YOU CHOOSE peace

by what you choose to ignore,

- BRUCE LEE

Several years ago, I was seeing a therapist who invited me to recognize certain traits within me, name them and give them distinct personalities, as a way of acknowledging things like anxiety, sadness, and - on the other end of the scale - wisdom and joy. I think she borrowed the idea from the animated movie that was just out at the time, “Inside Out” but wherever she pulled it from, my creative mind loved this concept and I have had these characters with me ever since. It works to remind me that THAT VOICE IS NOT ME. I can say to myself when something begins to trigger, say, anxiety, “Uh oh, there’s Fred. Fred, you’re overstaying your welcome. You need to go back to your room and stay there.” Fred looks a bit like the frog in a top hat from the old Looney Tunes cartoon, without the smirk.

I also have a sweet little girl in pigtails named Sally who is my naivety, Sandra, the jealous one, and an old woman just called the Crone who lives in the back of my closet and is my wisdom. I’d like to say that she walks at my side but mostly she lives in the back of the closet.

All this to say that Fred has been peeking out from around his bedroom door lately. It isn’t like he doesn’t have good reason to show up. Daily, I watch Graham deal with the pain as he waits, oh so patiently, for hip surgery. Although it strains my compliance, I admire his willingness to allow thing to unfold as they shall and his generosity in believing that he waits because others in more need must go before. I want to storm the surgeon’s office, gun blazing.

The summer is also a particularly prime time for Fred and financial worries. The civic theatres - our primary source of income - both shut down for most of July and August. This year presented the added challenge of several of our regular music festivals shutting down.

This has left us with my once-weekly Sidney Street Market (Thursday 5:30-8:30 - if you’re in the Victoria area, it’s a wonderful market to explore) and thankfully a couple of gigs in Banff. One of Fred’s favourite things to fret about is money. (I thank my parents for this, but that is a whole other story, best left for my present therapist) Well he doesn’t actually fret. He gets up in my face and does a little top hat-tipping dance to an annoying trumpet tune. I read something by Timber Hawkeye, a very wise, often funny, Buddhist who sends an email monthly called “Buddhist Bootcamp”. He taught me that Fred’s schtick is FEAR - False Evidence Appearing Real. That lit up a little lightbulb for me today. Yes, money is tight, but allowing Fred, my anxiety, to dance way-too-close does nothing to help.

Okay, I have to admit that I went away for a bit after writing that and folded some laundry (displacement activity!). I hope that did not feel uncomfortable to any of you - it certainly did for me - but if you’ve been following me for awhile, you should know by now that I have few filters here…

So, what else is new? Graham and I spent a couple of nights at what has become our favourite “resort” on the island Point No Point. I use quotes because it’s not much of a resort. Cabins overlooking the ocean with fireplaces and private hot tubs on the deck. No wifi, no phone, no TV, just unplug and relax. We played cribbage, read books, enjoyed a fabulous dinner at their restaurant. Previously we have walked down to the beach, but this visit we did not risk damaging his hip or my knee any further. On our drive up there, we stopped in at a tiny brewery called Checkerhead Brewery. Turned out that Graham and the owner/juggler/busker had multiple friends in common, including a woman sitting there at a table with a gang of people. She and Graham had gone to UVic together. The coincidental meeting got weirder as we realized that they were all friends from Banff in the ‘80s and I knew some of them from those days as well. One recognized us from our wedding pictures which she had seen via my dear, dearly-departed friend Jacquie Dawson, whom they all knew and loved. They all also had known my ex-husband Bruce Halliday from those Banff days. We raised a glass to Jacquie and Bruce. And of course they all knew our good pal Tom Heemskerk. And the icing on the cake was when we discovered that one of the gang was the mother of our house-mate’s girlfriend! We spent a raucously fun couple of hours with these new friends. Under the category of small worlds, do you know anyone here?

As for writing, because many of you regularly ask me how that’s going, well… I haven’t been putting words on the page but I have been active in other ways. I attended an online course on short story writing with Manuel Gonzales which was very informative. Afterwards I decided to be forward and emailed him to ask for advice on how to best market “The Harveys”, my sweet short story that defies all genres and rules. Haven’t heard anything back - I’ll let you know if I do. And then, while I was feeling bold and cheeky, I took it a step farther. I have been a follower of Garrison Keillor’s blog for years. Last week he sent out a post saying we writers could ask him anything about writing or publishing. I accepted the invitation and then some. I sent the entirety of “The Harveys” to him. Who knows? Maybe he’ll love it and put it in the hands of his agent or his publisher. You can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket, right?

That’s where I’m at. Trying to ignore the politics of the day - both sides of the border (have you seen the new leader of the BC Conservative party???). Spending as much time as possible with friends. Hanging out with my son up-island. Going to find a route past the wildfires to see my daughter up north. Wishing they both, with our beloved grandchildren, lived closer.

How are you? How’s your summer going so far? I’d love to hear! Since we’re not getting out and about too much, I could enjoy the adventures vicariously through you.

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And along the same vein as earlier in this post, if you know anyone who might enjoy the meandering path through the meadows and forests that is my life, please connect us.

