By now you are no doubt wondering where I have suddenly gone. I’ve broken my promise to you to write weekly for this year and you are wondering what the hell happened when I have been going so strong, so far. Wonder no more, dear Bloggie. I have been gutted by grief.
Oh, I know what you are thinking. I should be an old hand at this grief thing by now. After all, I’ve lost so many loved ones over the past 5 years that I note and celebrate a year without a funeral in my annual Christmas letter. Seriously.
I knew that my adult daughter, Mizz J, leaving me to start a new life in British Columbia was going to be tough. After all, she has never lived more than a 15 minute car ride away from me for her entire life. And she spent the last 2 years living with me, again. But I had no idea just how bad it was going to be.
It started with my daughter and her man (who I also love and miss) pulling out of my driveway, for the last time (for the foreseeable future) about a week ago. We’d had a tearful parting, natch, although I was happy to see them start off on this adventure together, and they were happy to be going.
As the vehicle pulled away, I felt…I don’t know how to explain it really…just wrong in my body. I didn’t know what was happening to me physically other than I hated the feeling. Everything was wrong, in my body and my mind. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was distraught and absolutely at loose ends. It was horrible.
Was I dying? Is this what it feels like? I finally decided I wasn’t dying, so now what do I do?
I reached out on Facebook to people for suggestions on how to cope, and I got plenty of good ideas but truly, I was too upset and distracted to employ any of them at the time.
So, practical me, I cleaned instead. And organized. And wept. And thus worked myself into an exhaustion that left no more room for feeling.
So ended the first day.
It got slowly better after that, dear Blog. I went to work. I went to the 3rd of 3 music festivals I committed to this month. I cleaned more. I organized more. I exercised. I meditated. I journalled about being grateful to have deep, reciprocated feelings for family. I worked my plan for this time that I knew was coming.
I am plagued by high levels of fatigue and body aches, yet. I am forgetful and get distracted easily. Remember that advertisement for pain medication that proclaimed “Because depression hurts”? Well, grief hurts too. But even with all the grief I have experienced, to date nothing has given me physical symptoms like this.
Someone suggested that this episode is so severe because it is a culmination of everything that has gone before, hence the extreme reaction. Could be some (or a lot) of truth to that. I can’t say. All I can say is that I thought I knew what grief was, but dear Blog, I really had no idea how devastating it could be – not only mentally but physically.
Someone said to me that I really wasn’t such a badass after all – that this proved I was only “human”. I agreed with them – I am definitely human.
But I still believe I am also a badass and that the two aren’t mutually exclusive.
Being a badass doesn’t mean you are tough as nails and can’t be affected by anything and never feel deep emotion.
Being a badass means life knocks you down and you keep getting back up.
Being a badass means you push through the pain.
Being a badass means you know that life is both good AND bad and that neither condition lasts forever.
So enjoy the good and gut the bad stuff out, dear Bloggie, even when it’s gutting you.
A week from now I’ll be celebrating my 59th birthday. I plan on spending the actual day of at a luxurious spa with some fellow bloggers – 2 kindred spirits I have come to know and befriend. I can’t think of a better way to kick off another year.
A week from now I will be only 1 year away from officially starting my “third act”.
59 – that is also the official start of my 60th year of life. If I die after next week, the obit will read “…in her 60th year…”.
I’m doing a lot of reflecting lately – even more so than usual – and this is a short list of events that helped shape me during this last, past decade.
In my 50s, I (not always in chronological order):
Became engaged (on my 49th birthday, so technically right at the start of my 50th year of life)
Started blogging again, for realz this time (on September 3rd, 2009. The Blogger blog was called The Next Year of My Life. I wanted to capture all of my thoughts and plans leading up to my 2nd marriage)
Wow. That sounds like a lot as I read it. But is it really? I wonder if we look back on any given decade, if we don’t find that an awful lot of life has happened to us, while we were busy making other plans (thanks, John Lennon).
What all will happen during my next decade? Will I get a next decade? What will be a result of my intentions, and what will be my reactions to things that happen to me that are out of my control? Hmmmm.
Precious Life. Finished! Each dot represents a month of life. The total number of dots represent the months of a 90 year life span. The dots highlighted with pearlescent paint are the ones I have experienced so far in my journey. The deepest, richest dots are yet to come, my painting predicts. Buddha of the Polebeans graciously offers to hold up my piece.
