Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Language
It is interesting to listen to English speaking people talk about the French language. In their mind there are different types of French; amongst others, the proper French and the French-Canadian. It hardly ever occurs to people that indeed accents, colloquialisms, or education may play an important part in clarity or delivery of any language and that ultimately, it is but one language: French. Anyone who speaks French will understand a French speaking person. Sometimes there is struggle, but it is no different than a Canadian guy trying to understand a Welsh or a New-Zealand guy. Yet, it would never occur to most Anglo Saxons to split the language into the proper, the American or the Canadian. In people’s mind, it is the same language. Somehow, they seem to believe that if they were to learn French-Canadian French, they would never be able to understand or be understood by French from France. Little do they know that generally their English accent is so strong that either way, nobody can understand them.
It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Sadly enough, it is true. Recently I became an active member of Facebook. It happened after a childhood friend contacted me. At first I was quite put off, she was after all a bully. What made me reconsider accepting her as a friend was her comment that she had such wonderful memories of me. It took me a while to realize that although she was indeed a bully, I never was her victim. I was also quite curious to find out what these - wonderful memories - could be since I had so very little myself. Almost right away, a flood of old high school buddies started to appear, people who had apparently been looking for me while I was pointlessly in hiding. High school years were good to me and I remember them quite fondly. Once I opened the gates, it was only a matter of time before others showed up.
I reconnected with the girls I used to hang out with, those same girls I had spent countless of hours with, dreaming of the ways we would change the world. Some stayed put, some others moved away, some got married, divorced, some had great career, but none of them had children. What more might we all have had unknowingly in common? I wonder. Although almost thirty years had passed, they all looked more beautiful than ever. The years had not taken its toll of them. However, the same was not true for the guys we used to hang out with. I could hardly recognize any of them. We had countless of times fought against the terrible prejudices that awaited us, future women of the world, but we had never realized how much pressure there was on boys to succeed, to provide, to make things happen, and not all of them had the ability to do so. It was sadly obvious.
I also reconnected with old flames, dear friends, endearing acquaintances, previous neighbors, old colleagues. At first, everybody’s life looked amazing, fulfilling. Gosh, I felt like a looser. How was it that I had done so very little? That is, until I realized that people put up a good front. Their lives were just as ordinary as any other. They put their best pictures up, their best smiles, and hope to convince themselves even more than others.
Some old friends quickly became precious friends again. Some others took the opportunity to use a faraway sounding board to share strenuous details of their lives with someone they had no risk of inadvertently encountering on the streets. Others, the castoffs of those years, those who invested much of their time into successful careers, in an attempt to prove to the world that even then they were worth it, are now investing themselves into fantasies where the past is being avenged by an imaginary present, yet stumbling still on the same rejections.
It is an interesting tool, to observe human behavior certainly, but also to compare, to appreciate the distance traveled. It helped me realize that once upon a time I was amazing, and I lost sight of it during my college years which were in retrospect, truly the worst ones of my life. Even though at first my life felt rather pale in comparison, it turns out that it’s not that bad at all. And as they say, I’m not dead yet, am I.
I reconnected with the girls I used to hang out with, those same girls I had spent countless of hours with, dreaming of the ways we would change the world. Some stayed put, some others moved away, some got married, divorced, some had great career, but none of them had children. What more might we all have had unknowingly in common? I wonder. Although almost thirty years had passed, they all looked more beautiful than ever. The years had not taken its toll of them. However, the same was not true for the guys we used to hang out with. I could hardly recognize any of them. We had countless of times fought against the terrible prejudices that awaited us, future women of the world, but we had never realized how much pressure there was on boys to succeed, to provide, to make things happen, and not all of them had the ability to do so. It was sadly obvious.
I also reconnected with old flames, dear friends, endearing acquaintances, previous neighbors, old colleagues. At first, everybody’s life looked amazing, fulfilling. Gosh, I felt like a looser. How was it that I had done so very little? That is, until I realized that people put up a good front. Their lives were just as ordinary as any other. They put their best pictures up, their best smiles, and hope to convince themselves even more than others.
