I’ve come to terms with the underlying cause of my grief and empathy. Parenthetically I’ve realized between my harrowing self worth issues, and my disqualification to feel loved, I need to be someone’s hero, and I need proof that I’m worthy.

Knowing that there are consequences for actions and responsibilities that must be met, I cower behind blind rage. I criticize, and I seek authentication, just any evidence that attests to my reality. I seek an emporium to stash the blame. I look for reasons to fail. To sabotage my victories. And I find them.

I tell myself that I will sort this out. That one day things will fall into place, and I wait.

Months deteriorate and become years. My stack of dearth becomes insurmountable. I languidly isolate and shatter my insecurities. I will be more than the rubble that girdles me. I will be stronger, braver and less demeaning. I will be ENOUGH.

Appellation Addict

Sometimes there’s a storm of words just waiting to break out. It seems my pen cannot keep up with the steady torrent of incarcerated thoughts pelting through my brain. Much of it is unorganized, undignified, unrelenting waves of confusion and pure epiphany sputtering between my brain and my hand. Thoughts so persistent and restless they cannot be reigned in or bound. Pure passion. No holding back. Raw. Intense. Timid. Unyielding.

Like a haggard, binge addict I can go months without indulging in my simple, priceless, time consuming writing
g spree, and sometimes there are mere moments between my fluttering attempts to… What am I even attempting to do?

I think this race between thought and pen  must be an impervious quest to empty my heart of a heaviness I can’t define. It comes and it goes, like fog on a sultry summer’s eve. A heaviness that defines me, and beguiles me to try to be more. . . or less. . . a heaviness that is neither a good thing or a bad thing. Only an oppression of words, captured deep in my heart. Stuck deep in the darkest wells of my being. Slowly being etched out of the joys, hopes and dreams of the beautiful experience that is life. The light and the shadows of uncertainty and adventure.

Alas… Most of the things I write will never make it past the garbage bin or my beloved therapist, counselor and trusted companion, (journal) but, momentarily my pen and my thoughts are one. Undaunted, unafraid, just conquerors of time, emotion and lessons learned. . . The perfect Storm.

Meonago O’Day, until next time!

State of the Heart

June 2006 I was away on my very first road trip with friends. We had eagerly anticipated the trip for months.
Reluctantly you inspected my car the day before, and hugged me good bye.
The first week we camped out in a friends camper and enjoyed long country walks and evening bonfires. It was blissful. I felt spoiled, a little entitled, very blessed and so relaxed. My heart was rejuvenated.
The second week you called Every day and told me just to come home sooner than I had planned. You said all was well but I should just come home. I thought you were anxious because this was the first time one of your children went so far away.
I continued to enjoy my summer break until Thursday when Aunt Mary called.
I eagerly answered the phone and anxiously let my heart fall when she calmly inquired, “Do you know social services has your siblings?” After I pulled myself together she said it happened Monday… She was surprised I hadn’t known. I stood up and fell back down as tears shamelessly streamed down my face. I was 9 hours from the nearest airport and I couldn’t leave that night.
Early the next morning we eagerly left for Edmonton and I got on the first possible flight. I was all cried out but I knew life was over as I knew it.
Five hours later I arrived at home. Well at your house anyway. I thought that I had no more tears to cry, but I walked through the door and completely broke down. The walls and decor were all the same. The furniture all stood where it always was but a hallow emptiness berated me from all sides. This was a house no longer a home, and I fell down and cried. My heart was shattered.
The youngest four had all been taken and no one could tell us where. Dad had been hauled off to jail, and mom chose to leave the next day. One brother worked three hours away, and a sister tried hard to stay focused. My heart was empty. 
Each day I fought to find my siblings and establish communication, each night I cried brokenly into my pillow, and wept, no wailed uncontrollably because I blamed myself. Because you both blamed me and there was nothing I could do to change it. My heart was exhausted. Two months went by. Each day I fought to have dad released from jail, each day I sought guardianship of the youngest four. Each day “us oldest three” clung desperately to hope and borrowed where we could to pay off your debt so we could stay in your house and bring the little ones home. And one day they came to inspect your house, and promised the youngest four would come home. My heart rested.
Nearly a year went by. We chaperoned weekend visits for the youngest four with mom and dad, and tried to make things work. Normalcy had been redefined. Routine had been established. My heart was intact.
Time went on. Dad was released and “rehabilitated” my hundreds of letters had paid off and he was coming home. I’d be the partial guardian for 6 months as dad moved back in and slowly took over his household duties again. Right from the beginning I knew he’d never take over until I let go and let him. So I packed my bags with the eldest of the youngest four and off we went to Alberta. My heart was tattered.
Eight years later, its June again… June 2014. You lost your temper lost control lost your self worth. You beat up three of the youngest four. You’re an idiot! You want to know what’s worse? I am too. I fought for you. I pled for you. I vouched and said you had a good heart and a bad history.  It wasn’t your fault. You would change. You hadn’t meant the harm. My heart is inquisitive.
Maybe if I had left you in jail, you would have learned.
Maybe if I hadn’t fought for you, you wouldn’t have broken the little girl’s ribs and strangled her leaving ugly black bruises around her neck. Maybe the neighborhood boys wouldn’t have watched in angst as you pulled her out of the car window by her hair.
I defended you but I take it back.
I don’t love you like a daughter should. Ironically I don’t hate you either. I feel nothing for you. My only hope is that when it’s said and done, I hope its your soulless body that we find someday, instead of someone else’s. My heart is hardened.
I’m all done being my parents’ parent. I’ve decided they’ll never grow up and take responsibility. They’ll never be more than children’s brains in grown up bodies. They’ll never grow up to be my parents. My heart is at peace. I’ve fought their battles long enough, its time I fight my own.
My heart is content.

