Keep Being Brave

I’ve been keeping a “book” since 2011.    It started out as a few lines a day in a weekly planner; small and doable, initially prompted by Gretchen Rubin’s book The Happiness Project  but inspired by my Dad and my great aunt who’ve kept books for years. My Dad makes quick notes about the weather and who he speaks to and tasks he accomplishes. If something noteworthy happens, he adds that too.    Aunt Dot started keeping a 5 Year Diary in 1970 or so and added a few lines every day for decades; notable births and deaths and happenings are sure to be there, as well as notable letters or calls.  My books are about my day, what I did and how I felt. If something notable happened in the world or around me and it got my attention, I’ll add that too.    The first year, there was room for only a few lines but I moved to a daily planner the next year and gave myself room to say more.    I don’t go back often unless there’s something I’m looking for it when I do, even flipping through the

When I was a kid, there was a heavy glass dish that only came out on special occasions. It was amber with an iridescent finish that reminded me of gasoline in a puddle. In my memory, the inner bowl about about ten inches across and the outside was bulged and rounded like a bunch of grapes.  Families change and when my Mum went back to school I had to look after the kitchen and laundry and lots of other things. Everyone was stressed out and stretched. If something wasn’t done, there was a ripple effect and a lot of hollering.  The grape dish always needed to be washed by hand. It was bulky and the finish likely wouldn’t handle the dishwasher. I remember how it felt when the knobs of the grapes slipped through my hand and it fell to the floor. It was in pieces and I was sure Mum would be devastated. I was devasted in advance. I cleaned it up and put the pieces aside. Maybe it could be fixed. Maybe I was dead meat.     The phone rang later and my guts churned when I heard Mu

This has been a week of big feelings without time to write about it. I wrote a full page of frustrations the other morning and I’ve had a few ideas but everything comes out bitter and tired.   Yesterday, I tried to write about last weekend and the week that followed (basically a hard swing between four days of fun and family time to four days of work Work WORK) and it gave me pause.    My “favourite” self-flagellation topics include never getting anything done, being terrible at email, moodiness, saying too much, not speaking up, not being like other people...but yesterday’s writing showed me that I was great at almost all of those things last weekend. I need to pay more attention to the good stuff. When I’m tired, I pick at the old scabs.   Forty three is a hormonal wasteland for me.    Moods happen, they’ve always happened, and I can now almost predict a hard downswing mid-cycle.    Add to that persistent mid-life questions about what I’m doing with my life, what I’ve do

I’ll never be a minimalist.    There will always be lots to look at and talk about at our house. I sat down at the table this morning and realized I could tell you a lot about my family and my life’s wandering path without even getting up from the table. Our kitchen table and two of the chairs belonged to Dave first and they’ve been ours for eleven years.    Another chair belonged to my paternal great aunt and matches a desk in our office. It has a distinctive and strange finish that was all the rage way back when.    The chair matches a desk that now sits in our office holding a printer and supplies.    The desk and chair were my Dad’s before them came to me. Actually, they were Dad’s and then stayed at Mum’s and the chair sat in her dining room for years, paired with a different desk altogether. The two chairs that sit opposite Aunt Audrey’s chair belonged to my Grammie. Grammie’s chairs are made from a very light wood and the finish has now almost worn away, leaving i

I have seven minutes to write something before I get sucked into Wednesday.   Monday was a hard day.    Death by a thousand paper cuts.    Emotional work. Work work. Physical work, though not labour; more coughing and embarrassing side effects. It was a long haul and then even my knitting decided to give me the big middle finger.    By bedtime, I was toast. Tuesday morning I woke up feeling almost hungover.    Monday felt like it was going to bleed into Tuesday. I opened my notebook and set a timer while I ate my breakfast.    Favourite things.    My favourite pen flew across the page.    Dozens of things came to mind and I kept going after the timer dinged.    My mood was lifting. More than twenty years ago, Oprah talked and talked about gratitude journals. I wasn’t into that but it became a practice for me to name five things I was glad about or grateful for when I felt low.    One particular day was awful. I was struggling to come up with a list as I dragged myself

I’ve been late for work for years.    I won’t be late if there’s an early meeting but if it’s a regular day, I’ll keep my regular schedule that starts and ends later than most of the team.    I loathe being late for meetings and hate to keep other people waiting, but there’s something about leaving the house in the morning... For a long time, I stayed in bed until the last possible second, ran around like a chicken with its head cut off and then arrived at work in a flap about whatever had gone wrong that morning.    (This was also true in high school and university, come to think of it) Then there were stretches (years) when I got up a bit earlier and sat in my housecoat for half an hour, catching up on the internet and pretending the day wasn’t starting without me before switching into chicken mode and wondering why I was so late AGAIN?!  Breakfast, if eaten at all, was peripheral and a means to an end.    I ate standing up at the counter or while curled up on the couch. O

I keep swearing I’ll get more sleep.    There’s been a terrible cold / flu / nightmare going around the office and I was off the week before last.    I was awake hacking for several days before I finally found the right combination of pillows, pain relief and Calm sleep stories to help me get more than 45 minutes of sleep at a time.    And then, all of a sudden, I had a couple of incredible sleeps and thought I was back on track but work, life, hormones and good books threw me off track again. Last night, my problem was exhaustion and a lack (alas) of alone time. I had been exhausted since noon but stayed up until almost 2:00 puttering and reading. Needless to say, today was a long haul. I’m going to try to re-set tonight with a small dose of melatonin. One of the books I read through the night recently was Shandi Mitchell’s The Waiting Hours.    I met Shandi at Lunenburg Lit last Fall and we had a good chat.    My work overlaps with some of the work of the characters in the b