Bruises

        I had a disturbing thing happen to me recently. My heart was pulled from my chest, toyed with, lightly bruised and then put back in its place to go on with life as usual. I was a willing participant in this, I will admit, in the sense that I opened the door to my heart after keeping it shut for a few years, allowing entry to the eventual bruiser. I let him in, so I guess that was a risk I took. That's the thing about risks-- they're risky. You really have no guarantees when you take a risk how things will turn out in the end. One possibility is the end result won't be pretty. Knowing this, we sometimes choose to quit while we're ahead, protecting ourselves, and our fragile hearts. But sometimes, we decide to jump in anyway, to push aside the cautionary warnings because we feel that maybe the risk will be worth it in the end. That's what I did.

    I made a decision in the last few months to actively start looking for a romantic partner so I signed up for a dating site. This is not a new thing for me. Over the past 10 years, since my split with my ex, I've been on several dating sites at various times. I've even had a few relationships that came from these sites, but none lasted longer than a year. For most of the last decade, I've actually been off dating sites, doing my own thing. The past 3 years, I wasn't involved with anyone, by choice. I had decided I needed to work on myself, tackle some of my demons and work through my yucky baggage. I had a deep-seated inkling that if I really wanted to ever find a healthy relationship with a man, that I needed to heal some of my own crap first. So I did that. Fast forward 3 years, mission accomplished and I now felt ready to look for the love of my life again, so there I was, once again on a dating site. 

    I wasn't surprised when the usual clientele began presenting themselves to me. Typical of my experiences on there (and especially since turning 50), most of the attention directed my way was either from men quite a few years older than I, or from men in my age group who I didn't find physically attractive. The few men I found intriguing enough to message never messaged me back. Until one day, that changed. I received a message from a man not quite 5 years older (so better than the usual 8-15+ year range), and the bonus was that he was articulate, attractive, and seemed to have much of his stuff together. He was also incredibly charming so that didn't hurt. We agreed to meet so we could assess the situation in person and were both pleasantly surprised and thrilled when we discovered mutual attraction on multiple levels. This led to of course more texting, now of the regular kind, and plans to meet again of course, which we did, a few times. 

    We lived 2 hours away from each other and were both aware at the outset that the long distance factor was a bit of a barrier, but we both felt we had quite the connection on several levels- physical, mental, emotional- that we were willing to go with it, knowing that such connections are rare. Because of the distance factor, and because it was summer, our next meetings were lengthier than they might have been had we lived in the same city... dates that went on for 24 hours instead of the usual evening out for example. And those epic dates were pretty amazing. But it wasn't just the physical time together that was fabulous, it was all the texting in between that was off the charts incredible, as this man spread on the charm so thick I couldn't see straight. Truth be told, I didn't want to see straight. I wanted to be enveloped in that plush blanket of  lovey goodness. And tightly. There was, however, a very tiny voice inside my gut somewhere deep that said, "Hmmm this guy seems just a little too perfect. Be careful, because you know perfection isn't a real thing, not in the realm of humans anyway, so...". But that little voice wasn't strong enough for me to hear it fully, and that was when I decided "Fuck it, I'm just going to let him grab my heart if he wants to".

    In retrospect, it was easy for me to make that decision because of the things he was saying to me, both via text and in person. He appeared as into me as I was into him, in fact more so.  Analyzing his words and actions (as we analyzers are wont to do), I came to the conclusion that there was no doubt that this man was moving full steam ahead, and pulling my heart along with him. At times, it was hard for me to keep up with it all, mostly because I couldn't believe this was happening to me. I walked around in a daze, unable to believe my good luck. There was though, through it all, a bit of a sense that things were moving a little too quickly, that this guy had seemed to catapult into my life, and that I had taken on too-perfect dimensions in his eyes. I would sometimes say to myself, "If he can fall this quickly into you, he can probably fall quickly out of interest as well", using the laws of physics as my guide. I kept those thoughts to myself though, and allowed myself to be wrapped in a delicious cocoon of budding love.

