About Imprisoning Myself and Also Bournes

DAY 29: My Goals for the Future 

This is coincidental and entirely fitting that I write about future goals on the horizon of a new year. And because I always complicate things if I can, and just listing some things I want to do seems easy, I did have to think about what would keep me from reaching my goals. 

If you can’t be reconciled with the roots of your history and the tragedies, sometimes you start to imprison yourself

These are words from a unnamed Swiss Mennonite Pastor. And although he was speaking in a broader sense, referring to Anabaptist history, and specifically to the persecution our ancestors endured and its lasting impact through many generations, I thought it was just as true on a personal level. It’s hard to move forward, or even to look ahead when I’m stuck in the past. If I’m trying to stomp down unforgiveness I thought I had modified to forgiveness years ago, or kicking myself for stupid decisions I made along the way, or holding onto things I should’ve changed long ago, I imprison myself.

On to goals. I’m not sure how I feel about goals. Actually I probably am sure. I like attainable goals, but also goals that contain some kind of challenge. I feel like goals don’t have to be enormous futuristic things. They can be menial and they can be immediate, which are the kind I’ll mostly list here. 

Goals. Bournes. I found a new word. New for me that is.

Bournes I’ve already begun and determine to continue include Continuing to learn French (I would like to be able to at least read and write French)even if I don’t ever speak it), Continuing to bond with the sunset/sky in general, Continuing to write regularly, whether on this blog for anyone to read or just for myself, Continuing my quest to visit every continent, something that’s been on my bucket list for like ever, Continuing to learn more things and meet more people who aren’t like me. That doesn’t mean I don’t value all of you who are like time.

Bournes I haven’t begun. 

Weave a massive rug. Learn how to make baskets out of I’m  not sure what. Learn to surf; Yes I do realized the unlikeliness of that. Learn to build things like with woods and tools and things like that. Relearn to knit. I’m out of ideas. 

I know there are more things I plan to do but tonight doesn’t seem to be the time to remember them. It’s been a long month of posting, intensified by having to stick to prescribed topics, something I knew to begin with I was kind of terrible at. These aren’t New Years resolutions because I don’t believe in the cliched ideals, having witnessed them fail more often than not. I believe in having attainable every day goals to go along with massive life-long ones and that I can add to my list of bournes any day of the year I want to. The end.  

A New Synonym for Fear

 DAY 28: I was supposed to write more about love but I hate writing about love, so I got different challenge: pick a random word, search images of that word, write about one of those images

I searched both paranoia and fear. Of course there were a lot of different pictures, but there was a theme that kept recurring. There were many pictures of face masks and people wearing face masks. This was something that I had not been expecting. 

Masks have never equated fear for me. Protection, yes. Something to hide behind, absolutely. But fear? A face mask is Such a flimsy symbol for a word so large and so intense and so sinister. 

As of 2020 we have a new word for fear.  It begins with the same letter, but it has an extra syllable. Technically it’s a sort of compound word. The new word is something visible and tangible as opposed to the old word, which was purely an invisible idea and emotion. Goodbye, Fear. Hello, Face mask. 

Will the coming generations ever even know we used to use the word fear, or will the replacement be the only word they use? I face mask the dark. The roar of a lion puts face mask into the heart of the bravest. What is your biggest face mask?

FACE MASK, a new synonym (or replacement?) for the word FEAR. Merriam-Webster, don’t forget to add that to your 2021 thesaurus edition. 

People Who Inspire Me, from a Girl Who Pathologically Destroys Everything She Touches

DAY 27: Someone Who Inspires Me

Right now, my husband is inspiring awe. 10 minutes ago he had my sewing machine in 37 pieces; now it’s all back together. I totally have him figured out. He whispers magic words to broken things, and they all whisper beatifically back and immediately begin to work perfectly. Oh, I know it’s not simple. I’ve watched his process, and I realize it’s thorough and sometimes time consuming, but the end result is truly magical to me, a girl who pathologically destroys everything she touches. 

