The comfort of friends

I am often amazed at both the tenderness and the cruelty that human beings are capable of. Along with owning a gym, I also manage an office a few hours a day. My boss is an older American gentleman. He is very amusing and often uses southern expressions that I do not understand. An example of which is “I am up to my knees in alligators and have no way of draining the swamp.” I thought that this had something to do with going to the bathroom, I guess because of its reference to water and drainage. Turns out I was way off base and it refers to having far too much to do with no end in sight. Like Nostradamus his statements can mean just about anything until fully explained. He would be amused that I would compare him to Nostradamus since the two are very little alike. Bob dresses in jeans and t-shirts, races cars and takes little care with what he puts in his mouth, from food to cigarettes. He is however a source of endless entertainment for me. He is high strung and often goes off on tangents yelling and carrying on. Although his rants are thrown in my direction they are seldom directed at me. He will vent about just about anything and often without cause. Banking, Orders, Invoices will send him into a tailspin. I will sit back quietly until the storm passes and then do my best to fully explain the situation, assure him that all is under control and that there is no need to worry. Yesterday was an uncharacteristically bad day for both of us. I reached the office late, he was in a rush to leave for a business trip, and we were up to our knees in Alligators…etc. The circumstances caused us both to be about 4 degrees above irritated and with only the other to take it out on, we spent a good 3 hours at each others throats. My normal patience for his rough edges was wearing thin and his normal intolerance for detail was at an all time high. I had a headache and was in no mood for the volume of noise he was producing. He was being unusually cruel and eventually he wore me down and I began to withdraw. I became reserved and was not providing him with my normal calm reassurance. He continued his barrage of negative remarks and I continued to retreat. I was on the verge of tears when I rose from my seat and announced that he could continue yelling if he liked but I was leaving. As I walked past him, he reached out and stroked my hair. I looked at him and all the anger, agitation and contempt was gone from his face. In its place was understanding. “Go home.” He said, “Take an Advil and put your feet up. I am sorry.”
I felt my shoulders relax and my headache ease. The tension of the day evaporated with just the touch of a friend. He was not my boss at that moment. I looked at him and realized that we were friends as well as colleagues. That we recognized the others limits and responded when appropriate. Nothing more needed to be said. What a comfort it is to work with a friend.

I see a little boy and he’s sitting all alone.
He seems to be so sad
I walk towards him, but he tells me to go away
So I do

He keeps looking my way
And I think that he is ready to talk
Maybe he is, but when I approach again
He waves me off

I stand and watch as he grows
Like a movie his life plays out before me
I see him laugh and cry
I see him sleep

I see him make friends and play hockey
He sings in the school concert
But every time I try to go near him
He turns away

I get angry at him and say things
I don’t mean what I say, I want his attention
But he starts moving farther away
And so do I

He’s older now, almost a man
There is a canyon between us
I shout across but he doesn’t hear me
Or does he

I yell I’m sorry, I shout I love you
He looks my way but he doesn’t come closer
He doesn’t look as angry anymore
But he does look sad.

He starts to move out of my sight
I strain to see him as he moves away
He doesn’t even wave
Good bye boy

In the distance I see a movie playing
It is the boys life from his eyes
In it he is calling but I don’t hear him
He turns away


He is looking at me waving
But I am busy and I am not watching
So I miss his call
He turns away

He is trying to show me things
My attention is somewhere else
And I miss his attempt
He turns away

Flash forward to a grown man
He stands across that canyon waving
I see him this time and I wave back
He smiles

The canyon dissolves and slowly disappears
He stands before me
So much larger than I remembered him
I missed you

I tell him how sorry I am
And that I love him very much
He says I know you do
He smiles


I am so sorry Ryan, I hope one day we can be friends.

I love you!

Mom

Time to Get Real Fit

I own a small Ladies only gym. The mornings begin early for the gym crowd and I have a very dedicated group of members who arrive at 6am, not a second before and not a second after, 6am on the button. They are very energetic and bring a whole new enthusiasm to my ordinarily hum drum mornings. The music is very techno and drums along at 132 beats per minute as recommended by the industry. They don't care about that though, hell they don't even notice. They chat and swing their hips during the cardio portion. They "change stations" every 30 seconds while carrying on a hearty conversation about life, kids, work with the person next to them. I can't hear what they are saying, but I can see them smiling from ear to ear, nodding enthusiastically and then roaring with laughter. It is a site to see really and humbling. All these women leave their homes early every morning to come here and socialize with others just like them. They share little in common in terms of lifestyle but their bond is their gender, they are sisters here. They don't feel the need to dress in fancy spandex, they don't worry about the little bit of fat they have earned over the years. They don't pull down their shirts embarrassed by the tummy 3 pregnancies has produced, they don't look around to see if judgemental eyes are starring at them. Here they are safe from a world that judges imperfect women so harshly. This is their world and it is never more apparent than when a man enters it. They stop what they are doing and look at him with inquisitive eyes. What is this creature doing here? I imagine for a moment that the male who has stumbled upon them feels oddly out of place. He looks behind him searching for the little sign of a lady in a dress indicating women only. He looks at me apologetically when he realizes what this is. He grins uncomfortably and tries not to look directly at any of them. I smile sympathetically at him and try to reassure him with my smile that he will not be eaten alive. He is a Delivery Man with a parcel. The women slowly return to their workout but it lacks its luster. The ladies go through the motions, their eyes do not leave the outsider at the door, they do not speak, they do not breath. I sign his paper and he rushes away, thankful that we have spared his life. An audible sigh is released from the members simultaneously and the chatter begins again.