    And then there was no cocoon. Just like that, it vanished, only to be replaced by some casual, distant text interchanges in a matter of hours. The temperature emanating from my newfound love interest went from hot to lukewarm to cool without warning. I was suddenly freefalling and not sure where I was going to land but I knew it wasn't going to feel good, wherever that was. When I questioned this new behavior, he denied it was occurring. At first. When I pressed the issue, he then began to give various reasons for the change, but none that made sense to me. The one that he grabbed onto and elaborated on was that we had the fact of a long-distance relationship on our hands, and that this was likely to be a barrier, not to mention that I wasn't yet retired and would not be moving to his neck of the woods anytime soon. Both of these things were true, but they had been true all along. They didn't suddenly become true. The fact of the matter is he was okay with those things before and then- poof- he wasn't. He became, as he said, "Mr Reality" overnight, ripping off the veil of loveliness that we had both covered over ourselves with one logical argument after another. When he tired of the discussion (which occurred by text and which is another issue itself but will leave that one for another time), he simply told me that I needed to think about the distance thing, that we needed to "sleep on it", and that he was exhausted and signing off.

    The next few days were blurry as I carried my now heavy body, complete with bruised heart, wherever it needed to go. My dominant mode was confusion as I had no understanding of what had just happened to me. Every morning, around the time he would usually text me, I waited. But nothing happened. No good morning text, no effusive messages, no kissy or heart or other fluffy emojis. Nothing. The nothingness that happens at the end of things. I was stunned, not only because he was now giving me nothing, but because he had given me so much before. The overthinker in me came up with hundreds of reasons why he had changed, and was saddened to discover that many of my hypotheses centered around some flaw of my own. Maybe it was this, that or the other thing about me, my essence, my being, that pushed him away, turned him off, made him flip the switch from a definite something to a solid nothing. It was me, because it couldn't possibly be him, right? 

    And then, in a split second, in a moment when meditating, I realized that it wasn't me at all. It was him. He was the one who changed, within hours actually, into a seemingly different person. He was the one who was able to act one way and then another towards me with barely any time lapsing in between. He was the one who couldn't communicate honestly about what was going on. He was highly changeable, not constant, not predictable. He was hot then cold. He was disturbing. And he was not for me. Not for this woman who I had worked so hard to become, the one who had finally become her own advocate and friend in midlife. I realized that I wouldn't be waiting for texts from him anymore, and that if a text did come, that it wouldn't change what I had decided: He would no longer have a place in my life nor access to my heart. As blissful as I had felt around this person previously, my bruised heart had other plans. Has other plans. Plans that don't involve rough handling, manipulation, half-truths or getting ones needs met at the expense of others. 

    It hasn't been long since this incident happened and so my heart is still sore. It's hanging out in my chest cavity where it always was but it isn't the same. I've noticed a few changes. It has visible bruises from this recent activity, but it's intact. And there is something else... I hesitate to declare it, but I think it's a wiser heart. It sits there beating regularly and hopefully, refusing to give up, refusing to let this define it or predict future disasters. It knows it is capable of great love, and so it sits steadily and patiently in my body, waiting...

    

    

    

    

Aging Gracefully in Tight Jeans

    I turned fifty-three two days ago and have been "adjusting" to this, like I've adjusted to my new age every year for the past few years. It's like putting on a pair of jeans that don't quite fit right, struggling to pull them over my hips and noticing a resistance. Noticing the tugging that is required to make it happen. Noticing the tightness as I pull up the zipper. Noticing the discomfort. I stand there in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom looking at the me in too-tight jeans and wondering, "How did this happen?" and, "What can I do to make it go away?" 

    I know how it happened: I got older. There's no mystery in that. I got older like everyone else gets older. Why I thought I would somehow be immune to this process is strangely comical. Why I thought everyone around me might start to wrinkle, sag and bulge in odd places while I would not is baffling and bizarre. Or is it? Isn't clinging to that desire just another way of resisting the inevitable? Maybe the belief that I would retain my youth past middle age is a normal reaction. I don't know. What I do know now, now that I'm smack in the middle of it and suited up in my new jeans, is that I was wrong. I was wrong about this just as I've been wrong about many other things in life. This new me isn't going anywhere anytime soon. She is here to stay, and stay she will, even though I've been trying to kick her out for awhile now. Even though I tell her she isn't beautiful enough to be a member of the club. 

