When you are looking here... it's happening there...

Okay, I admit.

It is a super lame title for a chapter. Let's see you come up with something more creative than that after a full day of studying ob-gyn and community health. Ugh.

So... this summarizes my life to a tee...

I am house-sitting a dog for friends of mine and I return home from a long day at school to the foul smell of dried dog-piss. Worst. Smell. Ever! Some people will say that nothing is worse than the smell of brussel sprouts, but they lie. Tell them to look after a poorly trained puppy and then they will understand that nothing really beats that smell on the foul-scale.

Anyway... house-sitting a dog. That was the point of the story... not the smell thing.

So I take the dog's mat outside into the backyard when I let the dog out. Standing the mat against the fire pit in their backyard, I get the hose and spray the living snots out of that stupid mat in hopes that the smell would leave. After spraying it for an extended (!!) amount of time, I leave it propped by the fire pit and run back into the house to scrub the kennel down. This smell has GOT to go! However, I was so focused on scrubbing the smell out, I forgot to watch the mat and dog in the backyard. Needless to say, this severely untrained puppy took the wet mat and dug a hole in the backyard and proceeded to BURY THE MAT! So, now I had to re-wash the mat, wash the dog, ANNNNND fill a giant hole.

The same is true internally. I was so focused on the fact that these two years would be a time of spiritual seeking and reconciling and while I was giving that my full attention, I failed to see how other aspects of my life were starting to heal up.

Two years into my first undergraduate degree, my naive and positive outlook on life was violently shattered. Fast forward through some hospitalizations, panic attacks, and months of counselling and I would have sworn that I was "good to go!"

However, then as a requirement for this undergraduate program, I found out that I was required to do an ob-gyn, maternity, post partum rotation. I did everything I could (EEEEEVERYTHING) I could to get out of having to do this rotation. I contacted the course lead and begged to do my entire rotation in post partum, working with newborn babies... the answer was a bold-type NO. I asked my post partum tutor if I could do the duration of my assignment with infants rather than labouring moms and again, the answer was... NO. Though, the tutor actually laughed a little before she said no. I visited my wonderful family doctor and requested a doctor's note to excuse me from this rotation for "religious reasons". Her initial reaction was just laughter. I guess I have a way of sounding funny when I'm really worked up?

My family doctor actually did come 'round once she knew my reasons for wanting to avoid the placement, truly giving me the choice of whether or not to go through with the rotation. In her best wisdom, she helped me figure out what the pros/cons were to both doing or neglecting the placement and then willingly wrote a doctors note to excuse me from having to witness any births and sent me on my way with Ativan.

To my surprise, once I finished up the post partum portion of the placement and transferred over to the screaming moms in agony, the labour-tutor was incredibly understanding as well. Our discussion went something like,

"I really, really, reeeeeally don't want to be here"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. What can I do to make your time here manageable?"

"Let me go to the pre-term unit and play with pre-term babies all day?"

"Not until you see a birth. It is actually a beautiful thing. Don't you want to have kids one day?"

"Heeeeeeeeeeeello adoption!"

She thought that I was "genuinely humourous" and literally walked me through the process as best she could. Together, we chose a woman who was labouring with her fourth child. When it came time for this patient to push, she pushed for a grand total of 3 minutes and 21 seconds. At which point, I happily excused myself and went to spend the last portion of my placement in the nursery.

But the weirdest thing came of my experience at the hospital. Aside from deciding with certainty that I would NEVER have kids of my own, I began to feel as though I could conquer the world. Really, as lame as it sounds, I had just overcome that which previously, scared me to the point of not sleeping, not keeping food in, and not really breathing. I most certainly did not execute myself in perfect form or with the utmost grace, but I did it! It was not tear-less, anxiety-less, or sarcasm-less, but it also was not me-less.

From there, I had the courage to somehow follow through with one of my assignments to follow a midwife around for a clinical day. I swear it is only by the utter grace of God that I, one student among 70-0dd students, am selected for a midwifery experience rather than any of the other long list of possible experiences. There, I spent 11 hours learning that the hospital way is not the only way and that there are humane experiences of pregnancy. 11 hours in which I was not forcing healing to happen, and yet... it was. Just learning the fact that contrary to the hospital pathway, particular patient histories do not always necessitate cesarean sections and that the pregnant couple have full power of decision making, not un-involved physicians who get paid more for 'complicated delivery procedures' was enough to perpetuate healing.

