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Lucky Number 13, telling a writer to read, and other anomalies

My precocious character Rose invoked the ire of her Catholic teachers and dismissal of her mother by her insistence that 13 was a lucky number. Why did she have to explain the obvious? Baker’s dozen, an extra loaf of bread just in case, in her childhood world there was nothing luckier than that. Then she grew up, and 13 faded to nothing special, no longer on her mind. With me it was reading. I was devouring books long before I started school, I’m told. I was a voracious reader until the teen years. Then reading became a chore for school. After graduation I began my career as a paid writer. Who has time to read then, and why should I? I’m creating my own stories now.

Wrong choice, for two reasons. Good writers and good readers. Cliche but true. Seeing and abosorbing how other writers create their worlds and transport their readers gives practical hints to ideas. More importantly, reading continues to set flight to the imagination, widens the door to the world, invites in the facts beyond our knowledge and fancy beyond our grasp so we can learn, play, tingle with delight at that perfect turn of phrase or fascinating detail. Like the story of the Baker’s dozen, and how in the mind of a child it is good rather than fearful. And how a child’s mind fully embraces a stor – doesn’t skim or scan or flip to the end, but takes it in word for word, beginning to end. That is what reading used to be for me, before the days of school notes and emails and technical writing for hire.

So today and every day, my gift to self is to read something. Not for work, not for school, but for the sheer pleasure of absorbing another writer’s world. A magazine article, perhaps, or blog post from the heart, or a daily reflection. It’s not quantity of words, but quality of experience.

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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Have you smiled at a plant today?

I had fresh thyme on my salmon tonight. Tiny green leaves, world of flavour, 15 steps away on my front deck. Cheap, too. $3 per plant at the farmers market. And a miracle, firstly because it hasn’t died, and because in the next few months it could double its size. Plants in our world are everywhere: underfoot, overhead, on our window sills, in our gardens. They also inhabit a special place in our emotions. My sweet little grandmother became an axe murderer when a dandelion dared to appear on her lawn. The scent of wild roses takes my mother back to her childhood on Nova Scotia’s rocky, salt-kissed south shore. The smell of lilacs, well, we all know there is a special story there. Someday, you’ll get to read it …. But enough about that for the moment. Love them for food and beauty or detest them as weeds, plants are wondrous. Some lucky people can grow them. I’m working on my gardening skills, because there is peace to be found in the dirt, a sense of purpose to be seen in living creations that are rooted yet unique. My gift to self today: appreciate a plant, any plant. My herb garden. My perennials that grow despite my lack of empathy. The neighbours’ lush cedar bushes. And of course, for a few days yet, the lilacs. Book or no book, they’re still beautiful.

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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Day 11: Honouring Friends

I started the morning feeling completely drained and totally alone. Two hours later, I am not only still alive but writing, with a smile. That is the power of friendship. My gift to self today: valuing my friendships by trusting them and sharing our energies, wanting good for both of us. It started at 8 a.m. with a meeting with my business partner, the legal term for a relationship so simple yet too complex for either of us to describe. I had to look him in the eye and tell him what I shared with all of you 11 days ago; that there would be no book launch this month, maybe not next month either. That we would have the book in hand when the lilacs bloomed was a promise I had made to the both of us. The lilacs blossomed in full force overnight, but it seemed we were now both too exhausted and distracted to do a new book justice.  I burst into tears. He handed me the tissues. “We don’t need a book to smell the lilacs,” he said, holding my teary gaze, “and you know, they’ll bloom next year, too.” In that moment he was a pure friend, and I wouldn’t trade that feeling of being valued and connected for a bestseller. OK, maybe the New York Times list … But the point is, we both admitted to our overload, discovered we were on the same page, and made a plan to move forward that didn’t hasten the drain on both of us. That gift will see us both through the next several months of chaos and transition that is the current reality of our lives.

It didn’t stop there. I called another trusted friend and shared my experience. She added her wisdom, of which she has much. Yes, it may feel like a failure to miss a deadline, but pushing through for an arbitrary date is useless if you sacrifice yourself in the process. “You know, they bloom every year,” she added. The more I repeated it, the more real it became. Then she was also able to share. The weekend she had said was “interesting” and “good” was fleshed out with such traumatic details as food poisoning, car trouble, and bidding a final goodbye to a dear lady who meant the world to her. We trusted each other to share the downs, knowing we have enough believe in the ups that we won’t get stuck in the lowlands.

