Monthly Archives: September 2012

Write through the fear

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I was at the glass studio tonight and one of the women there (aka new friend) said to me, “You’re  a writer, right?” Without thinking – because that’s how I usually respond to questions – I said “Yes”.

And then this other part of my brain, the part where the thinking happens, went “Whhaaatt?!” And then I backtracked and explained what my “real” job is and that I only write as a blogger.

But saying I was a writer just felt so … right. Maybe the unedited part of my brain was onto something. Because there is a part of me that has to write. I don’t always have to share but sometimes I feel the need to write like there is a presence in my chest demanding to be given shape and form and to be released. Kind of like those creatures in Alien that burst out of people’s chest.

Except that the writing process, while equally messy, hasn’t yet resulted in my death. Yet.

OMG, did you see what that guy wrote?

I’ve been having trouble writing for the past week or so and it’s because this post has been growing in my chest, or maybe in my heart, and my fear has been making me not want to let it out. So, inspired by the courage of Sigourney Weaver, I am taking a big breath and am going to let it out.

Decided not to shave my head, though, in case it was a bit more Britney Spears than Sigourney Weaver.

I started this blog as an exploration of what it meant to be single and happy in a world that tells me that these two things don’t go together. That being single means being lonely and that the state of single-hood is a sad but hopefully temporary place when you’re young and a sad and pitied place once you are too old to be in the game.

And here’s the green and scaly fear. If I put out a blog about being single and happy am I closing the door on ever being part of a couple? Or, maybe more accurately, will I be perceived as closing the door? Am I saying to the universe and the twitter verse, I have given up on love, see how much I don’t care!

Not that I’d want to write a blog about being lonely and single and looking for my perfect soul mate. I’d rather be dead on that table.

Although, to be fair, Sex and the City did make A LOT of money!

I also don’t want to always have to be happy. I mean, the worst thing a single woman can be is single and NEEDY!

But, the truth is, I AM lonely sometimes. I have days when I feel like the cold meaninglessness of this world leaves me  disconnected and invisible. And when I finally crawl into bed at night I just need to feel warm loving arms around me to reattach my heart and my spirit.

I’m not sure where this leaves me or my blogging. It’s clear it’s not just about being single and happy.

But after some serious pondering – and a late night viewing of Alien – I think my writing might be about being visible.

Being visible in this exploration of how to be singularly happy with who I am right now. Being visible with stories of single-hood that aren’t just about waiting for couple-hood.

Because I think the most important relationship I will ever have in my life is the one that I have with myself. And, turns out, myself is actually a writer.

Feel free to quarantine me now before any more of us become infected.

Single by the numbers

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Last week, Statistics Canada released data on the family from the 2011 Census. There was some interesting stuff in there, at least for those of us who accept that interesting and statistics can ever be lumped together in the same sentence.

Turns out, for the first time, there were more one-person households than households of couples with children. In fact, there is now a whopping 27% of households that are singles in Canada. Either we singles are on the rise or some couples are seriously slacking off by not having children.

But this got me to thinking – am I my own family?

Statistics Canada would say no. Their definition of a family is any married or common-law couple, whether they have children or not or any lone-parent households with children. So, I’m not a family.

My sister kindly pointed out that in the “olden days” an unmarried woman would move in with her sister’s family and help raise the kids. But, personally I think she is just looking for cheap help with the cleaning and the cooking.

But aside from the raising of kids (unless the large amount of pet-sitting I do counts) and having someone who occupies space on the other side of the bed, I do lots of family type things.

I bring money into the house to pay the mortgage, I decorate and celebrate all the major holidays, I do the chores like taking out the recycling, doing laundry and putting together IKEA furniture (okay, I didn’t do that last one ALL by myself).

So, surely that makes me my own family, even if there is only one butt-dent in the couch cushions. And, I can be proud of my little family and the contribution I make to Canadian society.

And just in case you think Statistics Canada is completely useless for singles, they have thoughtfully compiled a map where you can look up the percentage of singles in your neighbourhood. Single men of both sexual preferences in my age range in my neighbourhood? 6% of the population. Good thing I’m a happy household just as I am.

Now, if I could just get someone in this damn family to do the grocery shopping!!

Liminal Space

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According to Wikipedia, liminality is the ambiguity or disorientation that occurs when you are in the middle of transforming. In ritual, participants “stand at the threshold between their previous way of structuring their identity, time, or community, and a new way, which the ritual establishes.”

The last few days I have felt that disorientation. Everything is outwardly fine and yet I can feel the sadness and slow colour bleed that marks my depression. I know we all feel depression is similar/different ways. For me, it’s like the world loses all its colour, leaving a grey landscape devoid of hope.