Some old friends quickly became precious friends again. Some others took the opportunity to use a faraway sounding board to share strenuous details of their lives with someone they had no risk of inadvertently encountering on the streets. Others, the castoffs of those years, those who invested much of their time into successful careers, in an attempt to prove to the world that even then they were worth it, are now investing themselves into fantasies where the past is being avenged by an imaginary present, yet stumbling still on the same rejections.
It is an interesting tool, to observe human behavior certainly, but also to compare, to appreciate the distance traveled. It helped me realize that once upon a time I was amazing, and I lost sight of it during my college years which were in retrospect, truly the worst ones of my life. Even though at first my life felt rather pale in comparison, it turns out that it’s not that bad at all. And as they say, I’m not dead yet, am I.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Mr. Rabbit
I have been looking at all these old pictures for almost three weeks now. Actually, I have mainly been looking at the young girl I was. She holds such mystery to me. I even asked my father to send me all the pictures he had of me before the age of twenty. Childhood pictures are quite a rare commodity in my household. Although I am sure we must have taken as many as any other families, a bitter divorce and later on the flooding of our basement, where the photo albums were kept, impoverished the collection even further. The pictures, I was told, glued together face to face, forever hiding their content. Only those that were secured away prior to any of these events remained accessible.
My father sent me two dozen pictures, half of which I had never seen before or at least, not in a very long time. The memory of these days was still very vivid, except perhaps for the fact that I had not thought of them since they happened. However, the impact of those days on my life lives on, sometimes rather clearly, other times more subtly. These were the formative years. They contributed in shaping me into the person I became.
My father’s pictures, added to the ones I already had, provided a good sampling of my early years. Once they were all scanned and arranged by date, a few patterns started emerging. The first one: there are no family pictures. There are pictures of individuals or pairs, only twice is the entire family gathered in the same frame, each times I am under the age of four, and both times my mother is distancing herself from us. Several pictures were taken during the same family gathering. I was obviously young and obliging enough to be passed around from hands to hands, since I am being held by a different person in every frame. Everybody is holding me at some point, except for my mother. Even though she often appears in the pictures, she systematically looks away from me. She would be standing between her two children, turned away towards my brother.
Another noticeable aspect is the fact that nobody ever smiles. Until I am about four years old, I am obviously out of place as I smile from ear to ear without restrain. Afterward, I just look sad; there is no hint that attempts were ever made, except once or twice and it looks rather more like a forced grimace. My face starts lighting up again late in my teens and the pictures then, are never in family settings. There is an exception I must reveal. I must be about seven years old, I am holding carefully a small white rabbit in my arms and there is a glimpse of unrestrained joy in my eyes even though my smile is reserved. Later on that day, Mr. Rabbit will become my first little companion.
I also noticed that whenever a few of us were forced to pose for the camera, we hardly ever touch each other and, in the rare occasions we did, the discomfort was palpable.
The saddest realization of all came from a group picture of nine little girls goofing around like eight years old do. I am sitting in the middle of the crowd and I look as if I am fourteen years old while indeed, I am the youngest of all these jesters.
I am sure anyone could argue that if I look and scrutinize long enough, I could detect almost anything I want from almost any expression I see in these pictures. It might be true. But others have reached the same conclusions without enticement. I also understand that we live in different times and back then, abuse was not something we talked about, least of all, interfere with.
Still, I cannot help but see a brave and strong little girl who faced something terrible and somehow manage to extirpate herself from that situation, all by herself. No wonder they stayed at bay, they failed her in every possible ways. Fortunately, childhood can only last so long and one day we wake up and it’s all over. And sometimes it takes a little while longer.
My father sent me two dozen pictures, half of which I had never seen before or at least, not in a very long time. The memory of these days was still very vivid, except perhaps for the fact that I had not thought of them since they happened. However, the impact of those days on my life lives on, sometimes rather clearly, other times more subtly. These were the formative years. They contributed in shaping me into the person I became.
