Tag Archives: gratitude

Endings are bittersweet, yes?

It’s the last week of September and as I sit here on the porch, feeling kind of sad to say goodbye to summer, I am just idly watching the day unfold.

A yellow leaf falls from the maple tree that sits on the boulevard in front of our home, and I watch it undulate in the sky. The leaf switches from free-falling to undulating as the wind takes a gasp and the leaf hovers in the air, then she dances to and fro, upside down and then sideways – showing off to her audience of one. But eventually her second chance at life in the air dies and her fall to the ground is quick. But life isn’t over yet for the yellow leaf as the wind takes pity on her and lifts her away. I lose track of her when she is air-lifted to another street.

Ah, endings. They are bittersweet, yes?

My melancholy mood intrigues me as I am an autumn girl, through and through. Autumn brings me many gifts – my favourite colours: sienna reds and coppers, burnished bronzes, ochre yellows and golds; and later, naked November trees. The scents and aromas of the season, and the crisp night air, dusk and sunset earlier each day – each make me pause, while cool nights refresh our bedrooms,  perfect for long, restful sleeps.

This summer has been one of doing nothing. Absolutely. Doing. Nothing.

I did not write; I rarely practiced my yoga or Tai Chi; I hardly lifted a drawing pencil or pen. My watercolours are in the cupboard. Two fresh tubes of paint that I purchased in June are still unopened, never squeezed.

And yet my summer months have been packed full. Not one day wasted. Not one.

We have laughed with family as we sat outdoors, drinking our coffee early in the morning, and later those same days, we have laughed as we sat around the outdoor dining table, chowing down on never-ending menus of salads, grilled vegetables and fish. We’ve sat silently (the laughter dying down) as we watched the fireflies that were abundant this summer. What is it about fireflies that can still a group of adults within seconds? Is it the magic that we witness on a warm summer’s eve?

I have witnessed each sunrise throughout the entire summer, and I have sat on the beach with my son and his beloved, and with my sister on other occasions, to honour the day’s sunset. More magic.

sunset at Canatara

We have walked nearly every day along the river and counted red-winged blackbirds, monarchs, lake freighters, sailboats, the occasional Great Blue Heron, mute swans, and other web-footed visitors, while our ears were tuned to raucous squawks of gulls that break the occasional pause of stillness. All gifts.

My days are counted, not by T. S. Eliot’s teaspoons, but by well-worked areas in my garden – the Viburnum section (B area) has been cleaned of undergrowth during the early part of summer. Since birds (and their nests) are of highest priority, the Viburnum has been clipped sparingly, in spite of my neighbour’s complaints. I’m sorry, but I cannot trim that branch as birds live in that annex. Have a heart, please.

Garden area A (otherwise known as Clyde’s area) has been stripped of overgrown and spindly plants that were just exhausted. Too many years of neglect. Or to put it heartlessly, the plants are just too old. Rip ‘em out like there’s no tomorrow. Garden area A accounted for the entire month of June’s labour. No, the garden isn’t large; in fact, it’s rather small. I just worked slowly, with full enjoyment. I sat for long stretches of time just staring at the garden and making plans. Should I rip out that clump of lilies that has encroached on Clyde’s rock?  Who is Clyde, you ask? Well, he is a turtle made of stones and cement. And he rocks in my garden. When winter approaches Clyde will move into the kitchen and sit on the counter. Or on the floor. Who knows? Clyde will decide where.

Throughout August I spent my days pulling out ajuga and sedums which I love and, therefore, I am much too lenient with them. I’ve allowed them to wander throughout the pebble stone pathways, and once in a blue moon my husband waves the white flag on the path to the back of the shed where he stores the garbage bins. It’s a jungle back there, he whines. So August has been clearing month, too.

And throughout the summer days that are filled with such promises of lush growth, verdant gardens, blue skies and star-filled nights, I squeezed in my days at the long-term care home where I volunteer.

Long-term care homes never take a break – the seasons don’t seem to change there. Every Wednesday afternoon, bingo is called, and my “reading club” is still pencilled in the calendar on Fridays at two. My residents (I call them my peeps to their face which delights them!) still wait for me to knock on their doors, and stay awhile for a long afternoon chat.

