Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Maria’s Chickens.

July 16, 2016July 16, 2016 / boo king / Leave a comment

I love my daily lunch-hour walks along the country road that leads to the Agency. It’s a sweet time of solitude, relaxation and physical activity. It’s also a walking meditation. For that reason alone, I do my best to incorporate these walks into my workday. And for a city girl, with a rural sedentary job, they are also a lifesaver.

There are many things that I have grown to love about these pastoral walks. Like the smell of fresh-cut hay. Or the magnificence of an eagle perched on the top branch of a Douglas fir. The admirable tenacity of the sheep and goats that feed non-stop in the meadows. The explicitness in the demanding calls of the ravens. The comic relief of the quails scurrying across the road in uniform perfection. The dear beautiful deer. The blackberry bushes that line the road and provide a sweet treat along the way. The two majestic horses always grazing in the buttercup field. The cuteness overload from the Cocker Spaniel rescue haven. The tranquil beauty of the horticulture center at the bend in the road. The canopied chip paths that lead into the dark woods. The fragrant smell in the air after a summer rain.

And then there are Maria’s hens. They are an absolutely fabulous flock of girls. They’re the Girl Warriors of Chickendom. I’ve gotten to know them (and their rooster) pretty well over the last 9 years. In reality they probably aren’t the original group I first met 9 years ago but to me, in my little fantasy world, they most certainly are. In my defense, I’ve read that well-raised chickens in backyard settings can live 8 to 10, even 20 years. So what the hell, they could be. Besides reality sucks anyway. And Maria’s chickens live an enviable idyllic blissful life. Things looks so good, I’ve even fantasized about hopping the fence and joining this little brood of sociable cluckers.

I adore these girls. Crazy admission perhaps. But I do. They’ve completely changed my perspective on this particular fowl. Although they have done nothing to improve my foul mouth, after 9 years I do have new and improved outlook, a birds-eye view perhaps. And I can say without hesitation that they are the highlight of my daily walks. They are an endless source of amusement, fascination, curiosity and delight. I am grateful for their unassuming presence along the road.

They are the reason I stopped eating chicken. This country walk, and a Paul McCartney concert in April, also inspired me to stop eating cows and pigs. I never have eaten lambs or goats or anything wild. But let me make something perfectly clear, I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan but I am heading towards that path. I get it. Plus, my love for animals is making it increasingly difficult to eat the flesh of another. I’m not saying it’s a better way, the right way; it’s just my way. Kind of like that Frank Sinatra song.

This week I’m especially thankful for the their eggs. Maria’s hens produce the best eggs along the road. Or so I’ve heard from the good folks who live along the road and have done taste tests. I have only eaten eggs from Maria’s girls. Why go elsewhere when you’ve already experienced perfection, I say.

Besides, I will not be disloyal to the Girl Warriors of Chickendom.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Letting Go.

April 27, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

A few weeks ago I gave up. Surrendered. Let it all go. Threw a private tantrum. Held a pity party for one. Screamed silent rage.

What exactly brought me to this place? What triggered it? How did I go from, life is pretty good to life is fucking shit? Why did I switch stations? Which straw broke the camel’s back?

I don’t know.

I wasn’t exactly blindsided but I didn’t see the point tipping either. Nor the stubborn brick wall that refused to budge. I only knew that I was too tired and weary to figure out a way around it. Or through it. Over or under. The gloves were off. I threw in the towel.

I’m not talking about your garden-variety physical tiredness, the kind that takes well to sensible homespun cures. A long hot luxurious bath. Lazy afternoon nap in the sun. Curling up with a good book and a glass of wine. Or simply getting a good night’s sleep with nothing but candy-coated honeysuckle dreams.

I’m talking about a malaise that at times appears so dark and impenetrable. So suffocating yet seductive. Like a Dark Hero who feeds off the tiredness deep inside my soul. The relentlessness of daily life becomes intolerable. The path is overgrown with thickets and prickly thorns. Abandoned by my guide, I grope for a lifeline. I struggle to keep my head above water.

The dove does not appear with the olive leaf.

Little back story. Two things happened in my first year of University. I got pregnant. And I made a conscious decision to be a better person. Partly for my son’s sake, but mostly for mine. I wanted us to have a bigger life than the one Ma and The Old Man lived. This notion, along with a burning desire to prove that I wasn’t a total loser, fueled my passions. Colored my every move.

I was highly motivated. I became a triple, possibly quadruple, Type-A Person. I had much to prove. I was a driven woman on a mission to change everything about myself that I deemed unworthy. Nothing worse than that.

With this ambitious desire for self-improvement came a lifelong pursuit of all things spiritual. I not only walked away from Christ Lutheran Church but I kicked any form of Christianity to the curb. I didn’t walk away from God, just the institution of religion and all that it entailed.

I wanted a deeper, more authentic relationship with my higher power. I wanted something real and meaningful. Personal and gritty. Truthful. No holds barred. I also wanted to feel better.

I became a seeker. Not just of wisdom. But of peace and beauty and truth. And the cynosure, my everlasting muse, love.

Along the way, I discovered my personal gurus and motivational mentors. Everyone from pop-psychology writers to spiritual superstars. Philosophers to fiction writers. Kindergarteners to Doctorates. From famous television hosts to an intimate circle of girlfriends. Colleagues and classmates. Poets. Artists. Musicians. Healers and helpers. All wise, witty and wonderful.