    Yes I've been trying to make her go away, that woman in the jeans clinging a little too snugly to her bottom. I've done this in various ways. Most have been attempts to preserve my youthful physical appearance or alter any visible signs of aging as quickly as I can. This is evident on the shelf in my bedroom that contains multiple vials, bottles and pots of various creams, lotions and potions designed to slow down the passage of time. There has sometimes been a franticness to it that I'm not proud of (looking at my aging neck pushes the panic button every time for example). Because everyone knows we're not supposed to feel frantic about aging, or we're not supposed to show that we're frantic anyway. We're never supposed to show our fear, panic or distress about the whole thing. We're either supposed to do something about it OR we're supposed to age gracefully. Those seem to be the only two choices. We can pay someone to try and change us back to who were were, or to somehow stop time from running all over our faces and bodies, just freeze it somehow... for a bit anyway. Or we can invite that new person in to stay, for good, and with open arms. 

    Although the second option is much less invasive and cheaper, it isn't easy, the main reason being that we live in a world that values youth, equates youth with beauty and places a premium on it. Looking young is the ideal. A face free of lines and jowls, and a body free of lumps and saggy parts is a good thing indeed. In our world, we are basically made to feel inadequate with the inevitable. This sucks. Because how can you fight that? How can you beat it? How can you emerge unscathed? How can you traipse through middle age and old age unaffected by the standards and scripts that the world has written for you when you're bombarded by it at every turn? I told someone the other day that it seems like a cruel joke indeed as we go through life, especially as women, that we spend our youth often not feeling attractive enough, and just when we start to feel ok in the skin we're in, age comes storming in and boom-- we're not good-looking enough again! When does it end?

    It probably ends when we say "Fuck it" or "Enough" or "No more" to societal standards and expectations and begin to live our own scripts, not the ones that have been laid out in front of us forever. It probably ends when we can redefine beauty, and look at beauty from multiple perspectives, perspectives that can look at a highly wrinkled face with twinkling eyes and find pure beauty in that. It probably ends when we can go within and make peace with ourselves, explore the depths of our hearts and minds, and see the never-ending treasures inside of us. It probably ends when we realize with certainty that the inside is more important than the outside, that the outside is just a shell that houses the gifts within, and that that shell is beautiful and valuable no matter what age it is.

    I know that is where I need to get to. I know that I need to redefine things and make my priorities reflect where I am at in my life, rather than where the script that is "out there" tells me I should be. I know that I need to take a deep breath and be less frantic about the whole aging thing. I know also though that underneath it all is an intense fear of aging and that I need to confront that probably in order to embrace the new me fully. But for starters, I think I'll just welcome that new woman in the tight jeans into my space instead of pushing her away all the time. I'll let all fifty-three years of her in the door, and we can sit and have some tea together. 

    

    

Being Single on Valentine's Day

     Over the past decade, Valentine's Day has always been a bit of a tricky thing for me. I never really know how to celebrate it, being a single woman, so I usually don't celebrate it. I know I could use this day to focus on all the other kinds of "love" that I have in my life, and celebrate those loving relationships, but I don't do that because to me, Valentine's Day isn't about other kinds of love; it's about romantic love. It's about being grateful for the intimate partner you have, and taking the time to make sure they know somehow, in your own special, meaningful way. Whether that be a carefully crafted private moment with that person or a public post detailing the the reasons that person makes your heart skip a few beats, this day is about a special kind of love. So where do all the single people fit into this?

    Although it often feels like a "couples world", especially seen through the lens of singlehood, the reality is there are many, many single people on the planet. Whether by choice or not, our numbers are growing. Considering that Valentine's Day is supposed to be a day to celebrate coupledom, it would seem logical that us single folks should just ignore it. And many of us do. Or at least we try to. But sometimes this is hard, and sometimes we can't help but think about our own hearts on this day, and on the paths that have led us here, to our single places. This is what I often find myself doing on this day: reflecting on my own love life and how I ended up wherever it is I am at in that moment.

