World of Warcraft

Slowly and repeatedly, some things dawn upon me. For one- I am not ill. I, for numerous reasons need to see myself as ill, and as one who has not recovered from a lifetime of food and body issues. But that's just not true any more. No matter what size I wish I were; I am not in an unhealthy relationship with food any more. I don't struggle with it any more. Alone in a kitchen does not make me afraid that I will begin to eat and end up 600 lb on a gurney en route to gastric bypass. Sitting down to a meal does not make me feel afraid or panicked. Snacks are not the boss of me. My bathroom scale is not my disapproving sargent. Weeks can pass by without me fighting the urge to stand upon it and measure whether I deserve to live or not.

I struggle with feeling that I am a failure. The truth is that I am a success. It's difficult for me to type that, as we've been trained that shitting upon oneself is righteous, whereas measuring one's true abilities and making an honest evaluation is a dangerous practise. It's the pride that comes before the fall. I just can't carry on indefinately believing that I am a flop and will never amount to much. It's tiresome. It's a lie.

The truth is that we all play world of warcraft. There is a whole fleet of rubbish getting thrown our way on a moment to moment basis. And there is an army of good stuff. Life giving stuff. You just get one pack of lies beaten down when you turn around and see another fire breathing dragon. You think.... "I CAN'T EQUIP THAT". I must be a failure. I must be stupid. I must have skipped that class and gone to 7-11 for slurpees and menthols. But the truth is that you're in a battle and it's just not tidy and linear.

The more that I learn and grow, the less time that I can really spend believing rubbish about myself. It just doesn't ring true any more. I've seen too much that contradicts those lies. I also know that if we are community, we do one another no good if we stay as small as possible. We are susceptible to depression and disappointment in self. That seems inevitable. To a certain degree we need those moments for balance. But to be deceived about who we can be in all our giftedness (read: God) is nearly irresponsible. It doesn't put your skills out there to serve the community. Nor does it make God look good.

We can only know in degrees whether we are successful or failures. In the day to day, we must ask ourselves: "How have I loved today?" We must take honest evaluation of where we need to make peace with others. Where we need to defend someone, where we need to feed, water, love, or listen.

I remember a pivotal moment many years ago in therapy. My counsellor looked at me and said; "Today you are not bulimic."
Here I had been striving and waiting and wrestling for years for the moment when I would no longer be ill, so that I could begin to live. And all we really have is today. If today I am not ill, how will my day look? There is no default, no excuse to wait, nothing to blame.

When I write the words; "I am not ill", I am filled with the strangest sensation. Like I am on the first square of a brand new game, ripe with possibilities. I don't have to be handicapped by my twenty pounds. It doesn't limit me from being well today. But if I believe that I am ill, then it is no wonder to me that I've made little of myself. It's a familiar place to be- one where you believe that you've been cut off at the knees and you just can't walk the same any more.

What I actually believe is that God has more for me. I know that sounds trite and maybe contrived. But when I trace my finger along the map of my life thus far, I see how things went when I carried on doing what I felt in my heart of hearts to do and be. I like the way that Jesus did only what his father asked him to do. And I want that. I'm not interested in a life lived outside of Jesus because I don't see anything there except the absence of God. Now, I'm miles away from the whole blessing theology. Therefore I don't believe that me doing the correct behaviors, praying enough, or praying correctly will iron all the kinks and unpleasantries out of life. The Bible I read tells about John the Baptizer's head being served on a plate. That was no punishment because he didn't pray hard enough or tithe less than 10%. It's just life. And I imagine that at the end of John's life as his head was getting sawed off, he didn't wish he had gone into business or farming instead. He was sold out- he knew who he was in the context of marching relentlessly after God.

In this world, with its warcraft, getting distracted is absolutely constant. Getting confused is a useful tactic. Having a form of godliness but denying its power is trendy and current.

We are all normal. There is a range of psychoses that falls within what we deem as "normal" in our culture. The truth is that we all battle demons that take upon themselves different forms, depending upon what our life story has been thus far. We all struggle with issues of identity. We all wonder about significance. Some of us are aware of these dramas, some further along in their resolution of them, and some up to their nackers in la-la land denial.

But I have a hope that they can be beat down. Well, maybe not beaten down, because maybe they'll keep hanging around and baring their teeth and snarling. But I think that in the battle, one can get to the point where the messages no longer seem personal. They are no longer defining. They don't have to be wrestled with for months or years because they will immediately be recognized as UNTRUE and therefore POWERLESS.