If this assignment was People Who Inspire Me, it would immediately have been  easier. Choosing just one is very limiting. In the last month I’ve written about different people: my husband, parents, siblings, friends, and told stories about some of them and how they have influenced my life. Anyone who has been mentioned on my blog has obviously inspired (okay I low key hate this word by now) me in some way. And many people I haven’t mentioned also have inspired me. I think it would be safe to say that every person I know has inspired me in some way. Most people inspire in positive ways, but a a few people I know have inspired anger and other negative reactions. 

And to remain true to me, I have to ask this question to myself. Who am I inspiring ? And am I inspiring in a good way? Or 

One Room Schools, Independent Schools, the Metaphorical School of Life

 DAY 26: My School

When I’ve used these words the last few years they have referred to the Independent School where I was a teacher. My school, I called it. And the students who attended it were my kids. I would’ve had an easier time letting go of my school and my kids  if I’d never called them that.

Other schools have been mine, too. I was a lucky child who got the experience of a one room school.  Several , actually. Half my school years happened in a one room school with only my sisters as fellow students.  Those school rooms were tiny spaces where the door always stood open to allow in the weather, the insects, the pets, and the outdoor sounds. The day to day life of the rest of the family happening nearby was distracting, and I spent many hours rushing through my work so I could go join the real life happening only a few feet away. We were so efficient that we only needed approximately half the hours of school the rest of our friends had and my teachers were fantastic at squeezing normal school fun activities into those short hours. This was the redeeming quality of an unexciting school setting: we could work at our own pace (I never had those hours of waiting for the rest of my grade to catch up to my carelessly fast pace), we had very short school days, and we rarely had more than 4 days of school a week. Did I learn less than my friends did in normal school settings with full days and full weeks of school? Not significantly. The life lessons happening in between school were  more valuable than any 7 hour school day. 

And one more school, my mainstream school. (If an independent school can be called mainstream.) This was my original school, the place I took 1st, 2nd, and part of 3rd grade, and later returned for the last half of grade 6 and all of grade 7. This school is the one where I have the best memories of my school years, almost all of which took place post culture shock, in grade 7. At the same time, this is also the school I feel least connected to; I don’t remember a lot about my first few years of school and most of my memories of the other years are vague. 

My school now. My Dad has this Dad saying he likes about attending the School of Hard Knocks. That’s where I’m currently attending: Life. 

Most Anticlimactic Post so Far

 DAY 25: Something Inspired by the 11th Image on Your Phone (in this case iPad)

I’ve been working on creating a bigger online presence for the business, basically trying to make us more findable when people need us, so I’ve been collecting pictures, details, business cards, etc. and, actually, those are basically the only pics I have on my iPad. I did check my phone pics, and the 11th pic there was one of a box of lightbulbs I sent to my husband while shopping, to double check I had the right size. Wife life. I didn’t want to write about light bulbs and light and shining and promising things like that. I just didn’t. So here’s the more neutral 11th picture from my iPad. 

This picture. This could be the outskirts of any dying village anywhere in the prairies. But it’s not. It’s my dying village. This sky could be the dusk sky over any rural community the world over. But it’s not. It’s the sky over my rural community. And that truck. It’s mine too. I even drove it around one summer before it got sick and we gave it this wacky paint job and became our advertisement and location landmark. 

4:30 am 

10:30 am 

4:30 pm

The calls came like clockwork today, giving us just enough time to relax and mostly have a  Sunday in between. I think the increased online presence is working ! 

People need help a lot. People need a lot of help. A lot of people need help. 

They swerve off the beaten trail in a small town back alley in the darkest hours of the night (drunk, or just sleep-driving ?) They lock themselves outside their vehicle in the cold on Christmas Eve. They plow headlong into a snowdrift on Christmas Day. They lose a tire while driving quietly down the road on a Sunday afternoon. And BTT helps them. Rain or shine. Summer and winter. Night and day. Holiday, weekend, whenever. And though it’s hard, and extremely frustrating sometimes, and emergency calls interrupt things we’d rather be doing, helping people in trouble is a rewarding work. Blah blah blah. 