As per my painting, I am getting close to entering the final third of my life. So naturally I’ve been thinking a lot about life’s third act – MY life’s third act and how I want it to look. I intend the spend the next year working on some ideas for the final third, if I’m lucky enough to be here for it.
Jane has given me a lot to think about. I hope you take the time to watch the video below, and that you enjoy it.
It feels like I haven’t had a spontaneous adventure in a long, long time. The last one that sticks out in my memory is recalled here – way back when Ye Olde Blogge was known as The Next Year of My Life – on September 14, 2009. (Thank you dear Bloggie, for being my memory-in-chief!)
I veered from my plan to run home from work that day, to take an unknown (to me) trail I came across instead. I had an absolute blast and felt my most badass, wildest self that day. Until my husband-to-be came home and ragged on me for what seemed like hours when I told him, rapturously, of what I did and felt.
He thought I was being reckless and foolhardy. By exploring following the river home instead of taking the road?!? The river that runs through the village where I live?!? In broad daylight?!?
Well, I didn’t agree with him then, and I still don’t now. But, because I loved him and didn’t want to upset him, I stopped doing stuff like that. Then we got married, and continued to live in his Crazytown (which I became the de facto Mayor of); then he got sick and died and I became the CEO of Everything; then I spent the next 4 years cleaning up his mess and restoring the building he let slide into disrepair and creating a new life/home for myself. No time or energy for much of anything outside of that, really.
And now here we are and I am looking forward to bringing back more exploration and adventure to my life. Starting this summer.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but what I experienced on my little river trail exploration was a microadventure.
Author and speaker Alistair Humphreys has coined the phrase, and also written a good book about it. You can learn more about microadventures here.
Have you ever taken a microadventure? Does the idea hold any appeal?
Rock on,
The WB
Can you guess my theme for this year’s A-Z Challenge? All of my A-Z posts this month will be tied into my theme, which is represented by the title of a song that was popular when I was a child. Can you figure it out as the days (and posts) go by? Leave your guesses (one per day only, please) in the comments. At the end of the challenge, I will reveal the theme. Have fun!
2017 was a calm and pleasant year in my personal life (as opposed to an exciting yet challenging year in my work life), for which I am so grateful. I wish every year could be 2017. I didn’t lose anyone this past year. (Not in 2016 either, although my mother’s death in late December 2015 was so close to that year that I felt its reverberations throughout those 12 months anyways.)
2017 was the year of REACH (my word). This applied mainly to my creating art. This was the first year that I applied a great deal of focus and effort in this area since I was a teenager. And reach I did! It was difficult to push past my insecurities and inner critic, and just start laying paint down on canvas. It was a reach to allow myself to fail over and over again. This painting in particular (which I can reveal now, as it has gone to its recipient) was very uncomfortable for me to create, and thus a definite REACH:
Horse, 2017
I went to Mark Grice’s studio in Alton Mills to create this painting. I chose it because I knew it was going to be difficult for me to paint a horse AND in non-horse colours. I’m not good (yet) at so many things artists need to know and excel at, but with Mark’s guidance this painting came together. And Mizzus J loves it. She said it looks like Gavin, one of her two horses. What more can I ask for?
I finished out 2017 with this painting, completed yesterday:
My intention for 2018’s art is to continue on my artist’s journey. I met an artist whose work I admired, at her studio in Bayfield 2 summers ago. When I asked her how to become a better painter, she said something that has stuck with me every since: “Just paint. Everyday.” Simple, no?
I have signed up for another online Mandala art course, hosted by Julie Gibbons: Mandala Days. Unlike Mandala Magic (the course I participated in, in 2017), this course is for creating actual pieces, not art journalling. Which is just up my alley, as I discovered this past year.
Other intentions involve:
Blogging – posting at least once per week on Ye Olde Blogge; find other like-minded bloggers/readers (my tribe, as it were) to connect with
Reading – increase reading for pleasure – my goal is 50 books. (I’m WidowBadass on GoodReads, in case you want to connect there)
Mindfulness – increase mindfulness in my life through activities such as meditation
Financial Security – becoming intentional about rapidly paying down the debt I am carrying on Chez Badass – debt I incurred by investing in much-needed improvements over the past 4 years
Intuitive Processes – become proficient at Tarot, because:
I believe that it is a good tool to help one develop and strengthen intuition and lead to insights – and help get in touch with yearnings/feelings that are buried deep within one’s self. So I performed a Celtic Cross spread at the Winter Solstice this year, to help me in planning for 2018:
Celtic Cross Spread, for guidance for the coming year
I was really surprised when the cards told me that:
I have to focus on my health or ignore at my peril (5 of Pentacles) Having failed at this many times in the past 4 years, I didn’t want to write it down or even think about it as an intention for the coming year!