My days have been full.

The residents have taught me that lesson: that fullness or abundance is in the eye of the beholder. A gift is only a gift if you recognize and accept that it is a gift.

And since the aging and the dying have taught me that endings are inevitable – all is impermanent – my awareness of this matters, now more than ever. Life is fragile and fleeting. Handle with attention.

Summers. Gifts filled with abundance.

Now I sink into autumn. More gifts on the horizon. My melancholy mood has lifted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Thanks to caring for my parents, I choose to see life wearing rose-coloured glasses

Chronicles of a Chronically stressed out Caregiver. Meditations and Mindfulness Changed My Life. Mindfulness, Meditation and Me.

Let’s be honest. When you are sitting with a notepad in your lap, and the only thing on the paper are titles for the eBook (instead of actual writing), you know that you are in avoidance mode.

Damn, again? At my chronically gifted age one would assume that old trait of mine (avoidance) would have been ‘fixed’ years ago, but sadly, the only thing I do better today is actually notice when I am in avoidance. Thank you, mindfulness and meditation.

While writing another eBook, I find myself enjoying longer than normal walks, hours of playing in the dirt (gardening), and sitting on my freshly painted cobalt blue Adirondack that now matches the cobalt blue bird bath, while sketching my amazing garden. (I am entitled to call my garden ‘amazing’ because this little piece of heaven gives me peace and equanimity. And peace and equanimity is amazing.)

My dilemma is what do I give up so that I can write more?

I have plenty of time to do the things I like to do, but I keep adding to my list of “things to do that give me joy, or wisdom, or fill my curiosity” – I keep trying to cram more into my days.

I am so grateful for this time – no matter the season, or the day of the week, or the time of the day – life is good.

I choose to view life with rose-coloured glasses because I can. It’s that simple.

I learned that how we perceive life and how we co-create our lives is our choice, and that lesson I learned when I closed my children’s retail shop so that I could care and support my parents: my father had a dementia (most likely Alzheimer’s) and my mother was showing signs of a dementia-related disease, also. My life spiralled from an exciting one of fun-loving staff and customers, buying trips to the clothing marts, new encounters and learning possibilities every day, to one of stress, resentment, guilt and burn-out.

Instead of embracing each day filled with hope and gratitude, I dreaded each day as I faced endless chores and responsibilities, grief, and sadness.

Chronic stress nearly felled me, but I came through the challenge eventually as a different woman. I went into the experience with blinders on, and I came out wearing rose-coloured glasses.

I say rose-coloured glasses because my experience of caring for our parents changed my life; the experience changed me.

When my father died, both my sister and I felt that his disease, his dying and his death transformed us and gave us many gifts: wisdom, forgiveness, love, compassion, honesty, and Grace.

Wisdom to realize that self-care is integral to a purpose-filled and joy-filled life – we cannot care for another when we do not care for ourselves.

Forgiveness in the many times our parents would tell us stories of their childhood (those are the stories that are often intact when someone has Alzheimer’s) that shone a spotlight on challenging traits (things that they did that pissed us off) or events that happened (that pissed us off).

My mother would throw these (illuminating) stories out to us – the stories were like candy that she lobbed at us. We would excitedly jump up and gather them to our hearts. Those stories gave us meaning and understanding to her life, to our father’s life, and to ours.

Love and compassion grew as we spent so many hours with our parents, as we truly began to understand their lives, the hardships, their sacrifices, and the reasons why all of it was important – family! Our parents do what they do – for us. That knowledge lit something in us, and warmed our hearts.

Honesty grew. In the last days of disease, dying and death, we are our most vulnerable and authentic. Truth matters.

And Grace. There are many times in life that we know that we are surrounded by Grace, but I am always humbled and awed when Grace supports us at the bedside of our loved one who is dying. It is Grace that holds us up and whispers, “lean in” because when our bodies and minds move forward (instead of away), we learn and we expand. We grow.

These lessons have left me with a passion to help and support those who care for loved ones who have a dementia-related disease, to volunteer with residents in a long-term care home, and to advocate for change.

Like the families who have loved ones with dementia, I, too, fought my circumstances so I recognize that none of them accept their reality (they are still fighting with truth), and in my humble opinion, it is this conflict that causes the stress. We are not meant to fight; we are meant to lean in.

