It’s Cold Outside!

I am a storyteller. As sporadic as it has been over the years, this is why I created my blog, to share my stories. I have returned and here is my first story of 2019.

The old house was cold; its insulation was minimal. It was the end of January.  -10 C., a dusting of snow covered the ground. Gabby stood clutching the cup of cocoa tightly, as her hands absorbed the warmth. It was the one of two things in that moment of now, that she could embrace as something good – the heat from the cup and the coziness of the cocoa as it heated her mouth and throat on its way to her belly.

The sun was sparkling, sending its rays out, and lighting the diamonds in the snow. It  sent hints of heat through the large bay window,  but all Gabby saw was an unwelcoming white, blanketing hidden ice and dotted with small broken branches strewn over the yard from the previous night’s wind party.

Winter! She hated it these last couple of years, since her fall. Her confidence in her balance and ability to tackle and embrace life had been dislocated then. The foot healed, but her inner confidence was much slower to mend. Hence, her dislike of winter and the challenges it often produced.

Gabby considered dressing up in her warmest clothes, winter boots and grippers. She saw herself in the yard picking up the fallen debris.

Then dredges of panic began to whisper, “ There’s probably ice hidden out there. I don’t trust my balance. Shit! Best to stay inside until it warms up and perhaps the snow melts.”

She thought,“What a ‘fraidy cat I’ve turned into being!”

The fear voice raised itself a notch, “What if I fell, and coudn’t get up, like before? I’d turn into a block ice and no one would know.”

“Ruff!”

.

Blaze, her best friend and lab mix disguised as a beagle, nudged her side, “Gabby, you and your silliness are keeping us from getting outside. You’re also keeping me from having a good roll in that white stuff. Stop arguing with yourself.  I’m tired of your whining. You are worse than me when I am begging you for human food.”

Gabby knew that her companion would keep at her until they stepped outside. She did the only thing she could as Blaze pulled on her sweater, dragging her to the box with his leash in it.

Blaze was her voice of reason. Even if no one else heard him speak, she did. He’d been her familiar, since he chose her at the shelter. It was rocky for both of them at first, until they both began to trust each other. That’s  for another story.

Mumbling aloud, she dressed for wind and cold. By the time the two of them were ready the sun had disappeared and the wind was dancing a rumba through the trees. She stared back at Blaze, her one hand on the door knob, envisioning her body turned to ice when the wind hit her. She tried the puppy dog eyes on Blaze. He kept wagging his tail, ignoring her, whining and staring at the door knob.

She opened the door, Blaze bolted out; then stopped and waited patiently as the freezing air slammed the door shut for her.

“No leash needed today, buddy. It’s too cold for a walk. You got me out here, at least. We’ll walk around the house.”

Blaze bounded to the stairs and flew off the deck. He immediately started sniffing out mouse tracks. Gabby stayed where there was protection from the ice cold, blowing air. She did feel better, as bracing as the air was. It was a shove out of her anxiety and back into the present. Being outside, no matter what the weather, even for 5 minutes was a tonic for her.

She yelled to the dog, “Thank you, Blaze! You always know to get me outside.” He gave a sharp bark and pushed his nose back into the snow.

She continued walking cautiously. No sense taking a chance on hidden ice. She asked her Inner Wisdom to guide her steps. Her body relaxed more. Blaze zipped by on the alert for more scents. He never came close enough to knock into her. She pulled her scarf over her mouth. That was more comfortable and less chilly on her face.

After another 6 minutes Gabby stood by the door and called Blaze back. He barrelled up the steps; slowed and then stopped beside her. She opened the door; he waited until she entered and then followed.
Ruffling his fur and hugging his neck, she whispered, “Thank you.”

She withdrew a treat from her pocket; threw it up in the air. His mouth encased it on the way down. Gabby laughed; removed and hung up her coat. Blaze sauntered over to his cushion and curled up. He was ready for a nap and Gabby was ready to sit at her desk and write.

Choices I’ve Made

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Cruel To Be Kind (Songwriters: GOMM, IAN ROBERT / LOWE, NICHOLAS ORAIN Cruel To Be Kind lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, ANGLO-ROCK, INC.)was playing on the radio as I drove to visit a friend the other weekend. I remember it from 1979- humming along to the catchy tune; dancing to its beat and singing the chorus. Never really hearing the words to any of it. This time, in the car, I paid attention to the words. They jarred me. A man talking about a friend who kept knocking him down and the friend excusing the behaviour be saying it’s okay to be “cruel to be kind.”

