tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28619074498511995462023-11-15T10:16:13.503-08:00Itchy Feet & Cabin FeverEowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-10157553466093930132017-12-15T11:45:00.001-08:002017-12-15T11:49:24.571-08:00Light in the DarknessI don't consider myself a particularly spiritual person, nor a religious one. Ethical? Moral? Perhaps.<br />
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I'm an introvert, but not necessarily given to introspection. Too often, that has led me down the rabbit hole, so I tend to accept things at face value. Which is why I've been puzzled by my recent need to wrestle with (meditate upon?) Isaiah 9:2. </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="ln-group" style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: "trebuchet" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">The people who walked in darkness</span><br />
<span class="indent" style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: "trebuchet" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-left: 35px; text-align: justify;">have seen a great light;</span><br />
<span class="ln-group" style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: "trebuchet" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;">those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,</span><br />
<span class="indent" style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: "trebuchet" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-left: 35px; text-align: justify;">on them has light shone. </span></blockquote>
It's Advent, so the text shows up in various forms in hymns, prayers, and readings for the season on a regular basis. I've been hearing in in multiple translations for the better part of fifty years now. So why now? Why does it strike such a chord in my mind and heart?<br />
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On a surface reading, I picture a group of hikers lost in fog or blizzard or night in unfamiliar territory. They're lost and frightened, cold and hungry. Suddenly, they see a bright light piercing through whatever it is that occludes their vision. They hear their names being called, and suddenly they are safe in the grasp of Search and Rescue. Light, for them, is associated with comfort and safety. That has always been my interpretation of the passage from Isaiah. The presence of the divine will bring comfort and peace.<br />
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Or will it? Can there be more layers? So many times when we see rescue people on television, they appear disoriented. Is it a hold-over from the disorientation of the fog and darkness? Or does the sudden switch from danger to safety hold its own risk of disorientation?<br />
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It's almost a trope of science fiction and fantasy worlds that there are subterranean peoples who are disoriented and overwhelmed when they first encounter the sky and the sunlight. Most people have at least heard of, if not encountered, certain insect species that scuttle for the dark corners when confronted by light. (I'm looking at you, cockroaches.) In a more metaphorical sense, shining a bright light into the corners of one's soul (or psyche, if you prefer) is a very uncomfortable process. Therapy is a lot like a true examination of conscience. You think that light will be a balm for your pain. And then you realise there's a reason why you've been keeping parts of yourself in shadow. Not everything that you've been keeping in the dark corners is attractive in the light of day. Shadows can hide a lot of dust and cobwebs and dirty laundry. What we are all called to is a spring-cleaning of the soul. And nobody <i><u>really </u></i>likes spring cleaning.<br />
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Another translation of the text renders the second half of the verse thusly:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On those who dwell in the shadows, a light has shone.</span></blockquote>
What does it mean to dwell in the shadows? Again, we're dealing with an image that has multiple layers of meaning. The two that stick with me, though, are the ideas of criminal or other nefarious activity that seeks to go unseen, and that of those whose lives are relegated to the shadows or fringes because their existence poses too much of a challenge to the rest of us, like the homeless and the mentally ill.<br />
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It seems to me that too many in our society are content to leave the shadows unexplored, relegating them to the status of shadow-dwellers, much as lepers in Biblical times were relegated to living in caves outside the city proper. Then, just as we are called to let the light shine into the dark corners of our own souls, we must be the light to those who dwell in the shadows of our own lives. Kindness costs nothing. Use our light to truly <i>see </i>others for who they are, and who they might become.<br />
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So Isaiah's words can be interpreted not just as a pretty metaphor for the coming of the Messiah, or a call to enlightenment, as a call to clarity. And through clarity, to charity, which is one of the hallmarks of the Christmas season, and which we are called to carry with us throughout the year.<br />
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A Blessed Advent and Joyous Christmas to you all.Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-45473958023077306102016-06-17T16:43:00.000-07:002016-06-17T16:47:05.975-07:00Hatred, Uncles, and Lessons from My FatherThe events of the past week have taken their time to sink in. I'm not the first person to watch the news, so I didn't hear about Saturday night's/Sunday morning's events in Orlando until midday Monday, and even then I had to Google the references in friends' social media posts to learn anything about the specific events. Even that took a while, since I had to wade through a sea of reports on politicians' hijacking people's grief to further their own agendas. There even was a case of someone making a comparison to the massacre at Wounded Knee, and twisting those long-ago events into a support for unrestricted Second Amendment rights. <i>(Oh, by the way, this same post was written by an individual who has, in the past, written much drivel with a racist, anti-Native American slant. No irony there at all.)</i><br />
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**********************</div>
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But there was more to it for me than merely that. I started thinking about my uncle, one of my father's younger brothers, the fourth of five boys, the seventh of eight children. He was a beautiful soul, a talented musician, multilingual (he spoke six languages and was learning a seventh at the time of his death). He lived at home as an adult, helping to care for his parents and mentally-challenged younger brother. After his father's death, he became, even more than before, the prop and support for his mother and brother. It was he, more than his married brothers and sisters, who would be the travelling companion for his elderly relatives when they travelled overseas to visit my family. He also happened to be gay, in a place and time where that wasn't always accepted. <br />