Usually I have tools, like paintbrushes, that I can pick up to recolour my life. Tools like meeting with friends, journalling, texting my sister, going for a walk or just a good night’s sleep.

But the last few days I haven’t quite been able to get the paint on the canvas.

This afternoon I decided to head to a labyrinth ritual down on the beach.  The theme was the autumnal equinox; that liminal space between summer and winter.

It is a lovely day here in Vancouver. Blue sky and sunshine with a light breeze. The labyrinth was constructed way out on the tidal flats. A temporary space, a gift of the earth soon to be washed clean again by the sea.

We each received a walnut and a copy of Rumi’s poem – A Dumb Experiment.

Break open your personal self
to taste the story of the nutmeat soul.
These voices come from that rattling
against the outer shell.
The nut and the oil inside
have voices that can only be heard
with another kind of listening.
If it weren’t for the sweetness of the nut,
the inner talking, who would ever shake a walnut?
We listen to words
so we can silently
reach into the other.
Let the ear and the mouth get quiet,
so this taste can come to the lip.
Too long we have been saying poetry,
talking discourses, explaining the mystery out loud.
Let’s try a dumb experiment.

As I walked the labyrinth and silently listened to what was rattling my shell, I realized that this pent up pressure, this heaviness that prevents my spirit from flying, this weight that keeps me from picking up the paintbrushes, is fear. That’s all. Just fear.

Fear that I will fall into the grey abyss of depression and that I will be unrecoverable. That depression will drag me down and drown me in sadness. I fear I will be lost.

But there by the ocean, in the twists and turns of the labyrinth, I let go of being afraid of the fear. Yes, there may be sadness and anxiety and heartache in my life. But it won’t drag me down. If I can’t always soar above it, that’s okay; I can surf along it, be carried within it and be silent within it. I can learn its mystery and just be in this liminal space. I will surface again.

It’s okay to have a periods of ambiguity and disorientation when I am on the threshold between what is past and what is to come. Between who I was and what I am yet to be. In walking the labyrinth, surrounded by earth, air, fire and water, my spirit was re-balanced into peace.

My deepest gratitude to Les at Walking the Labyrinth for the gift of the equinox labyrinth today in this liminal space.

I’ve outed myself

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My last post was the first one that I’ve linked to on my Facebook status. And, I find that I’ve had an interesting reaction to this.

LIke I’ve outed myself on the interweb. Outed myself as … well … me.

I thought I might have that “ohmygoshwhathaveidone” reaction. What Brene Brown so wonderfully calls a vulnerability hangover. But that wasn’t it.

I just felt really free. Like I had opened a door and stepped out into a wider world of myself. And left behind a sometimes comforting but stifling restriction.

Thing is, nobody else really seemed to notice. I had lots more readers and two lovely comments from friends but that was it.

The incredible momentumness of the step seemed to pass pretty unnoticed.

Maybe that’s because to my friends, regular and Facebook, it was no big deal. They just know me and accept me. I was all “look at me, I’m free!” and they are all “yeah, dude, we know”.

And, for someone who has a wee tendency to overthink things until EVERYTHING BECOMES A BIG FRIGGIN DEAL, I kind of like that.

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If you like it then you’d better put a hex ring on it

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Last week I faced the ultimate test of the single girl. IKEA furniture.

Round One – IKEA 1,  Single Girl 0

Now, I am not the most handy girl. I do some stuff around my home but somehow everything that other people say is “so easy” turns into “wow, I’ve never seen/heard of that before” when I attempt it. Trying to change my beige plugs to white resulted in 5 days of no electricity in my kitchen. The one weekend reno of my fireplace surround resulted in a 5 month hole in my wall, (im)patient waiting for free help from a friend and finally paying someone else to finish the job.

But, thousands of people put together IKEA furniture every day. I am determined to be a competent, independent single woman and put together two small bedside tables.

Table #1 – got the piece almost all together but the top drawer won’t close. One screw is sticking out just enough to catch on the roller bit.  Feeling proud of myself for figuring out the problem, I promptly strip the screw trying to fix it. And then I chipped a nail. My fingernail not a hardware nail.  And then I walked away before I threw the bedside table out the window.

Sidebar here to explain why chipping a nail is more than just a shallow first world complaint for me. I was a nail-biter all my life. I tried countless times to quit. It’s a disgusting habit and I felt ashamed that I couldn’t stop. I spent thousands of dollars and countless hours of my time getting fake nails done. But two years ago when I was seeing a therapist to help deal with my anxiety I realized that my nail-biting was a response to anxiety.It’s always great to pay your therapist when they help you realize the blindingly obvious.

So, on my 42nd birthday I decided that every time I caught myself biting my nails I would stop and ask myself “what do you feel anxious about right now” and deal with that.  That was 18  months ago and I haven’t bitten my nails since. So, having nails is a bit of a new thing for me.