I have the inner resources to do this. (Ace of Swords)
I can come up with solutions, and to believe in myself and focus on success. (Page of Wands)
My past is full of grief and regret and the belief I made wrong choices. No, duh. (5 of Cups)
Renewing health; creating harmony and balance is the goal. (Temperance)
Unresolved factor affecting my success – my inner “carb monster” (bondage); doubts that I can succeed. (Devil)
I need to delve into why I haven’t been able to get any traction towards improving my health. (6 of Pentacles)
Be the person others see you as: Adept, Reliable, Steady, Supporting. (King of Pentacles)
Guidance, Hopes and Fears, Beliefs, Values – I am afraid of attracting attention from men as I lose weight and become fitter. I don’t want to have to deal with this. There. I said it. Valid or not, it is a fear of mine. (The Lovers)
The outcome (when I am successful in achieving this goal) – Vibrancy, Energy, Cheerfulness, Self-assurance. (Queen of Wands)
So, an added intention for me for 2018 is to improve my health through self-caring activities including strength, flexibility and stamina-building activities, and nutritious food choices.
My word for 2018 is PERCEIVE. To understand, to become aware, to become conscious, to use intuitive judgement.
I think I may have mentioned on Ye Olde Blogge a time or hundred that every year I struggle with our North American commercialization/celebration of Christmas. It has become much too materialistic and in-your-face for yours truly.
This season has become instead a time of reflection and review and planning for me as the nights get longer and longer. And I love this time of year for that!
TRIGGER WARNING: If someone holding a different opinion than your own could lead to you turning into a Judgey McJudgepants and leaving a nasty comment, please skip over this next section. If you feel you must take a tone with me, your comment may or may not be deleted, depending on how much of a chuckle I get out of it.
Oh sure, I partake in some Christian Christmas rites. It’s part of my upbringing and my history. I put up a tree. I send out cards to friends and family. I re-watch old Christmas movies and sing along to carols. I even do the gift thing, although more and more I am giving gifts that are homemade – gifts of my time and intention. I love to wish people a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year AND I mean it. I do these things because I enjoy them and I like celebrating this season (this month, especially) of long nights and waiting for the sun to return.
I am not a Christian, so there is no religious meaning to my celebration. You won’t find a manger scene at my house. But I will haul out the Seashell Jesus, because I find it amusing. I think I’ll put it next to the picture of Krampus my talented son made for me. For balance. Someday maybe I’ll add a representation of the Flying Spaghetti Monster to the mix, and my triptych of mythical beings will be complete. Ramen!
If you are reading this and a practicing Christian/Jew/Wiccan/Pagan/Hindu/Zoroastrian/Muslim/WhateverReligion, great! You do you. Whatever gives you comfort and meaning is cool with me. Please return the favour.
TRIGGER WARNING OVER.
What I am celebrating at Chez Badass is this: the end of the darkness and the return of the light. Because the longest night – tonight – the winter solstice (the official start of Yule or Yuletide) – is something I can get behind.
I do so love this rock we live on – the natural world – and the turning of the year, and I like to acknowledge this event. And this is the time and the season for me to pause and reflect and set intentions for the next spin around the sun that I am lucky enough to be a part of.
This is nothing new. Humans have been celebrating the solstice since well, we first noticed it was “a thing”. And these Yule celebrations have been co-opted into Christianity and have become integral to the Western celebration called Christmas.
For my particular celebration of the longest night, I will lighting (many, many) candles and finalizing my goals and intentions for the coming year. These include, in no particular order of importance (because they are all important to me):
more artistic activity
more mindfulness
more writing – specifically, more blogging
more reading
less spending – in order to knock down the demand loan on Chez Badass
I’ll be going into each of these goals in detail in upcoming blog posts. Yule see, hehehe!
I will leave you with this thought – at this special time of year why not remember to:
When Joanne and I were hiking last weekend, she asked me how I came up with the name for my blog. I then realized that I have never fully explained it, although I briefly touch on this on my About the Widow page.
The Widow Badass was born when my husband died – in the first few minutes of November 14, 2013. She had been conceived in the doctor’s office where we received his diagnosis of lung cancer, a mere 6 months earlier.