The song triggered thoughts that being cruel can come from a person (me) who believed that she was all about kindness and could not be cruel. Somewhat different from the words of the song. yet a trigger for me.

Memories of the caged lioness, who kept her emotions locked deep inside a simmering volcano of her being. Finally the depressed, swallowed down feelings erupted; the cage door sprang open; anger exploding as I burst forth from the emotional prison.

The sweet gentle woman I tried to be could no longer contain the anger I had swallowed for so many years. The formerly caged lioness began to attack the the perceived jailor. The lioness begins to stalk, biting with verbal anger, attacking the “others” ,who I felt had locked me in the cage. In actual fact, I was my own captor; the bars of the cage were of my own creating; my own fears holding me in.

In time, a voice whispered in my head, “You have become the person you loathe; the one who spews out all the hard emotions with a viper’s tongue.”

I, the wounded lioness, stopped in my tracks, and wept for the explosive, weak and tired woman I had become. It takes copious energy to be angry at the world, almost as draining as imploding with depression. I know. I have experienced both. Out of this realization I began to search for the real me.

Who was I? Was I the rogue lioness on the rampage, angry at the world, because I believed that world was a jail that others around me had imprisoned me within? When I stopped and asked myself those questions, I wanted to bolt rather than acknowledge the answer – that if I were to place blame any where, it had to be on myself. I was scared beyond my darkest imaginings to peer into the inner workings of the emotions I had propelled outward. It meant I had to look at me and not the outside world for answers. I had to begin taking responsibility for myself.

Knowing this, I made a decision to try to be brave, to stop being who I didn’t want to be and delve within the workings of the real me; into the woman I did not know.

Many times in this process I have been overwhelmed by fear and would stall for a time in my inner growth. I am continuing to learn, gradually, to accept me exactly as I was and am; to forgive myself and to love me, warts and all, as the saying goes. One of the hardest parts- acknowledging that I had the ability to hurt and did hurt others by my words and actions. The total owning of me. The dirty laundry as well as the clean.

If we don’t like ourselves, it is difficult to like others. Unfortunately it is easier to be cruel or mean to others, to blame them for our predicaments. for the cages that we create ourselves, than to accept that our confinement is due to fear to make different choices. That fear can rule a life, as it did many parts of mine, until I could not live with how I was. I would have loved to have been free of all fear the moment I recognized my responsibility for my life choices. I am reminded that it is, “like slowly peeling back the layers of an onion” with the accompanying tears. It is a healing process, a journey.

I think of the people, like I was, caught in their lives by their choices, blaming their unhappiness on circumstances outside of themselves; not yet ready, maybe never ready to see the keys dangling in the locks inside the cages. May they find the courage to take the keys; open the doors and begin to find their way to freedom.

In Between

I haven’t posted anything here in a long time. My life, like this blog ,seems to go in waves.

Today I read an inspiring blog by a friend. She spoke about her life’s journey and how it has brought her to where she is. A brave woman who is listening to her heart and soul.

As well, I am blessed to know other women,whose journeys are inspiring. What inspires me the most is the cord that is common to them and me- the willingness to explore who we are on the inside.

I can tell you, based on my own experiences, going inward to find out who you are and begin to make the changes, requires perseverance and determination.

For me, it also means, not getting stuck in focusing on the lives that others created for themselves.Many times I have concentrated on trying to imprint others’ lives into my own. That did not work well for me.

The theme of my life: I wanted to be someone other than me. Fiction was a way to do that. Reading self-help books based on other people’s lives is a way to take on their lives. Yes, many of them had information to help me on my journey. I thought I had to apply all their information to my own life,  BUT their lives were not and are not mine. Each one of us has our own journey and because we are all different, how we live will be different.

I was mired in not owning my life. I was also scared shitless to change it. I spent most of my life sinking into the quick sand of fear. I am now pulling myself out.

As I focus on my acceptance of all of me and thus, loving all of me, these are my revelations, my truths as I am able to decipher and know them:

So many words and so many voices in my head. None of them my own. I did not know how to listen clearly to my own inner voice. How could I? I had no idea who I was. I only knew myself in terms of those outside me. Afraid to know me, because I probably wasn’t someone who being me, was anyone others could/would or even want to know and like.

So many layers over so many years to get to the real me. And that is enough about me for now.