Aaaaaand, as if that wasn't enough of a step forward, yesterday found myself sitting at the University Health Services awaiting an 'initial intake' with a psychologist. Unlike this time last year, I was actually able to articulate three 'priority needs' for the 12-sessions I am entitled to as a student. Granted, my second and third priority and reason for seeking psychological services both had "related to number one" written beside it, this is both huge and awesome!

Finally, as a true testament to the grand improvements that seem to be happening in life, I was able to attend not one, but two massage therapy appointments in the past three weeks. While these appointments would be heavenly relaxation to most, being able to trust someone enough to be able to lay on my stomach, having severely limited vision because of having to put one's face in that stupid face-toilet-bowl-shaped-thing, while the almost-complete-stranger makes physical contact with the clothes-limited me... is... exciting beyond words!

For those who know me even slightly, they know that this last step is truly reflective of the inner healing that has already started. Seeds that were planted in this heart of dirt over these past two years are now sprouting through the black soil in search of the sunlight warmth. I only have a mere 6 months left in the program, but that is more than enough time in my humble opinion, to continue on this journey. And, as I said to someone today, even if I never actually nurse a day in life (I *will* nurse, but if I never got the chance to), I now understand why I embarked upon this particular journey almost two years ago.

So, while I was busy trying to scrub the smell out of this spiritual kennel of mine, the healing was continuing to grow in my flower pot. The seeds that were planted over the years by nursing instructors who claimed that my brick walls were too high and suggested some level of psychotherapy... those incredibly loving people who let me hang out and play music with them every now and again without any church requirements, constantly reminding me of the fact that I am loved for who I am and where I am on this journey...those people who remind me all the time that ultimately - I just need to be me. Me, the genuinely humourous child who needs the reminder to water the plant every now and again.

Crazy how that works, isn't it? I should know by now that things never really happen how we plan them out to, but rather - they happen when we least expect them, don't feel ready or worthy of them, and when we have the inner strength to laugh at the pure irony and coincidence of the timing of them.

A Time for Change

For years... literally, more years than I can remember, I have had this set of flannel sheets. They started off being a royal blue with little yellow stars and cute little sheep as the print; however, after all this time, the blue is now a blue-grey hue, the stars are essentially white (occasionally a yellow one pops up) and the sheep are now replaced with holes of worn fabric.

I know that I need to change the sheets and put my summer ones on, which is normally a happy thing. But today... today there is the realization that when I take the sheep off the bed this season, that will mark the end of their reign as my sole set of comfy flannel. It is like the end of an era.

"...now I lay my sheep to sleep, I pray the Lord their soul to keep..." Well, not quite, but... kinda.

I have fought this life transition so hard and so stubbornly, it is starting to reach the point where my sheets almost have their own aromatic odor. Let me state that I have washed them through the winter, but up until now, I just have not had the inner strength I need in order to change them... one. more. time.

But something changed inside of me this week and I cannot quite put my finger on what that is. I can identify the turning point as being a chat with a friend on our break at an exam... but I cannot put my finger on that "one" thing that changed in order to make this level of inner peace possible.

It was kind of cool actually - it was like a turning point in our friendship. There she was, all wise and crap, being all logical and continually saying, "... but I don't understand your resistance". And for those of you who know this stray little sheep well, know that this would normally make me turtle. My "usual" response to a phrase like this would be, "yea, you're right. Should just get 'er done" and then make a mental note not to share my inner turmoil with that particular friend in the future. But this time... this time, something was different. Maybe it was her patience in waiting out the awkward silence as I tried to find the words to articulate my puking-in-my-mouth fear of the change. And lo and behold, I did!

So together, we sat for no longer than 30 minutes, but we managed to come up with a workable solution: going to talk with someone who would know more of how to help me face this transition... this upcoming hill. And no joke, I slept better that night than I have in weeks.

This week, I found myself sitting in the office of a most superb health professional - you know, that kind that (unlike the majority of their colleagues) goes above and beyond the call of duty. And by the shear grace and "rah-rah-rah" strength of distant friends, I was able to share with her why I could not face the sheet-change era of my journey.

SHE THANKED ME! I am still in shock. This health professional actually thanked me for sharing this piece of my journey with her... she said that she was humbled... and thanked me some more. We chatted briefly about what my two options were - she wrote a note essentially giving me and the higher ups permission to delay the sheet change and then she gave me a list of options that were available for support should I feel called to take the plunge and change the sheets.

It blows my mind... a month ago, I would still be fighting the higher ups, the health professional and the friends... I would fight until I was blue in the face that I needed these sheets to cling to every night for safety... for security... for peace of mind... and for the ability to remember to BREATHE. But this morning, I find myself thinking about actually changing the sheets.

