Linda Hoye's Blog, page 188

One Month Left On The Retirement Countdown Chain

I paused yesterday morning as I was heading out the door on my way to work. It seemed like I was forgetting something.

“We must be getting closer,” I said to Gerry. “I don’t think I have any tasks to give you for today!”

We are, indeed, getting closer to retiring, relocating, and repatriating to Canada. Two weeks from today the movers will be loading our belongings into the moving truck. As you can tell by this photograph things are in a bit of an upheaval here, those days of feeling like we were living in a museum because of having to keep the house looking pristine for potential buyers are long gone.

The past few weeks have been hectic and stressful as we found and purchased a home, began organizing, coordinating, and preparing to move, all while taking into considering various cross-border implications. I have the utmost respect for the moving coordinator provided by my company for us when we moved here seven years ago–there are a lot of balls to keep in the air with any move, much less one to a different country.

We are doing the bulk of the packing ourselves and, while we’ve made good progress, there’s still a lot to be done before moving day. We don’t yet know when we’ll cross the border into Canada because we need to coincide our arrival with the moving truck’s crossing. The only thing we know for sure is that on February 18 we will be Canadian residents and homeowners again.

I am so looking forward to getting on the other side of this move and settling in to our new life. I’m dreaming of having time to write, cook, read, garden, sew, organize our new home, and get back into posting regularly here at A Slice of Life Writing.

I leave you today with a photograph of the flowers my husband gave me this week in honour of my birthday: fifty-five long-stemmed roses in honor of my double-nickels, retirement-eligible birthday!

Handle With Care

I’m home alone sitting in a silence surrounded by boxes and a general pre-move mess. Gerry and I worked hard over the weekend sorting and packing. I feel good about the progress made but today my body is weary from the weekend’s activities. I am thankful for a day to rest.

There are many details to keep track of as we are on this journey to retiring, relocating, and repatriating. One of these thing on it’s own would involve it’s own manner of organization. All three together are crazy-making at times. I’ve got a black notebook that has become my constant companion filled with lists and lists within lists. I’m surrounded by calendars, Post-It notes, and a plethora of paperwork (oh my, the paperwork) to manage all of the transitions.

Saturday was a beautiful sunshiny day that we spent mostly inside packing. I’m the kind of person who, when she sets her eyes on a goal, is not easily diverted from the task at hand. It took some persuading on the part of my husband, but in the afternoon we took a break and took Maya for a walk around the neighbourhood. The time spent walking in the sunshine was just what I needed and as we walked into our yard I noticed that the crocuses and daffodils are up in my front yard–the promise of rebirth and renewal right there in front of my eyes.

Late Sunday afternoon there was a football game on TV that we stopped our mad packing activities in order to watch. I’m not a fan of the sport but I was more than happy to settle in on the sofa with a quilt and my iPad to catch up on some things I needed to do while Gerry watched the game and a pot of spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove.

“One more month” has become our mantra as we look ahead to our new life back in Canada. The way is clearer now than it was a few weeks ago as details get finalized and the unknown becomes known. This eases some of my angst and helps me sleep easier.

There are still many things to be done, perhaps even many things I should be tending to today,  but instead I’m giving myself the gift of rest. A cup of tea, some time to work on a jig-saw puzzle, curling up with a quilt and a book, a walk with Maya through the neighbourhood to look for signs of spring, a pedicure, these are the things my weary self needs to set as priority today. And I’m okay with that.

Three Months Left On The Retirement Countdown Chain

Writing this post feels a bit like playing a part in that movie Groundhog Day–you know, the one where the characters in the movie experience the same day over and over again. Two months ago my post had this same title and displayed the same image of my retirement countdown chain with three links left.

Our retirement plans were stalled for a while as we waited for our home to sell since our plans involve us moving back to Canada. I was more than a little big discouraged at the real estate market in this part of the country that was causing us to make changes to our master plan but today, on this first day of a new year, I’m resuming the countdown again as our home is sold and we’ve begun to search in earnest for our new home in Canada.

