‘Tis the season to reflect on the year gone by. In the series of events that shaped my past year, there was one dazzling five-day period that stands out against the rest. I had been dreaming for many years of making the trip to the Denver area for a women’s journal writing retreat hosted by Kay Adams of The Center for Journal Therapy. I earned my certification to teach Journal to the Self, with Kay, through the Center about 8 years ago and always had a wish to work with Kay in person. On June 20, 2011 that dream came true for me.
I was picked up at Denver airport along with three other retreat attendees. We chatted at length on the forty-minute (or so) drive to the Loretto Spiritual Center in Littleton, Colorado, as though we were long-lost friends. First impressions were positive and by the time we arrived at our destination, I was already feeling comfortable with these ladies I had never met before. At the retreat, we met the rest of the ladies who had driven in for the occasion. There were nine of us altogether, ten including Kay. By the time we finished our “opening write” session, I had already experienced compassionate hugs from one of them and validation in many forms from each of the rest. I knew this was going to be a life-changing experience.
My Tree - the view from my room at the peaceful Loretto Center
Our days were packed with group writing, individual writing and the sharing of both our writing and thoughts. We sang, danced and made art together. We dined together and supported each other. We risked, we opened our hearts and we created.
At the end of the retreat, we were reluctant to travel back to our real lives. We looked at each other with a knowing that even our best friends don’t have of us and we craved more time. As we were departing, one member of the group asked, “Who are you really? What do you go home to?” We had been so wrapped up in our expressive and authentic selves that we hadn’t had time to discuss the other parts of our lives.
Since June, thanks to Skype, I have been fortunate to stay in very close touch with 3 ladies from the retreat. We came together for our writing but we stay together for the support. We consider ourselves a “success group.”
So, ever since Dec. 15th I’ve been too excited to sleep. It is not because I am expecting a jolly ol’ man to slide down my chimney as I sleep on Christmas Eve but rather due to the fact that I am expecting “my girls” to arrive at mid-day on January 7th and last week was our final Skype date to discuss our plans. Each of them comes from a different northern state and I get to host them here in Canada. For me, this is as good as, if not better than, Christmas.
What a way to start the New Year!
Even though we have been home for a few weeks, we are only now hosting a group of friends for a dinner party. We have missed everyone. Life in Fort McMurray allowed for very little social time. All are happy for the opportunity to get caught up, share laughter and offer support to one another.
What better way to reconnect than over an old-fashioned fondue party, with a few modern twists?
Starting with the location, we invite our guests to relax, enjoy a meal and spend the night at my in-laws’ cabin, just 40 minutes west of Calgary. It is a cozy spot with views of the Rocky Mountains and it doesn’t take much to talk this group into making the drive out. We are sure to arrive a few hours before the rest to light a fire in the hearth and warm the place up a bit.
We never tire of this view!
Where is my mushroom?
Now as far as the fondue goes, a number of years ago, we opted for the “Rival Electric Fondue Pot” and liked it so much, we bought two. They take away the hassles of lighting a gas flame, controlling the heat and refreshing the fuel part way through the meal (which. after a few glasses of wine, can become quite dangerous). It is simple to plug it in, set the temperature and move right on to the meal. Another change we have made is to replace cooking oil for the healthier choice of chicken broth, which, I guess, technically makes our meal a “hot pot” as opposed to a fondue. Everyone misses the “sizzle” but we all enjoy the flavor and the favour we are doing for our arteries and hearts.
A well arranged plate!
The meal is simple. One one side of the kitchen, my husband cuts the meat, steak, chicken, ham (a favorite), rinses the raw and peeled shrimp, and cleans the mushrooms. While on the other side, I prepare the onion sour cream dip, the hot mustard and fill sauce dishes with horseradish, barbeque sauce, seafood sauce and prepare a nice fresh salad, this time, Greek. Add a platter of veggies with ranch dip, some crusty, whole-wheat buns and we are good to go.
“Here’s to fondue,” a friend toasts with glee.
Conversations flow easily with the wine. Someone loses a mushroom in the fondue pot and someone else fishes it out, claiming it as his own. Everyone talks at once over easy listening background music and the sounds fill me up. I appreciate these well-nurtured friendships.
We graze well into the evening, and then gather round the fire until, eventually, folks trail off to bed, one by one.
It is so good to be home.
Last week I celebrated my 52nd birthday. On my birth date, most years, I can honestly say that I feel four or five years younger than my chronological age. This year was unique due to the series of events I experienced, some fortunate, others unfortunate. This year I am feeling 52 years old.
