Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 7

All I Want To Do Is Write – A Map

There’s a part of me who’s always writing.

She’s paying attention to Everything. She’s reading words around her and they are zipping into her brain and calling out, pulling up, herding and weaving these words into collections…or sentences.

If I read anything, I immediately start writing a response in my mind. Could be a question. Could be a consideration. Could be a cluster of imagination peeling off into a river of ideas…and I want to stop whatever I’m doing and write.

Ninety percent of the time I do not stop. But I’m working to change this percentage.

Like, about five minutes ago, I was reading Molly Peacock’s new poetry collection, The Widow’s Crayon Box, and I was underlining words and phrases, and drawing hearts and writing ‘oofs’ inside margins…and the writing part who always writes barrelled through and stopped me from reading and made me write.

First I wrote several paragraphs in a manuscript I’ve been working on about shit. Like, literally poo. I’m calling it Shitshow. Or Shi*show. You’re wondering how reading Molly Peacock’s beautiful poetry can inspire several paragraphs on shit?

Here’s the map:

Molly’s poetry lights up my imagination and my heartstrings start zinging and the writer part stands up and pays attention.

I underline words and phrases and lines.

I read a quote by Virginia Woolf that Molly has used in one of her poems. “There is…a childish outspokenness in illness; things are said, truths blurted out…” (this is snippet of a longer quote). I started thinking about kids love to blurt out potty words, body part terms, how they sneeze by exhaling incredible amounts of snot out their little noses and then laugh. I was wondering about when we lose this freedom of bodily appreciation expression. I was wondering why it’s rude or immature or gross to talk about one of the things that all humans do: poop.

I write in my head…then I type in the google doc: I can talk about shit until the cows come home…and shit.

I arrive in the Shitshow manuscript and write several paragraphs. I laugh out loud. I heat-blush at the fact that today I nearly pooped my pants – twice. And the shame I still feel having gone through it. And the embarrassment I still feel thinking about the poor co-worker who was with me and literally saved me from a disASSterous mess by letting me into his parent’s house which happened to be the closest place with a bathroom we could find. The shame and embarrassment, the writer in me says, needs a place to go. It needs a page, a screen, a space outside my already toiling, roiling guts. And the writer tells me, as she’s been telling me for years, you really should write about your shit show.

I recall my commitment to you. To write more. To share my process.

To confess that it took me three tries to spell commitment.

There’s a part of me who’s always writing, and I intend to give her my fingers more and more and more. To change the percentage.

I Wrote A New Novel

So this happened:

Working title ‘Beks Lauer’. It will change. !!!

If you’re wondering where I’ve been. (Ha!) I’ve been writing. And writing and writing and writing. This time last year, I was also writing and writing and writing for National Novel Writing Month. I wrote the first draft of the novel I’m referring to here. I wrote the outline for this novel before that, in July whilst at the Stone and Sky Artist Residency on Pelee Island. And so, as novel-writing goes, the time elapsed since inception (thus far!) is one year and four months. 

Oh yeah, I’ve been writing. 

I’ve been writing steadily two-to-four dedicated times a week. 

I started and completed the Humber certificate mentorship/correspondence program Writing Creative Non-Fiction, Fiction and Poetry between January and August 2024. This meant I had to submit up to twenty pages of the novel every other week. It made for a solid discipline. I was given feedback and guidance, and then made changes as I went along. I graduated ‘with distinction’ and felt a surge of joyous heat and pride when the certificate arrived in the mail, snug in cardboard protection. 

At that point, I was about twenty-five chapters in. I set a personal goal for myself: complete the draft by October 2024. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I wrote at home. I wrote in Tim Horton’s with  my writing partner Christian. I wrote in the mornings. I wrote in the evenings. I wrote as much as I could…sometimes with focused dedication, sometimes with fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants abandon. I laughed out loud. I wept. I wept. I wept. I felt like there was a family living inside my head – all the characters in the book, constantly with me. And.Oh.We.Had.Fun!

And, then, at 1:39am, Monday, October 28th – I finished the novel. I wept again!

The ‘I’m finished!’ journal entry.

Then I did something I hadn’t done before when I finished a novel. I requested a beta read from friends and writers I know. 

The Beta Read. This is when you share a draft (a pretty far along, but can still be rough draft) with people you know and/or don’t know to get general feedback on the story. This is a big ask as it is not a paid exchange. It is understood that the beta read is meant to offer feedback on overall story, plot, structure, development, etc.. but in a very brief way. And, in fact, doesn’t have to even be that much feedback. It can be ‘I loved it!’ or ‘these are my favourite parts’…

I made a list of people I hoped would give me a beta read. I sent an invitation via email and/or asked in person, including asking whether the reader would prefer a digital or hard copy. I included in the request what my hopes were in terms of feedback, as well as a timeline for responses. Perhaps this is breaking the beta read rules, but I did my best to make my request kind and honest. I requested overall feedback about any glaring problems as well as help with a title. 

Then I got the manuscript bound (the pics shown at the beginning of this blog). Goodness, it felt great to hold a hard copy in my hands! If you’re wondering about cost…it was cheaper than Staples by far. It was more than printing a typical book because of its size (8.5 x 11 – regular paper size). I used a local printer (PrintWorks) because I’ve been printing books and marketing material there for years. Also, I budgeted for it knowing that this was part of my plan. 

I mailed books (before the strike, phew!). I dropped copies off. I hand-delivered copies. It was a pretty exciting experience – the giving out! 

And I waited. 

Guess what happens when you wait for beta read responses? Your imagination, that lusciously soft and hopeful right-brain awe, spins and spins the most extraordinary yarns! 

In movie-bright-lights, Kirkus-esque blurbs flickered and shone in my mind:

Best.Novel.Ever.Written!
Don’t Change a Thing!
Heartbreakingly Amazing!
When Can I Read More?
Where Can I Buy This?
I Couldn’t Put It Down!

That was the first few days. 

Then the left brain bullies arrived with their story ideas.

This is Crap. I couldn’t finish it. 
Never. Gonna. Be. Published. 
Bo-ring!
Clearly, this author has no idea what she’s doing. 
If you’re day job’s writing – Quit!

I’m chuckling to myself as I write this. Ah, the creative mind is a buzz of woes and woots! I managed to manage all the Parts in my mind, and to keep a steady connection to my heart as time passed. 