I will finish with one of my micro stories.

A Manure Pile

Sitting across from each other on top of a manure pile were a little girl and an old woman. They stared at each other. A tear began to fall from the child’s left eye; then one fell from her right eye. Soon a steady stream of tears flowed down her cheeks. Her body began to heave with the sobs that burst forth.

The old one pulled herself onto all fours. Slowly she made her way through the muck, reaching the girl and pulling her close. A tune began to form from deep within the woman’s heart humming its way out between her weathered lips. They sat rocking back and forth.

Gradually the sobbing slowed and stopped; only the humming was heard. Untucking her head from the comforting shoulder, the child peeked out at the lined face so close to hers. A little hand tentatively touched the woman’s face. The old one smiled. The tiny hand traced the edges of the smile. The girl then snuggled back in to the comforting embrace.

Love radiated between them and out around them. Black clouds that had previously filled the sky floated away. A rich blue sky appeared, as the sun shone its warmth and light on all below. They were too wrapped up in each other to notice.

The manure pile began to transform. Green sprouts appeared; stems of flowers rose from the depths of the rich fertilizer. Buds formed and then opened. Fragrances ticked the noses of the young and the old. They reluctantly released their loving hold, smiling as they took in the scene around them – a colourful garden of delicious herbs and flowering plants.

They helped each other stand. Hand in hand, making their way to the edge of the garden, they stopped for a hug. The child raised her arms. The old woman slowly knelt. They embraced.

Something magical happened. The two became one. A healthy vibrant woman stood, smiled, and stretched out her arms for the pure joy of being. She kept her eyes alert for unicorn sightings, as she walked away from the garden into the surrounding field.

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From Whence the Shapeshifters Came

Once and always deep in the core of the planet, the Earth Spirit thought lovingly of all who lived within, on and above this sphere. Ah, those two legged humans- she loved them as much as any, but for a long time more and more of them had become disrespectful of all, including of themselves. They ignored the importance of the sharing of life and death among all the creatures. Some had begun to think of themselves as more than anyone else. These actions were hurting the planet.

There were 2-leggeds who had stopped giving thanks for their food, whether grown on the earth, or sacrificed lives of the four-leggeds and winged ones. These humans were ungrounded and disconnected from the earth, who was the support energy for all life. This had begun to create great levels of fear everywhere. It was becoming a disease that threatened the joy and sacredness of all who lived on the earth.

There was potential for the destruction of all. Yet this guardian of the world smiled. She knew that energy would always be. It merely changed form. Hopefully, enough of those living here would awaken and become more powerful than the fear that was so prevalent.

Was there any other role that she, as the soul of Earth, could take on, other than her present duties here? She connected with her Creator energy to find an answer. Soon she had a plan. The idea filled her with joy. If she had hands and feet she would have been clapping and dancing around. As it was, her light and fire gleamed more brightly and warmly than usual.

New loving thoughts swirled through her energy; came off her and sparked into a cave. A crystal cave was formed beneath a lake deep within a boreal forest.

This crystal cave was fired and formed of emeralds, rose quartz and purple amethyst. A nest took shape, formed of twigs of the finest birch, maple and pine trees and feathers of mourning doves, cardinals and Canada geese, all freely offered for this project. With the assistance of the energy of the three forms of crystal, fire from the earth’s core and breath from the Creator, an egg shell blended of violet, deep green and crimson swirls was formed.Within, two crows had been seeded into life and began to grow, over the next 36 days, breaking forth on the 37th. Magic was crackling within the cave.

Mmmm. Who would best raise these special winged-ones?

There was an Elder Healer who lived in the forest where the cave was. No one remembered her name. She was called Grandmother by all who knew her. She would be the one.
The day before the babies were due to crack through their shell, Earth Spirit visited the Grandmother in a dream to tell the healer about her new charges and where the nest was located. She was one of the few who still believed in the legends of crow people with feathers of every colour, from black to white and all in between. To be gifted with the care of these special beings, was a tremendous honour.

The following morning Grandmother prepared for the journey to the cave that she had been shown in her dream. Robin, Skunk and Bear watched through an open window, as their two-legged friend prepared for her trip. They questioned their friend about all her preparations. The elder woman told them that they could accompany her on the journey. She shared her news with them as they travelled in the direction of the lake. Soon the whole forest was alive with the news of the soon to be new additions to the Grandmother’s home.

