Singing always came very easy for me. Learning the notes was never a challenge nor was memorizing. Because of this I was always able to get away with a minimal amount of work. During my degrees, singing in choirs throughout the week also helped work on my endurance and so I never had to practice for hours on my own. The requirements for my degrees kept me moving forward and doing what needed to be done. But that was it.
At this point in my life singing has never been more difficult. It is the hardest thing I am trying to do. After 4.5 years of not singing I started up again. We've had a surrogate family since the day we arrived all those years ago and when patriarch passed away I had no choice but to offer to sing at his funeral. I felt something in my spirit and I couldn't ignore it. A nagging sensation came after me and I ran upstairs to see if I could perhaps sing the piece that was spinning through my head. When I realized there was something there I phoned our friend and offered to sing for her father's funeral. I phoned before I could spend any time second guessing my choice and scare myself out of it. I truly believe that this moment was one of spirit and not of me.
The whole process of getting the piece ready was interesting. Learning the notes wasn't an issue, the challenge was getting some degree of technique back. My voice was so out of shape but I kept working at it day by day with a motivation I've never had before. I'm thankful for it because I accomplished a lot. It wasn't brilliant, but it was damn good considering I hadn't sang in 4.5 years.
A few months later I took another chance. I auditioned for a community production of Les Mis. I didn't get the part I wanted and I wasn't willing to give up time and pay for babysitters for a lesser part. (I would have probably thought differently about it if I were in a bigger place.) The more the producer spoke, the less I wanted to be involved. The more the director spoke, the more I knew she was going to choose someone she already knew from another town. She wasn't ready to take a chance on a wild card. Despite all of that, I left that audition with an amazing sense of accomplishment simply because I put myself out there and spoke my truth. I believed in myself and it felt amazing.
Now I am trying to get my voice back in shape for singing classical repertoire and I don't really know what to do. My voice is pretty much exhausted by the time I'm done singing for 20-30 minutes. I've learned quite a lot of notes in a short amount of time but I'm struggling with figuring out how to get my voice to really sing. I have absolutely no endurance and so by the time I'm done my short practice I feel like I've gotten nowhere. The ease of singing in my previous years didn't prepare me for this. Each time I get myself into my little studio I am afraid but I make myself do it because I know I need to.
I am convinced that in the process of hopefully finding my voice again I am healing so much more of me that I can imagine even though at this moment I feel completely lost. Every once in awhile things go well and I have a glimmer of the freedom I once had in my voice but they are few and far between. I am trying to have faith, to trust the inner guidance I hear that is telling me to sing.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Friday, August 30, 2013
Chance of a Lifetime
When I was finishing up my Bachelor's degree and thinking about the next step, my voice instructor asked me if I wanted to pursue a career in performance. I remember saying that I never wanted to be the mom who isn't home for my kid's birthday.
A dear friend of mine is offering me a chance of a lifetime. Airfare, accommodation and retreat fees covered for this! Seven nights in Puerto Vallarta with workshops where I will care for myself in a way I've only ever dreamed of.
That's almost a week and a half away from my kiddos when I've never actually left them for any real time. The only time I've been away from the house overnight was when Little Man was born! My friend had mentioned this last April when she was visiting and I told myself I'd be stupid to say no. We've called my in-laws and they are very interested to see if they could make it work so they could come and stay while I'd be away. I asked the kids over dinner last night that if I had to go somewhere for a little bit with my friend, would they like to have Gramma and Grampa come to play with them. They said yes.
But the problem is that Little Man would turn 3 while I'd be away. And that makes it so hard for me to give a firm yes. I could pretend his birthday is another day so he nor Sweet One would ever know I wasn't actually there for it. But I'd know it.
A dear friend of mine is offering me a chance of a lifetime. Airfare, accommodation and retreat fees covered for this! Seven nights in Puerto Vallarta with workshops where I will care for myself in a way I've only ever dreamed of.
That's almost a week and a half away from my kiddos when I've never actually left them for any real time. The only time I've been away from the house overnight was when Little Man was born! My friend had mentioned this last April when she was visiting and I told myself I'd be stupid to say no. We've called my in-laws and they are very interested to see if they could make it work so they could come and stay while I'd be away. I asked the kids over dinner last night that if I had to go somewhere for a little bit with my friend, would they like to have Gramma and Grampa come to play with them. They said yes.