I don’t spend near enough time visiting, talking to, or even thinking about my friends. Starting today, I will do that, at least one friend a day, even if only in prayer. There is so much joy in friends, and they are so easily taken for granted. We make time for work, for family, and for people who need us for specific things: when sick, grieving a loss, down on their luck or overwhelmed by chores. It’s time to make time for friends not because we need them (because we always do!) but because we want them to have a good day, to have some fun, to know that they are appreciated. The energy generated for everyone is more healing than any medicine.

Thanks for listening. See you tomorrow.

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A scent in time: KISS Day 10

Today I almost gave up on it all. I awoke with the dull threat of a headache and a queasy stomach. It threatened rain outside. A day to call in sick and stay in bed, but of course, I couldn’t. My client’s annual conference was today. I had to set up, take notes, help with logistics, all those back end jobs that help make an event shine. I would get through it, but completely ignoring my body and spirit in the process. By the time I got back home this evening, my mind was completely spent as well. I popped some Motrin and fell on my bed, wishing for nothingness.

Then I smelled something, a delightful fragrance from, of all places, the bathroom. Lavender and rose. Suddenly I was smiling. This was an air spray I bought a few weeks ago at the Seaport Farmers Market in Halifax, on a delightful sunny day spent with a dear friend. The spray was from Seafoam Farm, less than an hour from my home, that grows lavender and turnstile into everything scented and edible. I love the scent of lavender. The day of the purchase, pride in buying local,  a favourite scent … In an instant I had more reasons to smile than I could count, all thanks to a flood of memories triggered by a single scent, one within reach and that I can spray at any time.

My gift to myself on Day 10: a favourite smell. Beef stew from the slow cooker, freshly-mown grass, so many of them out there, offering sheer pleasure at no charge.

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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Say it with a song: Kiss Day Nine

Week One of Keep It Super Simple evolved into nourishing the physical: water, food, exercise, rest, sleep. With essentials covered, it seems my body is ready for more emotional input. Two days ago, I actually looked forward to writing. Two nights ago, I had a memorable dream for the first time in six weeks. Yesterday, I heard a noise that at first I didn’t recognize. I was humming. The surprise of doing it was sad enough, but that I had forgotten what it sounded or even felt like … how much we lose when slowly consumed from the inside out.

So today and every day, my gift to me is a song. I am creating a playlist song by song, day by day, of tunes that pop into my head. No thinking, no pondering, no alphabetical order or Top 40 or strategic alignment of classical next to jazz. Anything goes. Today? Songbird by Fleetwood Mac. Don’t ask me why, it’s a song that is always there when I least expect it. I heard it on Glee a couple of years ago, and i couldn’t stop thinking about it, to the point where I squeaked open my ITunes account and bought it. A month later, I stumbled across my Rumours CD in the basement, and there the song was, listed right there on the back. I had it in the hosue the whole time and didn’t even know. That is part of what has launched this process for me, being surrounded by beautiful things and being too out of touch and overwhelmed to acknowledge, let alone appreciate them. Today I am reconnecting, one song at a time.

Want to share in this beautiful tune? Check out the link here.

Thanks for listening. See you tomorrow.

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My Favourite Things, almost forgotten …

My daughter looked at me with a sadness and fear I’ve seen too many times in the mirror. She had to speak in front of the class. What if she couldn’t remember a word, or say it properly? What if, what if … I asked her to pick a lucky charm to take with her, and the what ifs stopped. She searched. She brightened. A tiny porcelain sheep became Lucky Lamb, or LL cool lamb, a rapper who would be at her desk cheering her on. That is why our world is given children, to sustain the human race in part by reminding us adults of connections between our power within and the objects around us.

Day Eight of my Keep It Super Simple quest for a cool to the burnout: find a favourite thing.