My father’s pictures, added to the ones I already had, provided a good sampling of my early years. Once they were all scanned and arranged by date, a few patterns started emerging. The first one: there are no family pictures. There are pictures of individuals or pairs, only twice is the entire family gathered in the same frame, each times I am under the age of four, and both times my mother is distancing herself from us. Several pictures were taken during the same family gathering. I was obviously young and obliging enough to be passed around from hands to hands, since I am being held by a different person in every frame. Everybody is holding me at some point, except for my mother. Even though she often appears in the pictures, she systematically looks away from me. She would be standing between her two children, turned away towards my brother.
Another noticeable aspect is the fact that nobody ever smiles. Until I am about four years old, I am obviously out of place as I smile from ear to ear without restrain. Afterward, I just look sad; there is no hint that attempts were ever made, except once or twice and it looks rather more like a forced grimace. My face starts lighting up again late in my teens and the pictures then, are never in family settings. There is an exception I must reveal. I must be about seven years old, I am holding carefully a small white rabbit in my arms and there is a glimpse of unrestrained joy in my eyes even though my smile is reserved. Later on that day, Mr. Rabbit will become my first little companion.
I also noticed that whenever a few of us were forced to pose for the camera, we hardly ever touch each other and, in the rare occasions we did, the discomfort was palpable.
The saddest realization of all came from a group picture of nine little girls goofing around like eight years old do. I am sitting in the middle of the crowd and I look as if I am fourteen years old while indeed, I am the youngest of all these jesters.
I am sure anyone could argue that if I look and scrutinize long enough, I could detect almost anything I want from almost any expression I see in these pictures. It might be true. But others have reached the same conclusions without enticement. I also understand that we live in different times and back then, abuse was not something we talked about, least of all, interfere with.
Still, I cannot help but see a brave and strong little girl who faced something terrible and somehow manage to extirpate herself from that situation, all by herself. No wonder they stayed at bay, they failed her in every possible ways. Fortunately, childhood can only last so long and one day we wake up and it’s all over. And sometimes it takes a little while longer.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Spring Cleaning
Spring seems to rhyme with cleaning. This year, I have set my mind to scanning all the old pictures and burn them on DVDs before shredding the hard copies. I am not sure why this task suddenly appears important or even necessary. Perhaps it is part of the purging process. Never-the-less, I have been scanning all of them one by one, watching my story unfold frame by frame. Although it can be heavy at times, it’s also interesting to notice the progression.
The incredible thing about a picture is that no matter how long ago it was captured, a fleeting look will transport you back in time, making that moment eternal. If for no other reason, one should never take a picture in vain as good times will be remembered with vivid clarity, but so will be the bad ones as well.
I did allow myself the privilege to tamper with some of the evidence, destroying a few pictures here and there. After all, the 80’s were cruel years, but so were the forceful smiles which never quite reached the eyes. Although I did - Photoshop - my past a little, I have no desire to completely eradicate it. This is, in spite of everything, the only true comparison I have with the present, the only way I have to attest of real progress. On print, it is easier to observe changes more objectively.
The most peculiar discovery so far is the fact that each and every one of my old girlfriends resembled my mother in some ways, and the fact that I never was quite myself with any of them. Most of these friendships entailed making much compromises on my part, and continuously walking on thin ice.
The other interesting discovery is the fact that my mother did not always look like a malignant and reprobating witch. There were times when she looked light and rosy. But even then, the emotion did not seem to be directed at the photographer, rather at the opportunity to portray a perfect moment. It seems that objectivity has no place between mother and daughter. My mother and I always had a very enflamed and harsh relationship completely void of respect. It feels as though I spent my life erupting at my mother’s perfect stoic. How could anyone remain so professedly indifferent to her child suffering? Unless the goal is to make the child suffer more still. I think early on, some deep instinct and intrinsic awareness alerted me to a profound and irreversible imbalance between us. And not unlike others, I spent an important part of my life trying to prove myself wrong. She did, in moments of rage, tell me that she never loved me, but who ever means it? However, it must have been true and I felt it. It might also explain why I never sought her for ally in difficult times and why she never volunteered.
