Tomorrow I am flying to Toronto to spend a day.
Where will I go?
There are so many places that would dredge up memories of times past for me and feel downright cathartic....
Eaton Centre - where I had my first job
Bathurst and Harbord - home of my old high school
Baldwin Street - where I lived
Kensington Market - where I shopped
It brings back so many memories of the people I knew, the food I ate, and the places I visited.
I can't even begin to describe it in words.
More later. And photos will definitely follow.
This is it. I have decided to just rip off that old band-aid. The one that was covering my wounded psyche but has now, over time and neglect, turned yellow and become frayed at the edges - not to mention crusty...
What am I scared of anyhow?
Maybe this is just the big reveal. Like an extreme make-over. But I think what I'm afraid of is that I won't look better. I may even look worse.
I have spent the past year processing the realization that I have a different father than the one who raised me, that I have met and formed a relationship with said father and that my mom and he have recently gotten married.
I have also learned a very important lesson. Acceptance is never a static process.
So after my hibernation, I now find myself gearing up for that favourite of all "family" holidays - Christmas.
The tree is trimmed, the cookies are baking, the presents are bought and expectation looms brightly.
However, my mind is already projecting ahead to the let-down that is January. Bleak February. Dreary March. And isn't it always the case that what was once strange and shocking and hard to handle becomes normal. Or do I become crazy? Does it really matter?
What I do know is that I am still breathing, I still like food and wine and that I am lucky to know many creative, funny and loving people...who love me .
So, the band-aid's off. What's underneath?
A scar set above thickened skin. A mark, a memoir. I'll add it to my collection.
I feel like the Bride of Frankenstein.
I know that I am not the only Blogger who has experienced a writing lapse but when life comes down hard and fast and provides so much fodder for a personal blog that one is literally drowning in it, how can a Blogger abandon her post(s)?!
However, I really don't know where and how to begin...again.
This summer has really socked home what seems to be a most unpredictable, unprecedented, and unreal life. My life.
Right now I am still trying to process it all and I feel the mental gears grinding in my cranium as I write this.
I may need some more time.
I am grateful for this blog.
I am humbled by people's ability to adapt.
I am confused by each individual's response to crisis.
And I am still happy to be a part of all of this mess.
More later.
I can't help but notice that much of my time seems to be spent in search mode. Searching for tupperware lids, searching for the mate of a sock, searching for something to put into my kids' lunch bags. But I am also searching for answers. I scan website after website looking for information on the latest research about Autism, medication options, inspiring stories, and new treatments. Lately though, I have been feeling a strong pull towards my bedroom alter which has been gathering dust and various, unrelated objects. Ever in search of more space with which to put all of the crap that we accumulate in our day-to-day existence, books, highlighter pens, paper clips, geocache toys and unopened bills all find their way onto the shelf that holds my sacred objects. These talismans of the mundane are not intended as offerings, rather their presence seems to mock my floundering practice. I am reminded how easily a spacious mind and spirit can become cluttered. This is not to say that sacred trumps ordinary. They cannot be separated for they both constitute important aspects of our human experience. However, I feel the need to carve out a place of purity where I can be reminded of stillness, constancy, and presence of mind to learn the answers that already exist. I am really searching for truth and the more I look for it, the more it is always out of reach. It's a feverish pace that I set. My alter reminds me to stop and wait. To clear and connect. To sit rather than search. And when I do, I hear the screen door of my psyche creak open and a long shadow is cast on the threshold. Buddha's back and he's brought cleaning supplies...
I have heard it a few times now. I am always in another room when the repetitive, dull thud arrests my attention. My ears prick up with the same intensity as when I'm trying to identify a bird call, only curiosity is replaced by a sick feeling in my gut. When he becomes very upset, Little Fish has taken to hitting the back of his head against whatever hard surface is closest, usually the floor or the wall. Nothing can describe the powerfully protective and angry emotions that sweep over a mother when she knows that her child is being hurt. It's a very conflicted feeling however, when you know that your child is inflicting pain on himself. Unfortunately, the stronger and more knee-jerk my reaction, the more he screams and continues. I have no other words for now. This too shall pass...?