*thanks to my friends this week, many of whom were Jesus to me. Constantly pointing me to the truth, sharing their stories with me, feeding me cinnamon buns, drinking my coffee, invading my inbox. Jesus was really onto something when he said that strength lies in weakness. Always surprising, always miraculous to behold.

Some Party Thoughts

The abundance of hilarity poses as the baseline of all these wonky parties. But there is another thing that goes on, that a person could miss if they chose not to tune in. There's something a lot deeper than the acrylic nails, cheap nylons, and under-elastized snakeskin minis.

Somehow in shedding our typical wrappings, we lose something else - our safety in whatever packaging we've grown accustomed to. We're given the gift of making new friends without the distraction of superficial judgements based on what "life grouping" we may assume that people belong to. As "cougars", we shared an imaginary identity that opened gateways for exploration that we may not have uncovered at an epicure party in our Sunday best. (not that I have any issue with eating dips for hours on end, dripping mayo on my Sunday School blouse and rayon skirt...)

And one of my favourite things was the joy and beauty we found in each others bared midriffs, lycra-ed thighs, rounded bellies, and plungeing necklines. It was a bold embracing of our femininity. A recognition of our God-given beauty as women without the shame and confusion of inappropriate or unwanted sexual attentiveness. Women too often react in fear to their own bodies, and the bodies of their fellow women. We envy. We covet. We criticize, torture ourselves, condescend to one another.

But on November the tenth, we celebrated. And it reminds me of one of my favourite passages in Geneen Roth's beautiful book: Feeding The Hungry Heart.

"...I have a fantasy that I repeat to myself, instead of turning to food, when I need comfort and nurturing. I am at a celebration with hundreds of other women. It is a summer evening, about dusk, when fireflies begin to play. It is warm and the smell of honeysuckle is strong. We build a fire and set tables around it covered with lovely embroidered cloths. We bring out a glorious array of foods: roast chicken, turkey, potatoes, yams, large colorful salads, nuts, hot wheat breads, platters filled with fruit- pineapple, papaya, mangoes, apples, bananas, figs, dates- whipped dream, cakes and pies, wine and rich coffee. A feast for women, not one where the food is prepared for men to enjoy- or one of those horrible parties where the women gather guiltily around the food table and pick furtively. We eat and enjoy every bite. I add various pleasures, depending on my mood; sometimes we pile all the Cosmopolitans, Vogues, Seventeens, and Playboys on the fire and sing as they crackle and spew. Always we dance and sing, and finally I lie back on the cool fragrant grass. (on a great vintage quilt, I would add) The fire warms the night air. Staring at the stars, I know that this world is mine. I feel the food in my belly, feel it nourishing my body, feel the laughter and strength in my bones; and I am completely and overwhelmingly satisfied." (Rachel Lawrence)

~

Thank you, my friends. Thank you who came, and you who I thought of. You have enriched my life. You have taught me so much. You have expanded the table that is my life, and piled it high with sumptuous, guilt-free indulgences. Not the sort that leave you feeling light-headed, full, and hungry. But the sort with substance, subtleties, bold spices, and life-giving nourishments.

So it IS true what they say....

That good things come in small packages! (thank you lettuce. When I first met you, it was your words about the agony of loss by cancer that gave me the shivers. Now we meet in more pleasant places, but will never forget the place from whence we've come.)
Have you ever received a gift that was so perfect, so delicious, so rare, so interesting, and so inspiring that you could hardly stand to look at it? Its November now. And far be it from me to remind you that in nine short days, I will no longer be in my thirties. And what better way to usher in a time of womanly blossoming than a sweet box full of incredible buttons?!
These rare bits of history and creativity travelled all the way from London, England. Thoughtful Lettuce was so selfless as to part with some of her babies and entrust them into my care. (I'm so sorry. I could never so good and generous a friend.) There are many in this box that I have never, ever laid eyes on before. There are a few glass ones. Some painted ones. Swirly ones. Flower-shaped and sparkly ones. Flashy ones, modest ones. They couldn't be more delicious if they really were coated in chocolate.

All That Glitters Befits a Cougar

Cougars, prepare the way for the alpha Cougar, the Great Alluring One. Her time in the chambers is nearly complete, for her ladies in waiting have bestowed upon her many gifts from afar.