Meonago O’Day, until next time!

Walk a Mile in Shoes. . . That Have No Roots.

Nearly six years ago, my 16 year old sister Susie and I arrived at the Edmonton International Airport, sometime after 12 AM. We were supposed to board a bus and head 10 hours northwest to a tiny town called La Crete. We walked out of the airport and nearly froze. We had left behind sunny autumn weather in Ontario and arrived to a snow covered, frosty Alberta.

Excited, bewildered, exhausted, and jet lagged we shuttled to the Grayhound station where we would begin the last leg of our journey. . . except that wasn’t exactly what happened.

The bus we were supposed to take left at 12:01 AM and 12:01 PM. So we decided we’d camp out in the bus station, and we did. Until about 2 AM, when our warm safe haven was closed for cleaning. We tried explaining we didn’t have a place to stay. Somehow on the trio over I had misplaced my credit card, and my debit card (for safe keeping I’m sure), so we couldn’t rent a room because between us we had about $25.00 in cash.

It was futile. The staff was adamant, we had to leave. But they would let us store our suitcases in the lockers until 5 AM, when the doors would re-open.

We fished out our warmest autumn sweaters for the winter weather, and the one travel blanket I had packed for the journey. We left the safety of the bus station and roamed the streets surrounding the station. Cold, bewildered, still exhausted, and completely terrified, We sought shelter in a near by bus shelter where we were continuously harassed for change. (Turns out there were many homeless people in that section of town.) When a small group of boys followed us around we were nearly paralyzed with fear, and I don’t think either if us had prayed so hard in our lives. In retrospect, those boys may have been our guardian angles, because more then once we saw them redirecting a rough looking group away from us.

Finally, we made our way to a 6 level  parking garage and Susie fell asleep on my lap.

When 5 AM rolled around, we staggered back from  the garage to the bus stop and I assure you it is the only time I’ve ever eaten at A&W for breakfast and enjoyed every morsel of it.

Because our bus didn’t leave for another 7 hours, some family friends from La Crete were informed of our predicament, and very kindly rented us a motel room. We never slept so well.

That night, and  long after we were changed. We took less for granted. Gave thanks more diligently. Gave more freely. Loved material things less fiercely, and all though that night is one we won’t soon forget, some of the lessons and values diminished over time.

Tonight, or this morning at 3:16 I’m at an ETS station. Alone. It is a chilly 15°C outside, and so far, I am safe. Completely terrified, but safe.  Apparently public transit doesn’t run all night in all parts of the city,  and I left my wallet at home. I won’t lie. . . there are some very valuable lessons coming back to me in torrents.

Meonago O’Day, until next time!

The Little Things

“Its about the little things.” We hear this most often when someone is discussing appreciation of life and all the things they’ve learned over the years.
But what about the things we don’t appreciate? Isn’t that about the little things as well?

We live and learn, we struggle to improve ourselves, our mindset, our quality of life, and our social existence. We mold and chisel and shape “the little things”. . . and sometimes we forget that the same little things we constantly strive to perfect leave us in a place deeper, darker and more lonely than we’ve ever been.

Today I watched a little girl with her mother at the library. She couldn’t have been more than eleven, but there was a wisdom in her eyes that gave her young face ancient wisdom.

She wore a yellow sundress and white sandals. Her outfit seemed befitting for the 30+ degrees of warmth we experienced much of this short summer.  When she took off her hat, un-beckoned tears broke free from the corners of my eyes, and I silently wept as I watched her brilliant smile.