I don’t know where I’m going with this, so I’ll just quit now. If BTT would read this before I posted he would probably scoff and say I’m poeticizing a very unglamorous job.  So ends the  most anticlimactic post ever. Until next time, least. 

An Extraordinary Art Form

DAY 24: Write About a Lesson You’ve Learned 

 I’ve learned a lot of things the last few years. In reality I know I’ve always been learning things. But the things I’ve learned have changed over the years. For instance, at 15 I was learning how to drive properly. At 25, I’ve been learning the wrong things to say to my mother-in-law. That last sentence was fabricated purely for the drama. My mother-in-law is totally amazing and accepting and will never make me feel like I said or did the wrong thing. 

People are the good teachers. Life is a better teacher. Experience is the best teacher. Again, this I just said to sound wise. I’m not 100% sure of the truth of it. I hate it that I feel the need to write a disclaimer after everything I write. I’m truly not that insecure.

maybe I am. 

When I read the today’s assignment  I was envisioning writing about a life lesson. That’s not what I’m writing about, although there are truly plenty of those I could include. Some I think I have written about it the past; others could be a springboard for a future post. Meanwhile, today’s lesson is more of a .... can’t find the right words to finish that sentence. Read on to find out what I mean . 

A Lesson I Learned: the Art of the Fake Smile 

This lesson I learned from people, Two of my beautiful sisters to be exact. One of them is technically an in-law so I’ll refer to them as sis and sil to differentiate.  

This is something that had never occurred to me, and maybe never would have if my sis hadn’t told me about a way she had fun while she shopped. “I like to fake smile at people and see if I can get them to [real] smile back,” she told me one day when we were walking through a Sears store in Winnipeg. Fake smile. I was too busy real smiling at people or else awkwardly trying to avoid them to even imagine faking a smile, much less doing it just for a reaction and making a game out of it. It sounded like fun. I decided to try it. It was as fun as she had told me it was and it worked wonders on other Holdemans who were strangers that  I saw in Super Store and didn’t want to talk to. 

disclaimer #952: I never said it was a kind thing. 

A couple years later I got to know my sil. She didn’t use fake smiling as a game. She used it as a weapon, I noticed. And over time I realized this is an effective weapon, maybe more a protection, and started to use it more and use it better. If I fake smile at someone’s well-intentioned words that were aimed just a little wrong, the deliverer will never realize how badly they hurt me. Better yet, a fake smile in advance can sometimes prevent those awkward words from ever happening. A fake smile can keep laughter from bubbling up at the wrong time. If I really perfect it, a fake smile can keep the “are you okay?” questions from the people close to me at bay. It can persuade a child that I’m still the controlled adult they’re trusting, even when I’m breaking inside. And maybe, just like legend says, my own fake smile will persuade myself to be genuinely happy. 

A letter.

Hi 

Earth.

Dear,    it’s 

me,      your 

constant comp

anion. I’ve been

admiring you from afar for 

so many thousands of light

years. I knew you were special  the day I first saw you. I know you

have noticed me too. I see         you look away when I catch

 you watching me every day    at sunset. I heard your 

gasp of awe the night I shone my brightest. I’ve 

seen my reflection in the pools of your eyes. 

I knew distance was my best angle, but 

reflected in you I see how beautiful I 

actually look. You are my muse, the reason I 

beam brilliantly every time Sun leaves you. I know 

the darkness terrifies you,         and that my lazy rival 

Moon can’t even make                        his own light. I’m

Infinitely                                                             Devotedly 

Yours                                                                                 ,Star

DAY 23: Write a Letter to Someone, Anyone 

Defeat and Euphoria on Christmas Eve

DAY 22, Again: Write About Today

I did not believe I’d get this far in my quest to write; I’ve surprised myself with my stamina and capacity to write on these assigned topics. I’m late posting this one. But I’m posting it. Write about today inevitably comes on one of the most quiet, uneventful days of my life . 

I’m on a hammock swinging between defeat and euphoria this week. I was euphoric when I slept through the sunrise for the first time in forever and then found my husband making deliciousness for breakfast. I was defeated when BTT went to work. When he came home a couple minutes  later for something forgotten, I took that as a sign and halfheartedly went with him when he left the second time. The defeat was gone, but I can’t say I felt euphoric..

