My Christmas’s (Christmases?) were pretty epic growing up. I was the spoiled youngest daughter of three and I can’t say I had a bad Christmas… like ever. I remember the Christmas Eve visits we’d drive from grandmas, to aunty’s and to more grandmas. We ate cabbage rolls, perogies, Mennonite food I don’t know how to spell and a butt ton of cookies and chocolate. (I said butt on purpose.)
And Christmas mornings… I remember waiting on the top of the stairs, the glow of the Christmas tree, anxious to see if Santa left his footprint in the fireplace bed of rocks like he did every year right before he took a swig of brandy we always left him. (Yes brandy, we skipped the milk and cookies in our household.) Grandma and my Great Aunty Vicki would come over early and then we could open gifts. Grandma always handmade our nighties, and my parents (most likely my extravagant father) was responsible for some pretty memorable gifts.
But it if I was truthful, the most memorable thing about my Christmas’s growing up was the music. We had an old organ that my dad would play; he would play German carols, your standard Christmas carols and all the silly ones inbetween. We would sit and sing, my dad and I, and we’d listen to Boney M, Roger Whittaker, and then later Mannheim Steamroller. Every Christmas Eve we’d fall asleep to gentle classical music played on CBC and if we woke in the middle of the night, it would still be playing to remind us it was a special night. In the morning we listened to Handel’s Messiah, later in Bible College I had the privilege of singing Handel’s Messiah with a mass choir, my parents drove 7 hours to see that. Music was always apart of my upbringing, but Christmas in that regards always took the cake. (And not the Christmas cake… can’t stand the stuff.)
My favourite as a child though was always John Denver and the Muppets. Miss Piggy, Kermit and all the gang singing and making us laugh. As of late my kids and I have been listening to it on repeat, and I thought I’d share with you.
Christmas is just hours away and we’ll soon get ready for an Eve of romantic lights, good food and wine with family. And the music will play, and I’ll think of my dad and how he always brought light and life into our holidays.
Christmas as is coming and we are already filled up, but still making room for more….more memories, more laughter and more love.
…And no Kevin, the title of this post has nothing to do with you. 😉
There are some things you just aren’t allowed to process out loud. Whether it’s the circle you are in or greater society, shame still has its hold over certain topics. And I am squirming, my kids see it, my lover sees it and I see it.
I remember after my mom died I had this acute awareness that there was very little time to mourn in the respect that life continues on. Kids have to be taken here, suppers need to be made, eaten and cleaned up after, and work needs to be attended to. Life doesn’t stop, even when you want to cry, scream and stomp your foot. Life is relentless, until it isn’t and we all know that side of things isn’t necessarily any better.
So here I am processing, wishing for time, wishing for space. It’s a cross between wanting to run away, wanting to hide and well… wanting to punch someone. You see, I will always be that person, that carries just that little bit, that edge of sadness in her soul. Someone who picks at her wounds, who ruminates, who stores pain in her soul. It’s not something I consciously choose, it’s not even something I enjoy, but it is who I am, and today even my 9 year old could see it. That hurt a bit too.
When we walked the West Highland Way it was hard. Like real hard. It didn’t matter how long we walked that day, whether 12 km or 27 km, with 2 km to our destination for the day to go I wanted to die…like every fucking time. You’d come around the bend of some winding path and hope that this would be it, here would lie the Mecca… the bathtub, bed and respite for the day. And the disappointment, when THAT bend, was not THE bend to signal the end of the journey for the day.
I don’t think I am 2 km’s from my journeys end, not by any means (I mean not that I know of!!!!). But I keep coming around the bend, hoping for respite, and feeling pain and disappointment, discomfort and sadness. Hope squelched… for now.
So I sit here, on the side of the road, aware that hope can look like it’s missing, aware that just like the bends that came and went that brought no end to that day, obviously eventually came. Otherwise how could I be here, literally.
I keep hoping that one of these lessons in hope will stick, one of these lessons in pain will stick. And that the other shoe, that it would stop dropping, or… maybe I just need to be a barefoot kinda girl, cause I’m running out of shoes.