For the past seven days i have added to my daily routine four extra glasses of water, an extra serving of veggies, five minutes of exercise, 15 minutes of quiet time, 10 deep mindful breaths, a half-hour of sleep, and a weekly reflection. Today I add finding a favourite thing, holding it if possible or otherwise spending a bit of time with it. My first object? LL cool lamb, who just a few months ago was languishing in a dusty basket on an even dustier shelf in my office. I cleaned house and gave it to my nine year old, who promptly gave him a home on her bedside table. Today, he is in her backpack guiding her through a class presentation. How can I not love him?

We surround ourselves with things, seek storage solutions with the hunger of knights pursuing the Holy Grail only to lose sight, literally and figuratively, of these things we claim to love. Why is that teacup and saucer so carefully stored on your shelf? What is the deal with that ratty old bear? These objects have stories, and are part of your story. LL cool lamb has become part of mine, how an object I had was able to ease the angst of my child, channelling a courage she didn’t know she had. And sharing a power I didn’t know I had.

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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Seven days: three lessons learned

And on the seventh day, He rested. Regardless of belief or religion, that line from the Bible makes sense. Review and reflection are part of recharging, and of smart planning. I’m writing this a bit later today, and my gift for myself today and every Sunday is just that: time to look back on the week, build on the lessons and throw out the trash. So, here’s what I’ve learned so far.

1. We are way, way too quick to punish ourselves, and severely at that. We would dismiss the thought of withholding water from a child who didn’t finish her chores or force a puppy to hold its breath for mistaking your homework for a chew toy, but when I think I’ve forgotten an email, a school note or some other detail, I hold my breath. When I’m frustrated at my lack of energy to plant the garden, paint the furniture, clean the house and cook a fully organic meal, I forget my water and dismiss my five-minute bounce as too time-consuming. I hadn’t made  the connection between my negative thoughts and my self-denying habits before. Now I have. Last night, I stepped back from the stove and drank two glasses of water. Within minutes, I felt calmer. Maybe I needed water, or maybe I just needed a bit of self-care. Whatever, it worked.

2. We ask: How can I do more? or When can I fit that in? when we should be asking Why Do I Make the Choices I Do About What I Do? The answer will shed more light on why there is no time for the good stuff than an overpacked calendar will. I found my day filled with disconnected appointments of things I felt I had to do. No joy, no choice, just obligation. Am I volunteering for an event I detest because all the other parents are doing it? Then, that will fill my time and drain energy from the walk I want to take. It’s not the fault of the school, the parents, the government, or the economy that I have to volunteer: it’s mine for saying yes. It’s a slow switch in mindset, but I’m working on it.

3. Little things do add up. Little negative things build over months and years into anxieties and frustrations. Little positive things, even in a week, can bring a moment of brightness to the dark. Can a few glasses of water and extra veggies, with a bit more bounce and few naps really change anything? Well, I’m still tired, still frustrated at my lack of energy and still get that knife of anxiety in my gut when I think about work, but I have also enjoyed this past week much more than those in recent memory. I have worked outside, read more, and today, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to write. Wanted to, not had to. And for seven mornings, the first thought in my head was not ‘how am I going to get through this day?’but ‘what am I going to do for myself to help me enjoy today?’

Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.

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S is for Saturday, S is for sleep

It’s been five full days of little changes. Coincidence or not, I had the energy last night to take in an evening of amazing performances by young musicians at our provincial music festival: solo performers, high school students, forcing air through brass instruments in ways that made your spine tingle, or offering up musical theatre performers that made you think,for a moment, they were really an unwed father, a waitress, or Fanny Bryce. As unique as their selections, disciplines and adjudicators, there was one unifying piece of advice. Keep it simple.

Talk about a sign of being on the right track, I thought at home, drinking my last glass of water of the day and munching my carrot. There was one competitor, with the voice of an angel and costumes the quality of Broadway. She did very well. The winner, however, had a more subtle voice, darker and more understated songs, and simple outfits – basic black with accents, depending on he characters. She was edged the winner for her simplicity and clearer connection with her songs. Simple and real. She has that now in her discipline. I’m hoping to get there.

So what to do today? Keep doing what I’m doing. And add one more thing kind to my body: sleep. A half hour earlier, every night. That means no more dozing in front of the TV, no playing on my iPad. Go to bed at 10:30, go to sleep. Nothing more simple than that.

