The Recipe Book

Memere, my dad’s mom, was one of my favourite people. There was nobody like her. She was quirky, funny, and spoke her mind. She sewed patchwork purses and moccasins out of old leather jackets on an antique Singer. “Why get new if the old one works?” she’d say, “And all this good leather, it’s way cheaper at the second hand store!”

She washed all her bread bags, sewed her own sundresses (I think that’s where I developed my love of animal print) and believed that Watkins salve was the cure for everything. She treated her stuffed animals like pets – my favourite being Mookie, a GUND polar bear, propping them perfectly upon her pink bedspread every morning. If visiting her while her ‘programs’ were on, we got to hear all about the goings on with Jack Abbot and Victor Newman on The Young and the Restless. I can’t hear that piano intro without thinking of her.

She played the same Lotto 649 numbers every week for as far back as I can remember, and many sentences started with, “If I won the lottery I would…” She got excited when learning something new from her Reader’s Digest subscription, my favourite being when she told me all about Urea.”If you ever get plantars wart, you know what you do?” in her thick French Canadian accent.

“No, what Memere.”

“You just pee in the shower!” And then I laughed. But I did get plantars warts once after that, and I did consider it.

Of all the things about her I remember, her cooking was at the top. Always real butter and cream, and everything was cooked or baked without a recipe. I asked her once to write out her recipe for Sour Cream Raisin pie, but it wasn’t too helpful. She wrote out the ingredients, but not the measurements. She said, “I don’t measure anything anymore.” There are certain times that I think of her most; Christmas, with her meat pies and pinwheel cookies, Easter with her Eagle Brand homemade eggs, and whenever I’m craving chocolate, her famous mudpie cookies, and not like those coconut haystack type. They were so gooey, they needed to stay in the freezer. She told me her secret – I’ve kept it too! A friend of my dad’s would bring him a meat pie every year at Christmas, but it just wasn’t the same, and I tried replicating her Sour Cream pie, but failed miserably.

Yesterday, while sitting by the light of the Christmas tree in my dad’s tiny living room, he non-challantly asked, “Hey, I found this binder with cut out recipes of Memers’s. I’m not sure if you’d want it, but if you do -”

“I’d LOVE it!” I interrupted. He put it in a bag and set it by the door for when I left.

When I got home, and after the kids were in bed, I sat down with the black, three-ringed binder and opened it.

“OMG I can’t believe this,” I said, while turning the pages. The other thing my Memere was known for, was cutting articles and quotes out of the newspaper or magazines and taping them to her fridge or the wall by her phone as reminders. This, was a collection of recipe cut-outs since the 1940s with notes beside each one saying things like, “Very good and rich, good, fair,” and even, “Idea if your not ready for visitors”. Some recipes were hand-written, and I even found one for Lefse that she had gotten from my Great-Grandmother on my mom’s side! If you read closely, you’ll see her opinion of Black Forest Pie! (if you need help, it says “Very good but not for fat people”!)

I’ve been flipping through this book on and off all day, and there’s a strong urge within me to attempt to get through every one of the recipes. I’m definitely not going to tackle it daily, and I don’t really want to try recipes like Bologna Casserole or Mock Chopped Liver, but Nancy Reagan’s Vienna Bars, Rummed Fruit, and Batter Fried Dandelion Blossoms sound interesting. By the time I got to try Memere’s cooking, she had probably been through all her recipe testing and stuck with her faves, but that doesn’t matter. I’m going to try most of them anyway.

And I’ll keep you posted.

What’s A Girl to Do?

Twenty years ago I got the diagnosis. It took ruling everything out from MS to Lupus, but finally a Rhuematologist confirmed it: Fibromyalgia. At the time, it was quite the mouthful, and being that no one had ever really heard of it, I kept it to myself. I mean really, a nineteen year old suffering from insomnia, intense migraines, widespread pain and a plethora of odd sensory and memory issues? There was too much to explain, and I’ve never been a person who likes to be labeled anything, so the only people who ever knew were a few family members and close friends. I never talked about it.

I’ve watched how over the years, it has become a household name. I don’t mean this as a discredit to anyone, but it’s like every person with aches and pains for three months straight, automatically has it. I’ve went to a few support groups and read a ton of blogs, but again, no offense, it sounds like complaining tips the scale, not solutions, and I didn’t want to be surrounded by people who were always talking about what was wrong with them instead of sharing tips and advice as to what helps instead. Everyone seemed to be trying to ‘one-up’ the next, like their pain was worse than the next. Yeah, yeah, I get it – we are ALL in pain! Grrrr And I know, it’s hard to see the bright side when you’re living in a fog of pain – I’ve been there, I am there and I will more than likely remain there unless there are more people talking about solutions than problems.

For the most part, I have lived my life as anyone else WITHOUT a physical disability…oh boy, did it ever take a LONG time for me to admit that I even have one. It wasn’t until I had to give up my photography business (I shot mostly weddings) that the realization hit me. And I loved it. I was good at it. It was part of my soul, BUT when it took over a week for my body to bounce back from the full day of weird body poses and  lugging around heavy equipment, I couldn’t deny it anymore. I’d done pretty good up to that point though, only going through bouts of flare ups with only two or three days in bed every couple of months. Not bad. I’ve never been able to keep a job where I was on my feet, or sitting too long at a desk, or well, really anything that involved any body position for more than fifteen minutes in a row. That kind of limits a person’s options.