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After my grandmother passed away in 1982, his brother went to live with one of their sisters and her family, leaving him at loose ends. He, who had always been the caregiver, was left with no one to care for. At age forty-seven, he had to re-evaluate who he was. I believe it was at this time that the conflict between his yearnings and his upbringing brought him to a <i>crise de la foi.</i> He spoke to a priest, who told him that nice Catholic boys from good families couldn't be homosexuals, and that he just hadn't met the right woman yet. And that, the family believes, brought about a <i>crise des nerfs.</i> Unable to reconcile the various aspects of his nature, and bereft of the identity that had been at the core of his life for his entire adulthood, he fell into a deep depression and ended his own life. <br />
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I only learned much of this information a few years ago, although I had suspected it for years. It was shared by my father, who, I believe, had been particularly close with his brother. <br />
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And that, somehow, combined with the nearness of Fathers' Day, got me thinking about my own father and the tolerance and acceptance he showed when telling the tale of his brother. <br />
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I'll be honest, tolerance is not the first trait that comes to mind when I think of my father. Particularly to a child, he came across as rigid and intolerant, with little patience for mistakes or foolishness. It took me a while to realize that was merely the outward demonstration of a code of honour so ingrained that it still awes me to realize how deeply authentic a life my father has lived. That code is based on faith in God, self-reliance and a deeply ingrained work ethic, and acceptance of others combined with the ability to think for oneself. What the child I was took as rigidity sprung from his attempt to instill that same code in his children.<br />
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Not all of it took. My faith is somewhat more free-form than his, and my work ethic is more conditional - I will work hard when I can't get out of it, and only to get back to my leisure activities. Somehow, I still got more of the faith than my brothers, where they got more of the work ethic. We all, however, seem to have learned the lesson of tolerance and acceptance. <br />
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<i>And maybe, that's the most important thing our father taught us.</i><br />
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<br />Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-65411739981331936642014-08-10T00:02:00.000-07:002014-08-10T00:02:03.378-07:00The Paralysis of Fear<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I found myself in an uncomfortable position today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A couple came into my workplace. The young man was Caucasian, the young woman, Asian. Her demeanour was stereotypical: quiet and submissive, soft-spoken when she spoke at all. He impressed me as the kind of guy who lives in his parents' basement until an embarrassingly advanced age; the type who has no real power of his own; the sort of dweeb who, if a member of a Christian denomination, gets into missionary work because he subconsciously craves a power and authority that he has not earned. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I paid them little mind as they browsed, but, when they came to my service area, I couldn't help but notice the way he spoke to her. It's the way one speaks to children when they have expressed a desire for something expensive and trendy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Are you sure that's what you want? </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Are you absolutely positive?</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Except his tone seemed less inclined to provoke consideration of choices than to convey the message that she was incapable of making decisions on her own. If anyone ever spoke to a daughter of mine that way, I would have to fight the impulse to knock his teeth down his throat. And I would kick the crap out of any of my sons who dared to treat a woman that way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was starting to see red, but I felt impotent. I really wanted to say something as I witnessed this infantilizing behaviour disguised as support. I really did. But what?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Why do you let him talk to you that way?</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>She's an adult, not a child.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Stop belittling her.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Darling, you're allowed to have a voice. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the end, to my shame, I remained silent on the subject. I did my best to address my remarks to her, since she was the one driving the sale and would doubtless be the one using the purchases. More than that, I felt uncomfortable about doing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Something about their interaction, in retrospect, is giving me the willies. I hope she finds the strength to ensure that the relationship becomes more equitable. I hope that he can accept her growth. And I hope that she has the courage to do whatever is best for herself, if worst comes to worst. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-303741844809311002014-06-10T14:57:00.000-07:002014-06-10T14:57:34.444-07:00Ross, Larche, GevaudanIt's hard to say what hits home the hardest about the recent tragedy in Moncton. As a Canadian, as someone with family ties to the Maritimes, as the sister of an RCMP constable and the mother of a son also in uniformed service, there are so many layers to the sadness that connect me to these unthinkable events, but I think what makes it hardest is the immediacy of it all. <br />
It is easy to admire military veterans who served in the great conflicts of the past, in part because those events are remote from us in both distance and time. How can it be any less admirable to know that your life is at risk every time you go to work, and yet go anyway because it is the right and necessary thing to do. <br />
So I just want to say "thank you" to all those heroes who quietly work to keep us safe everyday. God bless you and the work you do.Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-53484615570102501342014-05-23T08:47:00.000-07:002014-05-23T08:47:46.666-07:00"Mean bone": forgiveness is a heavy burden<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em>"She doesn't have a mean bone in her body."</em></div>
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I heard someone say that the other day, and my initial reaction was, "that's nice". But it's been niggling at me, as random overheard comments sometimes will, and my reaction to that now is succinct.</div>