I voraciously read the books. Listened to the audio tapes. Recited the positive affirmations. Attended the lectures. Filled countless pages with lists of things I was grateful for. Gave thanks for everything, and everyone, from Gandhi to Mother Goose. I kept careful watch over my thoughts. Fearful that any negativity might manifest some really bad juju.

Thoughts become things. We are the creators of our world.

I smiled serenely. Like Buddha. Bowed my head. Breathed in the good and let out the bad. Walked barefoot. Sat silently. Practiced yoga and meditation. Got in touch with my body, mind and spirit. I did the cha cha cha.

All these things helped.

But there are times when it is exhausting. Bloody hard work. Being good, and constantly striving to be better, possibly vying for sainthood even, is downright taxing. Every now again it makes me cranky. Just like the two-year old lying on the concrete floor in the middle of the frozen food aisle at Walmart, I throw one hell of a tantrum.

The fortunate thing these days, few witness the thrashing and kicking and wailing at the top of my lungs.

No. No. No. Life’s not fair, I whimper.

I don’t want to be good, better, best. I don’t give a shit about my higher self. I want to hang out in the Dark Side. Amongst the shadowy villains. Monsters and miserable men. Mess around with Lucifer and his gang.

I don’t want to play nice.

It’s at this humbling and spirit-siphoning dead end that I surrender all. Every last bit. I just let go. Hand over the reins to God, the universe, Mother Earth, my Guardian Angel Franny and her sister Zoe.

It usually takes about a week to release the sad, frightened, angry, resentful, jealous, lonely, toxic little child that sometimes grows insidiously within the grown-up me.

To finish this business, I don’t go anywhere exotic. I don’t check into a hotel under an assumed name and have an exorcism performed. No bed rest nor hospital stay is required.

I just stop. Listen to the quiet voice within. Cut myself some slack. Then let go.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Happy to be Here.

February 17, 2014 / boo king / 2 Comments

Photo by Melissa Adams.

It’s been one of those weeks. The up and down roller coaster ride. Good. Bad. With a little bit of random thrown in for good measure. It’s also been one of those weeks that has left me a little bit shaken. Wobbly-kneed and rubber-legged. But grateful. Big time.

It’s easy to be grateful during the good times. Especially when the living is easy. For the good things. All those blessings that we want more of. Happy shiny people all around us. Our dear ones by our side. Full of good health and abundance. Kindness and generosity. Peace love and understanding. The list is endless of all the good things to be thankful for.

But what about the hard times? The sad and tragic days. The difficult seasons of stress, when life feels more like a pressure cooker than a pastoral playground. How do you find gratitude when you feel like giving up? When life is just one super-sized shit show. What about those days when the best you can say is, thanks for nothing? How do you find the place in your spirit where gratefulness and appreciation dwell?

I don’t know.

I do know this. When you have a close call. A brush with death. A collision with calamity. The veil of ambiguity is lifted. You see. With such lucidity. Clarity. And in high definition. At least that’s what happened to me this week.

While driving into work on Thursday morning, I was in an accident with my truck. It happened in an instant. One minute I was stopped at a crosswalk watching the pedestrian at the curb. Then within seconds I was shoved from behind and catapulted into the middle of the intersection.

That woke me up.

I was momentarily stunned by the deafening sound of the truck behind engaging with the rear-end of mine. It sounded worse than it actually was. Once I got my bearings and realized that the only damage was to my truck. No humans were harmed. Everyone involved was alive and kicking. I was grateful.

I am here. All is well.

Trucks can be repaired. Or replaced. They’re just material things. Temporary impermanent pleasures. Not important in the grand scheme. Humans and all living creatures matter. I’m thankful to have been intimately reminded of the difference.

The young man, who rear-ended the truck, was horrified that he hit me. My heart ached for him. It was just one of those things. He looked away for a second. That’s all it took. Could have happened to anyone. Including me. I’ve had some close calls. We all have. But for the grace of God, goes I. So in our brief exchange, I got well with him, right then and there. On the spot absolution.

I’m grateful for that too.

Truth is, at that moment, my gratitude muscle was in a need of a workout. It had grown complacent. Lazy even. I had said the words “I am grateful” so often, they had grown damn near meaningless. Rather than coming from a sincere place deep within my heart, they rolled off my tongue like liquid gold. By rote. Like rhyming off multiplication tables. They had become a cliched elixir to cover my ass in the spiritual department.

Evolved psychologist, spiritual gurus and preachers advise us to be in a mindful state of constant gratitude, especially if we want to be divinely healthy. Honestly, I thought I was. After all, I am the Queen of Deep. Especially after the year we just had with E and the Big C. I was spewing words of gratitude like yellow smoke from a factory. I had it down.

Then Thursday morning happened. I am truly grateful to be here. To write this post. To spend a little time with you.

To say thank you.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes.

January 1, 2014 / boo king / 4 Comments

Over the past year I have been asked if E’s cancer changed anything. What a preposterous question. Of course it changed things. It changed everything. But that’s not the question really being asked is it? You’re all too polite and kind to ask the big messy Q. Fear of intruding. Or opening wounds. Being considered nosey. But this is me you’re asking. I’ve been an open book since I started this blog in 2011. Poured my heart out. Spilled my guts. Let the cat out of the bag. Shared my deep dark dreary thoughts in this diary. So it’s perfectly okay to ask the real question on your mind.

HOW has cancer changed things?