I made light of some of the odd things, like how my hand would misjudge and I would end up slamming a mug on the counter or scooting a bottle of ketchup across the table. And the brain fog…why did I come into this room? Names are lost, so I call people by defining features, not as an insult, but truly because that’s all I can think of. What’s his name again? You know, fuzzy-hair? The guy with the shnoz? Snaggle-tooth? My kids laugh at me how almost everything in our home has an alternate name like thing-a-ma-jig, or whatcha-ma-call-it, or thing-a-ma-bob. I’ll be looking right at their backpack, but the word backpack doesn’t come to me. Yes, these things happen to everyone on occasion, but for me, it’s many times daily.

I have been on numerous medications over the years. And twenty years ago, there was nothing for people with Fibromyalgia. I was given sleep meds…I mean other than waking every morning with a groggy hangover until noon, it wasn’t so bad.  And I remember one medication that had “very few side effects” threw me into a hallucinogenic state. I was terrified at the man sitting cross-legged staring at me in my living room. In actuality, it was my son’s R2D2 chair. Nice. I went on another medication…my muscles felt great, but my stomach felt like a little beaver was knawing my innards. Hmmmm, what do I prefer? Tylenol and Naproxin have been my after dinner mints and I apologize to my liver ever time I swallow.

I’ve had three babies since being diagnosed, and  I felt fabulous. That’s right, I’m nor sure why, but my muscles – the nagging, constant throbbing, and tendinitis just went away. Of course I felt the same things as every other pregnant woman, but having a sore back that was caused by pressure of a baby was normal, and I don’t know if anyone will understand this, but the pain was different. It was acute – stretching helped, changing positions and icing alleviated some of it. Yes, of course it hurt, but knowing there would be relief once the new life entered the world made it easier to handle for me; I knew there was an end to it. And living with pain every day…maybe it upped my threshold. Who knows?

Having my last baby at 38 has thrown my body into a state of disarray. For those of you who do not know, Fibromyalgia is greatly affected by your quality of sleep. My last little guy has been a bit of a handful – and a very light sleeper. AWESOME for me!! Burping him sent electrifying pain into my hands and arms – many times, I was the one who cried in the night, not him. I remember thinking things will be better in a few months once he’s older. Nope. He has yet to have a night where he isn’t up at least once or twice. I mean, it is what it is. I have to adapt and cope, right? At nine months, he’s a baby-monster at 26lbs. He’s needy and wants to be rocked by me and only me! My body screams. Most days now, it feels as though I am dough that has been made into a lasagne noodle. Doing up snaps on my baby’s sleeper is excruciating, and sometimes I can’t lift him out of bed. Open a jar or use a can opener – forget it! But onto the point of this post. I am about solutions, not complaining, and I am certainly not looking for sympathy.

I don’t want to start a rant/argument about the GMO’s or Monsanto’s Round-up or anything to that nature, but I do believe that these things have played a big part in the rise of many health issues. (Do your own research 🙂 )And let’s not get started on the pharmaceutical industry! Call me crazy, but I prefer to be cautious about what goes into my body, food and drugs, and after trying all different kinds of medications to no avail, like always, I’m looking for answers. Growing up, I was taught that marijuana was the ‘gateway drug’. I was the girl at parties calling the pot heads ‘Loosers’…man, looking back, I would have rather been one of those than a drunk (but that’s a topic for another day). Over the last four or so years, my attitude has changed.

After seeing the benefits of cannabinoids first hand, and reading about how it helps to alleviate the symptoms of Fibromyalgia, I gave it a try. I’m not a smoker and there is no way I could function daily like that, but consuming it orally before bed worked wonders! I didn’t feel comfortable buying it illegally – so I went to my doctor to ask for a prescription. Her response:

‘I have only ever given out one prescription for marijuana. It was to a person who was dying of cancer and osteoporosis.’

…Try walking, physiotherapy, yoga, massage…if you don’t want to take any medications. I felt scolded and left the office with my head hanging low. I went back to eating Tylenol and Naproxin for snacks because you know, over the counter meds are okay. My life already involved daily meditation and walking, but try and explain that massages and yoga make my body feel like it is one big bruise…sigh…no use.

Fast forward to yesterday. I talked to another Doctor (not my own but at the same office) about getting a prescription for medical marijuana. I told her I was interested in making a salve with the oil to rub on my arms and back.  Her response:

We see that as a last resort. We would suggest that you exhaust all other options (then listed a bunch of meds, most which I have tried except for 2) We would rather you try morphine for pain before doing that. We’ve seen the opposite side, and marijuana can lead to addiction, especially to other drugs.

Pardon me?! Maybe you’re the one who is high right now…Morphine?! Isn’t that like one of the most highly addictive pharmaceuticals? Did you actually learn this in med school?  Yeah, I mean who can’t look after a baby while being so relaxed that drool runs out of your mouth? He is nine months now – isn’t that old enough to fend for himself while Mama sleeps her life away? Pardon my French, but what the FUCK is wrong with this picture?

I didn’t argue. I wasn’t able to hold back tears though…and then I apologized for crying.

So, like the title says…What’s a girl to do?

