Weather Talk

March is suddenly/finally here and spring is around the corner.....or so we thought.

It’s been an interesting New Year around the world so far, to say the least, and unfortunately the bad things going on overshadow the good in most conversations. But of the many topics to talk about these days, the weather has been a big one among folks on the West Coast of British Columbia. It’s been an interesting winter both on the Coast and Inland, and it’s leaving folks a bit…disgruntled. Yet of all the topics of all the icky things we could be talking about, the easiest, tamest, most non-controversial but best-for-escaping topic to chat about is the weather.
We can’t control what’s happening in the skies, we can only work with it, and let’s be real – we know whatever is happening at that moment right outside our windows won’t last forever. Snow melts and rain dries. The sun comes and goes leaving us hot or cold depending on the month and how far away/close we are to the burning ball of gas in the sky. Before you know it worry about sunburns and sweaty armpits will replace the angst caused by unexpected snow and ice.

It IS still winter, after all, and many other places DO have more ‘challenging’ weather conditions to deal with. And besides, there are worse things that could be happening – far worse than a few topsy-turvy inclement-weather days.

Not that I’m in denial of what’s going on in the world. But the icky things going on in the world has perspective shining brighter than any sun. Perspective makes Mother Nature’s moods tolerable; frizzy hair, runny noses and chapped skin, manageable. If our only problem where we are is strange weather, then we have it good.

And really, the weather is a safe topic – an easy topic. It’s an escapist topic. “Oh, Weather, what would we do without you? If we didn’t have you, would we talk about?” We love it, hate it, loathe it, wish for it, debate over it, and lose sleep over it. We blame everyone for seemingly ‘unpleasant’ weather – the meteorologists, Mother Nature, the Gods/Spirits/other-world-entities (the list is endless) – for miss-reading and controlling the weather. We blame thy neighbor when he mows his lawn too early, a sure way to jinx the seemingly perfect weather du jour - rain always seems to follow. And for the love of all that is good and pure do NOT step on a spider. Not only is it not nice, but superstitious folks will blame you for bringing on the rain with such an inhumane act.

But actually, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea….

…because lately in these parts where we pay exorbitant amounts to live in ‘supposed’ mild weather, we have had snow – and lots of it. And yes, yes, yes – I know many other places across Canada have it worse. It’s not that we have had more snow than any other place, it’s just that the abnormal amount we have had has been a shock to our systems – our roads, our highways people, our city workers, our furnaces (our utilities companies are happy, at least), our skin, our hair, our creaky joints, our ….everything. Folks had recently started pruning their fruit trees, only to be faced with flash snow-blizzards – very bad for any freshly pruned tree.

But when you are used to a certain way, and the unexpected tosses everything off course, it’s alarming, it’s unsettling, and it throws everything and everyone off kilter. One bad weather day – okay – but more than that? Forget it.

But at the end of the day it’s important to remember that, as with anything, nothing stays the same forever. Like the tide, the weather will change. Before you know it this crazy winter will be a not-too-distant memory. When in a few months we are too busy seeking-out shady spots in the glaring hot summer sun, we’ll sip our iced teas and think back: “Remember that awful winter of 2017? It was something else, I tell ya…”

So be thankful for the weather no matter what it’s doing. It could be so much worse. Because OF all the things we COULD be talking about, at least we’ll always have the weather.

Gratitude Gathering

My pal Jo-Ann Carson - author of smart, sexy suspense with a touch of magic - came up with the perfectly fabulous idea to have a Gratitude Gathering – a group of bloggers coming together and share what gratitude means to them and hopefully spread a little positive perspective during these dark and dreary days of winter and while the world feels like a topsy-turvy place. Jo-Ann's concept: 'Bloggers write a post on Gratitude on their own blog, 1-3 things you feel grateful for this month.'

Recognising what you are grateful for can be done at any time - no matter what the season and no matter what is going on in the world. Acknowledging gratitude for what we have and putting a perspective on what we think we don’t have can only lead to happier peace-filled days – sharing what we are grateful for can only spread like a dandelion’s seeds and foster thankful goodwill in others.

On the day I got Jo-Ann’s invite to participate in her Gratitude Gathering, I wasn’t exactly having the best day - never mind the best week. True, we all have bad days – they are inevitable and we are allowed to have them. But on that day where I felt gross, my hair was awful, I hated my wardrobe, I was three days away from payday and there was nothing ‘good’ to eat in the fridge (translation – junk food), the people on the bus were driving me crazy and I was clumsier and klutzier than ever, I scoffed at first at her invite.

How the heck was I supposed to find GRATITUDE given the day, never mind week, I was having? I thought with a snarl.

But…

But her invitation was enough to stop me in my tracks and have me giving myself a whoop upside the head. I always try to practice – note the word PRACTICE – being positive and keep an upbeat outlook on things, but at the end of the day we are human and emotions and truly catastrophically life-altering events are bound to throw our gratitude out the window. It’s important to take stock of what we do have and be thankful – even for the little things.

Here are a few of the things that were bringing me down that I was able to turn around and therefore appreciate:

1. The bus: I’m lucky to be even able to RIDE a bus. It means I have somewhere to go, somewhere to leave, and the money to even do so in the first place. And given I mostly use the bus for going to and from work – WHOAH! That means I have a job! And a paycheque! Being squished on a stinky hot bus can mean so many things if you look at it from a different angle (plus I’m saving money from parking and gas – the list keeps on going!). I’m pretty lucky that I am able to, and have the means to, never mind reason, to ride the bus. Gratitude #1 – check.

2. Feel gross/bad hair/hating wardrobe: I lumped all these together as I realized it was a matter of personal opinion and my own grey mood overshadowing all I should be grateful fo. You ever have days where you are having the WORST HAIR DAY EVER and someone compliments your hair? You’re not having the worse hair day ever – it’s all in your head (not just on top!) I’m fortunate to even have my good health so that I can actually FEEL those gross days – and it only be so because I’m having an ‘off’ day and not because I’m sick or anything. I have clothes on my bad – I’m not without. Truly. I have shampoo AND hair products AND the means to get it cut (never mind even HAVING hair on my head). All those things – feeling gross, bad hair, hating wardrobe – are just insignificant stuff on the surface that can all be remedied with a bath and a good long look in the mirror and in my closets. I have a lot to be thankful for. Gratitude #2 – check.

3. No ‘good’ food in the fridge: well aside from the obvious that I am lucky to even have anything in the fridge at all, maybe remembering to eat the healthy ABUNDANCE of food I do ACTUALLY have would help fend off those days where I feel gross and the clothes I DO have don’t fit right. I am grateful for the food I DO have in my seemingly empty fridge - translation: the fridge isn't really empty. Gratitude #3 - check.