The weather outside is gorgeous - so I could wash my summer sheets and hang them outside for "to die for" summer smell and I could cut these sheep up so that I had a new saxophone-polishing rag, piano dusting rag, and maybe even a square or two for the quilt I am working on (there are some decent patches left on these sheets).

I don't feel like I have the strength or courage to conquer the world yet... but I feel... okay. at peace. rested. I have finally been given the keys that I need to unlock doors which were previously bolted, boarded, and blockaded.

Then again, maybe I am just finally maturing.

Not for the weak of stomach

Sorry, I apologize in advance for the "graphic" nature of the picture, but this dear toe is the subject of reflection this afternoon.

A few days ago, post the funeral of a young family friend, and before the craziness of this week set in, I went for a hike. Not an incredibly long journey, but long enough that I learned a valuable life lesson... hence, the reflective blog post.

Here is the short story of my toe, or "relatively short story" of my toe. When I was in grade 10, back in 2000, I was going to change from gym class, and had a heavy fire door opened on my toe. I was going into the gym and previous class was leaving. While wearing runners, my toe managed to get wedged between the bottom edge of the door and the floor, resulting in bleeding and a minor annoyance of pain. A few weeks later, before the nail had a chance to fall off, we were playing floor hockey in a friends basement and I managed to "accidently kick" (paradox, I think not!) the piece of 2x4 that was the beginning of them framing their basement. The nail fell off rather painlessly, but has been a pain in the ass ever since. I have had two complete nail ressections (removal of the entire visible nail), endless doctors appointments and open toed shoes, as well as one surgery to go in and remove the nail while also destroying the nail matrix.

Unfortunately, my toenail seems to be a close relative to the raspberry stalk because nothing will kill the damn thing. Since the surgery, the nail has grown back in on a sharp angle (like is seen above) and would catch on anything and everything, pulling it back a little more each time. Things like sheets, blankets, socks, edges of steps, the sidewalk, you name it.

So, really wanting to get out and go hiking this past week, I wrapped the toe in prowrap, and secured that on with a surrounding bandage of hockey tape. That sucker wasn't going to catch on anything as I hiked my way through the bush. About half way through the afternoon though, there was a twinge of pain coming from my foot. Sitting down in a resting grove, I carefully took my boot off, then my sock, and then the first layer of bandage before I noticed some blood.

Carefully cutting off the prowrap and tape together, I could assess the damage more easily. To my surprise, the jagged edge of a nail was gone and I only had some blood to deal with.

It's amazing what our feet can tell us. Before that afternoon, I never would have guessed that my nail had a purpose in my life, but in fact, it's purpose is pretty incredible. You see, when the little piece of nail was there, it was a reminder to slow down and watch where I walked, avoiding anything that might snag and hurt. But without the nail, I am still the same person. There was weeping blood to dry off and clean up, but eventually - the toe stopped bleeding and began to heal over. The pain subsided and I was able to hike back down, the same way I came up.

Sometimes, life is just like a toe. There are days where it might seem incredibly pointless to engage, as though it is something without a deeper meaning. However, if we are attentive enough to our own "selves", we know to look out for snagging material that will cause pain, further injury or headache. And sometimes, unfortunately, we will lose things in life before we want to. (I much rather would have preferred the nail to stay on until the doctor's appointment in September for him to see and evaluate!) But after some weeping and mouring, we will be okay, successful, optimistic in a brighter tomorrow. The pain will fade, the mess will be cleaned up, and the journey will be continued as though our crisis was nothing more than a resting place along the walk.

It seems so mundane and simple and I wish that I would have understood it before now, but I've always been a tangible learner and need to experience things to learn from them. I will miss Reed, the same way I will miss and wish my toenail was still here. Toes are certainly more beautiful when 10 are painted, not just nine; life more beautiful and spectacular with dear friends and near family. There will always be a gap in the nailpolish, but that's okay. My toe, just like my life over the past little while, was a learning experience I wish to never forget and may the (temporarily) nail-less toe be a reminder of the incredible grace and peace I experienced on that hillside that afternoon. And may this ugly looking toe be a gentle whisper reminder of the slow turning point to come back home, out of the bush - and into light of life. TBTG!

Sacramental Boots

When I was studying for my Confirmation, I was taught that a sacrament was a gift bestowed by an incredibly loving Father; when I was completing credits for my theology minor, I was taught that a sacrament was an outside sign of an inward grace.  Now, as a pilgrim on this perilous journey, I know that the true definition, actually lies somewhere in the middle.  

I've got a pair of boots I have had since I was in early junior high that look like Van Gogh's "Peasant Boots"; the only difference is that there is nothing artistic about my boots.  

