Quick Fix

I have five minutes to add something to my little web to make me feel better. Winter still sucks, but pretty pictures of spring flowers and other seasonal fripperies lift my spirits. I can't change the weather, but I can change my mind, and that's exactly what I'm doing right now. Just the thought that I'll have done something this morning that's more positive than bemoaning how long this cold, grey season can last makes me feel better already. Although I'll basically have said nothing more serious or illuminating than the last time I wrote in here. So what? It's my little web and I'll write drivel if I want to.
Oops! The clock is ticking and I'm not writing fast enough to say anything more before I must spend several minutes putting on layers of clothes to go to work. I'm breathing deeply now and slowing down. It's a major task ahead of me and I think I can handle it now. One more deep breath and a few more bits of nonsense and I'm off.
I'll be back soon. Can't promise anything too inspirational, though. But a pretty picture for sure.
Be good. Be happy. Blessed be.
- G.P.

Winter Sucks

I'm suffering from too much winter. After a morning of much weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth and beating of breast, I stopped to wonder what did I do last year at this time? How did I get through the long, cold, grey days? What did I write in my little web that wasn't complaint? (That's part of my mandate for my little web, although I admit I don't always pay attention to my own rules.) Anyway, I scrolled back and read what I had written last January. I wrote more frequently than I've done this year for this month, and I made valiant efforts to express only good and happy thoughts. I'm pleased to report that reading what I wrote actually made me feel better. My efforts to write pithy little bits of cheer in the midst of gloom seems to have worked for at least one reader - me. Who knew?
I'm really glad I have this little space to come to when I feel like this. I don't care that it may be the most unfollowed, unread little web on the Web. I like it because it's mine and it makes me feel good. As near as I can tell there's nothing wrong or politically incorrect or environmentally unfriendly about that. So I can write any damn bit of drivel on this thing and it doesn't hurt anyone, including me. It's too inconsequential to embarrass or humiliate me, and I'm pretty sure it won't come back to haunt me years from now, even though now that it's here it's basically "out there" forever. No, I can't think of any reason to regret writing this particular bit of fluff.
Well, mission accomplished. Twenty minutes ago I felt as grey as the weather. Now I feel better. I've been silly and I like it. And finding a pretty picture of daffodils helped, too. I picked them especially to cheer myself up, and anyone who passed by this way. So enjoy, and think spring.
- G.P.

For Daddy

My father died a month ago today - on December 9th, probably while I was writing the previous entry. It was sudden and unexpected. He was very old, but not depressed, despite the ailments of old age. I didn't have a chance to say good-bye to him, and that's just as well, because he hadn't been bedridden or incapacitated with terminal illness, which is usually the sad situation in which formal farewells are made to loved ones who die. In fact, I had spoken to Dad only days before and had arranged to visit him the following week.

Dad had a long, good life - full of blessings, as well as his share of loss. But this isn't a eulogy. This blurb is as much about me as him.

My relationship with Dad had the typical ups and downs that two very different people in the same family will have. Nothing unusual about that. Thankfully, the last couple of years were "up." We had forgiven each other whatever petty little concerns or differences were between us, and I enjoyed spending time with him in the end. Nevertheless, I was surprised at the depth of my sense of loss when Dad died, and even more surprised by what I gained.

I've spent the last month loving my father more deliberately, more consciously, than I ever did when he was alive, and I'm deeply grateful. I've had tearful little spells of sadness, of course, but they're passing. Now I enjoy sweet, loving moments remembering Dad. I don't spend any time wishing that I could have felt this way when he was still around. He's gone and there's no point in regretting what's over and can't be changed. Besides, I like feeling this happy-kind-of-sad love I've discovered for my father now that he's passed. I feel wistful and soft, and I like that.
I suppose all this sounds as if Dad had to die for me to feel this way. Maybe he did, but I don't think that's such a bad thing. His passing was sad, but not tragic, and he left me with a tenderness in my soul I never knew was there. I don't feel as if I've lost the love of my father now that he`s gone. I've finally started to appreciate it, and I thank him for it daily.
I guess it's true what they say, that death is not the end of love. So thanks, Daddy. Now that you're gone, I miss you, but loving you is oh so sweet.
Blessed be.
- G.P.