 

 

 

 

The Reminder

 

With both hands in the pockets of her hoodie, Huma slouched deeper into the cushy leather chair. It was obvious she would rather be anywhere else than listening to me, the overly positive make-up consultant her sister had invited over.

“Huma’s not herself lately. She’s dealing with some health issues, so I don’t think she meant to come across as rude,” Nori explained after the guests had all cleared. “She’ll be back to herself in no time.”

“No offense taken. Everyone has bad days…no biggie,” I said while tallying the orders and packing up my kit. After hopping in my car, the hour long drive home was spent watching the Canada geese gather in the recently harvested fields, while I planned my upcoming week. I went on with my life, just as Huma and Nori did with theirs.

Three months later, Nori asked me out for lunch. I happily accepted the invitation, and when I walked into the restaurant, the lady sitting next to her was not the same one whom I had met earlier. Huma was put together, confidant, and chit-chatty. Her happiness about everything, even the beef vindaloo, was contagious! She had decided that while on sick leave, she needed an excuse to get out of the house, so why not sell skin care? I wondered why a mining engineer would want to do home parties, but I believed her reasoning was as simple as she stated; I understood cabin fever. Even after going back to work full time, Huma continued the direct sales. It clearly had nothing to do with needing money, but she told me once, that it made her happy to help her family back home, out East. Nori shared with me her story of how Huma took her in while she was going through a difficult time. It was Huma’s acceptance and encouragement that fueled Nori to make each day better than the last. She was able to start her own business with Huma as her investor.

Over the next few years, Huma and I became very close, talking almost every day. When on business in town, my oversized couch was her bed, and the mornings were filled with conversations as rich as the dark-roasted coffee. I could tell her anything from marriage to financial anxieties, with no fear of judgement. And while giving advice, honesty was never taken personally. We helped each other to see all variables in situations, believing that an open mind and optimism should lead the way. We attended conferences in Vegas and Vancouver, and agreed that the meetings were just an excuse to sightsee, shop and eat at trendy restaurants. Each trip, Huma made sure to pick up a little something for Nori, a custom she had been doing for many years. Whether she be in Africa or Manitoba, she always grabbed a memento. She loved giving gifts, and I remember receiving a wooden keepsake box with the words, ‘Believe in Yourself’, carved in the top. Being that I was the queen of second guessing, Huma knew it would be encouragement for me.

Huma was a career woman. By the time she was 38, she had gone from a mining engineer to Saskatchewan’s first female mines inspector, a position which threw many challenges her way. But she was up for them, as it was her dream job. Her work was important to her, but it never came before her extended family. And although she never had children of her own, she was indisputably the mothering type.

Huma grew up in Halifax. Her mom was from Kenya and her dad from Pakistan, so she had the most beautiful, jersey milk skin and big, brown eyes. When asked where she was from, she’d proudly announce, “I’m Canadian”. She used to get annoyed when people tried to form common ground solely based on their skin colour. Nonetheless, Huma’s warm and genuine nature overshadowed her irritation.

Huma was Muslim, and I was raised in a very lax Christian home. Strangely enough, we both celebrated Christmas. That’s right, Huma loved to decorate the tree and exchange presents. One day, I had to ask her why a Muslim would celebrate a Christian holiday. She told me she viewed Christmas as a North American tradition. Most people, including myself, celebrated Christmas because they got caught up in the commercialization, not the true meaning anyway. It was no different for her.

Huma and I both loved to dance. I preferred waiting for a full dance floor because I liked to blend in, but that wasn’t allowed when out with Huma. She was like the dancing sunflower toy from the 80s. Music equalled body movements, and entertaining ones at that! “Come on! Whatcha waiting for?” she’d say with body swaying, as she grabbed my hand pulling me out of my seat. I marvel at how she could turn what looked like the start of a drab evening, into some of the most memorable nights of my life! Her positive energy was infectious, and because of her, I realized that life shouldn’t be about having an attitude of ‘I don’t care what others think’, but rather an attitude of ‘I do what brings me joy’.

And then, one blustery March day, Huma died.

It was the result of a simple oversight from her previous health problems. She was all alone, and from what Nori said, it happened during her sleep. That brought some comfort, I suppose, but it didn’t change the fact that she was gone.

I was devastated, but barely cried until the funeral. I refused to ask why Huma’s life ended so soon; that question would leave only emptiness. Instead, I thought about what she contributed to my life and to the people around her. Her life deserved celebration; we had all been blessed. I mourned over the loss of my closest friend, but mostly I was sad for her loved ones, Nori in particular. Huma was her rock, and her only family here in Saskatchewan. Without her she would be lost, especially with her upcoming wedding. My drive home was spent in reflection, while watching the snow blow across the barren fields and highway.

The time came for Nori’s wedding shower, and I was excited to see her before they headed off to their destination wedding. It was the morning of, and I had yet to figure out what I was going to buy. I didn’t have a lot of money to spend, so finding a unique present would be tough. I went to a few stores downtown, turning up empty handed. Feeling discouraged, I wandered into an eclectic gift shop. On a clearance shelf in the back, I spotted a soapstone globe with a carved wooden base. When I picked it up, a shiver darted down my spine. The tag read, “Made in Kenya”, and I figured that was the confirmation I needed.

