Notes on Love

I’ve worked retail, on and off, for many years. It’s not my favourite work yet neither is it so dreadful that I have made a vow never to return. Retail work requires a certain amount of extroversion—of which I lay no claim—and an equal dose of stagecraft—of which I like to think I have in abundance. In other words it exhausts me while nurturing the entertainer part of myself that lives to be seen and heard. Not an easy balance and, unfortunately, an act that pays less than the energy required to succeed. Regardless, it does pay the bills while I pursue my dreams of writing and bodywork.

One of the things I have learned in retail, and ironically in the least favourite of that category of jobs—cashier in a big box hardward store—was something that has since helped me not only in my bodywork practice but in general communication, especially with my aged father. It is the art of silence—of listening with an open heart and quiet patience, of hearing without judgment or need to tell my story. Although I am not, by any account, a master of this skill, I find it funny how this most precious gift was taught to me in the most innocuous of places: over a cash register in a big box store. Life stories were told and poignant moments shared in a matter of seconds when I stopped bemoaning my fate and just listened to the person who stood before me.

Excerpt from Notes from the Bottom of the Box: the Search for Identity by a Modern-Day Renaissance Woman.

The woman pushed her card into the interact machine. Her husband, grabbing their purchases and heading for the door, asked, Okay? She nodded and punched in her PIN. Halfway through she looked up at me and said, He always does that. We shop together, but he leaves as soon as I start paying. Bewilderment washed over her face. It was as if this was the first time she had ever given words to the experience. Her tone then took on a subtle sharpness, He doesn’t like to waste time.

I asked how long they had been married. Forty-five years, she said.

The woman paused as she waited for her transaction to complete. By the time I get to the car he will have it loaded, and we’ll be ready to go. Her expression changed again, softening. It’s efficient, she said, and walked out the door.

 *  * * 

The wedding band on her finger was beautiful; ‎I told her so. Thank you, she said, as she finished paying her bill. We've been married seventeen years, but last month we renewed our vows. She described the event in loving detail and then concluded with, It was a total surprise... I thought we were just meeting friends in town for a fancy dinner.  After that she paused, her face a mixture of love and grief: I was diagnosed with MS last year, she said, it's been a hard year for him.

*  * *

The man led his wife of many years up to my till. She appeared lost, her eyes far away with a hint of fear. He spoke softly to her with reassuring and gentle words. We finished the transaction and he said, I cant leave her alone. She comes with me everywhere. I am so tired. I asked if he had considered in-house care or some other form of respite. My questions went unheard. People tell me, he says, to put her in care. How can I? We have lived in our home for fifty years. I love her.

Stay tuned for more weekly excerpts from Notes from the Bottom of the Box. If you like this blog, please like me on my Modern-Day Renaissance Woman Facepage.  Thanks for the support!
If you like my writing, check out my other blog, The Interdependent Life.

The Downtown Eastside

Working in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside was exhilarating, frightening, poignant, devastating, and as it finally drove me to my own therapy, self-revealing.

And so begins the introduction to the stories borne from my community work in the late 90s. I was attending university but knew I needed relevant experience to ground the psychology degree I was working on. Plans were to eventually go to grad school, open up my own practice and do some good. Some plans, however, don’t always work the way you envision them.

An excerpt from Notes from the Bottom of the Box: The Search for Identity by a Modern-Day Renaissance Woman.

There was this moment early on in my shelter job when I was handing out meal tickets to those waiting in a long queue. If there was extra food left after the residents had eaten, it was given to those who lived on the streets or in hotels. Those who knew the system lined up early, and I got to know the regulars. I greeted each by name, until I saw someone I hadn’t seen in a while. An overdue absence always filled us with a certain dread: life on the streets was dangerous, whether through violence or drugs; we were not always privy to what happened once people left our doors. I looked at this man and, with recognition, exclaimed joyfully, Hey Bill, I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. Even before the C word was out of my mouth, the black woman next in line was calling me down. Coon, she said with increasing volume, COON! Who are you calling a coon? I’m a coon, and you’re a racist! I stood dumbfounded. The expression was something my mom used to say. It came out of my mouth unwittingly; I didn’t even understand exactly what it meant, I just knew it had been a long time since I had seen the man in question. It didn’t matter. Her agitation and yelling continued as she was led out of the shelter due to her drug-induced state. This is not to diminish the effects my words had on her; I was definitely in the wrong, and it was the beginning of many such lessons.

The DTES demanded all I had. It crept into my blood, infusing my soul with the pain and courage of its denizens. But more than anything, it demanded I make a choice. With each position I accepted I had the option to power over the vulnerable folks that lived in this neighbourhood or meet them on their journey in whatever form it took. With the grass roots organizations, the struggle between power-over and power-with was overt—a physical and/or mental strong-arming versus consensus building practices that either created or dismantled barriers; with the institutions the difference was more subtle, taking on the flavour of condescension and paternalism. At times I chose the wrong route and did damage, as some of these stories will tell.

Stay tuned for more weekly excerpts from Notes from the Bottom of the Box. If you like this blog, please like me on my Modern-Day Renaissance Woman Facepage.  Thanks for the support!
If you like my writing, check out my other blog, The Interdependent Life.

Climbing Partners

Being in relationship is no easy task. Between varying temperaments, diverse needs and conflicting desires, life as a couple is a far cry from heaven on earth ... even on the best of days. But try tying the two parties to a rope—just for fun, mind you—and then see how the cookie (or rock) crumbles!

Excerpt from Notes from the Bottom of the Box: The Search for Identity by a Modern-Day Renaissance Woman.

Climbing with Max tended to tempt the fates of connubial bliss. There was almost always an incident, however small, followed by an argument and then a round of make-up sex. We were predictable, if nothing else.

Our first major climb together was the NE Buttress of Slesse, a peak made famous in 1956 as the site of the world’s worst airplane disaster, at least, up to that time. This was Max’s second time on the route and my first. The usual approach—at least back then, before logging slashed its way up closer to the base of the climb—was to do it in two days: hike in and camp at the base on the first, then climb and descend on the second. At twenty-one pitches, including a couple of intermediate moves, and fiercely exposed at that, it was somewhat beyond my capacity to climb, let alone be a capable second—the length and breadth of it a major challenge for any climber, especially one of my limited experience. Undeterred, Max made plans. We would leave Vancouver an hour before dawn, be picked up by a chopper in a clearing on Slesse Creek, dropped off at the base, climb, summit, descend and be back in Vancouver for a romantic dinner at our favourite haunt, Chianti Café. The life of the jet-setter. I was scared and intimidated but otherwise keen  .  .  .

Everything goes according to plan. Our pilot, Gerry, picks us up as the eastern sky brightens and drops us off just to the right of the calving pocket glacier. Roping up is smooth and easy, and the first few pitches are slippery with moss but otherwise fine. Max leads, I follow, a familiar but unfortunate pattern on and off the rope. It isn’t until he wants to do some running belays that tension begins to play havoc with my sleep deprived and intimidated brain cells.

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I leave it at that… you’ll have to read the book to find out what happened.

Stay tuned for more weekly excerpts from Notes from the Bottom of the Box. If you like this blog, please like me on my Modern-Day Renaissance Woman Facepage.  Thanks for the support!
If you like my writing, check out my other blog, The Interdependent Life.