Even without Toffee here to wake me early in the morning, I find that I am usually wide awake by 5. This morning I slept in an extra hour, possible because of a late night phone call with one daughter who just experienced a very stressful week and needed to decompress.
I was reading through some of the writing prompts from The Isolation Journals and two stood out to me — “The Wilderness Inside Us” and “A Day in the Life of my Dreams”. Both topics seem quite connected in my life. My dream day would be spent mostly in the wilderness. My dream home ever since I was a young child was a cabin in the woods. I dreamed of living far from others, in a small log cabin surrounded by disorganized yet beautiful gardens full of edible plants. There would be a creek with fresh water, and fish flowing nearby. And of course chickens with plenty of eggs to eat.
It is late summer now, heading into fall. The sun rose just a little bit later this morning, and the air is perfectly cool and crisp. Sitting outside with my first cup of hot, black coffee, listening to the birds chirping, my hens clucking and murmuring, I can plan my day.
There isn’t much to do yet this morning. As I look over at the herbs in my garden, I decide that an omelet is a good choice for breakfast. Since all my years in Thailand, and getting used to a very nutritious breakfast of rice, vegetables and eggs every morning, I have never followed the diet of coffee and toast, or muffins or doughnuts. For me it is often the best meal of the day.
The dedicated, hard work of my younger days has paid off for me. My children are all settled on their own paths to their visions of a successful and happy life. They don’t need me close by, although they are always excited to see me. I think about the story I heard yesterday of someone whose in-laws lived next door, and how stifling and overwhelming that is when trying to raise children. I don’t want to do that to my family. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Nobody needs mom or grandma watching every move they make!
As a child I did not expect to have a family. I was told at a fairly young age that motherhood was not my gift, and I believed it. In fact, I didn’t even expect to get married. That changed! My four children survived being raised by someone not suited to be a mother. We were more like a team—all working together for survival in this world of uncertainty. We survived many things; those might be shared in future posts, but I’m not ready yet.
Back to my dream day. Actually, the details are difficult for me. I can recall details, but imagining them aren’t something I can do easily. So I’ll just reflect on what my idea of a dream day of my future might keep me satisfied.
The pandemic has been tough, even for me. I like to think I am stable, well-adjusted and adaptable. Over the past year and a half I have learned many things, and changed my teaching methods and expectations; I have moved from focusing on collaborative work to teaching. But, there have been some very low days for me. Losing Toffee was very tough. I hated the loneliness, yet didn’t want to be near anyone. I just wanted solitude. Of course total solitude is not good, although it seemed to be what I needed. Friends would check in on me, sending occasional emails or text messages. My kids and father called often to make sure I was okay. Mostly I needed to cry it out, and take care of grieving step by step…my own steps. Not some 7-stages of grief plan that the experts decide is correct.
I have been through grief before. I knew what might help.
Back to the pandemic and solitude. The worst part for me was when the restrictions are gradually lifted and I am expected to return to life as normal. People gather now without wearing masks, and without maintaining physical distance. I was criticized at a certain church for playing and singing with my mask on. Even though I am fully vaccinated, there is still a risk. It might be a very small risk, but it was also small for many who have had break-through cases. And I know that there are many in that church who have chosen to not be vaccinated. Fortunately they could not resolve some of the technical issues of a hybrid service, so they are back online for another two months. And now I am safely isolated, playing from my piano at home, and connected virtually.
I want to retire. I am ready now to retire, but not sure how to go about it. Maybe one more year of teaching and occasional performances, and then I’ll decide on a new adventure. Gradual retirement will not work for me — too many exciting opportunities are available, and I can’t see to let them go by without accepting the challenge. I have tried to semi-retire, but within a few months my schedule was full again.
My neighbours are away again on vacation and asked me to check on their hens and collect the eggs each day. They asked me shortly they left town, about 1 hour after I went to the grocery for two dozen eggs.
This morning when I went to find the five eggs, I was disappointed that there were only four. There are five young, healthy hens and each hen lays one egg every morning. I looked more carefully and one hen obviously could not wait her turn, and laid her egg out in the large part of the pen…the part I can’t access without getting pecked to death. So there the lone egg sits.
The meanest hen; the lone mislaid egg.
To my surprise, my initial reaction was disappointment that I would only get 4 instead of 5 eggs this morning. I have a fridge full of eggs; in fact there are now more eggs in my fridge than all other food combined. Then I started to look for ways to break in, but decided I couldn’t fit in through the small door which leads into the egg-laying compartment. My sister had suggested the last time this happened that I find a way to break the egg up so the hens don’t get used to eating their eggs. I looked around for a long enough stick, but gave up.