Gratitude check = Reality check = perspective check: Jo-Ann’s invite came at the right time. It was a much-needed exercise to sit down and remember that I truly DO have so much to be grateful for. I am healthy, safe and sound, and loved. I have friends who invite me to share such an exercise with, along with having the ability and freedom to write what I want, when I want. I’ve got it pretty good – those ‘bad’ days are nothing.

Gratitude # 4 – check.

Be sure to check out what other author's are grateful for at Jo-Ann's site - www.lovindanger.wordpress.com

In My Own Backyard

25 years ago my husband and I bravely ventured out from Richmond BC to his uncle’s newly-acquired cabin. 50 miles in the bush of Golden, BC, the ‘hunter’s cabin’ was aptly nicknamed ‘The Ozone' as it was so far out and away from life as we knew it. The only running water we had was from a hand well pump in the kitchen sink as well as a big one outside. We are not hunters but were keen for an adventure and with only a dog-eared, crease-worn aerial map typically used for logging as a guide, getting there as an adventure in itself. My husband’s uncle and aunt had regaled us with stories of the wildlife in the area so I was (naively) excited at the prospect of seeing animals so different from home.

We found the beyond-rustic cabin and once we side-stepped the fresh grizzly scat and removed the bear-mat from the front door we settled in for a nail-biting stay. A bear mat is a piece of plywood riddled with up-turned nails to deter the most toughest of bears from entering the cabin for a snack. Uh oh. We were in remote back country, the furthest out I had ever been, I was immediately aware of ‘whose’ territory we were in. We kept ourselves busy by mowing over-grown grass (as a favour), and chopping wood. I suspect we were given these tasks to keep us from worrying about the resident grizzly and the wolves that would later circle the cabin as we slept up in the ‘watch’ (yes, I actually saw wolves).

Serene nature walks in the woods nor sunbathing with headphones were NOT on the agenda - mosquitoes weren’t the only thing that could sneak up on you – we had to keep our wits about us. But despite my grizzly-bear-frazzled-nerves I found great joy in watching the numerous wild birds not typically found along Coastal BC where we were from.

I grew up in the City of Richmond, BC surrounded by farms, bogs, marshes and ocean. Richmond is actually on Lulu Island and ‘back in the day’ the dyke-surrounded island was a huge farming community. If you go to the outer-est outskirts of the city and look between the shopping malls, you will see hints of farm-life the island was once known for.

Local birds such as Mallard Ducks, Canada Geese, herons, cranes and Stellar’s Jays, along with the wild pheasants that roamed the fields near my house, were what piqued my amateur bird-watching ways when I was a kid. Those feathered friends comprised the extent of my wildlife experience.

So years later when I found myself 50 miles in the bush worrying about grizzlies and wolves, the last thing I expected to find – yet much, MUCH to my delight – were hummingbirds.

Up at 'The Ozone' the rich and pure air and soil makes everything bigger - the chipmunks, the wild-growing rhubarb we found in the old horse corral and especially the bugs! But I soon realized that what I thought were huge flies overheard were, in fact, hummingbirds. I couldn’t believe my luck! To this city girl hummingbirds were a mystical, rarely-seen magical creature! I was hypnotized by how they buzzed, twittered, dove and spun all day long. We didn’t have a hummingbird feeder to attract them - all the summer wildflowers were what kept them busy.

I knew our stay at the old cabin would be forever memorable, but it would be the hummingbirds who would always be at the forefront of my memories.

Fast forward a few years and we have moved from Richmond to Victoria, BC and have expanded our world with two little boys to keep us busy. The hummingbirds I once saw were not forgotten but I had more important things to worry about – my own two hungry little birdies. I still considered the tiny birds rare and knew I would only ever seen them again at some magical place like 'The Ozone.'

One day right around Christmas I was cuddling my then-7-month old in the rocking chair next to our patio door. We had a little garden with shrubs and trees in patio-size pots and we had decorated some of the smaller trees with outdoor lights. It had snowed so even in the day when the lights were off our little yard was bright with the reflection of the snow. Just as I felt the weight of slumber overtake my little baby boy, and I started to nod off myself, a movement just outside caught my attention and I was instantly awake.

Because there, investigating a bright red Christmas light bulb on the tree just outside the patio door, was a hummingbird. His red throat shimmered and rippled with every movement as he tried to ‘drink’ from the bulb.

I couldn’t breathe – I dared not move (despite the sleeping baby in my arms). WE ACTUALLY HAVE HUMMINGBIRDS IN VICTORIA? I wanted to scream – but again, the baby.

WOW! The elusive little birdie – or so I had thought was elusive – was right there, in my own backyard. I wasn’t anywhere remote – we had no grizzlies or moose. The wildlife we had were deer and cougar commonly seen near my older son’s elementary school, despite us being 5 – 10 minutes away from huge shopping malls and highways. We had Mallard Ducks, Bald Eagles, and cranes - and of course Canadian Geese.

But what was the little bird doing here? Was I seeing things? Was motherhood exhaustion getting the better of me?

Or had they literally been in my backyard all this time but I just didn’t know it?

Although I was extremely intrigued by the sighting, I didn’t have time to worry about the little dears. But as I saw them more and more over the years, and when time would permit, I’d occasionally do a bit of research about them. Although typically a migrating bird, their numbers have increased along the West Coast, especially on Vancouver Island, over the the last fifteen years – which was right about the time I was rocking my youngest son to sleep when I first saw one on the Coast. As for all those years ago in the interior? Well I suspect we happened to be in the right place at the right time – in their migratory path with all the summer wildflowers in bloom and with no grizzlies chasing them (although I think they are too fast for a grizzly).

Fast FAST forward to now. My kids are older and the amount of time at my disposal to notice things like hummingbirds has changed. Although I’m still busy working full-time while trying to referee/clean/maintain my house, I DO have time to sit at my kitchen table and write – and watch the hummingbirds. Years ago we hung a hummingbird feeder (a gift from my youngest ‘rocking chair son’) just outside the kitchen window beside where I write. The little birdies' numbers have grown and although they can be a distraction from my writing, they are a perfect one, at that. They are much tamer than the ones I saw in the interior years ago – they swoop and hover as I re-hang their freshly filled feeder. I have come to know their chatter and chirps of defense and warning as they wait then dive in before I barely step away. I can hear them as I sit at the kitchen table and when I'm washing dishes - they are never too far away.

The once-thought elusive little bird who is for now, as it seems, a permanent fixture in my life have been here for good reason - they make me slow down and stop even if only for the few seconds they hover at the feeder. And now, thanks (but not THANKS) to global warming and who-knows-what-else, it seems as though they are here to stay - and I didn't have to go somewhere remote to see them.

I know our mild weather makes their year-round existence easier - winters are hard up in the backwoods of Golden BC - and the abundance of flowers Victorians are proud to grow makes where I live more attractive to them. It's a perfect place for a hummingbird, I'd say, and even more perfect that they are right in my own backyard.