It is puzzling to look at all these pictures. Her posing betrays very little. Yet, for the most part, I remember quit clearly how miserable, how cornered and guilty I felt moments before these pictures were taken. The fighting and bickering were too savage to underline deep love and after years, it left but a feeling of modest discomfort. When I look at these pictures, my heart feels like a mushroom left in the fridge for too long.
When I started scanning these pictures I wanted an easier access to them. Who ever takes the time to flip through envelops and boxes stored at the bottom of an old trunk? Will I look at them more regularly now? Probably not. These pictures attest only of my past.
As far as I am concern, the past, although interesting to understand, analyze, comprehend, accept and finally to let go of, is by no mean a clear indication of the future choices to be made ahead. It certainly is, in great part responsible for shaping a person’s character, values and choices in life; but the response to all these stimuli remains unexpected as human beings learn, grow and overcome.
The incredible thing about a picture is that no matter how long ago it was captured, a fleeting look will transport you back in time, making that moment eternal. If for no other reason, one should never take a picture in vain as good times will be remembered with vivid clarity, but so will be the bad ones as well.
I did allow myself the privilege to tamper with some of the evidence, destroying a few pictures here and there. After all, the 80’s were cruel years, but so were the forceful smiles which never quite reached the eyes. Although I did - Photoshop - my past a little, I have no desire to completely eradicate it. This is, in spite of everything, the only true comparison I have with the present, the only way I have to attest of real progress. On print, it is easier to observe changes more objectively.
The most peculiar discovery so far is the fact that each and every one of my old girlfriends resembled my mother in some ways, and the fact that I never was quite myself with any of them. Most of these friendships entailed making much compromises on my part, and continuously walking on thin ice.
The other interesting discovery is the fact that my mother did not always look like a malignant and reprobating witch. There were times when she looked light and rosy. But even then, the emotion did not seem to be directed at the photographer, rather at the opportunity to portray a perfect moment. It seems that objectivity has no place between mother and daughter. My mother and I always had a very enflamed and harsh relationship completely void of respect. It feels as though I spent my life erupting at my mother’s perfect stoic. How could anyone remain so professedly indifferent to her child suffering? Unless the goal is to make the child suffer more still. I think early on, some deep instinct and intrinsic awareness alerted me to a profound and irreversible imbalance between us. And not unlike others, I spent an important part of my life trying to prove myself wrong. She did, in moments of rage, tell me that she never loved me, but who ever means it? However, it must have been true and I felt it. It might also explain why I never sought her for ally in difficult times and why she never volunteered.
It is puzzling to look at all these pictures. Her posing betrays very little. Yet, for the most part, I remember quit clearly how miserable, how cornered and guilty I felt moments before these pictures were taken. The fighting and bickering were too savage to underline deep love and after years, it left but a feeling of modest discomfort. When I look at these pictures, my heart feels like a mushroom left in the fridge for too long.
When I started scanning these pictures I wanted an easier access to them. Who ever takes the time to flip through envelops and boxes stored at the bottom of an old trunk? Will I look at them more regularly now? Probably not. These pictures attest only of my past.
As far as I am concern, the past, although interesting to understand, analyze, comprehend, accept and finally to let go of, is by no mean a clear indication of the future choices to be made ahead. It certainly is, in great part responsible for shaping a person’s character, values and choices in life; but the response to all these stimuli remains unexpected as human beings learn, grow and overcome.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Catharsis
Writing this blog does much to clear my mind of emotional dust bunnies. In a previous blog – The Soul – I was surprise that my mother’s lack of love for me was still something I cared about. I thought I was well over it. It seemed to go against pretty much all the work I had done with John over the years. It’s only later on, once the story was posted that I understood. It was not a cry for her love, but a farewell.