So today (Father’s Day) I am writing this blog as a tribute to my father (and my mother) who allowed me the privilege of caring for them – it changed my life.

I get to choose how I define my life (even if I don’t get to choose the crap that happens); I get to choose to live in gratitude, honouring the simple moments – the scent of lilies in the air, the sparrows and starlings squabbling within the hidden recesses of the viburnum, and the sun’s reflections – bands of white dancing to and fro – on the ceiling of the living room.

When we choose to define our lives from the lessons that we learn, we empower ourselves; we begin to trust ourselves, and we begin to recognize that all the answers to life are within us.

All the answers to life are within us. Thank you, Dad (and Mom) for that gem.

Your words, not mine; your stories, not mine.

Sunset over Charlottetown HarbourI am watching my resident sleep. I’ve been sitting beside her for fifteen minutes now, and the staff members assure me that she will be awake shortly. She doesn’t usually nap at this hour, they say.

I don’t mind as I am narrating a story in my head – all quiet moments are gifts of time.

The last couple of weekly visits have changed – the routine of greeting my resident, talking for a few minutes to reassure her of the reason for my visit (I am recording and writing down her life stories and memories), turning on the recorder, and prompting her with a few questions to stimulate her life stories has disappeared.

Lately, during our visits I notice that she is either very drowsy or somewhat confused, and conversations about her family, childhood, school antics or young married life have dried up.

I have had to adapt, and I no longer ask her questions or give her prompts. Only a month ago I had inquired about her grandchildren and she had responded with a lovely story.

But not today.

When she awakes, I have to remind her who I am (Gwen’s daughter – you remember Gwen – she lived across the hall and you shared many cups of tea together) and she smiles her beautiful smile, and although I can read on her face that she is happy to see me, I sense that she no longer remembers Gwen (or me).

So I try again. More confusion.

In my cloth bag I have a copy of her life stories to date, so I retrieve the typed pages which are in a plain, three-ring, navy blue binder. I place the binder in front of her on the lap tray of her wheel chair and open it to the front page. I have learned an 8” by 11” binder is easily held by a senior.

She stares at the page for a very long time, and I am leaning over to close the book when she reads aloud her name and the words, “Life Stories.”

She looks at me and grins, and I urge her to turn the page.

She begins to read her very own, unique stories of her past. Unexpectedly, I note that she is a good reader and am thrilled because I didn’t realize that she still possessed the ability to read. My own mother had difficulty reading when her dementia progressed, and eventually she lost the ability completely.

I remember the October before my mother died in December, she signed a birthday card for my sister that I had purchased for her. I asked her if she would like to sign the card herself, or would she like me to sign it. She answered (as I knew she would), I can do it myself. She spent a few minutes gathering her strength to sign the birthday card to my sister, Sue. Then, she scribbled (almost illegibly): Love, Sue, instead of Love, Mom.

I loved that card. Because her intention (love for my sister, Sue) was so beautifully evident.

I draw my attention to my resident: She is reading aloud her stories…she pauses at the funny parts to look at me and remind me, that happened to me, also. I realize that she is not completely aware that these stories are hers! I keep re-assuring her that they are her stories, and that I only transcribed them. I keep repeating: your words, not mine; your stories, not mine.

When she reads aloud, she re-reads many of the passages and so I lean over and begin to turn the pages, but she stops me, and goes back to the top of the original page to re-read the story. After 45 minutes, we have only read two pages. I begin to panic and worry that we will never get to the end of the book at this rate.

But then I see her face. I begin to really see her face and read her energy. In that moment of being present (truly present) I am aware that she is completely entranced in the story – her story! She is smiling and nodding her head, chuckling (oh, yes, her stories are funny) and then I have an aha moment. My resident is in the moment.  Her moment! She is oblivious to the natural bird sounds outside her window; she is oblivious to the staff who are talking, and pushing carts in the hallway – the noises of life in a long-term care home are a muted constant 24/7.

My resident is in the moment. Time has ceased. Her face tells me that she is a young child again, living a life of scarcity and hardship, but filled with family love, laughter, and richness.