A few months ago I wrote about feeling like Tarzan swinging through the jungle and how I felt like I was dangling in the middle, still grasping the vine behind but unable to quite reach the vine ahead. Today, I’m dangling precariously over the precipice of the unknown looking ahead trying to catch a glimpse of our new home. I’ll feel ever so much better once know exactly where that new home will be. Right now I’m feeling like a combination of Tarzan and Goldilocks as I find that this house is too big/too small/too this/too that. How’s that for a visual–a Tarzan/Cinderella-like being swinging through the jungle?!

All in all, 2014 dawns as a season of significant transition in my life. It’s both exciting and terrifying at the same time.

I received an email from someone today reminding me to breathe deeply and remember the words of Julian of Norwich:  “And all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.”

I pray that this year dawns with all things well in your world too. Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas

In the five years since I started my blog three weeks is by far the longest I’ve gone with out saying something. Many changes are on the horizon that I’ll share with you soon.

Today, I’m sitting by the fire listening to Christmas carols and basking in the peace of my home. I’m also remembering years when Christmas didn’t feel like a blessing–when it was a day to summon all the strength and stoicism I could muster just to get through it because my attempt to ignore it had proven to be impossible. I’m thinking of those who may find themselves in a similar circumstance today and I’m sending up prayers for them.

Whether you’re one of the ones filled with the joy of the season or whether you’re holding back tears because it’s just hard right now, I pray an abundance of Christmas peace and blessing for you. Joy comes in the morning.

Merry Merry Christmas.

Philomena…and a few steps backward

There’s a new adoption-related movie out that, according to accounts I’ve read, is getting good reviews. Philomena, based on the book The Lost Child of Philomena by Martin Sixsmith, is the account of an Irish woman’s fifty-year search for the son she was coerced to surrender to adoption. The subject matter, and the fact that it stars the amazing Judi Dench, mean I can’t wait to see it.

This morning on my drive to work I was listened to part of an interview on CBC’s The Current with the book’s author, who also happens to be the journalist who helped Philomena track down her son in America. I was touched as I heard the account of how mother and son’s path’s crossed more than once over the years as they both tried to obtain information about the other from the convent where Philomena was forced to sign away her parental rights. I was angry at the hard-hearted nuns who refused repeatedly to release information that would have allowed mother and son to reunite, and the belief of the day (Philomena gave birth in 1952) that an unmarried woman was unfit to raise a child.  And I was grieved when I learned that her son Anthony (or Michael as he was named by his adoptive parents) died before Philomena was able to connect with him.

I’m pleased that his movie is bringing attention to the atrocities committed in the past that separated too many children from their mothers. We’re finally beginning to acknowledge the damage that was done to countless mothers and children by heartless policies that forced so many women to surrender their babies.

In 2012, Dan Rather reported on forced practices from Australia, Spain, Ireland, and America in his Adopted or Abducted report. Earlier this year former Prime Minister, Julia Gillard issued an apology on behalf of the Australian government to those affected by forced adoption practices. The United Church in Canada has launched a probe into maternity home practices from the 1940s to the 1970s where unmarried women were deemed unfit and coerced into giving their children up for adoption; so far they’ve stopped short of making an apology.

In the United States it’s commonly known as The Baby Scoop Era; the period between 1940 and 1970 when it is estimated that four million mothers surrendered newborn babies to adoption. There are no similar statistics compiled for Canada but, make no mistake, the practice was rampant there as well.

I was adopted during the Baby Scoop Era but my story is different. The woman who gave birth to me was not a naïve young woman who made a mistake. My birth mother was forty years old, had already surrendered a son to adoption by a family member, had another son she raised, and would five years after giving me up, surrender another daughter in a closed adoption. Four children with four different fathers. Naïve? Not so much.

The argument could be made that if she had been given adequate social and economic support she could have raised all four of her children herself but, of course, no one can say for certain. In my case, it was my birth mother who died before I could reunite with her. I’ve wrestled with resentment toward her since I first learned the truth so many years ago. When I encounter adoption stories I often feel like I’m on the outside looking in because it seemed that she made a conscious choice not to parent me.

I’ve read my adoption file and court transcript when she relinquished her right to me.

