Comforting Words

Black Women Need to Wake Up - By Abigail

2010-05-18T18:25:00.002-06:00

The following article was written by my beautiful daughter and posted on her Facebook page. I have her permission to re-print her on Comforting Words. Her words speak for themselves and I hope our sisters of colour read and take the words of a young woman to heart.

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Today at school we watched a movie documentary. It was Chris Rock's Good Hair. The film basically shone a light on the extent black women go to when it comes to their hair to fit in to what society has deemed as ideal beauty. Long straight hair that blows in the wind, and moves with you.

While my classmates sat and laughed at Mr. Rock's wise cracks, I couldn't help but feel for all the black women out there that go to sometimes extraordinary lengths to fit in... weaves, extensions, relaxers. Women across North America are literally putting themselves in debt in an effort to fit in. Did you know you can take a payment plan out on a weave?!!!!

For years, let me correct, centuries black people have been made out to be subhuman, less than, not deserving of anything good, and this has extended even to something as simple as our hair. We have been indoctrinated into a culture where the prototype of beauty is the exact opposite of us. There's a saying in Jamaica and it goes, "if you're white, you're alright, of you're brown, stick around, if you're black, stay in the back". Now it's "if you're nappy, you ain't happy". LOL

There was one point in the film where a three yea old was sitting on her grandmother's lap, and the grandmother said she just got her first relaxer two weeks ago. When Chris Rock asked her if she likes getting relaxers she said no, then he asked her, if he thinks his daughters should get relaxers and she said yes. When he asked her why, she simply said, "because you're supposed to". This is very sad, from the time we are children we are inculcated with the idea that if you are a black girl, you must get a relaxer!

Now I myself have fallen into the trap of the "creamy crack", relaxers, hey I even tried out weaves a few times, but the stress of having to maintain what wasn't me was just too much. I had friends in high school, that would refuse to leave their house, they would rather miss school, work, church, if they didn't have their weave sewn in. Some of them, I have NEVER seen there natural hair, under all the Kanikelon, Remy, and every other variant of extensions there are out there. I've seen many girls walking around with no hair in their temple area due to all the tension and stress constant weaving causes, walking around thinking they're all cute with their weaves, WHICH half the time aren't even sewn in properly!

Now I know weaves can be handy, and they are a creative expression of your individuality. They can even be good for your hair when done right, for instance black hair tends to be drier, and weaves and braids can be a great protective style in the winter months in Alberta's dry climate. What I have a problem with is girls that don't see themselves as beautiful in any other way. Girls that will consciously make the decision to destroy what God gave them to fit in and be acceptable to who??? Girls that make the excuse oh my man likes me with long hair, and blah blah blah, so many other excuses. Who cares if your man likes long hair? If your man doesn't like the way you look in your natural state then why are you with him????

It's a form of self hate when someone looks in the mirror and can't recognize the beauty in themselves. There was a time when black women were made fun of for their wide hips, big behinds, and thick lips. Now women of every race are running out and getting but implants (I know this because I have seen it live), and fillers in their lips. Some are even getting their hair braided, I have been paid to braid non-black women's hair too.

I wish black women would just wake up and stop trying to fit into a mold that they will never fit, stop being victims of chemical burns and traction alopecia. My wish is that black women would start to recognize more and more that their black is beautiful. ALL OF IT! Not just from the neck down.

I know my black is beautiful, and whoever don't like it can bite it!

Sad State of Affairs

2010-05-13T18:54:00.004-06:00

"You have any suss'?" usually comes about five minutes into every conversation with my daughter.

'Suss' is gossip and as the months go by and our relationship deepens into a friendship, my daughter and I swap stories from our daily interactions with others.

On my drive home this afternoon she called and after telling me about her day at work Abi said "by the way, I have suss fi' give you!"

What she told me was not funny but I found myself having to pull over onto the side of the rural road to control the laughter that had overtaken me. Tears were flowing down my eyes, my sides were splitting and my belly was on the verge of bursting and I had to ask Abi to hang up.

Sitting on the side of the roadway my laughter turned to tears – of sadness and gratitude.

The 'suss' was about a young lady, same age as my daughter, who lives in the St. Catherine community from which we migrated to Canada. They have remained friends across the miles but their lives have evolved so very differently. My daughter's friend has an high school education but has been unemployed for at least a year now and has a three year old child for a man who is MIA.

Despite her lack of financial resources, employment and help from the child's father, this young lady's picture can be seen on Facebook each week with a new 'weave', in the latest dancehall outfit and on the arms of some DJ or a 'money man' as she captioned the last photograph.

Today, however, after partying the weekend away with the crew Miss Dancehall Queen called my baby girl who had just come home from her second part-time job to ask for $50. Apparently her three year old baby needed a fireman outfit to attend career day at his school!

"What the @$&* you just said Abi?" I screamed in the phone. When I get really annoyed my Jamaican accent and patois comes pouring out. "Har tree ear old hav' career day?!!!

"Are you %@@ kidding me? Which tree year old have career day? Did you ask her if you a di' baby father?"

By this time Abi was dying with laughter. My daughter is way too polite and calm to have asked her friend that. She merely told her that she did not have any money to send. I on the other hand could not let it go.

"Career day mi' backside!"

The more I thought about it the more ridiculous it seemed that a three year old had to attend a career day in a country where the 23 year old mother could not find a job. And the more I repeated it the laughter started to build and I had to pull over.

When I got back on the phone to Abi my laughter had been replaced by gratitude.

"Now you understand why we had to get you out of that place?" I asked Abi.

I have great confidence in my parenting and in my daughter's common sense but peer pressure can be a very powerful thing. So too culture and sadly the culture of Jamaica and many developing countries fosters the mentality that one can beg their way to heaven.

This has been the case for many moons now. I can recall in days long before internet and Western Union, writing many a letters for my mother to "friends" who had migrated basically saying "begging you kindly to please to send a little help."

When the responses would arrive, the envelope would be hurriedly torn, the letter shaken open to see if "anyting' in deh." The letter was of no importance if there wasn't a $10 or $20 bill "in deh." And this was not isolated to my home…it was a scenario played out in many homes then and even now that had someone " a foren" (overseas).

Jamaica's economy has been propped up by remittances since the 1970's. Despite recent reports that there has been a plunge due to the global recession, remittances to Jamaica "over this decade grew between 9.1 per cent and 20 per cent per year – averaging 12.6 per cent per year in the last eight periods," states an August 2009 report in Starbroek News. "Between 2000 and 2008, the transfers grew two and a half times from US$789 million to US$2.02 billion, amounting to 14 per cent of gross domestic product."

For the last seven years, I have been one of those overseas family member and friend who have been helping to keep the Jamaican economy marginally afloat each month by sending money to my mother.

I really do not begrudge doing that. Yes, there was a time I resented having to do so, especially when we were dancing on the poverty line here in Canada. However, as my faith strengthened and my forgiveness quotient increased, I visited and continue to visit Western Union every month and do what most Jamaican living overseas do – send money home.

But I pray that this cycle to will one day be broken. The call for $50 to buy a fireman suit for a 3 year old's career day is a clear sign that we are a ways away from that day.

Of course I recognize the disadvantage and the unlevel playing field that countries like Jamaica have to kick its ball around on. Yet, I cannot ignore that generation after generation have refused to get on a backhoe and start digging. Instead, you have young people like my daughter's friend dressing to the ninth to party and then buying a phone card to call "foren" to "beg a little help."

My daughter is a wise young woman. As we both continued to laugh at the image of a three year old dressed up in his fireman outfight attending his career day, she said "Actually I wanted to ask her if is me and her lie down to get the baby, but I didn't 'cause it's useless."

That's a sad and painful commentary about the land of my birth but many days, like today, I wonder whether that is the truth – "it's useless."

Excuse Me But Simply Giving Birth is not the Holy Grail

2010-05-11T18:37:00.004-06:00

It has been a while that I have written a post that generated so many comments – some public but most in private emails.

Is it because I have not been writing a lot lately or was it the topic?

Judging from the nature of the comments, I venture to say it was the latter.

The biblical passages, depth psychological, forgiveness, rebuke, etc were some of the advice thrown my way after reading that Mother's Day is not a merry occasion for me – at least not one where I celebrate the woman who gave birth to me.

I know I might anger, annoy, distance some with my next comment but those who really know me will understand that I don't really care. Popularity is something that has long not been important to me.

Truth is my gal.

Giving birth, planting a seed in a woman's womb, nursing a child via breast milk or the bottle or sending money occasionally does not a parent make.

By now it must be clear that mine is not the school of thought that subscribe to the notion that because a woman gives birth to a child she is a hero, worthy of undying love despite the hell that child was raised in.

Neither am I of the belief that forgiveness means pretending that something never happened. It is therefore useless to send me biblical passages, rebuke, admonishments, etc because I know them as well as you do. The difference is, I don't read the Bible as written by a God who would tell a woman to forget that her father offered her to be raped by visitors to his city.

My dear friends and reader, I read the Bible as a piece of literature written by people a long time ago, chronicling their experience of the world and of God.

So sending me biblical passages because you have assumed that my non-celebration of a woman who stabbed her child not once but twice is due to my lack of forgiveness – you are dead wrong.

One very dear and special friend has even said to let the distant past go. That is easier said than done when the past tries desperately to drag you back to its level of darkness, greed and lack of remorse.

I have no doubt that somewhere in my mother's heart there is hurt and sorrow. At least I hope so.

Yet, after many attempts on my part to ask her to be real with me – even as recently as this past Easter (2010) – she continues to deny doing anything wrong, making any mistakes, plotting with my ex-husband to take my child away from me because she disapproved of my then relationship.

It is clear that my understanding of forgiveness is different from many. Forgiving is not forgetting.
How do you forget your mother telling you at 14 years of age that you should "go catch man" (get a man) to help pay her bills? How do you forget your mother turning a blind eye and even prostituting you to get her bills paid? How do you forget being told constantly how useless the man who sires you was and how your birth ruined her life?

When you walk in those shoes and then turn around and pay "mother's" bills (medical, rent, debt, etc) for 21+ years – to the point of your own bankruptcy then you can tell me about forgetting.

I will never to my grave forget the beatings, the molestation by the long string of men my mother brought into our lives and who she refused to believe me was having their way with me. I can never forget my mother standing in a town square praying to God to strike me down because I refused to turn over my money to her and her latest boyfriend.

I am a mother now – for 22 years – and I do not take that for granted. Ever since she was born to this day I have been telling my daughter she is a princess. Princess Chulumba is what I called her when she turned 7 until this day.

When I turned 7, I was called useless. That changed to bitch, ho'. By the time I was 25, the only calls I got was for money.

I can never forget not hearing to this day "I am sorry," from my mother.

My respect for my readers and friends is enormous but my self-respect is even greater. I am not a hypocrite and will not be cowered into submission by any amount of biblical passage or words about their understanding of forgiveness by people who have never trod this road.

I received a phone call on Mother's Day from one of those women – Dr. Green – a woman who has been there with me through the days when the woman who birthed me only called to demand more money. Dr. Green as far I know never physically gave birth to a child but she has held me in her arms – literally, spiritually, emotionally and psychologically – through many moments of near insanity that my birth mother has driven me to.

I love my mother for the life that she allowed to pass through her but I have learned, on my own, to love Claudette more.

Without a doubt I hurt but through the love of other women who have mothered me for these many years I survive. It is they who I call mother.

And so again, I respectfully ask, stop judging people like me. Our truth is ours, just like your pain is yours and not for me to judge.

Blessings!

Flipside of Mother's Day

2010-05-10T18:37:00.006-06:00

Years ago at a Mother’s Day event – brunch, supper, something with lots of food – I heard a woman declare that it would be the saddest day of her life if her children did not celebrate her on that special day.

The depth of her emotions as she made that declaration moved me in a perplexing way. On the one hand being a mother myself I could understand the pain of not hearing from my daughter on a special occasion.

Yet being a child who very rarely felt the proverbial “love of a mother,” that woman’s comment felt hollow and self-centred.

Mother’s Day is not necessarily a happy occasion for everyone. I am one of them.

For many of us there is no Hallmark card available to express the way we feel. Years ago, I mused about writing cards for people like me who had mothers from hell, fathers who were MIA and families who forgot they exist.

The day after Mother’s Day everyone at work was talking about what they did or was done for them on Mother’s Day. I kept quiet because I had no such story to share; at least not about my relationship with my mother.

Standing in my kitchen in a house we rented in the cool hills of Mandeville in 1994, my mother asked me for the umpteenth time “Cutie, why don’t you love me?” I had heard the question a few times before and avoided giving her an answer. This day was different – I was ready to speak my truth.

I do love my mother in my own way. I learnt many things from her and her journey. Her life taught me how to live mine. My mother’s brand of love showed me how to create my type for my relationship with my own daughter.

You see, in many respects my life shares many similarities with Precious. A friend from work loaned me the DVD and my daughter and I watched it together when I visited with her over Easter. I told Abi that I did not want to watch it alone and quickly distracted myself playing SIMS 2 as the crudity, evil, self-loathing of Precious’ mother tried to grab me through the television screen.

It has taken many years, tears and even some therapy (spiritual and psychological) to help me to the place I now am.

My mother, on the other hand, to this day denies she did any harm.

When confronted by the school counselor/social worker about her role in Previous’ life of physical abuse, molestation, rape, low-self esteem – just to name a few – her mother wept and denied any wrong doing. She finally asked, “Who was going to love me?” as if that made everything she did or ignored right.

In life one word, a sentence, a paragraph or an entire book can make the deepest mark on your development. At the heights of custody battle with my daughter’s father, a dear friend advised me to not fight fire with fire. Her simple words to me were “Show your daughter all the love you can muster and one day she will know the truth.”

I have disciplined Abi – even spanked her a few times. Some people think that I spoiled her but they probable never heard the lectures I delivered and the tears I cried as I shared with her life lessons.
Today, in spite of her anger at me for many things not least of which was insisting that she learned proper table manners, social etiquette, not allowing her to watch the Simpsons and dancing at a school concert to “I’m a Barbie girl,” I can say my daughter is my child and my best friend.

The Hallmark moments for me was not on Mother’s Day but every morning at 6:45 when Abi calls me to say hi and share the suss’ of the previous day. I experience Mother’s Day every night that my baby girl calls me to say she made it home and asks for advice about school, work or her love life. Hallmark holds nothing over me when I hear my daughter’s giggle.

It is too late for my mother and me.

It is too late for many mothers and their children – relationships that were neglected for too many years to be healed with a card or a telephone call. What was needed was attention, sharing of life lessons and most important love.

Mothers who never gave love, real love, demonstrable love (in hugs, kisses, discipline, encouragement) you have no right to expect sainthood now. You get what you gave.

Mothers with young children today – heed my warning.

The rest of the world needs to understand this flipside and stop harassing those who have no experience of warm and fuzzy on Mother or Father’s Day. Theirs and my experience is sadness for the mother’s (and father’s) love they never felt.

Give us a break…understanding…not judgment.

Blessings,

Claudette

On Being 45

2010-03-31T18:11:00.005-06:00

I turned 45 this year.

They say age is but a number but 45 is playing with my mind.

Milestones in my life are marked either by a number or an event and since this post is about turning 45 this past February, allow me to recall some milestone ages.

Sixteen was a big number for me. Sweet Sixteen we called it back then. Whatever else was going on in my world that February, turning 16 made everything beautiful.

My mother had this tradition of throwing a birthday party to mark every year of my birth and I had visions of a celebration like no other for my 16^th birthday. Reality was, however, that there would be no debutante ball for me as that was beyond my mother’s very meager income. In the end, my dress was homemade and the neighbourhood hairdresser did my then shoulder length hair in a Farah Fawcett ‘do. The food was plentiful and I was expecting the love of my life – at that time – to be there. He was truly tall, dark and handsome; a football player and a heartbreaker.

And that he did. Errol broke my heart that night by not showing up to open the dance floor with me. Thirty odd years later who actually shared the first dance with me is a distant memory.

That was the last official birthday party my mother would throw for me and funny enough it was to be the last age milestone celebrated in such a fashion for a long time.

1995 – My thirtieth year on this Earth. There was no party to mark this milestone. Other things had taken on greater significance and stopping to celebrate my birth was not one of them. Raising a 7 year old child, career building, trying to stay afloat financially in an economy that was tanking faster than the Titanic and grappling with my identity were far more pressing concerns than a night on the town.

The next big anniversary should have been my 40^th birthday but for several reasons it was my 41^st that was celebrated with a party – the first in years. I had heard many times before that 40 were the “freedom years.” I had no greater sense of freedom, however, on February 15, 2005. My age felt like a burden that year as my life was nowhere I had imagined it would be and in an age-conscious North America I wondered whether things would change for me anytime soon as an immigrant in Canada.

The bright spark of my 40^th year, however, was my daughter’s 18^th birthday in October 2005, which was marked with a befitting celebration including a well-laid table that would have made my mother proud.

Looking back, my 40^th year was in fact the beginning of the freedom years although I could not see it then. While I deeply grieved my daughter moving out from under my roof less than a year after turning 18, it is now clear how that was masterminded and why.

And now I am 45; the midway point between the beginning of freedom and the big 50.

A preacher man asked my permission recently to tell a portion of my story. He was intrigued by the fact that my life seem to be going so well after a great big fall and yet I am still asking the question – Why? The point of his sermon, it appeared to me, was life is a big question.

My favourite preacher man, Bishop John Shelby Spong, put it best – “You are the question,” and at this midway point in my life, I have been wondering what is the question I am posing right now.

“Cutie, what do you want to be when you grow up?” my mother would ask me and the answer was never far from my lips. “A doctor,” was my eight year old answer because that is what my neighbor Janice said was her future career. Gracie and Janice were my next door neighbours for years and whatever they did was what Cutie was going to do. They went to St. Hugh’s High School and so it was my first and second choice for higher education. Janice became a medical doctor and Grace earned a degree in an associated field but I eventually asked a different question – why can I not be a leader of my country and help women come into their own?
That took me to Eastern Europe to study and where I became a mother. Since that time, the question has adapted and changed so many times – each time taking me along paths I could never have imagined. It took me through the civil service of Jamaica, supporting and working for political campaigns, quasi—diplomatic position in CARICOM, serving a religious organization, migration to Canada, theological studies and hospital and prison chaplaincy. Yet, with every adjustment of the question there was great learning and tools for my survival kit.

Now at 45 years old, a Canadian citizen, living in Southern Alberta, a nice house, married, two dogs, a brand new truck, a career with the federal government and doors that keep opening, you would think that question time was up.