If you were to peek into our house this Christmas, you’d probably smile, possibly sigh with relief, that everything appears the same. Sa-sa-sa-sa-same. Same family gathering. Same festivities. Same decorations and ornaments hung on the tree. It all looks very much like it did last year. And the year before. And the one before that. Right back to when E and I shared our first Christmas together. There have been a few different houses. We’ve all grown older. The kids are all now adults. There’s a grand daughter. A daughter-in-law. But the mood in the room is unchanged. Family jokes. Teasing. Cheerful banter. Laughter. Misty eyes. Magnanimous grateful hearts. Goodwill, and all that jolly ho-ho-ho.

Because of this ostensible normality it’s difficult at times to imagine that E is a cancer survivor. Sometimes I can’t even believe he had cancer at all. I think, did we really go through that? His 23 days in the hospital, now a distant memory slowly fading to black. I have to look at the photos that documented his stay there to bring clarity to my recollections. Fill in the gap between fact and fiction. Did this really happen? And sadly, have I diminished this life-altering experience to just another story that I tell?

Yet it was real. It did happen. Truth is, it changed everything.

There’s the obvious things. The loftier higher-self transformative stuff. Gratitude for a life being spared, given a second chance. Awareness of the fragility of our earth walk. Delight in the small precious things. Refined appreciation for all those we hold dear. Joy in the everyday and the mundane. Concern for all living creatures. Reverence for the fleeting passage of time. Appreciation of all that is good, for I am steadfast in my belief that there is more good than not. Awe and wonder at the sheer miracle of being here at all.

I thank God for this metamorphosis of the spirit. For giving my caterpillar heart butterfly wings.

But there’s more to this story. There’s the underbelly. The ugly shit that is difficult to admit. Even to myself. There’s the stuff I think I’ve kicked out the door and sent slithering down the road, only to turn around to find the ugliness standing in front of my kitchen sink doing dishes. Oh the shameful cowardly resentful thoughts I’ve had there. The devil’s face reflected in the white porcelain dinner plate. The monster in the bottom of the silver pot. The creep in the cast iron frying pan. All me.

There’s the fear that grips my gut and tears at my bowels. The anger that erupts and gasps and flares out of nowhere. The sudden and unforeseen tears that sting my cheeks. The frustration with a life interrupted. The impatience with everything, including E.

A foul tenacious undercurrent of dread flows through my nervous system. Silently terrified that cancer will return. It’s the uninvited guest in the room. The one that has outstayed its welcome. Can’t take a hint and leave. It’s the disturbing uneasiness beneath my flesh. The choking, suffocating, stifling vice grip. And at the heart of all this maelstrom, one thought prevails. Will this sinister beast return and snatch E in it’s Godzilla grip forever?

At times, often when I least expect it, I’m angry. Pissed off that a year later E is still in recovery. My impatient unkind inside-voice says, ‘get over this already.’ I want things to move according to my agenda, spoiled child that I am. Not E’s natural healing process. At the risk of sounding like Gilda Radner, ‘there’s always something.’ Rogue aches and pains throughout his body that seem to have nothing to do with cancer. Yet in some way they do. The hip bone is connected to the thigh bone, after all.

I cry. Like a baby some days. These crying jags are erratic. Out of the blue. Unpredictable. Indiscriminate and downright impolite. They take me by surprise. But then so did the diagnosis of cancer a year ago.

E’s personal mantra is that he “comes from good stock.” Hardy. Resilient. Tough as nails. It’s his Grizzly Adams fortitude and true grit that gets me through the hour of the wolf. It’s the call in the wilderness that keeps me going. One baby-step at a time.

Fuck cancer anyway. We don’t give up. That much hasn’t changed.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Lessons in Gratitude and Patriotism.

July 7, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

Grateful and patriotic. That’s how I felt last weekend when E and I escaped again to the mainland. This time there weren’t any medical procedures tagged onto the end of our trip. No Big C cloud hovering over our heads like an alien space ship. Just two glorious days of freedom and fun with our oldest daughter A. Quite simply, it was divine. And exactly what the doctor ordered.

I like to keep an attitude of gratitude. I’m happier and far more optimistic when I do. Life just feels richer and amplified when I see the glass half full. This thankful continence isn’t always easy to maintain though. Sometimes I engage in rip-roaring pity parties of one. But most of the time I count my blessings. And they are many.

Last Saturday afternoon, smack dab in the middle of a busy crowded downtown Vancouver street, I had an epiphany. The sun was shining gloriously overhead. The energy and positive vibe in the city was electric. Music and laughter, breezy summertime conversations, and the smell of suntan lotion wafted from every street corner. It was picture perfect. Endorphins flooded my limbic system, and by doing so released a profusion of happy childhood memories of summers at 204. In an instant, I was as lighthearted and mirthful as a ten year old girl running under the garden sprinkler. Yippee! It doesn’t get much better than that. Another neat thing happened in that moment. My gratitude muscle expanded and skyrocketed, then soared heavenward through the brilliant clear blue sky.

Giddy with glee, I turned to E and said, “Life doesn’t get much better than this.”

He looked at me as if I had suddenly grown two heads. I fully appreciate why he would find my declaration untrue, given the circumstances of our life right now. But before he could protest or disagree, I repeated, “Life doesn’t get any better than this. In this cosmic moment, which is all we have, life is perfect. Just the way it is.”

Then he got it. His eyes welled with tears and he smiled. Big honest smile. Right from the heart. One filled with gratitude.