In the meantime, enjoy the sunshine, but wear your sunscreen. Get out and support music and/or theatre festivals wherever you can so we don’t lose more of them. Do like I did yesterday and pluck a cherry tomato off the plant and pop that beauty straight into your mouth. Feel the burst of summer’s sweetness on your tongue. Dance in the glow of the full moon. Dip your toes into the salty healing of the ocean or the smooth silkiness of a lake. And come on back into my world when next I appear in your inbox. I so appreciate you being here with me and I love every one of you.

Till next time,

Sandy

So, a plan like a driving trip to Williams Lake to see Kate and the grandson has to include a contingency plan of Graham flying home on a day’s notice while I follow in the car if he gets the call. Everything is tentative these days: a planned visit to Halifax to see my sister; even the Christmas vacation in Mexico.

I guess I really shouldn’t complain - at least we won’t have to remortgage the house to pay for the operation (thank you, Tommy Douglas!) And once he has the new hip, from everyone I have talked to who has gone through this, the chronic pain is briefly replaced with post-surgery pain and then he’ll feel like he has his life back again. Assuming that the wait time hasn’t done enough damage to his other hip that we start the process all over again.

There’s a big old thunderstorm passing overhead here in Victoria this evening. They are rare here, and the deep rumbling and brilliant flashes of light pull me back to my childhood in Ontario. Thinking back, there must have been a lot of storms in the vicinity of our family farm, about 1 1/2 hours drive north-west of Toronto. Many of my memories from the homestead are of being safe and warm in the house while Mother Nature shook the landscape beyond the walls. I was never scared, though the occasional sudden crack might make me jump. More I was just in awe of the power, the electrical tingling that made my skin prickle, the heady anticipation in the air. I still love it. The sparrows at the suet feeder are seemingly oblivious to the noise and the electrical charge, as is the little family of rats living in our huckleberry hedge (I know, ewww, but hey, we live in the city so… rats… and the babies are pretty darn cute).

So, while we are waiting, am I taking advantage of this time to work on my next novel? Um, nope. Short stories? Uh uh. The theatrical adaptation of the short story, The Harveys? Hard no. I do love writing to you all here. And I am slowly trying to make sense of a new and improved website - one that I can actually manage to design and format and write and not need a team of professional developers just to put myself out there. I really am a luddite. I have gone with a company called Articulation, which my friend Carolyn assured me was super easy to navigate. Wish I could say this has proven to be true, but I will continue to stumble my way through and see what comes out at the other end. So far it feels a bit like what is coming out is what we discover on the floor when our cat Lucy has developed too big a hair ball in her tummy.

The civic theatres are shut down for most of the summer. We had a good run of Kinky Boots early this month and now there is nothing until Spamalot at the end of August. Time was there was always a summer run of theatre - first Colin Skinner’s farcical romps, then some Arts Club shows out of Vancover, and more recently Blue Bridge Theatre used the Mac in the summers. But that was long ago and now the old buildings get some much needed maintenance, but otherwise feel vacant and lonely. I’d say “but what about the thousands of cruise ship visitors?” but I guess they get more than enough theatre onboard and besides, who really wants to be indoors when you have a lovely summer evening in beautiful Victoria?

Speaking of Victoria, we have municipal elections coming up in the fall. Do you have them upcoming in your town too? Do you plan to vote? Do you know enough about the people on your council to have an opinion on whether they should continue to represent you? How’s your mayor doing? If you are unclear on any of this, perhaps it is time to start paying attention. If you have thoughts on such issues as homelessness, development, bike lanes, municipal taxes, then who runs your city should matter to you. And don’t complain if you don’t vote. Sorry but you abdicated your right to bitch. End of rant.

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This weekend we are excited to be going to see The Odyssey in IMAX. Should be an epic movie! And soon, barring surgery, we are off to Williams Lake. Of course, whenever possible we also run up to Nanaimo to see Will and the gang there. The grandkids are both 3 now, healthy and happy, full of the wit and wisdom of that age.

I hope your summer is going beautifully and you’re spending lots of time with loved ones. We are… well, waiting. And getting out to have fun as much as we can. Here we are with our friends Kelly & Rory at the West Coast LeagueAll-Star game this week.

The storm has petered out. It is good to get some rain - the garden is singing, and heaven knows that BC forests could use a lot more where that came from. Be well, and when the sun returns, be sure to let his rays caress your skin.

Till next time,

Sandy

Banff is a stunningly beautiful place though the weather is the most unpredictable of anywhere I have ever been. We had rain, sun, more rain, wind, sun… temperatures went from around 10 to 26 degrees and that was just in the daytimes.

The staff of the Centre was warm, welcoming and supportive, led by the wonderful Ami Gladstone (another old friend), Production Manager, Andrew Smith, and awesome Senjuti Sarker. The crew and the wardrobe department went above and beyond as this was a work in creation so things were constantly in flux but in the end we had a wonderful performance and Tau has a useful record of what was done, for future growth and - hopefully - touring. (Fingers crossed that he can manage to bring all of us together for this!)