And now responses are coming. They’re arriving via email, texts, and talking. And I am soooo freakin’ grateful! 

The responses have been precise and developed. Some folks even listed typos and continuity errors. I’m honoured. And humbled. And I must keep up the energy that I had whilst writing, for the task of revising.

Revising…re-vision..re-vision-ing…oh, it is a tall task. I can see the flaws with a clarity that I couldn’t see before when the writing was hot and messy. I know that now comes the Hard Parts – the killing of darlings, the letting go of plot lines that fell short, the changing of names, the chopping of entire scenes…it will be…difficult but it is necessary. 

I’ll write my next blog about how I’m going to actually do the revisions…Here’s a sneak peek!

The Revision Tools – Part AIn other news….

I’m reading this:

Purchased from Biblioasis as it’s published by them! Thanks Cristina!

And this:

Thanks to Rebecca for suggesting this incredible story!

I got new tattoos…Big ups to Advanced Tattoo and artist Vanessa Ruth for her stellar skills once again!

The moon phases and ‘1234’ – magical numbers…The ‘Sally’ doll. Miller drew it when she was 2!

We started some home renovations….that will continue into the holidays…but then we’ll have a beautiful new kitchen and dining room! And…a dishwasher!

I’ve started dreaming about the new year, new commitments for writing and creating. Changes continue to thrive.

And…I attended a workshop led by Martha Beck and Elizabeth Gilbert. Very educational, indeed. And…last week, I attended the Newbery Award (as in the most prestigious children’s book award in the USofA!) Symposium at The Ohio State University in Columbus. Super inspiring!

And…this is coming up! (Squeeee!)

I’m THRILLED to be sharing the Biblioasis floor with the grand Molly Peacock! Do join us! There will be cookies!

I will be blogging more. I promise. This has been a sacred practice for me for over two decades. I want to reignite my passion for writing in this format. Thanks for your patience! And, as always, thanks for reading!

You Know You’re a Reader When

You have books around your house. Like, in every room. One tossed on a coffee table. A few in a stack on the dining room table that you have to move each time you set the table for a meal. There’s the stack(s) by your bed, the stacks on the floor that you need to put on a shelf, and the stacks on top of already-shelved books on the shelves because there’s not enough room to fit them all on the shelves. You give books as gifts. You request books as gifts. You know what Book Outlet is. You pet books, caress them, hold them to your heart when you’re done (or even during) reading them .You throw books when they provoke such an emotional reaction. You are not alone. You open a book and smell it. You have book labels – you sign in the inside cover with your name or you have cool stickers or even a stamp that says: Shields Family Library. (Yes, you can get stamps made for this!)You buy a book if someone recommends it. Or you go to the library and take that book out or reserve it. You are a fierce critic of book-to-film adaptations. When you read a book, you picture famous people in your mind as the characters. If by some chance, you saw a trailer for the book-to-film adaptation, you simply can’t get the image of the famous person cast as the main character(s) out of your head whilst you’re reading. You go see films that are based on/adapted from books. You look for bookish gifts (bags, purses, stickers, pins, socks, etc..) when you go in any gift store. You keep some kind of list of the books you’ve read…Goodreads, a journal – something. You carry a book in your purse/bag ALWAYS. You have a book(s) in your vehicle. When you’re traveling, you include bookstores in your travel plans. You attend literary events: readings, launches, signings…or you really want to…you promise you’ll get out to the next one! You’ve googled your favourite author(s). You mourn when they pass away. You feel guilty (or have in the past) for not finishing a book to is end.You either read the cover copy, the book flap, the first page or the last page when you’re deciding whether to buy a book. Or you judge it fully by its cover. Either way, you have a pattern for your choosing. You’ve pre-ordered a book. Every room you enter, you think “I could read in this room.”You have reading clothing: socks, joggers, sweaters, tuques, scarves, gloves with no fingers, etc..You have reading blankets: knitted, quilted, duvet, etc..Pretty much anytime there’s a grey-sky day, all you want to do is drop everything and read. When you hear the word read, your heart flutters and you have an internal chemical reaction that creates a desire to read. When you picture your future (anytime/anywhere), there are books in your visions.

What have I missed?

Please note: I suspect that many of the above list items pertain to those who read by listening. Whether you read or listen to books, you are a reader! Woohoo!

Four Years, Solstice, Teeth, Tomorrow

Beautiful Maria Bison

Today is four years since my beautiful Nonna passed away. I awoke feeling her spirit near. My mom sent me a text with the above photo included in it. This is one of our favourite photos of my Nonna. Can you see her gentleness, her curiosity, her love, her love, her love?!

The women will gather, four generations deep, and share stories and memories about her. We will look at photos and drink wine and eat food in her honour.

I miss her every single day. I was recently gifted with some of her jewelry. I wear it every day. They make me feel even closer to her – a gold pendant with an etched image of a nun on the front, and the date of her retirement on the back. Nonna worked at Hotel Dieu Grace Hospital as a seamstress and was extremely close with the women, many of whom were nuns, that ran the hospital. I love knowing that she wore this piece with pride, and that the golden image hung close to her heart.

I was gifted two of her rings.

I remember seeing the red-studded (garnet) ring on her hand. She wore it all the time. In fact, when I received it, there was a cut in the gold band from having it cut off her finger during one of her hospital stays. I remember it often shifted to the side when it was on her finger. The ring on with the blue and yellow stones is called a ‘family ring’, which I’d never heard of before! But the stones represent the birthstones of the women in the family. I don’t remember seeing this ring on her hand, but apparently she wore this one all the time too! Her birthstone is sapphire (September), and I can see the sapphire stones in the ring.

I love that she used her hands to cook and sew and these rings were part of those expressions of her daily love.

What I miss about her these days is her open home, arms and heart. We used to have these incredible heart-to-heart talks in the kitchen. She’d be tearing radicchio lettuce or snipping green bean tips or stirring homemade sugo…and listening to me unleash my existential woes. We’d laugh and cry and eat. She’d hug me hard, my body softening into hers. The healing was precise and consistent. I miss her house, the sanctuary of it. The fact that she was always there – in the spaces, birthing smells, creating clothing, ironing…I miss that at the ends of long days, she’d sit in the most uncomfortable (!) chair in the living room, fold her swollen-knuckle hands in her lap and smile. So happy just to be there. Tired, buzzed, but so, so happy.