She was bald, and suddenly seemed pale, and fragile. I was presented with the un-welcomed fact that this sweet baby girl, with not much more than a decade of life experience was battling cancer. My heart shattered and I couldn’t keep the tears back. Lost in my own tears I was surprised when I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

The little girl, Kristina brought me a copy of “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein. “This one always makes me feel loved when I feel sad.” She said, and she nearly skipped back to the array of children’s books she had been browsing with her mother.

I wasn’t sure how to react, and felt ashamed that she’d seen my tears. I approached her mother, browsing through well loved and brand new books. When I thanked Kristina for the book, her mother soothingly offered, “She wanted to come read all her favorite childhood books. We don’t know how much time she has, but the doctors don’t think she’ll see Christmas.” I held her while she wept, and truly she held me while I wept. But Kristina, only smiled. She had found an old favorite and she sat there reading it to herself in silly voices, oblivious to the tears that shamelessly fell on her behalf.

I won’t lie, I will never understand why children must suffer some of the harshest blows in life, but I do know their agony cuts deeper into my soul than most tragedies tend to.

Its been years since I read the giving tree. Today, I added it to my collection, and bought one for Kristina too. I’m thankful for the little things… And I’m sad that sweet Kristina has to fight so hard to remind me in my ignorance of what the gift of life really means.

It is all about the little things. Embrace them . . . for Kristina.

Meonago O’Day, until next time!

I’ve recently moved from a small town in northern Alberta to the big city of Edmonton. I’m just putting it out there that I’m  “not in Kansas any more”! 
Aside from the size and population of the two places, I’m not exactly sure where to begin my comparison, or if I’ll ever completely unearth the majesty that threatens to burst the seems of my heart when I observe the city at night.
There are lights everywhere! Even on ” quiet” streets there is always motion and sound. For the most part, people, complete strangers are compassionate and considerate. No one cares who your family is, what your financial state is, what your failures and shortcomings are. Each is enveloped in their own state of living and absorbed in fellow kindness to man and beast.
Its beautiful! Because the city never sleeps, you can literally go for coffee after midnight if you choose to. Amenities are open 7 days a week, many I’m told, won’t even close for Christmas. You are able to have wine with dinner . . . at almost any sit-down restaurant and you can buy booze from vendors about 4 blocks apart anytime between  noon and  2 am. This is uncommon for a girl from a small, dry town so far from the city.
In the city you could try something new every single day, and if you live to be 100, you couldn’t have tried everything the majestic city has to offer.
But tonight I find myself yearning for home brewed coffee on a friends porch. For the laughter of familiar voices, unfathomably enough, tonight I also miss the stinky sock smell of ripening canola fields.
I find myself caught between two worlds, a little broken, a little heavy hearted, a little anxious and totally at peace with my start.
Eventually the “homesickness” will pass. I really never was at home in the small town setting, but it was familiar. A thread in the tapestry of my life, and although I only see the messy underside of the weaving in progress, I hope that one day all my choices, and circumstances will make a beautiful piece, fit for a King.

Bounty of Thoughts in a Nutshell

I’ve been writing since my very first teachers struggled to teach me English as a second language. Before I set foot in a school I had heard limited vocabulary in anything but my mother tongue, (a dialect of ‘Platt’ German spoken, but not usually written until the late 90’s).
My first months were spent tearfully struggling to understand and execute basic English instruction, and tediously working with a TA until I caught on. One of my main goals became to excel in this new foreign-to-me language so that my little sister and brother 2 and 3 years younger than myself, would never struggle as much as I had when they started school.
Back then they still taught phonics in class. (Something I’m sure will come up in a later blog.) I learned to love reading and being read to by first grade, and although I had backwards letters and awful spelling, by the beginning of grade two I learned to express myself on paper. . . and I developed a deep passion for writing that has never completely gone away.
With that passion for writing comes a unique appreciation for literature. Something I can’t really put  into words, but am inexplicably grateful for.
Since the second grade I’ve kept journals that I read (or at least skim) through before ringing in the new year . . . e very year.
I currently work as a reporter in a small town, reporting is not the same as journaling, and all though most of my most personal thoughts will never see the great chasms of social media, many will be expressed.
I’ve decided not to focus my blog on any one subject but instead to use this space to touch on a little bit of everything. I look forward to sharing my thoughts and gleaning insight, wisdom, and delight from other bloggers. . .
So cheers! To continuous learning , to freedom of expression, and to expanding a “bounty of thoughts”

Meonago O’Day, until next time!