Instead I just had a good long chat with the hens. They are fun to talk to — they seem always to respond with gentle murmuring, encouraging me to stay longer. They gather as close as they can, and even fight to keep the weaker one out of the way. Now they know secrets that I have never told another person. I’m thankful for my neighbour’s hens; I get lots of benefit, and none of the responsibility.
(left) Toffee, relaxing while watching me from his chair. (right) Toffee’s last few minutes.
I started this particular post several weeks again, and could not get further than choosing the photos. The one on the left is Toffee in one of his mellow moments; the one on the right is Toffee in his final moments, cuddling in a warm and soft blanket on my lap, at the animal hospital.
The assistant told me to take as long as I needed before calling for the vet. That was after I settled the bill with the financial person. (I would hate to have her job — who wants to take money from someone who is certainly grieving the imminent loss of a best friend). I don’t remember how much time I sat there, gently talking, crying and comforting Toffee. I do remember wishing that I had more days, months and years with him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of Toffee being so sick and in pain, and all alone in the hospital cage. So, I knew what had to be done, but this “playing God” and decided when a life needed to end is so far out of my comfort zone that I to stop thinking about it emotionally. I needed to be practical and logical in my thinking.
About 2 or 3 years ago a friend and mentor was diagnosed with ALS. We kept in touch throughout his illness, sharing Facebook messages, and visiting when I was able to travel. Then one day he announced that he was heading off on a new adventure. I knew what he meant, but had a hard time accepting that he had chosen assisted death. Maybe it’s because of my deep-rooted early religious training, that death was God’s decision, and not ours to decide. I saw assisted death as giving up — giving up hope, abandoning family and friends, and basically selfish. But I knew that my friend was none of these. He was one of the most generous and caring people I have ever known. Choosing assisted death was his way of freeing his family and friends and allowing them to grieve, yet move on. Caring for someone who has been diagnosed with a terminal illness prolongs the grief. You start grieving long before they are gone, because every step of the way you are grieving the loss of many things, including their freedom to live as they used to.
Every experience in life, whether good or bad, stressful or carefree, teaches us something. Before Toffee, I had no idea that I could love a dog. When he came into my life, courtesy of Michael’s best friend and my children, I immediately fell in love with him! He taught me how to be less afraid of other dogs, how allow routine into my life, and many other things. Losing him taught me about compassion for other pet owners. I didn’t realize how much grief they would be feeling after losing a pet…until I lost my own. I also had no idea of the difficulty around making that final decision. Deep down I always thought those who choose assisted death for their pet were slightly selfish and lacked compassion. I was wrong.
I miss Toffee every day. When I walk into the house there is still those few seconds where I am expecting to be greeted by the scampering of feet. When I walk out the patio doors I quickly start closing them to not allow him to escape, then I realize nothing/no-one is trying to escape.
Yesterday evening I played at the first in-person service since March 2020. At this particular church the congregation have a strong faith in healing; firmly believing that God’s love heals. I am hired to provide piano and organ music on Wednesday evenings. For the first year of the pandemic the music for their Zoom services was obtained online, but for the past several months I have been providing it from my home, on Zoom.
There were technical issues last night with hybrid service — in person people could not hear those who were speaking on Zoom, and Zoom people could not hear most speakers in the church. Everything is run by volunteers so there are bound to be difficulties at first.
When I got home I had a phone conversation with a rather impatient person who was hosting the Zoom part of the hybrid service. He asked my why I would need to wear a mask, and told me that if I insisted on wearing a mask to not bother singing because no one can hear people singing with a mask! I mentioned that in other churches those who sing wear masks, and I was heard quite well last Sunday when singing with a small group for another service. The fact that they couldn’t hear people speaking while maskless last night didn’t seem to be connected in his mind.
I was the only person wearing a mask at the service last night, but I understand how the others in the building would not think they need one. The was a very small group of people in quite a large space. Throughout the pandemic many of them have met regularly for small meetings, and they are staying within this bubble. I am not a part of their “bubble”, and since I have to continue to teach and work, I will continue to be extra cautious. Besides, all one needs to do is listen to the news to recognize that this virus is not going away. AND I also realize that many individual members will choose to trust in their faith rather than get the vaccine.