    Today is no different in the reflecting part, but it is radically different in other ways. In past years, a certain chunk of time was devoted to feeling sorry for myself because I didn't feel the piercing of cupid's bow at present, and was convinced it would never happen in the future either, even though I desperately wanted it. This prediction of future loveless states would send me into a downward spiral that wasn't pretty. Another chunk of time was devoted to trying to convince myself that I really didn't want a romantic relationship, or that it was an overrated, commercialized thing best left to hardcore romantic types, of which I thought I wasn't. In retrospect I can see that both of these ways of responding to Valentine's Day were lousy ones, but that was where I was then, and the response seemed fitting.

    This year is different though. Although a small part of me is thinking about the lack of intimacy in my life in the present moment, it is only a tiny part. And even when I think of it, the way I am thinking about it isn't the same as before. I don't think of it in a self-pitying way, rather in a self-acceptance way, a way that sees with truly open eyes how things are in the present moment and is okay with it. I can look at where I am at in my life also with understanding. I can see the choices I have made, choices for the most part that have kept me single, and I am okay with those choices too. I know that it is I alone who has created my reality, and that for many reasons I am meant to be exactly where I am now.

    There is no longer the self-blame or over-analysis of how I came to be where I am, no longer a bemoaning of my single status or a fervent wishing that it were different. Gone is also the desire to be rescued by someone, or to lose myself in another person in order to possibly forget my overthinking self for a moment. I also am not replaying countless tapes of how and where I have screwed up in the love department, tapes that rewrote all of my relationship troubles and made them my own fault, even though I knew that a relationship involves two people. In short, I don't feel yucky about being single today.

    Does this mean I'm doing a dance of joy because I'm not part of a couple thing? No. Do I still want that? Yes. Do I need it? No. And that is the biggest difference of all. I have finally arrived at a place in my life where want trumps need. It took me 52 years to get here but it finally happened. I no longer need a romantic relationship to feel whole, centered, satisfied and at peace. Because, more and more, I feel those things on a daily basis, just being in a relationship with myself. Although it seems to be common wisdom that one of the best ways to a fulfilling, healthy intimate relationship with another person is to start by cultivating a healthy, fulfilling relationship with yourself, for some reason, I found that so hard to do for much of my life. But then slowly, things began to click for me, and slowly that changed. 

    So today, on Valentine's Day, I celebrate personal growth and true self-love, a love that is not born out of ego, but grounded in compassion and acceptance. I celebrate the opening of my heart as I see more and more the ways that it was closed before. I celebrate this moment as it is, and me as I am in my singleness. I know that, in the end, Valentine's Day is about the heart that is full, and I know I have a full heart. Maybe one day again I will share my heart with another, but today, I am okay to sit still with my full heart all by myself.

    

    

Why I love "It's A Wonderful Life"

     I have a few routines and traditions during the holiday season, and one of them is to watch "It's a Wonderful Life". I'm not really sure when this started. It wasn't a tradition in our house growing up. It was something I grabbed onto I think in my late 20s, and it stuck around. Truth be told, it more than stuck around. It's not just a thing I do because I'm supposed to, or because I started it, therefore need to continue it. No, it's something I do because it has meaning for me, because it reminds me of things that matter, and because it fills me up with warm, fuzzy, loving feelings... and that is never a bad thing.

    I've tried to pull my 17 year old son into my now decades long yearly ritual of watching this movie, in various ways, telling him the themes are timeless, that it's a classic, a treasure, something he also needs to incorporate into his holiday season. He has now watched it three times with me. I don't remember 3 times, more like 1.5, but he insisted adamantly the other day that it has been three... three hate-filled times. He has declared more than once, "I hate that movie". Although part of me feels the sting of his words and wants to ditch my indoctrination attempts with him, another part won't give up. In fact, that other part clings fiercely to the mission: To make my son see how fabulous this movie really is.