Far from it. But 45 feels to me like an “in the meantime” moment, a place of clarity and visioning my future as an aging parent and friend to my daughter, a loving but firm Grandmother, a Lover and Companion to my husband, a compassionate Elder to strangers and a productive Senior Citizen.

I must admit that I am not totally comfortable with these emerging identities. There is a part of me that wants to fight the aging/maturing process.

My long legs still look gorgeous in shorts and shorter skirts. My ankles are still slender. My skin, although needing more frequent application of moisturizers and lotions, is still taut and my neck is not sagging. No, I would not chance wearing a bikini on the beach but my butt still looks good in tight pants, especially in those seamless undies from La Senza.

My heart, however, is in a different place. No longer do I need the excitement of a big party, the spotlight or a campaign trial. The few close friends that form my inner circle and who are part of my extended family are enough. My home in the country is my sanctuary (if my husband would ever finish the renovations). Angello, who like me is aging, and Marley – the puppy, literally warm my heart when they greet me at the end of a day’s work with kisses.

The only thing sweeter than talking to my daughter at least once a day and hearing her call me “Mummy,” even at 22 years old, will be to hear the words “Grandma,” from her offspring(s).

Robert, my husband, has given this leg of the journey meaning. He came into my life when a nunnery was looking like a fantastic idea. Trials and challenges we have but the beauty of finding a partner at 40+ and one who has travelled their fair share of dark and winding roads, is that there is no need or place for bull.

Henri Arneil it was who said “To know how to grow old is the master-work of wisdom, and one of the most difficult chapters in the great art of living.”

I have five years to learn this art. The next age milestone for me will be 50 and if I am blessed with the breath of life to see that day and the ability and capacity you my friends will be invited to the gala!

Blessings,

Claudette

Performing Arts My Ass! Conclusion

2010-02-15T19:55:00.024-07:00

Three years after Whacko 'attempted 'to murder The Witch, we were finally in Court.

When temper was flaring and hopelessness had fully set in, Whacko told me that doing the time for the murder of The Witch would be worth it. I disagreed because my 9 to 5 job takes me inside and based on what I see and have to process –I know prison is no walk in the park.

Maybe because the plan to murder failed or maybe when the pain of being betrayed eased Whacko was no longer in a hurry to do time. So the trial for the six or so charges that were hanging over Whacko's head was postponed and postponed and postponed.

My woman-friend, Anni, warned me that being on the witness stand would not be easy. I did not give her warning the due consideration that it required until I was on the witness stand and Whacko's lawyer began his cross examination.

But I am getting ahead of myself here.

Anni had picked me up at the Edmonton airport and we drove around a bit talking. She warned me again about being on the stand but also reminded me that it was the defense lawyer's job to discredit me. Anni had been on the stand before and so was speaking from experience.

By the time I checked into my hotel room, courtesy of the Crown, my nerves were on edge. I ordered hamburgers for myself and my daughter who had come over to keep me company but could only eat a quarter of mine.

Early the next morning, maybe realizing that I needed a finally wake up call, the Universe threw me to the ground. On my walk back from the Starbucks a few blocks up the road from my hotel; I slide sans the grace of an Olympian. As I went down flat on my tummy, the $4.00 cup of coffee went splash to my right and the breakfast sandwich went left.

A couple hours later, all decked out and limping in my wide black skirt, offset by a beautiful floral blouse Anni gave me for Christmas and my knee high boots, I took the witness stand. My make-up was partially ruined from the tears that had washed my face a few minutes earlier.

The Prosecutor had played for me the 911 recording of my call that fateful night and it was horrific. It took me back to a time and place that all I wanted was to forget. Mr. Defense Lawyer would later try to get that recording thrown out.

In total, I might have been on the stand for two to three hours that first afternoon but it was the longest few hours of my life. This was my first time testifying in a criminal proceeding, except for the preliminary hearing, yet I was comfortable on the stand.

Things changed when the cross examination began.

Discomfort was not what I felt but anger but my wise woman-friend was sitting to the back of the courtroom and we had agreed on a signal that would help me to keep all emotions in check. She could not see my eyes though!

The 'attacks' on my credibility came fairly quickly. It was clear what the strategy was when copies of posts from my blog, Comforting Words, was brought into evidence. Mr. Defense Lawyer tried to get me to agree with him that I was a whacko like his client back in 2007, probably willing to get even. When I said that I would not describe myself as insanely angry but bitterly disappointed, he drew the Court's attention to these lines from a February 2007 post:

"As for my birthday (February 15), ever since I was a year old, my mother would celebrate my birth with a party of some sort. It became a tradition for me to mark my birthday in some way, one that continued throughout the 16 years of my last relationship. Needless to say, at the time of writing the last post I was both sadden that this year would be different and somewhat angry at what know feels like a farce that took place last year. …. With both these feelings in my heart – sadness and some amount of anger – I continued to ask for Guidance. I knew I did not want to leave my solitude and be in any group setting where I might be expected to put on a brave face when brave was the last emotion that I was feeling."

I agreed that I wrote the word in my blog but the most prominent feeling was profound sadness. Point to Mr. Defense Lawyer. So he moved in for the kill – the indisputable fact that would prove that not only was I angry then but that I am now crazy!

Mr. Defense Lawyer:
"I noticed that you have a Facebook link on your blog."

Me:
"Yes?"

Mr. Defense Lawyer:
"So, you are still using that name?"

Me:
"What name?"

Mr. Defense Lawyer:
"McLaughlin"

Me: (Stifling a laughter that was about to overpower me) " I never used that name, Sir, before last year when I got married to one [R] McLaughlin."

The silence was so thick you needed a hack saw to cut through it. I believe Mr. Defense Lawyer congratulated me, but I was too busy sticking it to him in a diplomatic way:

Me:
"One of the ironies of life, Sir."

He did not hear me the first time, so I kindly repeated it for him.

All credit to Mr. Defense Lawyer, he recovered quickly and began to "suggest" to me several other versions of what took place that night. He suggested that the route that I said was taken to house was inaccurate and that we had taken a different one that would have gotten us there in less time. He suggested that I could see that Whacko's hand in pocket routine was innocent as the hand was visible through meshed material. He suggested that I actually sat outside the house and did not call 911 until I realized that Whacko's plan had gone sideways and heard the approaching sirens. Mr. Defense Lawyer suggested that I knew that Perfidia, who I had not spoken to in weeks maybe a month, was at the house watching The Oscars with The Witch and had communicated this to Whacko.

I really wanted to suggest to Mr. Defense Lawyer that he and his client kiss my ass but Anni would have none of it – she was staring me down from the back bench to keep calm.

My second day on the stand was relatively brief. Mr. Defense Lawyer came again, though half-heartedly, with his suggestions. It soon became painfully obvious that they were useless as I was more resolute than ever to keep calm and continue to speak only the truth as I knew it.

What the previous day of cross examining did to me was wipe me clean of any empathy I might have held for Whacko. Up to that first day on the stand, while not condoning the foolish choice to take someone's life because they were cheating you in every sense of the word, I understood the pain.

It never crossed my mind, not even for a second, to hurt Perfidia. Yes, I might have inflicted pain in my writings but it was not intentional. I only wanted to release myself from the emotional suffering and the best way I knew to do that was and is to write. As for The Witch – one of the slyest person that I have ever had the misfortune to meet – I would never physically exact revenge. Expose yes, kill no.

Whacko lost my respect and empathy on that stand. If Whacko could three years later carry out the threat to implicate me by attempting to discredit the thing dearest to me – my integrity – then my empathy was withdrawn.

A couple weeks after the trial, my curiosity got the better of me and I wanted a little more detail than I had. The Prosecutor had gotten in touch with me the day after the sentence was known. The judge found Whacko guilty on almost all the charges, except one, and a sentence of two years was handed down. However, the judge felt that Whacko was not inherently evil or violent or an undue risk to public safety so the time would be served through house arrest.

A Google search produced rich results, showing that the story of the trial was picked up by newspapers, television and radio stations across the country. Even a couple blogs carried the report and comments about the ludicrous defense that Whacko offered on the stand. Here is an edited version from the Edmonton Journal (January 20, 2010), the newspaper that reported the story the best in my opinion:

A spurned Edmonton artist who claimed [a] furious, knife-wielding attack on [an] estranged partner was a piece of performance art was sentenced Tuesday to two years of house arrest.

[…], 56, was convicted of uttering threats and breaking and entering with the intent to commit an assault with a weapon in connection with the Feb. 25, 2007 attack.

"Although the truth can sometimes be unusual ... Ms. […'s] description of events defies common sense," Court of Queen's Bench Justice Beverley Browne said in her decision. "[…] version of events is simply unbelievable."

Court heard […] had separated from […] in the months leading up to the attack. […] remained in the home and got a restraining order.

[…'s] mental health deteriorated and … tried to commit suicide. On Feb. 25, 2007, […] went to the Royal Alexandra Hospital in search of help but left after waiting for several hours.

A concerned friend offered to have […] stay the night …. The pair stopped at […'s] apartment to feed the cat and pack an overnight bag.

At that point […] started to conceive piece of performance art.

[…] selected a cheese knife and a filet knife from … drawers.

[…] would go to […'s] home… and stand … with the knives [to the] sides, to show that […] has nothing to fear.

[…] would say aloud: "I am not a violent person," and throw the knives over [the] shoulders [and] would fall to [the] knees.

[Then]…they would talk.

Plan in mind, […] turned to [the] friend and asked her to drive to [the] home.

The friend tried to persuade […] it was a bad idea, but […] was unstable and threatening…

The friend dropped […] and frantically called […], then 911.

She was so hysterical the 911 recording is virtually inaudible, Browne said.

[…] broke into [the] home, went upstairs and found […] and […] barricaded in the bedroom.

[…] lunged into the bedroom with a knife in each hand, […] fled across the bed and [the] new partner …seized the raging […].

[…] yelled: "You've been lying to me all along." […] kicked, bit and flailed wildly using all … bodily strength, Browne said, but [the new partner] was able to restrain[…] until police arrived.

"Jealousy is one of the most powerful emotions we all have to deal with at some point in our lives," Browne said.

"I reject categorically and completely the suggestion that […] went to the house to do performance art."

Now, my dear readers do you understand why these posts are entitled: "Performing Arts My Ass?"

Blessings,

Claudette

Performing Arts My Ass! Chapter 3

2010-02-11T18:05:00.023-07:00

Late 2009 I was selected and sent to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan to be trained and certified as a Negotiator. On some level it feels like it was too late to help someone I had lots of respect for.

Back on February 25, 2006 had I possess the negotiating skills that I now have things might have turned out differently.

On that fateful night, I was the only one standing between Whacko and a murder-crime scene.

Tried as I might, Whacko insisted that The Witch deserved to die and the killing was going to be done that night.

Still caught between Whacko and the front door I offered to drive as far as necessary to calm the situation (and my nerves) down. Whacko was not listening.

Finally, after what felt like an hour but were really minutes, Whacko said that my offer of a ride was good but not to some distant place as I wanted but to a major street – Jasper Avenue – not far from where we were.

On the elevator ride down from the 11^th floor apartment, as we entered my car and driving out of the parking lot my pleading intensified. Still Whacko was not listening.

We got to Jasper Avenue and I pulled over by a plaza and said "Here is Jasper, get out!"

Whacko refused.

"Take me to the house."

"No, you said Jasper, so get out," I screamed as my own plan was falling apart. My intention was that as soon as Whacko got out, I would pull away and do the unthinkable – call The Witch – to warn about what was going on then go get Whacko's sister so that she could intervene.

Either I was transparent or Whacko could mind read – whatever it was that was not going to happen.

"Drive!" Whacko demanded. "Take me to the house!" That was when it fully dawned on me that the hand pointing at my side from Whacko's coat pocket had a knife! I had seen the gesture soon after we left the apartment but it only registered then that Whacko was willing to hurt me.

I drove.

While not yet a Negotiator, I was still a Chaplain and Counsellor and so those skills kicked into full gear. I reasoned, stressed, pled, begged, prayed, cried and wailed but Whacko had a response to everything I offered as reason why taking another person's life was not the solution to the problem.

Yes, I agreed that The Witch was evil and yes it was true that Perfidia did nothing to help resolve the impasse about the house. Nonetheless, killing The Witch would do nothing but land Whacko in prison.

"You can counsel me there," Whacko said to my warning that prison life is not pretty.

Changing my tactic, I begged Whacko to think about implicating me in this drama. Not yet a citizen in Canada and being black was enough to land me in prison for driving Whacko to the house to kill The Witch. I even threw in my baby girl in the picture – hoping that Whacko would get the f… out of my car if not give up on this crazy path to conflict resolution.

The response to that was my story to the police would be that after getting to the apartment Whacko no longer wanted to go to my place so I left and went home by myself. I watched enough CSI to know that that story would never hold even if I was stupid enough to offer it.

What could have been a 10-minute drive even on wintry roads took me much longer. We finally got one block of the house and as we approached the intersection where I would have to turn left, we both looked down the street at the house.

"It's dark, no one's home," I said "Let's go." I quickly did a U-turn and was heading back where we came from.

"Good, I will wait in the dark," Whacko said calmly. "Pull over!" And there was that threatening gesture again.

I did and Whacko came out of the car but turned around, bent over and looked me straight in the eyes and said "If you call the police before I get to do what I came here to do, I will tell them you were my accomplice, capisci?"

Whacko slammed the door and headed off in the dark.

For a couple seconds I sat there paralyzed by the threat to deliberately implicate me.

"You have to do something!" the righteous Claudette screamed at me, dragging me out of my reverie.

First I called Whacko's sister and as soon as she answered the phone I screamed, "Call the cops; [Whacko] is going into the house to kill [The Witch]!

Not convinced that she understood me, I dialed The Witch's number but got a fast busy signal. I then quickly dialed Perfidia's number thinking maybe there was another number for The Witch that Perfidia would have access to but that number was busy too!

"F…!"

Within five minutes of Whacko leaving my car, I dialed 911 – no longer caring if I was going to spend time behind bars, I just could not allow this to happen as much as I was hurting by The Witch's deceit and evil.

An Edmonton newspaper would later report that I was so hysterical that the 911 recording of my call was almost inaudible.

The police instructed me to stay where I was until the response team arrived and that happened within a few minutes.

Many hours later, actually in the wee hours of the next morning I was called to the station to make a statement. My first question as I got to the receptionist desk was whether [The Witch] was okay.

"Yes, she is," the Officer said "But the other lady was wounded."

"Other lady?" I asked and as if on cue I looked beyond the Officer to see Perfidia through the glass doors beckoning to me in a sign language that took 16 years to learn "What are you doing here?"

I fell to the floor, in a mixture of disbelief, despair, disappointment and utter disgust, wailing so loudly and painfully that the Officer had me taken outside and given water to calm down.

Stay tuned for the conclusion!

Performing Arts My Ass! Chapter 2

2010-02-10T20:26:00.021-07:00

The story continues…

All hell broke loose with my suggestion that we contact Whacko.

It was about a week away from Thanksgiving and Whacko and The Witch were still visiting family across the country. Little did I know that Perfidia was in constant contact with The Witch. The telephone record would later show how often they were talking across the miles – probably laughing at how wise they were and how stupid their two University-educated partners were.

The dinner plates after our Thanksgiving meal were not even dry when Perfidia informed me that not only was our relationship over but the almost 16 years we spent together was a pretense and a farce. A week later, Perfidia walked out and never returned. That move coincided nicely with the return of The Witch to Edmonton.

Dazed, dumped and severely depressed, I tried to kill myself on October 18, 2006 by swallowing every pill in the house that I could lay my hands on. Obviously that did not work. My friend found me and called the ambulance. All I got from that experience was a fast ride and a pumped stomach.

Perfidia came to the hospital displaying no empathy and freezing cold, simply to inform me that the relationship was over. The Witch was only too willingly to reinforce that message each time I tried to make contact with Perfidia by telling me how shameful a person I was and how ashamed of myself I should be.

I tried to kill myself a second time just before Christmas when the stress of Perfidia's coldness, the silence and the financial ruin that was facing me became too much to bear. We had huge amounts of debt and all of it was in my name. We had planned and agreed that I would delay my pursuit of a second Master's degree to allow Perfidia to finish culinary arts training – but Perfidia walked out before the cherry was even cool in the pie. My return to University was down the toilet. I had no medical insurance as Perfidia was the one with the benefits but I needed daily medication for chronic diabetes. Within a month of leaving Perfidia cut me off saying that "You are not my partner." Death seemed the only way out but again an angel came to my rescue.

While I was going through my brand of hell, Whacko was trying to get a clear answer as to whether there was a relationship with The Witch. After listening to lies and innuendoes about me being a crazy, angry black woman Whacko had enough. A formal parting was the only way out and that meant splitting common property and selling their house.

That was when things got really ugly.

The Witch tried every trick in the magic book to cheat Whacko out of an equal share of the proceeds. Whacko was losing it really fast and attempted suicide a couple times. The Witch refused to budge, calling Whacko's desperation 'drama' and ignored attempts at mediation.

I watched Whacko deteriorate from a bright, intellectual, professional artist albeit intense person to a basket case.

By December 2006 The Witch had obtained a restraining order barring Whacko from the co-owned house that was to be renovated and put on the market. Whacko was reaching breaking point. In one of my last conversations with Perfidia, who was still denying being in a relationship with The Witch, I warned that Whacko was very, very angry. I begged Perfidia to speak with The Witch and get the sale of the house resolved so that everybody could move on with their lives. My plea fell on deaf ears.

By Christmas 2006, my connection with Whacko was being tested and on New Year's Eve night it was broken. Whacko walked out of a small gathering at my place over a disagreement about the ethnicity of an obviously African-American opera singer. I was not sorry to see the back of Whacko that night. The depression, darkness and paranoia that went with Whacko at all times was bringing me down. Actually, a friend who had come all the way from Toronto to be with me for Christmas shouted "Don't let the door hit you on the butt on your way out!"

My Messianic complex kicked back in early February 2007 and I called to check up on Whacko. Nothing much had changed and Whacko was in a worse shape. The house was neither renovated or on the market and The Witch continued making offerings that would only serve The Witch's interest. The darkness was thickening and Whacko was turning on me for not be able to say that Perfidia was a distant memory and not involved in what was going on. I could not believe that because that was not the person I knew so I could not say that.

