Bogged Down

This is not the way I expected to feel when I wrapped up our family book project. I anticipated a feeling of elation, enthusiasm, boundless energy and eager anticipation for whatever-comes-next.

Instead, here I sit. Waiting for an email from the publishing company, showing they have corrected my revisions, so I can authorize the printing of the book to move forward and PRESTO! Done!!

There was going to be sparkles and joy. Singing, dancing and skipping through the house. I was going to ceremoniously file away all of my research files, documents and all paraphernalia related to the book.

I was going to have an excessive amount of energy and I was going to spin through the house like a white tornado and leave nothing but cleanliness in my wake.

I was going to purge and clean, while I was singing and dancing to the beat of the sound of my happy little heart.

I was going to have energy to burn and inspiration seeping out my pores. It was going to be some party inside of this little head of mine.

Instead?

They missed several of my revisions on the book cover and they didn't even send a revised book document. So I immediately emailed a revised document to make my intentions clear(er). That was at 9:56 yesterday morning.

[Insert the sound of crickets chirping here]

Then, my contact-lady (from the establishment we are holding our upcoming family reunion) sent several emails throughout the morning and we were planning to talk in the afternoon. I had my questions at-the-ready, the house was quiet and I called. She was in a meeting. Then instead of a call, she emailed me to tell me we would talk in a few days ...

Did you ever spend a day spinning your wheels? It was unsatisfying on every level.

I couldn't wait until it was late enough to go to bed last night. I was ready by 6:30.

I need to wind something up to a state of completion which will bring the sound of a happy song to my heart. That something is certainly not going to be a clean house, as I tend to my daycare family during the week.

I suppose I could dust off the top of the fridge ...

Shattered Security

I stepped out of the house to go for coffee with a friend the other night. It was a mutually beneficial coffee break. I needed to step away from the Book Project and she was trying to pass some time. I would never have left the house if I didn't have a reason to walk out the door.

Thankfully, I did.

I walked outside and the sensor light at the back door did not turn on. I immediately turned around to go and check the switch to see if it had been turned off accidentally. But I knew, without a doubt, that hadn't happened. I checked the light bulbs instead.

Someone had loosened both of them.

Someone had walked into our yard, loosened our back door lights and set the scene for a 'return visit'.

My heart fell to my toes.

We could have been robbed. Worse yet, what if we were at home when it happened?

I do not live in fear but we do take precautions. The door is always locked, we set the alarm, we don't open the door unless we know who is there. And I feel safe.

That night, I thought I may never fall asleep (thank goodness for my inability to stay awake the moment I sit still). I left lights blazing and I kept my bedroom door open so I was on high alert.

I am seriously contemplating the idea of getting a dog. An interactive security system which cannot be tampered with by 'unscrewing a light bulb'.

It angers me that we live in a world where people violate other people's sense of security. How can they do that to another person?

A day passed and the sense of urgency waned. Perhaps our home was just 'one of many' targets and when it wasn't made easy they moved onto somewhere (someone) else. It is sad ...

I feel safe.

Sometimes ... I honestly feel like I have a guardian angel watching over me, my family and our home. It is a gift to feel cloaked in safety that isn't dependent on electricity, light bulbs or a monitoring system.

Maybe we won't get a dog after all.

Life Hands Us What We Need...

How is it that life 'hands us what we need when we need it most'?

Does 'life' really happen that way or are small gifts placed before us each and every day? But when we are blindsided by all that is going on within our world, we simply cannot see outside of our own head at times?

Life continues to astound and amaze me. It is all in the little things.

Yesterday I took my daycare family out to a park to play. There was another daycare provider with her little 'family' of her own already there when we arrived.

We started talking immediately. We are from (about) the same generation so she immediately related with me as a 'grandma' kind of daycare provider. We spoke the same language from the start.

She has been in the daycare business for thirty five years and is starting to burn out a bit.

I felt that way when I walked away from my daycare five years ago but 'life' provided a little perspective for me so I could come at it with new life.

I still feel overwhelmed and question if I am the right person for this job. Daily. Sometimes more. But at the end of each day, I am grateful for this life I have created for myself and I know it is where I am most meant to be right now.

The kids provide me with inspiration and laughter when I need it the most. I love it when I hear my words turned back on me and they sound 'okay'.

Two days ago, I was so frustrated and I just need the day to be over. Then two days ago, this happened:

Apparently these guys are listening to me.