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But today, Solstice, I am happily going home to Graham. As much as I love the work and the travel, I love him and Lucy the cat (even when she regularly scratches the couch and vomits on the floor) and our home more. Graham has been diligently tending our garden, and I look forward to seeing the Shasta daisies that were filling the back garden, in full glorious bloom. These simple flowers have always been my favourites, ever since the hippie daisy-chain-making days of my youth

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Solstice, or Litha, is a blessed day. We welcome the sun at its peak. As a sun worshipper (don’t tell my dermatologist!) Litha always feels like a new beginning. The world around me is warm and green and full of life. Of course, in other parts of BC, the heat and sun are not necessarily so welcomed. I hear that the poor people of Lytton are on evacuation alert again – only five years since the last major fire destroyed most of the town. Many people there, who lost their homes the last fire, have only in the last year or so managed to get rebuilt and moved back in. But the community is rallying together and no matter what happens, they are resilient and will come back stronger again. With fire season upon the more northern parts of the province, this is a reminder to those of you there (and frankly anywhere, between fires, earthquakes, floods…) to please have your “Go Bag” packed with enough essentials to leave your home in a hurry.

And it’s Father’s Day today! A day when I remember my dad, forgive him his foibles, and feel gratitude for the love that I know he felt for his kids, even if he was terrible at showing it. He was proud of all that my sister and I accomplished and got to know and love his grandchildren. He and our mother had a … complicated… relationship, but they stayed together until Mum died in their home after a long illness. He kept the beautiful urn that held Mum’s ashes, in the cardboard box it came home from the funeral home in, on his dresser to his dying day. It kind of defines their relationship, that he needed her to be near, but didn’t really want to see her. Plus, much to our mother’s undoubted frustration in the afterlife, that cardboard box often became yet another flat surface for his mountains of paper – newspaper clippings, correspondence, subscription magazines…

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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about living and dying and this whole aging thing. My heart has been hurting for two friends who are fighting the good fight against cancer, one brain, one blood. And my heart breaks for the friend who is losing her fight and is calmly and with great grace waiting for the time to come when her transition out of this mortal plane happens.

So aging… To do it well apparently takes more work than those who came before us ever warned us. How did previous generations just grow old? Not with CBD, supplements, aquafit classes, hip replacements, computer courses at the senior centre, or over-priced long term care facilities, I am sure. One thing is clear in my mind - they certainly seemed to grow much older much sooner. I look back to my grandparents and old photos of my great-grandparents and they looked and acted much much older at the age I am now. But they also didn’t all need canes and walkers. Were they not all dealing with arthritic joints like we do? I go to the pool every second day and alternate between swimming lengths and doing exercises in the rec pool. When I am exercising I often get to talking to the other folks, all of whom are my age or older. (Who but the elderly is awake with nothing else to do at 6am every day?) The one consistent thing we all have in common is that every one of us is either post-joint surgery, on the list, or preparing to get on the list. No wonder the wait time is up to two years. It seems like half of Victoria is hobbling around with at least one joint past its expiration date.

So, yes, our bodies - and our minds, let’s admit it - might be sliding us down to the lower 50% of the gym class, but the majority of us are heading there with spirit and dignity and humour intact.

I am hitting a milestone birthday at the end of this year. We will, assuming all things go to plan, be celebrating it in Mexico, where I have every intention to spend the day riding a horse on the beach, walking through town to a restaurant by the water, and maybe even a little dancing. I am hoping some people I love will be there to join us, but if not, Graham (on his new hip) and I will celebrate my day in fine form.

My goal is to stick around long enough to see the world swing away from its present inclination for the ugly, fascist, far-right trend we are in right now, and toward the compassionate, peaceful humanism that we are capable of. Call me an old socialist hippie dreamer if you want but I hold out hope that we can find our way back to altruism and mercy before it is too late. I wish this for my grandchildren.

In the meantime, I refuse to let age, or politics, or grumpy co-workers get me down. As a relatively new member, and a re-elected executive, of our trade union, I am constantly learning everything I can about unionism and how I can better serve our membership. The pool and a new-to-us stationary bike are helping take some of this excess weight off to hold at bay the need to join “the orthopaedic list”. Work continues to give me joy and I am so grateful to have the opportunity to mix it up between ushering, bartending, working events and stage managing. And then there’s SubStack and all of you! I can’t tell you how thankful I am that you are with me here. You allow me my TMI, my wanderings through past and present, my celebrations and my losses, and you keep showing up. You hold me accountable, even if you are unaware that you do. Thank you so much!

So what about you? How do you visualize life in the final quarter of the game? Maybe you are too young to be thinking about such things, but now is the time to put the ball in play by setting up those long term investments, life insurance, and it is never too early to have a will in place. (You know who you are…) For those of you who are anticipating or enjoying the BC Ferries “seniors travel free” perk, now is the time to live strategically.

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I know I don’t want to end this life with a pocketful of regrets. I want to have done most of the things on that bucket list, let go of most of the things that don’t serve me, and be able to say that I had a life well-lived. I hope you will continue to join me here as I document that life. And if you enjoy my meanderings, I would hugely appreciate if you would recommend me to your friends, and consider becoming a paid follower. It would mean a great deal to me!