I miss her body…her skin, her eyes, her smile, her teeth, her hands…always so rough in the fingertips, but so gentle in the loving uses. I can, ‘thank the good lord’ (as she always said), still feel her love and energy swirling inside and around me. She’s in my reflection. It’s an honour to see her in my cheekbones and belly and boobs. But…I’ll weep today…missing her still…grateful for knowing her, holding her, loving her…and being loved, being held, being known by her.

Summer SolsticeSummer Solstice Card Pull

June 20th, the summer solstice, was a day filled with wild energy and learning. I started the morning with a write in my journal and a four-card pull from my favourite oracle deck. Of course, the pull, the messages were bang on as they always are, and I felt (feel!) hopeful and peaceful about the possibilities for this summer for work, family and friendships.

Solstice Ceremony altar

Thank you to Cristina for joining me on the pool deck, beside the body of water, and under the nearly-full moon sky for sharing a welcome-in-summer ceremony. We talked, we laughed, we cried…we howled under the strawberry moon. Summer is here and thriving. I hope to keep this energy in my mind and body as I the long-lighted days continue.

Teeth

Oscar had to have eleven teeth pulled! But, the surgery went well, and he’s healing well…back to his sassy, sleepy self!

Oscar, this morning on the sofa.

I take him to the vet tomorrow for a follow-up. He’s been LOVING the soft, wet food he gets to eat, and is putting some of the weight he lost back on. Goodness, he’s lovin’ life…feasting and sleeping and loving! Thanks for all the texts/call of love for him! Woof! Woof!

Tomorrow…

Jett graduates from high school. My guts are knotty, and I’m doing my best to flow with this rite of passage…I found my journal from when I graduated from high school. June 1997. I laughed as I read it…for there was but a few lines of writing about exams and grades, words about exercise…and pages about boys. The boy I loved, the boy who didn’t love me back, the tumult of relationships in different shades of love. But, a few weeks post, I found a long journal where the deep, deeps fro that time in my life found their voice.

…High school is finished. My life, whole and complete as it was for five years, is no longer. Period. Part of me wants to take it all down, put it in a box and mark it with ‘high school’. Yet, still, the awards hang, dusty, on crooked nails, constantly representing spirit, community, excellence and knowledge. This is me. This is my life and all I want to do is crawl into the land of ‘everything I want’…There are so many things I want to do. All as important as each other. All possibilities of dynamic experiences I can create. I’m anxious all the time. I want to be finished university, finished school. I want to live in my own place – decorate it, paint it – create it. I want a puppy – puppy kisses, puppy pee, puppy nose, puppy walks. I want to travel around the world, to sky dive, scuba dive, climb mountains, swim in oceans. I want to change the world so everyone shares, and respects nature and each other. Money must die. Love must live…”

“July 7, 1997 – 1:36am – Journal entry

I love any sentence that begins with ‘I want to change the world…’ I wrote that sentence twenty-seven years ago. Honestly, it feels like way longer…I still know a lot of that young woman…I still feel that urge, that yearning for Big Dreams to come true.

And this…a couple of weeks later…

“…I don’t know who I am.
And what does that mean anyway? Who am I?
Artists express in lyrics, on canvas, on paper
the inner growth of themselves.
Wanting to be centred.
Gotta stay focused.
But the walls build…we build them, and then we’re trapped, or lost or uncentred, unfocused and the self we knew
is the self we’ve lost and the self we want to find.
Re-centre. Re-focus. Never does it ever go away.
My expression, that voice, that existence in my head that never ceases to be heard
screams one thing –
logic, knowledge
reality shouts another and something else…something else…something else just stands.
Listens. Reacts.
And decides what to do.
Like magic, it needs no words. No screaming or shouting.
It just ‘is’.

July 20, 1997 – after 1am

I’m smiling at myself. At my…upheaval. At my self-expression in the wee hours of the morning. At my dedication to getting the words out so desperately, so beautifully, so hopefully, so vulnerably. So much of me hasn’t changed at all…! I feel such love for that me…for that part that has been so alive in me my entire life. For the Animus, in her logic and knowledge, in her insistence on focus and organization. Oh…this is why I keep my journals, so I can reflect back and feel myself again…and feel myself the same…and feel myself differently.

Do you remember when you graduated from high school? For me, high school was everything. It was so fully who I was, why I was, what I was and wanted to achieve. I felt my best self growing…but clearly, as written by my own hand (!), that included not knowing who I was at all…but a collection of voices…looking for ink and a page.

The Swoop, The Flayer, The Light

And just like that, It swoops in.

This…Otherness….This Disconnector.

I was having a great day. Spent much of the morning in head-back hysterics, writing with ease, crossing things off the To-Do list like a master.

Then…around 1pm…Its entry – chest-hit…oozes into me like the Mind Flayer (Shadow Monster) in Stranger Things (I’m rewatching the show…in season three now. It’s sooo good!)

The Mind Flayer, Stranger Things, Season Two

This…energy feels like a whole new layer inside me, and it adds a filter to everything I think or do. It makes ‘work’ seem unbearable, too much, too big, too hard. Impossible. It makes writing silly, frivolous, a waste of time. It makes mothering a burden, a chore, an annoyance. None of these filters are ‘me’. The dishes, piled high in the kitchen, laugh at me. I don’t dare look down for my stomach is there to mock me.

This is hormonal. I know it because I can feel it. Maybe it’s not something external, but the trickery of the hormones makes it seem that way. It is the flush of change in my internal landscape that feels like an unwanted visitor, but really it’s always inside me, waiting to pull back the curtain surrounding it…a veritable ‘here’s johnny’ monthly eruption.

That’s ‘me’ in the background…in the background of my ‘self’, screaming in terror, my knife a flimsy, useless tool. The ax is in, baby! Heeeeeere’s Hormones! It’s not so violent…or maybe it is. This…re-awakening of the Shadow Hormones that come like an ax through a wooden bathroom door. I can feel my clothes, the material on my skin like it’s a foreign object. My bra straps feel like metal, squeezing around my rib cage. Soon the sides of my breasts will swell and it will feel like milk is charging in….like I have a child to feed.

And maybe I do. The little girls in me…oof. These metaphors read out of context could cause some grief…but it’s okay. I’m trying to be open and honest about this experience.

