Author: leaving traces

I took a sip. A big sip up from the Earth as a personified Tetra Pak. When a tetra pak sips – does it sip through its own straw – with an extension straw that can reverse the flow of energy and liquid traveled.

Maybe there are two straws – one for air and for bringing up and in and another for letting out – or giving to another.

The old recycling commercials are coming to mind. Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.

The angry tetra paks tossed in the waste basket with bushy furrowed brows so we all know for sure how that apple juice box is feeling.

Beauty and vitality – I have been noticing and consciously practicing more self-love – not just self-pleasure – but really loving myself for who I am. I’m learning how to forgive myself for things – that, through the noticing – I realized weren’t even my fault to begin with.

I seem to have a deep-rooted pattern of self-blame and misplaced accountability – even though there is no mistake, no misstep on my part.

In minimizing my people-pleasing tendencies – I’m aware of how many burdens I carried for others.

I was doing so well on my journey of self-love until a recent phone call with my mother.

To spare you the details – she called, and I knew by her tone of voice – she was harbouring anger, frustration, annoyance, etc.

When she feels like this, she lashes out. She asked me to look into something for her at Friday at 7pm.

I assured her I would look at it the next day as we had just sat down to relax as a family.

She quipped back, as a lovely textbook narcissist would when one doesn’t obey all of their commands at the exact moment they demand them to,

“Oh, did you have a busy day?!”

“Yes, I did actually,” I replied. “And, I’m not going to do that at 7pm on a Friday night.”

Her huffiness continued and I changed the subject.

I made the mistake of inviting her to my kid’s, her grandson’s, lacrosse game as it will be close to her this weekend.

And in almost perfectly predictable fashion, she snapped back, biting off the end of my question.

“No! My friends are taking me for a birthday dinner.”

She never asked what time, and she had told us she was going to Whistler that weekend anyway.

Dear Spirit,

Where have you gone?

Have you been blown off-course by insults, back-handed compliments, and broken promises?

Have you been twisted and tangled inward and outward like a tortuous tornado of emotional abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, stonewalling, and passive-aggressive behaviour

so you no longer know which way is up?

Can you look to the form of a tree, and while you blink in this upside-down position,

can you reframe what you know of this tree?

As Spirit,

can you see that this tree’s branches are also its roots – reaching into the sky and being held there just as they are meant to.

Can you make the connection to that which roots you – your feet –

for although you may be twisted and turned around, you may always outstretch your toes

stretch them out in awareness and ground them to the sky.

Nothing can knock you off-balance so much that you can’t find your way back home to yourself.

Reach your arms out and down or to the sides,

depending at which place you are in the tumble.

A tumbleweed needs no roots to be exactly what it is.

Maybe you were made to tumble to know that it was not one place, not one person, not one feeling nor moment that made you, you.

You are infinitely connected.

Pieces coming back like broken glass, or shards of self,

rejoining with glue, or gold, or honey, in whichever way makes sense right now.

The twigs and branches of your psyche are baring new fruit

The bees and birds are joining you

attracted to your sweetness, to the love you share

to the joy and tenderness and generosity you bring others.

I love you Dear Spirit, thank you for your time.

The cherry tomato plant.

My dad was a big, gruff guy to those who didn’t know him well. The captain of his hockey team, “The Labatt’s Blues”, back in the days when vice-makers could sponsor athletic clubs.

He stood 6’3″ at his prime – with natural and earned athletic abilities.

He taught me ‘fade-away-jumpers’ as he would call them. He taught me to practice with my left, or non-dominant side, at least twice as much as my right. His voice always boomed across the court or field when he knew I needed a boost of energy for my game – or maybe it was so he could chuckle at himself for standing out as the proudest parent in the crowd.

“Go McRae!” he would cheer – always using my middle name as my nickname. It was his mother’s maiden name. I wonder if when he said it, he felt closer to her.

When my parents separated, I was eleven. My dad moved into a townhouse complex near a golf course.

He had a very small ‘plot of land’ – well, a small dirt patch under his kitchen window and before his front stoop.

He created the most beautiful, bountiful vegetable garden. He had a least four types of cherry tomato plants growing up trellises, hanging down from baskets, overflowing like flavour-bursting waterfalls – boasting their bounty at any visitor.

His cherry tomatoes are, to this day – the sweetest, most delicious, pop of flavour yumminess – of any cherry tomatoes I’ve tasted.