Whenever someone is crying or pouting or simply cranky, I tell them to go into the playroom and come out when they are happy. If they are crying for no real reason, I escort them to the playroom and tell them to come out when they are happy. When they wake up from their nap, they must be 'happy' before they can get up. "Happy" is our theme song around here and we dance to it often.

Anyway ...

Yesterday, I was feeling kind of grouchy and was quite likely pouting.

My little three-year-old looked at me and said, "Colleen, are you happy?" That simple statement turned my day around. I think my little girl was quietly suggesting I go into the 'time out' area until I came out happy!

Thanks! I needed that.

I told this little story to my 'new friend' at the park. She laughed out loud and told me I had made her day. 

I felt like I had been placed into this lady's life at just the right moment. I know I am overwhelmed with kid-talk and craving adult-conversation these days. I needed to talk to someone who was 'walking my walk' and understood where I was coming from. 

I believe we brought each other 'up' and our days were better because of it.

We have been going to all of the parks in and around our neighborhood all summer. I have not run into another 'daycare family' until yesterday. 

I really, really needed a lift and this encounter boosted me up and carried me through the day. I watched how she was with her kids and I aspired to be 'more' of who I want to be. Something tells me she received a little of what she gave, in return.

We exchanged names and phone numbers and hope to meet up again. Our children's ages correlate very nicely and I think some interaction with other kids would be good for each of our daycare charges. Adult interaction with someone who 'speaks my language' is a very welcome bonus. 

We seem to treat 'our kids' and 'our responsibilities' very similarly. We are a ten minute walk away from each other. 

I felt like I opened my eyes yesterday and 'there' she was.

The really weird (eerie-weird) part is, when we left the park we didn't part ways immediately. Our walk home was a parallel one for a short spell.

One minute, I looked behind us and my 'angel unaware' and her family-of-three was right behind us. The next minute, I looked again. They had vanished into thin air.

I asked my little three-year-old "Did you see those kids and that lady ... or did I just imagine them?" She confirmed my sanity, as she started to talk about this little 'daycare family' so I believe what I saw was real.

But it was such divine timing. A conversation with someone who I felt like I had known for years transpired when I needed it the most. It was almost surreal. Compounded by the fact they seemed to leave our day as quickly as they entered it.

I may have to call this lady - just to reassure myself and confirm that I did not make up this whole scenario.

Sometimes, the little things in life just seem too good to be true. 

The Final Lap

Oh, how I wish it was the weekend today. For this .... is where my heart is:

The proof copy of our family-book-project arrived in yesterday's mail. As soon as I make one, final round of checks and give my final nod of approval, it will be out of my hands and off to the presses.

The sad part is, I am only on page 65 (and I have not been reading - I have simply been scanning the pages) and I have found so many little tweaks to be made. A picture and its caption not aligned properly; a drawing completely misconstrued when I made a 'layout change' to an entire page; awkward wording within sentences and paragraphs; and just plain and simple errors. I am finding them everywhere.

I stayed up until the wee hours (9:00 p.m.) last night and made a valiant effort to scan the contents for the obvious. But (as I mentioned before) I failed.

The book is so long and so tedious. I have read, reread, edited, reedited, sent it out for editing and proofing and checking. Right now (to me), this book is about as spellbinding as reading a phone book.

When I went to bed last night, my plan was to give this book one more cursive glance today and send it off to be printed before the weekend begins.

I woke up knowing that now is not the time to rush to the finish line.

I cannot rewrite the book but I can give it one last, long good perusal and send it on its way knowing I have done my best.

I read what has been written and I wonder how much I have misconstrued between hearing what I thought I heard; writing what I interpreted to be correct; and the actual truth.

My 'critics' have not been harsh enough. In one case I believe I was the one to mis-hear a story and I wrote what I thought I understood to be true. Instead of correcting me, one kind edit said they had a different memory. In my haste to assemble the massive amount of stories, I assumed they were talking of two different memories. As I hone in on details, I realize he was saying, "You've got it all wrong! It happened 'this' way..."

This has happened on numerous occasions. In fact, three other instances came immediately to mind as I wrote that sentence.

I cannot help but think, if I know of four or five occasions where I have misrepresented the facts, there are probably (at least) ten times that amount within the pages of our book.

As I called one uncle to do a little fact-checking and confirm how I should word something within his chapter this week, he told me I was worrying too much over the details. I couldn't brush it off though, because what goes down in writing will stay there for as long as the words are on the page. Future 'editions' of the book can be revised but the ones that are printed this first time through will 'go down in history' as fact.

Frightening.

Thus, I simply cannot rush the process now that I am this close. I will allow myself the weekend. That is it. No more.