Because….it’s so affect-ive. It changes my experience of time and space and body and mind. Soon, all I will crave are carbs and sugar. My mind will, indeed, flay into a plethora of Shadow Songs urging to me slack, laze, stew, worry, jealous and sleep. It will take a Gathering of Light to get me to Do Anything.

So how do I do that? What is the Light?

My kids. My husband. Our dogs. A small amount of carbs and sugar. Water. A brisk walk. Thirty minutes of Yin Yoga with Kassandra. Watching a film or show that pulls my Parts into one focused story. The papa and poppies in the garden.

Oscar (aka The Papa) and Poppies

Tomorrow Oscar has to have surgery for lumpectomy and teeth cleaning. I’m scared. The Shadow Songs are singing scary scores around my guts and heart. I’m deep breathing to stay calm. He needs me to stay calm. He should be totally fine after steady recovery which I will be making sure he has…

This Flayer expands life happenings into Big Feelings. Jett is graduating one week from tomorrow. This morning, I was purely excited about this fact, and thinking about what dress to wear to the ceremony, how much tissue to pack in my purse. Now? It’s like Joy is trapped in a jail cell…and there is nothing but worry and sadness and loss swirling around my heart.

It is wild. I am…whirlwinded. Stormed. Flayed and Light-chasing.

46 Self-Portrait in the Pause – Part III – Story & Suerza

The Parts/Voices are vast and consistent. Each Part/Voice is attached to a narrative that feels as true in its story.

The Disconnect (w/ tears on paper)

There are some days when I feel disconnected from my self. Like my brain and its Forest of Change is hovering over me, denying me my self, my ability to be present, to embrace the lists, to do the doing, to feel, to trust, to love myself. There are some days when I have no motivation to do or feel anything. Except maybe, to dislike my self.

I don’t know what I will wake up to. Who…what parts, what voices will take the helm when I sit up, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Some days my body hurts all over. Some days my spine feels like rubber. Most days, my tailbone feels like an angry, swollen stone (who says stones don’t have feelings?!) and it hurts when I sit. Most days, I can’t look in the mirror for too long. Or if I do, I have to focus on one thing, like my hair or my mouth. I can’t look at the entirety of me because…well, the Parts hate most of me.

My interior self does not look or feel like my exterior self. This is another distinction…and something that contributes to my dysmorphia of body and mind. It is a narrative/Part/Voice I was born with, I believe, and that was cultivated by witnessing the women around me who also ‘hated’ or wanted to change how their bodies looked. As well, I can see now that those ‘famous’ women who I watched (musicians/actresses/athletes) all had bodies that were thin and/or muscular. I love to see how media has shifted in this regard, how different bodies are in commercials and shows and films. I can see and appreciate the strides in inclusion and diversity…and it is helping me with my narratives about my own body. But I still find myself, my Parts, thinking – what does that woman really believe about her body? If she ‘loves’ her body in that shape and form, what does she hate? It’s like, one of the narratives that connects the other body narratives is that if a woman loves her body…what other part of herself does she despise? As if as women, (as humans?) there simply must be some part(s) of us that we struggle with. Is that an accurate narrative? I don’t know what it’s like to not wake up and immediately think about what I will eat, what my body will feel and look like, whether or not I will exercise, drink enough water or write. These Parts, these narratives, come with the sun, sing like birdsong…whip like wind.

But I’ve never been more aware of these narratives, and more..available/open to the possibility that I can (and am?) changing these narratives and/or deleting them. Imagine what it would be like to go through an entire day and NOT think about food (calories/fat/sugar) and exercise (what? when? how long? is my caloric intake less than calories burned exercise? Will I lose weight today?).

I’ve been trying something new…when I can remember to do it! I’ll be doing something…like maybe yard work or stretching, and I’ll look at my legs, say, or my hands…and I’ll say to myself: thank you for my functioning legs, thank you for my useful hands. The moments are fleeting…but it scoots out the other thoughts that speak to lack, pain, or hatred. I want to be everyday-aware and conscious and grateful for my body, but it’s proving to be a difficult task to add this narrative, this habit, this to-do to the symphony of other thoughts in my brain.

Why do I forget to have (to make?) these seemingly simple and helpful/kind thoughts? Why does my body forget how good they make me feel? And why do the nasty thoughts get quieter…or even disappear when these good thoughts are…thought-ing?

Currently, I’m in the backyard, sipping on Cherry Coke Zero and munching on Cool Ranch Doritos. I know both of these food items aren’t ‘good’ for me. But, I’m sharing the chips with my daughter (she’s studying for a math exam, I’m writing to you), and I chose the soda instead of an ice cream cone (which is more calories than the soda)…I don’t have the…what do I even call it? Self-control? To not eat the chips and drink the soda, but the context of the situation is such that the soda, the chips…the sharing of it and our amazing backyard space…these things are part of the shared experience. They’re part of the Story of Early Summer Backyard memory-making. They’re part of the Story of Comfort.

Did you know that Cool Ranch Doritos debuted in 1986? I was 8-years old. I remember so vividly when this wild new flavour burst into convenience stores and into my life. We included the Cool Ranch flavour into our summer afternoons, our Friday-night movie nights…This nostalgia is also part of the context of the The Story of Early Summer.

That 8-year old girl is so alive in me. So’s the 12-year old. She’s someone really special, who’s been an important guide in helping me understand my Animus and my reactions to things regarding my life. I’ve had several, very intense therapy sessions where I’m transported to spaces (bedroom, ironing room, basement, etc.), and I can remember everything from sounds to textures to others who are there (or not), and I can feel the 8-year old or the 12-year old in these spaces like I’m actually there. The memories are so damn vivid…and what I felt then I can still feel now. And the Parts that began then…I can definitely still feel now, except that then – many of the Parts were created as coping mechanisms and/or safety/protective actions so that I could survive what was happening.

In this regard, I’m only just learning about the relationship between my central nervous system, my Animus, my vagus nerve, and my immune system. It is not surprising that I’ve had auto-immune disease(s) since I was a child. Fight, flight or freeze, that’s been huge Parts of me my entire life. That’s a lot work on the nervous system…on the guts…on the soul.