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<em>Bullshit.</em></div>
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They used to say that about me, years ago, that and all the other truisms that mean the same thing.</div>
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<em>Wouldn't say boo. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Big pussycat (or teddy bear). Heart made of marshmallow fluff.</em> Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.</div>
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I actually believed it about myself. Central to my image of myself was the affirmation that I was a kind person. All through high school, it was easy to believe. I was well-liked, if not popular. I didn't have the right clothes, go to the right church, participate in the right activities for that. And I liked geeks better than jocks. Kiss of death for '80s high school popularity right there.</div>
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Even when I left home for university, I believed it. And then I met him. I had gone to the fall formal with a group of friends, the only one without a date, but that didn't seem to matter. I was sitting on the sidelines when my friend Jocelyn came over with her date and invited me to come over to their table to meet, as she put it, "some single guys". That was how I met Greg and Mike and, well, let's just call him JP.</div>
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We made awkward small talk as a group, and Jocelyn and her date left to dance, and JP invited me to dance, as well. Finding him attractive and engagingly awkward, and admiring the courage it had taken to ask me, I assented. We ended up dancing together for the rest of the evening. He was everything my romance-novel-reading soul could ask for. Tall, blond, devastatingly handsome, incredibly intelligent, romantic, thoughtful, a great kisser. I fell, and I fell hard. I was in love, real love, not merely high school infatuation, for the first time in my life. Or at least, that was how I interpreted it. </div>
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I spent the next while on a cloud, even when I couldn't see him as often as I would have liked. As a romantic young woman will, I was sure that he felt about me just as intensely as I did about him. Maybe he did, but I imagine that I will never know. </div>
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Then it happened. It was probably just bad timing, catching him at a bad moment, but I telephoned him and he blew me off, sounding testy, saying "shouldn't you be studying, goddammit". Well, I had called him because I was finished my homework for the nonce, and I was feeling somewhat isolated, since my friends had all gone out to the movies, for which I did not have the funds. Instead of making allowances for his bad temper, I took it personally. Very personally. </div>
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I spent the next two hours composing a four page letter. Four single-spaced, closely written pages. Full of every insult and slur I could think of or create. I attacked his origins, his birthplace, his ancestry, and I laboured long and lovingly over my descriptions of the heartache I suffered because of him and his behaviour. I don't remember much of the details of the letter, but I do remember calling him a "blue-nosed bastard" and a "Cape Breton conman". To use twenty-first century parlance, I flamed him but good. I think the only area I did not attack was his sexual competence, and that was chiefly because a) we hadn't gotten that far, and b) I had no standard of comparison. </div>
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I then signed it, sealed it, and delivered it by sliding it under his dormroom door where he would be sure to find it when he returned from wherever he was out to. Then I went to bed and slept the sleep of the self-righteous. I awoke a couple of hours later to the sound of something being slid under my dormroom door. </div>
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It was his response. Even drunk, sarcastic, and hurt, two things came through. First, he was disappointed, because he had seen in my "china doll pureness" some form of redemption for himself after a devastating end to a previous bad relationship. (Heavy burden for anyone, let alone an eighteen-year-old romantic, to be someone else's redemption.) Second, he forgave me. (Forgiveness unsought, another heavy burden.) </div>
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I couldn't see it then, but looking back, I am in awe at how maturely this twenty-year-old boy handled my childish tantrum, and my subsequent course of action, which could not have been easy for him to handle -- such truly <em>stupid</em> choices as dating his best friend with the intention of destroying him for the "crime" of introducing me to JP (which backfired on me because said young man saw it as an opportunity for revenge on JP's behalf). </div>
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Not only did he keep forgiving me, but he also kept pursuing me, for the rest of that year and the next, whenever he found the courage in the bottom of a bottle. I wanteed to take the redemption I was being offered, but the burdens of guilt and shame, combined with the blows I had inflicted on my own self-image and self-esteem, kept me from reinstating the relationship. That, and resentment of the fact that he only seemed capable of approaching me when he was well, traveling under full sail. Now I realize that he was inoculating himself against the pain of further rejection. </div>
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When I finally realized what I had done and was trying to do, I was devastated. It's true what they say, that revenge can destroy the one seeking it. I am living proof. I have since done my best to rebuild my soul, but it is a haphazard and patched thing, full of scars and pitfalls.</div>
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</div>
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But I have digressed somewhat. My point is, if the "nice" person I was and try to be can harbour such potential for darkness and meanness, anyone can. I believe that everyone has a "mean bone". We can only choose not to indulge it. </div>
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<em>JP, wherever you are, I hope you are well. I hope your soul is intact. Our stories are linked, making you a part of me. I hope that you have found happiness commensurate with your past suffering. While our story does not have a happy ending, I have found one, at least for now. I hope you do the same. They say God has a special openness to the prayers of sinners. I hope so. This my prayer for you.</em></div>
Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-70647579564957291082013-01-29T05:57:00.000-08:002013-01-29T05:58:02.746-08:00Keeping Abreast<h3>
Or: Adventures in Bra Shopping</h3>