A friend has reminded me that this is a transition year for me. No wonder I am feeling my age. It takes energy to transition! I am experiencing many endings and many new beginnings.
In April, I left my job as a financial advisor’s assistant to assist my husband in his own business. This has created a new and, mostly, exciting lifestyle for us. With this decision comes an opportunity for me to redefine myself and explore new interests. (Which is how I wound up with my own blog.)
Buddy and Princess celebrating Buddy's Grad - All grown up!
In May, my son, Buddy, graduated from university with his business degree. In August, my daughter, Princess, the baby, turned 20. Now I watch as Buddy leaves for work each day in necktie and dress shoes, and I taxi Princess to and from the airport as she jets to Montreal on her days off from university. The kids were raised to be independent, functioning members of society. Although this was the plan all along, it is a bittersweet realization that my kids are young adults now. They appreciate me but they don’t need me to get through their day. Officially, the teen years have ended. Now I regard my kids with a sense of pride, as they move towards the people they’re meant to be. They have started along their own paths while I stand back and encourage.
This year I lost both of my parents, Dad in June and Mom in July. I am one in a family of four daughters, fondly known as the 4Ks, and third in the birth order. My birthday is the first to be celebrated without our Mom and Dad.
Dad on his rock in the Kootenays
We started my special day, together, by attending K1’s church for a service dedicated to our father. As far as church services go, I’ve attended many more inspirational, but when Dad’s name was mentioned in prayers, there was a moment for pause and tears were shed. For us, it was further bonding in the grief we are each experiencing since our loss. I found it a comfort to be in fellowship with others who believe, as Dad, in everlasting life.
Mom at one of her own birthday lunches.
After the service, we gathered for our traditional lunch that was organized by K2. My family has a history of “sisterhood” and only girls attend our celebratory birthday lunches. It all started long ago with just the 4Ks and Mom but as each of our daughters matured, they were admitted to our special club. We all love it. This year we were missing K4 and her daughter, who have moved to California. And Mom.
This year I say “good-bye” to the “happy birthday” phone call from Dad the day after my celebrations (he had somehow started linking my birthday to Halloween) and Mom would not take her seat amongst her girls, beaming with joy at having us all to herself for a few hours.
But in sharing this day, we feel grateful. Neither Dad nor Mom suffered through a lengthy illness. We had loving parents, who offered each of us a good life. We are more thankful for each other than ever before. We can still order two desserts with 6 forks and enjoy every bite. Our new beginnings have commenced.
Can't decide? Have both!
It has been quite a year. There have been celebrations and toasts to achievements. There has been time to reflect and time to cope. There has been excitement in discovering a new awareness and possibilities for myself. Adjustments have made with joy and reluctance. I recognize, but am unprepared for, the new gaping space in my life. I am searching for a rudder to steer me through to a new normal. Endings and beginnings.
So, I am feeling each and every one of my 52 years. But, by this time next year, I am sure I will have transitioned to my regular, 48 year-old self.
I am suffering from DRAT (Domestic Responsibility Anxiety and Tension). My life has gone from simple to not-so-simple in the course of an eight-hour drive and it feels like a tidal-wave has crashed over me. When I try to take in all that needs my attention, my heart pounds and I have to remind myself to breathe. Now that I am back in Calgary, I have to face my domestic duties, and then some.
As I enter my home, after this lengthy absence, the presence of “stuff” overwhelms me. My den is piled high with useful and not-so-useful items, extra clothes that don’t fit or won’t fit are still stored in my closet. Then, staring me in the face, are the spring jobs left undone by life’s circumstances. There are windows in need of washing, carpets and upholstery to shampoo, new curtains to hang, walls to be painted. All this and more, left on hold while I supported my husband’s decision to work up north. Sadly, I am already missing the creative lifestyle I had there.
I feel compelled to simplify and purge. The obvious room to start with is my den since the fact that I’ve not posted on my site in two weeks is making me anxious. I need my writing space and the area should welcome me, not say, “go and see if you can eek out a spot at the kitchen table.”
I am shredding in abundance and amazed at the sight of the financial records, that once filled three little file folders, expanding to fill one Glad Bag. As I sort, I ask myself the basic questions of decluttering for each item – Is it useful? It is beautiful? Have I used it in the last year? Then, as I am about to place a floral-shaped candle holder in the “out” box, a little voice says “wait you might find yourself looking for that some day.” But I haven’t used it five years. “Just about the time you throw it out, you’ll be wishing you had it.” It is clutter warfare and I have lost this battle before. This time I silence the voice and into the box it goes. I am doing the right thing and it is feeling great. Why did I ever think I needed to keep all this stuff?