One thing I have learned when transcribing life stories of the residents is that our memories evolve: they don’t change completely, but we, as humans, re-paint them. We brush over the memories that hurt us, or caused us pain. I, too, find that over the years, my hurts and disappointments have been watered down – I have lifted out the colours that no longer serve me.

Like others before her, my resident’s stories have been blended with other experiences and the passage of time, and now understanding and forgiveness is the rich palette that remains. Through the lens of our journey we perceive our parents’ weaknesses, as strengths; their mistakes, as lessons. A gruff father who never spoke of emotions (or feelings) to his daughters becomes the ninety-year old man with Alzheimer’s who never speaks, but utters, I love you to both his daughters whenever they leave the room.

Through him, I learned that disease, dying, and death are powerful teachers. Forgiveness, reconciliation, love and peace are potent change agents. They transform our stories – blending, layering, pulling out colour, until bleeding the stories into one.

Through the process of reminiscing we begin to connect the dots starting with the point of origin to the last dot You Are Here.

These are the insights I have gathered, and these are similar to ones that I hear time and time again from the residents who I sit with. In the telling of our stories, the bad bits get left out and the good bits grow, and we are left with a richness that we had never seen before – colour laid upon colour. A richness that inspires gratitude.

When a resident comes to the end of her life story, I often hear:  I’ve had a good life. Those were wonderful days and I feel lucky to have lived them. I’ve had a good life and I am at peace. I am ready for my final journey. I am content.

Still reading the first few pages after an hour, I eventually tell my resident that I have to leave, and I know that she is disappointed but she closes her book as I promise to leave the binder with her. Yes, I still have lots to read, she informs me, and she adds, it’s a good story.

My intuition tells me that the time has come to end our weekly sessions – she no longer has new stories to tell me. I believe her stories are still there in the recesses of her mind, but they are not accessible as they once were. Like a locked filing cabinet, I no longer hold the key to open it.

When I leave, she grabs my hand and closes her other hand around mine and gently strokes it. Thank you, she whispers. Please visit me again.

I will, I promise.

As I walk through the hallways of the long-term care home, I am reminded once again that the only thing that really matters is our presence. As humans, we all want to know that we matter – that our lives are spent well – whether we are young or old; healthy or not.

And I am reminded that gratitude, above all else, matters, too.

 

 

 

 

 

I’m aglow with hope

Christmas lights

Candles and tea lights, and strings of twinkling white bulbs are aglow in every nook and cranny of our dining room and living room – I want the rooms to sparkle and glow throughout the season. I look forward to that magical hour when the sun sets and darkness falls: it is the bewitching time to turn all the Christmas lights on, and light the candles. (Okay, I’ve switched to battery-run candles and tea lights this year – I nearly set the house on fire last year, but that’s another story.)

There is nothing that fills my heart more than flickering light during the twilight hours of the day. Nothing.

I walk into my living room and dining room and I am transformed into a little girl staring at the Christmas tree lights with wonder and awe; I am a young mother looking at the Christmas tree that my two little boys have decorated with handmade ornaments that won’t break and popcorn garlands that took many evening hours to create; I am an adult child who is staring at the Christmas tree wondering if this will be the last holiday that my mother will be able to come home.  I am a grieving daughter who finds solace and strength in the steadfast holiday traditions – the Christmas tree lights soothe my sorrow and remind me of beauty, joy, wonder and love.

Flickering lights, glowing lights, twinkling lights…represent hope.

My intention is that all of you find hope and love in the glow of the season.

 

 

A new dawn; a new sunset – book-ends

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sun rise on the way to London

When I arose just after six this morning, my living room was pink. The white sheer window shades allowed the sky’s dawn to enter in all its glory. The pink had saturated the walls and ceiling and when I scrunched my eyes, I am almost certain that even the air was pink.

But the rosy glow didn’t last long, and by the time I turned away from the screen door as I watched the sky’s pink palette, the magic had disappeared in my living room.

I never get tired of the show. It’s the reason I am an early riser.

The sunrise and the sunset of each day are gifts – gifts that bookend each of my days. The simple ritual of breathing in the dawn’s glory, and hours later, breathing out the dusk allows me to make a mental realignment.