Bare bums on the beach. Montague Harbour, Galiano Island. Where all naked kids’ dreams come true. Once a very large shell midden – this beach is shells – all shells – broken into fine sand only in a few places – around the corners, past the points and on the channel side where the water moves quickly both ways – fast enough to grind these shells down over time – creating miniature beaches for kids and their kingdoms and queendoms of sand castles.

Hermit crabs catch your eye when the water is calm enough. Painted white reflections of sun gleam and cast light shadows from realms only the children know.

The two kids are playing. Bare bums dipped in salt water and coated with a thin layer of sea shells much like a Purdy’s ice cream bar dipped in sprinkles at the mall.

A bee lands on her face – her cute smile turns to a grimace, panic, and a wail. Someone had their Kodak ready just at that moment. I am able to look back at myself and although the child memory didn’t stick – the adult memory has created the before and after of this scene with the photo anchoring this frame.

Grainy. Film cameras. Blurred edges from light beams or finger nubs.

“CUT.”

“CUT.”

“CUT.”

We can’t share that, it’s too embarrassing.

Pan over to arbutus tree in backyard with tire swing hanging from its largest branch. Wow! What a sight. The tree must be close to a hundred years old. There are still rickety steps nailed into the trunk from the previous home owners. Okay – panning across the yard, great wide-angle shot… coming around to the home – and zooming in on the family. Oh. At first glance it looks like these are cardboard cutouts… wait, there are small fingers there – holding onto the sides.

This family seems to have chosen to hide behind a one-dimensional version of themselves.

Let’s see. There’s a father. Tall, athletic build – worn sort of face with a clenched smile – trying to add a twinkle to his eye for audience compassion effect but creating more of a surprised cast-to-stone look.

There’s the family pet. A medium-sized Shelty seated and facing off to the right. The mother is there too – front and center – perfectly posed and poised as her cardboard cutout self – she seems to have her socks matching her purse which matches her belt and accessories. The sound is on and we can here her snapping and barking orders at her kids.

There are two daughters – one has messy red hair and mismatching socks – she has a very large grin juxtaposed with a furrowed brow and deeply sad eyes. The last daughter – the Eldest – is wishing she could be anywhere but here – the cardboard cutout she holds in front of her is balanced urgently on one leg – not like a flamingo resting – more like an animal trying to avoid being eaten. Always ready to take off – dodge out of harms way.

There they stood – flat, glossy – moving ever so slightly when something would occur between the real characters in the background.

They stood in front of a brown rancher, on a 5-acre property – Japanese Maple full behind them.

“Ummm…”, the director thought – how can we make a reality TV show out of a family that only wants to show us their attempt at perfection.

The wind blew – and the crew noticed the cutouts fall down – there were accolades written on their backs.

I seem to be twisted these days. Past and present reaching toward or away from each other around my spine. Masculine and Feminine contorting, bracing, clenching, pulling – fascia forming, hardening, internal calluses turning flow to stagnation.

To soreness.

To stillness.

Not stillness – to stuckness.

The pterodactyl shoulder blades off-center – off-balance. If I was to fly it might be in circles – or with effort. The right wing flapping heavily up – the left attempting to mimic, to mirror, yet the reach is half-stretched, half-lengthened, wound taught. Caught. Dragged down. These tiny kites of attentions have wrapped themselves around my left back wing – confining it to small, useless movements. The movements made to waste energy. The movements made for exertion – where excess exertion quickly turns to exhaustion.

They have thrown these rocks on strings up to capture me – these boulders – I flap with my free wing. I call out.

Which is worse? Quitting? Giving up? Or tearing away from my left side body. Can I survive without my left wing? Is it too close to my heart? Depending where it tears, will they keep my heart with it? Will it fall to the ground attached to my left wing?

That is not the option. I fly towards them – they scream in shock and horror – the ropes are loose now, tangled. There is chaos on the ground – I squawk – breathe fire – blow them away.

And fly off – boulders dropping one-by-one into the ocean.

We met at the river. She was on one side, I was on the other.

She was pregnant, bare belly exposed. A light netted tulle wrap draped down across her shoulders over her breasts and around the sides of her belly as if the curtains were drawn on new life.

The charge and grounding chord she brought with her was electric. A subtle yet bright pink that shocked into the earth with crisp sparks as she stepped.

I stood across from her with my sage green grounding chords reaching beneath the surface of the Earth – gently requesting to connect and enmesh without becoming entangled.