    So my mission got me thinking and asking myself a few questions. Why DO I like this movie so much? Why does the holiday season somehow not feel complete unless I've watched it? Why can I watch this movie over and over again, and not get tired of it (especially being a person who tires of things quickly)? Why does it affect my emotions the way it does?

    This year, I actually found myself tearing up a few times as I watched it, an odd experience because crying is not something I usually associate with this film. In context, the tears might have more to do with current circumstances rather than the movie itself. Due to the social distancing that is now required of every human on this planet, I spent Christmas Eve alone-- something I have only done once before in my life, and that was because I had a nasty flu, so it doesn't really count because I was too sick then to care. But this year, I did care. And this year, my ritual of watching It's a Wonderful Life took on even more importance. This year, it was a life raft of sorts. I clung to that thing like it was the only thing to cling to in a weird sea of alienation. And it saved me.

    As I sat on my couch and watched it, under blankets and cozy in my pjs, with food I'd ordered in so I didn't have to cook, I slowly felt myself filling up with all the right emotions. Where sadness and disappointment were a few hours before, in its place now were hope, love, and joy. Where I had been focusing on my aloneness, feeling cut off from the human contact I so desperately wanted, the focus now shifted. I was reminded of our interconnectedness, of the ways we affect one another, of how we come together when we need to. But most of all, I was reminded of the love we feel for our partner, family and friends, and how it is that love that matters most of all. I was reminded, in essence, of all the things I am normally reminded of each time I watch the movie. 

    When George Bailey leans over the same railing of the bridge he had only hours earlier thought to jump from and end his life, but this time in his leaning, he is praying, "Please God, let me live again. I want to live again" (or something like that), my heart fills and occupies more space in my body than it did before. It happens every time. His plea is a reminder of how precious and beautiful this life is. When he realizes he has been granted his prayer and runs screaming with joy through the streets of Bedford Falls, savouring everything and everyone along the way, I'm reminded of all those things and people that I savour in my life, and how I need to spend more time savouring and less time complaining. When Clarence the angel tells George, "See George, you really did have a wonderful life", it makes me think of the infinite ways that life is indeed wonderful. And that is never a bad thing. So I will continue my tradition of watching "It's a Wonderful Life" every holiday season, under my blankets, with the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling in the background, because I love it that much.

    

    

My Father

     Today is November 11th, Remembrance Day, and a fitting day to write about my father, who served in the Canadian Armed Forces for 31 years. Every year, I watch the Remembrance Day ceremony on tv on CBC, and though I think of current events and past veterans, it is my father who takes center stage for me in my mind on that day. He is the main character, the principal hero in his crisply pressed military uniform, with his stripes and medals, standing proudly, representing his country and all those values that he held and continues to hold dearly.

    My father was born on October 13th, 1945 in Sudbury, Ontario to a French-Canadian mother and father. I don't know a lot about my father's childhood, but I do know things weren't always easy, that money was sometimes tight, that his father had a problem with drinking, and that his mother worked long hours to pay the bills. My dad doesn't talk much about his childhood. I know that at a young age, he was hustling in a local pool hall, finding a way to earn his own much-needed money. I know also that he wasn't successful at school, despite his obvious smarts, dropping out in grade 9. The act of joining the military at 17 years of age I think was, in many ways, a ticket out of the limitations he was facing at the time. Joining up revealed a few other things about his personality as well: the ability to make radical changes and take on big challenges, the desire to defend core values by serving his country, and a deep-seated urge to grow into his potential and spread his wings. 

    As I think of my father today, through the lens of the army brat I once was, I have many vivid memories of him as a military man. There he is, spit-shining his boots at 9pm, getting them ready for work the next morning, cigarette dangling from his lips, face tense in concentration. There he is again, standing in front of an ironing board as the early evening spread itself across the living room, turning his shirts into perfectly perfect fabrics, getting ready for the next day. Always getting ready for the next day. And always happy to get ready for the next day, never miserable about it. As a child, I understood that my father loved his job, and found meaning in it. As proof of this, in the mornings, my father would whistle and hum as he went about his rituals before work.