A realignment that grounds me. I become centered, focused on living mindfully. My bookends allow me to be present, in awareness: to stop and listen to the sparrows and wrens that live within the branches of the viburnum (that should be pruned, but I don’t want to disturb their homes); to pause when the Harbor Bay bell that hangs from the shed that my father built us twenty years ago, gongs – a gong that resonates so beautifully that no matter who is in the yard, they stop and savour the sound; to kneel beside a resident in the long-term care home where I volunteer, to listen deeply, and witness her story.

The shed that Dad built

The shed that Dad built

harbour-bay-bell

harbor bay bell

My mind is cluttered with thoughts throughout the hours – mindfulness does not eliminate them. But the practice allows me to align them – to at least put some order to them.

I’m aware of the big questions in life: Who am I? What do I want? What is my purpose?

And mindfulness allows me compassion for myself and those thoughts that consume me – never-ending thoughts, like books stuffed in a bookcase – piled high, teetering on chaos.

Mindfulness allows me to peruse the titles: Nature, Family, Aging and Disease, Death, Creativity, Art, Writing, and more. The shelves are crammed.

Mindfulness allows me to be the observer – detached, yet alert. I notice the thoughts that often consume me when I am walking. I write in my head, stories that I discard later or save to paper. I draw in my head. Water and the elements of nature are a never-ending, repetitive meme. What colour is that blue? I must learn how to use watercolours. OMG, is that sky not the most beautiful thing ever? The pink of that canna lily reminds me of the shawl that we bought my mother one Christmas – the same shawl that my sister now wraps around her shoulders during meditation.

The observer within me embraces all of the subtitles: envy, judgment, inadequacy. (I own the series of all of those subtitles.)

But here’s the thing: mindfulness allows me to recognize the two prevailing themes that underline all of my thoughts. Love and fear. Thankfully, this life-transforming strategy opens my heart to self-care and compassion – self-care and compassion lead to gratitude, joy, love and acceptance.

Acceptance means that I recognize the thoughts that I have – of envy, judgment, inadequacy – I recognize the titles, I thumb through a few pages, and then I discard them. Enough. Life is too short to read the book. Instead, I recognize the fear and I just sit with it. I have learned to trust that soon those thoughts will disappear.

Thoughts are transitory; impermanent; illusions.

The joy that I experienced this morning while in the pink glow will return tonight when I experience the sky as the sun disappears.

Tonight. Tomorrow morning. Tomorrow evening.

The jumble of thoughts and all its disorder and chaos will realign itself. I will re-set.

And it is this re-set that reassures me that all is well.  I am. Cluttered mind and all.

Whether I need to re-set multiple times throughout the hours (and that is inevitable), or I simply observe the thoughts, I learn to accept the moment. Whether the books are jumbled or the tomes are straight and orderly – I am content to be in my skin (and in my mind).

I have learned that if I am not content…I wait. My thoughts will dissipate and new ones will replace them.

The library in my mind is ever-changing.

Sunrise, sunset. Bookends. Gifts.

sunset at Canatara

sunset at Canatara

 

Why continue to blog?

For the past few weeks, I have not blogged much. An intended short respite from blogging became a two or three-month break.

Since my mother (and my father) have passed away, and I no longer care for parents with Alzheimer’s, I have struggled with my new blogging role. Yes, I still blog about people with Alzheimer’s or a dementia-related disease, but I also am finding that I return over and over again to the topics of mindfulness, awareness, creativity and expansiveness.

I wonder if I am defining myself as a carer, when I clearly no longer am a carer. That part of my life is over.

I have friends who think I volunteer at the long-term care facility where my mother lived for more than two years for the sole purpose of hanging on to my past. That is, they wonder if I am still clinging to my role as carer for my mother and father when they had Alzheimer’s.

They make a valid point. When a person’s role in life is a full-time caregiver, it is natural and human to feel a loss of identity once death ends that role. I understand that.

My friends mean well. I know that.  But when I listen to their words of concern, I always counter with I am where I am supposed to be.

I know this without any doubt.

How do I know? Because when we are doing something we love, we feel such joy. I visit the residents who have Alzheimer’s or other dementia-related diseases (and some do not have any diseases – their bodies are just slowly breaking down) and I receive many gifts from them. They teach me patience, wisdom, strength, compassion, generosity and more. I find myself laughing out loud to their insightful remarks or clever retorts; yes, Alzheimer’s does not rob them of humour and laughter.