Later that day, our daughter took us to a baseball game at the Nat Bailey Stadium, where the Vancouver Canadians and the Tri-City Dust Devils were playing. I can’t think of a more definitive summer diversion or pastime than going to a ballgame. Some people find this game boring. Too quiet and slow. But for me it is beautiful. Elegant. Subtle and masterful. First and foremost, a team sport. Yet each player has a time when they stand alone at home plate. Armed only with a wooden bat, years of practice swinging it, the sagacity and the wits of a street-fighter, the indelible voice of their coach always with them, the encouragement of their team mates, the cheers of their devoted fans, and the genuine love of the game. It is there that each player, one by one, bravely faces the nine guys from the opposing team, all focused on the same thing. Stop this guy from getting a run.

My love of the game goes way back. The Old Man loved it too. He was one of the guys who started Little League in our hometown. He coached and umpired games well into his senior years. When I was young, I used to tag along and sit in the weather-beaten wooden bleachers and cheer on ‘our guys.’ It was during those long hot steamy Northwestern Ontario summer nights, that I fell for the game and the boys who played it. During my Toronto years, The Old Man loved visiting, especially in the summer. Going to a Jays game was a dream come true for him. To see a major league game close up and personal was beyond his wildest imaginings.

The Nat Bailey Stadium is gorgeous. Most people wouldn’t describe a sports stadium this way. But to me it is. This was my first time, and like many firsts, it was memorable and I loved everything about it. The pre-game excitement, the smell of popcorn and hotdogs, pizza and beer, cotton sundresses and pink cotton candy, fans in red tee-shirts and baseball caps, flip-flops flapping up and down concrete steps, hoots and hollers across the stands, the red wooden bleachers with perfect views of the field, the calls from the beer guy and the fifty-fifty girl, the playful fan photos taken with Bob Brown Bear, the cornball music, the repartee and easy banter of the announcers, the pre-game warm-ups, the national anthems, and the crack of wooden bat on leather ball. Gorgeous. Every last bit.

Before the game begins two national anthems are sung. I don’t recall the name of the singer only that she gave a virtuoso performance. Flawless. Resplendent. A crackerjack job. I love the American anthem. It’s impressive and majestic. But I’m a Canadian girl. Through and through. Tried and true. Homegrown, born and raised.

From the very first note, when this crowd of devoted Vancouver Canadians fans stood shoulder to shoulder, hats in hand, young and old alike, and gloriously sang our national anthem, I was moved. Unexpectedly touched yet filled to the brim. With patriotism. With pride. With gratitude.

Oh Canada. Dear sweet Canada. My home and native land. I am so grateful to be here.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Search for Meaning.

February 24, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 4 Comments

E on his throne enjoying the Christmas festivities.

I’m a seeker. Especially at Christmas time. I search for perfect gifts for everyone on my list. Ones filled with wow and wonder. I comb second hand stores for delicate vintage glass ornaments like the ones we hung on our tree at 204. I inherited all of Ma’s and have been growing her precious collection every year for the past decade. It’s my magnificent holiday decorating obsession.

I scour cookbooks, online cooking blogs and recipe websites looking for something new and delicious to bake or cook over the holidays. In the end, nothing compares with the treasure trove found in Ma’s sacred and magical Gurney Recipe Box.

I flip through fashion magazines for inspiration on what to wear for all those festive occasions. This is a silly pastime because E and I don’t attend those kinds of affairs. Yet I do it anyway. It pleases me.

I’m also bedazzled by sparkly festive shop windows. I hunt for the perfect holiday outfit. I daydream about a beautiful more glamorous version of myself that will somehow magically appear like Cinderella at the ball. I wonder what it would be like to knock ‘em dead at our office party. I fantasize about a transformation from drab nondescript woman in the corner cube to glamor girl in the shimmery dress with legs that never quit. That never happens. Even the younger me couldn’t have pulled that look off. Truth is, that’s not me. Never was. Never will be. But it is fun to play that movie in my head once a year.

Pursuit of the perfect gift, recipe, or dress aside, what I really seek at Christmas time is meaning. What’s it all about? This search trumps everything.

With E’s cancer diagnosis hanging over our heads like the Sword of Damocles, the desire to find something deeper, more profound, more significant was intensified. It served to remind us of the fragile nature of this life we live. Teach us to grab onto every precious moment like it was your last. Embrace the ones we love.

We were given a reprieve from the fear and anxiety that brought us to our knees the week E was in the hospital. The Friday that he was released from the RJH was glorious. A heaven-sent day.

The first thing E did when we got home was take the dogs for a walk in the crisp clean December air. It was as though he was breathing for the first time. He could walk unencumbered by the inescapable steel dance partner he had been hooked up to all week. Free from all the medical machinery that monitored his every heartbeat and breath. Free from the antiseptic smell that clung to every cell and fibre of his being. Free to walk upright. Stride. Strut. Swagger. Flounce his new found freedom up the rocky hills that surround our home.

Simply be alive.

For as long as I have known E, he’s been a real crank about Christmas. He would happily take a page from Rip Van Winkle’s book and sleep right through the entire month of December. It was the same old thing every year. Come the day before Christmas, the spirit would finally move him and off he’d go in search of my Christmas present. Some years this was found at the local Shoppers Drug Mart down the road. When M got old enough he solicited her help. This put a stop to the drugstore gifts.

“I’ll make sure he gets you something really good Ma,” she’d say.

And she does.

Of course, it’s not about the quality of the gift. Or even that there are gifts at all. But in our family, we do enjoy this tradition. We like to acknowledge each other in this manner. It’s sounds cliche but it isn’t so much the gift as the giving. As a family we like this and we’re good at. One look at our living room Christmas morning says it all.