Okay, back to Round One. I wisely walked away from the bedside table before I also had a broken window. I texted a friend about my frustration. Her response? “yeah, my husband had trouble putting together the IKEA furniture I bought last weekend”. I walked away from my phone, too.

Round Two – IKEA 1, Single Girl 1

I’ve evened the score. Table #2 resulted in success. It was a close call, though. If this was a real fight, I would have lost a few teeth in this round. I spent 10 minutes looking for a screw that had mysteriously ended under the couch (did I mention I’m cat-sitting?). I spent a few moments cursing IKEA for not aligning the holes better as I struggled to fit the top on. And, when I finally got the whole piece together, carefully NOT stripping any screws, I discovered I had put one piece on backwards and now the screws showed on the front. Which lead to me having to TAKE THE PIECE APART AND PUT IT TOGETHER AGAIN!

For all those times when I have cursed my stubborn personality – beat a dead horse? Why, thanks, don’t mind if I do! – at that moment I gave thanks and gratitude for my stubborn streak that is as wide as an IKEA parking lot.

I debated giving myself extra points for being able to deconstruct the piece without breaking anything but I figured I also probably lost a point for putting the piece on backward in the first place.

Round Three – IKEA 1,  Single girl 1.5,   XY friend 0.5

Ladies – you can strip on a pole, strip your leg hair off with wax, strip off your gaunch to go skinny-dipping but do not, under any circumstances, strip a screw!! Men apparently already know this since all my male friends just nodded with the obviousness of the whole thing when I explained my situation.

One of the things that I hate about being single is doing my own home repairs. In these moments, especially in Round One, I just wanted to hand the whole mess over to a husband with the knowledge that in the cosmic order of gender assigned tasks, this one is his.  Gay friends – I have no idea how you sort this out.

I know this is a fallacy. When my girlfriends talk about their husbands, I AM listening. I know that not all men are good at home repair and that not all women are, well, me.  And that the reason the grass is greener on the other side is that it’s fertilized with bullshit. But, if you can find a husband/partner who loves to do home repairs, baby put a hex ring on it!

It’s hard for me. Probably more accurately, I am hard on me. I think I should be able to do everything for myself and by myself. I hate asking for help. Single women should be strong. Right? Cause otherwise we’re weak. Bad enough to be pitied for the stigma of singlehood without being unable to do home repairs. Or, car repairs (yeah, I suck at those, too).  I feel like I should stand by with smelling salts when I admit to my male friends that I take my car to the dealership for servicing.

I think we are taught that independence is supposed to equal freedom. But I am learning that being unable to ask for help when you need it is a particular kind of prison.  A cage of isolation made of pride and ego and maybe some fear thrown in there for good measure.

When I moved into my place, lots of friends came over and helped me renovate. When I look around, I don’t think “I am so weak for needing help with this”. I think how lucky I am to have people in my life who love me enough to spend 5 hours stripping wallpaper for me.  (remember – stripping wallpaper? Okay.  Stripping screws” NOT okay). That love and generosity is imbued into my walls and fills the air.

So, I asked for help. And, a very wonderful  XY friend (with freakishly strong wrists) unscrewed the stripped screw and screwed in back in properly. I think it took him all of 15 seconds. Problem solved.  So, I gladly give him a half point for that and I am giving myself a half point for asking for help.

When I look at my bedside tables, I have the perfect balance. One table put together all by myself – feeling proud of that one and for my stubbornness perseverance. One table put together with some help from a friend – feeling blessed to be able to ask for, and receive, help.

Perhaps IKEA is really Swedish for “learn about yourself while putting together inexpensive home furnishings”.

Only one problem … there is a really nice dresser that matches the bedside tables …

Differently happy

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Historically, I have not been very good at going places on my own. I get nervous. And anxious.

I can always tell if I am nervous about something because I immediately start worrying excessively about what I will wear and how I look.

I’m not sure what I’m afraid of. My friends tell me that they can’t imagine me having problems meeting people and socializing. Probably cause they see me when I’m with them!

But somehow I always have this terrible picture in my head of me standing alone, not wanted in the crowd. Doing that trick of pretending I am reading a very important e-mail on my iPhone (cause that’s how important I am!)

Maybe that’s a remnant from childhood/teenager years where I always felt different. And different was bad. Wow, did I learn that. Too smart was bad. Too fat was bad. Too ambitious was bad. Caring too much was bad.

Last night I wanted to go to the open house at the glass studio where I am taking classes (and have applied to join). I could have taken a friend for a safety blanket but I really wanted to do it on my own.

To show up as me, with all my wonderful differences – you know, the things that make me ME – and meet a few people and watch the guest glass artist.