Staying true to myself, I refused to budge in my conviction that Perfidia was at the core a decent human being. This only seemed to anger Whacko more.

That anger boiled over on February 25, 2007.

Later I was told that the chopping down of a cherished tree, one that was planted in memory of Whacko's deceased sister precipitated the events that would unfold that night. Ruing about the disrespect to the sister's memory, Whacko became so off balanced that an ambulance was called. However, being so agitated Whacko left the hospital after becoming impatient with the length of time it was taking to get any attention from the medical staff.

I made my entry onto this unfolding drama when Whacko was in a cab returning to a relative's apartment. Hearing that there was another attempt at suicide, I told Whacko to stay put and went over to the sister's place.

After hearing the usual ranting and raving about everything and everyone, I finally convinced Whacko to spend the night at my place. But Whacko had one demand which was to go pack an overnight bag and feed the pet cat at home first. So we made our way to Whacko's apartment and I waited and waited for a few pieces of items to be thrown into a bag and a really small cat be fed.

Weary, stressed and fed up with waiting I must have asked "Are we ready?" ten hundred times (exaggeration mine). Slouched and almost asleep on the living room couch, I noticed Whacko standing over me.

"You spoiled my plan."

"What plan?" I responded from the couch. "To hurt yourself again?"

"No, to kill [The Witch]," Whacko said in a tone that bordered on maniacal.

My eyes were half closed up to that point but opened wide fast like my dog's do when the alarm goes off in the mornings. Whacko had pulled one of the longest two-pronged knives I have ever seen from the waist and was flashing it around, ranting about the evil Witch and how this was the night it would all end.

Trying to remain calm and think at the same time, I was saying all the things I had learned about deescalating situations like the one that was now right in my face. Nothing worked.

"Okay what now," the inner, really scared Claudette was asking.

"You know I cannot let you do that, so please stop talking nonsense," was all I had left to reach for but Whacko had a quick response.

"Then I will slash your throat first," making the motion to show me how my life would end. I stiffened on the couch and must have played dead as Whacko walked away. I quickly got up and headed for the apartment door with some half-baked plan to run out into the hall, bar Whacko in somehow and call for help.

I made it to the door but no further when Whacko shouted "Where are you?"

As I looked back into the kitchen where Whacko was standing to say that I was just putting my coat on so we could leave, I noticed another knife being scrutinized. "F…," was all I could say before Whacko was upon me at the door.

Tune in for Chapter 3 tomorrow…maybe.

Blessings,

Claudette

Performing Arts My Ass!

2010-02-09T20:09:00.018-07:00

Promises are meant to be kept and I am a woman of my word.

A few weeks ago, I told my Facebook friends that there was a story to be told and today I was reminded that it is outstanding.

Less than a month ago, I travelled to Edmonton for an unfinished and undisclosed business. At the writing of my last post, it was not prudent of me to provide the details of my trip. It was still important for me to "keep my own counsel."

Well that time has passed.

Like every good story this one has some very interesting people and of course drama. However, before getting to the juicy stuff I must set the stage. This could be a long tale but in the interest of time many of the blanks can be filled in by scanning through the archives of Comforting Words.

The year you would be looking for is 2005 - 2006 approximately one year after four people met in a grocery store. At first it felt like a chance meeting but later my better sense would remind me that there are no accidents or coincidences in life.

In my soon-to be 45 years I have lived at least four lives. This story would then be the culmination of my third life. It lasted almost 16 years and were some best and the worst years of my life. The challenges of discrimination, a dysfunctional family – my own and my in-laws', a broken Jamaican economy and migration were painful but were fodder for my personal growth.

Nothing however prepared me for the events that would unfold almost four years to the date of arriving in Edmonton.

Two people came to this beautifully cold 'Promised Land' with a child and a dog in tow to start a new life. Multiculturalism, prosperity, economic opportunities and freedom to be who you are without fear of discrimination were some of the slogans that caught my then partner's and my attention.

The relationship, though rocky at times, had lasted for 12+years when we arrived and we were hope-filled that things would improve once the barriers to everlasting happiness were removed.

Perfidia , the name I will use for my former partner, was so excited when this chance meeting occurred in the grocery store. We had been in Canada for near to two years and had not made any friends. Isolated hardly describes our existence for a long time after arriving, up until I became a member of a very welcoming church. However, the church scene was not Perfidia's idea of fun and companionship and so meeting these people and their invitation to a house party bordered on climactic.

Soon we were "friends" with this couple, seeing them almost every weekend and sharing some wonderful meals. In fact, my first jambalaya was prepared by Whacko; the name I now choose to use for someone who I once thought honourable.

But all was not well in paradise and by March 2006, or there about, Whacko and The Witch were separated. It was to be a temporary situation, to give each party time and space to work out their differences.

I heard the news of the separation while in Toronto, Ontario on church business. The Witch was so devastated that although there was a raging snow storm Perfidia had to rush over to lend support. I would later learn, much later, that our then teenage daughter was left alone for the entire weekend in order to lend support to The Witch. What a joke!

My choice of the name "The Witch" for this individual has more to do with the persona than any residual feelings of bitterness. Anyone who would lie about their husband of 22 years just to escape in the arms of another, lie about their academic achievement to gain a job they were not qualified to have, try to seduce a relative of their partner bearing a bottle of wine and a person who would smile while calling you a bitch because you were too sick to attend their birthday must own a wand. Not to mention that this individual is actually a Wiccan.

The much touted feminine intuition should never be discounted no matter the pressure received from others, particularly a suspected cheating spouse.

My spider senses were beginning to tingle when The Witch announced that a planned trip to their childhood home in another province was not to be solo but in the company of Whacko. I was flabbergasted as by then it was clear to both Perfidia and I that that relationship was over. More than once The Witch had mused aloud the plans being cooked to buy out the house co-owned with Whacko. So why in heaven's name would one go across the country to introduce to the family the person you were leading on until you could pull the rug from under their feet? Witch!

That moment should have been my first real indication that something was going on between The Witch and Perfidia. It escaped me then but I certainly did not miss when they covered themselves in a blanket on our living room couch one evening after supper. After The Witch left, I confronted Perfidia . My questions, however, were rebuffed and I was instead accused of being too jealous.

The Witch had become something of a fixture in our lives by that time, even sleeping over in our two bedroom apartment. I became uncomfortable and began to have dreams that would only later make sense. Months later I would check my journal to find an entry about a snake the morning after The Witch slept over. Most dream books that I checked basically told me the same thing:

"The snake is most of the times associated with hidden facts and thoughts, with danger that lurks somewhere near you, but you are not aware of it…The snake may also stand for slyness, deceit and treachery. With his slippery body, hiding in the grass and crawling at your feet so you do not notice it, the snake will wait for the right moment to attack and maybe kill you."

What I did not know then in July 2006 was that the snake, The Witch had already attacked. My intuition was being compromised by Perfidia's constant feeding to me that they were just friends and I was simply too jealous. Another clue that I missed was the way Perfidia became unglued when I installed caller id on our cell phones. I had no real reason to do this but a telemarketer from the phone company had convinced me that it was a great deal.

Things finally came to a head when in late September 2006 I declared that it was not right that we had seemingly taken The Witch's side and had ignored Whacko. Perfidia was not at all excited when I suggested that we got in touch and invited Whacko to dinner – just to remain balanced. As far as I was concerned they were both our friends and frankly it felt to me as if The Witch had captured us in a conspiracy to screw over Whacko.

Little did I know how close to right I was!

Come back soon for Chapter Two.

Blessings,

Claudette

Closing a Chapter

2010-01-06T17:43:00.048-07:00

Today was not a very productive one for me.

There was much paperwork on my desk to do. There is always a report to write or 'clients' to meet for a variety of reasons. In fact, several had passed through my office since 08:00 hours but by lunchtime my spirit was sagging.

Whether it was the nagging pain caused by the fibroids that I still am refusing to have an hysterectomy to remove or the anxiety that always arises whenever there is a trip planned to Edmonton to conclude an unpleasant matter I was not sure.

It might have been one of those 'mind/body' situations whereby the increasingly uncomfortable pain in my uterus was brought on by my thoughts about this trip that was drawing neigh.

Edmonton was the second Canadian city that I visited by 2002. My first trip to Canada (in the late 1990's) had taken me to Ottawa, where I was impressed by the regal buildings, driving down the tree-lined streets in a diplomatic car with the flag of my former university-mate's country flying and visiting Parliament Hill.

Our arrival in the capital of Alberta was less impressive but awesome nonetheless as it was to be the beginning of a new life - one of freedom to be everything we were meant to be without fair or prejudice.

That it would be a hard and long road to full freedom was not entirely unexpected but still the reality was sometimes just too much to bear. Former assumptions about access to some of life's basics - such as respect, equality and a fair chance - soon went out the window. It would take many menial jobs, going into serious debt to re-tool professionally and a rapid slide down the socio-economic ladder before things began to even look as if it could get better.

The life of an immigrant of my race and gender can be extremely challenging. When other factors are added to that, such as sexual orientation, 'disability' of any kind and/or quickly diminishing financial resources, it can be really, truly hard to settle in Canada.

My situation was further compounded because the 'best ' was saved for last. A few years after arriving in Edmonton and as the ironies of life would have it, in the moment that things were just beginning to look as if we could pull this off, my world as I had dreamt it, was reassured it would be and fought to secure for many years was turned upside down.

"So much for that," I thought.

The road to full freedom had just gotten longer and took a major detour. As if that was not enough, a few months later this knife-crazy, short, male gynaecologist/surgeon was telling me he wanted to take out all of my womanhood. I supposedly had fibroids the combined size of a 5-6 month pregnancy and it needed immediate removal. He would try to save what he could but "no promises." I was not comforted in the least. The car was not even warm before his office was calling with a surgery date two weeks later (February 2007).

"For crying out loud! I have nothing left to be taken...leave me alone!"

On December 31, 2009 as I created my visioning board/collage for the year 2010 and declared that this was a decisive year on my journey to full freedom, I knew that there were still-opened chapters that had to be closed.

Now six days into this year my body was in agreement and although my new female doctor, 'black' South African to boot, had taken off the table the need for an "immediate" hysterectomy, my womb felt as if it was in the throes of labour. Several times today I had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom to check what was happening.

There is one school of thought that the development and growth of fibroids can be linked to mental and physical stress. When I first learnt this, I tried to retrace my menstrual cycle to see when abnormalities or major changes started to appear. It was not a very hard exercise. The clues were there for several years and most notable since migrating to Canada.

My most recent tests shows that the fibroids have shrunk - now the size of a 3-month pregnancy after two plus years of spiritual healing, self-care and nurturing, career growth, financial well being and a growing sense that I can trust those in my inner-most circle.

Another thing that I believe helped me is the realisation that there comes a point in life – or many points – when you take stock and accept that some dreams were really myths and must be released, burnt or killed. Whatever it takes to free the Spirit!

In a few days from today that last opened chapter - 'Travail and Drama in Canada' - will be closed in Edmonton. Maybe on that day whatever is struggling to finally exit my body will?

What is for sure, however, is that I will be one step closer to full freedom.

Blessings,

Claudette

Full Free in 2010

2009-12-28T12:13:00.011-07:00

In the 44 years that I have been walking this Earth plane, I am hard-pressed to recall a New Year's resolution that I have kept for longer than a day.

This pastime that we have of making a list of vices that we resolve not to repeat in the upcoming year is hog wash. Sorry for my directness but having duped myself so many times into believing that I could vow not to overeat, lose weight, save money or some other folly of that nature makes me cynical on this score.

For several years now, New Year's Eve have found me envisioning, not vowing, a better path for my life. My decision to spend December 31 into January 1 praying, scanning magazines for images and creating a collage of my New Year started in 2006. It was a decision made in desperation but one of the best I have ever made.

Instead of dancing the night away with a bunch of drunks, looking to get laid (sorry for the frankness but it's the truth) by someone other than their partners, husbands or wives I spend my evening in the quiet of my home, usually alone with my dogs, praying for guidance and making a collage of the best me that I can see.

Yesterday (Sunday December 27) my husband said he wanted to hear a sermon. This was an unusual request, one that was partially prompted by my eliciting a promise from him to layoff Farmville (Facebok) for the day.

Actually, he wanted me to deliver the sermon as I have not done so in more than a year now. One of his proudest memories of me is sitting in the pews of a church listening to me preach and for some reason he wanted to be in the space again yesterday morning.

He agreed to watch Bishop T.D. Jakes instead on the computer.

As we prepared breakfast the worship service got underway at Potter's House, however, unlike many other services this one did not grab my attention. Well not until Bishop Jakes got into the meat and potatoes of his sermon.

"Kill it, destroy it…!" he shouted. "Then give praises!"

What the heck is he on about I thought.

"You cannot go into the New Year with the old year's baggage!" he was saying or something to that effect. By now he had my full attention.

Hash browns in my mouth watered down by my silent tears, I raised my hand when Bishop Jakes said, "I am preaching to somebody in here today!"

I didn't know about any of the well coiffed, high brow ladies and deaconess in the Potter's House but for sure I knew Bishop Jakes was talking out my business!

How many years have I been walking around with the pain of rejection, loneliness, abandonment, low self esteem, not feeling good enough, deep unhappiness despite the smile on my face? How many times have I fooled myself into believing that I have released an issue only to have it resurface across the oceans? How many vows have I made to do right the next year, eat less, exercise more, give unselfishly and never managed to achieve any of these?

I listened keenly to Bishop Jakes teaching all who cared to learn that until you "kill and destroy it," – the ghosts of the past that keeps haunting your now – you will not find real peace and meaning. The truth of his words stirred a memory.

Some many years ago I attended my first Burning Bowl Service in Kingston, Jamaica. It is a special service hosted by the Universal Centre of Truth for Better Living in January each year and participants are invited to write out and burn in a collective fire the issues of their hearts. I attended two of these services and have burned many pieces of paper in that bowl. I have even had my own private burning sessions, setting alight paper, pictures, cards, anything that would hold me in a past that I so badly needed to be free of.

Proverbs is possibly my favourite chapter in the bible and some of the best advice, at least to me, comes from the fourth chapter. My preferred translation is the New Revised Standard Version and these are some of the verses that I hold dear:

²³Keep your heart with all vigilance,
   for from it flow the springs of life.
²⁴Put away from you crooked speech,
   and put devious talk far from you.
²⁵Let your eyes look directly forwards,
   and your gaze be straight before you.
²⁶Keep straight the path of your feet,
   and all your ways will be sure.
²⁷Do not swerve to the right or to the left;
   turn your foot away from evil.

In my opinion this is what Bishop Jakes was reminding me as I prepare to enter 2010. Enough of the meaningless New Year's resolution – it is time to kill and destroy the self-talk and thoughts that would take my eyes and feet away from the Journey. It is not enough to "let go." To begin to realize a deep seated freedom in my 45^th year, it was time to "kill" the remnants of my bondage.

I know he was speaking the truth because since I have stopped the New Year's Eve night debauchery and spent the night in quiet reflection creating my vision board, things have been very different in my life. Just about every image that I have pasted on my collage has materialized – house, new vehicle, someone who loves me "more than cook food", marriage, vacation(s), career growth, etc.

Yet, some things are outstanding and cannot be mounted on any board.

"Full free" - as that would-be slave Cinque said in the movie Amistad, is what I am aiming for in 2010. And to be fully free requires killing those New Year's resolution prompted by society's notion of what is normal, beautiful or cool. Full freedom is even more than wearing my hair kinky and in a fro' because that is what I want to do. To me "Full free" is what Jim Morrison is quoted as saying:

"The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You trade in your sense for an act. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask. There can't be any large-scale revolution until there's a personal revolution, on and individual level. It's got to happen inside first. You can take away a man's political freedom and you won't hurt him- unless you take away his freedom to feel. That can destroy him. That kind of freedom can't be granted. Nobody can win it for you."

On December 31, 2009 I will prepare, reflect and envision my journey to Full Free. My prayer for you my friends is that wherever New Year's Eve finds you ringing in 2010 you too will one day start your journey to "Full Free!"

Blessings!

Claudette

No Offense but Merry Christmas Everyone!

2009-12-22T09:28:00.015-07:00

Her bus arrives around 9:00 p.m. and the visit will be fairly short but that changes nothing. My baby girl will be home for Christmas, for a couple days, and that is all that matters.

The arguments continue again this year – whether we should say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays." It is a debate that has been raging for years, increasing as we become more politically correct and culturally diverse. It is a debate that I usually ignore but this year it has been a bit more difficult to tune out the raised voices.

When my daughter gets off that bus my greeting to her will most certainly be "Merry Christmas." While I am not a religious fanatic as those of us who continue to use this greeting is sometimes made out to be in my mind it is clear why we celebrate this season.

I came across this very interesting quote recently from Marian Wright Elderman:

"My faith has been the driving thing of my life. I think it is important that people who are perceived as liberals not be afraid of talking about moral and community values."

In my 44 years life has taken me along some very winding roads. There were days when it was not clear whether I would go over a cliff or a new alley would open up. For many of those years it was the teachings, 'preachings' and life lessons of my mother , adopted aunts, and community elders that pulled me along.

It was only in my 35th year after entering the Universal Centre for Truth for Better Living in Kingston, Jamaica that I understood that the solutions, the hope; the Light was always in me. And as I came to believe this Light re-entered the world through the life, message and teachings of Jesus.

Christmas took on a different meaning to me soon after learning this Truth. I did not make any public declarations but I knew that, just as I honoured the birth of others who I respect, the birth of Jesus was more than a time to rack up my credit card debt.

My shopping for gifts and new bathroom decorations had not changed but the reason for doing these things did. I was no longer merely doing what everyone else was but expressing my deep appreciation for life, blessings, and the people who had journeyed with me. Christmas became a time for family, including those with whom the relationship was rocky. All hurts were put aside including those that were inflicted in the midst of the season, as we came to the table. And as corny as this might sound, like the Three Wise Men, I went the distance to give to people unknown to me.

Life has changed plenty since 1997, new roads and highways have opened up and the view has been incredibly painful at points and majestic in other places. What has not changed, however, is my belief that the Christ in me and in my fellow sojourners will see us through. My faith is definitely not blind – neither to the irony within the spiritual texts and teachers and even contradictions of the Church.

It is that faith, however, like Elderman's that reminds me that with the freedom that I enjoy come a responsibility to serve those around me. How that service looks might change depending on the circumstance of my life but one thing that never will is my ability to speak out on behalf of those who have been silenced. What has also not changed is not appreciating attempts to shut down those who hold a different view, belief, and way of life in the effort to be politically correct, liberal-minded and/or conservative.