Till next time,

Sandy

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He was dressed in his usual unique fashion. This night’s ensemble was a black vest over a white shirt - traditional enough, until you realized that the black vest morphed into a stiff crepe over-skirt down to his knees, over a full white, ankle length skirt, below which were a pair of lime green ankle socks and THOSE SHOES. It was his feet that held my rapt attention for the entirety of his performance. The shoes at first appeared to be standard black patent oxfords. Except the toes lifted up above the soles at about a 45 degree angle, like an open mouth. This was a design choice, not a matter of “Dear God, someone buy the man a new pair of shoes!” I thought at first they might be Fluevogs but the catalogue doesn’t offer up this unusual style, unless it dates back to an older, wilder day of Fluevog design. Whoever the designer, it was so much fun to watch Sedaris’s feet as he read. He rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, balancing the back foot on its strange tip, then stepping back onto it before rocking back forward to the front foot again. His feet reminded me of a young school girl waiting nervously for a boy to ask her to dance.

I came away from an evening of watching David Sedaris’s feet, fully aware of how fortunate I am. Not just that I live in a world where I have the opportunity to sit backstage for such a brilliant writer’s event (even if I only did catch part of it - what I did was brilliant and funny and so very insightful), but that I have the ability to find joy, gratitude and humour in what are sometimes the smallest, least significant moments in life.

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Atop one of the many, many, many condo buildings under construction in Victoria, for several months there was a giant teddy bear. Someone on the crew attached him to a piece of rebar, at first at the 3rd floor level. As the building grew in height, the teddy continued to rise as well, on the top of the 4th, then 5th, then 6th floor under construction. Sometimes he was almost obscured by walls or equipment, but if you searched as you sat at the nearby light, you could eventually spot him. He always made me smile and I hope that, now that the construction is tall enough that you can’t see the surface of the top floor any more, he’s still up there somewhere, just for the pleasure and amusement of the crew.

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What have you got in your life that reminds you to be grateful? Is it watching your children (or grandchildren) grow? Is it the sincere appreciation from someone for a simple gesture of kindness? Is it that peaceful morning cup of coffee, or the laughter shared at the afternoon coffee break with co-workers? Is it the familiar feel of your loved one’s hand in yours?

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In the spring of 1971, my gang of friends and I went up to my family’s ancestral farm north of Toronto for what ended up being our little recreation of that movie’s scene. Well, without the drinking, the singing, the dancing, (maybe a little kissing - we were teenagers after all) but we did sit out in the field, on a hill, looking down at the acreage and the cattle grazing, and made daisy crowns. There was also a somber funeral ceremony for a dead butterfly we found. Mark and Paul Dennis, Brent Bellamy, Laura Jo and Barb Bell and me. We called ourselves “The Group of 27” (we believed 27 to be a very powerful number, you see, because 3 in almost all beliefs is THE number - holy Trinity and all that - and 27 is 3 to the power of 3 so it is super-powerful). My gang is the only thing that got me through the anguish and horror that was high school. And they were game to play the “Let’s reenact my favourite movie - without the drama and infidelity and heartbreak parts (well, maybe a little heartbreak, we were teenagers after all).” That day has stayed with me all these years as one of the best days of my life. A simple, unplanned, joyful celebration of the coming of the light and of the blessing of deep friendships and warm hearts. I am - to this day - grateful for these five lovely humans. Wish I could find the photos of that special day….

(Not us, but what Chat GPT came up with to capture the feeling of the day)

It is also Law Day in the US today. A day when citizens of the US are supposed to remember the importance of democracy, the Constitution and the Rule of Law in their country. I was just reading an article by one of my favourite, insightful bloggers, Joyce Vance, about Law Day. She was talking to her 22-year-old son about the day and he said his generation no longer believes in democracy. He said, “What can I do against the power of Congress and caucuses? It makes me angry. It feels like an insult when you tell us to stand up and do something. The opposition is millionaire congressmen with connections, even on the state level. Protests don’t work. That’s something your generation thinks. I was four when Occupy Wall Street happened. Nothing has changed since.” Wow. I hope young Canadians don’t feel as hopeless and cynical as that. Do you? What can we do?

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If citizens stop caring, stop showing up to uphold their democratic rights, what happens? Orwell’s world is creeping closer every day. We have to keep fighting for a better world, no matter how frustrating and exhausting it feels.

And, ironically, it is also International Workers Day a global holiday honouring the achievements of the labour movement and advocating for workers' rights. Established to commemorate the 1886 Haymarket affair in Chicago, where workers struck for an eight-hour workday, it is marked by rallies, marches, and public holidays in over 90 countries. Being a staunch union gal (thank you, IATSE, for all you do for theatrical and motion picture workers!) I applaud any opportunity to celebrate workers coming together and advocating for higher standards in the workplace and greater life/work balance.

So you see, May 1 is a pretty big deal. And that’s not even mentioning that the hedge outside the window here is full and lush, what bulbs the squirrels (or rats - damn urban living) didn’t dig up have produced lovely bright daffodils and tulips, and my bean, pea, and Brussel sprout seeds are nestled in the soil

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The other day I was watching my 3-year-old granddaughter at soccer practice (if you’ve never seen a couple of teenage girls wrangling a bunch of 3-year-olds to try to get them to kick the ball, it is comedy gold, believe me) My granddaughter, of course, will one day be a soccer star, or a golf pro, or Prime Minister. But I digress. Off to the side there was a mother with her young daughter, engrossed in the art of making daisy chains. I hope that little girl grows up to have a gang of friends as loyal and loving as I had in the ‘70’s, where they can find themselves in a field of daisies in May and she’ll know just what to do.