Research is always being done on the busy little birds - to find out more about them visit the Canadian Wildlife Federation here and as well at the Rocky Point Bird Observatory - visit here.

Saved by Boots

‘These boots were made for walking’ – and indeed they were.

And although I would love to hear the stories my little hiking boots could tell, I think its best at this stage of their life to give them a well-earned rest. It’s time someone told THEIR story.

A long time ago in a generation and time barely remembered, I was a naive little 14-year old. I had signed up for a 50-mile hike in the interior of British Columbia with my Air Cadet Squadron - a group for youth interested in aviation and outdoor adventures – and I truly had no idea what I was in for. And although my dad was keen on my participating in such an adventure, I think he was a tad worried how his first-born daughter was going to fare. We would be hiking in and around 70-Mile House in the interior of BC and mostly along either paved or gravelled roads. Even though it was in the summer we had to prepare for all kinds of weather and all kinds of terrain. A skinny little body and tiny feet not used to such long travels required some proper hiking gear.

So we went on a shopping excursion I would never forget. How nervous my dad was about my venturing into the wilds of the great wide world was evident in how he shopped for my adventure. A large frame backpack, rain gear, army surplus water canteens, jackets and a camouflage boonie hat was only the start of my hiking gear. Every tool, gizmo and gadget was needed - with spares for back-up, of course. Today’s ‘Survivor Man’ would be proud.

But the most valued and still-cherished piece of hiking equipment he got me were the best kind of hiking boots money could buy. My dad knew if I was truly going to survive the wilds of BC, good footwear would be my greatest weapon. Those boots cost a pretty penny but it was a smart investment at the time - and an investment neither of us realized would go on as long as it would.

They looked nothing like the other kids’ boots. I had never owned a pair of hiking boots before but I knew what REAL hiking boots looked like, and these were not them. My teenage self thought they looked weird. I remember the store clerk – an outdoorsy kind of guy with bushy hair and just-as-bushy beard – recommended I treat them with wax. So I took my weird-looking little boots home and upon the advice of the bushy-haired store clerk I melted on layer after layer after layer after layer after layer of leather-preserving, water-resisting, ice-deflecting, bear-repelling, protective wax with a hairdryer. If my face got sun-burn, wind-burn, or frost-bite my feet, at least, were gonna be well-preserved.

But I’m not ungrateful for my dear dad’s compassion and care for my well-being. The parent I am now understands his apprehension of letting his child out in the great wide world.

And those boots proved to be the best bit of equipment I could have ever had. Their non-typical hiking boot shape was for a reason: my dad got what he paid for.

Because within two days of our hike along the back roads of 70-mile house everyone was limping and whimpering due to the most horrible blisters I had ever seen – everyone except me. I wore two pairs of socks which I changed regularly; tube stocks layered with army-grey wool socks. My feet stayed dry and blister-free. I came home in one piece and 20 lbs lighter, yet heavy with memories and experiences I would relive for years to come.

And I still have the boots to show for it.

And they still fit.

And I still wear them.

After that 70-mile hike, I wore them on another trip with the cadets, but that adventure found us in sub-sub-zero temperatures where we camped on snow and frozen cow-pies (true story). Where some kids suffered frostbite, I returned home unscathed.

I wore them through my 20’s and 30’s, and now my 40’s. My sisters have even borrowed them. Those boots have been camping and hiking all throughout BC, through lakes and rivers, through snow and ice. They sat in the back of the closet in the early years when my kids were babies, but were dusted off when those same kids were old enough to get pulled around in a sled in the snow. Then when those same kids were too old for me to pull in their sleds, those boots took me hiking in the woods with my kids happily trailing along.

My kids are now, sadly, at an age where hiking with mom is SO not cool, which means I’ve gotten older as well. Those boots I once thought were not cool are now the coolest, and securest, thing I know – they save me from slipping and falling in the snow and ice. Tripping and falling when you’re 45 years old is a heckuva lot different than when you’re 14 – more body parts tend to get destroyed.

So this winter when the snow and ice made an appearance on our usually mild temperature Southern Vancouver Island, my boots were ready to go. On a Friday the week before Christmas the threat of a another few centimeters of snow dared to show up in the forecast. Everyone was in a panic; grocery stores were in near-chaos with everyone buying amenities for the great rare snowstorm that was supposed to hold our rainforest island under siege for a few days.

I was ready. I had my boots.

But the day before the storm I was overcome with my own panic.

Just like my 45-year-old body is starting to come apart at the seams, so was one of my boots.

The sole was separating from the rest of the boot.

This could not be!

I was going to save those boots as they have saved me! Determined to hold on to this bit of history and nostalgic gift from my dad, I hustled to the cobbler and showed them my precious 31-year-old boots. I had told my dad of my plight. He was in tears about it all. "But I paid good money for those boots!" Don't worry, Dad, I mentally vowed as I made my way through the door of the shop. I will preserve your good name!

“Can you save them with some super-super-super-sonic glue?” I begged the cobbler as I held out my boots. “We are due for another snowfall and I NEED them! These 31-year-old boots are my LIFE!”

And a few hours and $15 later my Vasque boots that have stood the test of time – much better than my body has – were back in action and ready for the snowstorm...

...that never came.

But my boots, at least, are ready for another 31 years.

And I am too – I hope.

For product information about the best boots - and the only boots - I will ever own, visit www.vasque.com

Where Has the Time Gone?

In just a few weeks, we’ll be changing our clocks for Daylight Savings Time – again. Didn’t we just do that? We just did all that in March! It’s October already? Time sure flies!

So in order to save time – and daylight - we’ll be going backwards an hour; as if we’re trying to have one over on the sun. It’s all very confusing, but it’s nothing to do with going back in time or ahead in the future.

The bi-yearly time-changing event that occurs in the fall and spring is a hotly-argued topic with many questioning the necessity of it at all. It is felt that the original reasons for changing our clocks forward or back twice a year are longer relevant. Times have changed; the world has changed. Where many countries opted out of partaking in Daylight Savings Time, Canada opted in around 1908. The various reasons for opting in or out are plentiful – too timely to explain them all here – but the root purpose of Daylight Savings Time was to get folks up and at ’em earlier in the day, in relation to sunlight availability and energy saving. Confusing? It is to me. If I was a scientist I could probably explain it but I’m not so to save confusion for us all I hope you’ll visit:

Daylight Saving Time 2016: When Does The Time Change This Fall?

History of Daylight Saving Time — DST

Not only does trying to understand it all greatly confuse my already sleep-deprived mind, but when we lose or gain an hour it throws me off so much I feel as though I have jet leg. Oh how I wish I could blame jet lag on feeling out of sorts during the few days following the time change! It would mean I would have hopefully been somewhere fabulous.