So this Christmas as my family and I exchange gifts and enjoy the new decorations throughout the house, we will celebrate the birth of Jesus who, in my belief, reminds us that the Light is within each and every one of us. We will celebrate his birth, respectful of others beliefs but we will not put our Light under the proverbial bushel to make others comfortable in their own skins.

Merry Christmas to you my dear friends and readers!

Claudette

Oleta Adams Get Here If You Can

2009-11-13T13:03:00.001-07:00

This song has not dulled in my memory....still love it!

National Emergency or National Panic Attack?

2009-11-05T16:30:00.024-07:00

It is not often that I agree totally with a 'Conservative' talk show host or opinion-maker but there I was again today nodding as Charles Adler asked the question:

"Is this H1N1 situation a national emergency or a national panic attack…we'll get some answers when we come back?"

My training had ended a bit early and after having lunch with a colleague at a Caribbean food store in Calgary, I jumped in my truck (Rebel), turned on the radio for company on the drive home. I deliberately searched for Adler's show on AM 770 wanting something to keep me awake and I knew his opinions always do that.

Earlier in the day my thought was to write a piece about dreams as the previous night's dream was so vivid and poignant that I wanted to share with my readers. Adler, however, pulled me away from that idea with his opening salvo.

Apparently a caller to the show yesterday had sparked some controversy that refused to die – at least with Adler. Hence when I tuned in, he was replaying a clip of the conversation with this caller who he chose to identify as 'Blake'.

"What the f… did he just say?" flew out of my mouth before I had a chance to bomb-proof it. Adler must have heard me and replayed the clip and I remained as dumbfounded as I was the first time.

Here was a well spoken man saying that the H1NI shots should be given first to those paying the most taxes rather than to "the least productive" people in society. And who are these people? Well to Blake, "the homeless and the Natives," of course.

Adler's response was far more tempered than mine, albeit he did not hold back describing the comment as unintelligent after Blake refused to acknowledge the generalization in his comment. Not happy or maybe more surprised that the host, who in my opinion has some ultra-conservative views, did not agree with him and actually 'ripped a strip off his behind' Blake decided to send Adler an email.

That only made matters worse as he attempted to take the intellectual high horse – his two Bachelor degrees, his soon to be completed Master degree and the Native Studies that he took – to prove that he knew that the Aboriginals of this country do not deserve to be vaccinated before highly productive, high-income tax payers like him.

Adler continued to discuss the merits of his counter-arguments but soon focused more on whether book-smarts override experience with other guests and callers. He then adeptly made the connection between the so-called experts scaring the daylights out of the population to get vaccinated and whether there is actually a pandemic.

He obviously had but just before writing this piece I double-checked the meaning of the word "pandemic" and, while I am not an expert, to me it seems that the use of this adjective is at the root of comments and attitudes displayed by Blake.

The word pandemic is used to describe say a disease that is "prevalent throughout an entire country, continent, or the whole world; epidemic over a large area." It is a "general" situation.

While the H1N1 virus might be "prevalent throughout" say Canada, occurring in many cities – I will not be walking around in a mask – at least not yet. Pandemic as I understand it means that many people – not the majority – across the world have contracted this flu. However, the distinction that pandemic does not mean 'dropping down dying like flies' has not been widely made.

Instead, in their attempt to avoid the worst case scenario the powers that be have 'put the fear of God' in the hearts of the population. In Canada, and specifically in my neck of the woods, people are panicked and are lining up for as much as six hours to be vaccinated.

I agree with those who feel that the World Health Organization broadcasting pandemic level (1 to 5) largely served to "panic" many across this country. Our government officials and communicators did little to calm the nerves with their subsequent pronouncements, admonishments and even fostered ridicule of those who refused to be panicked.

What is interesting is the fact that the occurrence, prevalence and even fatality of the regular seasonal flu far outweigh the "swine flu." One source states that "the worldwide total for seasonal flu related deaths is generally between 250,000 and 500,000 a year."

As of October 29, 2009 the World Health Organization was reporting "44,555 official lab verified A-H1N1/09 cases and 1170 deaths." While this number is likely to increase and is in fact increasing, some think it will not necessarily surpass what we have seen for seasonal flu.

The decision to take the shot or not is personal. For many years I lived in Europe and not once did I take a seasonal flu shot. My family and I moved to Canada over seven years ago and I have still never taken a seasonal flu shot. Both my daughter and I have very compromised immune system but we have both independently decided not to take the H1N1 shot.

Being someone who have worked in the public service for many years – throughout the Caribbean and now in Canada – I do understand the need for a public emergency strategy and contingency/crisis planning. This is why, despite my personal decision not to get the shot, I am disturbed not only by the poor handling of communications surrounding this situation but the resulting attitudes like Blake's.

It is a government's responsibility – as it is the Church's – to facilitate and/or directly ensure that the basic needs of the "least among us" are addressed. This includes their health care. I am not for a moment suggesting that inherently the Aboriginal people of this nation fall at the bottom of any cultural hierarchy, however, it is an historical fact that they have been marginalized on all fronts for decades. Hence they are, in my opinion, one of the most vulnerable groups, along with the homeless, children, pregnant women and workers on the frontline constantly exposed to the flu (nurses, doctors, paramedics, prison workers).

Having created this crab-barrel situation, with people beginning to fight over what is a fast-tracked and largely under-tested vaccine, the Government must publicly answer Adler's question: Is this really a national emergency or a national panic attack? Then it must take corrective actions to temper the hysteria either way.

In the meanwhile, I will stick to my natural immunity boosters - Vitamin D, Vitamin C and my Cold-FX – and I will get more long sleeved tops for sneezing into and more hand lotion for my shriveling hands!

I pray that you my friends, family and readers will be guided to do what is right for you and what works for you without fear and panic.

Blessings,

Claudette

Too Late: It is Finished

2009-10-18T14:17:00.010-06:00

Sitting at the dining table looking out one of the large windows of our four bedroom country home writing this post, the words of Ecclesiastes (3: 1-8) come to me:

"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace."

Today is October 18, 2009 and it is my time bloom.

Many years ago, soon after being introduced to the New Thought Movement, I came across an article that suggested that our lives evolve in 7-year cycles. Throughout each period we are developing in ways unique to that time in our growth. If this is true, I am currently in the second year of the 7^th level of my 'training' on becoming a human being.

I tend to believe this theory is valid especially as I re-evaluate my life on this particular day. Even more so as I contemplate the time I spent with my daughter celebrating her 22^nd birthday. Putting everything together – cell memory, life in 7-year cycles and parallel lives – more and more I believe that there are no accidents in life, everything happens for a reason, and that the Universe is really our biggest classroom.

Often something occurs in our experience and we tend to view it as an isolated incident and we miss the point of the lesson. That was almost the case with me when I received that first 'shout-out' email from that woman. Her words quickly distracted me from the essence of the experience and soon I was bogged down with the drama of her storming the doors of my life.

Writing clarifies – at least it does for me and having this blog is a way to put my thoughts down, as well as to share my journey. It is my honest belief that if I help one with my story – my job on Earth is done.

Another reason why writing is cathartic for me is that, as in this case, it really helps me to focus on what could possibly be gained, for example, by allowing this woman to enter my personal space.

When I write these articles (I know this might sound weird but here goes) they flow from me. I am not in control. Each peck made on the keyboard of my laptop comes from deep inside me. Spirit chooses the words. My heart determines the style that will be used to share the story. That first article "Too Late" was centered on one woman yet my heart had two in its lenses as the words poured out.

Parallels – that was the lesson.

Reading the feedback from friends – it was clear that many were on the same page but an equal amount of my readers where drawn into the drama – like I was a few years ago.

Nothing is an accident – was the other lesson.

This woman did not re-emerge and forcibly so simply because she wanted a piece of me. No. It was much bigger than that. My body was also evoking memories of a devastating emotional trauma, forcing me to acknowledge the residues from my past and finish it.

A few days before driving up to Edmonton I received another email from the woman. She was responding to the one I finally wrote to her. In my message I had written:

"You are right, life is too short and so I will not waste it on situations that obviously will bring me more heartache."

I had waited almost a week to write that message. Much prayer, thought, and more prayer went ahead of it. I second and third-guessed myself as to what was right. Looking at others and the relationships they have managed to develop with people from their pasts the thought that this might work – reconciling – was tempting.

Then before I could put my thoughts into words to her, she wrote me to say:

"I tell you what. You can always carry the bag of anger with you for the rest of your life for it seems as if you make up your mind to do so. I will not beg you anymore to communicate with me. I have done my part."

The laughter came from my toes as I read her words. "Yes you have done enough," I said to her picture. "I could not agree more."

What she had finally done with this last bit of passive-aggression – because that was what it was when you read the full message – was to close the door. Over the few weeks that this exchange of messages was happening something else was going on inside of me. Years of pain, shame, feelings of abandonment and self-pity was rising in my psyche and threatening to take up more space in my heart. Her wanting to tell me things that she thought would get me to better understand why I never heard from her until now was dragging me into the shadow of embarrassment.

Embarrassment about the circumstances of my birth, my mother, borderline poverty, the dark alleys that life had taken me down and my cry for help on October 18 (and again in December, 2006) when I attempted suicide.

Contemplating what to do – let her in, listen to what she has to say or shut it down – I turned to my spiritual resources, which these days are largely on the Internet. It was from one on line sermon that these words came to me:

"Pray a Benediction on your yesterday!"

And so I knelt and read this passage from the Bible:

"When Jesus therefore had received the vinegar, he said, It is finished: and he bowed his head, and gave up the ghost." John 19:30

I am finished with the shame and the blame.

I am finished with asking why and instead simply say why not?

I have fought a good fight – with the demons of my past – and I am finished.

I love you – my dear aunt and my dear friend and I always will love you both – but I am finished.

Yes, it was my long deceased father's sister who had been emailing me. I have not seen or heard from neither her – nor any other member of his side of the family in over 30 years. Last Christmas after been hooked up with them through Facebook, she wrote to me once. The rest of the story you know.

Her later emails though opened up other wounds over which scabs had hardened but the underbellies were still somewhat raw. If for nothing else, I am extremely grateful to my aunt for her timing and her unintentional poking at those wounds.

What the past few weeks have helped me to do is heal at much deeper levels than I might have without my aunt's prodding. As I responded to her, it became clear to me that she (and by extension my father's family) was not the only wound that a salve was being poured on. It was a parallel to other still oozing sores.

You do not love someone or yearn for a sense of belonging for many years and then turn the switch off overnight. I get that now – after 30+ years of wishing, praying and hoping that my father's family would reach out to me. I get that now after 3 years of being rudely awakened in the middle of the night by memories.

I also get that I am finished now.

I love you my aunt. I love you my friend. But I cannot stay where I was for 30+ years waiting to feel as if I belonged. I have moved on. Driving away from Edmonton yesterday I knew it was over – I knew that this was a new season. I was no longer scared of the ghosts from 30 years ago or 3 years ago.

As we sat in the restaurant celebrating my daughter's 22^nd birthday and the fellows on the two red pianos played and sung Happy Birthday to her, it felt like they were singing it for me too.

In the company of my woman-friend who saved my life back in October 2006, her husband and mine, Abigail beamed as she and I sat holding hands. Her pride, joy and sense of belonging were almost overwhelming.

This is my life now. This is my family. For me, blood is not thicker than water – love is and that is what I am experiencing now. The love of friends who never left my side; the love of my daughter whose eyes no longer hold fear that all is not well with her Mummy (she does call me that still), and love of a man who calls me Queen and Beautiful even when I have not showered – and means it.

It is finished.

Thank you God!

Blessings,

Claudette

Too Late: Intermission

2009-10-08T20:40:00.007-06:00

It was the end of another two-day frenzy that comes every month in my line of business when the fate of others are decided and my recommendation plays a significant role.

Pooped, hungry and not too joyous that it was snowing, I still had to stop and collect the humongous organic chicken that might appear on my Thanksgiving table. Actually, it was three roasters and one will be travelling with me to Edmonton in a few days to grace my daughter’s birthday table.

Pulling away from my friend’s beautiful 100-year old house the knot in the pit of my stomach tightened as if to remind me it was there. That was a wasted motion on its part as how could I have forgotten it? Since my first cup of coffee at 5:15 this morning it arrived and it had my gasping for breathe several times throughout my presentations.

The tuna sandwich I had for lunch did not relieve the knot, neither did the fourth cup of coffee, nor the pack of Cheesies someone gave nor the mug of hot chocolate that I bought at the service station just prior to pulling onto the highway to head home.

Robert was on the phone wanting to know if he should start driving home now instead of early tomorrow morning as was the plan. He feared the worse as I described the sometime excruciating pain that had me doubled-over in the truck. We both tried to diagnose what could have been the cause and possible home remedies.

“Robert,” I tentatively said, “do you think this is psychological?” Not understanding where I could be going with that question or maybe preferring not to go there, he responded “How?”

“Well, you know I have been dealing with some stuff and it is the day, it is October 8, the day my downward spiraling began back then.”

“No,” said my husband who sometimes refuses to acknowledge that I am not super-woman. “You are just stressed from the presentations and all that was weighing on them.”

Then as only my Robert can conclude he said, “Furthermore I would have heard it in your voice.”

“Heard what in my voice?” was my comeback to that.

“Depression,” he said matter-of-factly and I could just imagine his green-blue eyes with that man-boyish gaze that he has that penetrates deep into me.

When we first met, Robert and I, after noticing that he was a somewhat of a red-head, the next thing that caught me were his eyes and that impish smile that reside deeply in them. His eyes were so irresistible to me that throughout our first dinner together at Mongolie Grill in Edmonton, I could not look away. The restaurant wasn’t well lit so I squinted through my glasses to focus on his.

Taken by them, a few hours later as we were about to pull out of the parking lot, I reached over and grabbed him, pulled him in to me and kissed him. Not caring whether he thought I was a crazy ‘black’ woman, I kissed him again.

His eyes made me do it.

And over the year and months that we have been together, all he has to do is to turn those eyes on me and I know that everything might not be the way we want it, but we are not where we were as individuals and all will be well.

Robert knows things about me that I do not and he is not afraid to share them with me – even when I might not want to be informed. He also knows that October 2006 was a crazy-making month for me and that Thanksgiving that year did not find me being grateful.

He knows that this October came with its own set of additional issues – with the emails that I have been processing.

That is why we are both glad that he is on his way home for our second Thanksgiving together – to help make new memories.

It is funny how you can experience such joy and pride in one aspect of your life – like I did today when three out of my four presentations went very well and the individuals have another chance. And then there can be near chaos in another aspect of your life – like this woman trying to ease her way into my personal space.

What is more magnificent about life is finding someone who is what I prefer to call a wounded healer to walk the course with you – seeing your flaws but loving you through green-blues eyes.

I am truly blessed.

Too Late? Part 2

2009-10-06T19:20:00.011-06:00

Cell memory – “a theory that states the brain is not the only organ that stores memories or personality traits, that memory as a process can form in other systems in the body and can be stored in organs such as the heart.”

As I grow older the idea that the cells of my body have stored occurrences and experiences that had a profound impact on me has grown.

What else could account for the deep sense of loss and pain that reoccurs even when life is ‘going good’? This happens to all of us – say on the anniversary of the passing of a loved one many years ago. Intellectually you might have come to terms with this passing, you might even have come to recognize that the pain and suffering your loved one was suffering has ended and they have moved on to a ‘better place’.

However, either approaching the anniversary of the death or what would have been the person’s birthday – you sense yourself going into what at first felt like an inexplicable place of sorrow. And then, “ah-ah,” you look at the calendar and realize why.

I have also come to believe that for each place of brokenness inside of me (and you) that memory calls onto itself an event or a series of event for the sake of healing. The energy within me attracts what it ‘knows’ my soul needs, even when I think “all is well.”

October is a month of trauma and tragedy for me and every year something happens to remind me of those places of brokenness in my life that are awaiting attention. Life is so amazing that if you do not get the message, it will send it to someone in your inner circle causing a mirror to be held up to you.

I did not think about my pursuer in this way until on my drive to work this morning. “Why now?” I asked myself. “Why doesn’t she just leave me alone?”

My annoyance grew as I recalled opening the new email from her and the sting of her words zapped me in the face. The first thing was her calling me Mrs. McLaughlin. Why the hell that bothered me is still a mystery but coming out of her virtual mouth did.

Then she wanted to explain some of what happened as maybe then I would not hold such a beef against her.

“Really now?” I thought. “Now you want to explain, I don’t think so!”

For some reason she sent two emails this time, something about being kicked of the computer. She should have left it at one. The second email confirmed that patience is a virtue that I still need some lessons on.

“Let’s just forgive and forget about the past,” she wrote and then went into a bi-polar routine and said that I was full of anger still and that is not good for my health.

The late Bernie Mac had this line he would use in his television show, “America…let me tell…” Well, to paraphrase, people…let me tell you…the words coming out of my mouth was not becoming of the professional woman that I am. “What the f… she cares about my health! She hasn’t concerned herself with me when I needed help, and now she is? !@^%”

Then again, look at where I work; what other words could come out of my mouth when told that after being abandoned and forgotten with nary a word from her for this long I should “calm down?”

Who the heck is she to decide what emotions I should be experiencing at her appearance in my life, providential or not, demanding room in my personal space?

Calm enough I was to know that that was not the time to reply to her latest emails. So off to bed I went and the face appeared in my dream again. This happens every October, almost every night for the month. My daughter also had a not so pleasant experience about this time of the year. And it was in October that my life almost came to an end.

I believe it was also an October that I prepared my Memorial Service several years ago. The entire service was planned, music chosen and the programme printed. My daughter teased me when it was done that she will have nothing to do but plug the removable disk into a computer and let it run come that time.

One of the other songs I chose for my Memorial Service was “I Just Can’t Give Up Now” and it is one of the songs that helped to bring me back from the brink of death one October not too long ago.

Which brings me back to cellular memory. My body is talking to me again – another October is here – as this woman attempts to re-enter my life. It seems to be saying to me that I can choose whether the healing will take longer and be harder.

Or I could dial the telephone number she included in her second email.

“All I want is for us to be reunited and start communicating in a more friendly manner and not like we are enemies,” she closed.

All I, Claudette Esterine-McLaughlin, want is more time to feel these emotions that have surfaced for another October and think this through some more…

Maybe I will drop her a line…tomorrow.

Too Late?