The trees were budding and the air was fresh on the drive to Nori’s, and I contemplated whether I should have bought the gift that was so uncharacteristic of me. I hoped it wouldn’t be something that ended up as a garage sale item in a couple of years. When I walked in to the party, Nori greeted me with a long hug. We both got choked up, and by the heartfelt look we gave each other, I knew exactly what she was thinking. She wished Huma was there; as did I. The shower was perfect, with scads of cream cheesy dips, fruit trays and chocolate dainties. The mood was happy and light while Nori opened her typical shower gifts.

“Thanks everyone! This is awesome…” she was saying as I interrupted.

“Ummm… Nori? I don’t think you opened mine.” We looked over, and the little, purple box had somehow gotten pushed behind a plant. I grabbed it and handed it over, feeling slightly insecure about my small, trinkety present. With all eyes on Nori, she lifted off the top, pulled out the tissue and paused. She placed her right hand over her mouth.

Her face went red as she said in a high pitched whisper, “Oh my god. How did you know?”

“Know what?” I asked.

“Huma brought me something soapstone from everywhere she travelled.”

The room went still. It was undeniable; Huma was there.

I held myself together for the rest of the party. After saying goodbye, I hit the road, but didn’t get far before having to pull over. As I rested my furrowed brow on the steering wheel, my shoulders began to uncontrollably shake. The tears streamed down my cheeks, landing on the floor mat below.

It’s been over four years since Huma passed away. I often think of her, our deep friendship, and how she enriched the lives of so many. I talked to Nori the other day, and she told me that the soapstone globe sits on a shelf in her kitchen. Like my wooden box, it’s a reminder; Huma will always be with her.

 

Wear Happy Clothes

I once cared a lot about my appearance. With my every eight week visit to the salon, I’d walk out with a different shade or cut. I stayed on top of the latest fashions, and kept things unique by throwing in a bit of rocker edginess with funky accessories to stay true to myself. My goal when shopping was to find the best quality for the best price, but as a good friend once told me, “Too many sales and you’ll still go broke!” I justified all my purchases by the deal I had gotten, and donated my extras when I cleaned out my closet to make room for the next season. I enjoyed my weekly visit to the tanning salon, being a firm believer that ‘tanned fat looks better than white fat’. I had a cosmetic graveyard, and leaving the house without my war paint terrified me. I loved the compliments – Oooo, where’d you get that cute top? Wow, loooove the new do! – My walk was springy. I stood tall.

But then there was a drastic shift in my financial department, and something had to give. Healthy groceries for the family for the week, or a trip to the salon and the mall? Yup, I had no alternative but to prioritize differently. My dark roots began to grow. My golden skin faded. I used  up my make-up and only replaced an item when something ran out. One season passed with no shopping…and another…and another. I kept my favourite clothing pieces that were a little more timeless, and sold the dated ones on kijiji.  I started to shop at thrift stores for more than kids’ Halloween costumes, and half the time I found clothing that people had donated that still had the price tags on. Yup, I bought from the Thrift shop before it was cool! I decided my only real splurge was on new, good quality shoes, but wore them out before buying another pair.

I’m not saying the change was easy. I felt like a loser because I couldn’t go to the salon or keep up with the trends. There were times I felt anger towards my life when I saw something that I liked and wanted but couldn’t afford.  At first I was worried about running into someone I knew at the second-hand shop. And how ridiculous is that? They were there too! I made excuses when I bumped into my stylist about being too busy, and that I’d see her soon. There were a lot of stresses in my life and I was getting depressed. Completely changing my lifestyle and habits didn’t make my battle with unhappiness any easier, especially when my urges to shop became even more-so, craving that retail therapy high.

Coping with the hardships in my life was difficult enough. I’m not going to talk about depression because overcoming that was something else all together. This post is to share with you about how going without some things for a few years made me realize a lot about myself. The cliche is right, It IS what’s on the inside that counts. Truth be told, nobody noticed or cared about my hair, my clothes or my pale skin. Nobody knew how much or how little I paid for my outfit or whether I was wearing the same shoes I had last year; I was clean. 🙂 But you know what my real friends did see? They saw when my shoulders hung lower, or when I wasn’t my positive, chipper self. The warm hugs and words of care and encouragement did more for me than any compliment about a handbag or necklace ever did.

Now don’t misunderstand me, there is nothing wrong with wanting and having nice things, or pampering yourself for that matter – but using them as a way to make ourselves feel good or to fit in, well that’s just empty validation. And nowadays, people’s ideas of wants vs needs are out to flippin’ lunch. When my finances got better, I never went back to being a big spender. Once I got used to living a certain way, I just couldn’t justify spending $50 on a T-shirt or $200 on a pair of jeans, or sucking up chemicals and toxins into my head just to sport a new colour. My daughter and I learned to love the ‘thrill of the hunt’ at vintage shops and second hand stores. I had been guilty of consumerism and even though I was forced into the change, I will never step back into that gluttonous, unnecessary lifestyle.

You know what else I realized? Compliments were fewer and farther between, and I figured out why. Our feelings are worn just like a fancy evening gown or a dirty shirt. How I perceived myself is what people were actually complimenting – not the dress or the heels. Nice things were said to me because I felt good about me!