I talked on the phone with a stranger who sounded like she hated business phone calls with strangers nearly as much as I do. But the outcome was good. So both defeat and euphoria in one short conversation. 

I legally (outside, distanced) saw two of my beautiful nieces; one of them even had an envelope full of a chipped up shell from some kind of water creature and chopped up picture treasures for me. Euphoria. 

Thé ;;;;; sign is my favourite punctuation mark at the moment; it makes my teacher heart happy to use this symbol to create semi-legal sentences out of lawless run-on sentences. My French keyboard is always interfering with my English typing; no matter how many times I tried to change that last thé into the it always autocorrected back. Here’s a fun way to spend your Christmas Eve make that Christmas Morning: Every time you see that French thé in here, read it as the English word tea. It might make my longolola-ing interesting. (See below for definition for this Chichewa word; I’m accidentally using all the unEnglish words I know tonight.) And while I’m apologizing, which I’m told I do a lot at the wrong times and never at the right times; Okay maybe I made most of that last bit up. It may be kind of hard for people who don’t know me well to know when I’m being sacrastic and when I’m intentionally spelling words wrong, so maybe just assume everything is sarcasm and every typo is intentional. Or the opposite. 

Most Boring fact of all thé boring facts I’m presenting today: I didn’t cook today; We ate leftovers for one meal. My leftovers were from Rawhides. You know how some food tastes better thé day after it’s made? this noodle bowl was one of those things . And BTT’s mom fed us the other meal.  Euphoria.  

We stopped and chatted with a neighbour, who seemed a little lonely and sad and dejected about an anticlimactic Christmas, and worried about his ancient mother getting sick. For all the difficulties of 2020, it’s offered us, thè whole world basically, a common problem, a way to relate with everyone around us. Both defeat and euphoria. 

We bought a massively heavy pressure washer from a neighbour. BTT and I  both had theories on why this guy suddenly needed thé money so badly. His: to buy gifts for his kids. Mine: to buy drugs and alcohol and maybe fund for his brand new  (as in he literally just returned from thé tattooist when we arrived to get thé precious pressure washer) tattoo. I won thé Most Cynical contest today! We don’t know this guy very well, although he has been to our house and his step-kids are some of thé girls that often come to our house, so any speculating on why he suddenly wanted to sell this piece of equipment that had been sitting in his uber secure house for weeks is just that, speculation. It’s possible he was just tired of having a giant red pressure washer blocking his view of the TV. Neither 

We were all set to drop the pressure washer (I feel like this thing was such a part of our life today that it should maybe have a name or something. Maybe we could just call it PW so people might think we’re really cool and hang out with the Pioneer Woman.) at the shop, when a distressed woman calls. She’s locked her keys in her vehicle and is waiting outside in the cold. We exchange trucks and drive off to Preeceville. On the way I beg BTT to let me do the unlock; he does. I even do a pretty good job, I think, and this way he can distract the customer so I don’t feel watched. People are always fascinated by the professional lock picking tools we use, and inevitably think the process is so easy they could do it themselves if they had the right tools. Perhaps they could, but clumsy and short me has discovered that, while it may look deceptively simple, there is a technique to learn, and each make and sometimes model of vehicle takes a slightly different process. When we got back to the shop we unloaded PW and my skidoo, which currently has a blown motor or something. The plan is for me to pull it apart next week so BTT can figure out exactly what’s wrong with it. I have fixed things on it  before (with step by step instructions and supervision from BTT, of course), but I’m curious to see how this goes; I’m not a born mechanic like my husband, but I enjoy learning and the sense of accomplishment when it’s all back together. Mostly euphoria. 