It was the fact of writing it which confirmed its conclusion. So long as there is hope, however faint, there is no moving on, but hope is a private emotion which lodges deep inside oneself. It is rarely shared, because just as deep inside, we know the hope is vain. The admission, though sad, opens the way to letting go.
"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another." - Anatole France
It was the fact of writing it which confirmed its conclusion. So long as there is hope, however faint, there is no moving on, but hope is a private emotion which lodges deep inside oneself. It is rarely shared, because just as deep inside, we know the hope is vain. The admission, though sad, opens the way to letting go.
"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another." - Anatole France
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Soul
The eyes are the mirror of the soul, they say. But when the soul overflows, it taints the entire face, the entire body. People’s lives are engraved on their face. Was life kind and gentle or filled with sorrow? Was love and kindness the main sentiment or sadness and loneliness? A face will tell it all. It cannot hide its spirit.
A week or so ago, I received mail from my mother. She had purchased a digital camera and took a few pictures of herself which she sent to me. I assume she chose the best ones, those that she really liked. When I opened the envelop and retrieved the content, my heart sunk. There was so much pain and loneliness. I didn’t know who was that person looking straight at me. The image of that poor old woman seemed so different from the one who still haunts me. She is a stranger now. So much has been missed. I will never know who she was, who she is. I almost cried. I almost cried because I felt nothing; pity perhaps, sadness but not love. Where did the love go?
There was a time when she was not so old, so lonely, when she was young, alive, joyous sometimes, there was a time when she was my mom. And I needed her so much. I needed her to love me. Is it some twisted revenge of the heart I am experiencing now? I don’t think so. I think I just dried out, waiting.
I wish I could do something to appease her life as she is getting older. I wish I could take upon some of her discomfort. But I also know that I am the only person she would never accept any kind of relief from. She would like for me to offer, only to be able to reject it, to reject me. She will never be able to embrace anything from me. I was the chosen one. The one she chose not to love.
Still, it pains me to see how her life was lived. I hope whatever lesson she was meant to learn was learnt and that next time her life may be softer. I hope in spite of all the pain she caused, she will be free to move on without repay. If there is a judgment day where one sits and review the good and the bad of the ending life, I want her to know that as hard as I tried, I never stopped wishing she could love me, but understood that she simply could not and forgave her.
A week or so ago, I received mail from my mother. She had purchased a digital camera and took a few pictures of herself which she sent to me. I assume she chose the best ones, those that she really liked. When I opened the envelop and retrieved the content, my heart sunk. There was so much pain and loneliness. I didn’t know who was that person looking straight at me. The image of that poor old woman seemed so different from the one who still haunts me. She is a stranger now. So much has been missed. I will never know who she was, who she is. I almost cried. I almost cried because I felt nothing; pity perhaps, sadness but not love. Where did the love go?
There was a time when she was not so old, so lonely, when she was young, alive, joyous sometimes, there was a time when she was my mom. And I needed her so much. I needed her to love me. Is it some twisted revenge of the heart I am experiencing now? I don’t think so. I think I just dried out, waiting.
I wish I could do something to appease her life as she is getting older. I wish I could take upon some of her discomfort. But I also know that I am the only person she would never accept any kind of relief from. She would like for me to offer, only to be able to reject it, to reject me. She will never be able to embrace anything from me. I was the chosen one. The one she chose not to love.
Still, it pains me to see how her life was lived. I hope whatever lesson she was meant to learn was learnt and that next time her life may be softer. I hope in spite of all the pain she caused, she will be free to move on without repay. If there is a judgment day where one sits and review the good and the bad of the ending life, I want her to know that as hard as I tried, I never stopped wishing she could love me, but understood that she simply could not and forgave her.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Idiot
I went to Starbucks to get a coffee. I desperately needed one to get me through the afternoon. Work was totally uninspiring. With a – few - minutes to spare, I sat down and browsed through the sex-advice column of the local newspaper. I am a fan. I find it absolutely fascinating what people will come up with. Sometimes it’s sad though. People really are quite isolated, especially when they are in real kinky stuff living in farmland somewhere in some conservative town. Other times it seems that people simply need someone to talk to.