My grieving started at that moment of conception, and also my oh-so practical (this sounds so cold, but it’s true) planning for my future without him.
I was working full-time, AND pursuing my MBA online (as was he), at the time of his diagnosis. Due to his insistence, I kept working and studying. He was too weak to work, but he kept studying also. We weren’t supposed to let the cancer “win” by giving these things up.
I fully supported him throughout the course of his disease. I researched cancer relentlessly; went to every appointment and treatment; sat vigil in every hospital room; shopped and cooked and worked and studied and cared and cried and prayed; and then got up after a few hours rest and did it all again.
During my quiet moments in hospital rooms I thought about and planned my future without him. I knew I would have a huge mess to clean up once he was gone. His OCD-fuelled hoarding had managed to fill up the large building that he owned for the past 20 years, and had spilled into the residence that I owned.
Listening to the hum of the ICU equipment, I estimated it would take me a solid year of working at it every night and weekend just to empty his building of the accumulation of garbage that was his hoard (the last room was emptied just a few week’s shy of a year later).
Drinking my lukewarm Tim Horton’s tea while my husband slept, I decided I would move into his building and erase the 20 years of his neglect at great cost to make it my own (I did).
Watching the nurses take his vitals, I knew it would take a few months to clean up my property enough to make it presentable to sell but I would do that first, then move and start cleaning up all over again (done, and done).
Pacing the hallways, I vowed that at some point during all this I would complete my damn MBA (damn straight, I did).
And so it all happened. The Widow Badass made it all happen. She was/is that aspect of myself that took over and got shit done. And she had no time or patience for anybody’s bullshit. She was all: blinders on, full speed ahead and let’s deal with the wreckage later when the dust settles.
What I didn’t plan for was finding out about my husband’s unfaithfulness to me during the clean-up process, a couple of months after he died. Finding print-outs of emails between him and another woman shook my entire world-view of what I thought my life with him had been about.
But that didn’t stop the Widow Badass. Oh no. She mined the knowledge of that 18 month-long affair like it was diamonds buried in a refuse heap. She used that hurt and rage to further fuel the mission to create a new life.
So now the Widow Badass is here and here to stay. Long may she reign.
A former spouse of mine once infamously asked me that question.
Back in the late 90s, I had told him that we should take the kids to a music festival together (Edgefest, in Barrie) for the day. The lineup was awesome, and I thought it would be a great opportunity to show the kids what an outdoor rock concert was all about and how to do it safely and enjoyably. They were excited, as there were many groups/artists they liked; I was excited as there were many groups/artists I also liked. But he pooh-poohed all over the idea. He didn’t want to go. And he didn’t want us to go either. I said that’s too bad – we’d love it if you came too, but we were going, regardless. He then asked me when I was going to GROW UP and stop wanting to do “THIS SHIT”. Well, hello? I thought he had enjoyed going to concerts with me.
He ended up going, grudgingly – only because there was no way he wanted me to be having any kind of fun without him. (If only he knew how much fun the kids and I had when he left us alone to go up north to see his family for a few days!)
By the end of the summer, I had found a townhouse and was moving out, thus ending our 17 year marriage. Not because of this one stupid comment, obviously…but it speaks volumes about why we were no longer suited to be together.
I have been in love with music since I was a babe in arms. My mom told me when she took me to church as an infant tears would stream down my face whenever I heard the organ play. I asked her why and she said, it seemed to her that I was feeling the music on a visceral level, and it had moved me to weep.
Which is pretty cool – and you’d think a kid like that would be a natural musician – but no. I must have been standing behind the door when the Mystery was handing out musical talent ‘cos I got none.
But what I do have is a major love of music and attending live shows. However, as I am getting older it is getting harder to find people (in my demographic) to attend these shows with me. Especially as I continue to listen to and enjoy new and emerging artists, as well as those I grew up with.
My usual concert buddy – my daughter, Mizz J – is in British Columbia this summer – so what’s a badass widow to do, when there are so many great concerts happening all around me?
As much as it is not my preference, I am going to a 3 day outdoor music festival on my own:
Elora Riverfest 2017 Lineup. So excited!
I just have to go, even though I will be going solo. I learned my lesson from missing WayHome last year. There were at least 16 acts I wanted to see but I couldn’t find anyone to go with me. So I missed them all. Never again.