2009-10-05T19:19:00.007-06:00

A woman is pursuing me.

She will not let up. Try as I may to give her the cold shoulders, she ‘attacks’ from another angle.

We met again by chance and although my pulse raced with joy initially, my desire was to take things slowly. She waited for a few months and then she struck. “It’s time to talk,” was the sum total of the very public message she sent.

Angry that she aired our business so publicly without my consent I shot back a long message to her, detailing not only my vexation but venting my residual baggage.

Then she went silent and for weeks I heard nothing in response.

Yesterday, another Sunday in solitude as my husband is away, a response finally popped up on my laptop.

“You have been on my mind,” she wrote.

I read her words with a heart as cold as the early winter in Southern Alberta. There was no apology in her letter. She said she did not feel she had anything to say sorry about, except that she has loved me for so long.

“Too late for us…” was my terse response to her. “I have no time to waste.”

Who could blame me? I was not the one who walked away without a backward glance. How many years have gone by and nothing from her and now through one email she thought everything was okay?

“Ridiculous!” I thought. “It requires much more than that.”

How many sleepless nights over the years I have spent, praying and wishing for even a word, a card, something, anything that would say she loved me?

The pain and suffering endured at the hands of friends, lovers and strangers alike with no one to turn to but my shadow, my sad reflection in the mirror.

And now that my heart – battered, broken, shattered – is slowly healing through the Grace of God and with the love of my daughter, husband and dear friends, she turns up and wants a piece of me?

Hang on…hold it…wait a second…."Could this be part of God’s Grace?"

That thought flickered through my mind only momentarily. My fingers moved faster. I drummed out another cold response. I was getting better at this – hardening my heart towards this woman and all she presented.

As I drove home from work today, a CD of songs that I want played at my eventual Memorial Service was on. I had made it years ago, in another place, in another time.

“It is well with my soul, it is well, it is well, with my soul…”

Really? The Voice in my heart asked.

Then why are there a couple empty places…spots quietly earning to be held, softly and gently...wanting...no still needing to be healed?

Why did you cry yourself back to sleep last night after awakening from a dream that felt so real? Why does that face that you only now see in dreams appeared last night sharing with you her struggles, her pain and asking to be understood.

“Ping!” my laptop gave out as it announced the arrival of a new message. It was another from her.

To be continued.

Photo by Renato Gandia

Keith Urban - You'll Think Of Me (video)

2009-09-30T20:46:00.001-06:00

"Sweeping out rooms that my emotions left...."

Keith Urban - Only You Can Love Me This Way (Audio)

2009-09-19T11:49:00.001-06:00

Whenever I hear this one, I give thanks for the person who is helping me to breathe again...my wounded healer and husband Robert. Thank you...God bless you!

It Won't Be Like This for Long - Darius Rucker Video

2009-09-19T11:43:00.001-06:00

This one is for my beautiful daughter...in celebration of our continuing journey...and her achievements to date and her debut today at the show!!! Everything passes and in spite of all the challenges we have faced you are doing it baby girl!!!. Love you Abi-dabby!

Darius Rucker - Don't Think I Don't Think About It

2009-09-19T11:28:00.001-06:00

Another of my favourite country artists and songs...love it and him!!!

"I'm Movin' On" - Rascal Flatts Official Music Video

2009-09-19T11:19:00.001-06:00

This is a daily effort...is it not?

Fundamentalist Liberal - Who Me?

2009-08-23T20:02:00.005-06:00

Contrary to how it may seem I have not totally disengaged from intelligent discourse opting instead to play Facebook/Zynga games all my waking, non-working hours.

Out of sheer curiosity my new found pastime has been the cure that was long needed for a work life that is not only stress-filled but a home life that is often spent in the company of my two wonderful but rude dogs.

Two events – or more comments – have dragged me out of my reverie with Mafia Wars and Farmville. After the first event, I rushed to the laptop and started writing but got side-tracked.

On my drive home from work it has become my sanity-sustaining activity to flip through the radio channels, catching up on the news of the “outside” world and blasting the stereo system, speeding down the empty highways in my truck. (I need to name her – any suggestions?)

One afternoon last week, for some reason that now escapes me, my homeward trip was earlier than usual and so I caught a talk show on an AM channel. The host, Charles Randel or something, was speaking with a newspaper columnist who in the past has rankled me. That day, however, I found myself nodding in agreement with almost every word he said.

Lorne Gunter, columnist for the National Post (and Edmonton Journal I believe), was answering questions about his recently published article entitled “The United Church is Blind to True Suffering.”

For those who did not know, since settling in Canada I became a member of the United Church of Canada (UCC). This organization has been by quasi spiritual home for almost seven years now and I have had the privilege of serving on a few committees at the local (Edmonton) and national levels.

My journey with the UCC has not been without its challenges and listening to Gunter it seemed like he had gotten into my head – against my will because he is conservative or so I decided some time ago – and was putting my inner most feelings about the Church out there.

To me, Gunter’s basic thesis was that the UCC (and in my opinion many other liberal churches) have gone overboard in political correctness. His exact words, courtesy of the National Post, are:

“…the UCC is more concerned with fashionably left-wing causes such as multiculturalism than it is about ending persecution per se. It is far more concerned for advancing political correctness than spreading or even defending its own faith.”

Gunter and I might never agree on the issue of multiculturalism, with my preference being for inter-culturalism, however we certainly see eye to eye on the question of “defending” one’s faith. And by defense my understanding is not putting up resistance because Christianity (or your brand of it) is under fire. Here my view is speaking for what you believe – no matter what – without pandering and trying to cater to everyone’s whim and fancy.

One of the many lessons I carried forward from my journey with another faith organization, the Universal Center of Truth for Better Living in Kingston, Jamaica, is that “principle never changes.” That church taught and I believe that “God is Principle” and therefore no matter what how high the tide or strong the wind that is blowing – God will be God.

That thought/knowledge has taken me this far – and I am sure will take me even further if I continue to believe and hold on to it. Hence my dismay was being in the UCC and watching church/organizational politics affecting the teachings of Christ.

Even more shocking for me was hearing numerous protests about using the name of Jesus the person whose teachings greatly influenced the modern Christian church.

Little surprise then, if what Gunter reports in his article is true, that the UCC is picking and choosing based on political expediency what ills of the world to speak out against. He wrote:

“If condemning all violent oppression were the UCC's goal; if ending the cruel treatment of all people regardless of their race or creed were the church's objective -- rather than merely mounting, once again, a high horse from which to spit on Israel -- then it would have been equally quick to condemn Hamas, who are, as many in the UCC see it, Israel's victims in Gaza.”

My personal position on the Israel/Gaza issue aside, Gunter is absolutely right. Again, his perspective might be driven by some right-wing agenda but does it really matter? The UCC’s seem to be driven by a left-wing agenda that turns a blind eye to suffering say as - one example –of black people right under its nose!!!

During my chaplaincy training my first teaching supervisor described my way of thinking as bordering on fundamental liberalism. Those of you who know me well will realize that that conversation did not end very well (LOL). After tempers cooled – mine and mine – and after some serious reflection, it finally dawned on me what she was trying to open me to see.

There I was accusing others of being fundamentalist because their biblical understanding was as such that they had no use for gays and lesbians, unwed mothers, abortion etc. So strident was I in arguing my point against their views that my own knives were drawn, ready to attack anyone who did not see things my way.

Her words to me meant – you are behaving just like what you are fighting against. My views were so liberal and so right that only a fool would not hold the same ones.

What does this have to do with the other event?

Well, a discussion about patriotism as Jamaicans ensued after those of us who did not know about the Berlin Games were denounced as living under some rock. Jamaicans, for the most part are extremely proud of the achievements of its track and field athletes. I am too; however, fanatic I am not.

An invitation was issued to me to enter into a further conversation about Marcus Garvey and other things Jamaican. I declined by not even acknowledging the invitation. Okay – bite me.

Why would a conversation of that sort be of interest to me when the hostess declared that she would prefer being disrespected in Jamaica by her kinsmen than anywhere else in the world?

This comment came after I explained that Jamaica has its problems that if not honestly addressed will continue to see the country swimming in its own excrement. I also shared how my husband experienced racism and harassment while we were on our honeymoon in Jamaica.

I also shared how the insult went further with the treatment meted out to me by many service representatives because I was in the company of a “white man.” My dress, mannerism meant nothing – I was seen and treated as a prostitute – until I finally shoved the wedding band in one person’s face and offered the marriage certificate.

Truth must always be spoken – no matter the consequences. Truth must always be spoken to power.

I know no other way – as a follower of Jesus the Christ. That is what his life and death, if you believe the Scriptures, was about – truth telling.

Racism is racism. Bigotry is bigotry. Injustice is injustice. Wrong is wrong.

Whether the person in power is rich, poor, black or white; whether they are Christians, Muslim or Jew.

I do not want to be part of a church, a movement, an organization or a club that turns a blind eye to any type of injustice because it is not expedient to address it. I refuse to carry out my job function at the expense of anyone because they are black, Native, white, poor, an addict, a prisoner, a prostitute or have HIV/AIDS.

I will not be patriotic to the point of being stupid and ignorant, dancing like a fool when people are hungry for education; health and opportunity but politicians and preachers are too corrupt to care.

Neither should the church and neither should you.

Now back to my games – Mafia Wars, Farmville anyone?

Blessings,

Claudette

Why Do People Cheat?

2009-07-21T20:42:00.008-06:00

“Betrayal can only happen if you love.” -- John Le Carre

Much of my spare time is spent on Facebook – yes, I admit, I am a Facebook addict.

The social network offers me lots of free entertainment including clean non-sexual games such as my favourite “Yoville.”

Through Facebook I have reconnected with high schoolmates, friends who live in many places across the world from Jamaica to Australia.

Some time ago I shared the story of how a woman in Australia found me on Facebook and she turned out to be a cousin. Then she reconnected me with my late father’s family in the United States. Now, I chat or message fairly regularly with a young second cousin who serves in the US Navy and is currently based in the Middle East.

Another aspect to Facebook that I truly appreciate is the opportunity for dialogue on various topics – some serious and others not so serious. Take for example the running commentary we had today about Beyonce’s agile waistline and her bare-chested back-up dancers in a music video posted by one of my former high school mates in London, England.

Then there was the heart-to-heart another friend and I had about the challenges we both face with fibroids and making the decision whether to have hysterectomies. My own surgery was postponed almost two years now as I was (and still) not mentally nor emotionally prepared to be without such an important part of my anatomy. We laughed – virtually – about the ‘getting pregnant’ option but my friend in the United States could not see herself having a child at this stage of the game and I could not see Robert agreeing to putting up what would be his first child put up for adoption! So Girlfriend and I messaged back and forth about the various options to surgery now available and promised to let each other know how we decide to proceed.

No surprise then that recently another friend posted a question about infidelity that prompted several and varied responses from the online network to which I belong. This Jamaican woman who resides in the United States asked, “Why do people cheat?”

This is an age old question – but a recurring one that is clearly yet to be answered in such a manner that stems the occurrence of cheating. Preachers have spent many Sundays quoting copiously from the Bible and anything else they can get their hands on to remind congregants the perils of adultery and infidelity. Psychologists have made millions writing books and seeing clients who suffer in the aftermath of affairs. Medical professionals have stitched wounds and pumped stomachs of people who thought they could not go on after the love of their lives said it was over.

“Why do people cheat?”

My Facebook friend would later thank all of us who sent our two cents worth in response to her question, yet it was clear that she was not buying wholesale any of the explanations. And I do not blame her. There is no simple answer.

Looking back on my own journey, I have done my fair share of cheating in relationships and have been cheated on many times. Yet, called to answer her question as to why this happens I could only draw for some philosophical reasoning that hardly portrayed the devastation my behaviour and that of others wrecked on the lives of those who wanted and deserved something more.

I combed through various articles, books and web sites to see if I could come up with a better and a concise understanding of this human flaw – yes I do believe it is a flaw. One thing I am clear about is that it is a serious flaw in character when honesty fails a person to the extent that they become a weakling to the excitement of sex - because it is all about sex in the first instance. Been there, done that.

One resourceful and free web site that I came across that might provide some help to those grappling with this issue – either suspecting their partner of cheating or are in the throes of an affair and hopefully would like to confess – is Truth About Deception.

Another thing that I learned in my brief search for resources on this topic was that there are some interesting quotes on cheating and infidelity. I also learned that Oscar Wilde did not seem too big on this love business! One of his more meaningful quotes that I could at least relate to on the topic is:

“Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love; it is the faithless who know love’s tragedies.”

My high school mates and I who did English Literature with either Ms Morrison or Ms Dorman (at the greatest girls’ school in Jamaica – go St. Hugh’s!) will discuss this in our next meeting on Yoville!

A smile came to my face when I read the following quote as it reminded me so much of being unceremoniously dumped after confirming the affair and my ex saying “you want too much of me in the vision that you see and I am not that big a person!”

Helen Rowland said:

Every man wants a woman to appeal to his better side, his nobler instincts and his higher nature -- and another woman to help him forget them.”

Hopefully you read that quote and interchanged man and woman to fit your context – heterosexual or same-sex relationship – as women do cheat and so too those in same-gendered relationships!

After my own act of cowardice and then digging up the courage to confess what had happened, I promised myself never to bring myself to that level again. That was almost ten years ago and to this day I have never looked at anyone but my love partner in that moment (two to be exact since that time – my ex and now Robert). Scott Alexander explains it best:

“All good is hard. All evil is easy. Dying, losing, cheating, and mediocrity [are] easy. Stay away from easy.”

The quote that I found most perplexing, interesting and that will stay with me for a long time is this one from the Sikh’s Holy Scripture – the Sri Guru Granth Sahib:

“Cheating is eating a rotting carcass.”

How often have people said to their lovers “I would die before I cheat on you,” and go ahead and have a hot and torrid affair? Well is that not what this passage could be referring to? One dies to their true decency and integrity rather than be honest and enters into an affair with a kindred dead soul!

Think about it and share your thoughts with me. You can find me on Facebook or Twitter!

Until then…stay away from rotten meat!

Blessings,

Claudette

Country Living

2009-05-31T09:11:00.003-06:00

Country life is growing on me.

This is my seventh year living in Canada and I can recall being told many times that small town, rural living would not be for me.

“Everyone will be in your business,” “racism and bigotry is rampant in small town Alberta,” “that kinda life is not for you – it is too quiet, boring, nothing much to do,” were some of the reasons well-meaning people gave me.

As the saying goes, “circumstances alter cases,” that is exactly what happened. The circumstances of my life changed a few years back and with that I was confronted with having to make choices that would not normally be my first preference.

For example, in 2005 the trajectory that I was following would have led to a doctorate and professorial position, teaching and supporting students in Clinical Pastoral Education.

“Life is what happens to you when you are busy making other plans,” is what John Lennon said and he should know!

The thesis is still incomplete three years later and although there have been some stirrings in me to get back to it; they have not been sufficiently strong to move me towards the memory stick that has the draft.

Hospital wards and surgeries no longer appeal to me in the way they did in 2005/2006. After been almost completely burnt out by too many late night calls to death beds or the morgue, it was not hard to admit that my attitude towards death and dying was not compatible with that of most that I was meeting.

One thing is for sure, at the core of my being I am a Chaplain. However, what Life clarified for me was that ‘call’ can manifest in many shapes and forms.

Nearly two years after following that ‘call’ through the gates of a prison, with a deep sense of knowing that physically I was in the environment that was much more relevant to my personal experiences, professional and personal growth was still somewhat lagging.

You know it is time to move on; at least I do, when going to work in the morning is a chore and a bother, when you are simply doing it for the pay cheque. It is time to move on when the walls of the place you once called home begins to close in on you and feels more like a cell. There was more growing for me to do and impatience was setting in.

Turning points in my experience are usually revealed almost on the deadline. It was less than a week to the closing date when I saw the posting for the job that would lead me the rural Alberta.

Along with the words of encouragement there were words of discouragement. For every person who wished me all the best – both on the competition and when the offer for the job came – there was one who asked me whether I was sure the facility, the job and the small town was for me.

“No, I am not sure,” was basically my response, “but when are we ever?”

Actually, the ‘sure things’ in my life thus far have turned out to be the least certain. And truthfully, my greatest growth has come when I take the proverbial leap of faith and let God be God in my experience.

Three years, almost, after that turning point when “Life happened,” and when my request was to be let off but The Divine said “Hang in there baby, we are going for a ride,” here I am:

Married to my fellow sojourner and wounded healer, enjoying my career and being paid very well to use my faculties to help others with the trajectory of their own lives within the rule of law and drawing on spiritual principles, and co-owner of a beautiful home (almost 3,000 sq. ft) in small town Alberta.

Truth be told, maybe there is not much to do in my little village. Maybe there are some intolerant people among the less than 1,000 who reside in my neck of the woods. It is definitely quiet here - except for the chirping of the birds, the barking of village dogs (and my two chime in gladly) and the occasional tractor or plow chugging down the street on a Saturday morning.

However, we took possession of our home in mid-May and not only am I catching up on time lost commuting to work (from 3-4 hours a day to 1 hour now) but the fresh air, tinged with cow manure (LOL) is doing me a world of good.

As Oprah would say “what I know for sure,” is that it is easy to live with regrets and hard to move on – gently holding the past and hopefully head into the now.

That balancing act is trying still to this day but when it gets too much to handle, now I have my garden to retreat to.

Each day I give thanks, silently or in a song like this one:

Blessings from a small town in Alberta,

Claudette

Land of My Birth - Part Two

2009-04-19T13:51:00.002-06:00

A laptop that would not turn on is to be blamed for my not producing before now Part Two of the post “Land of my Birth.”

Not having a computer proved not to be such a bad thing, however, as I got to focus on a few other things that was percolating in my life and around me.

The global economic melt down has finally arrived in all its glory here in Calgary, Alberta and this city which was once proud of its oil money has had to take stock. The news is replete of stories about the numbers of people losing their jobs – last count it was about 15,000+ in this province. Housing starts and housing sales have decreased and the Alberta government recently announced new taxes to meet the deficit – something that this province has not had in 10 years.

News of gloom and doom funny enough has the potential to either scare the daylights out of you or funny enough inspire. “When the going gets tough, the tough gets going.”

That is what I saw in Jamaica back in February (2009). As I listened to the morning talk shows, the news and looked around me, I shook my head in amazement.

It felt as if time had stood still since I left the island back in 2002. Truthfully, it felt like the country was in a time warp since the 1990’s. The problems were the same, the politics had not changed either, except for a few changes in the players, and the conversations were the same.