I can tell you that my 12-year old self was and continues to be The Holder of My Writing Life. She works great with my Animus. They were and continue to be fast friends! She knows she’s a Writer. She knows she’s a Reader. She knows the importance (the necessity) of reading and writing every day. She has long brown hair, wears pink cords and a cute t-shirt. Her body is a vessel alive for the purpose of reading and writing – the Demon Woman is not allowed near her. She is strong-willed yet easy-going. She doesn’t just dream, she knows, that her future includes published books, book tours, adapted books into films. She knows she will meet Tom Cruise, and maybe even convince him to be in one of her films. She lives in the bedroom I had when I was 12. On Mckay street on the west side…where the worst parts of my childhood were experienced. But she’s not afraid. In that room, with her books and her journals and her beautiful, confident, patient mind…she is also the best Part of my writing life. She is the Writer in Me.

I get emotional just thinking about her. I don’t know that I can do ‘me’ without having her so profoundly holding me in Purpose. And she is with me again in beautiful force, after retreating…hiding from what happened (what is now!) just over two years ago.

How does she co-exist with all the other Parts? How does she forbid the Demon Woman from penetrating? Honestly, I don’t really know, but I don’t really need to know. What matters is that she’s survived, she’s thrived for (…46 -12 = 34…yes, I totally used a calculator for this equation) thirty-four years now, and she’s still one of the major Parts in my mind/body/life. My relationship with my Parts is on-going…and I want her as a Leader in my mind. And she wants to be a leader – so long as I’m reading and writing. That’s her job, if you will. That’s her plot line…her driving force.

I feel my self as a collection of stories. Some stories have narrators who scare me, hate me, love me. Some narrators I was born with. Some narrators began when I was a kid. Narrators are coming and going. They are connected to things that happen around me (externally – people, places, things) and internally (illness, disease, emotions, hormones…). I logically understand that I am able to control and/or keep and/or change the stories inside me…I definitely cannot control people, places or things. And I think, the disconnect I was writing about earlier, is happening because I am becoming so aware of how the stories live and cultivate inside me. I also am aware that a major change is still happening, though I am on the, shall we say, third act, of some of them, I am still very much in change.

“…the profoundest changes tend to happen not willed but spawned by fertile despair — the surrender at the rock bottom of suffering, where the old way of being has become just too painfully untenable and a new way must be found…”

The Marginalian by Maria Popova

It is true. My experience as poet laureate began in a different body, in different stories than the ones I am in now. I curled into a rock bottom, suffering through a fear that I hadn’t felt since I was a child. My Parts (re)awakened in ways that I hadn’t experienced before. Some of the stories stood up like soldiers, pointing machines guns and telling me the bullets were coming – where did I want them?

I didn’t want to be in that situation, but I couldn’t not be in that situation. And even though I didn’t really ‘get’ it at the time, that ‘fertile despair’ catapulted me out of relationships that needed to change – internal and external. And as brutal as it was to choose to change, it was the only way to begin to heal the wounds – old and new. I have a voice in my head that, when I think about that time, repeats over and over: you were responsible for your choices, and these choices were made in your integrity and dignity – this matters. Because another voice, in equal volume and repetition, says: It’s your fault and people hate you for it.

I can feel the validity in the first voice, and I can feel the pain in the second.

And so, all of this (and more) in the core of the panic attack, in the core of the changes, in the core of the ‘pause’ that is peri-menopause.

What comes next?

Navigating these massive external life changes coupled with the massive internal life change that I am going through (peri-menopause), I can feel like a mess. It would be enough to witness my children (son and daughter) experiencing their own ‘inside and out’ changes, making and reaching goals. My son turning into a hairy man, my daughter turning into a woman; I’m attempting to hold all the feelings that I’m having about it in some kind of manageable way…but when I go through a pyramid of emotions from deep rage to hysterical laughing in a span of 47 seconds, over and over again…pausing to reflect on the realities of this time in my life is like…is like…living in a storm…and shit is flying and whooshing all around me…I’m getting picked up off the ground and tossed around…banging against old stories and getting yanked by new stories…missing old friends and embracing new…sometimes deep in a quietude and relieved…only to be whipped into some new big emotion…

Exhale.

In this moment, exactly, I am feeling suerza. It’s a noun: a feeling of quiet amazement that you exist at all; a sense of gratitude that you were even born in the first place, that you somehow emerged alive and breathing despite all odds, having won an unbroken streak of reproductive lotteries that stretches all the way back to the beginning of life itself. Spanish suerte, luck + fuerza, force. Pronounced “soo-wair-zuh. (From: The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig, gifted by my dear friend Barry. Thank you, Barry!)

I’d like to take this opportunity to say THANK YOU to all those who’ve offered comments, texts, phone calls, voice messages in love, love, love as I’m sharing these experiences. I hear you. I see you. I feel you. I’m grateful for you.

46 Self Portrait in the Pause- Part II – My Animus

Several distinctions occurred to me these past days as I’ve reflected on (and recovered from) the panic attack. Sifting through the noise in search of a concise way to describe what these distinctions are show up in other images I created in my conversation with my husband about what’s happening inside my body.

Underneath the red wildness of lines is ‘me’, is the person (girl, woman) I KNOW. (My censor is back. It’s saying: people are gonna think you’re bananas for writing this. Thanks, censor. A-buh-bye.) She/me is overwhelmed by all the Parts. The Parts live and move inside my entire body, inside my head. Some of them, step outside – and yell, scream, order, love – from that perspective, adding to the wildness of my Parts, to the layers of feelings/emotions and reactions/responses.

My Brain – or the container for the Forest of Change.

My brain (because that’s where it feels like all this chaos begins) is a container for the Forest of the Change. The hub, if you will, that reaches out through my nervous system, and moves the chaos so that it feels utterly uncontrollable. Currently, the Parts have a Leader. This is an aggressive, controlling, logical, analytical, Authoritative Ruler. I’ve recently learned that this Ruler has a name. This name is Animus.

The Listings via Animus

On most days, I make extraordinary lists, to organize, to ‘rationalize’ and keep me on task. I am able to Be Present in the moments that I’m doing the tasks. Like now, writing this post. I have been able to stay present and focused. I am able to write clearly and, even though my body is having physical responses to what I’m writing, I’m still able to stick to it. These capabilities come from a Part of me, a driving force…

What I’m learning about the Animus is based on Carl Jung’s psychological work: The Anima/Animus relates to our inner or soul life. Not soul as understood in metaphysical terms as something which lives on beyond our physical existence but rather soul as in the inner force that animates us. The Anima is part of the male. The Animus is part of the female. Researching this more deeply brings complication, and needed time for contemplation. But for me to continue, I can tell you how I am beginning to know my own Animus…and in acknowledging it and learning how to ‘be’ with it, I hope that I can also learn how to shift out of its current…negative capacity, and create a Positive Animus that I can live with and love.