So this got me to thinking: how many major bands/artists have I seen over the years, since I was a teenager? I tried to write them all down.
I feel like I am missing a few, and a few major ones too. Well, I did come of age in the 70s after all.I’m going to keep a few pages blank so I can keep adding to the list.
So, I guess I am never going to grow up. Sorry, Husband #1. (Not sorry).
I still see people at these shows who look even older than me, so there is that. Trust me, I look. I am not the only one still doing “this shit”.
Once upon a time, a princess lived in a regular home with a garden that she loved to tend to. Unfortunately, she married a crazy wizard who cast a love spell on her which ate up all of her free time. The princess never had time to look after her garden anymore. The garden became just as crazy as the wizard, from missing her touch and shadow. Instead of bringing her joy, the garden made the princess sad and more than a little mad as it reminded the princess of all that she had lost.
Then the wizard sickened and died and the spell was broken, at long last. The princess widow moved from her little place (now a place of sadness) and claimed the wizard’s castle as her home. She spent the next couple of years ridding the castle of the effects of the wizard’s long, crazy rule and became transformed into a badass princess widow as a result.
The princess widow still had no time to devote to a garden even though she was now free to do so. She hadn’t forgotten her love of growing things and vowed one day to create a little garden in her castle aerie, overlooking the village.
And in the spring of 2017, the badass princess widow finally could make this dream come true.
The beginnings of the Badass Rooftop GardenCopper tag proclaiming that here grows the world’s most expensive pole beans ($3.95 for seeds; $200+ for containers, soil, stakes etc.) 😉Cherry tomatoes, basil and rosemaryMint and Lemon Balm, for future fresh leaf teasPole Bean Buddha
And she went back to growing things happily ever after.
We interrupt today’s Grace and Frankie binge-watching session to bring you the following public service musings, sponsored by WB Industries…
I was recently asked if I ever worried about my safety when out on my solo trail walks and I tossed off a quick “Nope, never think about that when heading out the door.”
Later, (on the trail, where I do my best thinking) I thought about that statement and have come to realize it is undeniably true and untrue AT THE SAME TIME. It’s true that I don’t think about personal safety when I head out the door. (Unless weather conditions are poor, but I think we all know that when women talk about personal safety outdoors it is about just one thing 99.99% of the time. We are talking about being assaulted by others men.)
The reason that I don’t think about this is only because my protection mechanisms are so automatic by now that I don’t even realize I am performing them anymore. Like any good little prey animal, they have become instinctive. They no longer register as conscious thought. So you see I am a bit of a liar, liar pants-on-fire.
This week I paid close attention to these “instincts” when I was performing my training walks for my upcoming half-marathon event. What was I doing subconsciously or barely consciously to prepare for and to execute my walks? The answers were enlightening to me.
First, I never wear headphones. I see a lot of people wear them outdoors when exercising but I will never be one of them. I want to be aware of my surroundings at all times. I want to hear traffic when on the streets and other hikers or bikers or walkers when on the trails. Headphones (or earbuds) have their place. On the treadmill. Where you will (almost) never find me because although a prey animal, I am not a hamster.
Second, I don’t take any valuables with me, except my phone.
Thirdly, I walk stride with purpose. I have always been a fast walker. I (think I, hope I) radiate “don’t fuck with me”-ness while out and about. And I make direct eye contact with every other person on the trail and greet them. So they know I see them.
I got my eyes on you, potential bad person!
This week I even found myself scanning the ground for a weapon (a rock, a pointy stick, whatevs…) when I saw a couple of males standing around on the trail up ahead. Turns out they were preparing to fish from the riverbank but when I first noticed them I didn’t see the fishing gear lying on the ground, just the unusual sight of 2 men just standing a bit off to the side.
Holy crap, I thought, I was actually looking for a weapon to defend myself with! My mind “went there” as soon as I saw those men. Upon reflection, this is not the first time I have automatically done this. I do it ALL. THE. TIME. when faced with anything “unusual” on the trail (or the street for that matter).
Nope, I am not paranoid or a scaredy-cat. I am just a woman living and trying to enjoy life in a rape culture.
When I was on the trail this week thinking and noticing all of these things I remembered the first time I really got scared when out walking by myself. I was a young teenager (13-14?) walking from my house on outskirts of town to my girlfriend’s (in closest subdivision) on a quiet weekend afternoon. I had to walk through an open agricultural/industrial area for close to a kilometer. It being a Sunday in the early 1970s, there were not many cars on this stretch of the road nor many (if any) people working in the factories. And certainly no other people out walking.