Last night was the first time since I started wearing masks a year ago that I was made to feel like I had to defend my position on mask-wearing. Even when shopping and no-one else was choosing to protect themselves and each other, nobody questioned why I chose to wear a mask. There were a couple of ladies who came up to talk to me after the service, and both of them put on a mask in order to come closer to me. They were aware of my obvious level of risk tolerance, and sympathetic. Another person asked if I would prefer that everyone wore a mask for the service. If the gig didn’t provide a consistent weekly income (not large, but enough for groceries) I would easily leave it.
We’ll see what the people decide this coming week. In a weird way I was not hurt by this person’s tone and words, but the conversation did keep me up most of the night. His words churning around in my head, and the responses I could have made if I had any warning or indication that this person, whom I thought was extremely kind and gentle, could also have an impatient side, verging on rude.
The pandemic is certainly exposing what is really hiding behind peoples’ real or imagined masks.
The question was making it’s way around Facebook not long ago — “how many different homes have you lived in?” I ran out of patience to answer that question, but today I decided to attempt an answer.
There was the first house where we lived until I was 6 years old. I remember the backyard with birch trees and a sandbox, and a picnic table where we would eat dinner in warmer weather. Beyond the backyard was a field, and beyond that the elementary school where my older brother attended for one year. My older brother and I shared a bedroom, and the twins shared the other. I’m not sure how long that lasted, but I do remember having my brother sleep in the upper bunk.
Next we moved to a small cabin in a village near the town where my dad travelled to work. There was a small creek running by the cabin. My brothers found and captured a small lizard with the intention of scaring my mother. It worked! The cabin had rats in the crawl space beneath it and in the attic. If the toilet flushed while the bathtub was drain we would have a flood somewhere. The place smelled like a sewer overflow, and I suffered with stomach problems for the 2 months that we lived there. My older brother and I attended a small, two-room elementary school. Grades 1 to 3 were in one classroom, and the “mature” students were in the other classroom taught by the husband of my teacher.
The next two years were spent in town, in a spacious house with three bedrooms, and nice backyard, and beautiful mirror in the front entrance, giving the impression of an even larger space. Our school was located on the road that extended from our front yard. We would walk to school and home again. It was a safe neighbourhood, and we had a lot of freedom to wander unsupervised. One morning the bus driver stopped to pick us up half-way down the road, and let my little brother sit on his lap and drive the bus the rest of the way to school. In these days, that driver would lose his job if people found out that he let a 6 year old drive his bus! During those two years I was happy; I had several friends, and I loved my kind teachers.
We moved again during summer between grades 2 and 3. The new town was not as willing to embrace a new family, or at least that is how I felt. It was many years before I was comfortable enough to seek friends and talk to others in my class. I do recall having a fairly close network of friends in grade 9. I had to be careful because even then some of them thought nothing of betraying trust. The house we lived in during those years was comfortable. I shared a bedroom in the basement with my sister. We had an imaginary line drawn down the middle — okay, sometimes it was not imaginary, but made clear with a skipping rope, then a long double-desk. We were not to mess with anything in each other’s side of the room. My floor was clear of clutter; her floor was hard to see until each evening when my mom would help her put her clothes away in the closet.
I remember the huge cupboards along the wall on my half of the bedroom. Sometimes I would need to hide, and would crawl into the lower shelf and sleep for the night. It was kind of like a sanctuary, and a place I could escape from the world for short periods of time. The window above our desks (until those were moved and replaced by our dressers) was high, but at ground level outside. It was from those windows where I would escape and run away. Each time I ran away I was too afraid of the trouble I would be in if I got caught, so I wasn’t gone long enough to get noticed. Once I remember taking my wallet with a few dollars, but I was far too afraid to go into a store in case I was recognized. As I grew up, my escapades happened late at night after my parents were asleep. For years I couldn’t sleep easily, and instead of lying in bed churning I would go for a walk. I wonder if anyone ever told my parents. It was a small town, and a lot of people would have recognized the principal’s daughter, but I never got in trouble.
My final year in that house was fantastic! I had graduated from high school, and working toward a diploma while teaching private lessons and substituting at local schools. My parents had moved, and I was in charge of taking care of the house. The freedom was so welcome, even with the responsibility of cleaning and yard work. I felt like an adult.
Before that final year, I lived in Australia as an exchange student. During those 11 months I was welcomed into 4 different homes. Each home had a different culture and way of life. The first was the home of the school head master, with 3 other children. We spent hours in the school library doing homework after school. I stayed in my bedroom while at the house, since mixing with the family was difficult and awkward, although the mother was very kind to me. My second home in Australia was on a property of over 3000 acres. There was so much room to wander, although I didn’t go very far. The couple who lived there and directed the work at the property were very special people and I really felt at home there. In fact, the people who placed me in each home insisted that I return there for the final couple of months, as the 5th home was not suitable. (I heard the father was angry that his daughter was not chosen as an exchange student, and therefore he would not treat me kindly).