But the problem is that Little Man would turn 3 while I'd be away. And that makes it so hard for me to give a firm yes. I could pretend his birthday is another day so he nor Sweet One would ever know I wasn't actually there for it. But I'd know it.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
A Red Dwarf Campion for my Dad
We arrived home a week ago. I've wanted to type and try to process all that happened on our two week trip that covered 3,512.1 miles but I haven't been able to. There was so much that happened. t wasn't the colossal gong show I had expected it to be. It was what it needed to be and there were many beautiful moments that I am holding onto dearly. (I'm now no longer afraid of long car trips with small kids!)
On the day that we buried my father I was surround by a family I had tried not to connect with for many years because connecting with them meant connecting with my Dad. And really, that never went the way I'd hope it would so what was the point? He didn't understand me or listen to me so why would they. But they loved me and my family. My sister and I talked about how we never felt that cared for and loved by extended family like that before. "Don't knock. This is your home while you're here. You need anything, just come in and take it or ask if you can't find it." That was what my Dad's youngest brother told me within minutes of arriving on the farm. Strangely enough, when I looked at him I saw my Dad looking at me.
My counselor told me that after we buried my father I might feel a sense of relief. But I didn't. I wanted to so desperately but it didn't come. I sat on the ground with Little Man in my lap only a few feet from the hole where the wooden box that contained the ashes would be placed. The headstone a few more feet past that. It was a short service but I cried through the whole thing. At one point the Pastor nodded to my brother who then took the box and placed it in the hole. I felt my entire torso start to shake and I thought was going to scream. I wanted to sob. I was in awe of my brother who could do that without falling down himself. I reached over and held the hand of my cousin who was sitting beside me with her son in her lap and I felt a little better. I sat there for awhile hoping that a wave of relief would come over me. My Grandma walked up to the headstone and said in a strong, even tone, "Well, goodbye my son. 'Til we meet again." I wanted to be able to say my own version of that but no matter how long I sat there, it didn't come. I think I was one of the last to leave.
For the rest of the day and the day after that we were surrounded by such a great love. I felt home in a place that I never understood. The farm was amazing. Sweet One spent hours each day running with her cousins and having the greatest time. Little Man was usually close to Big Love or I but he still had fun in his own way. We were taken out in boats, fed food and spent hours around a campfire. I thought that maybe as I was surrounded by his mother, and sister that perhaps I would start to feel a bit of peace.
I didn't want to leave the farm. I felt at home there in a way I never thought I would. We had to leave to meet with Big Love's family. My sister had left the farm a few minutes before us and it seems she had the same idea that I had. I left the kids and Big Love at the car and walked towards the grave. My sister and her family were saying good bye and so I stayed back and watched them. After they were done my sister stayed with me a bit and I tried so hard again to be able to say goodbye but I couldn't. I was scared it would never come.
A few days later as we started the five days back to where we live we stopped at the cemetery once again. This time I carried with me a Dwarf Red Campion. The kids were very excited to plant this for "Grandpa's Special Place". I felt like finally I found something I could do for him. I dug into the dirt that was filling the small hole and pulled out as much as I could to make room for this plant, threw in some food and then proceeded to plant it. The kids helped me every step of the way. We made sure the peacock feathers my niece and nephew had placed there remained standing tall, watered it so it could begin to grow and said our goodbyes. "I miss Grandpa," my Sweet One said. The four of us standing there, leaving kisses on the headstone. Together my little family helped me say my first goodbye. Finally, I felt like the first seed of peace was planted inside of me.
I'm not too optimistic but I really hope that little flower will bloom for my Dad every year.
On the day that we buried my father I was surround by a family I had tried not to connect with for many years because connecting with them meant connecting with my Dad. And really, that never went the way I'd hope it would so what was the point? He didn't understand me or listen to me so why would they. But they loved me and my family. My sister and I talked about how we never felt that cared for and loved by extended family like that before. "Don't knock. This is your home while you're here. You need anything, just come in and take it or ask if you can't find it." That was what my Dad's youngest brother told me within minutes of arriving on the farm. Strangely enough, when I looked at him I saw my Dad looking at me.
My counselor told me that after we buried my father I might feel a sense of relief. But I didn't. I wanted to so desperately but it didn't come. I sat on the ground with Little Man in my lap only a few feet from the hole where the wooden box that contained the ashes would be placed. The headstone a few more feet past that. It was a short service but I cried through the whole thing. At one point the Pastor nodded to my brother who then took the box and placed it in the hole. I felt my entire torso start to shake and I thought was going to scream. I wanted to sob. I was in awe of my brother who could do that without falling down himself. I reached over and held the hand of my cousin who was sitting beside me with her son in her lap and I felt a little better. I sat there for awhile hoping that a wave of relief would come over me. My Grandma walked up to the headstone and said in a strong, even tone, "Well, goodbye my son. 'Til we meet again." I wanted to be able to say my own version of that but no matter how long I sat there, it didn't come. I think I was one of the last to leave.