And then a white van slowed down beside me. The back doors were open and there were 4 men inside. Two in the front seats and two sitting in the open back. They began to catcall me and coax me to respond and get in the van with them. I ignored them and kept up my steady pace but inside I was frightened to death and trying to figure out how to best escape them if they decided to get out and chase me. Then another car drove by and the van sped up and drove out of sight. I felt immense relief until…the van pulled up beside me again and the harassment continued.
When it happened to me this time, my fear turned to rage instead. I had an umbrella in my right hand (forecast called for rain and I was prepared), so without changing pace or looking at those fools I raised the umbrella and slowly and deliberately tapped it into my open left hand.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three times.
You wanna mess with me? Well, I won’t go down without one hell of a fight. Consider yourselves warned.
Then I brought the umbrella back down to my side, all the time keeping up my steady pace and looking straight ahead, chin raised defiantly. Message delivered.
Now, I don’t know if this worked (doubtful) or if it was because I was now quickly approaching “civilization” (the subdivision was just ahead), but the van pulled away again and this time didn’t come back.
I didn’t get a license plate number and I didn’t report it. I already knew, even at my tender age, that somehow this incident would be seen as my fault. (And selfishly I didn’t want my emerging freedoms to be cut off by parents worrying about their daughter being accosted whenever she left the house. )
I had provoked them somehow. How was I dressed? Were my jeans or T-shirt too tight? It was the 70s – everyone wore tight jeans and t-shirts. Maybe there was too much wiggle in my walk. What did I think would happen when out walking by myself? Etc. Etc.
I knew this because these were the thoughts going through my head. Like a good little woman-child of the 1970s, I was trying to figure out what I had done to bring this “attention” on myself.
Thus began my transformation from human being to hyper-aware prey animal (and, let it be said: future badass).
I wonder if men can even begin to comprehend feeling this way when out walking solo, on the trail or anywhere.
Apparently not, because just a couple of days ago I came across a post on Facebook by Backpacker Magazine linking to an article entitled How to Avoid Seeming Creepy to Solo Women Hikers. I made the mistake (I know, I know) of reading the comments section. There were some good comments from men but also a lot of stuff like this gem by a guy named Spear Chucker in response to a woman: If you are getting eaten by a bear, I will keep walking. I won’t even tell anyone.
Yeah, so mature. You hurt my man-baby (thank you Lindy West, for this) feelings so now I am picking up my toys and leaving the sandbox, with a vengeance. WAAAAAH!!!! Take that you woman, you!
Dude, if you are that offended by the article and comments made by a woman, clearly you ARE the target audience.
There were other negative comments and arguments. I’m paraphrasing tremendously of course, but this was the gist:
Women feel scared on the trail when approached by men? Can’t be our fault. What is wrong with these women?
One little rape and they become suspicious, man-hating femi-nazis. LIGHTEN UP, WOMEN.
Get some therapy. The good kind.
And this sparkler: how am I expected to find a date on the trail if I can’t hit on the women I come across there?
The lack of empathy and consideration that someone else’s world-view or experience could not be like yours (and yet strangely enough, VALID) is mind-boggling. Don’t these men have women in their lives? Women that they could ask if this is indeed how they truly feel when alone and outdoors?
I have yet to meet a woman who has not felt anxious or threatened, even for just a few seconds, when outside and alone. The woman who has never rethought a plan to go somewhere because it might not be safe. The woman who has never been catcalled or harassed by men on the street.
If you are that woman, please contact me because I want to know where you have been cloistered all your life. It would make a great retreat, I am thinking.
For me, the world has become a much scarier place since January 20th. Here in Canada, I am disturbed daily by the things happening south of our border.
It’s hard not to feel powerless at this time. However, the good news is that people are not taking this shit lying down. Nosirree! The Women’s March has started something great – something that promises to continue in other marches and protests. So there’s hope.
For my own mental health, and maybe for yours too – I have decided to round up a listing of things that excited or inspired me this week. Something to change my focus from obsessing solely on all that is going south*, south of the border and other places. Like an online gratitude journal of sorts.
So here goes – the inaugural, “inaugurally-inspired” post:
The amount of silver/white I am seeing in my hair – I have been (not so) patiently waiting for my head of hair to turn a glorious white, as per the females in my family who have come before me. It seems I have inherited my dad’s type of silvering – mostly temples and a sprinkle throughout every where else, unfortunately.