This particular couple, at the 2nd home, had routines that reflected their love and care for each other. In the morning Mr. B would bring Mrs. B a cup of tea and biscuit, then go out to feed the cows and do some work that needed urgent attention. When he came in Mrs. B had already prepared breakfast of cereal, followed by steak and eggs, or something else equally delicious and fortifying. Afternoon tea was a special time. Mrs. B waited until I returned home from school, and sometimes we were joined by Mr. B. It was a time to discuss what happened during the day, talk about Australia, talk about old days, share news of the community and events that would be happening. They insisted that I learn to dance so that I could enjoy the community balls. In the evenings after a light dinner, we would often sit on their screened-in veranda watching TV and sharing a chocolate bar. I loved that home!
The third home in Australia was with a couple who owned and worked at the local pharmacy/chemist’s. They were a modern couple, and their children attended boarding school in a larger town. I was warned the first day that when I needed to use the washroom that I must lock the door. This family used the washroom together, and it was the place where they talked about everything important, much like the previous family used tea time for those discussions. During the stay at this home I spent much of my time practicing the piano at someone else’s house. I remember the lady there, who loved to hear the piano, would make tea for me each day when I finished practicing. And each time she would have a competition between the electric kettle, and the stove-top kettle (on a wood-burning stove) to see which came to a boil sooner. I honestly don’t recall which was faster, but it was fun to see someone so excited about that!
My fourth home in Australia was with an older couple, but I can’t remember where the husband worked, or anything about them. Another exchange student was staying with them at the same time. He was from Texas, and was with a different organization. We tolerated each other, and were polite, but not best friends. This home was only a few blocks away from the school. It was a comfortable couple of months with a few occurrences that stand out in my memory. One was the unique way our host mom would serve French toast. She would fry up the French toast (which was delicious) and just place it on the table, on the plastic table cover, without a plate. We would eat it from a plate of course, with ketchup.
Following my final year as mentioned earlier in the family home all by myself, I went off to college, and stayed in residence for two years. Halfway through my first year in college an illness required me to be sent home to my parent’s new home for about 4-5 months of bedrest. This place was nice, but I felt like a guest staying temporarily, so it really didn’t feel like my home at all. Once I was healthy again I returned for my second year at college.
My next home was in a small two bedroom apartment in downtown Bangkok. Our kitchen was out on the balcony where we had a small propane stove and a sink. Our furniture consisted of a bed in each bedroom (we always had friends and/or nephews staying with us) and a large, low table/bed/not sure. It was a queen-sized daybed which we used for many things, including eating, folding laundry, guest bed and storage. We stayed at this apartment while the church was being built. Our next home was in the back portion of the church building. It was larger than the apartment and was a community gathering place, especially on Sundays. Privacy was apparently not something I should have expected! The floor was concrete in most of the rooms, and ceramic tile in the bathroom. This home, obviously, did not feel like my home since the door was always open for church members to stop by anytime for meals or conversation, or just to check out what white women did…..
Shortly after the birth of our third child we moved to a duplex in a housing development outside of Bangkok, although still very much a part of a large city. I stayed there until returning to Canada. During our time in that home we had many relatives and nannies also sharing the living space. Again, privacy was not a thing!
My children and I moved back to Canada and after 6 weeks living with my parents, we moved into a mobile home where we stayed for about 9 months. From there we moved to a home in a smallish community where we endured several years of abuse and torment before finding a 100 year old cottage to rent. That place, although it was not a permanent home, felt like a home I had longed for for years. Walking in through the doors was like walking into a warm and loving embrace. There was safety and freedom there, and it was in that home that I experienced so much love and care from the community around us. Strangers would do things for us — a friend of a friend stopped by one day to fix my front door so that it would close properly. He wouldn’t accept money, but gave us tickets to a concert. Another day a friend’s son came by unexpectedly to mow the lawn and till the garden. Others dropped off gifts, and checked in regularly to make sure we were okay. The young lady who rented the basement became close friends with me and my two daughters who were still in high school.