A begged and begged us not to go home, so we didn’t. We can’t resist pleading eyes. Because BTT’S parents have a lot of children to deal with, we’ve been allowed to keep going there, despite restrictions, to support them. I played MRS. CLAUS for an hour when Everyone decided it was easiest to find someone to wrap their gifts for them. I gave Grouch Patch (his words, not mine) T his meds and tucked him into bed where he fell asleep instantly. He must sleep with one ear awake, because when I’m leaving, even hours after he fell asleep, he will always call for me to come check on him before I go home. Tonight was no different. We recently taught Alex how to play his newest game (Phase 10), and we spent a lot of the evening playing a raucous game of Phase 10 with him again and drinking coffee and punch.  And we laughed so so so hard at A and his parents and the jokes they told about each other. And we all acted our strangest best holiday selves.  e.u.p.h.o.r.i.a.

We got home late. 11 o’clock, a couple years ago considered too early to quit partying, is now our late. I started some ribs cooking for a Christmas Day meal. BTT needs to go to church for the service in the morning to run PA, but because of a limited number of people being able to attend, I will not be able to go. 

There. I wrote about my today, which turned out to be a pretty happy Christmas Eve, and I even included a sneak preview into my tomorrow plans. Hugs and joy to you, The Sunset Watcher

The Human Factor

Due to life (or the human factor) I never got yesterday’s post written, which I’m sad about. I’m going to post this instead of yesterday’s topic and continue trying again today. This is something I wrote a few months ago. I’ve been afraid to post it because I wrote this to myself.  I’m afraid of how preachy  it sounds, and I’m not sure how much sense it will make to my readers.  When I think about this, it reminds me to give people (including myself) a chance instead of immediately writing them off for their humanness. 

There are two parts to all your relationships:

There’s there person you want to be and the person you really are. 

There’s the relationship (marriage, friendship, mentorship) you think you’ll have, and the relationship you actually have. 

There’s the church (as in the people, not the building) we should be, and the one we actually are. 

This is a paraphrased quote from a talk I listened to once. It was not by any means the topic of the talk, but it’s basically the only thing I remember from that talk. It made me understand something a little better.

There’s one thing standing between me and that person i wanted to be, one thing stopping my relationship from becoming the one of my dreams. It’s the Human Factor. Being a human is  difficult. Humanness is real. Humans are imperfect. Humans have emotions, ideas.  Humans have actions. Humans speak, sometimes things they will later regret. 

The Human Factor. It’s not an excuse for the bad choices I make that end up ruining my day, maybe week, my life, someone else’s life. It’s not an excuse for swearing that accidentally slips from my mouth, breaking the months-long victory I thought I had won over that. It’s not an excuse for the lies I fabricate when i feel cornered. It’s not an excuse for the cutting manipulation that comes too easily and instantly kills any camaraderie. It’s not an excuse. But it’s the reason. 

So don’t give up on a friendship that’s been a little difficult lately. Give your friend or yourself the benefit of the doubt. Don’t get discouraged with trying and failing to have that conversation with your husband or wife or friend or parent or child. Give other people  or yourself a chance: We’re not perfect beings. Remember the human factor. 

Look What Happens with Love Like That

DAY 21: Write About Love

I have more questions than wise words about this. I’m a person who never feels like I love enough. I know not everyone feels that way, so maybe it’s just me. 

It’s Christmas. Isn’t this the best time to think about love ? Isn’t Christmas another word for the Most Love Ever ? There’s a saying that to me, epitomizes love, and epitomizes Jesus. 

Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." 

Is this the essence of love ? Is this the verb form of love, giving unselfishly, always ? Does love have the same meaning, the same effect for everyone ? Is love bigger than society says it is ? Do all things with love, someone once told me. All things. Not just the things I do for my family, my husband, my church family, but all things I do ever. Do I feel like the people I love owe me ? Do I really owe the people who love me ? 

Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.

Are the effects of my love far reaching enough ? Am I eclipsed by my selfishness ? 

Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky. (Hafez)

Run Toward the Roar

 DAY 20: Random Inspiration 

Run Toward the Roar

This phrase has something to do with animals running toward roaring hunting lions. I didn’t do any research; I just saw the words once and then they were part of my brain and wouldn’t leave. 

The Roar is 

powerful. 

LOUD. 

Intimidating.

The Roar is 

everything I fear

everything that overwhelms my joy

everything I give up on

everything I don’t ever try

The Roar is waiting to eat me alive. 