In other words, I am hyper-aware of this Ruling Part inside me that has been driving my rationality, my motivation, my ‘do-do-do’ action-ality (if you will) for as long as I can remember. My Animus is the big red circle on the top right of the diagram I drew. (The big red circle in the centre depicts how I feel about my body…the shape/size…more on this later.)

My Animus – the big red circle on the top right.

What if this Authoritative Ruler grew its first roots when I was child as a way to steer me away from something? Perhaps a Big Emotion. What if this Big Emotion was Anger? What if my Animus rooted and grew as a Guide that I needed to navigate childhood experiences that I was not able to handle emotionally? What if, having taken root and begun its growth inside me, and also been inspired by an external authoritative ruler, like a parent, or peer, or a teacher…whoever at that time I felt I was inferior to/was afraid of (which was pretty much everyone), my Animus did an exemplary job leading me through each day by helping me create stability through order, rationality, analysis and rules?

When I look at this version of the story of my Animus, I feel…grateful that it was able to help me through those difficult times. However, the rigidity through which my Animus ruled, simultaneously…fattened by way of a…how can I explain it…a side kick? This side-kick was in charge of my relationship with my body, that is, with the vessel that enables my ‘me’ to ‘be’ in the world. As a witness to women (both known in my childhood as well as unknown but observed in society) with complicated, negative, aggressive (hateful, even) relationships with their bodies, my Animus side-kick grew her own body and mind, and began to teach me how to hate my body – the sacred vessel that houses my spirit, my heart, my ability to love…

I’m recalling now a saying that women often offer each other in times of shared self-loathing/hatred: would you talk to your best friend like that? Call her ugly, fat, stupid, etc.? – we question each other. And, of course, our response, immediate and exacting is NO WAY! We wouldn’t. We don’t. Yet this ‘logical’ knowing does not stop, has not stopped me from continuing to talk to myself about my body with such vigorous negativity, with downright meanness. This Animus side-kick has been named. I call her The Demon Woman. She has been a Part of my ‘self’ for as long as I can remember.

What’s in a name? I mean, I’m beginning to feel a kind of…cautious kinship with my Animus. I’m quite enjoying that I have given it a name. But naming The Demon Woman…feels like it gives her more power, and she is not a Part I want to indulge. (She’s kinda hanging back today, eyeing the donut bag to the left of my laptop. And the Censor is still here too, suited up in a fancy black ensemble, arms folded, smug, denying its culpability in attempting to murder my creative life. What me? A maniacal, narcissistic asshole? Nope, not me…it coos.)

What is the relationship between my Animus, the Demon Woman and the Forest of Change – that is – the panic attack, my self-portrait and peri-menopause?

Today, it is the ‘ah-ha’ discovery that this trifecta of experience is an integral step in the process of deep change that I am inside of. If I am able to identify my Animus and its current functions that lean heavily toward negative self-talk, especially in tandem with the side-kick DW (let’s quiet her name); that, in fact, the genesis of this particular version of my Animus seeded and bloomed during childhood experiences wherein I had to quell my anger in order to survive safely, could it follow that (thank you, Isla) I can reshape, redirect, ‘edit’ this version of my Animus? Is it possible to seed and grow a Positive Authoritative Ruler that does not hate ‘me’, that does not avert my anger, but, rather, give it space to ‘be’?

What if, and this one brings on the tears, part of (or maybe all of) the reason that the DM exists is to continue the narrative of denial of love towards my body, this sacred vessel that gives me life? If I am aware of this…could I offer an alternative Animus side-kick who teaches me how to love my body?

It is extraordinary to me how interconnected my internal and external systems are in relation to how I engage with my body. What if my Animus’ stealing of motivation for doing/making good choices for my body is rooted in its protective energy for a narrative that began when I was a child…that no longer ‘fits’ the narrative of the woman, and of her body at this point in time? And what if peri-menoPAUSE is precisely that opportunity for ‘me’ (and all my Parts) to shift out of this (and other) narratives because, damnit, my body (the sacred vessel!) is literally changing at a cellular level and regenerating into something…new, different…open?

Part III forthcoming.

46: Self-Portrait in the Pause – Part I

SELF-PORTRAIT, MAY 28, 2024

I had a panic attack the afternoon of my 46th birthday. It was around 3pm. I was driving to pick up my son, after I had a lovely lunch with a loved one. The panic attack started during the lunch, but I wasn’t sure what was happening so I did my best to breathe through it.

At first, it was the sounds. My ears seemed to turn on to some super-hero level of hearing. I could hear birds breathing, fish swimming. There were big fans over our tables at the outdoor patio we were dining at. The shadows on the tabletop of the spinning fans felt like…like they were cutting into me. I couldn’t stop seeing them, my eyes trying to see each arm as it zoomed by. At one point, I stretched my arms out to try and break the connection with my eyes, to break the pattern of zipping shadows.

My guts churned. I had to run to the bathroom. A cold sweat lifted on my skin. I was dizzy, but fighting. I went to my friend’s house for a little visit there, and while we were talking, my hearing, once again, opened up. I could hear our syllables bouncing off the walls and ringing inside my head. I kept breathing deeply, trying to remain calm, but inside I was reeling. I had to go to the bathroom again.

So by the time we said our goodbyes and I was driving home, the panic escalated. I felt like a crowd of people were inside of me, my head felt gigantic. There were loud voices arguing about how to feel, what to think. I put on music to try to stop the voices, but that only added to the cacophony. It was almost painful to add more sound to the situation. Voices were screaming at me about everything from the way I was driving to body shaming to death. The extreme…aggression and some violent thoughts truly terrified me.

I kept my eyes on the road, gripped the steering wheel. I could see…but not really. It was taking all my energy to stay focused as these giant voices inside me that were tossing around my emotions like a hot potato. They were attacking my ‘self’ which was shrinking and hiding at all costs. The voice of my disappearing self was screaming HELP. HELP. HELP.