Anyhow, as absorbed as I was with the story of that girl who was looking for a way to leave her boyfriend for his sister, I started eavesdropping on the conversation going on at the next table. The guy was recalling with gruesome details, for the benefit of his buddies, an accident he had at work. From what I gathered, he was a house painter. According to him, while attempting to paint an unreachable part of the sunroof, he had removed his boots, and jumped on a tiny ledge to prove to his work buddies that – he – could do it. The glitch seemed to occur when he fell off the ridge and landed thirty five feet below, barefoot on a concrete block, breaking a leg and shattering his wrist. He apparently failed to notice the extent of his injuries until someone pointed to him that his femur was protruding awkwardly from his trouser pants and he was covered in blood. He had been on disability ever since, baffling the Inspector as to how he could possibly have lost his shoes in the fall. Since then, he had lost the use of his right hand and after several surgeries, still walked with a bad limp. The real funny thing was that now every time he walks through a metal detector at the airport, the alarm rings. Since he can no longer do that job for a living, he was considering going back to school. He wanted to become an electrician…
Anyhow, as absorbed as I was with the story of that girl who was looking for a way to leave her boyfriend for his sister, I started eavesdropping on the conversation going on at the next table. The guy was recalling with gruesome details, for the benefit of his buddies, an accident he had at work. From what I gathered, he was a house painter. According to him, while attempting to paint an unreachable part of the sunroof, he had removed his boots, and jumped on a tiny ledge to prove to his work buddies that – he – could do it. The glitch seemed to occur when he fell off the ridge and landed thirty five feet below, barefoot on a concrete block, breaking a leg and shattering his wrist. He apparently failed to notice the extent of his injuries until someone pointed to him that his femur was protruding awkwardly from his trouser pants and he was covered in blood. He had been on disability ever since, baffling the Inspector as to how he could possibly have lost his shoes in the fall. Since then, he had lost the use of his right hand and after several surgeries, still walked with a bad limp. The real funny thing was that now every time he walks through a metal detector at the airport, the alarm rings. Since he can no longer do that job for a living, he was considering going back to school. He wanted to become an electrician…
Monday, April 5, 2010
Snapshot
Throughout the Winter Games, I exchanged mails and pictures of my everyday Olympic endeavors with my dad who has a computer. My mother, on the other hand, decided on the day of her retirement that she would never, ever deal with a computer ever again. To this day, she has been true to her words and thus, isolating herself every day more from the rest of humanity. Nowadays, it is very hard to maintain close contact with someone living in a different time zone or lifestyle. Harder still when the motivation just really isn’t there. Calling her suggest impeding on hours of prime time, usually during weekends. This wouldn’t be so bad if the exchange would not systematically be pervaded with contempt. Before John, these phone calls would torment me for hours afterward. Now, not so much, I space them better, so she doesn’t really have a choice but to be on a better behavior, knowing that it may otherwise take months before she hears from me again.
Unfortunately for her, my mother is her own worst enemy, and always will be. There is really no point in punishing her for wrongdoings when she is so much better at it than I could ever be myself. She has been torturing herself every minutes of her miserable life. It’s quite sad, really.
Still, at some point, my mother clued into the fact that the Olympic Games were going on and asked if I could send her some pictures I took during that time. Well, I knew I would be exposing myself to utmost scrutiny so I chose carefully an array of subjects from crowds, landscapes to me and my friends, and picked only the best ones. Nothing good would come out of it, from either end, but I obliged. I had thirty or so printed and shipped to her.
It must have been last week when she left me a voice mail. She had received the pictures and wanted to discuss them. I figured since I would have to call on Easter, I might just as well wait and be ride of it all at once. I was prepared for the worst. I have long ceased to expect anything else.
She was thrilled, the pictures were beautiful, the landscapes marvelous, the crowds as impressive as on TV and as for me, my new hair cut made me look like a cancer patient in remission…
“Gee mom, no wonder you don’t have any friends if you talk to people like that”
“I never talk to people like that!”