This December, The Roar is loud. The Roar is alive. 

The Roar is not seeing my family this Christmas. 

The Roar is no Christmas Morning Christmas Program in Steinbach church. 

The Roar is no super traditional ham and turkey dinner with all of BTT’s family squished noisily around one long table. 

The Roar is long dark evening and mornings. 

The Roar is grocery stores sold out of The Things We Think We Need. 

The Roar is Loneliness. 

The Roar is Self-pity.  

The Roar is Unthankfulness. 

Running towards the Roar is harder this December, but it means embracing the strangeness off this season. 

It means using calls and video calls and emails and long messaging conversations and actual snail mail and my blog to connect with the people I wish I could see in person. 

It means taking joy in the stillness this Christmas. 

It means eating nontraditional foods that we love instead of traditional foods that we don’t love as much. 

It means pouring myself into the people I can see

It means finding contentment and fulfillment in the small things: imaginary UFOS, the night sky, diamanté snow drifts under a streetlight, a random conversation with one of T’s friends he brought to our house, drinking festive mocktails with BTT, watching a meteor shower, talking to the town kids. 

Running Toward the Roar this Christmas means looking at the Christmas Star instead of at traditions and activities and people. Wise men still follow the light of the Star. That Star shines its beauty upon a cross, and the shadow falls over a tomb. (poetic song lyrics written by I-don’t-know-who)  

Zione

Day 19: My First Love

This is difficult tonight. I’m tired. Depressed. Uninspired. But I’m not complaining. I “have it better then 95 percent of the 7 billion people on the planet,” as one wise sister-in-law told me when I complained. Even knowing  that doesn’t take away from the validity of reality of how I’m feeling here and now. 

I could write about my husband, But I won’t. That’s not because I don’t love him, but because some things I don’t want to write for the world to see. But really, the moment I saw today’s title, I already knew what to write about.  

My first love.

Maybe love is too strong a word for this emotion, but this is the first time I got attached to someone who was not from my close circle of immediate family/friends/comfort zone. 

We lived in Malawi. My parents’ job was humanitarian work, Feeding and clothing orphans, providing fresh water for rural communities, etc. I was somewhere between the ages of 10 and 12 when this happened. Once or twice a month my family would go visit Open Arms, a most aptly named orphanage. Check it out it if you want; it’s still going strong and we’re still getting updates on some of the children we used to know there ! It was my favourite place to go. There were little kids everywhere, and everyone always needed lots of love and hugs and playing with. The house mamas were happy, fun, loving women who loved to laugh and joke and sing. I liked the babies best, and after we’d been there a few times these ladies had me figured out. They knew I loved kids, even tho I was still quite much of a kid myself. 

One day I met a teeny tiny little girl named Zione. (For you English speakers’ information, this is pronounced Zee-oh-nay.)  I’m not sure how old she was at that point, somewhere between 6 months and a year maybe. She was skinny, HIV positive probably, and developmentally delayed. She liked me. And I loved her. I spent time feeding her a bottle, delighting in her sober brown eyes, feeling so grown up. Then I handed her back to her “mom” and went home. The next time we went there, I went and found her and spent time with her again. After that, the ladies knew that when I walked in the door, I wanted to see Zione. They always let me feed her; I think I even changed her diaper and paced the floor in a quiet room to help her sleep. One day when I arrived and looked for her, she wasn’t around. I got sacred. Luckily, she had only gone to the doctor; she was fine. And she was growing. She was catching up in her milestones. She was happy. I got to help feed her some of her first bites of food. If you’ve never sat on a floor surrounded by babies and toddlers learning to eat real food, you don’t know messiness. There was cereal everywhere, and I remember being shocked when one or two diapers overflowed. 

Zione, along with all the other babies, cried when we set them bac down on the floor and walked out the door. Leaving was the hardest.

I’m not sure what happened to Zione. I can’t remember if she was still there last time I went there; I kind of don’t think so. Wherever she is, she’s a teenager now and she probably has no idea she left such a deep impression on a Canadian girl’s heart. 