I guarantee if you put two women (one depressed, one confidant) into the same outfit, the happy one would get more compliments. Speaking from experience, I’d place bets on that! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patience

After we received news of an yet another unexpected set back, I had Ari bring Luthor to me. I was tired and in a bit of a mood, so I hoped that his insight and honesty would make me feel better. Friends are good like that.

“By the time we get to that dangling carrot, I think it might be rotten,” I said to Luthor. “You know how deeply I believe in karma, so what’s the issue? Matheson and Billian have been out of our lives for over a year now. Is there interference from someone else?  I believe I’m doing everything right; I focus on the positive. I give thanks daily. Am I missing something?”

“Oh Jordi,” he exhaled and his shoulders relaxed. “I’ve been meditating a lot on your situation and don’t take this the wrong way, but yes, I do believe that you are missing something.”

“I am? What?” I thought I thought of everything. Looking within when wanting to improve a situation can be beneficial, but with an over-thinker’s brain like mine, I sometimes felt a little crazy when answers couldn’t be found.

“You know how when things aren’t going the way you’d expect, or as easily as you’d like, you ask the Universe what it is that you’ve done wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“Stop blaming yourself. And do you feel that sometimes maybe there is a force that’s out to get you? Like the Universe has forgotten about you?”

“Definitely.” Who hasn’t felt this way, I thought.

“And I’m sure you’ve wondered at times if maybe you’re just destined for a life of hardship and struggle.”

“Sometimes,” I answered.  Get to the point, Luthor, I thought.

“Well, I firmly believe that the Universe is protecting you,” he said, while I tipped down my chin and looked up at him through my furrowed brow.

“Really?” I said curtly. “From what? Myself?” OK, that was a stupid thing to say, I knew that wasn’t the case. It was just that every single time we were moments away from life falling into place, some other hurdle needed to be jumped. “How am I supposed to see it in a different light, Luthor?”

“Trust me. Look around, isn’t it obvious that you’ve got someone looking out for you? Great things keep happening and many opportunities have been presented to you guys. Just because they haven’t fallen into your laps yet, doesn’t mean they’ve disappeared.”

“Yeah, I know. Hurry up and wait some more.” I sighed. Luthor was correct; we were on the right path. The energy around us was bright, and it’s yellow and violet glow could be seen by those like us. The darkness was finally gone from our lives, and the people who brought it. I guess today I had clouded thoughts. It was time to clear them.

“Think of it like this…instead of having two or three stars align, making life easier for the moment, if you just hold out and accept your journey as it comes, not pushing or wishing otherwise, ALL your stars will align. Life will be much better if you just let it do what it does. Don’t force Karma.”

“Yes, I get it. That headstrong  bee-atch knows exactly what she’s doing and doesn’t appreciate being pushed around!” I joked.

“Exactly. And when I said I feel that you’re being protected, I meant it. If you try to nudge things along, everything you’re waiting for could easily fall through.You never know. Don’t be the one to create resistance. In your life right now, and always, things happen the way they are meant to. Let it be.”

A big breath in, and Ari returned to his body. I opened my laptop and the quote in my newsfeed from Paulo Coelho confirmed how the Universe really does work in mysterious ways.

“We warriors of light must be prepared to have patience in difficult times and to know the Universe is conspiring in our favour, even though we may not understand how.”

I spent the rest of the day at peace.

 

 

 

Prologue – Billian The Borrower

Every day for two weeks, I listened to the highlights and
defining moments of Billian’s life. His beginnings in
Israel with no memory – no past – launched his journey to
explore who, or what he was. I learned of the
relationships built with a well-off family in Moscow, a
witch who became his mentor, and a manipulative
mastermind who blackmailed him for years. I enjoyed
hearing about his time spent working on a fishing boat in
Atlantic Canada, his stories of travelling the world doing
coffee trading, and most of all, how he woke up one day
in someone else’s body.
By the time I heard his story, I knew what he was. He
was a Borrower, a man who had the ability to leave his
own body and be in another’s. And I never would have
unveiled the truth had I not discovered my own abilities.
Because you see, my journey to find out who or what I
am, uncovered many of the same people Billian’s did, just
in a much different way. No two journeys are the same,
especially for people like us, but the way our paths
crossed was unimaginable, even among our community.
I knew though, that the day would come where I would
be forced to hear his side of what transpired; his side of
the horrendous choices he made which impacted our
lives and so many others along the way. I’ve always been
strong, but to face a man – a man I fell in love with, and
openly listen to his side without judgement, was one of
the most challenging things I have ever done.
But it was something I wanted, something I needed.
Soon, you’ll understand why.

To order Billian The Borrower: http://www.thefirebornchronicles.com, http://www.amazon.ca/Billian-Borrower-Fireborn-Chronicles-Book-ebook/dp/B016C6DYEE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1451774132&sr=8-1&keywords=Billian+the+Borrower or purchase at McNally Robinson and Indigo in Saskatoon, SK.