This year, the curmudgeon grouchy bah humbug E left the building. Like Elvis on August 16, 1977. Replaced by the new and improved version. Enthusiastic and joyful. Happy to celebrate. Cheerful and charitable. Without complaint nor criticism. No protests. Gripes or grumbling. Beefs or bellyaching. And above all else, the new E, that emerged from the chrysalis on Friday, December 14, was grateful.

Deeply. Profoundly. Beyond words.

Recently, I read a quote by Cicero that really resonated with my spirit. It expressed so beautifully the meaning I sought and found over the Christmas season.

“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.”

E and I are consumed with gratitude these days. There is so much to cherish and give thanks for. Starting with our love for each other. For our family, our beautiful children, our granddaughter, our extended family and friends, our good neighbors, our understanding colleagues, the compassionate caregivers and spiritual teachers. Everyone who has touched our tender hearts so sweetly.

Kindness and compassion. Generosity and magnanimity. Big-heartedness and goodness. It’s everywhere. Dressed in the same attire. Cloaked in the fabric of love.

Jesus and John Lennon were right. Love is all you need.

I’m grateful for that.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I Love To Do Lists.

November 3, 2012November 3, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

I knew one day I’d start a list. In the meantime I stood in front of windows and smiled.

I love To Do lists. They keep me organized. Help me to remember. Remind me of what’s important. They keep things orderly. Sweet and simple. Neat and tidy. I love the symmetry these lists bring to my life. Balance. Ease.

I’ve always been a compulsive list maker. As I age my appreciation for this practice has grown exponentially.

There is this list that I have been compiling in my book of “boo’s to do’s for today” that just keeps growing. It appears to be never-ending. And for this I am grateful. These are the eternal things. The timeless. The constants in my life. And the infinite. The daily reminders of how good life is. How lucky I am to have been born in the time and place that is now, to the parents who raised me with love, to the children I have done the same, to the family and friends who I have been blessed to have walked the earth with, for their presence and presents. For grace and forgiveness. For hope. For faith in us all to create a better, kinder, gentler place.

It’s all a wide-eyed wonder to me. It’s humbling. I am thankful every day that I am here now with you. And you. And you.

So this is the ever-growing list of Boo’s To Do’s for Today.

The cover of my book of to do’s. It’s nice.

Today I will:
Thank God for my human being-ness
Be curious but not nosey
Be helpful but not pushy
Be funny but not hurtful for the sake of a joke
Be a dreamer but keep my feet on the ground
Be happy but not at someone else’s expense
Be honest but not brutal
Be smart but not a pompous know-it-all
Be supportive but not a door mat
Be a seeker but look for Light not darkness
Be God-minded but not God

Today I will:
Thank God for the little things in my life
Kiss my husband good morning
Tell my kids that I love them always, forever and a day
Eat mostly healthy stuff today
Eat chocolate, devour the entire bar
Smile at strangers, even the scary ones
Be helpful and kind and generous
Laugh at myself
Practice patience with everyone but especially the very old and the very young
Say my prayers and let go of the day

Today I will:
Thank God for a new perspective
See people in a different light
Recognize the truth
Appreciate an opposing opinion
Give everyone the benefit of the doubt
Understand that there are other sides to the story
Look for a new perspective in an old place
Offer grace so I can also receive it
Read between the lines and hear the words not spoken
Say my prayers and settle into the quiet

I like the red ribbon and yellow sticky note.

Today I will:
Thank God for the playful
Play it as it lays and learn acceptance
Play for keeps with those who matter
Play for real with everyone
Play around and square and mix it up
Play full with all I’ve got
Play games that are fun not hurtful
Play back again and again, especially if it’s good
Replay and repeat tomorrow
Say my prayers and sleep lighthearted

Today I will:
Thank God for all the wonders of Nature
Chase double rainbows across the sky
Sing with wild abandon in the rain
Blow free like a leaf in the wind
Spread my wings and fly
Soak up the sun and catch some rays
Dig in the dirt and get mud on my face
Soar with the eagles
Set the world on fire
Reach for the stars and make three wishes
Howl crazy at the moon
Say my prayers and drift into the waters of heaven

Today I will:
Thank God for this new day of simple things
Forgive everyone, even those I don’t want to
Do yoga and be grateful that my body still moves
Eat an apple, possibly an orange, but not a banana
Paint my toenails red and smile at my feet
Take my dogs for a walk
Drink water right out of the tap
Be polite and mannerly, please and thanks
Listen better to everyone but especially to the very old and the very young
Say my prayers and plump my pillow

Thank God for all the wonders of nature.

Today I will:
Thank God for the givers
Give a helping hand
Give advice only when asked
Give away the good things I no longer want, need or wear
Give to a charity besides the usual ones
Give love even to the unlovable
Give someone a surprise gift for no reason, just because
Give others the benefit of the doubt
Give of myself even when I’m tired and don’t feel like it
Give someone else the credit and the glory
Say my prayers and give thanks

Today I will:
Thank God for the journey through this day
Applaud the achievements of others
Eat more red foods
Be respectful and considerate of others
Play my guitar even when it sounds painful
Be honest, starting with myself
Bake chocolate chocolate chip cookies, then pig out
Sit quietly and breathe easy
Take the long way home and enjoy the trip
Say my prayers and drift into dreamland

Today I will:
Thank God for healing
Mend all bridges in my life that are broken
Sew buttons on tattered open wounds
Stitch time that has been squandered
Mend a broken heart
Seam together a fragile friendship
Repair all hurt caused by my good intentions
Fix things that can be fixed and bless what cannot
Patch the worn and the weary with love and kindness
Say my prayers and hug my love

Today I will:
Thank God for countless things in my life
Count my blessings
Count the red smarties in the box
Count the steps from the couch to the fridge
Count my friends who count
Count the birds at the feeder
Count the calories in the chocolate cake then eat it any way
Count the purple tulips in my garden
Count the number of sleeps until my summer holidays
Say my prayers and count sheep

Thank God for the Makers.