More About Me

DAY 18: 30 Facts About Me

1. I am a Christian 
2. A Woman 
3. A wife 
4. I have blue eyes 
5. I spent the first 14 years of my life wishing they were brown
6. One compliment on my unusual combination of blue eyes + dark hair changed that forever 
7. I rebel at the idea of being like everyone else 
8. I’m night owlish 
9. I feel like I epitomize the saying Jack Jane of all trades, master of none 
10. I like adventures, even mini ones
11. I feel happiest when I have a busy life
12. I like learning new things. BTT once told me that he’d know something was wrong with me if I suddenly stopped learning. 
13. I like Pepsi even though that’s not cool or healthy. 
14. I can read for hours
15. I’m better at writing than talking
16. I don’t like dogs. I do like my dogs. 
17. I sort of hate heights 
18. I enjoy hard physical work 
19. I don’t like being alone 
20. I’m indecisive 
21. I don’t like chocolate 
22. I talk a lot 
23. I mostly say exactly what I’m thinking, sometimes regrettably  
24. I am competitive. I  notice this becos I’ve been playing a lot of games with A lately..
25. A poisonous snake once chanced to slither over my foot. No joke. 
26. I hate clutter. In my own house, mostly. 
27. I believe in the power of tears
28. I don’t like the ocean. Or I didn’t last time I visited one, even it was one of the best oceans. 
29. Green has been my favourite colour for a lot of years
30. Saskatchewan used to be  #1 on my of Places I Will Never Live list (never say never) 

My Heart is not a Trophy

DAY 17: Ways to Win my Heart 

If the words I was supposed to write on were about stealing my heart, I’d have lots to say. But wining my heart. Meh. I don’t even like the words win my heart. I don’t like clichés full stop. Also, The word win doesn’t have perfectly positive connotations. Win my heart. Winning is so one-sided; if someone won my heart, that means I must’ve lost something. It makes it sound like my heart is a football in an immature game of keep-away. It also sounds like I’m living in a castle two hundred years ago looking down from my castle window at the commoners below who are fighting to win my my heart while 7 servants standing around me to guard my heart lest someone succeed in winning it. 

With these dark images hovering, I decided to search my Bible app with the word win in case there was a proverb or something to inspire me. Proverbs (ESV) says that Good sense wins favour, and I can agree with that. But winning favour isn’t the same thing as winning a heart. Is it? 

Maybe I’ve got it wrong, but my heart isn’t up for grabs. If I want to give my heart away I do it. There’s not a lot anyone can do to win it if I don’t want to give it. I’m either selfish or not very trusting or both, but if you want my heart, the best way to get it is to give me yours. When hearts are involved it’s a two way street. When hearts are involved, possession is more valuable if the heart is freely given rather than won. If hearts need wining, what happens when you’re not feeling competitive? Do you lose the heart you formerly won? 

Anyway, I don’t really care about the winning part. It’s staying that’s the most important. Anyone can win anything, but not everyone has the courage not to duck when angry words hurtle like baseballs.  Not everyone has the stamina to wait out storms. 

Give me a love that isn’t shaken by an argument or disagreement, give me a love that doesn’t die because of time. (r.h. Sin)

The Former Me, Myself and I

Day 16: Someone I miss

I Miss People I Used to Know

Sapphy and Roses. Always. And forever. Will be the people I miss. But. I’ve written a lot about them so I won’t repeat myself. And If I start naming all people I miss, this list will be lonG becos basically we don’t see anyone this year. So I’ll do the selfish thing and write about me once again. On the other hand, someone pointed out to me that the people I love may not  want to be written about, so perhaps writing about myself is the kindest thing. 

Someone I Miss

Myself. Yesterday I was running away from myself. Today I’m missing myself. 

I miss unbroken me, the one before my grandpa died, my best friend suddenly died, my uncle died. The me before I saw Sadness and knew Grief. 

I miss naïve 15 year old me who, together with a tight knit group of idealistic missionary kids my age, spent hours talking out all of life’s problems (the ones we were aware of at that time anyway) and found solutions for everything and everyone. 