Not the Bluebird of Happiness

And the karma just keeps cabbage-rolling along. (ref. October 24) I've been very busy lately, which is why I haven't written a blurb for quite some time now. However, I haven't been busy enough to stay out of trouble. Mind you, it hasn't been all bad. I took an actor's scene study class and played a woman I would consider a real loser had I met her in real life. It was fun. Unfortunately, for the five weeks I was getting to know my character, she started to bleed into my real life and I found myself feeling bitter over things long passed. That's a normal part of the actor's craft - drawing on personal experience to flesh out a character. It's also the sort of stuff that makes art and most forms of self-expression therapeutic. That's good, too, of course - Aristotilean catharsis and all that - the purging of negative emotions, etc. Most of the time I like that. After all, I'm an actress. I like drama, preferably on stage. But when I'm not working on a gig, which is almost all the time, I compensate by creating heavy scenes in my personal life. And that really sucks.
I'm a real drama queen. The heavier the scene, the more weighty the crown I bear. That's why I wish I were a working actress for at least some of the time, rather than almost never. Maybe that way I could put all that drama to good use. Instead, the bitter, angry character I played around with for a few weeks infected me. I was grinding my teeth in my sleep much more than usual - thank goddess I wear a mouth guard at night or I wouldn't have any enamel left - and walked around hunching my shoulders, clenching my fists and craving a lot of stuff that is bad for my health. The worst part was that I stopped thinking independently for a while. I stopped paying attention. Like, you know, it was all about how I was feeling. I kept making one thoughtless mistake after another. I should have been taking those risks in a safe environment like scene class, not delicate territory like my relationships. My impulsive words and actions got me into trouble with one friend and complicated a usually easy-going relationship with another. Aargh! I was obviously not paying attention to the advice and warning I got from my totem for the fall season - the Vulture. (see October 24 entry) As much as I respect those carrion- eating birds for their necessary place in the fine balance of nature, I want my totem to fly away now. So I've resolved to stop making road-kill out of my personal life.
These thoughts were rolling around in my head this morning as I went for a brisk, chilly walk in my neighbourhood. Nothing like a blast of Arctic air to wipe out the smell of decay. While walking and brooding I had decided to send my Vulture flying south. I was ready to start afresh. I figured with all the karma that's been biting me in the butt lately, surely my debt had been paid. No sooner had I determined I was debt-free when I felt a plop on my pate. It was bird shit. Thank goddess I was wearing a hat.
Prone as I am to signs and omens, I've decided to interpret that messy little incident as good luck. At least that's what my Mum used to tell me. Yeah. I'm going to stick with that. And another good thing - I'm glad that bird wasn't a vulture.
- G.P.

Not the Chicken of Depression

Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do, are in perfect harmony.
- Mahatma Gandhi

I quoted one of my heroes and included a beautiful picture of a bluebird so that my most recent blurb is full of happy thoughts and things. (Okay - so it`s only one thought and one thing - but they`re good ones.) The yarn I wove before this one was a little too depressing to let it sit there as my most recent entry. So that`s why I`m including this useless little bit of fluff.
Enjoy.
- G.P.

Cabbage Roll Karma

Karma is so real it can be scary. I'm still recovering from a knock-out punch it gave me a couple of weeks ago and now I am the proverbial "sadder but wiser" woman.

A couple of days before I visited my family for Thanksgiving in the expansive, beautiful part of the world in which they live, I had a doctor's appointment - with my shrink, to be exact. I'd made the appointment a couple of weeks earlier, but on the very afternoon I was supposed to see her, I was having a good day and just didn't feel like going. I cancelled my appointment just hours before I was supposed to go. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't really a big deal, but I was momentarily irresponsible and harboured a little guilt over it. My shrink is a busy lady and deserves more respect than that. But I very quickly put aside any guilt and managed to enjoy myself for the rest of the day anyway. Okay. So far, so good. But not for long.