The strength of the people had not changed either. Everyone was busy trying to keep things together. There were some brave ones, like our hostess, who had started new businesses on faith. Then there were those who had their hands stretched out, demanding that you put something in it – something of a significant money value.

Listening to Wilmot Perkins, one of Jamaica’s most popular radio talk show host, I thought to myself “the more things change, the more they stay the same,” – a mantra he loves to repeat. I tuned into the conversations on “The Breakfast Club,” a morning radio talk show and things were the same – almost stagnant, near dead.

The Jamaican government it seemed was in the early stage of grief – denial.

Everyone else was saying and seeing that despite the achievements in say highway construction, the infrastructure on the island is crumbling. Crime and violence was at its usual high level. A true picture of the unemployment levels is not possible as so many people are ‘hustling’ to keep afloat.

Several of my Jamaican Facebook friends have been coming up with some ideas and suggestions as to how we in the Diaspora could help our island home. Even that has not changed – after all these years and millions of dollars in remittances – Jamaicans abroad are still trying to figure how to save Paradise.

My Canadian-born husband fell in love with Jamaica soon after we landed. By the time we got to our hostess’ home in New Kingston, he was purchasing property. Ten days later, as we lounged in Negril, Robert had purchased a small hotel and opened a recording studio!

I wished it was that easy – and if it was almost 2 million (if not more) Jamaicans would not be living outside of the island all across the world.

For my part, I tried to picture myself living on the island again and honestly could not. The lawlessness was beyond anything I could tolerate and it was everywhere – the most evident one for me is the traffic laws which were almost completely ignored.

Outside of its natural beauty, which is second to none in the world, little else inspired me in Jamaica to make it my home again.

Back in cold Alberta, seeing signs of the global economic melt down right on my door steps, I am on the contrary inspired – so much so that this past week Robert and I closed a deal on a home.

I love Jamaica no less, but when the going get tough, the tough do indeed gets going. For that effort to be productive there must be an environment that engenders productivity that is guided by social order that supports the effort and leaders who inspire and lead from the front.

While Jamaica will always be the Land of my Birth, sadly that is simply what it will remain – at least for a long time to come.

Blessings,

Claudette

Land of My Birth - Part One

2009-03-15T10:46:00.038-06:00

A few of my Facebook friends said that they are waiting for my notes (post) on my honeymoon/visit in Jamaica. Therefore I cannot disappoint. My only hope is that after reading my thoughts they will remain my BFF’s.

The starting point must be that wonderful day, February 14, 2009, in -17 degrees Celsius weather in Edmonton, Alberta. A day before turning 44 years old, my life experiences had already included many a beautiful, cold and wonder-filled days.

However, February 14, 2009 was that much more special as at 3:30 that afternoon I would marry not just the person who has become a true friend but one who loves me unconditionally to the core of my being – flaws and all.

Less than a week later, Robert and I would leave our home in Calgary for the land of my birth – Jamaica. This would be his first visit ever and this was my first in almost seven years.

As I thought about how best to share our experiences and my personal thoughts about Jamaica of 2009, it seemed the best way to approach it was in two parts. This first post, Land of My Birth Part One, will focus on Jamaica as a tourist/holiday destination.

In Land of My Birth Part Two, I will share with you my thoughts about Jamaica through the eyes of a returning citizen, particularly as one visiting from North America and in a time when the greatest economic recession of our times is unfolding.

Through the Visitors’ Lenses

After some debating and persuading, Robert agreed that visiting Jamaica with a ‘local’ the true experience is in travelling around the island instead of holding up in an all-inclusive resort. So, our trip was designed by me that we would ‘circle’ the island, staying at various properties for 2-3 days, and make day trips to nearby must-see sights, etc.

We arrived at the Norman Manley International Airport in Kingston, the capital of Jamaica, early in the afternoon and after a fairly lengthy time in Immigrations due to the fact that there were about 4-5 flights on the ground, we got into the Customs Hall.

There our experience with the Customs Officer we met was going fairly well until she finally found ‘gold’ – something that she could tax to get money into the Government’s coffers.

Having not smoked in over 12 hours, Robert was ready to pay whatever she wanted for a piece of Swarovski we had for gifting. How this story ended is part of the material for Part Two.

Kingston, Jamaica

Finally in our rental car heading for my dear woman-friend and mentor’s home, Robert saw for the first time examples of why many regular tourists do not venture into Kingston.

Like most travelling Canadians, he took in good stride what must have been shockers for him and busied himself photographing (1) the bikers travelling in the middle of traffic, forming four lanes on two lane roads, (2) passengers in the back of vans and (3) fully armed police and soldiers in the middle of the city.

This was soon forgotten as we hungrily dove into the fully laden table of Jamaican food our hostess had waiting for us. Her generous meal was the precursor of many more such meals in Kingston over the next few days.

Our first evening (Friday) ended at the piano bar at the Jamaica Pegasus Hotel, a place that soon became Robert’s favourite spot for anything in Kingston. Saturday started at the 24-hour café at the Pegasus for early morning cups of Blue Mountain coffee as our hostess does not drink the stuff and her cupboard was coffee-free.

Since we met, Robert has been insisting that he is not all that into seafood. Things took a dramatic turn after his first bite into freshly caught red snapper, accompanied by festival (a cornmeal based dumpling/biscuit/bannock) and bammy (made from cassava).

“I have never had fish tasting like that in my entire life!” he declared and would continue to say as we travelled around the island.

Touring the campus of the University of the West Indies, shopping at the Sovereign Centre and drinks and conversation at a beautiful multi-million dollar home in Jack’s Hill, St. Andrew were some of the things we accomplished in our first two days in Kingston.

Sunday morning found us in the congregation of my former church – The Universal Centre of Truth for Better Living (UCT) – and what a joy and blessing that was!

No one knew I was coming, although our hostess had mentioned to the senior minister that she had special guests. Aside from the welcome of our hostess, being at UCT was a homecoming. The music, the sermon, the new building and the people was almost overwhelming for me. Robert was rocking and getting jiggy to the music, particularly the saxophone rendition of “Great is My Faithfulness – my favourite hymn – by a young man named Courtney.

In fact, his ‘blowing’ was so awesome that when the Minister announced that he would be playing at “Jazz in the Garden,” at the Pegasus that night, we bought tickets on the spot. It was money well spent, as not only did we get to hear Courtney do his thing again but we were entertained by Jamaican greats such as Dean Fraser on his horns, Karen Smith’s wonderful voice, not to mention Michael Harris and the E-Park Band led by Peter Ashbourne.

Robert fell in love with the Pegasus hotel and its offerings all over again and started asking about rates – as if he is planning to move into a room there for the rest of his life.

Boston Bay, Portland

Loaded up on ackee and saltfish and Blue Mountain Coffee, early Monday morning we headed out for Portland. We were booked into a tree house at Great Huts and were feeling fairly excited about getting there.

Our journey was slow however for several reasons: (1) the beautiful sights along the way that had to be photographed, (2) my getting re-acquainted with driving on the narrow, cliff side roads in Jamaica and (3) stopping for Red Stripe beers along the way for Robert. This was one of the biggest thrills for him, being able to drink beers while in a moving vehicle (no open bottle restrictions) and he took full advantage of it!

One of the things I have learned in planning this honeymoon is that Tripadvisor is a very good internet resource. I relied heavily on the reviews of regular travelers posted on the site to help choose hotels and activities for our trip and was not disappointed at any time in the advice we got.

Great Huts in Boston Bay, Portland was confirmed to be a unique experience for travelers not afraid to experience nature. We were in the Gate Hut, not the closest to the sea, but we had a great view of the beach and could hear the waves crashing on the rocks at night.

While in Portland we visited Boston Jerk Centre, Somerset Falls, Blue Lagoon, and the town of Port Antonio. Food was never in short supply and for a reasonable price at little restaurants in the surrounding areas. I had my fill of jerk pork, fricassee chicken and stew peas. Robert was introduced to vegetables steamed in coconut milk/cream and would have it several times in a couple other towns we visited.

Ocho Rios, St. Ann

The trip to Ocho Rios was much easier than the one to Portland as the Government had invested in a highway construction project, which has resulted in some world class roads on this side of the island. Yet, our trip was still somewhat delayed as the sights were too beautiful to simply drive bay.

We also made brief stops along the way in Oracabessa, St. Mary as I showed Robert the places where my childhood summers and some of the best days of my life were spent.
Faith's Pen via Fern Fully as a definite stop as far as I was concerned before checking into our next hotel. And you guessed it, I had ackee and saltfish again but it was combined with some curried goat on the plate (LOL)!

A little apprehensive about our next hotel as the reviews were very mixed about this economy property, it took as a little while to find and we were pleasantly surprised. Rooms On The Beach is no 5 even 4 star property but the room was very comfortable, air conditioned and best yet we had an ocean view.

To Robert’s delight, a massive cruise ship pulled in to port overnight and we had a frontline view of it.

In my plans, Ocho Rios was to be our action spot – and that it was indeed!

The Almond Tree restaurant was the place for our romantic night out. It has been a favourite restaurant of mine for years and they proved again why they deserve that distinction. The service was first class, the meal was superb and the setting, overlooking some of the bluest waters of the Caribbean Sea, was out of this world.

Like a lamb to the slaughter, I allowed myself to be cajoled into zip-lining. After being jostled in the Ocho Rios Craft Village, shopping for souvenirs for family and friends back in Canada and mask(s) for our home, maybe the wiser idea would have been to rest in our air-conditioned room. But no, following the advice of relationship and marriage experts and the lessons of my own previous relationships, I decided to step out of my comfort zone and do something my ‘partner’ wanted to do – even if I could break my neck in the process.

It took a day before I could admit that it was really fun – zip-lining through the ‘jungles’. Chukka Cove Tours has done a really marvelous jobs organizing and executing this tour and although I would not go as far as Robert and say I felt entirely safe throughout, it was really a thrill!

“Kentucky Fried Chicken does taste different here,” said Robert after his first few bites into the BBQ hot wings we bought on our second night in Ocho Rios. My response is that everything actually has taste in Jamaica!

On our way out of this tourist town we stopped at Dunn’s River Falls, where after another breakfast of ackee and saltfish, we were set to tackle the falls. However, due to the number of groups of tourists (as if we weren’t) holding hands and making their way up, we decided to just swim around a bit before setting off for Negril via Montego Bay.

Cliff Side, Negril

Another restaurant that holds a special place in my memory, not because of its international standard of service, is the Pelican Grill in Montego Bay. Growing up, this is a place we would stop for a meal on our way back to Kingston and so I was hoping it was still there.

It was and the service and food was exactly as I remembered it. The staff was welcoming, the booths were still there and the food tasted the same as it did 30 years ago. Robert stuck with an American fare but did have and enjoyed with me Red Peas soup (pig’s tails and all). My first meal of oxtail on this trip was tasty and filling at a very reasonable price.

The highway to Negril was in great condition and we made very good time. Our next hotel had received great reviews and was the most expensive of our entire stay. Robert had been giving me praises on my choices thus far, saying he had not been disappointed in any. Quiet panic was setting in for me as the bar of expectation was now very high.

Tensing Pen Resort was all it was made out to be and more!

Our accommodation for the stay was Garden A, a cottage with a fair view of the Caribbean Sea.
Pleasantly surprised does not describe how we felt the minute we stepped into the reception area and were greeted by one of the most exuberant receptionist ever. The welcome cocktail and cool wash rags which Robert proceeded to drape over his shaven head was nothing in comparison to the well adorned cottage we entered a few minutes later.

Everything combined – friendly neighbours, lounge chairs along the cliffs, diving bridge, hammocks, swimming pool overlooking the Sea, the sunsets and the friendly but not pushy staff – made for the almost perfect destination. By the end of a full day at Tensing Pen, we unanimously declared that on our next trip to Jamaica this would be our base.

Beautiful as it was, we did venture outside of Tensing Pen to have various meals at surrounding restaurants and wayside eateries. One in particular became a favourite for us – Shark’s which is operated by what I like to call a strong black woman. And she can cook to match! I had the best curried goat and curried chicken there and her banana pancakes had Robert from the first bite.

Negril was intended to be our lazy stop and that is exactly what we did. Aside from coming up to eat, we basically lounged, hammock-ed, swam and tanned (Robert) all day.

At nights, we went out to dinner and returned to our verandah where I listened to Robert pleading with me to re-migrate to Jamaica asap.

Treasure Beach, St. Elizabeth

Reluctantly we left Negril and Tensing Pen, vowing to come back and stay longer.

The drive to St. Elizabeth, our last stop before returning to Kingston, was long and a bit bumpy but any discomfort that Robert was feeling was muted by Red Stripe beers. We stopped in Black River for lunch at a place named Yellowtail Restaurant. For less than US10 we had hearty lunches of stewed pork and fried chicken and of course a beer for Robert.

It was my intention that we would go on the Black River Safari, to see the crocodiles and manatees, but Robert was anxious to get to our next resort. This was Jake’s Village, a place that I had never visited before and the reviews were mixed.

Not as well maintained as Tensing Pen and an entirely different landscape, more ‘desert’ like and dry, Jake’s was nevertheless a good place to be on this side of the island (South coast). The massage that I received at the Driftwood Spa was awesome!

What Jake’s has, however, over all the other places we stayed at are the skills of its kitchen staff. Both at the resort restaurant and at the adjoining-sister restaurant Jack Sprat, we had some of the best cooking ever! My only bowl of cornmeal porridge during the visit was had here and it was great! The conch soup at Jack Sprat is to die for.

Honestly, I was not entirely thrilled with our cottage (Conch) at Jake’s – the flooring of the shower was not my favourite – and I was scared to death that I would be confronted by a croaking lizard. Nonetheless, I would recommend this resort as a can do for maybe a night if one is passing through this side of the island.

It was during this stop that we visited the Appleton Rum Tour which was educational and entertaining.

Who knew that a by-product of rum making is molasses with a Viagra effect!

We left St. Elizabeth after a couple nights with my only regret being that we did not make it to Little Ochie for the best lobster in the world. Robert reminded me though that there will be a next time.

Back to Kingston

After 10 days away, we returned to the comfort of my mentor’s home in Kingston. Our time in Jamaica was coming to an end and so it was time to visit with old friends and my mother one more time before leaving.

We also found time to go for ice-cream again at Devon House and have a good bye dinner with our hostess at the best Chinese restaurant in Kingston – Jade Garden Restaurant.

Day 14 and it was time to go but before doing that we went for one last Jamaican breakfast at the Courtleigh Hotel, next door to Robert’s other home Pegasus. My meal of mackerel run-down was very tasty and Robert seemed to have enjoyed his American fare again. However, the service was not up to the standard of the Pegasus.

It was a struggle to get all the ‘grocery’ that I had bought packed into the suitcases! My daughter A had given me her list and kept adding to it via text and Facebook.

Robert out rightly refused me my right to bring back to Canada Yummy or any other brand of hardo bread – unbelievable!

Suntanned (Robert) and ten pounds fatter (me) Jamaica – Land of my Birth was left behind on March 6, 2009. It was a wonderful honeymoon destination and Tensing Pen Resort has won a special place in our hearts. Seeing old friends and spiritual guides again was a blessing and being in a place that is so familiar to me was comforting.

Most of all, the chance to make new memories was priceless. For this I am most grateful.

Claudette

P.S. Next post will examine the Land of My Birth through the lenses of a returning citizen/visitor.

Living My Life - Fully

2009-01-25T15:07:00.004-07:00

Christmas was wonderfully quiet, shared with my daughter, my fiancé and the two dogs of course.

New Year’s Eve night was spent in solitude, by choice, and I was out as a light just before 2009 was heralded in by party-makers around the world.

On New Year’s Day I spent most of the morning into early afternoon doing what is now a three-year practice. My daughter, A, tells me it is a lame way to spend the day but for me it serves a larger purpose.

This is a picture of my 2009 collage or vision board.

Spending New Year’s Day creating a picture of my goals and intention for the year was accidental. It started at a time when the only way I was going to make it another year was by having something to constantly look at to remind me that life goes on.

I did vision boards before and knew it was a powerful tool. However, what I have also learned is that without intentional focus the collage is simply a piece of paper with pictures. As such, my two previous collages were placed in spots where it was the first thing I saw in the mornings and the last thing at night.

Unlike its predecessors, the 2009 collage is simple in style and content. I was struck by this simplicity as much as I was struck by the fact that my life turned out very much as I visualized in the previous two years.

Seeing this, the thought crossed my mind that this year would be smooth sailing. No drama and no grief.

Then it came January 20, 2009 and I took the day off to watch every step that Barack Obama took to become the 44th President of the United States of America. I was up at 4:00 a.m., and glued to the television until about 10:00 p.m. (MST) when he and Michelle danced at the 4th official Inauguration Ball.

A few days later, I realized how wrong I was that my year would be smooth sailing as I could no longer ignore and had to acknowledge my obsession with the Obamas. It was an uneasy recognition in a very significant way for the rest of my year.

At the surface, all is well in my world quite frankly.

I have a wonderful career, I am earning a good income, I drive a nice car, we have a beautiful condominium, and my daughter is doing good and getting better with every passing day. My health is in order and so too is that of my first pet Angello.

I have a partner, friend and soon-to-be husband who not only love me but he is unafraid to show it and be vulnerable with or stand up to me (LOL).

Like Barack Obama with Michelle, he is unafraid of this strong black woman. He tells me no when that is what I need to hear and he tells me yes when that is the right thing to say. And very important to me and to any couple that truly desire to have a long life as a unit - we pray together.

“But you are still not living your life fully, Claudette, you have to let go of your pride” was Anni’s response she listened to me share all this with her during a lunchtime telephone conversation.

Anni is my best woman-friend and we do not always agree, at least not immediately. This time, however, when she said those words “you have to let go of your pride,” there was no disagreeing.

Yes, I am pride-filled and that pride was still smarting from the seeming loss of so many hopes and dreams. That was at the root of my discontent as I watched the Obama’s walking hand in hand down the road to the White House.

This might sound sick to some of you but others might fully understand. While I rejoiced with all Americans who felt that a new day had dawned in their country and indeed the world, I felt some regret about my life.

As I watched the fulfillment of the Obamas dreams, I could not help but mourn the many dreams I had for my life that were let go or seemingly dashed. Anni was right; I was not fully into the life that was now presented to me.

Under the quiet I was still discontented with the trajectory that my professional life had taken, feeling as if I had given up too much and in vain and that my achievements were not as grand as they ought to have been or I had hoped by now at 43 years old.