I miss the funnest me, the funniest me, the chillest me, the friendliest me. Maybe part of her still is with me somewhere deep inside, but I remember the exact moment on a fellucca At sunset that I felt most of that personality slip into the murky depths of the Nile. They say you leave a piece of you whenever you go. That piece of Me stayed in Egypt. I think it would’ve been happier staying in Malawi, but Egypt was the last place my feet touch African soil sand so it ended up there. 

I miss 17 year old me. Who was irresponsible and erratic and cray and stranger than I am now, if that’s even possible. 

I miss the me who thought less about what other people think. Her I’m pretty sure I will be able to find again. 

I miss decisive me. She disappeared some time around me turning 21. Maybe she’s hiding, just waiting for me to reclaim her on a future birthday. 

Maybe all the past me’s are. 

To Run, or Not ?

DAY 15: If I Could Run Away, Where Would I Go?

Strange question. 

Different situations call for different destinations. 

I already posted about my dream destinations.

But. As usual. Something That happened today took my ideas down a different path.

To be honest, sometimes I do run away. 

I think I run away every day.

And if I don’t, I probably should. 

Maybe running away is talking about the little things I do every day to survive, to be joyful.

Today I ran away with a child and a dog. We hid in the hollow created by snowdrifts around a pond, where no one could see us. We marvelled at the neon pink and ice blue sunset as it faded into twilight, felt the wind, warmish today, on our faces, and watched several bull moose wander through distant trees. No people, no devices, just nature and us. That’s what I call running away. 

An evening spent outside with a blazing fire, or a long walk in a snowy starry night are some of our every day versions of running away, running away from the house, from the tow truck that rules our every moment, from the devices that want to steal our now. 

Writing is a rejuvenating for me, as is reading. When I worked every day, I used to wind down by spending an hour or two cooking or baking. Like a lot of other people, stopping to smell the roses (or more likely my mint plants💚), taking a moment to peek at the sunrise on these long dark mornings, hugging my husband or one of the kiddies that always seem to be around, or reading the verse my Bible app sends me every day can be a momentary break from life.

Even though I already have this all written, the question is still haunting me.

Running away? 

Far away?

What would I be running from?

This part I don’t understand.

My life? 

No. 

I love my life. 

It’s not perfect and not everything happens like it want it to.

But it’s mine, and mostly it is the way it is because of choices I’ve made.

Maybe the thing I’d want to escape most is myself. 

Many wise people have noted that one takes oneself everywhere one goes. 

Truer words blah blah. 

Maybe I won’t run away.

Wherein I Feel Like a Plastic Bag

DAY 14: My Style

Clothes ? House ? Personality ? Lifestyle? I feel lost. Anyone else could write more accurately about me than I can. A few words come to mind.

Eclectic 

Incohesive 

Languid 

Amalgamated

Myself 

Idealistic 

Bohemian 

Unique

Bland 

Magpie

Minimalist 

(Aren’t those last basically mutually exclusive? If they are I’ve defied that.)

Proverbial plastic bag 

Practical 

To make this post somewhat worth reading, Imma add something I came across today that I wrote a few years ago about my style then. Maybe it is the clearest indication of my style: strange.

I broke up with you a month or so ago; we were so done. And you know what? I never missed you. This is the easiest breakup I've ever been through. And it's been a great month, much HAPPIER than the preceeding insecure months. Those were miserable months, with indecision and a feeling that things were just not like they should be. Then it happened. There came a day when I knew it couldn't go on any longer, When those Months of insecurity and anxiety and tenuous days together added up in the clear realization that we. were. over. Your presence in my life was just overwhelming me, annoying me, holding me back from my potential.

I haven't looked back since that day. I've found someone else now, someone a little more hip than you, with a better haircut than you and great jewelery too.  his clothes are what I've always dreamed of seeing from someone I love. He's a little more laid back than you and not quite as...dare I say, frilly. He writes and sings the dreamiest tunes and his worst character trait is that he's not as into thrift shop-ing as  you were. Not that i miss that a lot. Yeah, free spirited Boho is a great partner and I don't miss your lacey pastelishness, Vintage Chic.