    In another memory, there he is, walking around in the Officer's Mess one night, the place he was in charge of running. We lived in Lahr, Germany at the time and my dad, who had begun his career in the infantry as a cook, had risen in the ranks and was now a Master Warrant Officer whose job it was to take care of all manner of events and goings on in the Officer's Mess-- a position of significant responsibility. He had gotten me a job that night as a "cigarette girl" (I was 16 so I guess old enough to carry out such duties), someone who walked around with small elegant trays of cigarettes, offering them to the officers and officers' wives. I remember for the first time, looking at my father through different eyes as I watched him work, and witnessing the respect and genuine liking his subordinates showed him as the night went on. I saw that not only did he like his job, the people he worked with seemed to like him. A lot. I had a newfound respect for my father and his work after that night.

    I have a few other memories of my father, sitting on the edge of my bed the morning after an argument that happened the night before during my late turbulent teen years (this occurred more than once), lightly waking me up with his hand and saying, "Sorry about last night. We're okay, right?"  In this memory, he sits there, in his ever perfect uniform, ready for work, his kind eyes looking into my own sleepy ones as I struggled to wake up. Looking back, I understand that it bothered him to leave things messy and unfixed and so made the effort before going to work to fix things with me. I cherish this memory of my father because it says so much about him as a man, and as a parent.

    When I left Winnipeg at 20 to move to Vancouver, it was my father who drove me to the airport, again in his military uniform because it was in the morning, before work. We had a coffee together in the airport lounge. We sat across from each other, he in his usual outfit and I in mine. I don't remember what I was wearing at the time but it was probably something black, being the deep-thinking artsy wanna-be that I was. We didn't say much to each other beyond talk of weather and travel details, yet the space between us was heavy with feeling. I remember there was so much I wanted to say to my father in those moments before I left, and I'm sure there were things he wanted to say to me too, but it was hard to say them, and so we didn't. To this day, I remember the jumble of feelings I felt as I waved goodbye to him, holding back tears. I remember his eyes were dry as well, but I could see in his expression that his tears were closer than they had ever been with me before. In this memory, he stands there waving back, crisp and efficient in his uniform, and I love him fiercely. 

    My father served 31 years in the Military. He began as a private and ended as a Chief Warrant Officer, the highest level one can attain as a non-commissioned officer in the Canadian Armed Forces. When I think of my father and how successful he was in his career, I am filled with awe, respect and admiration for him. His career achievements made him a success story, triumphing over humble and shaky beginnings, and leading him to a life of meaning and satisfaction. He loved his work, and was good at it. He showed unwavering commitment to the values of order, peace and freedom. The military was a huge part of his life. So today, on Remembrance Day especially, my father holds a special place in my heart, and in my mind's eye standing there at attention, in his perfect military uniform, ready for work. 

    

Going for Year Two

    I've decided to go for year two of my Onewinelesswoman experiment, and have been surprised at how difficult it has been so far. I think I thought it would be easier than this, mostly because I already had a year under my belt, so wouldn't the second year just be more of the same? Wasn't I now a pro of sorts, an expert at navigating sparkly water drinking in a world where the cups runneth over with all things alcohol? Wouldn't I just get better and better at this way of doing things? Wouldn't I forget about the wine? Wouldn't the moderation fantasy disappear, replaced by a healthy, vibrant, centered me who didn't need fantasies?

    I didn't plan to go for year two. The goal was originally one year, and then I would reassess things. Beneath the one year goal was another goal though: To begin drinking moderately again after going one year alcohol-free. So as I went about the business of living without my pinot grigio and merlot buddies, I had that other goal, tucked somewhere deeply in my back pocket. It went wherever I did, comforting me on the tough days. Perhaps it was this other goal that allowed me to accomplish the first one. I don't know. What I do know is that I needed it, and maybe I still do. I needed to know that in future, if I wanted to accompany my delicious dinner with a glass of equally delicious wine, that I'd be able to, no questions asked. 