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<em>I've been away for a while. Life sometimes has a way of getting in the way of the best intentions to write. But I thought I'd take a break from the introspective navel-gazing of some of my posts and look at some of the challenges of everyday life. After spending the past couple of days checking out the world of bra blogs (who knew there were such things?), I decided to weigh in with my perspective on things.</em> <br />
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First of all, let's call them what they are: breasts. Not boobs, boobies, tits, titties, sweater puppies, melons or peaches or plums or cherries or any other kind of fruit, or any of the other demeaning euphemisms that men (and, let's face it, women) have invented for them. Breasts. <br />
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For further elucidation, here is my dictionary of the proper definitions of those words. <br />
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<strong>Boob</strong>: a <span style="color: black;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">stupid</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">person;</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">fool;</span> </span><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">dunce.</span> In other words, what many men become when the topic of breasts arises.</span></span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Booby</strong>: a type of sea bird.</span></span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Tit</strong>: a type of songbird. Origin of the word as slang for female breasts is probably a corruption of <em>teat</em>.</span></span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Titty</strong>: really, there isn't any excuse for using this one, in spite of its having been in use for the purpose since the late 17th or early 18th century. Some words should be allowed to die.</span></span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Sweater puppies</strong>: do we <em>really</em> care where this one came from? It's just plain offensive. Like titty, no excuse for use.</span></span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Fruit of various types</strong>: while this usage does have the advantage of expressing the desirable nature of the appendage, these euphemisms also refer to size, and can be used in a derogatory manner, so no. They aren't acceptable.</span></span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"><strong>Hooters</strong>: if you're trying to sound like Booger in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088000/" target="_blank">Revenge of the Nerds</a>, go ahead. But really, who wants to emulate a character nicknamed after dried-out nasal mucus?</span></span><br />
<span name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
<em>But I digress. Here is my bra story: </em><br />
<span name="hotword" style="color: #0055bb; cursor: pointer;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
I am in my early 40s, and for years I was wearing a 36DD. I hadn’t been fitted since I was in my teens, so I was working mostly on trial and error as my breasts increased during four pregnancies and the rollercoaster of emotional eating. I knew enough to up my cup size instead of my band size (I was a 34C when I graduated high school), but I had resigned myself to only ever finding boring granny bras. My one experience with a specialty shop, in my mid-twenties, had been extremely painful, as the staff would not even acknowledge my presence, seeming to think that I could not afford any of their stock and therefore I was not worth their time and attention.<br />
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About six years ago, pregnant with my fifth child, I knew that the bras I had were no longer the correct fit, and started complaining to my husband that I couldn’t find anything that fit at the national department stores. The ladies there had tried, but the best approximation they had available was a 34DDD in a minimizer style, which was too loose in the back and still gave me painful quadraboob in the front.<br />
Shortly thereafter, my husband showed me an advert for a specialty shop in the next town (<a href="http://foreveryourslingerie.ca/" target="_blank">Forever Yours Lingerie</a>), which I had avoided because I thought they catered only to plus-sized women. My husband quite rightly told me, “You have plus-sized breasts”, and drove me down one rainy Saturday. The shop was busy, but the fitter, a young woman in her twenties (and probably a 30F herself), was understanding of the challenges and insecurities that go along with never having had a proper-fitting bra. She took my measurements and soon returned with a variety of styles so that I could determine which were my preferred cuts and fits. We soon determined that my preferences were for structured cups with underwire, and I eventually walked out with two bras, one a 32H, and the other a 34G, from different manufacturers. That was six years ago. I can also recommend <a href="http://www.crimsonlingerie.com/" target="_blank">Crimson Lingerie</a> in Calgary.<br />
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I have since become a devotee of <a href="http://www.primadonna.eu/en" target="_blank">Prima Donna</a> bras, in 32H. They probably run a bit more expensive than some other manufacturers, but for me, the fit is incredible, they make me feel beautiful, and I view the higher ticket price ($120CAD and up) as an investment in my mental and physical health.<br />
With the knowledge I have gained, I hope to pass on to my daughter (14 years old and taller and bustier than most of her friends), that breast size -- large, small, or in-between -- is nothing to be ashamed of, and that it is better to dress the body you have than try to force yourself to be/look like someone else.<br />
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<em>So, this is my story. I would love to hear yours.</em>Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-73940380223231365762012-10-28T06:48:00.001-07:002013-01-29T06:02:20.323-08:00Webs & skeins: what connects friends<div style="text-align: justify;">
As those of you who read my last post know, I recently experienced a profound sense of connection with a far-distant friend through a shared sense of loss, yet we have not even been in the same part of the country for over twenty years. That got me thinking and wondering about friendship and why it is that we can feel so intensely connected to someone we haven't seen in years, and yet we might never get beyond the surface of someone we see almost daily. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