But alas, no fabulous cross-time-zone trips are in the future, or were in the past, and all this worrying about time coming and going and whizzing by has me exhausted. Quite frankly, I just wanna go to bed - on time and only have to get up when I have had enough sleep. That’s what being forty-something will do to you, I guess; time flies by too fast and then you lose sleep from worrying about all that you have to do in the time you have.

In trying to understand not only HOW the time change works and WHY we do it, never mind trying to deal with the gain/loss of an hour, I’m exhausted. All this hour-changing is the last thing I need to worry about. It’s bad enough I don’t have enough time in the day to get everything done. And then I worry because the so-called adult I’m supposed to be still has to ask her mom whether to turn the clock back or ahead and hour before bed. And then I STILL worry throughout the night about the time change as I’m afraid my clocks’ alarm will be off and I’ll be late for work – which really wouldn’t matter because I would have likely been awake most of the night worrying anyways!

I guess I should be happy to have something so seemingly trivial to be worried about. If all I have to worry about is Daylight Savings Time, then I truly DO have it good. And with that profound perspective comes the realization that time’s a’wasting and I know we must keep moving forward and keep perspective about such matters. There truly ARE a lot worse things out there I could be worried about.

I recently listened to a radio call-in show specifically about the time change and the relevance of it. Callers were mad! But why get so mad? Why spend all that time on hold only to talk about the time change and the hour you potentially ‘lose’ for half a year when you could be doing so many great things with that 20 minutes you spent on hold. (You don’t really ‘lose’ an hour – things just get shifted back or forward.)

With all this worry and sleepless nights in wondering about the sun’s appearance and the clock, I was reminded that perspective IS key – time is so ‘short.’ ‘Time’ is so much more than a dictated time change. That same time, no matter what season we are in, is ticking. We only have so much of it so make the most of it, I say. Stop arguing and hug someone. We’ll look back on this one day and laugh about it, I know, but until then I’m determined to make the most of the now – leave the past behind, don’t worry about the future – and keep my eye on the clock.

And really - I was surprised we were at a time change already when it just felt like we JUST had one. Where did all the time go between last March and now? What have I accomplished? What haven’t I done? Who haven’t I hugged, loved, acknowledged or spent time with? And why?

As the next time change approaches I hope I can turn myself around and make better use of the time – no matter whether we are in Daylight Savings Time or if it’s ended. Time will still be around, no matter whether we have ‘gained’ or ‘lost’ an hour in our sun-filled day. But you can’t get it back, all that time that has passed. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Time will still keep on ticking – make the most of what time you do have and go for whatever you can squeeze into as much time as you can. I know it’s all very cliché, contradictory and mind-boggling, but I can’t waste any more time on it all; I must run. Must keep going. November 6th is right around the corner....

Tick tock…..

Contradictory Cranberries and Stuffing

It’s that time of year where many folks are cooking elaborate and/or not-so-elaborate seasonal meals. First is Canadian Thanksgiving in October – the United States celebrates Thanksgiving in November – and the colder weather all around is perfect for cooking traditional turkey dinners. It’s during this time when Christmas baking plans starts to swirl around many culinary minds. I used to bake a lot, and I used to be more adventurous in my cooking, but lack of time and energy has me slowing down. Whether cooking a hopefully-edible entree or baking a sugary treat, my time restraints have me looking to cut a few corners here and there, all while trying to stay ‘traditional.’ My men of three don’t seem to mind what I do or don’t do – they are truly grateful and thankful for whatever food I have in the house.

One thing I DO try to always do at this time of year is make cranberry jelly, preserved and sealed in a canning jar. I love doing it and have done so for years, and the one year I couldn’t make it I felt as though I had truly dropped the ball in my domesticity. Things just didn’t feel quite the same without it, as though I was ‘missing something.’

The recipe I use is from one of the ‘Company’s Coming’ line of cookbooks. The little cookbooks are my go-to for simple, corner-cutting, down-home easy cooking. This simple jelly recipe has no added pectin and I’ve never had it fail – knock on wood. I have made it so many times I have the process down pat; even in my time-limited life I can manage to get a batch done. But to be honest – and many would scowl at me as if having bitten down on a tart cranberry – I can’t taste the difference between mine and canned. Okay, MAYBE mine tastes a tiny bit better and is better for you (no added preservatives, etc). Canning aficionados will likely send me hate mail now.

But time restrictions aside I go through the ‘work’ of making it because I love doing it - so for me it’s not ‘work.’ The simmering of the fruit, the separating of the juice from the pulp through a sieve, the re-boiling of the juice with sugar, and then the sealing/processing - I love doing it all. Even waiting for each lid to ‘pop’ signalling each jars’ airtight seal gives me a kick.

Many would say ‘Gosh, Lisa – here you are complaining about lack of time, but you STILL go to all that effort and work (and don’t forget sweat) of doing all THAT? Why not just go buy a can of it and be done with it all?’
Yes, it’s all so very contradictory of me, but there you have it – I’m a major contradiction, and I know it. But there’s something so down-to-earth about the whole process - so back-to-basics, so down-home, so…old fashioned – that it makes me love doing it all the more. It’s as if I have a deep-seated need to retain some sense of tried-and-true from-scratch cooking. I make enough jars for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter dinner, as well as a few to give as gifts.

My men of two teens and a husband love it and as I watch them hungrily scoop massive spoonfuls of the jelly onto their dinner plates I wonder if they think the turkey-accompaniment is a relative of Jell-O and they’re getting to eat dessert WITH their dinner - a sinful treat to be sure.

And every year at this time when I say I’m making turkey dinner, their first question is always, ‘With your cranberry jelly?’

And before I can answer, ‘Yes’, their second question is, ‘…and with lots of Stove Top© Stuffing?’

And when I answer yes, they dreamily sigh in relief and gratitude and ask, ‘When’s dinner?’

Yes, you read that right. The not-made-from-scratch stuffing that everyone knows by its’ brand name – of which I so readily promote as I love it, too – is what they want. They politely ‘like’ my homemade stuffing – Grandma’s is better, of course – but what they really, really want is Stove Top Stuffing, right out of the box.

So I get 6 boxes, enough for leftovers and then some. If I run out of their favourite I might have a mutiny on my hands and after cooking all the other fixings all I want is peace.

I know it’s all very contrary. Why have a whole turkey dinner complete with mashed potatoes and vegetables – all lovingly peeled, diced, boiled and so on – as well as the homemade-from-scratch cranberry jelly, only to (seemingly) ruin it all with instant stuffing from a box?

Because it’s what they truly want. It makes them happy, and if it makes them happy, it makes me happy - plus making the stuffing-from-a-box save me a whole bunch of time. And it’s just us for dinner – we don’t invite the Queen – so who cares? Who cares if our dinner plates look like one big contradiction? And who says you even HAVE to have ‘certain’ things at certain seasonal meals.