That is a lot of homes! Not including a short-term rental, there were three homes in the next city we lived in. And now, where I am living now, I finally feel like I am home. As a child I would dream of living in a cabin in the woods, with forests around me, and no one to bother me. This is the closest I will most likely come to that dream. I look out my windows and see trees, shrubs, ferns and some flowers. Several times a week I watch the deer walking through my backyard to find shade and solace in the neighbour’s yard, beside their chicken pen. I see raccoons and squirrels daily, yet I am very close to the city centre. My perfect spot is not without problems, but who doesn’t have issues with the odd neighbour?
My neighbour’s hens; a deer checking out a squirrel trap; the new landscaping.
I was minding my own business, standing across the street, listening to a jazz concert in the local church parking lot. It was a nice change from staying home all alone. A man came and stood not far from me during the last song of the afternoon and asked me some questions about the event. We chatted for a while, then when everyone else started to disperse he began to tell me about his experience with Covid…..back in October, 2019.
It’s not often I can easily strike up a conversation with a stranger, but today I felt like taking a bit of a risk, living on the edge.
When he started sharing his symptoms, including serious diarrhea I noticed the droplets spray from his lips. Fortunately he didn’t really look at me when he talked, so the droplets flew in front of him toward the street. I should have clued in when he mentioned that he gets his “truth” from Rebel News, and that the government is hiding a lot from us. The government never tells us the truth, according to him, therefore there is a lot about the virus that we don’t know…..like how 63% of British citizens who received the vaccine are suffering with mini blood clots.
The vaccine is experimental and will be for the next 10 years. There is no way he is going to let anybody force him into getting vaccinated. He doesn’t believe Covid is a hoax, but is convinced that it is a threat to only 99.9% of the population. After all, 33% of all senior home deaths were caused from dehydration, not Covid. Although the whistleblower who made this claim (according to the random stranger) was quickly silenced and told not to speak publicly again. The stranger’s parting words to me — I’m sure he realized that I wasn’t falling for much of what he said — was to keep my eyes open and read a variety of news sources.
When I got home I sanitized everything that I had touched…my phone, the door knob, the cupboard door that I had to touch to reach the lysol wipes. Ick. And I was standing less than two metres away from him. I was so convinced that people in my city were educated and willing to listen to the science.
No more “living on the edge”. I will only talk to people whom I know, or have at least been referred to me by sane friends.
My little protector is gone. People can ring my doorbell or knock on the door and nobody barks. It’s just quiet…so quiet.
belly rubs
My neighbour whose two children have studied with me for several years let me know how sad they all are that Toffee is gone. Her son, when he started lessons with me was absolutely terrified of all dogs, including Toffee. For weeks Toffee knew he had to stay in his crate. Then gradually I could let him out, but hold on to the leash during the lesson. Finally one day “A” let Toffee sniff his feet. At the lesson two weeks ago I could see how much “A” had changed as the first thing he did when he came in the door was encourage Toffee to roll over for the weekly belly rub.
Enjoying the attention from piano students.
Toffee loved it when students would come to make music, and especially when siblings had to wait and could give him some undivided attention. The pandemic changed that, and he became lonely at times since students were not able to come to the house….but during online lessons Toffee could be found under the piano or on his favourite chair, listening and resting.
Toffee’s chair.
I promise I’ll move on from this wallowing in self-pity and loneliness, but I need a few more days just to remember, with tears.
Today I said goodbye to my companion of over 11 years. Toffee was a gift to me, discovered by my children, to help me cope with the death of my husband, Michael. It is hard to believe how attached one can become to an animal, even a person like me who was never very fond of dogs to begin with! I loved Toffee so much, and have become very used to having him close by. After leaving him at the hospital last night and coming home to an empty house, I could still hear him sneaking up behind me, and feeling him following me around the house.
This afternoon after the doctors told me how little hope there was of recovery, and after discussions with my children and close friends, I decided that Toffee did not need to endure any more days of pain, and solitude. He was brought to me wrapped in a blanket, staring up at me, and looking into my eyes until his last breath.
On top of the world…..at least on the roof of the coffee shop!
I had no idea that our walk yesterday would end up being out last walk. He was always so excited to go anywhere with me. Sometimes I would take him out to the garage to sit in the car while I sorted music books, sorted recycling, or cleaned up the garage. He was happy to go on those little “trips” with me.
Toffee loved to listen to me practice piano, organ, singing, and was especially excited when I had students come over for piano lessons. Music calmed him and allowed him a chance to sleep for hours during the day.
Toffee waiting for a student to walk in the door.
There are way too many memories to list in one blog post. I’ll write more in future days when my eyes are no longer full of tears.