After mulling it over, and looking at my long-distance friendships, I began to see certain similarities, almost none of which explained the longevity of these particular relationships. Many of my friends are parents, but that doesn't explain it, or at least not by itself. Some are relatively new at the game, while others, like me, have raised at least one child to adulthood. It's not religion, at least not in the organized, denominational sense of the word. My circle embraces Christians of all stripes, agnostics and pagans, Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs, Jews and Muslims. There might even be an atheist or two thrown in for good measure. Certainly there are shared values, but that only scratches the surface. I've met many people who shared my values, but precious few of them have become the kind of enduring friends with whom there is a shortcut to connection. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's not definitely not education, since I never managed to complete university, and my friends run the gamut from high school dropouts to PhD candidates, and it's not intelligence, or at least not in isolation. While most of my friends <i>are </i>intelligent, I've met many allegedly bright people with whom I could find no common ground. And it's not technology in and of itself, although most of us use those tools to aid in building and maintaining our connections. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What it seems to be is a sense of humour and a way of looking at the world as a series of connections, a series of interconnected stories that need to be told and retold to be remembered, which creates a kinship that has nothing to do with the DNA of our bodies and everything to do with the DNA of a really good story. Perhaps that is why we all seem to have some sort of creative outlet, whether literary, visual, or musical. Not that we all make our living through our endeavours, although some of us are fortunate enough to do so. I am not one of them, although working the front line in the hospitality industry certainly requires the ability to think outside the box. <br />
<br />
I think what I love about all these friends of mine, is that they <em><u>think</u></em>. Deeply, lovingly, sarcastically, with humour and childlike openness, about themselves, the world around them, and their place in that world. <br />
<br />
Whatever it is, it serves to connect me to a lit-loving med student in Manila, a social media scholar in Charlottetown, an historical interpreter, several musicians, and a Toronto-based aficionado of the absurd, among others. And maybe what it is doesn't matter as much as the fact that it exists. </div>
Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-50828421803459604632012-10-27T15:03:00.002-07:002013-01-29T06:03:14.358-08:00Internet magic: or, loss and memory<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was reading through some older posts on a friend's <a href="http://cribchronicles.com/" target="_blank">blog</a>, and came across a post where she spoke of the son she lost as an infant. It reminded me of the brother I never knew, the one who might have survived had a doctor not been reluctant to wield a scalpel to assist him into the world. I haven't thought of him in years, even though my parents acknowledged the loss and told my brothers and me about him. He was always part of our night prayers, the "God blesses", as we called them. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i></i> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"God bless Mommy and Daddy, Grandma and Grandpa, Oma and Opa, Anna Catherine, Neil John," etc. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Neil John. That was his name, an Anglicization of the historically Latin names that are so much a part of my father's traditional Dutch Catholic family tree. Cornelius Johannus, he would have been to a previous generation. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I was a very young child, he was my constant companion, even more so than any of my living brothers, who were so very different in their interests from me. Neil, as I pictured him, was just as bookish, maybe a bit less socially awkward, than I was. When I became a target for bullies in elementary school, I always imagined that he would have been my defender, or at least been the one to share my isolation. Physically awkward kids with borderline genius IQs generally don't fit in well in small rural schools, particularly if they have no gift for dissemblance, and I suffered the additional burdens of being the only girl in the grade and the only one who had not attended kindergarten (back when it was optional). </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's odd. Back then, I pictured Neil as close to my age, even though he would have been sixteen months younger than I, and given the arbitrary nature of school age cut-offs, two grades behind. Now, when I try to remember what he looked like, I get two images, primarily, one overlying the other. The first is of a blond toddler with our father's curly hair, the hair that none of the rest of us inherited, but which skipped a generation to show up in one of my daughters. The other image is of a faceless young man, somewhere between twenty and thirty-five, in some sort of military uniform.<br />
<br />
Somehow he reminds me of the photos I have seen of "Bobby", one of my mother's cousins who was lost, albeit in a different way. Bobby was R.C.A.F. during the Second World War, and is still, to the best of my knowledge, listed as "missing in action". Neither his body nor his aircraft were ever found. There is only one photo that I have ever seen of him, taken just before he went overseas, somewhere around late 1942 or early 1943. The only reason I can date the photo is that in it, he is holding his cousin, my mother, in his arms, and she appears to be about two years old. Since she was born late in 1940, and she is not bundled up to the eyes against a Calgary winter, I would be inclined to say spring or summer of 1943. I digress. Regardless of the date, he is lost in another way, but still somehow manages to visit my memory from time to time, particularly around Remembrance Day, one of four cousins who served, and the only one who did not make it home. His cousin, David, was lost for a time, too, as a POW in the notorious <em>Stalag Luft</em> camps. Although David's breathing body made it home, I think part of his spirit, too, was lost somewhere in Europe. Whenever I met him, I got the impression that the connection between his spirit and his body was tenuous, as though he lived his life with one foot beyond the veil.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's the time of year, that season when so many cultures celebrate the lives of those who are gone, when the Celts believed that the veil between the living and the lost thinned enough to allow contact, combined with my Scottish ancestry and a genetic connection to the weird. Maybe.... There are so many other reasons that I could feel this connection, not least what my parents and teachers insisted was an "overactive imagination". Or maybe it's that Odin's ravens sit on my shoulders, whispering their knowledge into my ears. How else could I remember people I have never met, and who were barely known by those I knew who had met them? Who knows? There are many ways of knowing. From here, I could go on a half-formed, half-thought-out rant about North American culture and the downfall of Western civilisation, but I'm not ready to put on the tinfoil hat just yet. <br />
<br />
I'm just grateful for the Internet, which allows me to reconnect with long-lost friends, to read through their past letters to the world, and to connect my friend's lost son with my lost baby brother. Who knows, perhaps I have introduced two lost children to each other, facilitating a network on the other side of the veil.<br />