Deep in my heart I was feeling that while on a personal level maybe even romantic level, things could not be better, they would have been prefect if I had not done this or if I had done that. And this feeling left me incapable, until now, to fully embrace my life. As I spoke with Anni I realized that I was still busy looking for my big break, willing to move across the country if necessary, not recognizing that It was already here.

With the telephone to my right ear, I closed my eyes as Anni and I prayed, not in the usual way but in a fashion that helped me to really feel what was going on in my body.

When I opened my eyes, I slowly looked around my nicely decorated office, peeped through the window and saw the sun ray bouncing off the white snow on top of my car. The light was also flashing on my blackberry and when I checked it was a message from Robert reminding me how much he loves and missed me.

Alone in my office, I fell to my knee and asked for forgiveness for the remnant of ingratitude my woman-friend had helped me to uncover. I thanked God for the road that I was walking down, hand in hand with Robert, my baby girl and my friends.

In a few weeks, I will be walking down the aisle of this beautiful old church with its piped organs playing in the background and with friends and family from across Canada and Jamaica as witnesses to the next chapter of this life – the one that I was reminded to live fully!

I thank you God and my next post might be from a white sand beach in Jamaica! LOL

Blessings,

Claudette

A Christmas Story

2008-12-23T07:51:00.006-07:00

Christmas is indeed “the most wonderful time of the year,” and not because of the gift giving although that ritual does have its pleasurable merit.

My love of the season goes way back to my humble childhood, with all its drama and trauma, in Kingston Jamaica. Then, whatever little cash she had my mother would never allow Christmas to come and go unnoticed. I watched our fortunes decrease to the point where the tradition, at least to her, of re-painting the entire house at Christmas time went to simply white-washing the perimeter walls.

We transitioned from having a Christmas spread to a tin of ham with some rice.

In the hay days, my mother’s table included every Jamaican favourite, starting with a breakfast of ackee & salt fish (cod) with ham cuttings, roast breadfruit and plantains to a dinner table that had a roasted chicken as large as a turkey, curried goat, jerk pork, gungo rice and peas, and vegetable salad all of which was washed down by a tall glass of sorrel.

Over the years, wherever in the world or my station in life I have always loved Christmas. Some years that love has expressed itself in a well laid table, the gift giving and re-decorating of at least the bathroom. I am notorious for changing my bathroom pieces (mats, shower curtain, etc) every Christmas.

And I have the Christmases where the celebrations found me on the sidelines – there but not there – because I was not included or totally embraced by the people who surrounded me.

There has also been the Christmas when I wanted the world to stop and let me off.

This Christmas is very different, however, for many reasons not least of which being that my daughter will be joining my soon-to-be husband Robert and I in celebration of the birth of Jesus the Christ.

One of the things that have been a part of my marking of the season is attending Christmas Eve candlelight service. This practice was sidelined the last few years either because there was no interest again by those surrounding me and/or my own interest was overshadowed by self pity and grief.

Christmas Eve 2008 will see a re-birth of that tradition even if I have to go alone (and I know I will not be). A United Church of Canada congregation in Calgary, Alberta will have one more candle lit in gratitude for the blessings that have been mine.

The candle that I will light this year will be for the blessing of family.

Being family was not an experience that was always pleasant or meaningful for me. However, there was a period of my life when I had a glimpse of the possibilities and the downside of being family. And despite the latter – the dysfunctions of the family unit that I witnessed – there remain something in me that wanted to have a larger experience.

“Be careful what you wish for,” is a maxim that I am very familiar with and it proved true again for me in a whirlwind fashion this past couple weeks.

It all happened on Face Book where I got this message from a beautiful black woman in Australia basically telling me that we must be cousins. She shared a bit of her story after I accepted her message and the windows to a new landscape opened wide!

The long and short of my Christmas story is through my newly found Australian cousin, B, I found my father’s family who I have not seen or been in touch with for 30 years.

B had made ‘friends’ on Face Book with a young man in New York whose name is T. Esterine. His name jogged my memory that my late father had a brother with the same name. I told this to B and she asked him and then sadly told me “No, Claudette, he is only 30 years old so he cannot be your uncle.” She then added “but I am sure you guys are related too so he wants you to add him as a friend on your Face Book page.”

Hesitantly I did and that is when my world turned! Not only is T my cousin, being the child of the T that I remembered, he told me that my only half-brother was alive and well. Then he proceeded to give me the telephone numbers for my grandmother, aunts and uncles!

In a flash, I was no longer an only child without a real connection to any one else related to me by blood – well except for my mother and daughter. Through Face Book I found my paternal grandmother, seven aunts and uncles, approximately 15 first cousins and 20+ second cousins!

Totally overwhelmed by the ‘find’, I called A, my daughter, and shared the news and she was ecstatic. Before I knew it, she was connected to T and on the phone to her great grandmother - Ma! There is no shyness in that child of mine.

Honestly, I am somewhat terrified about opening myself to such a large community of people – blood family – who I thought either did not want anything to do with me or just simply forgot about me.

Yet, the bigger part of me – my heart – has me checking out the cost of springtime flights to New York. My daughter is right when she said that we need to get to New York before Ma makes her transition. However, before that I need to make some long distance calls in a few days.

So, who could ask for more at Christmas? Certainly not me and not with the full replica of my mother's best Jamaican spread, including my famous Jamaican Christmas Fruit Cake, that will be laid on our Christmas table this year.

My heart is warmed to boiling by hearing that my father’s family has not only been looking for me all these years but is waiting for my call as that will make their Christmas. Finally, I am truly home!

I thank you God and I pray for your richest blessings this and every Christmas for my other family - you my friends, supporters, cheerleaders and readers of Comforting Words.

Merry Christmas!

Claudette

A Different Kind of Giving

2008-11-30T16:42:00.006-07:00

I often do not have a clue what the topic of my next post will be. There is no list of ideas that I can just go to and retrieve a story. Life is the source of my posts – that of others, friends or strangers or my own.

With Christmas fast approaching, however, I thought for sure there would be a post wishing all my friends a happy holiday. The advertisements on the television and radio have been ramped up and now in any commercial break almost all the ads have a Christmas focus.

Given the much talked about recession and even potential of a depression in the economies of the world, Robert and I have more or less made the decision to limit our spending for the season. So the ads, while wonderful, have not found a receptive audience in my household of two (humans), except for one.

In the radio version of the ad a woman, later identified as a mother, can be heard giving instructions how to make the perfect bed out of the back seats of a SUV of some type. In the television version, a mother is seen putting her daughter to bed with a bedtime story and a kiss, promising her that when morning comes she will be ready for anything. She reaches up and turns off the light, then the camera zooms out and you see that they are in an SUV parked on a dark road.

Both mothers and their children are homeless this Christmas. By the images and the diction they are clearly not drug or some other type of addicts or floozies. You cannot tell whether they are married or living common-law with a man or a woman. However, it is clear that these are middle class women who had to choose between a home and abuse.

Probably these ads resonate with me because I have been there a couple times in my own journey and not so long ago. I think, however, they caused me to pause because I know for sure that this Christmas too many women will be making that choice.

If the ‘experts’ are correct and this recession sets in the people who will suffer the most will be women and children. This has always been the sad reality of the world we live in where the most vulnerable to homelessness and/or abuse are children, seniors and women – quite possibly in that order. In same-gender relationships, it is the partner who, as a friend of mine states, “Speaks the loudest and wield the biggest economic stick,” that keeps the house.

At our engagement party in September, Robert and I asked our many friends who celebrated with us not to give us any more gifts. Almost everyone in attendance had brought us something – in addition to the blessing of their presence. This was quite unexpected and we requested that no further gifting be done – at least not to us.

We asked our friends and well-wishers to make donations in our honour to charity organizations, specifically to women’s shelters. This is what I would also implore you to do this Christmas - give a different kind of gift.

Write a cheque or pack a box with some non-perishable food items or clothing – it does not have to be a large one – and take it to the local shelter providing a room for women, children, seniors, gays and lesbians who might have to make the choice between a home and abuse this Christmas.

Is that not what Christmas is about – a person being born in a manger as there was no room in the inn for his parents who were running away from a tyrant?

Whether you believe in the Christian story or not, did the story of this homeless child not change or impact many lives for over 2,000 years?

Think about it and write the cheque early to ensure that the next homeless child, woman, senior, gay or straight, has a room for at least a night. You never know whose life this person might change and it might not take 2,000 years.

Blessings,

Claudette

Come Wednesday

2008-11-02T17:04:00.003-07:00

I have one of the best bosses there ever is and I have not had the pleasure of saying that very often in my working life.

He knows his stuff but is not pushy about it or feels a need to prove anything to anyone. We have had honest conversations about expectations on both sides. He is not the type to bank his compliments waiting for a special day to say “Good job!”

The thing I probably like about him most is his sense of humour. No, he is no jackass or clown but as I sit in my cozy office daily I can hear his deep throat laughter along the corridor. Laughter is an important part of our day given the environment in which we work and my boss encourages it.

His laugh was equally deep and honest a few weeks ago when I said to him, “M, I am either taking Tuesday or Wednesday off to watch and/or recover from my vigil.”

No questions were necessary as he knew exactly what I was talking about. Earlier in October he had jokingly threatened to call Immigration Canada and report me as a bogus Canadian citizen as I was more concerned about the US Election than the Canadian one.

Fun and joke aside, I am sure come Wednesday, November 5, whatever happens at the polls in the United States, I will be suffering from withdrawal. For the last several months, since the primaries, night and day has found me switching from CNN to MSNBC to follow Barack Obama’s progress.

Yes, I paid some attention to John McCain’s campaign, particularly when he named Sarah Palin as his running mate! Actually, I thought I would have had a coronary attack when I heard her speak at the Republican convention but that soon changed when Tina Fey of Saturday Night Live fame got a hold of that character.

As I have said before, my interest (one might say extreme interest) has as much to do with race as with hope.

It is important to say that even before it was clear that Obama was entering the race, my support of Hillary Clinton was tentative. In his days, Bill Clinton was an interesting President to me as an outsider looking on; however, he never captured my imagination. Neither did the possibility of a woman, namely Hillary Clinton and worse yet Sarah Palin, being the President of the so-called free world.

When I visit a church, the thing that grabs and keeps (or loses) my attention is the sermon. The music is also important but it is the inspirational words of the pastor that holds me. And by inspiration I am not referring to the Pollyanna philosophies.

The ability to speak to the realities of common folks - the joy, the struggles, the dreams and the sacrifices – in a way that calls us to keep on keeping on is what inspires me. As is often said, “To speak truth to power,” and to shine the light of hope on the many dark corners of our lives is inspiring to me.

It is my firm belief that words matter. Words can be creative or destructive. I know this for sure as I have had a few words come out of my own mouth that has done both. Words of others have brought me to the precipice and the words of others that brought me back.

I and many like me want leaders, whether they are preachers or politicians, teachers or doctors, bosses or spouses, who inspire us to become the best human beings we can be. And how else can they do that but through words?

Barack Obama does that for me – a non-American but a citizen of the world that his country influences in every way.

Does is race have anything to do with it? Yes and no.

Recent news of him having an aunt living illegally in the United States, his bi-racial upbringing, his father who went missing in action like so many black fathers (in the US and in Jamaica) has done are some of the ways his racial experiences intertwine with his politics.

For me politics is personal. Obama the politician in my view is shaped by Barack the bi-racial child raised by a single Caucasian mother, who struggled to keep food on the table, put herself and her children through school.

There is no doubt in my mind that many were the times that Obama’s mother would have had to “speak truth,” and whisper softly to her bi-racial child. She clearly spoke truth to power as she reportedly died fighting with the healthcare system and insurance companies.

This is not a quasi-biography of Obama’s life on my part. This is my story in many ways. It is the story of many around the world. A minority who is raised by a single parent, who is struggling economically but who knew that education is key and fought to the best of their ability for you to access it.

This is the story of African-Americans, Caribbean, African, Asian, Hispanic, Caucasian, Native American and all people who were born without a spoon in their mouths – neither gold nor silver.

It is this common history and experience that glues me to the television. And there I will remain until the wee hours of Wednesday morning if necessary.

Does this mean Obama gets a free pass? No he does not. In fact, as always, the standard is even higher for him as a person of colour.

Of course he might fail to do all that he promises and proposes. Would that mean the people of the United States made a mistake in electing a black man? Many might say they did if he fails as a President but the more discerning will recognize that race has nothing to do with ability and competence – President George W. Bush proved that.

What the election of Barack Obama would mean to those of us looking on is that the United States is answering a higher call. In my opinion, this is the most important election in the history of the United States in recent times. A President Obama would signal to the world that the US is now ready to move beyond itself and truly lead the global village.

It is a pivotal time for not only race-relations in the United States but the relationship between that country and the rest of the world.

Come Wednesday, November 5, 2008 win, lose or draw, I will get my life back. On that day, I will return to the pool and lose the pounds that I gained biting my nails on my couch for the past several months. Then I will see my boss M on Thursday (LOL).

Bon chance Barack!

She (and I) is Not Going To The Back Of The Bus!

2008-10-20T19:32:00.004-06:00

Few are the speeches that has truly moved me and this clip is one of them.

I was equally moved - into a state of shock - today by a young man's comment, betting that a President Obama will be assassinated. This was a black Canadian who in his misguided pomposity seem to think that bigotry and hatred exists only in the United States.

I beg to defer...as only today I had occasion to literally stare down the hate-filled gaze of a white supremacist right here in Canada!

So, while in the following clip Donna Brazille speaks about the US Presidential election and the sad history of racism in that country - her point(s) is relevant to people of colour across the world.

In fact, it is relevant to everyone one - no matter the skin colour.

Do watch, listen and absorb:

Aging, Marriage and the US Elections

2008-09-21T13:46:00.018-06:00

My skin has been itching so much that I began to wonder whether my two dogs had contacted fleas – somehow – and passed it on to me.

I say somehow as it has been a while since they have been out in the grass for a good long run. My work and commute schedule is as such – all of twelve hours a day – that by the time I get home at nights all I want to do is plop on my couch and catch up with the United States election campaign. Once caught up, I haul myself to bed for a few hours before the alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m.

After spraying the dogs, the couch and in fact the entire condo with ‘flea and tick spray’, although my brain was telling me that that was not the issue, the itching moved to my head.

Looking at my almost bloodied fingers after what felt like 10 minutes of intense digging of my scalp, it was clear to me that something bigger than fleas was my trouble.

“Hey,” I said to the nurse at work, “you must know this…what can I do to stop tearing my skin off?” She had this amused look on her face as I pulled up my sleeves and raised the end of my skirt to show her my arms and legs. Just before I ripped the blouse off my back to expose my red skin, she laughed and said, “It’s dry skin my dear.”

Dry skin? No it could not be that simple, after all I use Dove Pro-Age Skin Cream on a daily basis. Furthermore, my scalp felt like it was peeling off too and I also use Dove Pro-Age Conditioner everyday!

My nurse-colleague stuck to her prognosis, saying that the air in southern Alberta is much drier than in Edmonton, particularly in the valleys where I work, and so my skin was drying out. Her advice to me was to lather my body with cream immediately after a shower and that should relieve the problem.

“What about my head?” I thought.

I knew she was probably right – that the weather conditions had something to do with it but I was not entirely convinced. After all I spend 7 – 8 hours a day in the valley, commute there five days a week and spent the other 2 days in Calgary. Nevertheless, I tried her suggestion and for a few days felt some relief.

Then I noticed something else. And the truth finally sunk in.

My body, my skin is aging.

This recognition hit me in the same place where my most inspired ideas always do – in the shower. As I reached forward to regulate the water pelting me, the truth of my itching crisis dawned on me.

Years ago, a senior citizen who hated to be called that shared that her doctor had told her to stop or reduce the amount of hot water she used when showering. She also had to change her bath soap to goat milk soap as her skin was too ’mature’ to process the perfumes, etc of regular soaps.

At almost half her age, 43, my own skin was going through the ‘maturing’ phase. Mid-life is proving to be quite a handful – and hard on the pockets. Now, not only am I dealing with the mid-life spread of my tummy, my skin is shriveling before my eyes.

I guess this is the type of thing that causes mid-life crisis in some but for me it is another curve ball to deal with. And I am not going to rush out to buy a basket full of anti-aging products – what’s the point. Age we must. Youth is totally over-rated.

In the words of Marya Mannes, author of More in Anger,

“the process of maturing is an art to be learned, an effort to be sustained. By the age of fifty you have made yourself what you are, and if it is good, it is better than your youth.”

Marriage

As my skin dries and my investment in Dove Pro-Age Skin Cream doubles, my hair grays, my battle with 'the spread of the midriff' rages on, in other words as my maturing process deepens, Robert asked me to marry him.

Why would he want to do that? There are so many young, smart, thin women out there who would be very attracted to what he has to offer. Why me?

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met – inside and out,” he declares.

I could not help but remember this poem that counsels women to “Find A Guy Who Calls You are Beautiful Instead of Hot,” that was shared with me while I was dating. At first read, you might think it was written by some loser who could not get a date much less someone for a long-term commitment.

Upon second or thirtieth read, if you are like me, you begin to realize the greater point of this poem. I have been married and/or in long term relationships that were brought about by the notion of ‘hotness’. What I have come to learn at the end of relationships formed on this basis is that when the fire ebbs, it takes great inner strength to rekindle it.

After the huffing and puffing – is there material for a conversation? Is there strength of personality, character and wisdom to cope with the long, cold and very dark (winter) nights? Do you know and like the person who you are enough to be happy in your own company? Can you smile without reason, smile without the help of a drink, smile at the sound of your lover’s snores? Is caring for your neighbours something important to both of you – be it with money, a kind word or a shoulder to lean on in time of trouble? Can you talk through your differences without ill-will and harbouring of resentments the next morning?

These are but a few of the test of ‘meaningful’ as far as I am concerned. To hear Robert say that to him I am beautiful “inside and out” – is heart stopping as it means finally I have found someone who does not need me to hide my light.

I knew that I would say “yes,” looking down from the podium into his proud eyes as I give a speech; as I caught those green eyes looking back at me across the room as he interacted with a transgender woman; as I heard him saying he would make a 5-hour drive to see my daughter through her crisis.

What the last 28 years of challenges, turmoil and even despair has taught me about marriage, as Joseph Barth notes, “is [my] last, best chance to grow up.”