Sunday night, before I go to sleep I will send off the final, revised file. Monday morning, I will click all the boxes to approve the book to move forward as-it-is.

The family book project will come to an end. September 29, 2014 shall go down as a date to remember. Six years, one month and two days after I got the 'nod' from my uncle to start moving ahead with this project, it will wind down to a close.

I knew it was going to be 'big'. Every time I dipped my toes into collecting these memories, I knew I was being entrusted with something precious. Whenever I immersed myself in assembling the stories into what would eventually become our book, I felt like I was walking on sacred ground. There is no need to rush. Even now.

The book needs to come to an end. This much I know. Just not today ...

Signed Sealed and Delivered

I am a great believer of the the power of the written word. Electronic communication has stepped in and taken over our world. I am grateful in so very many ways. The convenience and ease of communicating has meant that I hear from many people that I wouldn't hear from otherwise. The flip side of that is that my mailbox is lonely.

I moved away from my childhood home when I was nine years old and I kept in touch with my friends by letter. I can remember the ease with which my pen flew as I chipped away at my shell of shyness. I felt more self assured within the safe confines of writing. I received one letter from my Grade 4 class, I remember a letter from my sister asking me if I had become a "city slicker" yet and I continued to keep in touch with a cousin and at least one friend utilizing the only means of communication available to a nine year old at that time.

Pen, paper, an envelope and a six cent stamp (for some reason six cents came immediately to my fingertips and when I googled the question "How much did it cost to mail a letter in Canada in 1970?", my answer appears to be correct! Wow!! My fingers are smart!) started my love affair with the postal system and I was hooked. There is nothing (to this very day) that beats finding a hand written letter in the mailbox.

I moved back (close to) 'home' again when I was twenty seven years old. The year was 1988, long distance telephone calls were a luxury item (you paid by the minute and it was insanely expensive to call during daytime hours). Pen and paper saved me from myself once again. I wrote letters to friends and family and kept the lines of communication open with many.

It was a time of great discomfort as this was also the year that marked the end of my marriage. My faith in justice and humanity wavered like never before. I wrote at least one letter that I wish that I could take back.

Words written on paper have the ability to cut like a knife. Over and over and over again. I was reminded of this fact when my mom stumbled across an envelope that is over 50 years old. Words scribbled on the face of the envelope hold hateful memories of a time that should have been long forgotten. 

I did that to another human being. I wrote words that I can never take back. If ever there was to be a letter lost in the abyss of a dead letter file, why could it not be that one? I'm sorry will never erase the venom with which those words were written.

In the years since that time I have tried very  hard to continue the tradition of sending handwritten cards and notes whenever the spirit moves me. The convenience of sending an email trumps snail mail 99% of the time. My logic is that an email can be sent any time of the day or night and the person on the receiving end will only open it up when they have the time and energy to do so. I can type much faster than I can write. I can cut, paste and edit on the computer without defacing an entire page. Thus, even my 'handwritten' letters are typed 95% of the time. Thus, the 'spirit' does not move me (as much as I wish it did) these days.

I spend my energy writing, even when I have little to expend. Writing has been my therapy, my best friend and the best benefit the habit of writing has brought into my world, is the friends I have kept in contact with over the course of time.

Distance and time can be diminished by sending a card, letter or an email to a friend. As exciting as it is to find a personal email in my inbox, there is nothing like finding an envelope addressed with the familiar handwriting.

I know it is getting costly to send a letter in the mail. But in a time where we think nothing of spending (almost) two dollars for a cup of coffee, I guarantee you - you get more 'bang for your buck' by investing in the cost of a stamp.

Reach out and write someone. You will make their day...

Becoming the Person Others Believe We Already Are

"We normally become what the person closest to us thinks we will become."
~ Mountain Wings.com

Such a simple statement reflects such a profound truth.

I can see time and time again where that statement has rung true within my life.

I have (done my best to) live up to high expectations and became more than I ever thought I could be, because someone believed in me.

I have also come close to hitting rock bottom when someone expected me to fail.

I can still feel my heart turn to lead when I tried to overcome someone's belief that I was not good enough, not smart enough, nor fast enough to do the job set before me.

I can still look at a picture taken one evening when my heart was shattering and I can feel the pain I felt when I saw 'that look' inflicted upon me.

I didn't run from either circumstance. I tried to win over my naysayers. I accomplished nothing but bringing myself down to the level they already thought I was at.

The devastation I felt when both of those 'relationships' ended brought me to my knees. I didn't choose to walk away. My hand was forced and I had to leave.

Thank goodness...