Thanks for being here. See you tomorrow.

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Airing things out: KISS Day 5

Just breathe. Well-meaning folks would tell me that, and I would want to choke them. What do you mean, breathe? What do you think I’m doing, flapping my gills? Of course I’m breathing, you twit! How is that going to help me calm down/finish this presentation/get through the next five minutes? It turns out they were being very helpful, and I was/am the twit. Most days, without thought, my breathing is so constricted and uncommitted that the air I take in could barely keep a bird alive, even a tiny bird, like a robin. An adult at rest can take 12-20 breaths per minute. Those breaths need to fill the lungs with air. That air contains the oxygen our body needs for its own internal combustion. We can go days without water and weeks without food, but only a few minutes without oxygen. yet when we’re stressed or preoccupied, our muscles constrict and our breathing gets shallow, reducing our flow of oygen when we need it the most. But that’s what burnout feels like, at least to me: body, mind and spirit all arguing and pushing each other around like drunken siblings at a family reunion, desperate to connect but too damaged and immature to figure out how.

So now, on Day Five, I am trying hydration through extra water, nutrition with my extra serving of vegetables, a wee bit of exercise to build muscle and vent negative energy, 15 minutes of mindful quiet (or in simpler terms, a nap), and now, breathing. Real breathing. A slow, deep breath in, held for a second or two, then released slowly, a controlled trickle taking with it a painful memory, a chunk of undigested bitterness, a shard of stress. Then repeat. Again. Ten in a row of these slow, deep, deliberate breaths. I did them this morning when I woke up, that familiar knot already settled firmly in my gut. Now, I’m at my desk, about to finish my first task of the day, enjoying the sunshine, looking forward to breakfast (and my extra glass of water).

Thanks for being here. See you tomorrow.

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KISS Day Four: Where’s the rest?

I can’t remember the last time I did anything four days in a row, which is no doubt why I am now engaged in a search for healing. An unstructured schedule completely adrift on the tide of life sounds like a paradise, but the reality is most of us need some sort of anchor, base or structure to call home. For now, my structure is this 30-day challenge to heal my fried adrenals through tiny, realistic changes. And do you know what? After only three full days, I have a concrete result to report.

Last night. I had committed earlier in the day to five minutes daily on the trampoline. By suppertime, though, I had a splitting headache and my body felt like it had run a marathon. I flopped on the couch, too tired, aching, and sad to move. I’ll add it tomorrow, I told myself as I dragged up the stairs to help youngest daughter get ready for bed. The trampoline is in her room, and of course was mounded with stuffed animals, yesterday’s jeans and tomorrow’s outfit. I stared at the plush pile of rounded bodies topped with unblinking eyes. You can do this. Five minutes. Daughter lent me her iPod, I swept off the trampoline and with Carly Rae Jepson singing her heart out, I bounced for five minutes. I returned to the couch still tired, still achy, but with a sense of accomplishment. A half hour later, my mood was clearer. What was once hopeless was now calm. I kept a promise to myself. I did something good for myself. The cost? Five minutes.

So to recap, I am drinking more water, eating an extra vegetable, and now bouncing for five minutes. Time for a rest. I need it. We all need it. Don’t believe me? Check history and the globe. Cultures the world over still shutter businesses at midday for an afternoon break. A generation ago, many Nova Scotia houses had a cot in the kitchen next to the stove; you ate dinner, napped, then went back at it till dark. Modern schedules, though, treat lunch time as another work hour, routinely scheduling meetings, appointments, and commitments that have no focus on eating or recharging. That midafternoon slump? Beat it with snacks and caffeine, they say. Listen to it, I say, and have a rest. So here’s my Day Four addition: 15 minutes of afternoon rest, every day. Maybe a nap, snuggled in bed with my quilt. Or maybe a quiet time nestled on the couch, eyes closed, phone off, hum of traffic in my ear, kiss of sun on my cheek, mindful relaxation and letting go.

That’s it. Nothing special. But I’m really looking forward to it. Fifteen whole minutes. Enough for a dream.

Thanks for being here. See you tomorrow.