For the rest of the day and the day after that we were surrounded by such a great love. I felt home in a place that I never understood. The farm was amazing. Sweet One spent hours each day running with her cousins and having the greatest time. Little Man was usually close to Big Love or I but he still had fun in his own way. We were taken out in boats, fed food and spent hours around a campfire. I thought that maybe as I was surrounded by his mother, and sister that perhaps I would start to feel a bit of peace.
I didn't want to leave the farm. I felt at home there in a way I never thought I would. We had to leave to meet with Big Love's family. My sister had left the farm a few minutes before us and it seems she had the same idea that I had. I left the kids and Big Love at the car and walked towards the grave. My sister and her family were saying good bye and so I stayed back and watched them. After they were done my sister stayed with me a bit and I tried so hard again to be able to say goodbye but I couldn't. I was scared it would never come.
A few days later as we started the five days back to where we live we stopped at the cemetery once again. This time I carried with me a Dwarf Red Campion. The kids were very excited to plant this for "Grandpa's Special Place". I felt like finally I found something I could do for him. I dug into the dirt that was filling the small hole and pulled out as much as I could to make room for this plant, threw in some food and then proceeded to plant it. The kids helped me every step of the way. We made sure the peacock feathers my niece and nephew had placed there remained standing tall, watered it so it could begin to grow and said our goodbyes. "I miss Grandpa," my Sweet One said. The four of us standing there, leaving kisses on the headstone. Together my little family helped me say my first goodbye. Finally, I felt like the first seed of peace was planted inside of me.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
One year
It's been a hard few days. Today marks the one year anniversary of my Dad's death. Unfortunately, it's actually a three day even because there's the day he had his accident, the day we waited to hear about what organs he'd be able to donate and then finally, today, when he was taken off the machines.
I started a more lengthy letter to my Dad on Thursday but it just didn't feel right. Mostly because I didn't know exactly how I felt. One minute I'm ok, the next I'm crying during the warm up to my Friday morning run and sobbing during my cool down. I've spent the last few days trying to be gentle with myself and others.
I've had a few moments of peace and I've had some that are not. The final goodbye is yet to come. On August 3 we will be interring his ashes in a family plot in rural southern Saskatchewan. It is a very small cemetery where all of his family are or will be buried near the farm that he was raised on. We will make our way there through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and North Dakota. On the way home we're going to take a slightly different route and go through South Dakota as well as Iowa.
I don't really know what to expect of this trip, just as I don't always know what to expect from my grieving process. But I do know it is all a sort of pilgrimage for me. Learning to let go of the hurt from a relationship where a father and his daughter could never find a way to hear one another, letting go of the guilt for cutting him out of my life, coming to terms with the fact that I will never have the chance to reconcile with him and that he never met my kids.
I'm learning to forgive myself. It is harder than forgiving him at this point. But I am learning so much. It seems that in some ways I am learning more from my Dad in his death than I did before.
I started a more lengthy letter to my Dad on Thursday but it just didn't feel right. Mostly because I didn't know exactly how I felt. One minute I'm ok, the next I'm crying during the warm up to my Friday morning run and sobbing during my cool down. I've spent the last few days trying to be gentle with myself and others.
I've had a few moments of peace and I've had some that are not. The final goodbye is yet to come. On August 3 we will be interring his ashes in a family plot in rural southern Saskatchewan. It is a very small cemetery where all of his family are or will be buried near the farm that he was raised on. We will make our way there through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and North Dakota. On the way home we're going to take a slightly different route and go through South Dakota as well as Iowa.
I don't really know what to expect of this trip, just as I don't always know what to expect from my grieving process. But I do know it is all a sort of pilgrimage for me. Learning to let go of the hurt from a relationship where a father and his daughter could never find a way to hear one another, letting go of the guilt for cutting him out of my life, coming to terms with the fact that I will never have the chance to reconcile with him and that he never met my kids.
I'm learning to forgive myself. It is harder than forgiving him at this point. But I am learning so much. It seems that in some ways I am learning more from my Dad in his death than I did before.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Right now.
I need to learn to love myself. To believe in myself. To have courage in being who I am.
For many years I was taught that I could not trust my feelings. As an INFP, that's a pretty large part of myself that I am told isn't allowed to be heard. I'm starting to feel more and to take a chance in believing in it. Letting it show me more of who I am.
