1.) There is no one way.
How could there be? This is so obvious I’m going to skip ahead to number two.
2.) There is no timeline.
I hardly dare to write this post because what wisdom could I possibly have to share given the limited time I’ve spent on earth? Pre-Covid I spent many beautiful afternoons with a ninety-eight year old woman and drank in her ten decades of wisdom. So let me say a few things as someone who has taken voracious notes, and hopes to live long enough to test these theories in the future.
There is no timeline for learning how to be a woman. I mean, we are born female and we die female and figuring out what that means isn’t a 100 metre dash towards a clear finish line. You may think you have the answer at 35 only to completely revise your stance at 55. Who you are at 18 may not be who you are at 88.
So take your time becoming. I know some love to speak of the maiden, mother and crone trichotomy, but I also know women whose hair is white and whose eyes sparkle like a child’s with the delight of having discovered something new and amazing.
Take your time learning all the ways to be a woman.
Read MoreIn the late 1930’s, the Dutch government built Camp Westerbork to house thousands of German Jews fleeing National Socialism in Germany. When the Nazis occupied Holland in May 1940, they took over the camp, enlisting Dutch police servicemen as guards. Rients Dijkstra was one of such police officers, and when he reported for duty, he couldn’t do what the Nazis demanded. He lasted one day and never returned to Westerbork. Like thousands of other Dutch citizens, he went underground, hiding in the chicken coop of his girlfriend’s parents’ home, where for a time he was safe. However, as supplies dwindled, it became difficult for citizens to feed the thousands of onderduikers, those who had gone underground. Meanwhile, the Germans paid informants fifty guilders to track down runaways. Rients’ luck ran out when someone took the money. Though the house was searched, they skipped the chicken coop. Frustrated, the Germans grabbed Rients’ girlfriend’s father instead.
Read MoreMany years ago, at a sleepover, I picked up an adult’s diary and began to read. I got as far as the first sentence before slamming it shut and carefully replacing it on the shelf. The person who penned those opening lines couldn’t possibly be the same person who’d earlier bought me an ice-cream cone! I knew the adage “you can’t judge a book by its cover” but surely if someone smiled all the time, they couldn’t simultaneously endure such inner turmoil, could they? Fast forward to the present moment. If you were to reach onto my (secret, hidden) bookshelf and pull down any one of my leather journals, the first words you would read would be: BURN ME. Mine is a life of adversary, jealousy and mountains of insecurity… at least according to the crazy diatribe that is my diary. Like millions of others, I’m not alone trying to make sense of the world and my place in it by pushing words onto a page. But, loathe to offer up my unedited ramblings for general consumption, allow me instead to direct you to some brave souls who aren’t afraid to open their hearts and minds and offer some worthy reflections in the midst of this dark mid-winter.
Read MoreToday has felt like one of those “silent retreats” people like Jim Carey apparently go on. I’ve fantasized about them before, but the one time I went to a spa where there were signs everywhere telling patrons to hush I can’t say I loved it. Usually I try to smile and say hello to people. Tiptoeing and whispering around in bathrobes felt awkward and the urge to giggle or gossip was too much. Anyways, this is not a post about spas or silence, but I did spend the day alone, quietly painting, and it was nice to order my own thoughts sans distraction. If your summer’s been a bit like mine, a mix of philosophical conversations around a fire paired with a side of healthy debate, maybe you can weigh in here, too. Today’s topic: should we make the kids skip school? Not just for a day, or a week. Instead of plugging up the queues for dorm accessories at IKEA, what if we packed fresh-faced seventeen year olds off to boot camp? Well, okay, not actual boot camp, but something like that. They could wear sandals probably. Here’s what I’m talking about...
Read MoreIt was five o’clock in the afternoon and he’d been awake for fourteen hours, moving non-stop to get the orders out. It was our second year in business and we’d long ago run out of start-up money, investor’s money and any other kind of money we could scrounge together for the dream of running our own business. He took off his sweaty tuque (it was cold in the warehouse), rubbed his head in exhaustion, and walked over to the playpen where our five month-old daughter had been seconded for hours in a pale pink snowsuit. Gently picking her up, he snuggled her close and accepted a bowl of his mother’s homemade cheesy-bean soup. We’d done it! Valentine’s Day 2008 was soon to be a wrap and we could sit back and celebrate. Until the phone rang.
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