The first day of school has always been so full of emotion for me. As a teacher, the night before meeting my new students, my stomach would be in knots that would not release until the last person filed out of the classroom and I could lay my head on the desk for a moment and breathe. Thank you God, we all survived. I was never a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants teacher. Extreme preparedness was my armour, because somehow in the back of my mind I must have believed the classroom was some kind of battleground. In the evening after the first day, I’d always crave KFC; fried food is good for an unsettled stomach, right? It was an unapologetic indulgence I’d earned having survived that first day of teenagers, whom, to my knowledge, didn’t hate me. And, as much as it is embarrassing to admit, no matter what lofty ambitions I might have had about what I was going to teach, I was still very much like a child who just wanted to live through the day, hoping to make a connection and not an enemy. I wanted to be liked.
Years later, without a classroom of my own, the first day of school is still kind of painful.
Read More1.) 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 MoreYesterday morning I woke up wishing I had been born a Buddhist. I practiced yoga (release!) and went for a run in the woods, trying to let go of a desire that was occupying way too much space in my mind. A week or so earlier, I’d been packing up at work, when my cellphone rang. The students wanted to answer it.
“It’s just the dentist,” I said. (Who else calls during the day?)
“Let us say hi,” they chirped.
Hmmm. That would be kind of funny, but no, I was there so they would get an education! No phones in the classroom! I checked the message later that afternoon, only to start shaking.
“Hello, Lena. This is the Toronto Star calling. You’ve placed in the top three finalists for the Short Story Contest.”
Read MoreOn the last Wednesday of the month, my writing group and I sit down and dedicate a portion of our weekly gathering to goal setting. Our ambition ranges from writing 15,000 words to finding joy in writing again to submitting a memoir piece for publication. But this month, my goal was much less lofty. Inspired by the wisdom of the late Carol Shields, I vowed to rebel against some of the structure I’d put in place as a guidepost. April would be a month to play.
Read MoreI’m not that into sermons, but I love to be put in my place. These days it happens less and less from the pulpit and more via Memoir. You might think that if I wanted guidance, the place to start might be the Christian Living or Spiritual Growth shelf, but you’d be wrong, because those books read like self-help or Hallmark Cards. They lack the essential ingredient I need to engage: story. Just like the Bible is story, and Judeo-Christian celebration is always about re-visiting what God has done, Memoir reminds me how to live. Lately, I’ve read a number of thoughtful, personal memoirs, but I connected particularly with this one.
Read More