These are the boots that ensured warmth through all the cold winters; protecting me from the most harsh of conditions.  They have walked through knee-deep snow without wincing, braved wind and sleet without cracking.  If only you could understand how protective these boots are of what really matters: my precious feet.  

These are the boots that manured out the chicken coup every Saturday morning at 9:00am; stomping on mice, shoveling out dirty straw and laying a fresh coat, climbing up and down the dangerously steep barn stairs without flinching, unwavering in faith, and firm in trust that they would find the next step, without falling.  They endured stench, sticky crap, and slippery steps because they seemed to know what had to get done.  

These are the boots that carried pails of grain into the steer pen; first, one 5-gallon pail at a time and over the years, took on the weight of 4 at once.  They stood firm, not caving under the increased pressure of the load at hand; dodged frozen mud holes and sprained ankles, twice a day, seven days a week, 365 days of the year.  They knew how to avoid danger and stand strong for even if uncomfortable and heavy, it would be over before you could say, "my feet hurt".  

These are the boots that have run great distances to avoid danger or to play in the fields.  They have hopped rows of cut grain, in a hurry to ride with Dad or a hurry to get home in time for supper.  They sat patiently through the games of "shoemaker" as we carved our "shoes" out of a mud-covered boot with twigs in the springtime.  They have puddle jumped, walked thousands of miles (and back), and been forgotten in the tall grass in the summer time when taken off to "rest awhile".  

The laces have been changed more times than I can count.  It would be ridiculous to think that thin pieces of string could endure all these different conditions.  The boots have been polished and sprayed, to protect and honour.  But these are the only repairs they've ever had.  

Talk about a sacrament.  These boots represent the incredible transformations of grace that have happened within over the last ten years... and they still fit.  But this afternoon, when I pulled them out of the closet to make one more important journey, there was a hole.  A small, tiny hole in the soul.  

I know that I cannot fix this hole on my own; it will require the work of a master shoemaker, for these boots are one of a kind, none like them in the world.  And so, very carefully, I remove them from my feet, dry them off, and place them on the shoemaker's porch.  The lights are on, and I feel bad leaving them out in the cold, but I dare not disturb the shoemaker.  

In leaving quietly, I turn back, and see them sitting there; so full of life and almost pleading to be fixed.  I know the front porch is not used everyday, but I trust that as soon as that door does open, this shoemaker will see my boots.  I trust that the shoemaker will know that they are mine and will treat them with TLC, not throwing them out, but carefully turning them over.  

There it is, right there... a tiny hole in the soul, pleading to be mended.  

Signed in love, from Whispers of the Grass

Author's note: a thank you goes out to my musical friend HGB for his help with this. I know that I will never be able to sing this to all those that deserve to hear it, but as I continue to crouch in the tall grass of the "back 40", may these words of my heart join the whispers of wind blowing through this void night and find the ears of those I owe it to the most. For until then, no words that my lips will speak will carry any meaning.

I fall a thousand times on my way away from you

I think I'm scared

The bruises on my knees are from a time of long ago of how

It used to be.

I think I'm lost

I think I don't know the way

If I used to be amazing, I'm sorry to deceive

If I used to by deceving, I'm sorry for the pain

If I've cost you this time,

Please forgive me.

I think I'm lost

I think I am afraid

I sacrifice what I have lost for what is soon to come

Or so it seems

I trade my soul so I can find a safe place to be

My hideaway

I think I'm lost

I think I don't know the way

If I used to amazing, I'm sorry to deceive

If I used to be deceving, I'm sorry for the pain

If I've cost you this time, please forgive me

I think I'm lost

I think I am afraid.

Thank You!

I know that you already know who you are, and I also know that the chances of you reading this are slim to none... but I also know that quite frequently, you pop into my head. Yup, it's true. I have yet to figure out how you do it and whether it is something that you do intentionally or whether you are brought into my head by someone or something else, but I'm learning to like it.

I know that you didn't read the last blog in which I shared how your words brought about a new set of reactional emotions within me, so I'm left wondering how you knew that an apology and explanation would somehow, oddly enough, make everything okay again.

But, you did.

And for that, on this deepfreeze type morning in which the alarm went off too early and the bus was too full to sit, I find myself giving thanks.

Oh, and for the record, anonymous singing sensation... even though you often leave me puzzled, you remain welcome in my head - any time, any day, with any reason.

...But please don't mind the mess. I need to clean, but until I find the proper tools to do so, I hope you will find yourself at home, and refrain from stepping on cute and cuddly Charlie!