<br />
<em>Neil, meet Finn. Finn, this is my brother, Neil. Look out for each other. And watch for me when it's my turn to rejoin you.</em> </div>
Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-31707688895836580012012-06-24T19:56:00.000-07:002012-06-24T19:57:49.870-07:00Why does letting go hurt so much? or, I shouldn't care, but I do<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It shouldn't. It really shouldn't. Maybe if I
keep telling myself, I’ll eventually believe it. If there was a time when he
was mine, that was fifteen years ago, and I could probably argue that he never
was. It would be so much easier to do this if I didn't have a living, breathing
fourteen-year-old reminder with his eyes. Deep down, I’m happy that he's found someone and I know
that his deliriously giddy behaviour is perfectly normal for that fresh-in-love
stage of a relationship. Lord knows, he's had his share of the crazy girls and
the psycho bitches. At forty-two, he deserves some happiness. I know it can't
be with me. I've got a happiness of my own that grew out of the ashes of him
and me. But it doesn't mean that I haven't harboured a secret hope that all
these years he looked back with regret at what we might have had if we had both
had a little more courage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've only had a few relationships in my life that
have had profound and lasting effects, although my feelings have been engaged
more often than that. The ruin of the first one taught me the importance of
compassion. The second taught me that sometimes it is necessary to cut ties
when they become destructive. It was a long time before the third one, he whose
happiness I am now mourning. From that ending I learned the importance of
courage over comfort. There were so many missed opportunities that I saw but talked
myself out of using. Now I am learning the importance of dedication and
devotion -- and yes, I know that sounds like the chorus of </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OAg8NGTZf_g" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Walk of
Life" by Dire Straits</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> -- and finding myself awed and humbled that
someone thinks me worthy. Let me tell you, unconditional love, wherever you
find it, is an amazing, awe-inspiring, humbling gift. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It shouldn't hurt, not any more. It really
shouldn't hurt like it ended all over again. Maybe if I keep telling myself, I’ll
eventually believe it.</span> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-73382803294403253612012-06-19T20:43:00.002-07:002012-06-19T20:43:21.350-07:00Names and reasons: or why I am here<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Why start a blog now?" someone asked me the other day. "The personal blog is dead, or at least dying." It's a good question, one to which I'm not sure I know the answer entirely, but which also finds its reflection in a friend, who is a student of, and lecturer on, technology and media, putting an end to her personal blog this past week. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think it has to do with needing an outlet, one which may or may not have an audience, but which allows me to put my thoughts and ideas out where someone might see them. And even those posts which I don't immediately publish, because they need polishing or contain content that just would never tie in with anything I would ever want to be known about me, allow me the opportunity to learn more about myself, my surroundings, and my voice as a writer. On some level, the urge to blog now, as opposed to three or five years ago, is probably also related to the urge that led me, in my late teens and early twenties, to essay my hand at writing sonnets. I live in the times in which I live because I must, because some twist of fate placed me here, but I am not completely of these times. Some of it may come from being a chronological member of generation X, but one whose parents, unlike those of many of my peers, were not baby-boomers, and <em>their</em> parents were all born during the Victorian era. As a result, I sometimes feel as though I have a toehold in three different centuries. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The blog, therefore, is an attempt to bridge my nineteenth-century compulsion to write, my mid-twentieth-century yearning for structure and change, and twenty-first century technology. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As far as the title of my blog, it was something that occurred to me only at the instant of having to input it. I have always had the urge to travel (the proverbial "itchy foot"), but the circumstances of my life and finances have always conspired to limit my ability to do so. Combined with my having been a stay-at-home mother for the past decade, the lack of travel contributed to a raging case of cabin fever. Hence the name. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite the name, however, this i.s not strictly speaking a travel blog, although I have since moved to one of those places I always wanted to explore, and I have started work outside the home. I'm not one hundred-percent certain of what direction I will take this, but I can hazard a guess that it is at least as much about internal journeys and limitations as it will be about the literal. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do find it odd, or perhaps serendipitous, that, while I have always wanted to travel but never been able to do so to the degree which I would prefer, that I have found a career in the hospitality industry. I actually fell into it when I was still young. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was a student looking for a summer job, and I spotted a hiring ad in the campus newspaper (don't laugh, this was 1990) for a hotel that I had seen in a calendar picture and had always thought looked like a really interesting place. Since I did not want to go home and work in either of the family businesses, I typed up my resume and cover letter, and sent off my application. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, exactly, but on the basis of some previous cashier experience, I was hired to work at the front desk. My mother dropped me off at the beginning of June, and after a week, I was hooked. At that time, I thought hospitality would be a good way to earn my way through university, but I had no intentions of spending my life working in business. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast-forward two decades and five babies, and I found myself looking for opportunities outside of the home. After a fruitless attempt to find employment in the regular business world, I decided to return my focus to the industry in which I had found the most professional happiness. After a year spent at school gaining credentials to back up my experience, I launched myself back into the world of gainful employment. Three weeks after starting my new position, I can honestly say that I have come home. This is the work where my heart is, and I have the opportunity to travel vicariously through my conversations with guests. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I may not have left the cabin yet, but the windows are open and it feels like Spring. And that's a damn good feeling.</span></div>Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-75640545580010309682012-06-14T21:30:00.000-07:002012-06-15T13:53:14.871-07:00Meditation<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This afternoon, I took a short trip to pop in on my friend Phil, who works at </span><a href="http://www.oldetymecandyshoppe.com/" rel="nofollow"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Old Tyme Candy Shoppe</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> in Radium Hot Springs. He didn't have much time to chat, being in the middle of putting a large shipment into inventory and out on display, so he suggested that I go for a walk on the trails near Sinclair Creek, which I did. The weather today was warm, if a little dodgy on the precipitation front, but it held off while I was down in the canyon, for which I was grateful. While I used to be an avid day hiker, it's been well over a decade since I've done much, and fourteen years, four kids, and forty pounds have taken a toll on my stamina. Add to that, I'm still getting used to the altitude here in the upper reaches of the Columbia River after fourteen years near the coast. Sending me on the local equivalent of the </span><a href="http://www.mywaterton.ca/TheBearsHump.cfm" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bear's Hump</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> in </span><a href="http://www.pc.gc.ca/pn-np/ab/waterton/index.aspx" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Waterton Lakes National Park</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, or the </span><a href="http://www.grousemountain.com/grousegrind" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Grouse Grind</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> near Vancouver, would not have been a very wise idea. </span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: justify;">
<br /><em><u>Time in nature</u></em></h3>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once I made my way down the switchbacks in the trail to the bottom of the canyon, I found myself moving differently. I was no longer a middle-aged mother of five with a weight problem, but a creature of the woods, setting my pace to the rhythm of running water, listening to bird calls (I heard a raven, and I saw a small songbird, about the size of a finch, with a tuft of bright feathers on its head), and watching for dragonflies and caterpillars. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">On trails lined with trees and underbrush right up to their margins, I experienced an almost atavistic sensation that I was walking through a fairy-tale wood, perhaps even Little Red Riding Hood's forest, a sensation that seemed at odds with the warmth of the sun beating on my shoulders and back, with the groomed gravel of the trail beneath my feet, and with my overall sense of well-being. In some sense, I believe that I was experiencing what Clarissa Pinkola Estes describes in her wonderful book, <u>Women Who Run with the Wolves</u>, as the "<em>selva subterranea</em>", the forest deep in the soul where the true nature lives. The child in me, as well as the woman who watches "Grimm" for the references to the unsanitized fairy tales that strike a deeper chord than anything I ever read as a child, half-expected the "big bad wolf" to leap out from the underbrush, even as I knew I would be more likely to encounter a bear or cougar. Yet, as I climbed my way back out of the canyon, I felt stronger, more sure, and grateful for the opportunity to undertake the soul's journey in such a literal way.</span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: justify;">
<br /><u><em>Things I learned</em></u></h3>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had time to listen to myself, too, and relearn some things about who I am and what I like. This is some of what I found out. I am a writer and a dreamer (above all a dreamer), a mother and a culinary</span> experimenter. I like chocolate, especially good quality dark chocolate, silky and slightly bitter, but I am in love with milk chocolate like an ex-boyfriend, the one who you know is bad for you, but whom you can't quite manage to eliminate from your life, and especially milk chocolate-covered almonds. I like perfectly ripe strawberries with vanilla bean ice cream and just a drop of balsamic vinegar. I like sitting in front of a blazing fireplace on a wet day, and I love watching the weather roll over the peaks. Mountains speak to my soul like nothing else on earth, especially these Canadian Rockies. I like trains and hotels, and especially hotels whose history is tied up in the history of trains. I like men in their forties, because they have enough experience to make them interesting, yet enough youth to maintain boyish charm. I am a romantic, and I spend a great deal of time wondering about used-to-bes and might-have-beens and might-yet-bes.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Speaking of used-to-bes, I also realized that one of my ex-boyfriends (yes, the milk chocolate comparison does apply, but not literally) and my husband are a lot alike in many ways. It's not just the similar height, or the blue eyes, or the buzzed hair. it's the way they know me, the way they are both youngest sons and touchy about their competence when they feel it questioned. I'm not sure if that guy was the dry run, or if I chose my husband because he reminded me of that guy. Interesting question. All I know is that guy is the only ex-boyfriend for whom I would do battle if he were hurt by another woman. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com1Invermere, BC V0A, Canada50.5089967 -116.03140550.4988987 -116.051146 50.5190947 -116.01166400000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-25428455589175937242012-06-07T21:04:00.002-07:002012-06-07T21:05:47.252-07:00Old Friends, New Friends<div style="text-align: justify;">
Faced with the rare, unaccustomed luxury of a day entirely to myself: no work, no appointments, no one to answer to for anything, I found myself in a dilemma: should I be sensible and go grocery shopping, checking out the amenities of my new home, or should I take advantage of a beautiful sunny day (with more than a hint of a breeze) to explore a little farther afield and possibly take the chance of running into an old friend. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Being a woman of rare good sense, I opted for the more nerve-wracking option. Courage is always a good thing to flex. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Having missed the local shuttle bus, I gambled on my thumb. The risk paid off fairly quickly, as I was picked up by two women on their way home from grocery shopping. They dropped me off just a couple of blocks from my friend's workplace. I swear that he must have every kid's ultimate fantasy job, especially every kid who ever read <em>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory</em>: he manages a candy store. And not just any candy store, but one that sells every type of candy you ever loved or heard about as a kid and can't find any more. You name it -- salt-water taffy, every kind of penny candy you can dream of, chocolate, liquorice, giant lollipops, a dozen different kinds of fudge, most of it arrayed in plexiglas bins and apothecary jars. Candy cigarettes, PEZ dispensers of every possible variety you could imagine. You name it, they stock it. And if they don't stock it, they will most likely source it for you. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