And, that’s what I did. With surprisingly little anxiety. Feeling great about my outfit and my hair – yup, even my hair was good. Feeling happy with who I am. Feeling proud of my differences.

Kind of a cool milestone in this emotional journey. And, the only thing I did with my iPhone was take pictures.

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A solitary happiness

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“Because her original pattern was so worn
the last time she flew apart,
she was forced to let the pieces
reattach as they pleased.
Once the shock wore off,
she welcomed the change.”
~Susan Mrosek

A year ago today, my heart got broken.

I’ve been a bit scared leading up to today. Scared that this day would plunge me into feeling exactly like I did last year; that it would send me spiraling into a dark, grey place of depression.

A friend commented to me that I could just treat it as a day like any other day. But to me it isn’t. It feels like a passageway that needs to be marked in some way. But not by bleakness and despair.

So, I got to thinking about what the journey over the past year has meant to me. What do I want to mark? It has been a year of incredible transition and transformation. It led to me starting to share my writing and my photos. It led to me signing up for a glass sculpting class; and then one on glass beads. I started going places and doing things on my own. I learned to stay home with the TV off and enjoy spending time with myself. I started to say “no” to things that I was doing only because they met others expectations of me. I took a deep breath and let go of the people-pleasing and I stepped back and trusted others solve their own problems.

But more importantly, it led to me trying to answer the question “how can I make my life be a happy one”? In this world which tells me that couplehood is the answer to my life’s happiness, what does it mean to be happy and single?

I read a great blog post (which I sadly can no longer find or I would reference it) about why everyone should experience a heartbreak. Certainly it sucks. It really sucks. I still have moments where I can’t catch my breath. Where I feel like a giant hole has opened in my heart and I keep wondering where the missing pieces have gone.

But, looking back over the last year, I now know that this heartbreak taught me valuable and precious things about myself. I realized that I had been pinning my happiness on that magic state of couplehood. Because surely it would cure any loneliness I have and give me status in this world as a successful woman. After all, doesn’t our culture tell us that a happy marriage is crucial to being a successful woman? In the saga of Brangelina, how many tabloids tell us of Jennifer Aniston bravely facing her future of loneliness (and childlessness) while Angelina is blissfully happy with her man (and their children).

Thing is, I thought I was happy with my life. I have friends and family who love me, make me laugh and support me, I have a spiritual community in which I am deeply connected and I have a job that I love and which keeps a roof over my head and allows for some travel money. What right do I have to be unhappy?

But amidst all that there is sadness. There are times of loneliness and tears, of fear and anxiety. Of anger and frustration and failure. Of screw ups and confusion. Of disappointment and grief and despair.

And in the last year of letting go of judgement (mine and others) to explore this landscape of my inner self I realized that the answer to my question was not in how to be happy with my life. It was how to be happy in my life. With who I am and not what I am.

Because life comes with heartbreak and happiness, with laughter and loneliness, with silliness and sorrow. Regardless of whether you are single or in a couple.

Yeah, it sucks that it was a broken heart that sent me on the painful journey into the landscape of myself. And, I am eternally grateful to my friends and family who supported me and held space for me while I slowly put the pieces of my heart back together.

But what a gift to to know – to really know – that I am truly happy with who I am and with how I am in this world.

I’m okay with letting the world see me through my writing, my photos and, maybe, my glass creations. Through words and songs and connections. If you like them, I am touched and pleased. If you don’t, that’s okay too.

In the words of Brené Brown, my hope is to live authentically; to have the courage to tell my story with my whole heart.

And, on the one-year anniversary of my heartbreak, I think that’s worth celebrating.

Spirit House

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I just bought a new piece of artwork by my good friend Louise Bunn.  This is the second piece I am lucky enough to have in my home. It’s a spirit house and I’ve put it on the rooftop patio. It’s reminder that places have a spirit.

I have always believed that places have a spirit; an energy that develops from all the living things and events that take place there. It’s important to me that my home has an energy that is safe, strong, loving, peaceful and honest. I have a Jill Bolte Taylor quote by my front door that says, “Please take responsibility for the energy you bring into this space.”

I feel blessed that my home has good energy. That love and laughter linger in the air. That the strong walls have been a container for honest and sometime difficult conversations that have led to growth and understanding. That I am lucky enough to host gatherings of amazing people who feed each other with good food and good conversation. It has witnessed one wedding, many healing rituals, lots of parties and a few baby showers. I have skyped and facetimed people from far off places into the space to join in the conversations and connections and I have spent many quiet hours reading or writing or creating bathed in the energy.

Lately, I have been thinking of moving. And, while I know my spirit house is also inside me, I’m not sure I am ready to walk away from this space.

In the meantime, my spirit house on the rooftop will remind me to cherish and nourish my space (and me), to protect the boundaries while leaving the door open for the amazing magic to come in.