Thus far, her fingers are well adorned, but her cheeks are found lacking.

The request has been made that any prospective apprentices might at this time present their case before council. Alpha Cougar is ready to receive considerations for three women who would henceforth be formally invited to the third party of November: The Party Before The Party.

This is an exclusive event, closed to the public. Only the three chosen ones will join our Lady of Forty to share in the great ceremony of the Glueing-On-Of-The-Nails about which generations of cougars before us have woven their legends.

Ceremony is to commence on November 10, an hour before the previously announced event: The Great Cougar Party to celebrate the first forty years of our esteemed one.


State your case in the comments, and they will be presented for consideration.

Words to study before November 10, 7:00 pm.

*muffin top
* fishnet
*stiletto heel
*skanky

Overheard at Thanksgiving

The children have some highly favoured friends from life in that other city who have come to spend Thanksgiving Day with them. They sat down to a lovingly prepared lunch of tuna and tomatoe slices and toast. Eldest daughter offered to pray.

"Dear Lord;
SHUT
UP!

Micah! I'm trying to pray over here!
.... Thank you for this food and these friends...."

One More Shot at Making an Ugly Mark

Back in the eighties I shared the second floor of an amazing old house just off of Corydon and my roomies and I had a party that would be henceforth be remembered as the "cop stopper". As it turned out, the guys who lived below us, (and repaired harleys on the living room hardwood in their spare (sober) time) were also throwing a party, so we just threw all the doors and stairways open and had one great big, cop stopper. It felt to me like one of those life events that I could wear as a feather in my kercheif. Like maybe I had finally moved off the farm...

Well, I'm not twenty-something any more and I'm not afraid to tell you that I've been thirty-nine for some ten months now. You gals all know about the up and coming cougar party, and I trust that your shopping and hair-teasing is well under way. I'm putting quite a bit of energy into plumping myself with that extra twenty to thirty pounds that was mentioned in the comments. I'd forgotten about that cougar special, but I think I can pull that one off. (she says, taking a sip of her wine, and a big bite of baguette with boursin cheese...the sambucca resting in the folds of her thigh).

Last year I hosted my first ever I'm-thirty-nine-and-not-afraid-to-tell-you-what-to-do-about-it-Ugly-Sweater-Party. I'm not joking whatsoever when I tell you that I believed this to be my very own, original idea. I came up with it at the elevater thrift shop when I was enjoying all the ghastly holiday sweaters and wishing I had some reason to purchase them. Turns out that there are other brilliant minds out there. That this has been thought of before. And I'll tell you how I know.

After the Ugly Sweater Party, I received an e-mail from a Michigan reader who was contacted by a columnist at the Winnipeg Free Press. He had googled "ugly sweater party" and landed up at her site. She had been sent a lovely honourary bad-ass sweater corsage since she had been otherwise committed on the day of the party and could not attend in person. Mr columnist guy wanted to write an article about this trendy Christmas party theme and asked her some questions about the event. She in turn directed me to him; and he to me. We exchanged e-mails, and since we were already well into December, he decided to defer until the following winter to write the piece about the ugly sweaters.

TRENDY?! Like I said, I thought that this was my original idea. I thought it was just possible that this idea of mine would be my ticket to finally making something memorable of myself- some legacy for my children, for my future generations.......

Hard to believe its been a year already. Another year off my life, and I'm still not a published author, a tae kwon doe instructer, a famous lecturer, or a coveted artist. But just this week, I received an e-mail from Dave Sanderson of the Winnipeg Free Press. He requested an invitation for himself and his photographer in anticipation of what he probably believes is an annual event for me. Rapidly approaching forty, and fearing that I may never make my mark on this world, I lept at the oppurtunity. So, maybe my works would never get published, but at least I'd get my name and maybe even a photo in the paper?!

So, here's your formal invitation:

on November 24, 2007, 7:00 pm

We request the honour of your attendance

at Joyce's second annual

Ugly Sweater Party

this year featuring

your choice of male escort or attendent.

(not necessarily paid)

No shoes, shirt, or black tie required.

Sweater mandatory.

Bring food and drink to share.

(BYOB&F&S)

(bring your own drink and food and sweater... heck, just bring your own party!)

Care to join me in becoming famous?