“It’s not that I’m unwilling to look after her. It’s not what I want; it’s what’s best for her.”

Did she really believe it was best for me to be separated from her, or was she was speaking from a place of confusion, desperation, and parroting the words of well-meaning social workers? Most likely it was a combination of both. I suppose I was touched by that Baby Scoop Era philosophy after all.

The words that mean the most to me from the entire adoption file are these: “Mother is quite disturbed in separation from child.” Somehow, on some selfish, visceral level, it pleases me to know she was quite disturbed. After all, I’ve been “quite disturbed” in varying degrees for almost fifty-five years. I’m not proud of these feelings; I don’t dwell on them; and I don’t like the part of me that feels them. That “grief to gratitude” that I wrote about in Two Hearts? Yeah, sometimes I take a few steps back into the grief.

I doubt that adoption will ever go away. I’m not convinced it should; there are situations where adoption (not the shame-based forced adoption climate of the past) truly is in the best interest of a child. Today, I’m just pleased that the movie Philomena is gaining popularity, gaining awards, and shedding light where so darkness and shame reigned for too many years.

I intend to see as soon as I can.

Solitude and Silence

According to the media today is Black Friday, one of the busiest shopping days of the year and the day that heralds the unofficial beginning of the holiday shopping season. I have not even the slightest desire to venture out into the mayhem I expect we’ll see portrayed on the evening news tonight though I did do a tiny bit of online shopping this morning.

Gerry is at work today so I’m spending the day at home basking in the pleasure of solitude and silence. I treasure days like this when I have no commitments and my time is my own; these days nourish my soul and help me reground myself.

Yesterday I cooked a small turkey and Gerry worked in the yard. (I was delighted to find that our selected turkey had two hearts (Get it? Two Hearts?!) and had a rousing discussion on Facebook about consuming turkey giblets. They’re practically the best part of the bird in my book!

Tomorrow we’ll hit the stores early to finish Christmas shopping for the grands as we’ll be traveling back to Canada again very soon.

I had planned to post today about a delightful ninety-three-year-old woman we had the pleasure of spending an evening with recently but I think I’ll save that for another day. Just now, I’m giving myself permission to grab a quilt and curl up in front of the fire with a book.

I hope you’re enjoying your holiday if you’re in the US and are celebrating Thanksgiving. To those of you elsewhere, happy Friday and happy weekend!

Introductions

This morning I came across some exiting news from Terri Tiffany. Terri was one of the first people I got to know when I entered the blogosphere six years ago and she was, and still is, one of the most encouraging and inspiring women I have ever encountered. I couldn’t click the link fast enough when I saw the title of her most recent blog post in my Feedly reader: The post I’ve dreamed of writing. I guessed at the news even as I began to read, I know some of Terri’s story over the past few years, and there is no one more deserving than she is of what she shared with us. One of her novels has been accepted for publication and I couldn’t be happier for her!

Terri’s news got me thinking about the many other talented writers I’ve had the privilege of getting to know–some in person, others by virtue of an online connection.  Today, I want to introduce you to a few of them.

Kim Michele Richardson’s The Unbreakable Child is a heartbreaking tale of unimaginable abuse she endured at the hands of those who were charged with caring for her at the St. Thomas/St Vincent Orphanage but, more than that, it’s an inspiring and unforgettable story of forgiveness. I was privileged to be a co-author of the reader’s guide for the book and I’ve very much appreciated Kim’s generosity in sharing her learnings about the publishing world with me over the years. Recently I had the pleasure of reading Kim’s recent fiction work, Liars Bench, and look forward to it being released. Kim is also a contributor to The Huffington Post.

I first got to know Kathryn Magendie through our respective blogs before she published her first book Tender Graces. Since then she has published Secret Graces, Family Graces, Sweetie, and her most recent book The Lightning Charmer has just been released. These days I keep up with Kat on Facebook where I delight in her down-to-earth style and irreverent sense of humour.

New York Times bestselling author, Joanne Demaio, is a force to be reckoned with. She published her first book Whole Latte Life (I got to know Joanne through her blog by the same name) in 2012. Since then she has followed up with Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans and, just in time for the holidays, Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes. Her next book is due out in Spring 2014. Joanne taught me the value of owning it, whatever it might be at any given time.