    Not that there would be any questions asked anyway. I live in a world and in a time when wine is a cherished thing indeed. And beer. And vodka. And other spirits. People love this stuff. They love how it makes them feel (while it's going down anyway!), how it takes the edge off a rough week. They love how it connects people, how uncorking a bottle and pouring it into glasses around a table is a lovely shared thing. They love how it makes things seem somehow more manageable. And fun. They love the fun that alcohol brings. So if I were to uncork my own bottle again, I doubt anyone I know would say anything, or wonder why I decided to do that. It would be a normal thing, just as their doing it is a normal thing.

    I think that's one of the reasons why year 2 has been a challenge-- I'm tired of going against the grain of normal. I'm tired of being the perrier-with-ice woman, while everyone else fills their glasses with the other stuff, the fun stuff. I'm tired of being the abnormal one in the room, the lone wolf on the sidelines. Even though I chose it, I'm tired of it. Sometimes. And I guess that's the key word... sometimes. Because I don't feel like this every day. Most days, actually, I'm ok with following my own path, as odd and not-normal as it may be. Most days, I'm aware of how much I've grown in the past 15 months, and how the fact that I've been wineless has played a big part in that. Most days I agree with my son who told me one night when I asked him why he likes me better as a nondrinker, "I don't know, you're just a better person". So, with that in mind, I guess I'll crack open another bottle of sparkly water and raise a glass to Year 2!

On Gratitude

     Thanksgiving is the one day of the year where the idea of Gratitude takes center stage. We mark it on our calendars, we have a day off work, we gather with our friends and family to stuff our faces and be thankful for what we have. It is a fabulous holiday. We need more of those. 

    In recent years, there has been much interest in the topic of gratitude. Google the word and you will be flooded by information on its benefits-- everything from increased immune systems and improved sleep to positive emotional and mental wellbeing. Merriam Webster defines gratitude as "the state of being grateful: thankfulness". This simple definition is easy to understand, but for some reason sometimes difficult to do. It is one of those things in life that most of us know we should be doing more of, but sometimes default to its opposite: the state of being thankless. I don't think we set out to be thankless; I think it is more that we just forget to be thankful. It is all too easy some days to focus on what is not working in our lives, or on what is missing, rather than remembering what is there and beautiful right in front of us.

    I have the unfortunate predisposition to be one of those people who, for much of her life has looked toward the other side of the fence and its pastures, always thinking they are greener than the greenest green, and often wondering how I can jump over the fence and quickly get there to do some frolicking. Although it is nice to be able to envision better things for oneself occasionally, the problem with this activity (especially if it becomes a regular habit) is you miss out on so many things. You miss out on the joy of being in the present moment, in feeling yourself grounded in the now. You miss out on recognizing and valuing what you already do have. You miss out on the experience of savouring what is. Again, this concept is not new at all. It has been written about over and over again by philosophers, psychologists, writers and musicians. It continues to be written about. People are talking. 

    We all have our things that we are thankful for, big and small, and they are unique to each of us. What is important is that we remember them. Regularly. Daily ideally. Doing that is medicine for the soul. So in no particular order, here is a list of things that I am grateful for today: When my sixteen year old reaches over to give me a hug- not a short fleeting hug but a long meaningful one, and then says, "I love you, mom" in his almost-man voice. When the sky is a vibrant canvas for the stunning fall colours of the leaves on the trees on my walk. When I slip my tired body between clean sheets at the end of the day. When I look down at my stomach and remember there was a colostomy bag there at one point in my life for 9 months, and that has now been replaced by a few scars, which I greatly prefer. When I share an intimate moment with a friend or family member. When I am filled with laughter to the point of bursting, and have a fully satisfying belly laugh (even better when I do this with someone else who is doing the same thing-- shared laughter can't be beat). When I sit on my couch in my living room by the window with a good book that makes my brain either relax or think, with tea in hand, looking at the shadows and shapes that the sun makes on the walls, and realize, "I am content right now". 

    I could add many more things to my list, and to do so would only enhance my life I am sure. Just writing the short list above did something cool to my heart. It warmed it up in all the right places, reminding me that Gratitude should indeed be a daily thing, and what a better day to reflect on this than on Thanksgiving.