Today I will:
Thank God for all my senses: the first five, the sixth, common and Spidey
See the beauty in all things, even the unusual
Listen with an open heart to hear the unspoken
Breathe in all that is around me, especially the smells of nature and of the kitchen
Touch someone in need of a gentle hand
Taste the sweetness in life not the bitter
Trust my inner voice when in doubt
Remember the sound and reasonable advise of my mother
Pay attention to the goose bumps
Say my prayers and welcome a sense of peace

Today I will:
Thank God for the lazy days
Take it slow and easy
Relax and chill with a cup of green tea
Read a gossip mag from cover to cover while watching my fav soap opera
Eat a bag of Oreo cookies
Consider practicing yoga
Contemplate meditating
Think about going for a walk
Exercise my option to do absolutely nothing
Take a long soak in the tub
Say my prayers and rest gently

Today I will:
Thank God for the makers
Make believe and have fun like a five year old
Make memories without Kodak
Make amends to everyone I’ve hurt
Make love with the light on
Make up not down
Make music without an instrument
Make peace with myself first
Make better all my owies
Make good on all my promises
Make muffins, blueberry lemon
Make magic without a wand
Make friends with myself
Say my prayers and make ZZZ’s

Today I will:
Thank God for housework
Change the sheets and flip the mattress
Do laundry and maybe iron
Wash the dishes by hand
Scrub the floors, the old fashioned way, down on my knees
Vacuum even the hidden places
Polish the furniture with lemon oil
Clean the windows
Stop to admire the “clean and shiny”
Say my prayers and fall quickly into a deep sleep

Thank God for the lazy days.

Today I will:
Thank God for chance to begin again
Turn over a new leaf, discover the mysteries hidden there
Start a new chapter that begins with hope
Wipe the slate clean of all past doubts
Start fresh with a different perspective
Begin anew with novel ideas
Embrace the blank page and let go of fear
Clear the deck and make space for possibilities
Close the book and make peace with the past
Say my prayers.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Anniversary.

September 2, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

The Bride and Groom in the back seat of the wedding car.

Thomas Wolfe once wrote that, “You can’t go home again.” Part of me believes that is true. Yet part of me thinks you can. I just did. It took ten years and a 50th wedding anniversary to make it happen. But I did go home. Not to 204. Although I visited the place, stopped long enough to take one photograph. Then left.

I hadn’t been back in ten years. Two funerals and one wedding brought me there a decade ago. I swore I’d never go back. Without Ma and The Old Man and 204 there wasn’t much appeal. Those ten years flew by so quickly. Like a crimson maple leaf in the Northwestern Ontario autumn wind. Here and then gone.

When E and I got married last year my brother and sister-in-law flew out for the occasion. We were sitting around our kitchen table one evening eating pizza and killing ourselves laughing over the silly things that only siblings find amusing. It was then that my brother extended the invitation to attend their 50th anniversary the following summer. At the time I said, “Yeah, that would be nice. We’ll do that.” But secretly I thought, “Not on your life.” It wasn’t because I didn’t want to celebrate this milestone with them because I most definitely did. I just didn’t want to do it there. Over the course of the year I considered the possibility of flying 3,000 miles to spend a week in the West End, not smack dab in the old neighborhood but pretty darn close. As quickly as the thought entered my mind I dismissed it. Shrugged it off like a nasty mosquito. Of which they have many in that neck of the woods. But as the date drew closer, somehow my heart changed. I thought of what this would mean to my brother and his family. It wasn’t just an invitation to a party. It was an invitation to come home and spend time with someone who shared an unbreakable bond and love for Ma like I did.

The flight was booked. I was going.

The engagement announcement photo.

Little back story. There isn’t much of their wedding day that I remember. It’s all very sketchy. Impressionistic. Fuzzy around the edges. I was too young to have captured any of it permanently in the camera of my mind. So I am reliant on the story the black and white photographs and a yellowed newspaper clipping convey.

At 11:30 in the morning on Saturday, August 18,1962 my big brother’s life was transformed. It was at that hour that he became a husband to the most beautiful girl in the room. Two small town kids who met and fell in love. Soul mates. Best friends. Keepers of true love. There for each other through the hills and valleys of life. A blessing to everyone who loves them. They are the dear ones.

The beautiful Bride having her picture taken at 204.

The day began with sunshine, sweet anticipation, butterflies in the stomach, hair appointments, intimate moments with family at home. Captured on film for eternity. These personal snapshots were followed by formal professional photos at Pouncy’s Studio. The costs for this photographic session, $52.10. And the album full of exquisite 8×10 black and white photos, $76.87. Enjoying the experience of leafing through the perfectly preserved book of romantic sweet memories. Priceless. An homage to the enduring MasterCard commercials that I love.

Vows were exchanged at St. Elizabeth’s Roman Catholic Church.

The Bride with Ma and The Old Man.