How to Make a Daisy Chain. Happy May Day!

Till next time,

Sandy

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So, I spent a week watching the videos, following along in the cue sheets, trying to be as best prepared as I could be for when the company arrived. Last Thursday we teched and ran the first piece in the program. Friday we did the same for the second and third piece, then did a dress rehearsal of the full program. It was shaky, with some late cues and a few early ones. (do I call go on this time Ian runs to downstage or the next time?)

Friday night we had the first performance and it went pretty well. I, of course, beat myself up for every mis-called cue. Saturday I had the opportunity to go over some of the complicated bits again in the afternoon, thanks to the patience of the artistic director, the lighting designer and the dancers. Saturday night started with a late sound cue (half my fault and half operator error) and I feared I was going to bomb the show, but, from that moment on, it was a perfect show! It was so wonderful to be back in the wing, watching these incredibly talented dancers and being in sync with their performance. The Boca Tuya people were effusive in their thanks, and Dance Victoria gifted me an enormous bouquet of tulips from the lobby decorations. Now of course I am hungry for more. Or maybe that was a gift from the gods to reassure me that all these years of self-doubt and self-recriminations were unjustified after all.

just some of the many, many tulips in our home

It is one of the most difficult things for me to accept that I actually am good at something. Especially something that has been such a huge part of my existence. But it’s never too late for this old dog to learn a new trick, right? We all need to step back from our perceptions of ourselves sometimes and address the negative stories (and, yes, even the positive ones). It’s okay to tell yourself, and let others tell you, that you do in fact have a skill or a gift that you’ve possibly spent a lifetime denying. It feels pretty damn good when you do. And I thank Graham, my sister, my kids and my dear friends for reminding me when I forget.

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So now I need to talk about my book, Circling Butterfly. I need to tell you that it is a really good novel. And I am proud of it. It’s in two bookstores in Victoria now - Russell’s and Dragonfly - and available here (sorry for using Amazon) https://tinyurl.com/Circling-Butterfly. And if the next one - the Boheme book - never comes to fruition, I’ll be okay with that. I will keep returning to it. I’ve joined a writing sprint group that meets every morning online. We say hello then we each go into our own world and just write for an hour. I don’t join every day but I find, when I do, I get more words down on the page. They’re not necessarily good words; someone told me the other day that I have to stop calling this my first draft and call it my zero draft - everything might be garbage and never end up in the finished product, but some bits might… It feels good to write in company with others either way.

And I love love love writing to you all here. I mostly stay away from politics and religion, mainly because there is a chance that I might travel to another country that could object to my opinions. And I try to stay positive here. We all have negativity and doom-scrolling in our lives. I don’t want to be just more of that. If I can offer up a little moment that makes you smile, I believe I have done my job. And if you know anyone who could use some of my take on the world, please share this Substack, or any others in my collection, with them.

What else can I tell you? My grandbabies are both 3 now and are turning into funny, smart and, yes, willful individuals and I love them both to pieces. Kudos to my kids and their spouses for raising them so well.

I am reading a novel called Underworld by Don DeLillo. It is a fat, juicy, complex book. I am half-way through it and he keeps introducing new characters! After the mental fatigue from last week’s work, it has been good to have a few days to just sit in the sunshine and lose myself in DeLillo’s world.

So there you have it. I hope you’ll take a moment today and remind yourself of all the wonderful things you do and the wonderful person you are. I am so grateful that you have joined me here. I would love to hear what you are really proud of, my friend, so please send me a message or a comment.

Till next time,

Sandy

PS - the ghost light is used internationally in theatres when the last person leaves the stage and turns out all the lights. Practically, it is so no one stumbles in the dark and maybe falls into the orchestra pit. But theatre lore says that it is to keep a light on to keep the ghosts in the theatre company so they don’t get lonely. This particular ghost light is from one of my favourite theatres, the “mecca” of dance in America, Jacob’s Pillow, in Becket, MA, USA.

An old friend appeared at my bar at work at the theatre the other night. As I happily served her drink and took her money, I casually asked, “How are you?” as one does. “Not good,” she replied. “I’m dying.” Turns out she has inoperable stage 4 cancer, basically everywhere - bones, lungs, brain - and has been given about a year. She had come to the show deliberately, in the hope of seeing me there so she could say goodbye. How do you deal with that kind of information? Me, I handed her back her change, took her hand and caught myself before I offered her my rote, “Enjoy the show!” Fortunately I got to see her again later in the evening, after my bar had closed, and was able to give her a proper hug and what I hoped were words of affection and compassion. F*@king cancer.