Life has been very kind to me. In the whole scheme of things, I have been surrounded by those who think I am better than I am. Trying to live up to those expectations has brought out the best there is within me.

Surround yourself with those who think highly of you. Even if you have a hard time believing them, you are subconsciously aspiring to be the person they already know you are.

"If I could give you one thing in life, I would give you the ability to see yourself through my eyes. Only then would you realize how special you are ..." ~ Author Unknown

It All Matters. We All Matter.

I have spent the past week putting the final touches on our family book project. That sounds like it should be easy, doesn't it? In two words - it's not.

On one hand, I had absolutely nothing left to say to put on the back of the book and the inside flaps. On the other hand, I had so much left to say I could barely contain it within the limitations I was given.

As I have put together our book full of memories, I am continually amazed at the little things that we remember when we look back upon our lives.

Our family comes from a long line of children who knew their dad worked hard so they really didn't expect to 'know' him in an up close and personal way.

Is there a sense of loss or missing out as they recollect their childhood? No. It was simply the way life was.

They remember the way their dad was, when he did have some time to go for a drive and get 'lost' in the fields (and as an adult, realize he had turned checking the crops into a Sunday drive where he pretended to get lost and 'accidentally' end up at a pre-planned destination).

We are lucky if we still have our parents around when we become adults ourselves. We have no idea how much wisdom and perspective they have stored up inside of them until we are old enough to hear what they have to say. When we lose a parent at a young age, I think we ache to hear what that parent may have told us as the years progressed ...

I was twenty three years old when Dad had a massive heart attack (which his body survived but his brain did not). My brother was eighteen. Even though our sisters were older (thirty two and thirty four), they were only just beginning to know Dad as a person (he worked around the clock and the calendar while they were growing up). We had all had our last conversation with Dad, as we knew him, by Thursday, March 10, 1983.

My brother and I were the fortunate ones - we moved off the farm and into the city in 1970. We had thirteen years of knowing Dad with a "9 to 5" (that is a joke, because Dad worked all the overtime he was able to amass) job with a paid holiday. We have memories of a Dad who (technically) had evenings and weekends off and two weeks paid vacation time.

Perhaps I was the luckiest of all. I grew up on our farm until I was nine years old. I have memories of life on the farm (though none of my farm memories include Dad), I have memories of growing up in the city, where I have many memories of Dad as a child and also as I transitioned into adulthood.

I remember the chats we had before I was married and after that marriage broke up (and then after my husband and I reconciled and got remarried...).

My husband idolized my dad. My dad was everything his dad wasn't. My husband thought Dad was pretty cool, because he could swear like the dickens out in the garage (and no one in the world would have guessed he knew any one of those words when he came back into the kitchen for a cup of coffee afterwards).

Unbeknownst to me at the time, my on again, off again marriage put me in an enviable position, as far as getting to know Dad goes. He had the opportunity to talk with me on so very many different levels because I was an independent car and home owner and new to the world of being an adult, parent and full-time employee.

Dad probably had the foresight to see that there was a pretty fair chance that I would need to know how to be independent and thus, we had many 'teachable' moments. My brother was on the cusp of being the recipient of oh-so-much-knowledge that Dad had to impart on him when we lost our dad, as we knew him.

I knew Dad as much as I could have known him, yet I am the one who has gone out on a quest to search for family memories in order to find a way to know Dad better and 'keep' him as part of my life forever.

In my final 'wrap up' of our family book project, I am saying so very much when I say this:

My motives for assembling this book may have been selfish. Wanting to hear and write Dad's story was wrapped in the gift of hearing about and assembling the story of the rest of our family.

As our family continues to grow and spread out across the land, it is my hope this book will serve to pass along a piece of our history to the generations to follow.

We may be transplanted in life, but there is a true sense of belonging when you settle in and are comfortable in the life where your roots run deep.

Home is where your heart is ... but our roots keep us grounded.

Little did I know at the time, my roots are firmly entrenched in our family farm. I have spent a 'lifetime' finding my way back home again. Compiling Mom and Dad's family books-of-memories has brought me to this place.

There is a little piece of me that believes I am not the only one out there searching for this feeling. Thus I am very pleased to say I am so very close to having this collection of memories ready to distribute among our family.

Within the pages of this book, you will find the impact our grandparents and their seven sons have made within our lives as we know them.

These are the stories of the people who created us, molded us, set an example for us and modeled a life we emulate (in various forms) today.

Whenever you find yourself thinking "What difference does one person make?" remember the stories you read within this book. It all matters. We all matter. Read on...