It was just us there. Us. The river. And some riverbed landscape with forest behind. A haze existed beyond, as the rest was not needed, not essential for this moment.

She said, “Of course.”, when I asked if she could share some of her essence.

“The world is better off with more of it.”

Transmuting to subtly different shades of pink as they form, twist and flourish within another being.

It was quiet. It was calm. I felt no fear, even though I had darkness at my back.

A bunny laid a chocolate egg for kids on Easter. Do you think somewhere before what we now call ‘civilization’ that chocolate bunny egg origins were derived from shit? I could totally see medieval parents telling their children that to honour the resurrection they could chase the bunny around the filth-laden streets and look for the little treats it left behind. Maybe that was one cure for scurvy that we never heard about – and was a sneaky trick for kids who didn’t eat their vegetables.

Anyway – my sister is staying at my mom’s this weekend with her roommates. I was unaware of this until I asked if my mom would want to watch my kid’s lacrosse game since we’ll be close to her and she almost snapped back, “Maggie is here”.

“Uh, OK”, I said. “You can’t take a couple hours on Sunday to come watch your grandson play lacrosse?”

“Not likely”, she replied. This was how our visit started. I had driven to Sidney from Ladysmith, about an hour and a half drive to visit with her and learn more about our family history.

As soon as this came out it kicked awake the memory of all the other times I had tried to create some family time and memories and been met with an “only if I have nothing better to do” sense. This also kicks my mama bear sequence into high gear to do my best to protect my own kid from this lack of closeness, awareness, and empathy for another.

My mom never really came to any of my sports games as a kid. I remember being at my Grade 12 grad and receiving Senior Female Athlete of the Year and my parents had got into a fight, so when I came out to see them they were gone. A friend’s mom took my photo.

Stress. Bless. Bless you. 1-2. Buckle my shoe. I love that the Angels are always on standby – I heard one writer describe Archangel Michael as a jock, and another one likes chocolate. They’re just like us, you guys.

Self-imposed stress. I’ll believe it. Like the stories we tell ourselves – unfortunately when you don’t talk to someone or connect with them for a long time – there are a lot of story gaps to fill. I’m really good at making a million false assumptions when I don’t hear from someone in a long time. Now I know I can ask the Angels for help connecting with that person or those people.

Hot Line Bling has infamously appeared as unwanted ear pollution – by Drake… he started to gain fame while I was living in Toronto. That’s where I learned he never started from the bottom now he’s here. He started from the upper-middle class now he’s mediocre. What a guy.

Okay, let’s transmute this weird anger for Drake to something worthy of my time – jeez – how many corrals do I have back there?

Write. Right. Right whale. Do right whales only turn right? Are they always making the right decision? Are they the most righteous of the whales? [ Insert apology to readers here]. What am I on about?

Stress. Avoidance. Resistance. In the distance. A winding road littered with potholes kicks up dust on the back windshield faster than the wiper can clear it. Futility. Displacement. Travelling for miles, or Canadian kilometres, only to end up in the same spot. Some theorize that time folds in on itself.

There I was sitting on the fence. It was a golden gate or pen or corral – at first it was crowded with people from my last job who misheld my trust, my mom and sister were there for sure.

As soon as the gates opened – I wanted everyone to be free. I don’t want to corral anyone. I want people to be happy, to live their lives. I noticed I had a hard time leaving the corral – or like a funhouse with mirrors the corrals open gate led to another with more locks, chains, reinforced steel. Maybe that wasn’t me sitting on the edge of the fence – maybe it was one of my guides – a young boy – dressed in blue jeans and a red shirt with cowboy boots on – a few sizes too big… maybe borrowed from a dad, or uncle or big brother.

There he was, just there, swinging his legs – not talking, not commanding, not doing really much of anything – just swinging his legs against the fence and kind of looking sideways, into the corral.

I wasn’t fully formed in the visualization in my mind – it was sort of what you might notice in your peripheral vision but not if you are ‘looking’ to your peripheral.

I think he was looking down, waiting. Waiting for me to be able to forgive myself. Waiting for my inner child to say, “Oh, hey – I’m no monster. I’m just a kid looking for love who wants to slide down gravel piles and get her green OshKosh B’gosh corduroy pants dirty – stained so deeply from gravel bum that her mom won’t let her wear them again.

She wants to sneak onto cow farms with her friend and hide behind rocks so farmers can’t find her.