I feel like it is surrounding me these days. Not just cancer but too many people in my world with life-threatening issues. (I know, I said this isn’t about me and it’s not. It’s about the two old friends who have just entered palliative care, the dear friend who just had a stroke and is not dealing with a discovered cancer, the husband of a friend who’s one remaining kidney is struggling to survive…)

My mother died fairly young. She had been a youthful woman in her 70’s before the Big C took up residence in her body. She absolutely was not ready to die. Even as she lay in the hospital bed in her home, sedated, on morphine, cathetered, most nights my sister or I would be awakened from the “dog bed” we took turns sleeping in on the floor by her bed. Mum would be sitting up on the side of the bed, 90% unconscious but fully prepared to get up and take herself to the bathroom. “Must… pee…,” she would declare. She also would wave her hand in front of her face and make little noises which we couldn’t understand. In frustration she finally blurted out, “Cigarette!” and we realized that we hadn’t taken her addiction into consideration and the poor woman was jonesing for a smoke. After a family conference, we wheeled the oxygen out of the room, drew straws to decide which one of us three ex-smokers would light up for her and provided her the nicotine she needed. She immediately relaxed and drifted down deeper into sleep. That “cigarette!” was the last word she spoke. Fitting for a woman who always said her cigarettes were her best friend. After that, we always made sure she had a patch. When we realized the end was imminent, the family all gathered around her bed. She quietly stopped breathing and we let out a collective sob. A minute later, ever the stubborn soul who wasn’t about to let some disease dictate when her story ends, she took in an enormous breath and opened her eyes. Scared the crap out of all of us. It only took another couple of minutes before she slipped under again and this time when the breathing stopped, she was gone

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My Dad’s story was the polar opposite. (Makes sense. They never agreed on things when they were both alive. Why would their deaths be any different?) After Mum died, Dad’s world slowly shrunk. At first he could still drive locally so was relatively self-sufficient. Lacking a sense of taste most of his life, food had never been anything more than a source of sustenance for him. But now he started making truly terrible soups (boiled cabbage that he would forget on the stove, till the water boiled off and the house would fill with the smell of burnt cabbage; he’d then add water and, in what can only be described as an act of culinary creativity, throw in some oatmeal to thicken it up) and baked hockey puck muffins. It wasn’t long before the decision was made for my niece to move into the house with him to ensure he didn’t a) burn the house down, or b) die of malnutrition. She was a godsend and allowed him time to come to terms with being on his own and being ready to let the family home go. From there he went to an apartment in my sister’s house. Chris and her husband, Sam meticulously recreated most of his old home into that apartment, carefully placing furniture similarly and putting art and knick knacks where they “belonged”. They gave him a loving, safe haven to end his life in and for that I will be eternally grateful. Over his years there, his world grew smaller, from the town and the whole house, to just his apartment, to kitchen/bathroom/bedroom, to just bathroom/bedroom, to just bed. Every day he would wake up and say, “Damn, still here.” A guy who had been active in his retirement, volunteering at an elementary school, communicating with relatives around the world due to his voluminous family tree work, cutting out copious articles of interest from newspapers, which he would then photocopy and put in envelopes destined for a variety of friends and family. Every few weeks I would get a manilla envelope in the mail, filled with copies of articles, on theatre of course, but also oceanography, autism, activism, and of course politics. You name it. If he thought it was something I should read, I received it and dutifully read it. The originals were always carefully filed in one of many cabinets in his home office. But he was, in the end, shrunk down to the bed and the TV, first watching news programs so he could yell at the stupid things politicians were doing, then later just hours of soccer, like a cat watching the birds through the window. Upon my sister’s call “It’s close. You’d better come” I jumped on a plane and flew across the country. When I saw Sam’s face at the Kingston airport, I knew. I was about 30 minutes too late. Chris had been sitting next to Dad’s bed, doing a crossword. One minute she looked up and he was breathing, the next he wasn’t, as simple and easy as that. One parent fighting off death to the last second, the other accepting and letting go. I hope when my time comes, I carry a little bit of both their endings with me. Fight hard as long as I am able, then, when my demise is inevitable, let me go with peace and dignity

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Damn, this wasn’t supposed to be about me…. But it’s hard to not personalize it when it comes to mortality. My heart aches for those who are nearing end of life, and I have huge sympathy for the ones who have had a scare. Being a two-time cancer survivor myself, I get how really scary it is.

How do you cope with the concept of mortality? Do you think about it? Or are you of the “fingers in the ears, la la la” school of thought? Does it send you down a rabbit hole of does God exist… what happens after… is there an afterlife or a next life…? Or do you resign yourself to accepting that all questions will be answered when the curtain falls? Or maybe they won’t?

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In the meantime, I have nothing but trite “Chicken Soup for the Soul” advice (with no oatmeal added). Hug your loved ones fiercely. Work at your job if it fulfills you or, if not, look for something else to feed your passion. Be aware of the world out there but don’t allow world news to possess you. And, yes, burn those special candles and use those pretty soaps. Laugh. Dance if you’re able. They’re all clichés but there’s deep truth there. I’m seeing far too clearly these days that death is the only certainty for all of us. (Oh and taxes. Have you filed your’s yet?) Until that day, I plan to live my life with joy and integrity, loving my husband, my kids and grandkids, my sister and my friends. I’m returning to stage managing this coming month, which thrills and terrifies me. I swim, and read, and write to you, my beloved readers. I appreciate so much that you continue to show up and accept my meanderings with kindness and generosity. I’d love to hear from you, the good, the bad, the exciting and the mundane.

Until next time,

Sandy

(image from Jemaa-el-Fna Square in Marrakesh)

My very first piece of writing that I remember, and that I also remember as being something I was proud of and wanted to share, was from about age 7. It was titled “How the Earth got its Equator” and it was about the North Pole and the South Pole having a fight and they can’t settle the argument. Finally the Sun draws a line around the planet and says, “There! Now you both stay on your own side of the line.” And thus the Equator was created. I’m sure this had nothing to do with the pinching/hitting/yelling/crying disagreements between my sister and me and how our mother settled those fights.