The very next day I was preparing to go up north to visit my family and buying this and that for the weekend ahead. I needed a couple of pumpkin pies because I was also invited to a friend's place after Thanksgiving with my family. I rushed about, distracted and overwhelmed with all the last minute arrangements. I purchased the pies at a local bakery and noticed that they also had home-made cabbage rolls for sale. This was a good thing, because a number of weeks earlier I had promised my beloved Gita Tant (one of the family members I was about to visit) that I'd get her some cabbage rolls. A while ago she'd visited me in the city where I live and raved about how wonderful they were. Gita Tant had been feeling quite ill and eating the cabbage rolls had lifted her spirits, so I'd promised her I'd bring some of them up to her next time I visited. So ... there I am in the bakery, rushing around doing last minute bits of business and considering the cabbage rolls. I was so bogged down with all my errands that I just didn't feel like adding one more thing to the list. I figured since Gita Tant and I hadn't spoken for a month she probably wouldn't remember the cabbage rolls anyway, so I thought I'd just skip them. Big mistake.

Thanksgiving dinner at my sister's went well. Everything was warm and fuzzy, the food was delicious and plentiful, and Gita Tant was there, as I knew she would be. After dinner, as family and friends sat around talking and digesting dinner, Gita Tant asked me about the cabbage rolls. Sheesh. I felt like a heel. And then I compounded my sin even more with a lie, because I told her it had just completely slipped my mind. To make matters worse, she'd really been looking forward to those cabbage rolls. Although she's a marvellous cook, cabbage rolls are so labour intensive that her indisposition made it difficult for her to prepare them. So she dreamt of the cabbage rolls I'd promised to bring. Aargh!

The next day was warm and sunny. The rolling hills were ablaze with the fiery colours of fall. I went for a walk on a country road and watched a dozen or so turkey vultures spiralling around on thermal updrafts, searching for carrion as they made their way southward to their winter home. The birds were magnificent. One of them left the others and seemed to be following me as I walked down the road. Watching these wonderful creatures would have been exciting at any time, but it's especially significant these days because the vulture is my totem for this autumn. On the full moon of the autumn equinox I had drawn the vulture from my totem/tarot deck. I do that particular little bit of divination every solstice and equinox to determine what animal will have the most to teach me in the following three months. Although vultures are ugly birds, I still admire their grace and beauty as they soar through the air, and appreciate the vital role they play in maintaining the fragile balance of nature. They dispose of carrion. They gobble up death so that they may live. The vulture is the what does not destroy me makes me stronger totem.

My purpose for using the tarot designed by Ted Andrews was to divine my seasonal totem only. However, it just so happens that Mr. Andrews designated the vulture to the tarot card called The Tower, which is my least favourite card of the entire deck. It is about revelation that strikes like lightning and sends a person tumbling and crumbling to rubble before she emerges smarter than she was before. Despite the dreadful significance of the tarot meaning, I wasn't concerned. I was looking for my totem, and chose to ignore the corresponding meaning in the tarot. I'd been on the lookout for vultures for weeks since the equinox, and lo and behold they appeared to me on Thanksgiving. I was thrilled, and felt certain that something momentous was afoot. Boy oh boy I was sure right about that.

Only a couple of hours later I was back at my sister's and unintentionally upset my brother-in-law. It was a minor, insignificant incident, but his irritation was palpable. I was chastened and upset for the rest of my stay. A perfectly good weekend was ruined.

That was only the beginning of karma in action. By the end of the week I was witness to and unwilling participant in several blow-ups and blow-outs that seemed to erupt out of nowhere and land squarely on me. Because of the incident at my sister's, I'd made a point of being quiet and stayed out of other people's way all week, but karma found me anyway and used a dump-truck to make its unwelcome deliveries. It was a horrible, horrible time. The peaceful life I am always seeking was nowhere to be found.

It's now a couple of weeks later and I've one less friend in my life. (That's my choice, and not an easy one.) I've paid dearly for my selfish, thoughtless actions in the days before all this karmic justice began. Although my behaviour following my mistakes was humble and unobtrusive, it didn't matter. The damage was done, and the Universe let me know it.