Debra Kraft, aka Dorothy Marie Tate, was one of the original members of the local writing group I started three years ago. Her novel, The Claddagh Ring, is a rich and compelling story that takes the reader to places around the world. It’s a great book to curl up with anytime you want to lose yourself in a well-told story. (Confession: certain parts also made me blush.) I’ve had the pleasure of reading Debi’s memoir about her experience going through medical school while balancing the demands of raising a family. I’ll be shouting from the rooftops when it’s released, trust me! She is an amazing writer.

The tag line on Lynne Spreen’s blog Any Shiny Thing is “Midlife Magic” and her novel Dakota Blues certainly illustrates that. I couldn’t put it down and, in addition to enjoying the story, it had me reflecting on choices I’ve made in my own life. Couple that with the fact that reading it took me back to the prairie of my childhood and you have a book I will return to again and again!

So, there you have it. A small glimpse into the work of just a few of the amazing women I’ve gotten to know over the years. Some have chosen a traditional publishing route, others have elected to retain control and do it themselves, and a couple have chosen to experience both sides. The publishing world in 2013 offers a variety of opportunities–all of them gifts to readers and writers alike. I’ll be sharing more writers with you soon.

Now, I’m getting ready to head out to my writing group. This will be our final gathering as the group has run it’s course and (Lord willing) Gerry and I will be moving back to Canada soon. It’s been my honour to get to know the members over the past three years and to bear witness to the stories of their lives and so it’s a bittersweet time. Even still, I look forward to retaining the connections I’ve made and to making new connections with women writers in the years to come.

By the way, if you’re looking for some holiday reading I encourage you to support these authors!

Airport Observations

Would you be flattered if you knew I was sitting here at my gate sipping my morning latte munching on a cheddar bagel and writing about my encounter with you? Maybe, you seemed pretty self-absorbed to me.

The barista and I exchanged bemused glances more than once while I tried to place my order and she struggled to hear what I was saying over your louder, more-entitled voice, the order taking complicated further by the fact that you stood in the middle of an area meant to accommodate two people ordering coffee.

When the poor barista asked you again if you wanted cream cheese with your bagel you didn’t register what she said and assumed she was questioning your order. True, her voice was quieter than your arrogant bellow but it was the same volume most others in the coffee shop used.

“Two bagels,” you repeated, louder this time and holding up two fingers. “Give me two.”

I glanced over at you once, willing my glare to penetrate and to bring you to awareness of your own rudeness. But no, I should have known you were too self-focused to sense that you were penetrating not only another person’s physical space but also the atmosphere in general.

I admired the customer-focused barista as she continued to smile at you and asked how your day was going so far. She must ask the same question of hundreds of travelers every day and every one must feel like she genuinely cares about their response. She likely doesn’t, but she has a gentle gift of seeming like she does.

“Oh great!” you bellowed. “Once I get through security I can relax.”

I wondered wryly what relaxation looks like for you as you nudged me reaching for your bagel.

Vanilla latte in hand, cheddar bagel tucked in my bag, I leave the coffee shop and head toward my gate. I hope you’re not on my flight. Worse, I hope you’re not my seat mate.

Later, settled in a seat at the gate I sigh and look around. I’ve come to appreciate the experience of air travel. I’ve been fortunate to not have accumulated many travel horror stories. For the most part, when I travel alone I enjoy the opportunity to be by myself in a crowd of people. It’s a chance to exercise my imagination and to speculate on circumstances.

I see an older woman sitting alone in the priority seating area and imagine she is traveling to spend a weekend with an old friend. Two dark-suited business travelers sit beside one another checking their respective smart phones; they’re on their way to close the deal I bet. A woman sits reading, her face gentle and relaxed. A gentleman sitting next to her carries the stress for both of them in his face as his worried eyes dart back and forth.

Me, I’m just documenting my morning as I wait. In a few hours I’ll be in a winter wonderland and a little red haired girl will come running toward me exclaiming “Grandma!”

Life is good. I am blessed.