Billian The Borrower

The first novel in The Fireborn Chronicles is now available. I can’t believe this wasn’t posted before. Currently, it is available for purchase in Saskatoon at McNally Robinson Booksellers, Indigo and Coles in Lawson Heights Mall, or order it directly from Marie Aline at http://www.thefirebornchronicles.com. The book can also be downloaded on kindle for $2.99- Also, visit this link to view the first few chapters- http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B016C6DYEE?keywords=billian%20the%20borrower&qid=1448050359&ref_=sr_1_1&s=books&sr=1-1

My Official Transformation

I inhaled the fresh ocean breeze as I looked back at the colourful patio lights we had put up for the special evening. I’ve always loved little lights in big darkness. Like the fireflies at Arenal Volcano, or the city lights while overlooking from my flight above, they make me feel a sense of mysticism. The lanterns which surrounded my screened-in patio that night were perfect. While I enjoyed the sensation of  sand on my feet, I felt a familiar presence to my right. We shared some chit-chat about his flight, finding the place, and how the weather differs so much from where he now lives. I grabbed both of his hands.

“Thanks for coming all this way, Matheson. Today means a lot to me and I know how you understand my journey. You have been such a big part of it without even knowing. I’m happy you are here.” His dark eyes pierce mine and I read his thoughts exactly. “In another life,”  I said gently. I meant it.

As I headed back to the wine and carefully prepared finger foods, I saw mostly faces of acquaintances; the Ginger from town, the East Indian woman who I met through a friend, and the yoga instructor, all casually mingling. Whether their friendships were new or not, we all had one thing in common – who we are.  I looked at myself in the mirror. The black bra-like top showed just the right amount of cleavage to compliment my gemstone necklace. One might say it looked gaudy, but it was the perfect gift, and I knew I would wear it that night.  My high-waisted, green satin skirt skimmed my ankles, which were covered in jewelry. I felt pretty. Even my skin was flawless. I tilted my head to gaze upon my blood-red wine. I remember when I used to hate that dry liquid, but now that it no longer reminded me of communion, the taste couldn’t be sweeter on my lips.

“I am grateful for all who are here. My evening is truly blessed. To my new circle.”  I raised my goblet and knew that it was time to head out.

The fire was already burning strong, as I walk up to Jeremy. He was standing tall, his broad shoulders making me seem more petite than I am. I was sure he would be dressed more traditionally for the occasion, but  he wasn’t. He wore my favourite belt, the one beautifully crafted with porcupine quills surrounding blue and black beads. A piece of suede pulled back his hair loosely at the nape of his neck, and I loved how a few strands had fallen out to frame his kind face. I felt a little sheepish. I have never liked a spotlight on me, so I took comfort in knowing that the rest of the guests watched from a ways back. Jeremy handed me a stick from a birch tree. I knew exactly what to do; I stuck it into the fire. When I saw the nine torches in the ground making a circle around the fire, I lit them, one by one. When I got back to Jeremy, I could see the full moon over his right shoulder. There is something about the moon that has always made me stare into it, but I knew that night to fix my eyes on him instead. He held up a stone cup. I grabbed it with both hands and sipped the warm, herbal drink which was prepared perfectly for me. I can’t remember all the words he spoke that night, but I remember how they ended.

“Jordana, Born of Fire,” Jeremy said while he placed a crown of white, wild roses upon my long, dark hair. I felt a surge of energy enter my body. It made me tingle from my lips to the arches in my feet.  My heart felt whole. I was accepted. I was loved. I was reborn.

“Where is Tabitha?!” The thought instantly shot from my brain into my chest. I looked across the fire, and my feeling of panic left, as I realized that she had been there all along. I saw a multi-coloured glow surround her; a glow of peace, of calm, of love. I could feel her joy. If it was only her personality and spirit which sat in that large, wooden beach chair, it would have overflowed, but her body was small and frail. I sat in the sand beside her, and grabbed her left hand with both of mine. I could tell that weakness was overtaking her. My thoughts were reminded of the day she told me that the stronger I got, the weaker she became.

“Don’t worry about me!” she said. “Today is your day. I will always be with you, Jordana. You know that, don’t you dear?”

My eyes welled up. “Yes, but it’s not the same.”

“Sure it is,” she spoke. “Now go! Have fun.”  I knew that I could not focus on the moment for it would make me sad, so I stood up, shook it off, and took her advice. That night was not the night to think about how much time she had left.

I moved to the other side of the fire as my petite, firecracker friend showed up. This relationship was new to me, even though I had seen her in visions for months. Her hair was a perfect reflection of her personality. The sleek bob with a strong bang could look fun or sophisticated. She had both sides to her, I was learning. She approached me, and before I could even say a word, she wrapped her arms around me with the most warm and nurturing hug. As we left our embrace, my step back was small, so we were still in each other’s space. It was in a different way though, in which I hadn’t experienced before. Her lips were full and soft. It felt awkwardly new, but exciting as well. Why also did it feel so natural to me? I could have lost myself for a bit longer, but instead I asked Natalina if I could have a few moments to myself.

Now alone again, it looked like the beginning of the night. I breathed in the Earth’s power, and let it ground me, as I watched the colourful patio lantern light bless my guests. I turned and stared into the fire. It empowered me like never before. As its heat felt hotter and hotter against my body, I removed my top and exposed my breasts to her flames. My skirt seemed to slip off my hips without my knowledge. I am sure she seduced me, but I didn’t care. I turned to face the ocean, then walked slowly and purposefully to its edge. The raw shock of cold water smoothed over every inch of my ivory skin, and I only needed one dip under to get the sensation I desired.  As I slowly emerged from the water, I felt the moon’s light create a thin illuminating veil on my head, shoulders, and down the small of my back.  I had never felt more beautiful. After wrapping myself in the teal and black satin robe, my new feet carried me up the steps of the patio. When I opened the door, my guests knew it was time for them to head home.