I am a pretty social person but I also have a reticent, shy streak in me. This is what makes me hang back in large groups and assess the dynamic rather than charging forward with my hand thrust out and a smile plastered on my face. I like to know who I am dealing with and how I fit in. This is why I have always found great comfort in books and the characters contained therein. I either find myself identifying so much with a character that I feel I have become him or her, or I adopt the character into my life as a trusted friend and companion. They feel real, sometimes more real than real people. For example, in Grade 8, one of our required readings was The Outsidersby S.E. Hinton. For the days and weeks during and after reading this book, I actually felt like I was Ponyboy. I floated around in a daze behaving as I imagined he would in any given situation. I'm not sure what snapped me out of it, but eventually I found myself again. In the mirror, reflected in my friend's and family's eyes, I was slowly brought back to reality. I have lately been reading a book that I received as a gift for Mother's Day entitled, Gravity Pulls You In . It's a collection of essays and poems written by parents of children on the Autism Spectrum who, through their writing, struggle to make sense of their lives. I felt an immediate kinship with these people of course, as I saw my own life reflected in their stories. I have longed to find a community of friends through the Autism networks in my city. I have attended the monthly meetings and social events but always walk away feeling more lonely than ever. They are real people with real children who struggle with the same real issues that I do. But perhaps that is why I find it so hard to relate. When I look into their eyes, I not only want to see myself reflected there but I also want to see hope, faith, courage and peace because that is so often what I am lacking. The rub is, they also feel this acute sense of lack. So, sitting there in a circle of tightly placed chairs in a coffee-stained church basement with all the other parents, I quietly observe each of us scanning the room, trying to make a connection, hoping to find something greater then ourselves in that collective sorrow. But each of us comes up short. The intensity of the present situation makes it hard to see anything but desperation, striving and a longing to escape. It is too real to be the reality we want to face. It used to make me sad and a little bit angry. Lately though, I have accepted that these essays and the stories that they tell, however hard and sad and true, can replace those real connections. I can delve at my own pace. I can put the book down and cry when I read about one mother's struggle to place her teenage son in a group home, or laugh out loud when I hear about the lengths one father goes to to try and maintain intimacy with a daughter who can't bear human touch. I can let my mask of bravery and determination and forced optimism dissolve and allow myself a sense of connection that feels more real and human in 2D than any church basement could provide. Perhaps I will "become the change I want to see in the world" but for now, this pace and these friends in 2D suit me just fine.
Eventually I knew that I would have to write a blog entry about celiac disease. After all, May isCeliac Awareness Month and I am an exclusive member of the celiac club, four years running. I came upon this unfortunate autoimmune disease quite by accident and since that time have cursed it, fought it, denied it, and eventually come to accept it, although not necessarily in that order. I really don't know how long I had the disease or how I came to get it in the first place but the realization that I would have to give up bread as I knew and loved it, left me feeling sad and forlorn...like the creeping awareness of the loss of childhood innocence. Long before I came to learn about Buddhism or meditation, I found bread making to be a very soothing past-time. I didn't do it often but when I did, it was an event and a ritual that always left me peaceful and feeling connected to the present moment and to my past. Since I come from hearty, Mennonite stock, bread making is part of my DNA, an undeniable genetic imprint from my ancestry. I could scarcely resist its tantalizing pull. As I would calmly assemble the ingredients and equipment to begin the process, I could swear I heard approving words whispered from the cosmos. From the moment that the yeast begins to proof to the sensual and therapeutic kneading of the dough, to the rising and baking and finally the reward of sinking your teeth into the first warm slice slathered with real butter, I knew that this was pure magic and I was a High Priestess of Alchemy. One of my most treasured gifts from my husband one Christmas, was a massive book entitled, The Complete Book of Breads. This was the bible of bread making and I pored over each word drinking in the descriptions of the process and marveling over the variability of the recipes. One of my favourite paragraphs: "Baking is a relaxed art. There is no step in the process that cannot, in some way, be delayed or moved ahead just a bit, to make it more convenient to fit a busy schedule. If the dough you are shaping gets stubborn, pulls back, and refuses to be shaped (as is its nature), walk away from it for a few minutes. It will relax and so will you." And I did relax, although I seldom needed to walk away. What really hurt was having to walk away from the whole of the art, and with it, the beauty of the end product. Bread is life and that life was over. Now I know you may be thinking, "Pull up your boot-straps, Girl and stop feeling sorry for yourself! Get out there and tame that gluten-free beast!" And believe me, I have...muffins, cookies, cakes, even perogies have been owned by me. But, Bread! Oh, Bread...thou elusive trickster! I have yet to create a gluten-free counterpart worthy of that title. So, this morning as with most other mornings, I pull a stump of GF "loaf" from the freezer, slap it in the toaster for not one, but two turns on high, and after spreading some highfalutin jam on it to mask its inferior texture, crunch my way through, joylessly. All the while, in my head, I am cooing to my small intestine, passive-aggressive phrases like, "I do this because your health is more important to me than my taste buds." "Thrive, undulate, and absorb, my precious cilia!"
Forsaken but never forgotten, the subtle and satisfying art of wheat flour bread making. This post is my cathartic tribute.