I practised four-part breathing: inhale – 2-3-4, hold-2-3-4, exhale – 2,3,4. That helped for a few minutes of respite. I kept trying to tell myself…the part of me that I know was ‘me’…that I was okay. That this was likely the onset of a panic attack, but I had to get to my destination safely before I could weep, which is what my body was telling me it needed to do.

I made it to my destination, and texted then phoned my husband. There was no response. This put me over the edge and I started gulping for breath. I did not want to go inside where he was because I was embarrassed about what was happening. I called another number, and got a hold of him…barely getting my words out for him to come outside. In the few seconds it took for him to reach me, I was sobbing, shaking and terrified.

He held me. I managed to get out some words…

“I’m going crazy. I can’t breathe. Something’s wrong. I can’t…I can’t…I can’t…”

(Just typing this out is making my heart pump extra hard – I can literally feel it thumping against my rib cage. Oh, how the body remembers…)

I tried to explain how I was feeling…but it was difficult. In those moments, I felt completely out of control, scared and helpless. I wanted to cancel/stop everything – cancel our birthday dinner celebration, quit work, go home and curl into a ball in bed for a very.long.time.

With the gentle care and calmness of my husband, more deep breathing, letting out several huge sobs, and searching inside the massive mess of voices in my brain, I was able to relocate my ‘self’, breathe, and be held.

After about 15 minutes, the panic attack subsided. But I was still shaken up. I had to drive home with my son. He was scared…having caught the tail end of the panic attack. I didn’t want him to see me…but I also didn’t want to hide. On the way home, just the two of us, we had a beautiful conversation about how I was feeling…lost, out of control, scared, like my entire sense of self was in a million pieces and I didn’t know how to put me back together. We agreed this was (is) an existential experience.

My son turned 18 on the same day I turned 46. We share a birthday, and clearly, we share a deep-rooted understanding of each other. That ride home helped me begin to reflect on what happened. Why I had the panic attack…and that, in fact, he and I felt similar things regarding sense of self (identity), change and motivation.

We arrived home safely and I rested for a time. My son and I walked our dogs. Being outside, inhaling the fresh air, watching the dogs be dogs, helped me calm down even more. I didn’t cancel dinner, but I let my mom know that I’d had a panic attack so my low-key-ness at dinner had a reason. She was concerned, but I told her I was okay. But damn, that experience was very, very hard and scary. I trembled for quite some time. My body calmed, and by the time we had to leave to go to the restaurant, I felt better, hungry even.

After dinner, I gathered some paper and a marker (red was the most fitting colour, both for love and aggression), and my husband and I went to our bedroom to talk. I told him I wanted to draw out, to diagram, what it feels like inside my body. And thus, the above image was created.

I believe that my panic attack was a result of a confluence of Big Things.

My son turned 18. This seemed impossible to me. I’ve been witnessing him grow and change…in his mind and body. Rationally, I know that this is what’s so, that this is how life works. That he is strong, intelligent and fully capable of being this age, and continuing to grow. But at the same time, the mother in me, the space that held him as he grew inside me…my womb…my heart…these parts have been in constant grief. Hormones. I was having some sort of hormonal excess…likely part of my pre-menstrual cycle, but these PMS symptoms are extremely heightened and unpredictable during peri-menopause. It seems like ‘hormones’ are new people/parts inside me. They are mean and aggressive. They are kind and peaceful. They are old and new. They have created a kind of Forest of Change inside me. I turned 46. In a part of my brain, I don’t care at all about this number. I flip back and forth between feeling age 12 and age 15. But my life, my cells, my body, my narratives are all 46 years old…and, like it seemed impossible to me that my son was turning 18, it also felt impossible that I was turning 46. Denial. A component of these life changes is rooted in denial. My rational self gets overpowered by the other parts that have blossomed since I started peri-menopause. My ability to deny actual, factual, logical truths and experiences has become like a Mother Tree in this Forest of Change. I can deny (another way of describing this is going numb) feelings/emotions/realities as a coping mechanism for the loss (grief) inherent in the changes in my life at this time. These changes are my own, and also those around me who I love. I could not deny the changes happening on that day, and the Mother Tree panicked…

Part II…forthcoming…

Because

These days are for throat work. For deglutition – aka swallowing. For collaboration with pharynx and esophagus. For the miracle of the complexities of breathing. For honest communication swathed in the lapis-blue of my throat chakra energy. Quietly.

I’ve been swallowing it down. The words. The voices. I’ve been stomach-ing the fears. No wonder I’m bloated. My journal is alive with vibrating truths that I’ve been hiding.

I am not myself. I have never been more myself. Living in the paradoxes, I write to you every day…in my mind.

I don’t know why I hold back. That is the daily lie.

I know why I hold back.

Because – a one-word sentence. Because – conjunction-junction…what’s your function!

Because Miller wakes me early to rise and braid her hair. I will never say no to braiding…her hair, our time, our love together.

Because the dogs need walking.

Because the laundry needs doing.

Because the air smells so damn good, I need to keep inhaling.

Because my tailbone is a territory of torture. Sit, stretch. Stand, stretch. Pelvic floor muscles be weak…

Because PMS swells my bones and I’m too heavy to do anything.

Because there are too many books to read.

Because summer movies beckon me into their stories.

Because dishes.

Because sleep.

Because making love.

Because dancing.

Because repotting plants.

Because contemplation and reflection.

Because petting the dogs.

Because cooking.

Because eating.

Because blood work.

Because lunch with soul-sisters.

Because book launches.

Because bi-weekly chapters.

Because the YA novel.

Because editing.

Because workshops.

Because celebrations.

Because another mother passes.

Because badminton.

Because crying.

Because therapy.

Because workshops.

Because travel.

Because birthdays.

Because submissions.

Because the voices in my head.

Because because because! Because of the wonderful things he does…

Because the inside doesn’t match the outside.

Because worry.

Because nausea.

Because coffee. (Flat white, if you please.)

Because goodbyes.

Because laughter.

Because walking.

Because money.

Because there is always a voice in my head that tells me what I’m doing wrong, how my words don’t matter, how my voice is bad. Because this voice in my head is my childhood, my youth, my womanhood, my shift into crone…Because it is the voice of voices, a leader, a destiny, a lesson I’m continuing to learn. Because I have to, want to learn how to live with the dark as it is in equal force to the light. Because I’m still grieving the losses – made by my own choices, rooted in dignity and love, but still painful and healing.