I've been self-abusive towards my physical appearance for many years. In my last year of high school, the day I stepped on the scale and it read 97 pounds was one of the greatest moments I had that year. Not good. I can tell you that I was probably 155 when I stepped on the scale four years later at the end of my Bachelor's degree. I was 130 just before I got pregnant with Sweet One, 135 after and now I'm sitting just under 140. All the running and pilates and yoga and chasing after children that I've been doing hasn't been helping as much as I hoped. Part of the problem was that I'd often eat out of boredom. So I started with MyFitnessPal.com and the first few days were hard but I think they're going to be ok. It is somewhat empowering to learn how much my body needs to be a comfortable weight (perhaps I'll even find my 'happy weight') and then to find foods that will leave me feeling nourished at the end. The foods I am putting in my mouth are quite healthy and I like that. (I also have a friend who has been doing this and knows that it scares me a bit so I'm sure she'll keep tabs to make sure I don't get stupid.)
I've been pretty angry over the past few weeks. It comes in flashes. I keep wondering if it is part of Kubler-Ross' stages of grief. I kind of hope so. Because that way I'll know that it will end at some point and I'll be better because of it. But I don't want it to cause any damage to my kids. It's always my kids. Every time I get mad and yell I look at them and remember how much it hurt me when my Dad would scream at me. How I promised my babies I would never do that. And now I do. But I can stop.
Less than a month until my pilgrimage. I have no idea what it is going to be like to travel so many miles with the kids, inter my father's ashes and then drive back. I hope I learn a lot.
I was sitting here, drinking my coffee and reading Glennon Doyle Melton's Carry On, Warrior. A friend and I went to see her in Pittburgh at a book signing and it was fun. I like her writing. While none of this is 'new', she writes honestly. Without holding anything back. With love and truth. To fully accept what she writes will mean that I have to fully accept myself. As I finished up this afternoon, something inside of me settled and said, "you will."
For many years I was taught that I could not trust my feelings. As an INFP, that's a pretty large part of myself that I am told isn't allowed to be heard. I'm starting to feel more and to take a chance in believing in it. Letting it show me more of who I am.
I've been self-abusive towards my physical appearance for many years. In my last year of high school, the day I stepped on the scale and it read 97 pounds was one of the greatest moments I had that year. Not good. I can tell you that I was probably 155 when I stepped on the scale four years later at the end of my Bachelor's degree. I was 130 just before I got pregnant with Sweet One, 135 after and now I'm sitting just under 140. All the running and pilates and yoga and chasing after children that I've been doing hasn't been helping as much as I hoped. Part of the problem was that I'd often eat out of boredom. So I started with MyFitnessPal.com and the first few days were hard but I think they're going to be ok. It is somewhat empowering to learn how much my body needs to be a comfortable weight (perhaps I'll even find my 'happy weight') and then to find foods that will leave me feeling nourished at the end. The foods I am putting in my mouth are quite healthy and I like that. (I also have a friend who has been doing this and knows that it scares me a bit so I'm sure she'll keep tabs to make sure I don't get stupid.)
I've been pretty angry over the past few weeks. It comes in flashes. I keep wondering if it is part of Kubler-Ross' stages of grief. I kind of hope so. Because that way I'll know that it will end at some point and I'll be better because of it. But I don't want it to cause any damage to my kids. It's always my kids. Every time I get mad and yell I look at them and remember how much it hurt me when my Dad would scream at me. How I promised my babies I would never do that. And now I do. But I can stop.
Less than a month until my pilgrimage. I have no idea what it is going to be like to travel so many miles with the kids, inter my father's ashes and then drive back. I hope I learn a lot.
I was sitting here, drinking my coffee and reading Glennon Doyle Melton's Carry On, Warrior. A friend and I went to see her in Pittburgh at a book signing and it was fun. I like her writing. While none of this is 'new', she writes honestly. Without holding anything back. With love and truth. To fully accept what she writes will mean that I have to fully accept myself. As I finished up this afternoon, something inside of me settled and said, "you will."
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Go, Roughriders!
I'm not sure what I find more shocking, that I emailed ESPN customer service or that I had a personal response within an hour of my original email! Neither of this equals the surprise and excitement that Big Love shouted out when he realized that not only did we get ESPN2 but they were showing a CFL game and the Roughriders were kicking the Eskimo's butts! (He hasn't finished the game so maybe that has changed.) Big Love doesn't shout. And if he does, I look at him with a look of, "Is that the best you can do?"