But the 6 boxes waiting on the counter the day of the big dinner makes me giggle at the opposite-ness of it all – at the contradiction of having stuffing from a box alongside home-made canned cranberry jelly.

Life is full of contradictions. Yes, some corny clichés can make my pumpkin pie curdle, but sometimes cliché’s are there for a reason – and many are true. But at least I am fortunate and lucky to live a place where I CAN have contradictions – that it’s okay to have them. And where I’m thankful for the freedom to have these contradictions, I’m also thankful for the means to have so many choices in what I get to cook. Homemade stuffing or boxed? Store bought jelly or homemade? Pumpkin pie or cheesecake? Although we might not have the means to have as fancy as a meal as others, there is nothing wrong with what we DO have – and many don’t have any at all.

Most folks might gag at not only having boxed stuffing but also at the sheer ‘un-proper-ness’ of it all. Who cares? Even if we had spaghetti on Thanksgiving, at least my family was having a meal together, never mind a meal at all.

So bring on the contradictions, I say, and be thankful we can even have them in the first place.

Oh – and just to add to it all: I keep a can of store-bought jelly in the back of my cupboard, just in case. You always gotta have a back-up.

Sidetracked

I had been carrying around a card in my purse to mail to a friend. For almost two weeks I always had it with me, but I just couldn’t get around to buying a stamp. Something was always sidetracking me from the simple task of stopping at mail depot in the drugstore by my house on my way home from work. Just a few steps over from my usual route going home through the center after work and badda-bing, badda-bang, I could get the stamp, mail the card, and all would be right in the world.

But in my busy life – teens to referee, houses to clean, meals to organize, general chores to do all while working outside the home – I kept getting blown-off course and forgetting my important errand during my rush and daily grind.

And then one day it happened. I had time – I was of sound mind and disposition from my usual busy panic – and I remembered to get that stamp. So after the bus dropped me off at the shopping center near my home after work on a Friday afternoon, I made my way to the drugstore. Just as I was almost there, I happened to glance back and noticed firefighters standing in front of the grocery store collecting donations for a charity. I felt guilty passing them by, but I was well across the parking lot before I noticed them. I vowed to donate next time I was by.

I picked my way through the parking lot of the shopping center, keen to stay away from the sidewalks that would lend to window-shopping and distractions. Sure it was a bit risky that busy Friday afternoon making my way through the chaotic parking lot, but I was determined and focused. I had one thing on my mind – get across the lot to the drugstore, get that stamp, and FINALLY mail that card.

The mail depot at the back of the store was busy, so I bought a stamp from the front cashier. Proud of myself for FINALLY getting the stamp, I went outside through the automatic doors of the store, eager to get to the mailbox just outside. My head was down as I busily shoved my wallet in my purse with one hand and gripped the stamped card in my other. I was determined, focused and pleased with myself for finally have carried out such a simple task!
Just as I stepped through the doors into the hot afternoon sun, I heard a man’s voice cooing gently just outside the doors: “There you go....watch it now, careful....there you go....”

Before I could wonder if someone was kindly cheering me on in this great postal feat, I looked up to find one of the firefighters from the grocery store guiding a mother Mallard duck and her babies across the parking lot. The firefighter, along with another shopper, held back traffic to protect the young family as they made their way towards the sidewalk.

Just as Mom and babies climbed their way up and over the curb of the sidewalk, everyone (the babies, not the growing crowd of onlookers) decided they had had enough. Too pooped to go on they suddenly all huddled together and as one downy, fluffy mass plunked down for a rest. I couldn’t blame them: heck, I was tired from walking all the way across the parking lot, myself!

After patiently waiting a beat or two their mother gave a loud QUACK and up they rose in one fluffy mass. For a second Mom seemed to ponder which way to go and the firefighter and I looked at each other in question. Going one way up the sidewalk would only lead them further into the shopping center, while going the other way would take them out of the center and in the direction of the pond. They had a long way to go, still, to get to the pond, but all we could do was our best as crossing guards and ensure their safety across the nearby busy street. So I followed along shepherding them in the right direction, while the crowd of duck-enthusiasts oohed and aahed and snapped photos, parading behind the little waddling duck parade.

‘Stay away from the drain!’ I exclaimed as they each hop/stumbled off the sidewalk just beside a storm drain and onto the road. We blocked traffic once again, steered them away from another storm drain, and then watched with relief as they hopped up and over the opposite sidewalk and then made their way under a fence through someone’s back yard.

Where did they come from? It’s a quite a big parking lot, the nearest ducky pond is too far away for the seemingly freshly hatched babies to have travelled all the way up to the shopping center. And why were they choosing that moment to pick their way across the parking lot? Why then? Why there? They didn’t belong in the parking lot! Had they got sidetracked? Had mother and father not quite made it to the pond in time to nest their little eggs? Had they been too busy window shopping to do their chores and failed to ready their home in time for their little brood?

They had gotten sidetracked, somehow, but Mom was focused and determined to get them all back on track, even if it meant making their way through a chaotic parking lot.

But wait! Who was I to talk of getting sidetracked and not stay focused?

Because as I made my way home relishing in seeing a fellow busy mom hustling about her day – even if it was a duck – I realized I still had the card in my hand. I had forgotten all about it and never mailed it. Sidetracked, AGAIN! I had a lot to learn from that mother duck about staying focused and getting back on track.

I never knew if they found their way to the pond. As I made my way to my own home I kept watch for the sidetracked little family and listened for the juvenile ‘quacks’ and chirps of the little babies accompanied by the occasional instructional QUACK! QUACK! from their mother hurrying them along.

So despite me failing in my mission and NOT mailing the card, I had been part of something good. I helped to get someone else to get back on track.

And it was Friday the 13th, at that. Go figure.

(And yes, I did eventually go back to the shopping center later that night and mail the card AND donate to the firefighter’s charity)

One Last Time...

One Last Time

I was on my way to work early on Monday morning, January 4th, and with time to kill, procrastination slowing my step, as well as the need for a washroom, I made my way through the Empress Hotel, Victoria, BC. I, along with everyone else, was getting back to my usual routine, post-holidays and was dragging my feet at bit. Even though foreboding about returning to work gnawed at my gut, at the same time I felt a sense of ‘new beginnings’ in the air; self-reflection and plans for self-transformation are on the minds of many at that time of year.

I slowly made my way through the grand hotel I make every excuse to meander through; and yes, they have a lot more to offer than the use of their washrooms,

The outside of the hotel has been under wraps for a while – but it’s not a secret. With the recent change in ownership came time for a face-lift for the old hotel – not to CHANGE the historical structure, but to give it’s apparently softening, sagging joints a bit of a lift (I know how it feels – could use one myself). The scaffolding on the outside of the building has been covered with tarp, but not the ordinary blue tarps. These tarps have been painted to match the exact exterior of the hotel with red bricks, columns, lighted windows, the whole bit. I love it.