I’ll be brief, unlike our 28km hike today through rain, wind, sun, rain and sun again. (Ok so I never do brief very well…)
We made it. All 153 km and some extra to boot… we have lost all civility after climbing three flights of stairs with our luggage to an amazing BnB with an incredible view. (I mean Kevin climbed all the stairs, I winced and tried not to stretch my calves too much walking up the stairs…the right one currently has a permanent Charlie horse.)
We’ll post more pictures soon, but for now know we are safe and sound (and slightly more crippled than when we last saw you.)
Scrambled a bit this morning, we woke up to what we walked through yesterday, a shit ton of wet. Our hosts in Ballachulish were tremendous, drying our belongings and doing a load of laundry for us as well. We have about 15.5 km to go today, up up and up the steep devils staircase on the way to Kinlochleven.
The mountains have been covered in cloud, the paths wet, the rocks occasionally slippery but never have I wished not to be here.
My muscles have adjusted, though they still hurt the worst at the start of every morning, like I had done hundreds of squats the day before. I suppose I have been. Nursing two blisters that seem to be healing despite the continued walking, layering to be as most comfortable for the weather as possible and realizing what very little (besides clean underwear and water) that you need up here.
Ok… typing while being transported to our next starting point is making me nauseous on this windy road. Plus I’m missing the view of spectacular mountains and overflowing rushing streams due to all the rain.
We got to Milngavie in the on again off again rain this afternoon. Lugging 43 pounds of suitcase plus a pack was not exactly fun through all our transportation issues/difficulties but when we wake up tomorrow morning our suitcases will be someone else’s problems. We’ll pack our day packs (and not forget the rain cover for our day pack of course) and leave our bags with a baggage transfer company who will take them to our next stop. I mean while we walk through hurricane hooha and attempt to make it to Drymen. Dry…men…. dry… m… get it? <ahem>. We won’t be dry man or woman and may return to Canada one big prune.
We arrived at the hotel today and the clerk asked us if we were walking The Way. She made a cringe face when we answered yes…even the Scots know the weather is a wee bit awful.
Cause let’s all be honest. Jacquie is a bit of a princess. She likes nice things. She likes warm things… not cold and wet things. But she got it stuck in her numb skull that she had to do this. One can only hope there are bathtubs to warm up along the way. PRAY THERE ARE BATHTUBS ALONG THE WAY PEOPLE!!!
Here’s some reading you can do while we hunker down and eat and sleep for our start at 9am tomorrow morning start (that’s 3am for most of youse at home).
…. they cancelled our flight. Not like cancelled cancelled. But like, put us on a different flight 5.5 hours later which would leave us missing all our connecting flights to Glasgow. So we raced to the airport, and damn all I could think about was Home Alone! Thanks to Christa our speedy ride, and Maria, Cristina and Katrina from Air Canada we were booked immediately on two flights to see which one we could get to first to make our connecting flights in Toronto.
So obviously we made it…
Kevin was much more calm than I. It probably took me two hours to come down from that adrenaline rush… to land in a delirium of realizing I had been up for over 24 hours from coming off of a night shift. (I left without shower after work, without sleep, without food, …and barely packed…. and yes fuck, a few things were left behind from racing to the airport 3 hours earlier than expected.)
Two layovers later, several back breaking contortionist airplane seat sleeps later we arrived in Glasgow and have slept on and off since. Jet lag is a bitch coming off of already being awake from working nights. #justsayin
Just barely made it to breakfast this morning. And are now checking out late, and Kevin is telling me to get off my phone and to look out the window because it would seem the hurricane season has arrived in Glasgow. We…are so fucked.
Wish us luck as we find our way to Milngavie. The start of the Westhighland Way. … where impending doom and epic stories will continue.
The closer I get the more scared I get. And it’s irritating me. Almost as much as my achilles is irritating me in fact.
What is with the fear? It is a motherfucking joy stealing turd that’s what!
Yoda said, “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.” Kevin shared this with me a few weeks ago, and although yes it came from a movie (an epic one at that) I don’t think its message is any less relevant. Travelling along the road of fear leads to places closed off from love, compassion and joy. The exact opposite of places I want to go.
So many lessons I have learned and places I have gone and people I have known remind me of the message that I want to live all in. Not to deny the fear, but to not let it suppress the joy either.
