Breaking Through the Fear

 I've been blocked. Fanciful thoughts of starting each day by writing, perched in my cluttered, overly personal office, surrounded by endless framed photos of loved ones, books and treasures collected over decades, were just that. Fanciful. Good intentions that gave way to procastination, avoidance, and fear.

I am scared. I don’t know why or what of. Fear of failure… failure to launch. Fear of commitment. I am afraid but I am pushing through. I am proudly facing my fear. 

I have a phobia about “school”. Call it a paper, and I freeze. Ask me to write a report and I embrace it. I am a college drop out. The first time I saw my father cry was when I told him I wasn’t going back; disappointment washing over his face. Shame washing over mine. 

So that was the moment this A student, academic, college drop out became irrationally terrified of all things “school” or "courses".

I have been emotionally and creatively blocked since my dad passed. I haven’t wanted to write despite having a lot I want to say and express. I started taking an online writing workshop despite my obvious anxiety. I had to do something different. In the past year since I retired, I have spent less than 10 hours on my laptop and most of that was to prepare my tax return.  

I had an epiphany tonight as I participated in the workshop. I could feel my emotions building throughout the evening. Emotions that I have not been able to release for two years. As the instructor talked about the joy of writing, the lump in my throat swelled and I held back tears. It became clear to me -- the source of my blockage. Writing was something my dad and I shared over the years as we worked on his many books and stories. Avoiding the writing helped me avoid the pain. 

This is my fresh start. I can feel him cheering me on as I do now what he did his whole life – be afraid and do it anyway.

I can feel the fear dissipating … my grief is finally defrosting and my creative juices are once again flowing. And so it is.

More on that

 

This is my start.

True to form my commitment to writing wanes when most would be pouring out emotions, purging them from their bodies. It's a consistent pattern for me. Writing gives thoughts and emotions form. And until I can process and understand them, I am careful about the energy I extend. And to top it off, my creativity and writing muscle freeze during times of great duress and change. 

Before my dad passed, in the months before with the many hospitalizations, I would squeeze him hard, get in my car and cry all the way home. Driving time was crying time. And it was the ugly kind of cry - loud and guttural sobs from the deepest parts of me. I remember thinking that I couldn't imagine going on or living in a world without him. He was one of those people - for which it seemed impossible for them to not exist. And then of course, he transitioned. More on that later.

Today I turned on my laptop for the first time in the almost three weeks I left work. I am retired. More about that later. (There's a theme here).

My big emotions have been frozen since my dad's service. I can feel them deep inside, gathering, swirling, waiting for release. So many events, and gatherings have occurred in the ten months since, with little sign of emotions emerging. I knew that once I start the grief ball in motion, there's no way to know how long it will take and just what that release will look like. 

One of my last projects in my work was organizing a conference. We chose to close it on a hopeful note with a creative presentation by Inuk artist Susan Aglukark. As soon as she flashed the first image of an Inuk child up on the screen, I could feel his spirit within me. He was gleeful, almost giddy over what was transpiring. Tears sprung to my eyes and I struggled to breathe through the constriction in my throat from my Herculean effort to hold back the brewing ugly cry. "Are you kidding me?" I silently whispered. "You're showing up NOW?" The grief was starting to defrost and I couldn't afford a melt down. 

Her voice was ethereal and provided a soundtrack for the memories Dad and I had shared in the North. It reminded me of his love of the North and the people with whom he had formed deep relationships. The North had permeated his very being and left him forever changed. Several times when he had been close to death, fighting for his life, he would hear the drumming and see the Northern Lights. Not one light -- but an entire  colourful light show. 

I am retired now and I am hoping I will find time and space to thoroughly defrost. I plan on exploring the creative juices that are starting to flow. More on that later. 

This is my start.

Good bye

 

Last night the unimaginable happened. My dad passed away. I say unimaginable because he was so incredibly strong, vibrant and resilient, bouncing back from every challenge he faced. He convinced us he was invincible. The loving family he created gathered around him, singing his favorite songs - the ultimate famjam.

He accomplished so much and was so many things to many, but mostly I am grateful for the adventurous life he gave us, teaching us to dream and live each day fully. He loved (verb) his family and friends and modelled unconditional love. I'll miss his phone calls, debating world affairs, his sage advice and baked beans - but most of all I will miss the man who made everyone he met feel like they were the best! There are not enough words... ,

New Year's Stream of Consciousness

It’s the kind of day on which great songs are written. The windows frame an inspiring scene –tall pines dusted in lace, a backdrop of for heavy white snowflakes that float leisurely without purpose. 

 Snippets of prose land momentarily and then disappear just as quickly, avoiding capture. So many thoughts, ideas, positions vying for attention, a place on the page. But the chaos only paralyzes, and I choose to let the forces that be make the final cut. 

It’s January second and as per usual, I have procrastinated, not in reflecting on the year past and my current state of being, but rather, in giving them form. Can there be such a thing as too much inspiration? I suspect that my long absence from writing has created a bottleneck, better known as writer’s block. 