I love it here.

My Father

I thought that I should explain the title of my blog. I am a tiny girl and always have been. In fact my entire family is. As a small child I was never really aware of my stature and indeed had no idea of the comments that would follow me through life. When I started school, I was immediately singled out by the other kids (girls mostly, boys liked me) and teased about my height or lack of it. At the dinner table that night I was not my usual jovial self. I was quiet and withdrawn. My father, who very seldom participated at the family dinner table, looked at me with a concerned look and asked me what was wrong. I was 4 and already quite articulate. I thought and chose my words carefully. "The other kids at school today were teasing me. They were laughing at me and calling me small." My father folded up his newspaper and placed it down on the table. He looked off to the corner of the kitchen and took a deep breath as I held mine in anticipation. He looked angry but I couldn't imagine that it was at me. I waited....He turned to me and said something that I would carry with me through life. My father spoke to me very seldom but when he did, he always said something profound. "Don't ever let them call you small Debbie.....You are short. Short is not the same as small, the tallest man in the world can be small." I knew what that meant even at 4. In that sentence I knew that short described my physical being but small somehow attacked who I was. I knew that I was short but I was not by any means a small person. I sat up in my chair and suddenly I was filled with pride. Still to this day, if someone calls me small, I politely correct them. "I am short, not small."

The Awakening

I remember my awakening. This is different from the first memory. An awakening is the moment you become aware of self. The realization that you are separate and apart from those around you. That your actions and words are within your control and affect the people that makes up your family. Unlike memories that only play back as movies in your mind affected by time, and recollections by others, an awakening is that moment in time when you begin to be. From here choices are your own. You realize you have control of your life, you have input and thought. It is the moment you in fact wake up. This is a powerful moment that can either be filled with joy or horror. It molds us and in part decides what we will choose to be. From here memories are attached to emotion, smell, colour. Memories before this are just snap shots in time, pictures with no border. After the awakening our memories are framed with feelings. Resentment, fear, we feel our memories after our awakening. It is a good thing too because if we were to remember every memory with emotion we would all be emotional cripples. Trauma surrounds early life and the fact that we remember very little of it is a gift. I remember when I awoke. I was about 7 years old, it was early in the morning, winter, and I was getting ready for school. My mother called for me to hurry and I ran down the stairs and sat down on the bottom one ready for my mother to help me adorn the many items of winter clothing that would protect me from the bitter cold of Ontario winters. I am not sure why I said what I said next. I can only assume that I was thinking about something fun I had done earlier in the week. I looked at my mother and said “I wish Wendy were my mother.” Wendy was a 15-year-old neighbour who use to baby-sit me sometimes. I guess I liked her very much, I don’t really remember feeling anything for her and I don’t think I saw anything of her after this day. Maybe that was fate or maybe orchestrated by my mom, I don’t know. I do remember that she had very red hair and lots of freckles. I made the statement with all the innocence of a 7-year-old child; unaware of the impact it would have on my mother. She stopped dressing me and I watched the blood drain from her face just as I felt the colour rise in my own. I was not sure why what I had said could have caused such a reaction. Without warning my mothers hands were around my throat and she was squeezing and shaking me back and forth. “You ungrateful little brat…” “How dare you…” she was saying. I felt my world going black as I struggled to breath, but at the same time somewhere within me something stirred. My mother was interacting with me however violent; she was focused on only me a very rare occurrence in my short life. What I said and did mattered. I was a 7-year-old girl who lived in Ottawa Ontario, who could say something and get a reaction. I was a person, an individual. I had thoughts independent of those around me. I had the ability to make people react with my mere words. That moment molded me. Whenever I feel powerless or ignored I lash out with words. Words, that I learned many years ago, force the recipient to focus their attention on me. Then for that moment I am in control of them.

It is hard to Imagine

Less than a year ago I was in another province living another life. Now I find myself here in Vancouver doing all the things I planned to do and still experiencing that same degree of dis-satisfaction with it all. I guess when you change locations you don't necessarily change the scenery. Although the scenery is something else here all the elements of my life, and who I am just changed location. We struggle to control the inner termoil by changing our environment, thinkng that in some way we can tame that thing inside of us that seeks to make us unhappy despite getting what we say we want it really is how we feel about ourselves that in the end desides our destiny.