Inside, however, there are to be changes as well, as I would soon learn. But I was on a mission you see, and as I bee-lined my way through the hotel straight for the washroom downstairs, I passed the tea lobby – the roomed famed for serving ‘high tea’ since 1908 to royalty, dignitaries, celebrities and nowadays-commoners like me. I stutter-stopped at what I saw in the tea lobby, but my urgent mission had me promising to return.

And I did.

The tea lobby overlooking the harbor always furnished with heavy, dark wood tables and chairs was empty; furniture-less. Not a teacup, a plant, a sideboard, nor scone was to be seen (and I would have eaten it, too – I was getting kind of hungry); only the grand piano sitting eerily alone, waiting. The vast space usually fully furnished with tables, chairs, privacy partitions and potted plants didn’t feel like its usual ‘cozy’ tea room right then, but more of an empty ballroom with only the ghosts of visitors-past to dance with. Something eerie and raw was in the air – and not the lingering scent of perfuming teas. I got the sense I was invading its space; invading the room’s moment of being nothing other than a room. It was as if it was willing me to go away so it could just be, and not, for once, something for someone else.

The sun had barely started to make its daily appearance. It was still dark outside and the overhead lights cast questionable shadows in century-old corners, warning me to hurry along. The hotel was still asleep and on her hardwood floors I felt I should tip-toe, the church-like atmosphere suggesting I whisper should I dare talk and interrupt its moment of just ‘being.’ Empty and not at-the-ready for once – no expectations, demand for ritual, or need for order – she could take a deep breath and sigh her secrets tighter within her walls. Without any furnishings save for the two pictures over the fireplaces and the heavily tasseled drapes, it was her chance to show everyone what else she could be – herself, simply as she was.

Yes, I know that all sounds over-the-top in giving the old room human-like attributes, but something about the grand space had me honoring it like a person. I felt as though I was in the presence of a great woman with lifetimes of experience in her walls. I was invading her time, space, and moment of just being alone. I had to respect her.

A passing hotel employee broke the spell I was under, and we exchanged pleasantries. I said I was enjoying taking a few pictures of the rarely-empty room and she, too, agreed there was something eerie yet magical about the space. We stood in silence admiring the room that although empty of furniture, was not truly empty. There really was a lot to see in the seemingly empty space - if you looked hard enough.

After another moment of shared silent yet appreciative admiration of the majestic women we so brazenly stared at, the hotel employee hurried on her way, encouraging me to stay as long as I liked. And I did. I suspected, along with the hotel’s other renovations/updates, that the room was destined for the maintenance and up-keeping work it most likely needed. I knew I was likely the last person to enjoy the room as it was. I took as many photos as my cellphone could hold, and was sure to take in as much of the room as she was willing to give me.

At last it was time to go, and when I passed through later that morning (I can’t stay away from the place!) workmen were convening on her floors, their work boots scuffing the hardwood floors. Take it easy on her, I thought as I watched a few men carrying in partitions they would later erect to hide their work-in-progress from prying eyes such as mine. So as if the workmen weren’t there I purposely made my way through the crowd and across her floor so I could enjoy her as she was – one last time.

But I’ll be back....


(I was later assured that the work involved is only maintenance and upkeep to ensures the graceful hotel stays in tip-top shape - the architectural and historical integrity will be maintained. I look forward to going back and seeing her again.)

Pearls, Nail Polish and Horoscopes: What Every Archer-girl Needs

It started with a hole-in-one, or a ‘bullseye’ as it were. Golf and archery are very different, but both dictate that putting something in the middle – in the center – is a good thing.

But at that moment, it wasn't such a good thing.

It was Sunday morning and the weather forecast was calling for high, high HOT temperatures. But days of the week and high temperatures were not my concern right then. I was about to participate in an archery tournament and my nerves were a bit...off. The tournament was distance-challenging and feelings of ‘I’m not experienced enough to tackle distances my bow isn’t strong enough to do’ had me inhaling antacids by the bottle-full. I shoot recurve bow with a draw weight of 20lbs, and since I've only been at this whole archery thing since January, I think I was allowed my over-the-top angst. I hadn’t planned on doing this particular kind of tournament for at least a year or so, but my loved ones – along with my adventurous side – talked me into it.

And I guess deep down I was a tad excited as the true archer I am painted my nails blue to match my bow (it was fluke or fate that the blue nail polish I bought on a whim about half a year ago sort of matched my bow). As I continued with my pre-archery beauty regime, I was sure not to forget my pearl earrings. I have made it my personal ‘cheeky statement’ to always wear pearls to archery.

That’s right – PEARLS.

But that day I chose to go ‘all out’ in honour of the tournament and opted to also wear a pearl pendant saved only for special occasions.

Just as I was clasping the necklace around my neck it snapped and the pearl pendant slid down and off the chain. The pearl bounced and spun and twirled around the bottom of the rounded sink faster than my hand could clamp down and stop it from its dreaded destination – the drain.

Yup, down it went.

It was fate! It was karma! It was a sign I should NOT be participating in the tournament! Serves me right for making a cheeky statement I thought as I stared at my pearl sitting in the bottom of the pipe. It was silly of me to think I, of all people, could compete in such a tournament. Who did I think I was? All the confidence-building techniques I had worked on (and wrote about) throughout this new sporty venture of mine went right down the drain as well.

I couldn’t get at the pearl without risking forcing it further down the pipe. The onsite/in-house repairman kindly offered to dismantle the pipe – just for me. “We can’t do that NOW!” I shrieked. “There’s no time! We have to GO! Oh this is DEFINITELY a sign I shouldn’t be doing this tournament! Oh what was I thinking?! What am I DOING?!” I wailed and moaned all-but renouncing the sport of archery right there in my tiny office/bathroom.

As I downed a few more antacids in angst, the onsite/in-house repairman promised he would work on the pipe after the tournament and proceeded to leave DO NOT USE signs over the sink.

With reassurances and promises of ‘it’s an easy fix’ and kind words of encouragement about my archery skills to coax me out the door - along with the promise of an Ativan-enriched smoothie on the way (well not really, but I sure could have used one right then) – we loaded up the car with our archery gear and snacks and off we went.

But all that pre-tournament excitement had made me a hungry momma, so first was a stop at the good old ‘golden arches’ for a breakfast sandwich and a DECAF coffee (and no, they don’t sell Ativan-enriched smoothies) (I asked). True, my stomach was already in nervous turmoil which for anyone else would ruin their appetite, but I’m an athlete, you see: I MUST fuel-up.

The morning news was playing on the in-restaurant TV screen and just as I was about to sip my coffee a commercial came on – for nail polish of all things. AND they showed a shade of blue even closer in colour to my bow than the shade I was wearing! What were the odds? Was it a sign? I was still rattled by the pearl-down-the-drain business, but the ultimately PERFECT shade of blue nail polish? Now THAT was a sign if I ever saw one!