I have learned to pay attention and listen more. (To listen is my 2016 intention.) I have honed my mindfulness practice. I have learned to just go with the flow – not to take things personally or to react when a resident screams at me or turns on me. I quietly respond or I walk away and find a personal support worker. (My cardinal rule is: I am not here to fix anybody or cure them.)

And I have learned to stay in the present moment – to give up expectations. Expectations is about living in the future.

And I have learned that impermanence is the only constant in life, and while I still dread death and disease just as others do, I am accepting change more easily. Living in the now and being filled with gratitude eases my fears.

So, when I think of my volunteer work I know that I am living a purposeful life – one that I would never have realized if it were not for caring for parents with Alzheimer’s.

My past journey has led me to this new journey. And so I have learned to trust life, even in my darker moments.

Many years ago while watching television,  I heard a group therapist say,

“Every time you tell your story, you give away a little piece of the pain.”

According to this therapist, telling our story (owning up to it, accepting it, and saying it out loud) is the basis of healing.

When I volunteer at the care facility and visit with the residents, I am capturing a little piece of each of them. With luck, I will have a better understanding of who they are now and who they were in the past. I have found that the more they learn to trust me, the more they are willing to open up and share their story. And when they share (even a small chapter of their life), I can visibly see the impact on them: they relax, they smile, they sigh, and sometimes they shed a tear. I have learned that everyone wants to be heard. And to know that they matter. It’s universal. And I have learned that when we are listened to…we heal.

When I sat and recorded, and later transcribed, one of the residents’ life story, I was struck how much I became connected to this woman after I learned of her story – where she came from, how she got to Canada, how she built a life and family here; her sorrows, and her joys. I felt such a connection to her when we finished her life story. And still do. I rarely miss an opportunity to visit her when I volunteer. And I know (because she has told me) that she feels the same connection to me. I am grateful.

When I visit the residents, I hope that each of them knows that they matter just as they are. Many of them are at the end of their journey – they are in the last innings of the game (as my baseball-loving husband would say). The last stages of the residents’ lives are as important as the last innings, albeit for different reasons. Last innings are about last chances to win the game. In life, last stages are about reconciliation, forgiveness, and peace. On second thought, perhaps not so different, as peace is a powerful win.

I have a hope or an intention that everyone can understand Alzheimer’s with more compassion and kindness. It is such a misunderstood disease; no wonder because it is complicated, complex and incurable. It is mysterious: Why do some have severe personality changes, and others do not? Why do some become violent and angry, while others recede and become quiet? Why do some talk more (in early stages), while others fidget and cannot sit still? Why are some residents (seemingly) normal during the day hours and yet affected by sundowning during the evening hours (their moods swing or they become cognitively diminished)? Our brains are not one-size-fits-all.

That just scares the hell out of all of us. So we cringe when we even just hear the word dementia. My mother used to react to the disease cancer in much the same way.  She would lean into my ear and whisper,”the C word.” Strangely enough, even with Alzheimer’s and living in a long-term care home, she would whisper to me, “Poor man. He has the C word.” Bizarrely, she didn’t realize that she, too, lived in the same place that he did, with another disease that people whispered about.

So I write about my experience with caring for parents who had Alzheimer’s in this blog. Not because I am an expert; not because I have any answers. My journey was difficult and I struggled with it.  But I had a second chance to do it better.  And so I did. And that made all the difference in the world.

And I write about my encounters with the residents at the long-term care home so that people will understand that they do not lose their essence when they have Alzheimer’s or other dementias – they are still here! If a reader learns nothing else but that someone with dementia still matters, then my intent is fulfilled.

If I can change my thoughts and accept disease and learn to live with it in loving kindness, then anyone can. And I believe that we need to accept the disease, so that our time with our loved one can be one of quality and love, not fear.

So I write about mindfulness and acceptance because that is how I changed. And I write about creativity and joy because that is what I experience now. Who knew that my journey would lead to such joy and expansiveness? But I shouldn’t be surprised: Compassion and an open heart always leads to more love, more joy, more insights. Joy leads to more gifts.