With dripping hair and slightly smudged mascara, I walked into the kitchen and enjoyed a glass of water. Our guests had all left, other than the few who had flown in for the week. Our house had plenty of room and besides, I loved to cook and visit over meals shared at our large, reclaimed wood table. I wanted to wake up to a tidy kitchen, so I took the opportunity to let the evening’s events soak in, just like the dishes I placed in the sink. With Mr. Sandman on his way to visit our guests, I was finally able to visit my love.

“So,” Ari paused, “how are you?” He spoke with such a genuine, inquisitive tone, I knew he meant every word.

“Calm, yet excited. Peaceful and loved. Totally empowered. I feel 100% like me.”

I was relieved we didn’t talk to each other throughout the evening. Ari was a bit surprised when I had suggested it, but he knew it was what I needed. I loved him even more for understanding and respecting my wishes.

“I could feel your eyes on me all night, babe.” I said. There was something about this man that brought out insecurities in me I never knew existed. It was best for us to experience the night separately as individuals, well, for me anyway. We didn’t deliberately avoid each other, although I did make sure to keep some distance between us. There was something playful about looking at him from afar too.  It reminded me of the month preceding our first date, except that night I was free to end the evening exactly as I wanted.

“I’m ready for bed. You?” he asked.

“I’m going to take a quick shower first. I’ll be out in 5.” Once I crawled into bed, I thought about making love, but I was so exhausted that instead, I cuddled my naked back up to Ari and comfortably fell into the most restful sleep of my life.

The exhilarating, sweet scent of freshly ground, Guatemalan coffee beans kissed my nose good morning. You mean to tell me, I slept in? I nestled under the fluffy duvet for a few more minutes, before making my way to the kitchen. I straddled a stool and rested my elbows on the granite island.

“This is nice.” I said. Our morning ritual had always been to speak as few words as possible, and to put our intentions out for the day, while savouring our fresh roasted goodness. I used to feel like silence was my enemy, but the last two years had shown me that that is where all the beauty lies.

I inhaled a deep breath, and reflected upon the previous night’s events as the sun cast its reflection onto my brew. The coffee experience is best when accompanied by stillness anyway; it’s my early morning meditation.

What I Learned From Driving a Piece of Shit Car

Recently, we had vehicle problems. And I suppose we’ve been really lucky, to not have to sink money into our SUV for the past five years.  But, nothing lasts forever, certainly not cars.

My dad is a vehicle hoarder, so when I asked to borrow a car to get me through a couple of weeks, it wasn’t a problem.  He gave us the best running baby on his lawn-of-a-lot.  A 1982, Oldsmobile 88 Royale. You know it was a classy beast when they put an E on the end of “Royal”.

On the registration, the colour says blue.  In reality, it’s rust.  I don’t think they have an option for that when you’re getting insurance though.

The inside of that car is a dream.  It’s cleaner and in better shape than any vehicle I’ve ever owned. What is it about old guys that the insides of their cars are immaculate? The seats are plush and comfy, and when my kids hopped in the back for the first time, they laughed because it felt like a love seat. The clock doesn’t work, but the time is stuck on 11:11, which I find quite humourous. It runs like a well oiled machine, and when we take it on the freeway, it floats like a boat. Back in its prime, I’m sure it was quite a looker.

When we went to pick it up, and I saw it, I thought “OMG. This is silly.”

For the first few days, I was hoping nobody I knew would see me in that rust bucket.  Then I realized, who really gives a shit? It’s just a car. Without it, there’d be no way to get my kids to school or extra curricular activities, or for Ari to get to work.  We could have figured out the bus schedule, but whatever, it’s only temporary anyway.  A couple of times, I made excuses, so people knew it was a loaner.

But, my perspective changed after about day three.  People were snotty assholes.  We got snickered at, saw many eyebrow raises and some people actually laughed. And what is it about people going out of their way to be condescending pricks? Now, I’m not going to make any generalizations or assumptions, I will only reiterate our actual experiences. There were many who didn’t care, and why should they?  Why should anyone?

While at the Indigo parking lot, a guy and his girlfriend walked up to their Porsche SUV (not even exaggerating here) which was parked a few cars down.  The guy looked at Ari and said in a sarcastic, arrogant tone, “Nice car.”

Ari replied, “You like that? Five hundred bucks baby! How much yours set you back….per month?”

His girlfriend laughed because her douchebag man was caught a little off guard.

“Sorry Dude.”

“No prob.  But I don’t think it’s me who deserves the apology. I think you owe one to your girlfriend.”

“Uhhhh, why’s that?”

“For having such a small dick.” Ari matter-of-factly stated with confidence as we hopped into our beauty.

Earlier this week, we dropped the kids off at a rehearsal.  They were surrounded by many of their peers, and I could tell that my daughter didn’t want anyone to see what we were driving.

“If anyone says anything negative to you, Sweetie, just tell them we’re doing a social experiment.  It’s to see how judgemental people really are.”

Ari had a better idea.

“No way.  Tell them Uncle Buck gave you a ride.”

She giggled and it lightened the mood.  But it sure made me think.