So a plan was hatched to visit the neighboring drug-store for a bottle of the blue goo. As an archer I know to always go prepared; the nail polish would not only be good for touch ups on my nails, but for any scratches on my bow, as well.

As we dove into our breakfast sandwiches the onsite/in-house repairman passed me the newspaper (he, too, was in the tournament but our young offspring archer was sitting this one out). That’s a good idea, I thought. Some nice quiet pre-tournament newspaper time might do me wonders.

And then inspiration struck.

I quickly flicked through the newspaper to the horoscope page. I don’t regularly read horoscopes but on a significant day, I will.

And I choked on my coffee as I read the first line. By the time I got to the end of the horoscope, I was speechless (which is rare).

I showed the onsite/in-house repairman and he, too, was mystified.

“Well,” he started. “I guess that’s a sign, for sure!” (He isn’t as into signs, luck, superstitions or anything-that-can’t-be-explained, like I am)

So with our bellies full, my nails re-painted and my Scorpion zodiacal sun in astrological alignment (or whatever it is) off we went.

The tournament started after an equipment check and practice and as the tournament progressed, I was calmer than I had been all morning. But the various ‘signs’ – good and bad - that had started before the tournament were not to leave me yet. At about the ¾-mark of the day my BELOVED onsite/in-house repairman sheered a fletch right off my arrow with one of his, embedding the plastic little arrow-wing in my target (three of us shot on one target).

(note: an arrow has three 'fletches' or the little wing-things at the end - I was by then down to two)

I was doomed! Destroyed! Defeated! My archery career was over before it even began! Although I had tried to be prepared what with the nail polish and all, I had no back-up arrows – a mortal sin in the archery world.

“Just keep shooting,” ordered the unflappable judge Helena Myllyniemi as I panicked and wailed about my faulty arrow. “It will shoot fine,” she pacified as she gave my arrow a twirl to test for straightness.

“But what about…”

“Just shoot it.” She interrupted with an order, handed me my arrow, and sent me a penetrating stare. “It will shoot fine.”

Sabotage! I thought as I sent my onsite/in-house repairman the most deadly 'you will die'-glare of all time. I won't disclose the retaliation I planned as we walked back to the shooting line. But I was also worried - and panicking, of course. Would the arrow shoot okay? Was the tournament over for me that day?

And Helena was right (of course). The arrow shot MORE than ‘fine’. I got quite a few ‘10’s’ with that arrow before the tournament was over – a ‘10’ being the highest score you can get (aka: a bullseye, or an ‘X’). I deemed it my lucky arrow.

And after all was said and done I came home with a wicked sunburn, a feeling of pride and accomplishment that I even participated in the tournament at all, and a score of 779 out of a possible 900 on the three target distances of 35, 30, and 25 meters. I had a fabulous time and my pearl earrings and blue nails were a hit (well not really; I was the only girl in the tournament. I sure showed those guys!), and we DID eventually get the pearl out of the pipe.

The lesson learned? Even when things seem to be going down the drain, keep aiming forward. You’re bound to hit something good, eventually.

For results of the tournament, visit The Victoria Bowmen Archery Club.

Adult Colouring - Maybe it IS for Me (Part 2)

Okay – so after all that stress, I gave the colouring ‘thing’ a new start (see 'Adult Colouring - Maybe It's Not For Me - Part 1). I was drug-free (Valium was making me too dopey), caffeine-free (too jumpy), and I had plowed through a few self-help books renewing my self-confidence with positive self-talk. I could do this! So the night after my pencil sharpening debacle (see previous blog, Stress-Free Colouring: Part 1) - and yes, I had to wait a WHOLE day to start colouring in earnest - I got busy.

The reading glasses were on, everything was positioned ‘just so,’ I was relaxed and calm and you know what……?

It wasn’t so bad after all.

I had previously flipped through Johanna Basford’s book, ‘Enchanted Forest,’ and found a not-too-complicated design, something not too intricate, and something not too....busy. I told myself this was for no one’s eyes but mine – I did NOT have to show anyone. I wasn’t striving to be displayed in an art museum (my coloured piece, not ME), and I wasn’t being graded. No one was looking over my shoulder telling me what was right or wrong, and if I wanted I could colour in wax crayon (a true artiste can use any medium to create a work of art, but an artiste I am not, so I stuck to half-used pencil crayons). I could do what wanted, how I wanted, and at my own pace.

And as I worked, focusing on one bit – one leaf, as was in the particular design – at a time, I got into a rhythm. I didn’t over-think what right colours were to use, I didn’t second-guess my choices (okay, maybe I sometimes did – but heck, that’s what erasers are for!), and I concentrated on just enjoying it. I found it relaxing, calming, meditative and...addictive.
I couldn’t stop.

But as I coloured, the clock ticking well past my bed-time – ‘Just one more section, MOM’ (um, that was ME) – my mind started to wander.

As I said in my previous post I had been previously been in a creative slump: the whirlwind of this thing we call LIFE was nudging its way into my creativity and threatening to knock it on it’s you-know-what. I was getting antsy: nothing was working in my writing projects, or anything else I was doing. I was cranky, whiney, bitchy, cranky, and antsy – all at once.
It was not pretty.

Hence, the colouring thing.

And as I progressed on that first real colouring night I didn’t completely ignore my family around me: I didn’t. But as I coloured, my mind started to wander. With conversations around me and the TV on in the background I would pick up bits and pieces of this-and-that and....I would get ideas.

For my creative writing.

Out of nowhere would pop a great name for a book title, a concept for my novel-in-progress, or a great name for a character. I had been concentrating on shading an ivy leaf in the design with Forest Green, and my mind was free of everything else. I wasn’t trying to come up with writing stuff – it just happened.

I refused to make notes in my too-fancy colouring book. So on a random piece of paper on the end-table beside me (it was article on tennis elbow common to archers – go figure) I would jot down my writing ideas in Taupe, Raspberry, or Peacock Blue. The tennis/archery elbow article became a rainbow of pencil crayon test scribbles intertwined with all-too important writer’s idea/notes.

And I kept going.

And coloured some more.

And I didn’t cry if I went outside the lines.

And I kept the eraser handy.

And I kept jotting ideas.

And when my arm got too sore (I have to preserve my writers/archery arm, you see), and my neck got too sore (I was starting to nod, even WHILE doing something I loved), I reluctantly put everything away.

And realized one thing I had forgotten to remember: creativity begets creativity.
One thing I have always known and had often preached is when in a creative slump, go do something ELSE entirely different. Knit, sew, write, paint, draw, bead – anything. Renowned creatives (think Julia Cameron, ‘The Artist’s Way’) have for eons taught, written about, and preached about creativity fostering creativity. And as an aside, writers have for eons wailed, “Why do I get my best ideas while driving/showering/mowing the lawn?” Well, as far as colouring goes, not only is doing something else creative fostering creativity, but doing something repetitive relaxed me enough to allow something else other than life’s little hiccups to come to the forefront of my mind.