Three Months Left On The Retirement Countdown Chain

Last weekend was a big deal. It was the culmination of eighteen months plus worth of work by an amazing cross-functional team of people who worked around the clock to upgrade the payroll/HR/benefits system at the company where I work.

In the almost twenty-five years I’ve worked for this corporation I’ve been involved in my fair share of big projects. I know what it’s like to work harder and longer than you think you’re even capable of at times. I know what it’s like on “go live weekend” when it all comes together and the adrenaline is pumping. I know how it feels when it all comes together, and that sense of accomplishment makes it all worthwhile, and you feel like raising your fist and shouting “yes!”, and you walk on air as you leave the office too exhilarated to sleep but too exhausted to do anything but go home and rest.

It’s an amazing feeling.

Last weekend was, as I mentioned, a very big deal and it was a very big deal that I observed, for the most part, on the periphery. That’s a very different vantage point for me. I monitored my email on my smart phone watching the status emails proclaiming that the team was ahead of schedule. I called in for check-in conference calls to get an update on the progress through the multi-page checklist of tasks, none of which had my name next to them.

And I was jealous.

All weekend, I was envious of the hard-working group who were running on adrenaline (and not an insignificant amount of specially brought in food and beverages to fuel the effort) and getting ‘er done.  On Sunday morning I went to the office to do few things in the new system that was then unofficially up and running and I celebrated with my bleary-eyed team mates and congratulated them on a job well done and it felt oh-so-bittersweet.

I was, in the beginning, part of this project team. Then circumstances changed and as we looked at the project work on the horizon, and the day-to-day work that wasn’t going away, it became apparent that we couldn’t all be all in on this one. My team had to be able to set things aside to focus on the project and someone had to take on the rest of the work for the duration in order for that to happen. We came to consensus that I step aside from the project and take on work so my team could be all in on the project. They were, after all, the ones who would be living with the new system post go-live long after I retire.

So over the past eighteen months or so I’ve missed out on some of the fun stuff, some of the hard and frustrating stuff too. Last weekend, I wasn’t one of the sleep-deprived ones doing the work and on Sunday night when victory was declared and the project manager sent an email saying he heard “We Are The Champions” playing in the background I felt a tug in my heart.  I realized that, not only did I not get the “we did it!” high associated with bringing a big project home, I’ll probably never get to experience it in that way again.

Funny, isn’t it? I’m eagerly anticipating my retirement transition and moving into my next phase but I also realize that in letting go of corporate life I’m letting go of some significant personal satisfaction I’ve received over the years. Food for thought as I contemplate the next phase.

Wickedly Jealous

I saw you this morning and I couldn’t help but stare as you stood beside the back door of your car waiting. As I walked across the parking lot toward you I guessed at what you might be waiting for; I’ve seen that look before. I drew near and my assumption was confirmed as I watched you close the car door, gently take the hand of a little boy in yours, and walk toward the store with him jumping and bobbing along with every step.


I envy you. Every time I see you I get a lump in my throat and my eyes burn with tears I try to hold back.
 
I see you often; we seem to frequent the same places. I’ve seen you in the bookstore sitting on the floor reading to a little child. I’ve seen you at the grocery store, a little one holding on to the side of the buggy while you peruse the varieties of cereal on the shelves.
 
I’ve been taught that it’s wrong to let jealousy have a foothold. The counsel is to be thankful for what one has instead of coveting that which someone else has but I can’t help it.
 

Every time I see a woman of my demographic in the company of a child I’m overcome with longing. Do you realize how blessed you are to be able to be part of the day-to-day life of your grandchild? I wonder. Do you know I would change places with you in a nano-second if I could?
 
When I hear tales from women like you who are fortunate enough to be able to have their grandchildren sleep over at their houses regularly, those for whom it’s commonplace to make up silly games to amuse them with, to cook their special food for them, to take them shopping, to watch TV shows with them, and finally to fall into bed at the end of a weekend exhausted from trying to keep up with them, I’m wickedly jealous. 


 
You are one of the blessed ones, grandmother-who-lives-close-to-her-grandchildren. Never forget it. Don’t take it for granted. There are many like me who would give anything to be where you are today.