With bullying such a huge topic now-a-days, I think adults have to take a good, long look in the mirror. Where do they think kids truly get it from? Adults judge everything, more than children ever will; what you wear, what you drive, where you live, how you colour your hair, if you have tattoos or piercings, how good-looking you are, your nationality, the list goes on and on.  With so many, substance doesn’t matter. Character doesn’t. Heart doesn’t. And even those few who live their lives, not judging the book by its cover, or in this case the rust on its body, I think a lot of us still do.

I did at first. I was embarrassed. I felt lesser because of what others might think.  And I am sure that the majority of people would feel the same if they had to use a piece of shit junker for a couple of weeks.  But I guarantee by the end, you would learn just as I have:

Too many of us are shallow critics. 

But I think this story has a happy ending.  A toothy smiled, old man came up.

“That car, was the first car I ever bought brand new. It cost me sixty-five hundred dollars. Betcha it still runs great.”

“Sure does.”

As we listened to the old guy reminisce, I was truly filled with joy. He was weathered, with cracked hands, a wrinkly face, and hunched-over back, but his soul and heart carried such happiness and contentment. And as he left us, I wondered if it is life experience that softens a person, that makes them more accepting and non-judgemental. Or was he always like that, a man who placed value on things that matter?

I think it’s probably a combination of both.

Empowerment

The word empower has been hanging around lately and it won’t leave me alone until I embrace it.

Many times in my life I have held on to everything it stands for and let it launch me in the right direction.  Let me rephrase that.  I, big emphasis here on I, took my life and gave myself permission to trudge forward.

Today, I am remembering some of those moments when I felt empowered, and using them as fuel to give me drive. To look back and see the brick walls we’ve already successfully scaled, makes the one in front of us easier to face.

The first, I was sixteen. I sat in my mom’s rocking chair, looking down at my big pregnant belly. I wasn’t afraid of raising a child, or how it would affect my life. I had no fear of graduating high school, or going to college, or moving out on my own.(Which looking back now, was pretty brave in itself) What I feared though, was how my life would be if I stayed with the father. A future with him scared me more than being a single mom at seventeen. To this day, I see my son as the angel who saved me from an abusive situation. Rehashing what his father did isn’t important. I’ve forgiven him, and moved on with my life. I may not have valued myself enough to leave for me, but I loved my son enough to do it for us.

Alcohol was my escape on and off for years. I was a weekend binge drinker whenever stress plagued my life. And when my kids were little, who’d know anyway, other than me? I was, and still am a great mom. I had one rule: No drinking on week nights. I stuck by it. But, as drinking always does, it led me to situations involving men that I couldn’t get out of.(a lot of the time, I didn’t even try) Whether I was married or not, guilt consumed me. So, the cycle continued. I’d need an escape from the guilt, so I’d head out on Friday night for a couple of drinks with my gals. And those “friends” who accompanied me  – I chose them.  I knew that they were never truly concerned for my well-being. They weren’t the type to say, “What the hell are you doing, Jordana? This isn’t who you are!” My real friends, well, I hid that other life from them.

Back to empowerment. I started working for a company that valued self improvement. I listened to many motivational speakers, and read book after book on positive mind-set and how to be your best self. I recognized my unhealthy patterns, and took steps to change them. One night, I decided to go out to the bar, and pretend I was sitting at another table, watching myself. With that exercise, every action became a conscious choice. I learned my triggers, and how far I could go before getting to that line I should not cross. Some booze just tasted so good, and once I began to look at those pretty cocktails as yummy beverages, instead of a way to temporarily lose myself, my life changed.  I love homemade banana chocolate cake, but if I sat down and ate the whole thing, I’d be disgusted with myself too!

The hardest things I ever did, was to cut the people out of my life that didn’t serve me well. First, I started with the Negative Nellies. You know, those constant complainers who seem to always find fault in everyone else but themselves? I judged it like this – If after having coffee or visiting I felt drained and upset, what was the point in spending time with him or her? If that person was trash talking and gossiping about everyone and everything, what was to stop them from doing the same to me? Gossipers aren’t people of strong character – ever.

Next, and this is a biggie, I disconnected myself from my mother. I know, I know, sounds awful, doesn’t it? Well, regardless of my upbringing, regardless of whether we ever got along or not, isn’t the point. What matters, is how she made me feel, or rather, how I let her make me feel. I can only speak for me, but I longed for her approval all my life. I went to her with every decision I had to make, every problem that I faced. And guess what? It created a relationship of co-dependency that was extremely unhealthy. I needed her acceptance. She needed the control. There were many decisions I made in life, that I made because I was trying to please her, not because I felt it was best for me. I adopted the “mother knows best” philosophy and I lived it for far too long. Once I stopped turning to her, and became my authentic self, it created a pretty nasty situation. She got angry. She blamed others. She even said and did a lot of hurtful things to make me look bad. At first, I retaliated to defend myself. That made things worse and gave her more opportunities to lash out. I imagine losing control over someone, you might go through some sort of withdrawal.  Like being able to have a couple of drinks without getting shitfaced, I am now able to have a brief conversation with my mom without opening my life up to her, or looking for her opinion. It’s awkward and guarded at times, but it’ll get better, I’m sure.

I just realized something…my son’s father, alcohol, Negative Nellies and my mother – they all have one thing in common:

I gave them my power.

True empowerment means taking it back.