When we share our gifts (no matter what those gifts are) we connect to other people – and that is how each of us makes a small (but significant) change. And I believe that is how together, we will heal humanity and our Earth. One person’s small act at a time. One small connection at a time.

We change the world when we realize that we cannot change the world. We can only change ourselves.

“Yesterday I was clever so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise so I am changing myself.”   Rumi

My blog is a small act. And so just for today I will continue. Tomorrow – we’ll see.

But here’s a last thought: Am I not still a carer? Are we not all carers? Are we not all caring or protecting or comforting someone or something? Are we not all carers of our earth and humanity?

 

 

You are amazing!

You are amazing!

When I open the card, it reads You are amazing!

My husband and I just celebrated another anniversary and we exchanged cards. And even though it’s been a few days since I received his card, I am still enjoying the afterglow. Ha!

Because a funny thing has happened since he gave me the card – I feel really amazing!

When he enjoyed the simple tomato sauce on his pasta that I had made last evening, I tell him well, I am amazing!

When I screwed something up during the day, and then fix it later, he says well, you are amazing. We laugh over the screw-up.

When I discover a box of half-eaten ice cream in the freezer, we both exclaim hey, I am amazing!

So while I am walking along the river this morning, trying not to leave rivers of sweat on the sidewalk (because it is so humid today), I remind myself well, sweat or not, I am amazing!

Hmmm. Apparently compliments – in writing – have a lasting effect. But only if we pay attention and give the words awareness. Because it is in the reflection of the words, I realize that we are all amazing beings.

I think I am onto something here. I think we should begin to tell other people how amazing they are. Maybe we could distribute little cards – business cards – that just say, “You are amazing!”

We all know amazing people – my hairdresser who juggles a job and four children (whenever I see her she is smiling) – she is amazing! She has the funniest stories to tell about her children; I sit in her chair and belly laugh throughout the whole visit.

The woman who owns the tailor shop where I take my pants to be hemmed – we always have a nice chat. She is from Scotland and has interesting stories. We share a love of birds and birdsong – she reminds me to Google warblers and nightingales. I think she is amazing!

My neighbours on either side of our house – one is blind in one eye, and always tells me interesting facts about the weather, birds, squirrels and raccoons. He grew up on a farm where he watched the changing sky and birds come and go;  his weather predictions are so spot on – I have no need to turn to the weather forecast on television.  So is the family on the other side of our house – they are raising two children; their daughter has special needs. They are all amazing!

When I watch the personal support workers at the residence where I volunteer, I know they are amazing…their acts of kindness go above and beyond their daily routines. I once sat in a room with a resident and heard a personal support worker singing You Are My Sunshine to a resident who has Alzheimer’s. When I went into the hallway to see who was singing (and who the lucky resident was) I found them walking arm in arm. She is amazing (as is the resident)!

And I think my husband is pretty amazing – after all, he gave me the card. Ha.

No kidding…it takes attention and awareness to see the beauty within each of us. We have to begin to look beneath the superficial, to listen to the words and intonations, to become more insightful and understanding of others. In short, we have to stop and spend some time with people, instead of rushing by them without a glance. When we begin to spend our time enjoying people and their stories, that’s when we begin to live in the moment. And we’ll surely begin to see how each of us matters, how we are all interconnected, and that we are all  awesome.

In Neale Donald Walsch’s Communion With God he writes:

“Which snowflake is the most magnificent? Is it possible that they are all magnificent – and that, celebrating their magnificence together they create an awesome display?  They melt into each other, and in the Oneness. Yet they never go away. They never disappear. They never cease to be. Simply they change form. And not just once, but several times: from solid to liquid, from liquid to vapour, from the seen to the unseen, to rise again, and then again to return in new displays of breathtaking beauty and wonder. This is Life, nourishing Life.”

Let’s begin to appreciate one another for the simple pleasures and the simple gifts that we all hold. Whether we are loving parents or grandparents, creative artists, kind neighbours, inspiring teachers, helpful volunteers, cheerful postal workers, supportive counsellors… oh, the list is just endless…we all are unique, beautiful and amazing in what we do and who we are.

Let’s shout it out: You are amazing!