After fourteen years, it was gratifying to see the look on his face when I walked in the door: the shocked surprise, followed by the instant recognition. I spent the afternoon hanging out in the candy store, or just out front in the sunshine, catching up, and marveling at the sensation that almost no time had passed. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When it was time to go, I had once again missed the bus, so I had to use my thumb. The first car to pass, stopped. As I got to chatting with the driver, it turned out that her husband works for the golf course right next to the hotel where I work, and that they have a basement suite available for rent, just as I am looking for accommodations. She then invited me to her home to check out the suite, introduced me to her husband, fed me tea and cookies, and then they drove me back to the hotel. I think I may have made a new friend. And all because I decided to reach out to an old one.</div>Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-69589086867000193482012-06-03T16:01:00.000-07:002012-06-05T14:27:53.964-07:00Itch scratched, fever abated<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">At least for now.</span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">After months of looking, I finally landed a position, doing what I have done before, for a company I’ve worked for before, and in the same general geographical area where I worked before. It looks as though I truly have gone “back to the future”.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I am the newly hired night auditor at a five-star resort in Invermere, British Columbia, Canada. So while I am working graveyard shifts (yuck!), it looks as though I will still have the opportunity to put my stamp on things, as a number of key people in the front and back offices are looking to move on in the next little while. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Things could get interesting, as several staff members are apparently leaving in the next couple of weeks, that number including the front office manager who hired me and the girl who is training me. She was apparently supposed to leave in mid-May, but agreed to stay on until they hired and trained a full-time night audit. The accounting assistant is also leaving soon, and I have heard rumours that the relief audit is also looking to move on. Most of the staff rumoured to be leaving are those who have been here since opening last year, many of whom are unhappy with the GM, who apparently has only been here for a few months. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I am working with a lot of staff who were still in diapers when I started in the hospitality industry (got my start back in 1990). It is an interesting dynamic being the trainee when most of my frontline co-workers are only a few years older than my eldest child, but I don't intend to be the trainee for long. I have every intention of moving up the ladder. My decade out of the industry has only served to put a keen edge on my hunger to excel, and to drag everyone else along to success, kicking and screaming if need be. Of course, being a lady, I will do it in the most gracious way possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><o:p>Adventure awaits.</o:p></span></div>Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2861907449851199546.post-25952947519213672832012-05-04T08:52:00.000-07:002012-05-04T09:19:45.269-07:00Looking for Courage<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Have you ever looked around at your life and asked yourself, "Why am I still here?" Most of us probably have at some point, usually in a figurative sense. For me, it has become more literal. For most of my adult life, my tenure in any one location or accommodations hasn't exceeded five years. Now, I find myself having been in the same location for nearly seven years, trying to effect a figurative change of location (looking for work after having been a stay-at-home mom for the past decade or so), and realizing that the current physical location was a physical compromise and a spiritual cop-out. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Courage has been hard to come by in the past decade, especially the kind that allows you to make small changes. I don't do small changes well. My soul craves drama, the grand gesture, the sense of packing one's bags and taking off. The one recurring dream of my life involves waiting on the platform of a railway station, waiting for a train that will take me to the grand adventure of my life. In the dream, I don't know where I will end up, only that I have a "ticket to ride" and the metaphysical horizon is full of anticipation and promise. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Of course, much as I would love to pick up stakes and move on to the next adventure, reality and responsibility intervene. Four kids still at home, a husband, and a mortgage hamper the spontaneous grand gesture. But I see my kids growing without a sense of adventure, and that leaves me feeling with the sense that I have somehow failed them. When they come running to me because of a thunderstorm and then stare at me with baffled incomprehension at my reaction ("Cool! Let's go watch it!") instead of grabbing pillows and settling in for Nature's light show, I know that I have somehow failed to communicate something imporatnt. I remember being nineteen, working in a hotel in Waterton Lakes National Park, and sitting under cover on the fire escape stairs watching the lightning and rain, smelling the freshness of the wind, listening to the crack and rumble of the thunder echoing off the valley walls, and feeling my hair rise just a little as the lightning charges built. </span></div>
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<br /><span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm not looking to travel around the world. Career prospects and financial responsibilities make that a distant dream right now. I just want to find somewhere fresh, hwere the outdoors is more tempting than TV or the Internet (although not so far out that there is no Internet service at all -- I'm not <em>completely</em> insane), where I can get back in touch with Nature and share its bounty with my kids. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Is that too much to ask?</span></div>Eowynswordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05051289909857768389noreply@blogger.com0Home49.189711626459143 -122.827041149139449.189063126459146 -122.8282751491394 49.19036012645914 -122.82580714913941