“Humph…”
Unfortunately for her, my mother is her own worst enemy, and always will be. There is really no point in punishing her for wrongdoings when she is so much better at it than I could ever be myself. She has been torturing herself every minutes of her miserable life. It’s quite sad, really.
Still, at some point, my mother clued into the fact that the Olympic Games were going on and asked if I could send her some pictures I took during that time. Well, I knew I would be exposing myself to utmost scrutiny so I chose carefully an array of subjects from crowds, landscapes to me and my friends, and picked only the best ones. Nothing good would come out of it, from either end, but I obliged. I had thirty or so printed and shipped to her.
It must have been last week when she left me a voice mail. She had received the pictures and wanted to discuss them. I figured since I would have to call on Easter, I might just as well wait and be ride of it all at once. I was prepared for the worst. I have long ceased to expect anything else.
She was thrilled, the pictures were beautiful, the landscapes marvelous, the crowds as impressive as on TV and as for me, my new hair cut made me look like a cancer patient in remission…
“Gee mom, no wonder you don’t have any friends if you talk to people like that”
“I never talk to people like that!”
“Humph…”
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Ouimzie
Much happened since my last blog, back in November. At the time, introspection seemed rather more in the way of things. I had put it aside for a little while so I could actively experience life without reflecting on it. At times, I lost my bearings, but I also discovered that I was much better equipped than I thought. In fact, my instincts were quit sharp.
I constantly forced myself out of my comfort zone. I made a point at deliberately choosing the route which unsettled me the most. I met people, went places and enjoyed activities new to me. I involved and uninvolved myself from fantasy relationships, losing virtual feathers but gaining real insight. I made friends, buddies, acquaintances.
Was the pasture greener on the other of the fence? Not really, just a little different.
Not unlike pendulum movements, I was bond to experiment the extremes of either side before I could find a balance, a rhythm where all facets of my life could be intertwined and fluid. Have I achieved that? Of course not, this is the work of a life time. But I think I got glimpses of it.
This was also the longest period I went through without reaching out to John for coaching. I wanted to test myself. I had to make sure I could move forward of my own accord and seek guidance only when facing unusual ordeals. It all went well, that is, until I hit a wall, but that’s another story.
There was a program I used to watch when I was young. The main character was a cool little puppet girl with blue antlers called Ouimzie. Her friend, in an attempt at being - just like her - had glued herself some antlers. The moral of the story was, of course, that the little girl was just as good in her own ways. We all know that it usually isn’t true. For the longest time I wondered if I would become the hero of my own life or if that role would be held by someone other than me. Well, I might not be Ouimzie, I might never get to be Ouimzie, but being me is not bad at all.
I constantly forced myself out of my comfort zone. I made a point at deliberately choosing the route which unsettled me the most. I met people, went places and enjoyed activities new to me. I involved and uninvolved myself from fantasy relationships, losing virtual feathers but gaining real insight. I made friends, buddies, acquaintances.
Was the pasture greener on the other of the fence? Not really, just a little different.
Not unlike pendulum movements, I was bond to experiment the extremes of either side before I could find a balance, a rhythm where all facets of my life could be intertwined and fluid. Have I achieved that? Of course not, this is the work of a life time. But I think I got glimpses of it.
This was also the longest period I went through without reaching out to John for coaching. I wanted to test myself. I had to make sure I could move forward of my own accord and seek guidance only when facing unusual ordeals. It all went well, that is, until I hit a wall, but that’s another story.
There was a program I used to watch when I was young. The main character was a cool little puppet girl with blue antlers called Ouimzie. Her friend, in an attempt at being - just like her - had glued herself some antlers. The moral of the story was, of course, that the little girl was just as good in her own ways. We all know that it usually isn’t true. For the longest time I wondered if I would become the hero of my own life or if that role would be held by someone other than me. Well, I might not be Ouimzie, I might never get to be Ouimzie, but being me is not bad at all.
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