The cave entrance was hidden among old forest growth and a couple of large boulders. Although the sun was high in the sky, little light made its way down through the heavy foliage. Skunk found the entrance first, jumping up and down with glee.

Grandmother carefully made her way to the entrance. She pushed away a few rocks and branches and had Bear dislodge the heaviest one; then she made her way, alone, inside. The tunnel was warm and damp as it gradually sloped gently under the lake. It straightened out and ended in a rounded and lighted room. The crystals of amethyst, emeralds and rose quartz, filled the space with a soft magical light. The elder ’s eyes pulled towards the beautiful nest of twigs and feathers that held the place of honour in the centre of the cavern. Remnants of the recently broken egg were scattered around the edges of the nest. Curled up in the middle, fast asleep were the most startling and delicate small creatures she had ever seen. One was as black as onyx and the other, white as the winter’s purest snow blanket.

As Grandmother bent to carefully pick up the nest the two bird-like beings stirred They slowly opened their eyes, gazing directly into hers. Pure love flowed between the crows and the woman. A bond immediately forged between the babies and their guardian.

The black crow spread its wings, like arms, to be picked up. As it did so, its feathers, iridescent black with potential of many colours shimmering through their midnight darkness, caught the light of the cave’s crystals. This was the male. She knew immediately that his destiny was that of Healer. As she held the bird, he shifted to a baby boy. His hair, the same colour as the feathers that had just vanished; his body a pale white. This one had much to endure, she knew, before he would reach his full potential as a Healer and Shapeshifter.

Gently placing the crow, back in the nest, Grandmother picked up his female twin. Her feathers were purest white, her eyes as dark as her brother’s, and her beak was pink.Her transformation into human revealed platinum hair and skin the colour of warmly browned earth. As with the other, the hair presented as sharp contrast to the human body colour. This one would have an easier time growing up. Her lessons would be difficult as she reached adulthood. She placed the white crow was placed back in the nest,

The old healer next asked to be shown how best help her new charges fulfil their missions on the planet. The message came through at once.

Grandmother sighed deeply as she was made aware of the male’s pain, that would be part of his growing years. She was distressed that she was not to be the one to raise him. She was to send the boy to her great-niece and husband, until the child’s nineteenth birthday. Then Grandmother would summon him back to be with her, to train him as a healer. As a child he would be raised only as a human, with no knowledge of his sister. A spell would prevent him from knowing about or being able to shapeshift while with his adopted family.

And the female…her life would be very different from the male’s. Hidden away with Grandmother, in a protected part of the forest, Little Guardian would be allowed to be the shape shifter she was. She would know all about her brother. This crow being would train early as a guardian of living creatures. She, with beautiful white light, would shine love from her deepest core. Little Guardian’s most difficult tests would begin when her brother returned to them.

The message completed, Grandmother gently carried the precious parcel out to the cave’s entrance. The walk back out tired her old bones and made her realize that in some ways she was grateful to only have the care of one young shape shifter.

Bear, Robin and Skunk were excited to see the crows. Bear was given the honour of carrying the nest very, very carefully on his back, with skunk holding it in place. Robin watched from over head, making sure Bear lumbered along slowly and that Skunk kept both front paws around the nest.

Earth Spirit smiled. She had made the right decision. With Grandmother’s’s assistance, the two shape shifters had a very good chance of fulfilling their missions.

A rainbow appeared over the cottage to greet the travellers as they returned. It warmed Grandmother’s heart to know she had the planet’s blessing.

Changing

I AM the butterfly emerging from the cocoon, although I don’t yet realize it. I sit on the edge of the casing as the sun gently dries my damp body. It feels so foreign to me; not like a caterpillar’s body at all.

I had had an urge to create a sanctuary. No matter how much I tried to resume my daily life, I kept returning to weaving a temporary home around me. Now it is destroyed. And I am the one who tore it apart. As much as I once experienced an urgent desire to encase myself in the cocoon, yesterday all I wanted to do was be free of it.. Somewhere in between creating this chamber and forcing my way out of it, I had slept and changed.

Now I sit on this branch clinging to the edge of my former shelter, feeling different inside and out. The sun is blinding after being in the dark for so long. Yet I love the feel of its heat on my sticky body. Why do I feel so sticky? Where are my legs? I am afraid to look down and perhaps see that they no longer exist. What is going on? Panic begins to well up inside me. I want to be who I was before I felt driven to change. Now I want to hide until I can figure out who I am. Yet as much as I wish that I could disappear from sight, I have this urge to spread my wings and fly. What wings? Where did that come from? Caterpillars don’t have wings. We have lots of tiny feet-things, or at least I did.