Big Love's family pretty much all live in the capital of Saskatchewan. And they are all die-hard Roughriders fans. My Dad was raised in the very southern part of Saskatchewan and he, too, was a die-hard fan. I remember having fancy turkey dinners with the tv sitting on the kitchen counter so he could watch the game while we ate.
So thank you, ESPN2. You made the day for my husband who takes care of his family so well and rarely asks for something for himself. Crazily enough, I might even watch part of the game myself!
Big Love's family pretty much all live in the capital of Saskatchewan. And they are all die-hard Roughriders fans. My Dad was raised in the very southern part of Saskatchewan and he, too, was a die-hard fan. I remember having fancy turkey dinners with the tv sitting on the kitchen counter so he could watch the game while we ate.
So thank you, ESPN2. You made the day for my husband who takes care of his family so well and rarely asks for something for himself. Crazily enough, I might even watch part of the game myself!
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Unexpected days
I've spent a lot of time in the past few weeks yelling at my kids. Not because they deserve it but because every time something got hard I got angry. I thought a lot of it was because of the journey we have ahead of us to inter my father's ashes. That with my kids fighting bedtime, I was a mess.
Two days before Father's Day was here, my friend mentioned how hard it is. And I wanted to cry. I didn't think Father's Day was going to be anything for me because I hadn't made it anything for my Dad over the past few years. On Saturday, I had two lemonade and vodkas before supper. I loved the buzz. On Sunday, I just kept breathing and tried to make it through. The first hymn at church was one we often sang as I was growing up and I could hear my Dad's voice. I couldn't sing. Too many tears were ready.
Monday we started a project on our porch that I thought would be quick. Pressure washing away the paint on the ceiling of our porch and then letting it dry so I could start painting on Friday. That was not the case. There's been a lot of scraping. I hate scraping.
This morning I woke up and I was on the verge of tears. I'm sad. I'm grieving. It's an unexpected stage but it is still hard. I kept trying to put one foot in front of the other but I was stuck. I didn't know how I'd make it through with the kids. My feet have been bothering so I decided I'd load them up in the car and head north 35 miles to get some insoles as well as play at a park that was near enough to the store. I didn't leave on time so that I could get back for nap time. But instead of getting stressed out, I let go. (This is my biggest lesson right now, learning to let go.) I stopped at a St. Arbucks, grabbed a fully-caffeinated latte and headed to the park. The kids played for an hour and I love drinking my coffee as they had fun. Then we got my insoles and headed to a fast food chicken restaurant-A for lunch. Little Man fell asleep on the way home and continued to sleep when the car was parked at home.
I usually plan things. I hold on to nap time with white knuckles so I can keep my sanity. But today, my sanity was found as I threw away the usual schedule and allowed myself to be sad. It's nice to be sad. It's easier to be angry but actually allowing the hard part, the sadness, through, then the healing can begin.
Two days before Father's Day was here, my friend mentioned how hard it is. And I wanted to cry. I didn't think Father's Day was going to be anything for me because I hadn't made it anything for my Dad over the past few years. On Saturday, I had two lemonade and vodkas before supper. I loved the buzz. On Sunday, I just kept breathing and tried to make it through. The first hymn at church was one we often sang as I was growing up and I could hear my Dad's voice. I couldn't sing. Too many tears were ready.
Monday we started a project on our porch that I thought would be quick. Pressure washing away the paint on the ceiling of our porch and then letting it dry so I could start painting on Friday. That was not the case. There's been a lot of scraping. I hate scraping.
This morning I woke up and I was on the verge of tears. I'm sad. I'm grieving. It's an unexpected stage but it is still hard. I kept trying to put one foot in front of the other but I was stuck. I didn't know how I'd make it through with the kids. My feet have been bothering so I decided I'd load them up in the car and head north 35 miles to get some insoles as well as play at a park that was near enough to the store. I didn't leave on time so that I could get back for nap time. But instead of getting stressed out, I let go. (This is my biggest lesson right now, learning to let go.) I stopped at a St. Arbucks, grabbed a fully-caffeinated latte and headed to the park. The kids played for an hour and I love drinking my coffee as they had fun. Then we got my insoles and headed to a fast food chicken restaurant-A for lunch. Little Man fell asleep on the way home and continued to sleep when the car was parked at home.
I usually plan things. I hold on to nap time with white knuckles so I can keep my sanity. But today, my sanity was found as I threw away the usual schedule and allowed myself to be sad. It's nice to be sad. It's easier to be angry but actually allowing the hard part, the sadness, through, then the healing can begin.
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