I realize I am not climbing Everest, but this is my Everest. Just like in relationships where every day in puts you further invested in one another, every preparatory act for this hike/trip brings me more vested in the outcome. I want to succeed, but also afraid I won’t and then my spirit wanders the messages going round my head. Some ok, some not so ok.
Me and my body/brain/heart have been practicing a bit of mindfulness. Practicing reorienting my ruminating, acknowledging the feelings, letting them enter my head, then letting them exit. Like watching a leaf float down a stream. A sports psychologist friend of mine once shared that with me and I have been using it as of late. The goal here is to enjoy the moment and still responsibly prepare for the next. The goal here is to live to the fullest capacity that I was created for and not lopsided in the realm of suffering and foreboding.
So much to learn, so much to process … SO MUCH FUN AND ADVENTURE TO BE HAD!!! And we’re on our way in 5 more sleeps.
Mondays are always bittersweet. As I’m getting the kids out the door and we’re fighting about lunches and clothes and agendas and well… why we fight so much, there is this nagging reminder that I won’t see them for a week. Monday is our trade day, they go to their dads. And although I often see them at some point because someone forgets something or because of football etc, there is still this hollow place that reminds me I am separated from my kids.
Whoa whoa whoa…. don’t for one moment think I also don’t love a break from the whining, fighting, Fortnite addicted monsters! I can sit, think and even get something written down when it’s my week off to work and my exes to have the kids.
What I have always been aware of though is that this freedom to sit, nap, write (or go to Scotland) comes with a cost. My break, my legitimate rest, my ability to run off to Scotland for two weeks comes with a cost. A little hollow heart, a little lump in my throat, and a reminder that although I love them with my whole heart, sometimes parents need breaks, and selfishly I am taking one in 7 more sleeps.
24 hours a day I am a parent, 24 hours a day I am a provider for my kids, but 24 hours a day I am also a woman in need of respite and recovery.
I see my married and coupled friends, and sometimes feel guilty I am afforded time “off” from the wee crazies, wishing them respite as well. But then I remember the cost of this “freedom” and I wouldn’t wish my journey on anyone.
Thank you @belgianmomma @tamijog and Anna and @calvin.65c for all chipping in, compromising, so I can get a break away soon. I love you, and wouldn’t want my life to ever be without any of you.
Joy, fear, foreboding, excitement, exhilaration, reality and good old disillusionment are all rearing its head these days. And I’m not just talking about the 96 mile or 154 km hike my man (can I call him that?) and I are about to embark on.
I have been called mad, crazy and brave in the last few weeks and and I think that sums it up in a nut shell. (And I’m still not just talking about the hike.)
We have conspired around an adventure of a life time. We have thought about rain, snow, peeing, eating, blisters, water, and looming old injuries waiting to rear their ugly heads. But what we haven’t yet done is experienced it.
I warned Kevin early on that I’m afraid of hard things and am more or less the laziest person I know but I knew I had to do this. I knew it had something for me. I knew, but knowing, reading and packing doesn’t totally prepare you for what it’s like an eighth of the way in, when you are already sore, wet and maybe deep down inside scared shitless. (Still not just talking about the hike.)
I was totally prepared to do this walk alone. (I’m a great talker.) I had thrown it out there in a few venues and didn’t really have any serious takers.
So when I told Kevin about it though…his response?
“When are you going to ask me to come along?”
I’m a whiner, a passionate being who struggles with irritability, anger and fear. WHAT KIND OF GOD DAMN SAINT WANTS TO GO ON A 154 km HIKE WITH ME?!
Ok, he does. Saint Kevin. (Yeah that sounds all sorts of wrong.)
This next week is a downward slide into unknowns and hard work. I can’t wait to share the journey with you. I have no idea what’s going to happen. Megs at work says I cry when I’m happily overwhelmed. I do. I cried the first several weeks into dating Kevin. I cried on the top of Quiraing, I cried on the side of a mountain while Jim Mackintosh read me poetry. I am expecting some of those tears. (I am expecting some of the other kind too.)
My hope is not to be a drag to my partner, to not steal joy from the experience, to open my body and heart to what persistence and overcoming can mean for me as a person. And even as I wrote this I cry.
Hang on… I have a feeling it’s going to be quite a ride. (And I’m still not only talking about the hike.)