My sides feel weighted; as if something is stuck to them. While the sun continues to dry my body, my sides move slightly. I want to stretch out, but a caterpillar can only stretch lengthwise. I want to stretch sideways and this is what my body begins to do. What is going on? Part of my body is moving away from me. I don’t understand. I feel so much lighter.

There is that urge again, to fly. I am afraid. I’ll probably fall and hit the ground. That will be the end of this weird caterpillar.

A voice whispers inside me, “ You are a butterfly now. Truly you can fly.”

I have seen butterflies and heard stories about them. I use to think I belonged with them, until I realized I didn’t have wings. Then I felt incomplete.

“You have wings. You are complete,” teases the voice.

I flutter my sides and oh my goodness! There are honest-to-goodness wings attached to my sides. While I slept my dream came true. I transformed into a butterfly!

I rise from my place by the old cocoon and gently fly over the area where I use to crawl. I want to swoop down and tell the caterpillars below that they too will one day have wings and be able to fly. I realize, though, that I no longer speak their language. They would never comprehend that I had once been like them.

I am ready to fly away into new adventures, when I notice one little caterpillar gazing up at me, in the same way I use to look up and envy the butterflies that flew over me.

I fly down and hover close to her head and then whisper as I flutter there, “Dreams do come true. I was once the same as you.”

I look at her and smile before moving away. She nods and smiles back. A believer in magic- just like me.

Two Stories Shared

1. A Story Remembered

The well beckoned me. I stood over the opening, and starred into its watery depths.

I was thirty-five, pregnant, and exhausted- mentally, emotionally and physically. Morning sickness overtook my body as soon as I woke. It barely diminished throughout the day. I felt void of joy. Birds cheerfully called out to each other, but I was oblivious to their singing. My awareness was focused entirely on the bleakness of my life. I saw no colour; only darkness surrounded and filled me.

I had continually swallowed my despair and the feeling of being totally isolated in a family that demonstrated little emotion. Physical touch seemed to be reserved for the marriage bed only. My mother-in-law, who lived with us, was unapproachable. It was perhaps her way of coping in a family where women did their chores and were expected to be grateful that they had men to take care of them.

I no longer knew how to cope. This eleventh pregnancy became the final wave of crushing responsibility that drove me into a black hole from which I believed I could not escape.

My only relief from this emotional pain had come each morning, before daybreak, when I rose and hurried to the lake. I sat on the water’s edge, reminiscing about happier times. However, as soon as I rose to leave that sweet sanctuary, the shroud of desolation once more encompassed me.

This morning, instead of the lake, I quietly made my way to the well, hidden from the house by a small grove of trees. I unlaced and removed my shoes, placing them neatly by the stone casement. I knelt and peered into the well’s deep hole. I let my mind go blank, focusing on the shimmering image gazing back at me.

Her voice whispered, “Come join me. Here there is no pain.”

I did not hesitate. I toppled forward, seeking relief from my emotional bondage. I would finally be free.

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2. A Happier Ending

The above story is based on the remnants of information I know about my great-grandmother’s death. I know she drowned in a well and that she was pregnant. My maternal grandmother was one of her surviving children. I hear my ancestor’s voice in the lives of her daughters who died in similar ways. I hear it also in the lives of people who are afraid to speak up for themselves. I use to be one of those people.

I speak now for my journey and my lessons learned. I make no comparison to anyone else’s experiences. I gradually learned how to heal and move past the depressing thoughts and feeling of anxiety.

I once read that depression is connected to living in the fears of the past and anxiety is one’s fear of the future. Therefore, it made sense to me to begin finding ways to live in the present.

By practising present living, I am happy more and more of the time. When anxiety and/or depression sneak in, I am much less likely to hold on to those feelings. Overall, it is a joy and a privilege to live my life. I love who I am and I honour the path I trod to get here. I also honour my great-grandmother and all who have died because living was too overwhelming. I am proud to be one of her descendants.

It would have been a privilege to be the person with whom my great-grandmother could have shared her fears and darkness. I don’t know if that would have made a difference, but it might have helped. We all do better when we have at least one person who understands us and is willing to listen to our stories without judgement.