Commitments made. Promises kept. The first kiss as husband and wife. Confetti rained from the sky in adoration. The gorgeous bride in her white organza gown and radiant smile. Cascade of red roses. Crystals and pearls. The tall dark and handsome groom in black tux and eyes only for the girl he loved, the woman who would be his love forever and always. His dream come true. Her love at first sight.

The day’s ceremonies were followed by rejoicing and merrymaking where everyone danced into the night. Cake was cut, bouquet thrown and off they went for the time of their life. And what a wonderful life it has been. Fifty years later and still in love. Still dedicated to each other and an inspiration to all who cherish them. They have shown us what a good marriage looks like.

The Wedding Album.

The anniversary celebration was joyous. Lovely. Memorable. Golden. My niece orchestrated every detail. From the delicious food, that she so lovingly prepared for days on end, to the colorful balloons, streamers and photo display to honor her parents. Everything was letter perfect. I can’t think of a better way for a child to pay tribute to the ones who love her so dearly. What a gift. Again priceless.

One of the highlights of the party. Watching my big brother waltz with his best man. What was supposed to have been a reenactment of the first dance with his bride turned into a comical, zany and poignant moment caught on video by yours truly. Another priceless moment.

As I look back on those ten days spent with my brother and his family I am grateful for the time we had together. I am grateful I made the decision to be a part of their celebration, to be a part of the happy memories. I am grateful that I have a big brother who was man enough to weep when I surprised him at his doorstep. He had no idea I was coming. It reminded me that I need to show up more often. Especially in the lives of those I love. Until that moment in his driveway, when we embraced and he cried tears of joy, I think I had forgotten just how much I loved him. There we were. Ma’s kids. Her first and last born. Together.

My big brother with my niece and his pride and joy.

So Thomas Wolfe, I agree that I can never go home again. At least not to the home that was once such a big part of my life, that shaped and informed the person I am today. I can’t walk through the front door of 204 and say, “Hi Ma. Hey Dad.” Breathe in the scent of Ma’s ginger cookies fresh out of the oven, Sunday’s roast dinner, coffee brewing on the stove. Kiss them on the cheek before I walk out the door. Look back and wave goodbye.

But I can go home to remember. To celebrate. To honor. To love.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Baker’s Dozen – 13 Virtues from my Parents.

July 29, 2012February 13, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

Ma and The Old Man pose in front of his birthday cake.

Ma and The Old Man taught me much during our lifetime together. Some things were practical and intentional. Like cooking and cleaning up after myself. Brushing my teeth before bed. The simple day-to-day things parents teach their children to help them grow up big and strong. Others things involved character building. Like doing the right thing just because it was right not because I particularly felt like it. Saying please and thank you. Expressing gratitude not bad attitude. Then there were the big things. Ten commandment big. Don’t cause harm to any living creature. Don’t lie. Cheat. Steal, and that includes someone else’s spouse. Respect your elders, especially your parents. Then there were the things they taught me without even knowing it. The ‘by example’ things. The stuff kids pick up on. Learn through osmosis. By watching. Listening. Witnessing.

While all this learning was going on — the day to day, the big and the by example — thirteen virtues stood out. A perfect Baker’s Dozen. These are what I would like to share with you.

8 From Ma:

LOVE: One of the big ones. The biggest. For Ma it came unconditionally. You didn’t have to do anything special to earn her love. If you were one of hers, you just had it. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for one of her own. Including lay down her life. Thankfully she was never put into this position. What a blessing to be loved so dearly. What more could a child need than to wake up every morning feeling cherished. In the end, Ma was grateful that her life followed its natural course. Although she hated to leave us all, she wouldn’t have had it any other way. One day we will all follow her into the Light. Her love was such a blessing to our entire family. I still feel it now. And I am grateful.

Ma and her grandson taking a moment to look at Polaroids.

WISDOM: Ma was a simple woman in many ways. Unpretentious. Unassuming. She never graduated from high school and had very little formal education. Although at age sixty she went back to night school and studied art. We were all so proud of her accomplishment. Her wonderful paintings are amongst my greatest treasures. Education aside, Ma was a wise and enlightened woman. She possessed profound insights. Introspective by nature, she was always interested in the “why” of life. This led her to places of deep spiritual and philosophical understanding and acuity. She was a good listener. A skill lacking in the best of us. I am eternally grateful for her counsel and sought it at every turn. She was involved in every big decision I made. It is my prayer that my children feel the same way about me. That when they turn to me for advice or simply a compassionate ear that I bring Ma’s kind of wisdom.

KINDNESS: Ma possessed this virtue in spades. In abundance. Good measure. Pressed down. Shaken. Running over. Her heart was tender. Not just for those she loved. But everyone she encountered on her journey through life. Children, in particular touched her heart. She never met a kid she didn’t like. Her kindness was even extended to the naughty ones. Her heart was open and large towards the elderly, the downtrodden, the forgotten ones and those considered unlovable. She was kind to animals. They all knew a kindred spirit. I am kind too. Ma taught me well.

GENTLENESS: Ma touched everything with a gentle hand. Her touch was soft. Warm. Benevolent. She caused no harm. Never spanked her children. Nor scolded. Shy by nature, her voice was quiet yet reassuring. She was a Whisperer. Even in the kitchen, nothing was forced. Food was prepared in a sweet and easy style. I will always miss her beautiful long-fingered veiny hands that caressed her world with loving kindness.

Ma and Daughter Number One smile for the camera.