Check out last year's event here and here.

This time, if you want to, you can bring your husband or significant other. (just please not both). Leave your kids and pets at home though. They remind me too much of work.

If I Were Made of Time and Infinite Resources

... I would lose myself for hours in my beautiful, inspired sewing room. I would piece and patch and form into beauty the multitude of intentions and ideas that live in my head. (and quite a few pieces from ideas that I've stolen from other talented artists out there.)

I would hire a life coach for myself. I would learn how to have goals and a plan that would move me from a whole bunch of loose ended theories and wonderings to an intentioned way of concluding a thing or two before I turn to dust.

I would sign up for a neat thing I saw in a pamphlet at my sisters annual procrastinators birthday party this weekend. It was a weekly meeting about intentional journalling. That sounds so incredibly wonderful. To journal in the company of others who love to do so, and to have a facilitator to help us write and explore new ideas.

I would join the gym, not to beat my body into what I wish it would become, but instead to feel it work, to celebrate that all the joints and ligaments and muscles can team up and work in unision. To embrace my aging self and dance with it.

I would install a self-cleaning floor.

I would hire someone to put baseboards in my kitchen.

I would volunteer in a gritty downtown soup kitchen.

I would travel to Alberta and spend a week organizing my sister Laura. On the way there, I would stop at my friend Nancy's and drink some wine and talk about God with her.

I would set aside one night of the week for a stitch 'n bitch at my house. Except I would never call it that. I'm much too upright to say such a crass and inappropriate word. I would never suggest that my friends would fit such descriptions, or that they would accept me for another minute if they heard such foul mouthedness emerge from my lips. But. I would like to spend an evening a week with my beloved fabrics and buttons and friends. Stitching, creating, sipping, laughing, connecting.

I would go for a walk every night after supper while the children rip each other to shreds washing the dishes.

but as it stands, this post was begun first thing this morning, and I've had no time to complete it until late afternoon. I have nearly paid my bills for August now.

So, time and money do have their constraints. Lets just see what I manage to squeeze in, because if my life were entirely manageable, I'd likely die from boredom.

How I Nearly Got to Guatamala

This morning, a group of people from our community left on a trip to Guatamala. They packed the maximum allowed baggage full of backpacks, gifts, and school supplies for the sponsored children whom they plan to visit. I imagine that there were also a number of toolbelts to pack, as they will be building a cinder block school house during their stay.





I felt excited about the trip, even though I couldn't even consider joining them. Gloria and Crystal have gone, as well as the grandma of one of my little daycare sweeties. I wished I were joining them.





But today, Brandy took Crystal's job.

Crystal fled the country to go build a schoolhouse.

I took Brandy's son, Mikey.


And that's how I practically flew to Guatamala.


(Micah and Mikey.)

Redemption

Once upon a time, there were two young women. They had left their farming communities and had moved their belongings into the big city, probably using their dad's hog-smellin' half-ton to get the job done right. They'd never met one another, and moved into apartments at opposite ends of the big city. But life is weird, so one way or another, they met and began to create a series of adventures built on the themes of laughter and life.

There was snow-shoeing, all-you-can-eat spaghetti-ing, greasy spoon breakfast eating, pining after handsome hunks of manliness-ing, movie watching, body part piercing, other-country-travelling, tent sleeping, hair fussing, and other general hanging-around-ed-ness.

Then came the day and the season where entirely too much sharing crossed the boundaries of frienship and loyalties. Where hearts lay ripped and oozing on the floor of the foundations we'd built that friendship on. Where apologies and justifications were shouted at one another in the very same breath. Death of trust and loyalty dealt by "friendly fire".

Oh, we tried to bridge the abyss. Being "good Christians" and all, we worked hard against the scourges of grudge, revenge, disgust... But something was broken.

We grew up, life taking us this way and that. We lived through our mid to late twenties, and pretty well through our thirites with the memories of those times feeling well shadowed by the less than pleasant torture of our friendship's demise. But we had new lives to live, new sorrows to navigate, new friends to love. And so we were not crippled, only bruised.

And then one day, in the two seconds between the dinner table being set, and the children planting themselves on their chairs, I stole a moment to check my in-box. And I came back to the table with tears streaming down my face, my heart full, and lodged in my throat.