I'm not entirely sorry it happened now. I've learned a profound lesson, and believe that it's changed me forever. Now that the whole business is safely in the past, I'm actually glad it happened. I clearly needed to be reminded about something I've long believed - and if you've been reading my blurbs for a while, you know what it is - that what goes around, comes around.

So there it is - a happy ending to a sad tale. It's a happy ending because it's reaffirmed what I believe. It proves my faith is true, and that's not bad at all.

- G. P.

Groovy Love

The sixties (2oth century) was a time when lots of young people wore sandals, flowers in their hair and said "peace" and "love" a lot. I ought to know. I was there. I remember some of the more cynical types would decry the widespread use of the word love. It undermines the meaning of the word, they said. It means nothing when it's used so often. You can't love everybody all the time. I heard those sentiments expressed almost as much as I heard "groovy, man." At the time, I was young and stupid, and was influenced by people whom I didn't think were as young as stupid as I, so I believed them when they opined about the overuse of the word Love. Well, I'm sure not young anymore, and I'm not as stupid, either, and
couldn't disagree with those nay-sayers more. So when I hear people make the same complaint now, I have something to say about it.
Expressing love to each other happens a lot more than it did in those days. It must have been some sort of generational thing, but parents didn't verbally express love to their children as much as they do now. So am I supposed to believe that the words of love spoken these days are meaningless because people say them more than they did in previous generations? I don't think so.
What's more, even in the days when it was groovy to say "I love ya, man" (even if you were a woman), the speakers weren't as disingenuous as all the criticism would suggest. There was a cultural revolution going on, and a lot of pot-smoking, draft dodging, free-loving, flower-powered citizens were also actively involved in creating genuine change for the better. It was all about making love and not war.
There are many kinds and degrees of love. If I smile at a stranger in the street - and I do, frequently - I'm spreading a little love. When I say "I love you" to my precious Lulu (the best, most beautiful kitty in the whole wide Universe and beyond) it's not the same as saying it to a human friend or member of the family. But it's still love. Even a sincere, well-timed "thank you" is love. It's love because it's courteous, grateful, thoughtful and compassionate.
There have been occasions when I've shed tears for perfect strangers I've passed in the street. These strangers are obviously sad, lost or infirm in some way, and evoke feelings of compassion in me. That's love. And for sure it's not the same as the love I feel for "loved ones," but it's love nonetheless. Arguing that saying "I love you" frequently and to a lot of people renders it meaningless is like saying that love can be quantified and categorized. Bullshit.
Yesterday I watched a couple of chubby, little sparrows feeding outside the restaurant where I was eating. They were so beautiful and endearing that I felt a surge of - dare I say it? - Love. Yes, it's true. I felt love for a couple of little brown jobs pecking away on the restaurant patio. My eyes moistened, my heart softened, a little smile crossed my face, and a little"ah" escaped my lips as I watched their silly antics. Okay, it's not deep, all-consuming, possessive, I'll-die-if-you-die kind of love, but it's love in my books. When I think of all the times in my life I thought I really loved someone, and was miserable about it, I can honestly say I prefer the love I felt yesterday for my avian friends. In fact, I think it's a much truer form of love, because what I felt was healthy, honest, uncomplicated and restorative.
I'm a spinster. I don't have children. These are choices I've made, and I don't regret them. But that doesn't mean I don't feel or need love. It also means I may not have loved as deeply had I been a mother or a life partner, but I don't regret that either. Whatever love I've felt has been spread around pretty evenly over my life - at least the good, healthy kind of love. I don't have a "best" friend, but I do have friends - quite a few, in fact - and I love them according to whatever role or place they have in my life at any one time. Of those that are nearest and dearest to me, I'm reluctant to say I love one more than the other. Love is not heirarchy or favouritism. Love should break those barriers down, not build them. Love is not finite. A mother will always find more love for her newborn baby, even if she already has children. In the limitless storehouse of love that abides in a mother's soul, there'll always be enough love to go around, no matter how many children she may have. (I realize I'm opening a can of worms here, but I'm not talking about poverty, homelessness, or overpopulation.)
All kinds of love matter. No one kind of love is better than another. It's quite simple, really. Love - the kind of love that is true and inclusive, is enough.
- G. P.