Next it is off to Ikea to buy the new “Expedit” shelving unit, in white, complete with baskets and decorative boxes. An errand that I thought would take about an hour, takes closer to two and my husband, The Consultant, arrives home after his eight-hour drive home from Fort McMurray just in time to help me unload it from my car. Whenever I buy anything from Ikea that needs assembling, I say “never again!” But with The Consultant’s help, it is together and in place in no time. And he is happy to be home 
It is no accident that there are no pictures to accompany this post. I am too embarrassed to share with the world. Maybe I’ll be willing to post a few “after” pictures at some point but right now my goal is to get my laptop off my lap and write my next post at my inspiring, tidy new desk space. As the den is falling into place, I feel a slight return to calmness. That is until I walk into the bedroom! One day at a time.
Fall has arrived!
The air’s fall scent, nature’s aromatic spice, is undeniable. The long shadows of the season protect the last hardy flowers. The refreshing chill that lingers into the afternoon tells me my time in Fort McMurray is coming to an end for this year.
2_05 - Our Home
As I organize my belongs in preparation for my drive home, I realize I have become attached to 2_05, even with its little blemishes. I am getting used to a kitchen range with burners too hot and oven too cool. A person can adapt to a low-voltage microwave and I have learned that I can refilter chewable coffee. Mashing potatoes with a fork, roasting meat in aluminum foil pans and whipping cream in a Bullet Blender are all things a capable cook can roll with. We have a Big Un-comfy Couch. The internet is iffy.
But, I have gladly coped with these discomforts in trade. In my Ft. Mac life I have personal writing space and I write when inspired. I eat breakfast when I please, I have a bathroom and laundry facilities to myself. I know when I am out of Cheerios or dill pickles. I find things the way I left them, good or bad.
When I am back in Calgary, I will have to learn to fall asleep without the sounds of happy, and sometimes not so happy, patrons as they come and go from the McMurray Newfoundlander’s Club and I will have to wake without my vehicle back-up alarms.
I will say good-bye to –
- My morning dumpster surprise. Would I be startled by a bear or greeted by a bottle picker?
- My bottomless tank of gas. I love that I can walk for anything I need, from office supplies to clothing to groceries. In just over five weeks, my gas gauge still registers ½ a tank.
- The rhythm of my day. It has taken a while but I have a nice productive routine that is about to be disrupted by returning to my real world in Calgary.
- And the streets that have finally become familiar. Although, many might look a little different now that construction is winding down and they are paved for the winter.
The Road to MacDonald Island Park (Mac Island). Home to Suncor Community Leisure Centre and Fort McMurray Public Library, also known as "My Office"
When I pack my bags and load up my car, I will be driving south on the infamous Highway 63. It is not a scenic drive for tourists in search of breathtaking views, but with any luck I will witness a few glimpses of beauty. While cresting a hill to view a far horizon, there might be splashes of burnt orange, sprays of rustic red with dirty green and a shock of gold. The early morning sun may shine a spotlight through the trees into fog settled in a river valley. The frosty grass and a thin skiff of ice attempting to form on a roadside pond may be sparkling in the sun.
When it’s time to go, I will load my CD player with Slowhand and maybe a little MJ. I’ll adjust my rearview mirror and ease on down the road. Until spring then…. so long 2_05.
Borealis Water Park - Closed Until Spring
Image via Wikipedia
In the year 2 or 3 BC (before children), my husband (The Consultant) and I enjoyed some of our weekend evenings in the kitchen together. It was social time where we experimented with new recipes and connected over a glass of wine, often toasting our own scrumptious creations. We ate late, sometimes by candlelight, and solved all the world’s problems while doing so. It was fun.