Since then, I have dabbled off and on, and always, in the back of my mind, considered myself a “writer”. In my 20s I wrote a one-act play that went on to be workshopped with a staged reading at the Muskoka Festival north of Toronto, Canada. It was called On the Line and was the story of a serial killer. (Weirdly enough, about 10 years later a man in Kingston, Ontario was convicted of a number of strikingly similar murders.) When that play received multiple rejections from theatre companies in Toronto, I decided that maybe I wasn’t a writer after all, focused on stage managing, and did a fair bit of work as a proof-reader, copy editor and dramaturge.

Somewhere around 60, an idea came to me. Being a firm believer in “You’re never too old (or too young) to try something new”, I set to work on my first novel. A year later Circling Butterfly was born. I am very proud of that work, and had the plan for a series, each one based on a different major opera. I am currently working on La Boheme, which for the life of me I can’t find the book title for. I had originally hoped to have it out by Spring of ‘24, but that time has long passed so now I just keep going back to it and have no definitive publication date. My dream is that I will manage to secure an agent, and then a traditional publisher, who will then also fall in love and re-release Circling Butterfly under their banner. So far, most of what I have written will undoubtedly end up in the “round file”, but there are words on pages that I continue to add to. You can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket, right? And, hey, just a friendly reminder: if you haven’t read Circling Butterfly yet, it is available on both Amazon and AbeBooks.

So, why the picture, at the top, of spices in Marrakech? My ex and I took our kids there in 2008. (Well, I took the family there - on our European trip each one of us got to choose a location we really wanted to visit and I - ignoring the trepidation on all their parts - chose Morocco. In July. Yes it was stupidly hot.) It is the heat that I crave. Admittedly Victoria has not had the brutal winter that all the rest of Canada, and most of the Western world has dealt with, but we have had weeks of rain or at least moisture so thick in the air that everything feels damp. It’s like living inside one of those summer festival misting systems, without the sunshine and the good music. It all makes me feel perpetually cold and is definitely not doing anything positive for the arthritis. Or my mental state. I find myself dreaming of the dry dusty heat of Marrakech. The warm ocean breezes of Bucerias, Mexico. The hot sand and warm waters around Koh Phi Phi in Thailand. All while wearing multiple layers, wrapping myself in my Nova Scotia tartan blanket (thanks, Chris!), watching the birds at the suet feeder and popping Tylenol Arthritis like bon-bons. I know. Whine whine.

In other news, Graham and I went to see a show at the Belfry Theatre, part of their Spark Festival, a piece called Big Stuff, starring Naomi Snieckus and Matt Baram. It’s a lovely, funny work of script and improv that flows seamlessly back and forth between the two styles, between past and present, between humour and pathos, about the emotional and physical baggage - our “stuff” - that we carry through our lives.. Well worth seeing if they tour anywhere near you. And tomorrow night we are excited to see the movie Project Hail Mary, starring Ryan Gosling. If you haven’t read the book by Andy Weir, please do. It is brilliant!

It’s 7:00 in the morning. I haven’t had coffee yet because the grinder sounds like a redneck’s pick-up truck wheels spinning out on gravel and wakes the household. Lucy Cat has consumed her morning crack water (if you don’t know what that means, go back and read the post from July 27, 2025, Lucy). She’s done her post-crack zoomies and has now gone to settle into my/her side of the bed. Depends who you ask.

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It’s also the first day of spring, the Equinox, Ostara in Wiccan tradition. Despite the stupid BC government moving us to permanent Daylight Savings Time, it is good to see a bit of light in these early mornings. Maybe I will make it through the rest of this long, dank spell with my mind, body and sinuses intact. Don’t even get me started on seasonal allergies….

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In the meantime, thank you for joining me in today’s meanderings. I hope you continue to wander through my musings from time to time. I will keep you updated on the writing, will bring you some backstage stories from my life in the theatre, and hopefully entertain you with some ridiculous insights. Should you be interested in contributing to the “semi-retired stage manager/writer/bartender/usher/event host/proof-reader/keeper of many hats old age security fund, you can become a paid subscriber here:

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Happy Equinox! Happy Estara! Easter and Pesach are just around the corner!

Till next time,

Sandy

https://drjonicewebb.com/cenquestionnaire/

Childhood Emotional Neglect is a painful and life-altering situation that many of us experienced. I have learned through years of studying Dr. Jonice Webb to not blame my parents for raising me under these conditions. They were truly doing their best based on how they were raised. And their parents probably did the same. CEN is a generational thing and instead of looking back at our ancestors with resentment, the first step in healing is to forgive them for what they didn’t know, and move forward with the intention of breaking the pattern and developing the tools to grow past it.

Basically Emotional Neglect is a parent’s failure to respond enough to a child’s emotional needs.

Dr. Webb says, “Emotional Neglect is, in some ways, the opposite of mistreatment and abuse. Whereas mistreatment and abuse are parental acts, Emotional Neglect is a parent’s failure to act. It’s a failure to notice, attend to, or respond appropriately to a child’s feelings. Because it’s an act of omission, it’s not visible, noticeable or memorable. Emotional Neglect is the white space in the family picture; the background rather than the foreground. It is insidious and overlooked while it does its silent damage to people’s lives.