"Subject: Hello my old friend

Dear Joyce,
I spent the day looking through old photographs…and there you were, smiling at me, taking me back to a day in time when life seemed easier. I smiled back at you, I laughed aloud, and then I began to cry. So many regrets…what a fool I was. You were one of the greatest friends I ever had. I made so many stupid decisions in my 20’s. I am sorry! I can’t take any of it back and that makes me mad…mad at myself…mad at the world… I am sorry that it has taken me this long to say I am truly sorry…sorry for hurting you in a way that a friend never should…sorry for thinking only of myself.
Will you ever forgive me? Have you ever forgiven me? Maybe I have never forgiven myself...even after all these years."

OH THE REDEMPTION!!

OH! the reunion we shared after all those years. One more roadtrip, this time her doing the driving and me waiting with joy and anticipation. And then the hours and hours and hours of talking, reconnecting, redeeming, laughing, crying. How my friend had grown! How different to now spend time talking about the God we both love, the questions that no seven steps can adequately answer, the losses and sorrows that we'd had, the hope we shared in something Bigger.

And the hope I received that day, knowing that 17 or so years of a friendship lost could be redeemed in a second through her vulnerability, her sensitivity to the Holy Spirit, her lack of self-protectiveness. How anything that pains me now is not the final word. How time can be wiped away, how time itself can be redeemed.

How much of life hinges on a hope for things not yet fully seen.

But sometimes just a glimpse of that kind of redemption can be the wave to ride on and the energy to harness for today's not-yet redeemed voids.

A Gal Like Me Has Got No Right To Struggle With Depression

... or alternately, The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music.

(It just depends on how comfortable you are with pretending that life is a romantic adventure, or whether it relieves you to know that everybody's got shit and small potatoes to deal with.)

How well I remember that house on the hill where all was alive with the sounds of children, and kittens, the dog Daisy, the pretty hens, and the refreshing melodies of cascading gin.

Its time for a refresher course in all things rural, so I thought I'd unschool the children for a few days and haul them off, kicking and screaming, to spend a few days in paradise. Well, screaming with joy as they ride the moterless lawnmower down the hill is more accurate....

So, as if that's not enough to pull my chin out of my navel, tonight Brian and I are taking our daughters to Rainbow Stage to sit in the outdoor concert hall and experience the production of The Sound of Music. I've not been to the stage since I was a teenager so it goes without saying that the girls have never been. Julia Andrews is like an old family friend. I grew up adoring the story and although we never had a television, the Von Trapps felt like family from all the hours I'd spend lying on the living room floor listening to their sounds of music and studying the faces on the record album, pretending I was the youngest in that family instead of my own.

So, a few more hours to get on the old timecard, and then a chance to indulge in the last glorious days of summer.

My heart shall be blessed.... by the sounds of music.

Why Sensible People Don't Throw Costume Parties

Canada Day holiday and I'm not "working" today. I mean to say that I'm not going to get paid to work today.

*

Some time to venture into my "work space" and contemplate doing something about the endless clutter squatting there.

*

This is what my sewing room looks like for about 14 seconds after I've spent half a day cleaning it up.

*

All the vintage fabrics and trims I've collected over the past 15 years or so are properly stored away in old suitcases or cleverly stacked on my big old wooden work table.

*

Then I have a space to work in, so I open up the suitcases and begin to rummage through them.

*

Then I plan a party and have to go about de-cluttering the living room, dining room, bathroom, and kitchen.

*

I deposit large piles of strange things under my wooden work table.

*

The things I simply don't have time to identify, I shove into a grocery bag and huck under that same table.

*

If I were sensible and i didn't collect stuff to begin with, I wouldn't have to figure out how to keep it all tidy.

*

If I were sensible, I wouldn't plan fun, fun parties where we laugh our guts out and play

dres

s-up. I couldn't plan them, because I wouldn't have collected all the props for that particular theme.

*

If I were sensible, I'd likely live in a conservative bungalow, a nice tidy one without old fabric spilling out of bags and boxes.

*

I'm awfully glad I'm not sensible.

Friends

Spring break, 2007



Its pretty handy when your kids are also friends with your friends' kids.

And it doesn't hurt that those kids are pretty darn cute.

It feels pretty decadent to usher in spring with a whole lot of: sitting around, laughing with friends, and enjoying how the children are growing. (And yes, I'm aware that it makes me sound like one of those clucking old ladies that you run into at the annual Christmas gatherings.... )