Fast forward 25 years and The Consultant has a new favourite saying while in the kitchen. “Six feet, six feet,” he says, oscillating around the room with arms outstretched. This is a little idea he adopted from a family friend, chef wannabe, and good cook who insists on having an imaginary people-free bubble around him for optimum range of motion and efficiency within the kitchen. Reality is that this space is also unobstructed by the opinions of other self-proclaimed foodies and any well-intentioned helpers that may have enjoyed the community experience that food preparation presents. In The Consultant’s case, by keeping a minimum of 6 feet around him free and clear, he can avoid intruders who may critique his tendency to add as much hot sauce, as many onions, or as much cheese as he likes, even if it means overpowering the delicate herbal flavouring of the dish (although, I don’t know anyone who would do that). A violation of this territorial claim is an instant irritant. “Six feet, six feet,” he declares again. Scary thing is, I get it, and I am beginning to employ this same tactic. Now, he prepares and cooks his meals or I do mine. We have our fun in the kitchen, independent of each other. Then we sit down together to enjoy what the other has prepared. Period.
I don’t know when this change occurred but, the fact is, The Consultant and I are no longer well suited kitchen companions. All of this has got me thinking ahead. What happens when The Consultant’s contract ends for this season? Quitting my job and coming to Fort McMurray(see previous post – This Is It!) has been peculiar in itself. His role is currently one of the traditional male worker and mine the traditional, dare I say it, housewife. We are turning into his parents! He gets up early every morning to bring home the bacon and my job is to have it cooked in a healthy manner and served when he gets home from a long day. He comes home for lunch and we break up the day with a chat and good food. This is the way it is, seven days a week. He needs taking care of and I need to take care of him because we have serious plans for great adventures.
Anyway, last night, it occurred to me that our lifestyle would soon be changing, once again. When the contract ends and we head back to Calgary we will both be jobless. We are about to experience a LOT of togetherness. It is time to acknowledge that we are embarking on a semi-retired lifestyle and this realization instills me with fright, as it would any sane woman who has been in a thirty-five year relationship.
So I ventured the question, “How are we going to do meals when we get home?”
“What to you mean?” he asks. He is happy with the, she cooks, he eats system of meal planning.
“I guess you could forego cooking for bathroom cleaning,” I offer.
“No, I am going to fix Princess’s car.”
“Everyday!!?” I ask in disbelief. “Remember when we used to be compatible in the kitchen? We used to have fun cooking together. I’d like to go back to that. How do we get there?” I suggest we enroll in cooking classes.
After a moment, he responds, “I think you just got your idea for your next blog post.”
So, while I continue to work towards harmony in the kitchen, here is my post.
Today, I am struggling with the need to put away my flops and surrender myself to shoe and sock season. With this thought comes sadness that summer, my favorite season, and the freedom that comes with going sockless, has come to an end. As the most unattractive purple colour is creeping into the skin tone of my toes, I have to acknowledge that the temperature has dipped to -1C this morning. It isn’t putting the socks on that makes me sad as much as the loss of freedom represented by taking my socks off.
While raising my kids, I loved the summers. Especially that first warm day where they yanked their socks off and left them at the back door, neglected until a date far off in the future. Toes exposed, this was my signal that other summer freedoms were on the way; freedom from schedules, authority, responsibility, routine and the freedom to come and go as we pleased.
Summer brought the flexibility to eat whenever we liked, switching to outdoor barbeques, salads and fresh fruit. While on vacation, we traded the rigid rules of good health for sugary snack-pack cereals that the kids could eat right from the box and marshmallows roasted on a stick by the campfire. If the kids got to bed late, oh well. The next day would be a little sleep-in followed by a little reading time on the deck. We took road trips to visit grandparents and cycled a portion of the extensive bike paths our city has to offer. But we always left a few plans undone to carry over to next summer. That way we could simply pick up where we left off when the socks came off again next year.
It always seemed that the pace picked up too soon and the hustle and bustle of preparing for the new school year snuck up on us. Donate the outgrown clothes, toss out the over-used items and replace them with new jackets, socks and backpacks. There were new shoes for indoor activities, new runners for physical education and new boots to make it through our long, cold winters. But there was new attitude that came with them that was undeniable.
And there was something else about fall. I remember, after lamenting the end of summer and family adventures, there was a feeling that fall was a time for new beginnings. The coolness eventually pushed us back indoors to tackle jobs that were put on hold for the summer. I wanted to clean windows before the snow flew and shampoo carpets before we had to close our doors to winter’s cold blast. I wanted to turn on the oven for winter’s comfort food and get cozy in my big wool sweater once again. I wanted to breath new life into old projects and approach tasks from a new angle.
Visiting this memory reminds of a tune by Paolo Nutini. I locate “New Shoes” on my IPod, turn it up loud and give it a good listen. As the tune comes to an end, I realize I am smiling. Thanks for the attitude adjustment, Paulo. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a little shoe shopping to do.