Children who are emotionally neglected then grow up to have a particular set of struggles. Because their emotions were not validated as children, they may have difficulty knowing and trusting their own emotions as adults. They may have difficulty understanding their own feelings, as well as others’. Because an important part of themselves (their emotional self) has been denied, they may find themselves feeling disconnected, unfulfilled or empty. They may have difficulty trusting or relying upon others. Many describe feeling that they are different from other people; like something is wrong with them, but they’re not sure what it is.

Another way that parents can unwittingly emotionally neglect their child is to fail to give him the structure and rules to live by, like consequences and discipline. As a result, the emotionally neglected often struggle with self-discipline as adults.

Whatever the level of parental failure, the emotionally neglected have no childhood memories to explain their difficulties. So, too often, they blame themselves.”

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The other effect of CEN is, as I suggested before, if undiagnosed and left untreated, it is far too easy to parent the way you were taught in your childhood, and carry forward the neglect to the next generation. Sadly, the combination of CEN and post-partum depression created a regretful environment in my own brain. I look back on my child-rearing days and recognize that I did, in many ways, neglect my own children, especially my eldest. The pairing of depression and usual parental exhaustion left me with strangely few memories of those early days with my baby, but I do remember not taking as much time to interact with her as I would have liked living through those first couple of years. There was no internet, no video games, no phones with distractions to tempt me, but there were daytime soap operas, and I do remember those becoming my escape. That and People magazine. I’m sorry, kids, but, no, I can’t afford to pay for your therapy. I am putting on my own oxygen mask and seeing my own therapist. And following Dr. Jonice Webb.

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So do yourself a favour. If you have any thoughts that your childhood might have been neglected, go back up to the top and take the questionaire. The first step in healing is acknowledging that the problem exists. One of her suggestions is, several times a day, stop what you are doing and consciously think, “What feeling do I have right now?” because the biggest issue with CEN is the inability to recognize your feelings. And not just happy/sad/angry. I have a piece of paper on my desk with an emotional wheel:

I’m working at labelling my emotions using the outside ring of the circle, but man it’s hard. I truly envy those for whom this comes naturally.

That’s my rant for today. I know there are lots of people in the world right now with much bigger battles in their lives. My heart breaks for the people caught in the midst of the Middle East nightmare. I have enormous compassion for the unhoused, disenfranchised, addicted, suffering souls living all around us on the streets of our towns and cities. I despair for the women and children living in physically and emotionally abusive homes. No one makes it through this life entirely unscathed. All we can do is do our best every day to be better human beings. Be kind. Be thoughtful. And take care of yourself. If this post offers one of my readers some insight and awareness that their feeling of loneliness or emptiness is not their fault but something that was unfortunately instilled in them in childhood, and maybe seeks some counselling and support, it’s worth it to open up to you all.

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Spring is coming. The light is returning. I wish you all peace and contentment.

Till next time,

Sandy

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There have been many interesting conversations over the past week I have been here, but last night Kate mentioned that she had taken the RAADS test that supposedly lets you know where on the spectrum of autism you sit. She rated fairly high in the probability scale. Now I am a firm believer that everyone sits somewhere on.the spectrum of being “differently able”. We are, after all, all different. I wasn’t surprised by her self-diagnosis - she has often seen the world from a unique perspective, one that often has made me look at things differently as well

.After our talk I, of course, went into my room and took the test as well. On the scale from 0 to 250, I landed neatly almost at the middle at 113. Some autistic tendencies, it suggested. Perhaps that explains my discomfort in social settings and my inability to make small talk. Or perhaps that comes from an upbringing where my parents basically isolated themselves and any necessary visits by friends or family took anxious preparations on the part of my mother, and some long solo time with her cigarettes and her book afterwards.

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Anyways, interesting bit of personal discovery to tuck away in my file of “why am I like this”. LOL.

None of it really matters. What does matter is a person’s capability to love. I love deeply - I’m just not all that good at showing it sometimes. Graham, my kids, the grandkids, my sister, my dear friends, all live in a place deep in my chest. It feels so full most of the time and gets dark and heavy when I worry about someone in my circle. No, circle isn’t the right word. I visualize that as me and all my people out in a field all holding hands forming a big wide circle, and what I feel is far more intimate than that. My friend Mary calls her people her “tribe”. Better, but, well, cultural appropriation and all…. I have tried for years to come up with a word that incorporates everyone that I love. It includes so many, from so many periods in my life. All of whom have for some reason stuck with me, through good times and bad. (ah, the Stratford days :) )

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I don’t know what has triggered this thought process. Is it that most Hallmark of holidays, Valentines Day? The day that still makes me twitch when I think of those little paper Valentines cards that all the kids in Grade 6 gave to the other kids in the class (usually with a Disney motif) and which I would dutifully sign, one for everyone in the class, and which I would receive a small handful in return - wasn’t exactly winning any popularity contests in school. No, I have pretty much ignored Valentines Day since those early disappointing days.

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And the next thing it was weeks later and we were gathered together again for Bruce’s Celebration of Life…

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