PATIENCE: Ma was well practiced in this virtue. Four children and an alcoholic husband could be taxing at times. Being patient with children came easy for her. She understood kids innately. And consequently they were drawn to her like bees to honey. She was like Jesus in that she wanted the little children to come to her. Never too busy for a child. No little one shooed away. Her patience wasn’t only extended to the very young. She successfully shepherded four teenagers into adulthood. That took monumental skill and patience by the bucketful. Being patient with The Old Man was her biggest trial. He was her Achilles heel. I can only say she did her best to extend the same grace to him as she did the children in her life. Nobody’s perfect. Patience hasn’t always been one of my strengths. Just ask my two older kids. I’ll be working on this one for the rest of my life. As I said, nobody’s perfect.

EMPATHY: Ma’s compassionate heart wept for the world. She intuitively knew what people were feeling. Felt their pain. Embraced another’s sorrow. She was the shoulder to cry on. Her heart broke at the sight of any suffering. Whether it was within our family circle. Or brought to her over the garden fence or through the television set. Witnessing suffering on a colossal scale moved her to take action. She donated to many charitable causes and supported a third world child all the days of her life. She inspired me to do the same.

COURAGE: Ma was timid, shy and meek by nature. Yet she was also a warrior. A little spitfire at times. Full of true grit. Especially when it came to protecting her kids. She wouldn’t let anything or anyone cause us harm. She was also courageous in the face of any adversity. From the cradle to the grave. Whatever the strife, she faced the challenge head-on with bravery and grace. She also never complained about being sick. She could be stoic to a fault at times. We saw this intimately when she had her heart attack. At first, she denied even having one. She never ever gave up. Ma taught me to fight the good fight right until the bitter end. Like Dido said, there will be no white flags above our door.

THOUGHTFULNESS: Ma was considerate in her every thought, word and deed. Not only in the small gestures. Coming to the aid of the elderly. Helping someone up who has fallen. Figuratively and literally. She was quick to send thank you notes, get well wishes and thinking of you cards. My mailbox was always a wellspring for delightful little surprises. She never forgot a birthday. Cards were sent. Cakes baked. Gifts given. She welcomed everyone into our home regardless of who they were. There was always room at the table. If she saw something in a store that she thought you’d like, she picked it up. There were many just because gifts. She had others on her mind. I miss dearly those cards and notes inscribed with her small meticulous handwriting. Trips to the mailbox aren’t as much fun anymore.

4 From The Old Man:

HUMOR: The Old Man loved a good laugh. A silly joke. A funny yarn with a good punch line. He was always quick with one to tell. A faithful reader of The Reader’s Digest, this was the source of much of his material. He also loved a good comedy on television. Red Skelton could bring him to tears. He laughed loud. Heartily. Easily. Right from the belly. I do the same. I loved this about The Old Man. It is also what I look for in friends and lovers. I’m a sucker for a man who can make me laugh. He will always tickle my fancy. Laughter. One of God’s greatest gifts to humans. Thank you.

The Old Man and his grandson enjoyed a good game of crib.

GENEROSITY: The Old Man was one of those guys who would give you the shirt off his back. Unlike Ma, who was quick to give to charitable causes, he didn’t part so easily with his money. Not that he had much to part with. He happily gave his pay cheque to Ma every two weeks. She was the manager of our family finances. But he gave other things. If he had something you needed or wanted he rarely said no. As a teenager I appreciated this virtue the most. Especially when it came to handing over the keys to his car. That was a big deal back then. The Old Man supported his family. No matter what. Roof over our heads. Food on the table. I always felt that as long as The Old Man was on this earth I would never be destitute. I’d always have a place to go. A safe haven where I would be taken care of. I am so grateful to have had that. E and I have created the same for our children. We also go through a lot of shirts.

WORK ETHIC: The Old Man loved and hated his job. Regardless of how he felt on any given day, he got up at 5am and did it. He showed up. For some thirty odd years. He never actually said, “Take this job and shove it,” but I suspect there were many days that he felt this way. Possibly he had bigger dreams than he had ambition. In his defense, he was from a generation of folks who raised families and did whatever it took to do so. No complaints. No whining. No woulda-coulda-shoulda. Just hard work. If he had regret over his professional path, he kept it to himself. I understand. I’ve done the same. I show up.

The Old Man and his grandchildren pose for the camera.

SERVICE: The Old Man did what he could to be of service to his country, his family, his community, his employer, his church. He was in the army. He volunteered in sport. Umpiring Little League games was his delight. He helped out at the church. Did yard work and painted one of his elderly customer’s home on a regular basis. Old Jenny was dear to him. Although she paid him a small fee I suspect he would have done it for free. He was honored with an award for Service to his Community. He taught me what an honor it is to serve. People need help everywhere.

1 from Both of Them:

PUNCTUALITY: Some people might not consider this a virtue. But I do. I don’t think either of my parents were ever late for anything. They were either right on time or early. Like many from their generation lateness was akin to rudeness. It was also considered thoughtless and arrogant. They respected the time of others and appreciated that no one likes to be kept waiting. Nor should they. Lateness required two things. A good reason. And an apology. I love that they were both so courteous in this way.

We all wore paper crowns on New Years Eve.

My Own:

GRATITUDE: I will forever be grateful to both my parents for their Baker’s Dozen, these 13 Virtues. My heart is filled with gratitude every day for the life that God has blessed me with. Starting with the ultimate gift of my parents. Ma and The Old Man.

My Thing About God