Lots of white happening here in Temple Land!
However, lately I have noticed the silvering is accelerating. Excited!!!! I can notice the silver strands quite clearly in my hair’s part now. It didn’t photograph so well otherwise I’d show you. I am sick of touching-up roots at my temples. I think the time may be right to let it grow out au naturel and see what my real hair really looks like. I may decide to go back to colouring for a bit and try again later. Or I might not. Stay tuned.
Invisalign – Remember that episode of the Simpsons where Lisa is told she needs braces? And she is shown how her teeth will look as she ages? I feel that is going on with my teeth. They seem to get crookeder the older I get. So when I come back from Barbados I am going to begin using Invisalign trays to fix my smile. I have paid off Edward II (my 2nd “Blizzard White” Prius) so those $$ have been freed up for another purpose! Very happy to be starting this journey, even at my advanced age. I’ll be damned if I live the rest of my life with these crooked teeth if I can afford to do something about it. Again, stay tuned. No doubt I’ll have plenty to say as I go through the next 2 years of this particular adventure!
My car’s namesake. My Edward sparkles just like this when the light hits it. If it’s clean, that is.
Physiotherapy – Since the beginning of the year I have been working steadily away at regaining my long-lost flexibility via yoga and barre exercises. I’m making good progress! However, no matter how diligent I am I know I need more help than this to regain range of motion in my left arm – an ongoing problem I have noticed for about the last 6 months. I was thinking I had strained something and that it would heal itself but that’s not happening. So last week I saw my doctor and got a referral for physiotherapy. So far my homework is a set of exercises to perform 4 times a day. And they hurt! But I am keeping my eye on the prize – 2 fully working arms!
Pussy Hats – I missed taking part in the Women’s March for a multitude of reasons including a long-standing prior commitment for that date and not knowing until way too late there would be Canadian marches to take part in. And I feel really bad about it. So I made myself feel a bit better by at least knitting some pussy hats. I have finished one and am about to finish another (for my cousin). The way things are going, there should be many opportunities to march and wear pussy hats, unfortunately.
First pussy hat on the needles!
Rogue US Government Employees – I think the rogue or alt Twitter handles/postings that have sprung up in the past week are just brilliant. I can’t stop reading them. Between these and the organized protests, it makes me feel there is some hope of getting through this shit show the US/World is in, after all.
March for Science – If I have any say in the matter, I won’t be missing these upcoming marches. Our last prime minister muzzled our scientists like Trump is doing now. During this dark time in Canada, I was otherwise preoccupied in Crazytown (i.e. OCD/MBA Land) and dealing with a dying husband/subsequent widowhood so I missed out completely on this issue and its protests. Looks like I’m getting a second chance to chime in and make my little voice heard. Why does this shit keep happening?!?!? Rhetorical question…I know why it keeps happening.
My new pan – A couple of weeks ago now I bought a pan at the local Dutch store, very similar to one that I learned to cook in as a young girl. Dutchies call it a “braadpan” – simply put: a frying pan. It is enameled steel and cooks and cleans like a dream. The high sides keep the mess in. And the heavy lid makes braising a snap. Safe for stove-top or oven use. And induction-friendly. I love it.
Think Le Creuset – only lighter and 1/3 of the cost. And without the sexy colour choices, unfortunately. Your choice is any colour so long as it’s black, with an ultramarine blue interior.
My new GoPro camera – During Boxing Week, I pulled the trigger on a Hero 5 Black – a camera I had been eyeing for quite a while already. So far I love the features I have been discovering. I’m busy learning how to use it in advance of:
50 Years of Friendship Trip – by this time next week I will be snorkeling and relaxing with a good friend, down in Barbados. 2017 is the 50th anniversary year of when we first met and became friends – partway through Grade 2 – when she moved to Preston. To commemorate our first 40 years of being friends, we spent a day together at the Elmwood Spa in Toronto. That was a great day, and now this looks to be the makings of a great week. All I can say about this is WHEE!!!!!! More to come later…
Rock and Resist on,
The WB
*That Canadians like Kellie Leitch and Kevin O’Leary are threatening to bring to our great country as well.
When Joanne and I were hiking last weekend, she asked me how I came up with the name for my blog. I then realized that I have never fully explained it, although I briefly touch on this on my About the Widow page.