Because I’m changing – again. And I wasn’t prepared for the suffering in my mind and body – this cohesively chaotic wild-dance of letting go, of embracing end-ships and of befriending the death of the body so I may learn how to return to starlight with love.

Because even as I write and the voice I love pushes past the voice that hates me, I see the difference in the language and fight to let it live in the black-letter-life of this blog I started nearly twenty years ago…

Because I want to learn how to create without the need to know that someone is reading.

Because I want someone to read and be affected.

Because I’ve always felt one step behind belonging.

Because belonging to my self, in this body now, is a treacherous hike into a forest of mirrors.

Because I know I am a writer.

Because purposes shift.

Because…

And now for a break from our sponsors…

Would love to share writing with you! Send me an email to register!

Spring Snow & A Good Interruption

Spring Equinox was March 19. Today, it’s snowing. *She throws her head back and laughs.* Indeed, our spring is showing signs of continued confusion by way of Mother Nature’s choices. As much as she’s teaching us about accountability, I believe she’s also teaching us about going with the flow of change. That even change…can have changes.

One thing’s for sure…the flowers are popping up, from earth that looks unliveable, but also in grocery stores…and they’re beautiful and lush and they smell sooo good!

Have you been re-acquainted with your motivation? Oh, friends! I am *FINALLY* feeling that whisper-burn of ‘hey, let’s do this, shall we? And um, then let’s do it again!’ It feels like I haven’t had any bond with my motivation in a very long time. I know that being peri-menopausal is a good chunk of the reason, but I think it also has to do with the light, the warmth, and the seasonal changes that the earth shows me. I have become very attuned to moon phases and seasonal cycles in the last few years, and, the season that I’ve come to learn most about in my body is Winter. That it’s okay to hibernate, get a little soft in muscle and mind…and hunker down into books and films and long conversations. The darkness welcomes this kind of cave-like curving in.

But now! Oh, there is still light at 7pm! And I’m finding I have the most energy between 7pm and 9pm for writing, editing, and other mind-heavy work. I’ve been folding (any kind of!) exercise back into my days…hoping to continue to build a habit so that my body won’t be in pain each time I do a new exercise. I was on the treadmill earlier this week. I ran…but then my shin splintered and calves felt like they were going to burn off. I had to stop. It was…frustrating and scary. I did a long stretch after, and had an intense somatic experience which caused a load of sobbing. Poor Jett heard me and came over to see if I was okay. He’s 17-going-on-18 and keeps to a pretty rigorous fitness routine. I felt embarrassed…but I told him I was crying because my body can’t do what it used to do, and it hurts in odd places without any kind of warning or consistency. And that’s…well, it’s scary. He offered some suggestions to help things hurt less…and it was sweet. And he was right, although I’d already been doing the things he’d suggested…and the pain was still alive and well. I finished my stretching and wiped my face…(And promptly denied the grief of children growing up to elbow into my current weeping. )

I use my body so much. Is that weird to say? I have always been in good communication with my physical body, especially since being diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis when I was 19. (And more recently, another auto immune disease has joined the party…but it’s under control.) I use my body for ‘meta’-physical guidance too. That is, my intuition gets stronger each day, my psychic ability increases as much as I’ll let it (sometimes it’s scary…but I’m trying not to be scared!). Energetically, my body is constantly at work. Energetically, I feel…maybe 14? But there is a disconnect between my ‘energetic’ me and my ‘physical’ me. Like, the things I envision/dream/visualize (synonyms!) are oftentimes not actually possible in the body I’m in. For example, I can envision myself running with ease and strength, but when I (try to) do it…my body has different capabilities, which recently, do not include mobility without pain. So I have to be slower, gentler, more patient and find new ways to work with my physical body.

(*The censor is going berserk in my head right now. Pointing at me, shaking her head. Telling me this is ablelist language/writing…and I want to recognize her presence and acknowledge that it is not my intention to be discriminatory. I am sharing my experience within my body for the purpose of understanding it, and creating connections.)

My goal is to remain strong in body and mind and spirit, because I want to live a lot longer, to be able to hold my grandkids, to climb mountains with my husband, to help family and friends. I have become acutely aware of what that means in terms of paying attention to my body, mind and spirit, as time passes. When I think about it, this body…this gift of vessel, has been working for 45 years. Do cars last that long? Airplanes? I know I’m not a machine, however, sometimes it helps for me to consider that my body needs certain things like a car or airplane needs in order to be able to function and function well. It’s okay that some parts are feeling the work of 45 years. But I want to live well for at least 45 years more, so that means continued attention and learning and maintenance in this vessel.

My equinox pull was on point! (As usual!) But the biggest take-away was a line about ‘interruption’…which was the EXACT same line that my fabulous therapist said to me during our afternoon session.

“…you can connect to others in a healthy way once you recognize your patterns and consciously choose to INTERRUPT them…”

Wisdom of the Oracle Divination Cards by Colette Baron-Reid

I like the idea of interrupting something…a pattern, a fear, a habit. I like the space there is in the interruption for pause and reflection. And, in fact, I had consciously engaged in a pattern-interrupting action…without recognizing it as such, so when the words arrived to show me…what an exhilarating experience that was!

The day of the spring equinox is a day marking…

“…a time for freedom and resilience in our bodies (physical, emotional, mental, spiritual, political)…”

—Karen L. Culpepper © Mother Tongue Ink 2023

I hope you’re feeling this buzzy interruption in your own life. That a kind of lifting is occurring in your mind, body and spirit and you flow with the changes of the season – internal and external.

Bookish Things

I’m currently reading ‘The Change Room‘ by Karen Connellly, my professor through Humber. It’s a hot one!

I finished read ‘Bad Cree‘ by Jessica Johns for our horror book club. It was incredible!

And…next week, a dear friend, amazing educator and incredible mother, Rita Miceli is celebrating the launch of her memoir ‘Giaci and Me‘.

Join Rita Miceli on Wednesday, March 27th, 2024 to celebrate the launch of her book Giaci and Me: A Mother’s Journey of Loving and Raising an Autistic Child. The book launch and author reading will be held from 6:30pm-8:30pm at the St. Clair Centre for the Arts, 201 Riverside Drive West, in Windsor, Ontario.  See you there!

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