Today is Emile’s birthday. He was my stepson, the very beloved son of Michael. Emile died in October, 2014. His father, Michael died in February 2010. I will probably never know or understand what made Emile give up on life. His father died of a brain tumour. They were close, though not overly close. I doubt that it was heartbreak, but maybe it was.
This picture was taken at our wedding. Emile was there, and he returned not many months later for Michael’s funeral.
Normally June 16 goes by with a brief thought of Emile, wondering what happened. Why did he give? How was it that none of his closest friends had any idea that he was struggling? Was there anything I could have done, but didn’t know. Today there were many tears…I don’t know why.
Recently a family in London, Ontario (where Emile had lived with his mother and extended family) was killed by a young man who attacked them because they were Muslim. Emile’s extended family is also Muslim.
In October, 2014, I flew to London, Ontario to attend Emile’s funeral. I knew absolutely nothing about Muslim tradition, and expected behaviour at worship and at funerals. The taxi driver who drove me from the airport to the hotel, then again to the funeral was very kind, and answered my many questions. At the funeral I wore a head-scarf at the appropriate times, remembered to remove my shoes before entering the worship area, and encountered love that is not often experienced. Emile’s mom and I connected for the very first time. She was grieving, but wanted me to be near her. I haven’t had a chance to speak to her since the funeral, but the memory of that day will always be with me.
Growing up in a small town, in the Christian tradition, I was not exposed much to differences in belief systems. I lived in Thailand for 10 years, the wife of a Christian minister. During that time I was aware of Buddhist, Animist and Muslim religions, but did not take the time to really study them, or try to understand their beliefs. I knew many people who believed in each of those religions but never asked questions. The older I get, the more I realize that there is so much more to learn.
Emile’s birthday is a reminder to stay connected to those whom I love, and to stay open to differences. And to keep moving forward. It is too easy to get stuck kicking myself in the butt, wishing I had done things differently. I could have tried to phone Emile more frequently, or emailed regularly. But those thoughts serve no purpose now. The important thing now is to stay connected, keep in touch and accept differences.
This morning I met a friend at a coffee shop, and we sat outside enjoying a conversation over morning coffee. Before the pandemic started this was a regular occurrence, but in the past year we have only tried 2 or 3 times. Both of us are very concerned about our own, and each other’s health and were too scared regarding Covid exposure.
Today’s conversation was centred around checking in on what has happened personally during the past year. My friend commented, and I agreed that we have both enjoyed the increased isolation, and separation from crowds. We like to spend time alone, and are both dreading the return to “normal” where we might be expected to occasionally be surrounded by large groups of people, e.g. in church or in concerts.
But, one thing that I wasn’t expecting to hear was that my friend who is now 75 years old, has spent a lot of time lately reflecting on the poor decisions he has made in his life, and how they have affected his current situation. He stated that walking away from relationships without attempting to fight for his fair share of the home and finances has left him unable to buy a home, or support his family like he would have hoped. He was surprised at how often during this past year he has found himself dwelling on the negative outcomes of his experience, even though he realizes that he does have a good life.
I tried to remind him how other people view him, and how they respect him and think he is such a generous and caring person. We agreed that having more time to ourselves this year has given us perhaps too much time to reflect. Or is it too much time? Should we all spend more time reflecting, and trying to sort through issues that we have never dealt with? Is the purpose of all the busy work in our lives just to keep us from doing any soul-searching, and potentially digging up baggage that we should really confront and resolve?
Every few years I find that I have taken on too much work, whether paid or volunteer. When our province shut down last spring to stop or slow down the spread of Covid-19, I found the extra time to reflect on my life was very unusual. In fact, I looked for small projects just to keep me busy. I caught up on many, many hours of sleep by napping every afternoon. I played through several of my piano books to find pieces that I wanted to perform even though there were no plans for concerts. I watched endless amounts of YouTube videos and webinars, participated in Zoom calls, listened to hours and hours of news broadcasts…
Those were some of the activities that kept me unavailable for dark thoughts to surface. They also kept me from soul-searching and bringing up past hurts that I haven’t resolved. Then, of course, I got busy again with double the number of students, and other live-streaming and recording activities. And now I’m worn out!! I have one more week of a full load of teaching, and I am finally again looking forward to some time off. Maybe, just maybe I might find some time to retreat into myself and work through cleaning some of the dark corners of my life story.
Journalling and keeping this blog have provided a gentle chance to do some reflecting. Nothing serious, but a starting point. Hopefully in the coming months I will continue to dig deeper into past experiences that are still affecting me. Wow….that could get interesting!
Reflections 