Wow.

That is some heavy stuff.

(For a more detailed, educated, analysis of creativity, check out Julia Cameron’s book, ‘The Artist’s Way’ and visit her blog at Julia Cameron Live.

So now when I colour I keep a notebook beside me (duh, isn’t that what ALL writers are supposed to do?), focus on staying un-stressed (duh, isn’t that what colouring is SUPPOSED to do?), and just colour....

And if they ever have a colouring contest for a 40-plus age group, I won’t be entering.

I won’t be able to handle the stress.


Thanks for reading!
Lisa

Adult Colouring - Maybe It's Not For Me.... (part 1)

For the first time in just over 35 years, I have one - and my how they’ve changed!

But these days I now need reading glasses to use one, my youthful near-20/20 vision gone. And I don’t go outside the lines provided I have my reading glasses on – most of the time. On the odd occasion I DO gone outside the lines - a slip of the hand from too much caffeine or a nod-off too late in the night after too long a day at work - my peri-menopausal hormones practically send me into a crying fit, something resembling a toddler-like tantrum. Sort of.

So what is it?

It’s a colouring book.

No Little Red Riding Hood, Bugs Bunny or Mickey Mouse pages for me, however fun those might be. This is what is called these days as an ‘adult’ colouring book.

My first colouring book as a 40-something is Johanna Basford’s ‘Enchanted Forest.’ It’s the follow-up book to her worldwide bestseller, ‘Secret Garden,’ which was sold-out EVERYWHERE when I initially got wind of the pencil-crayon phenomenon a few weeks ago. Both books feature whimsical, charming black-and-white drawings just waiting to be coloured. Colouring for adults has long been reputed as a de-stressing activity, many adult-type colouring books featuring black and white zen-like mandalas having been around for years.

But when needing to fulfill the creative urge, and wanting to break-out of the repetitive, yet soothing, way of the mandala, these new colouring books (along with many others) have taken the publishing world – and suppliers of felts and pencil crayons – by storm.

And I’ve gotten caught up in that storm.

And I love it.

I’m a ‘creative’ so doing something like this isn’t new to me. I used to do a lot of scrapbooking and card-making which lead to ink stamping with shading and colouring-in of the stamped images. But I am no artiste. Colouring is for everyone; anyone can do it. If you can scribble, if you like adding colour to your life and, then the new-wave of colouring is for you.

But when I came home with my first colouring book a few weeks ago excited with my purchase, and confident in my colouring ability, closer inspection of the colouring pages sent me in to a panic.

There’s a lot of detail, big and small, I thought with a gulp as I browsed through the book that first night while curled up on the couch. And there’s only one of the design in the whole book! If I mess up, THAT’S IT!

What had I gotten myself into? I tried not to cry. I thought colouring was supposed to be de-stressing, not STRESS inducing!

I never thought I would associate the word ‘intimidating’ with a colouring book….

But I was excited AND curious! I was in need of something de-stressing. I was eager for a new creative outlet (like I needed another one!). I had been in a creative slump lately, detrimental to a writer, and was looking for some new action - but between the pages of a different kind of book.

I could do this! I told myself. It’s JUST colouring!

So after taking a deep calming breath which is weird in itself given I was about to DO something calming, I picked through the zillions of old pencil crayons from my kid’s school leftovers eager for a few semi-sharp ones. Our pencil sharpener at home is awful, and I knew the one at work would do a better job. I would have to wait until the next day when I could sharpen them.
Okay, I thought. No problem. I was just in a ‘testing’ phase, anyways. (Yes, I am well aware I over-think things).

I swallowed my panic, opted for a least intricate design, and got busy with the few decently-sharp pencil crayons.

The reading glasses were on, the tongue was poised outside the corner of my mouth, the couch was at it comfiest, and I was colouring! What more could a girl ask for?

And then I went out of the lines – not once, but twice. I had to slow down – I had to calm down. And I had to remember it was OKAY to screw up – pencil crayons DO erase (but not felt, as I had learned). As I coloured – as I screwed up – I had to keep in mind this colouring page was ONLY for me. My intention wasn’t to frame any finished pieces – unless I wanted to. This was just supposed to be a relaxing venture – a calming activity.

But then I got so stressed out with my dull pencil crayons I had to stop and wait until the next day when I could sharpen them at work. It was getting to be too stressful colouring with dull ones.

So the next day I loaded up my BIG BAGGIE of pencil crayons, brought them to work, and got busy sharpening with one of those old-fashioned hand-crank sharpeners. Those hand-crank sharpeners are the best – truly, they are. But I had A LOT of pencil crayons, you see, which meant A LOT of cranking, turning, cranking, and turning.

Well, that didn’t work out as planned, either.

If you have read any of my previous posts you will see I have also taken up archery. Yes, I am a woman of the world.

But as I am relatively new in the sport of archery, my muscles - at least, the ones I have started growing in my arms since taking up the sport – are tender, sore, and easily tire. I have to baby them, you see, and take care of my precious arms for not only writing, but archery. My muscles ARE getting better, but so conscious am I of my archery-needed arms and their constantly sore muscles, that manually sharpening a zillion pencil crayons with a hand-crank sharpener with my ever-sore, bow-holding arm proved to be a bit taxing. Not only did my arm tire all-too-soon into my sharpening task, but I remembered that I had practice that night and couldn’t bear the thought of wrecking my important archery arm by over-sharpening.

I started to worry: would I have to eventually choose between archery, colouring and – GASP - writing to preserve my arm?
So stressed-out and concerned about my arm I became I took to the task in increments: sharpening a few – resting; sharpening a few more – resting; sharpening a few more – resting.

But what about my new colouring thing? I wailed. I had to get these sharpened! I moaned as I accidentally stabbed myself with a sharp tip.

Now before you start to think I’m a lazy lout at work, I did this all BEFORE my shift.

Finally done, all while pretending to have downed a few Valium to get through the stressful task, I was content with the fact that not only would I be able to colour, but my bow-arm would go on to shot another arrow. I would live to write another word.

But then...

I immediately realized because of archery practice later that night, which goes relatively late, I wouldn’t have time to do any colouring that night, after all.

My shoulders slumped.

That’s fine, I figured. I needed to give my archery/colouring arm a rest, anyways. A little de-stressing time away from the colouring would do me a world of good, I figured.

I have enough stress with archery, as is (and that’s another story in itself).

Finally, the NEXT night came around, and I was free to do all the colouring I wanted.

And then everything changed.....

(stay tuned for part 2)

Thanks for reading!
Lisa