Deconstructing Christmas 

The dog sits impatiently at my feet in the hopes that I will tug at his toy or at least show some interest in play. The banging coming from my upstairs living room has me wondering if hubby is chopping down our tree rather than removing it. Grunts and groans and refusals of assistance are muffled by the soft strains of John Denver. We have successfully deconstructed the adornments of Christmas and the house is returned to casual attire. 

 I sit in front of a fireplace that will be crackling by mid-afternoon. I gaze out at the symphony of peace and dreamlike tranquility that only nature can deliver. I breath it in, struggling to stay present, still, after more than six years of this ethereal beauty, I can barely believe this is my reality. I wonder how many more sleeps, famjams and fires we will enjoy here. 

 String of Pearls

I have lived a life in which all my dreams have come true. I have enjoyed all of the wonderful experiences that my mind’s eye and imagination could conjure. For years we balanced a seaside condo with the blazing sunset framed perfectly by our front window, sharing this wonder with friends and family, providing tropical vacations where there may not have otherwise been. We released that dream to fulfill another – a large boat that could hold our entire family. The boat was our sanctuary, serving as our floating place of peace. Falling asleep to rhythmic lapping of waves on the stern and the creaking of rubbing lines on the dock and awaking to the song of seagulls and the gently tolling of sailboat bells was our respite from our frenetic city lives. Over the years, the boat gave way for a humble lakeside cabin. Again, my version of paradise shifted and we spent six summers perched high in the trees, gazing at the magnificent vista and swimming in fresh clean water. When it was time to try our hand at country living, we let go of our cabin to create a natural swimming pond on five acres of history. 

There was a time in which I thought each of these fulfilled dreams would be accumulated like a lifetime string of pearls but my mother was right – we can have it all, but maybe not all at the same time. I’ve had to release and let go to make space for the next. Dream it. Live it. Release. Repeat. And so it is the memories of these experiences that are my pearls that create my lifetime monument and not the material accumulates. 

 And I thought I didn’t have anything to write about.  

Blossoming

 

You burst forward without warning nor pageantry, oh favourite bloom of mine. 

Your stay is brief but magnificent all the same, filling the air with your heavy sweet perfume, and teaching us to savour what is before us, and not to come. 

Your life however fleeting fills my heart to overflowing, and makes me happy, oh favourite bloom of mine.

Invisible

Today the writing prompt was ten minutes on "how am I invisible". This should be good. Anyone who sees me takes my loquaciousness as a sign that I am an extrovert -- talkative and friendly with people. Anyone who really knows me that I am in introverted extrovert with skills. I get high anxiety walking into a room of people I don't know, especially if I am alone. Public speaking  - presenting? I quit jobs over that. I am content to sit back and observe rather than force engagement. I sit in the front row at conferences and meetings. My dad taught me that. I don't even let myself think about it, or choose. I simply walk to the very front of the room and sit alone (usually) in the front row. No escape route. Eyes focused frontwards, exuding false confidence. I have skills. But I digress. Here is my ten minute response to the prompt.

They laugh at one another’s stories and musings, building on them as they take on awkward and hilarious structures. I try to interject but they are lost in their frivolity and energy, completing one another’s thoughts and sentences and are oblivious of my attempts to join in.

There is so much life and happy chaos swirling around me and yet I feel alone in a quiet cone. Invisible really. They no longer need me as they did, certainly not as a source of entertainment or information. They are standalone, self sufficient women in their own rights, confidence cemented in their sisterhood. They have one another. They form a triangle of loyalty and love and each could not be more different. They challenge and criticize one another – and when I am fortunate enough – they do me as well. They debate in heated tones. Their convictions and passions spilling over the kitchen table onto innocent bystanders. 

They are warriors as am I. They have reserves to care for not only their own but their communities. They are equipped to face the unexpected, the dreaded and the pain that awaits. And they possess a vibrancy for art, learning, family and life.

I am quietly proud as the observer of their relationship. It is after all a triangle, not a square. 

Heavy sigh from daughter on the other end. 

I'm Not Thinking Of...

We lost an hour this weekend for Daylight Savings Time and the first day living it is always a bit rough. I sat at my computer wondering if Daughter would make it. I need not have worried. My cell rang just as I settled myself  and arranged my coffee cup in front of the computer. We kept the pleasantries to the minimum, and got right to the prompt. Ten minutes to write about "I'm not thinking about".

 I’m not thinking of the windows that need to be painted that stare back, guilting me about the fact they are half finished. Like an old man with white wispy hair, the tops are a shiny crowning glory and the bottoms are rustic wood. “I’ll get to you” I promise, but right now, I am not thinking about that.

I am not thinking about the day ahead. My head is already too full. It is early and I am still untangling my many dreams, remembering, analysing and trying desperately to piece the fragments together. I am unsettled until I do so. They were important - that I know. Technicolour dreams filled with people I do not know in homes and locations that are new to me. What does it all mean?

I focus on the coffee slowly dripping out, as I try to stay focused. My thoughts start to drift too far ahead of the moment and I tell myself, there is lots of time for that. But for now – I am not thinking of that. Only of the coffee cup in front of me, the aroma wafting through the kitchen, and the dog barking incessantly at the patio door. 

I am not thinking too much at all.