The U.S. Elections

Speaking of growing up, if you are like me and glued to the television every day and checking CNN.com every chance you get to see what is the news about the Presidential Campaign in the United States, you will recognize that the States is in another growth phase in its history.

And I am not talking here only about the historic nature of Barrack Obama’s candidacy or even Sarah Palin’s. While those are important milestones, as well as Hilary Clinton’s run in the Primaries, the real growth has to do with the choices facing that country.

Here we have what is often described as the most powerful country in the world challenged by two wars on its hands, the most serious meltdown of its economy since the Great Depression and a rapid diminishing of its influence in the world.

The decisions facing the US electorate are not unlike those aging (or maturing) women like I have to deal with on a daily basis in different aspects of our lives.

As the glory days of our youth rapidly recede into the past and we do battle (wars) with our teenage/young adult children (India and China) and try to fully capture our place on the economic sphere, i.e., careers, retirement funds, health care, the landscape changes.

It is no longer okay to approach life with a “business as usual” attitude. We have to adapt to new technologies and the fact that those we consider out juniors (India, China, Russia) are gaining strength, have a modified vision of the future and are not shy about letting their voices be heard.

As maturing people, we can either reject these ‘newbies’ out of hand, yet realizing that times are changing we try to present our arguments with the help of Pro-Age Skin Cream (Palin). Or, we can embrace the changes; negotiate our place at the table as we work with the new kids on the block to shape this new world.

Whether Obama is the best voice for change and hope in this new world I do not portend to know for sure. What is obvious to me though is that the US is maturing (aging) in terms of its influence and status in the world.

And like me, no amount of moisturizer is going to turn back the hands of time. Neither is dressing up in mini-skirts and daubing my face in make-up going to fool anyone that I am not fast approaching 50 – which is what John McCain seem to be wanting to do with his choice of Sarah Palin as his running mate.

What is clear is that on November 4, 2008 the world will have a clear sign as to whether the United States will be a gracious or a vicious old lady.

Blessings,

Claudette

The Internal GPS

2008-08-10T12:33:00.008-06:00

Geography was not my favourite subject in school and the result has been that to this day I am directionally challenged.

I cannot read a map to save my life – something that has caused me to drive around in circles for hours many a times since moving to Calgary.

More worried than fed up – although I am sure some frustration was involved – Robert decided to help me ‘find my way’ and lower his own blood pressure each day I drive alone to work.

Last weekend, my dear one presented me with a Sony Nav-U83T, which is a Global Positioning System (GPS). Robert is into gadgets and so just any GPS would not do.

This little thingy not only maps my route but it speaks to me, it has Blue Tooth so it connects to my cell phone enabling me to make hands-free telephone calls, it gives me traffic information and it re-configures my route should I ignore its instructions and take a differing turn. One of the greatest things about it is wherever I am; Robert has programmed it so that it will “take me home!”

Since mounting my Sony Nav-U (I still have to name her) in my car, I must say that my daily 3-hour commute to work and my trips around Calgary have been so pleasant and I have been getting home before midnight!

Another thing we did this past weekend, other than playing with this latest gadget, was attend the annual conference of Affirm United in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

I was invited back in 2006 to be one of the keynote speakers at this Conference. I was tempted on several occasions to decline the formal invitation when it arrived in early 2007.

There were so many changes in my life; I was lost in the geography of the land of Singledom and not sure whether I had anything relevant anymore to say to this group. I felt as though I had lost my voice and my fire.

Fortunately, at least for me, I did not decline the invitation; however, two weeks before the event I was unsure about the direction I would take in my presentations.

While I knew the theme, "Welcome at the Edges", and there was even titles for my talks printed in the conference brochures, I had no real direction for what I was going to say to this group of leaders and friends of LGBTQ people affiliated to the United Church of Canada.

Only yesterday, a week after my presentations, as I punched in the address of the establishment that I needed to find on my Sony Nav-U did I realize how I found my voice, my location so to speak, to deliver the two presentations at that Conference.

More importantly, what I realized also was that we all have an internal GPS and it is activated through prayer.

A few days before our flight to Saskatoon, I was still unsure how to approach these presentations so I prayed for guidance fearing that I was going to embarrass myself and Robert who had taken time off work to be there.

It was a Sunday and I had decided to go church shopping. My plan was to visit a downtown United Church that I had found on the Internet. It had caught my attention after almost giving up my search because I could not find a congregation that had images of people looking like me or people who I wish to serve.

A few hours after my prayer and after almost getting myself killed turning on the wrong road which turned out to be railway tracks, I sat in the ancient walls and got the answer to my prayer.

It was in the reading of the day, Corinthians 13: 1 – 6

“If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; It does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.”

That passage became the basis of my talks to a group of people trying to locate themselves in an every changing world – people who are themselves marginalized but trying to reach out to others who are similarly oppressed, albeit for different reasons.

To many it might sound corny but what I have come to learn is that Love is the GPS we all need to tap into and navigate our way through this journey called life.

Had anyone told me in October – December 2006 that I would be standing here today, happy and looking forward to what the second half of my life has to bring, I would have told them they were nuts.

I would have been very wrong in accusing my many friends, who in fact told me that, of insanity.

I recall the words on a note my woman-friend Anni and I found in her late mother’s home a few years ago:

“I have come to learn, that it is Love not time that heals.”

Oh so true are those words!

When we are lost, not sure where to go or what to do next, Love is the Global Positioning System needed.

Love is what led Robert to gift me the Sony Nav-U – love of me and love of his peace of mind that I would get home safely.

Love is what brought me to this point and place in my own journey.

And it was Love that brought Robert and me together – two marginalized and wounded people – in the dance of our lives.

Love will lead my LGBTQ friends of Affirm United as they walk to the edges to celebrate the lives of those living there.

Love will heal all wounds and lead us home -- as Oprah says, I know this for sure because I am living proof!

So as I continue to enjoy my Sony Nav-U, I am even more grateful that with a prayer Love will and is here to guide me.

Blessings,

Claudette

Peace at Last!

2008-06-22T09:54:00.024-06:00

A month is long enough to settle and it has been just over that since my last post.

There is no special reason why I have not written, at least, on Comforting Words as I have been on my next favourite place every day sometimes even twice per day. That place is Facebook – but that is another story.

Anyone who has every left a job and had to participate in an exit interview knows that that can be a mixed bag. The exit interview I had with the “head honcho” at the institution I left in April to move to southern Alberta was, to say the least, unremarkable. Except for one question, it is as if the conversation did not happen.

That one question, however, and my response to it were anticipatory to my coming across this quote from an unknown author:

“Having spent the better part of my life trying either to relive the past or experience the future before it arrives, I have come to believe that in between these two extremes is peace.”

What a concept! Peace.

A bond that tied my last supervisor (at least one of them) and I was the fact that we thrived on chaos. After a ‘crisis’ on the unit where we worked, we would often look at each other and smile. When it first happened I was not so sure what it meant other than “phew, that was something!”

One day we got to talking about our lives and we both quickly realized that we smiled in recognition that what seemed as a ‘crisis’ was ‘normal’ for us. Our childhood and adolescent years, you see, were characterized by chaos and the daily drama was more impetus to our creativity rather than a damper to our spirit.

Things did not change much as we grew older and got into serious dating, got married or hooked up with long term partners. Our combined lives had so much chaos – the energy could power a category 5 hurricane!

So when this interviewer asked me whether I was fearful or had any doubts about moving away from Edmonton, Alberta – the city that I had began to call home after almost six years living there – my immediate response was “no.”

As I have written here – I love moving. In addition to that, I told her that I was in fact viewing the move as severing the last string that tied me to a past that had died so quickly and violently (emotionally).

This move signified freedom from the ghosts that refused to leave the stage of my life, lingering insidiously, trying unsuccessfully to bring me down to a level I was way beyond.

Calgary, Alberta is commonly referred to as “cow town” by their not so loving northern neighbours in Edmonton. I have been here over a month now and have yet to see either cows or wranglers on the streets. We are a couple weeks away from the famous – at least in Western Canada – Calgary Stampede and I suspect that will be my first encounter with the ranch hands and their livestock.

Truth be told – I love living here!

There are several reasons for that not least of which is I “see myself” every day without having to go to a specialty store or some ghetto-like area.

Statistically, the visible minority population is about the same as Edmonton – maybe even less in some categories. Maybe it is the side of town that we chose to live but I just seem to see more people of African descent on a daily basis than I ever did in Edmonton. And no, we do not live on the side of the city that is known for its “ethnic” population and there are those.

That might seem strange to some of you, that ‘seeing me’ is such a big thing but when you live in a country where one ethnic group forms the majority and wield all the power and privilege then you would understand.

The other reason I like living here, a part from the fact that we have a really nice condo, is that Calgary is so close to the mountains and British Columbia, it is fairly close to the United States border, and the types of recreational activities that I enjoy.

I found that in Edmonton, aside from the so-called cultural and other festivals, the cinemas and the world's largest, the enormous
West Edmonton Mall – there was little to do that did not include being inebriated. This is not to say that there are no drunkards in Calgary but I just do not feel that it is my only option other than shopping.

Last week, Robert and I took a day trip to Banff, Alberta – one of my favourite places in western Canada. It took us less than 90 minutes to get there. We got there in time for lunch, walked around, did a little touristy shopping and had supper after spending a wonderful day under the snow capped Rocky Mountains.

It was on the drive back from Banff that this strange feeling washed over me. It is one I had been feeling – in varying degrees of intensity – but could not name it. As we drove home, Robert said to me “look over there!” I turned in the direction he was pointing and saw what seemed to me to be one of the brightest and most brilliant rainbows I ever seen.

Peace! I am at peace for the first time in my 43 years.

I have a life worth living – always did but never realized until I almost lost it a couple years ago.

I have a beautiful daughter who is doing her best to become the woman she is meant to be.

I have a home – finally – that is not characterized by fear and negativity.

I have a career – a second one – that came to me by ‘accident’ but has all the components I prayed for – helping people in difficult circumstances to redefine and create a live that they consider worth living. And I am paid very well to do what I love!

When my previous relationship ended and I was lost, my spiritual advisors reminded me that I should write out, ask the Universe for what I need in all aspects of my life. I did a medicine wheel, making my requests known to the Master Mind in the four areas of life – Physical, Emotional, Mental and Spiritual.

In terms of relationship, I prayed for someone who had fully experienced life in these 4 areas. I prayed for someone who had been knocked down by life (as I had been several times), who had to pick themselves up, scrape themselves off the wall and start over.

This person would be scarred but not scared; bruised but not bitter; knows what it feels like to be betrayed to the point that they are utterly faithful and so in love with hope that they, without thinking, extended their hands and heart to others.

I think I have found the one. We are still learning each other, sometimes slowly, sometimes with passionate feelings and discourse but always with honesty, openness and love.

Calgary has come to mean so much to me – a new life, a fresh start, a path to financial liberty but more so a place where Peace has become my roommate!

Is it not wonderful to wake up each day, knowing that you are going to help at least one person before the evening sun? Is it not awesome to know that whatever may go awry in your life on any given day, there is such trust and open communication in your relationship that all is and will be well indeed!

I think it is the greatest thing in life to go to bed at sundown with a clear conscience – no matter how much money is or is not in your bank account – knowing that you caused no harm. And if you did, you were big enough to say “I am sorry.”

I dearly miss my few friends – Anni and the boys – who are still in Edmonton. We still speak frequently and they are on my telephone list of 'favs’ which allows me to talk as long as we want without thought of cost. In fact, one couple also moved to Calgary and another one might soon be on the way!

Marie Louise De Le Ramee wrote, “Could we see when and where we are to meet again, we would be more tender when we bid our friends goodbye.”

Goodbye Edmonton and I wish you all well who sojourned with me. I thank, bless and love you for giving me the space to take one step closer to being who I am becoming.

Blessings,

Claudette

Pray It Forward

2008-05-10T21:15:00.005-06:00

I had not planned on writing before settling down in Calgary but as the saying goes “the only thing that is constant is change.”

Hold up in a hotel room in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan for two weeks now with one more to go, I was bored to tears. I am here, en route to Calgary, participating in training for the position I have been promoted to and will assume in a couple of weeks.

Robert left a couple days ago returning to Edmonton to oversee the moving of our belongings. He came out here to provide chauffeur services as my 3-week training was interrupted by my having to appear in court back in Edmonton last Tuesday.

I was at first angry at having to do the 10 hours of driving that was involved. However, recognizing that I had to fulfill my civic duty, Robert made the 1000+ kilometer trip twice to get me to court and back to Saskatoon. What a man!

Now spending my second weekend in Saskatoon and again on my own I was at a lost as to what to do. Earlier today I was complaining in text messages to Robert how there is not much to do. Edmonton is often referred to as “Deadmonton” but Saskatoon is a killer!

In one of those messages I confessed to Robert that I was just now feeling the after effect of my court appearance. One of his many sage advices to me was to write a post, having learned in a short time how cathartic writing is for me.

So here I am writing but it was not primarily due to Robert’s suggestion. Two things prompted me to write – an email and a movie.

This was not the first time I was watching “Pay It Forward,” however, my previous viewings were always interrupted. When I saw the promotions for it and with my full agenda (ha-ha) for the day, I made a note of the time and set my alarm to ensure that I did not miss it.

Some of the details of “Pay It Forward,” were new to me but the bottom-line I clearly remembered – ‘be kind’, ‘do random acts of kindness’, and ‘look out for each other’.

As with the previous viewings, I cried at the end when the 7th grade hero, Trevor, was murdered by a similarly aged school mate as he went to the aid of a classmate who was being bullied.

Still tearful, I went to my computer to check email – another one of the fun activities on my ‘To Do’ list for this day. And there it was – my second motivation to write.

Using a fictitious name, the sender simply typed in the subject line “Good riddance Bitch.”

My breath caught momentarily at the venom and hatred that was embodied in this email. I did what I had to do to track the message and then closed the programme.

Why? Why do we feel a need to hurt each other? Why was this message necessary?

These were some of the questions in my mind as I thought about this email and the sender. Clearly they are happy at the news of my leaving Edmonton, Alberta but should that not have been enough? Why was it necessary to try to spread their venom?

Human nature is so strange. I should know because I am one and through my career I daily witness what hatred, maliciousness and self-loathing does to my sisters and brothers of all stripes.

My dogs, Angello and Marley, must have sensed the emotions that I was wrestling to control and both jumped up on our temporary bed and snuggled beside me.

They paid it forward. Their actions reminded me to stop and pray.

Sometimes that is all we need to do to “pray it forward.” Pray for those who would wish or cause us harm. Pray when you feel like causing harm or even retaliating.

And so I pray – for blessings and love for my friends – old and new. I pray for my loved ones – near and far, and I pray for would be enemies that they may find peace.

One more week in Saskatoon and on to my new life in Calgary!

Walk good all of you until then.

Blessings,

Claudette

Making Room in Our Lives

2008-04-20T07:54:00.006-06:00

This might sound weird but I have to say I love moving.

As a child and over the years my family has changed places of residence so many times that I look forward to the “newness” that comes with relocating. The thought of decorating a new place gives me a rush that others get from substances or fast cars.

Similarly to those seeking a rush from these other activities I spend on my brand of excitement. My favourite purchases are mats, rugs and sometimes even appliances to match the new décor – not to mention the bathroom stuff! I am notorious for buying things for the bathroom.

So here I am again in 2008 in the final throes of preparing for my next move. This time although not crossing any oceans or seas, the move will take me a fair distance away from my daughter and the place that I have just started to think of as home – from Edmonton to Calgary, Alberta.

For someone who has moved twice on the same street in less than two years you would think that this latest move would cause no pain.

Wrong!

On Friday amidst 6 blue recycling bags bursting to their seams with papers that I accumulated over the last several years; papers that now seem useless the tears were rolling down my face.

Unlike other moves, this one is easy in terms of the physical labour. Regular readers will recall the ‘adventures’ of a not so recent move of mine when a con artist of a moving man left my family and I stranded. Well this move will not require me to either personally hire movers or even pack anything really – unless I have a deep desire to do the latter myself.

This time around as it is work that is taking me away to another city, my employer is arranging (and paying for) everything – from contracting the movers to the packing and unpacking of my delicates – if I am so inclined.

Despite the challenge of moving away from my almost 21 year old baby girl, I am still able to recognize the upside of moving. One of these is – and something that I would highly recommend and wish I would do without the moving – the chance it gives you to de-clutter.

No matter how often I move there always seem to be an abundance of junk that I have accumulated – mostly paper and trinkets. I love to collect paper and hate to throw it out. Every meeting, every office, every event that I attend and they have scribbling on a piece of paper I will collect it and take it home for some future reference that rarely ever happens.

On the rare occasion that I do go through my files, drawers, old suitcases or storage containers to de-clutter without having to move, I will find a reason to keep every scrap of paper. It takes a monumental reason for me to part with that important phrase that I wrote on a hand-out at a retreat 10 years ago.

That reason is usually moving and particularly moving into a place of great distance, such as when we left Jamaica for Canada almost 6 years ago. Hence on Friday as I went through the last couple of suitcases I was re-reading and having a hard time deciding to throw out journals, letters and handouts from 2000 – and even some of Abigail’s exercise books from Grade 2!

My emotional response to de-cluttering is real as I was parting with more than paper – it was the letting go of the physical memory that each scrap held that was challenging. The fact that I could not simply go back whenever I wanted to and pull out a box and relive times past was what hurt. It felt like I was saying good bye to old friends.

However, now that the apartment is cleared of the unnecessary clutter and even of significant pieces of furniture that held memories that it was time to let go the pain has gone. This is precisely what de-cluttering one’s space does – it literally frees up space and more importantly it also frees up your energy.

Usually once I get past the clinging and all the ‘stuff’ is gone to the dump, like the truckload that I dispatched on Saturday morning, a feeling of exhilaration overtakes me. Yes, there is some fear of what life in this new place and city will bring; fear about being all of 3 hours drive away for my baby girl and some anxiety about my new job.

Yet, there is much more space in my life right now – space for new experiences, new memories and even new growing pains. Truth be told you do not have to wait to physically move to experience this openness. A literal and/or mental de-cluttering can and ought to be done once we begin to feel bogged down with ‘stuff’ that threaten to cut natural breathing off.

There is a saying – “Nature abhors a vacuum,” and what it means is wherever there is space it will automatically be filled and it will be filled with what your heart desires.

Therefore two things one need to do are (1) always be making space in your life – literally and metaphorically empty yourself. Secondly, be careful what you wish for as that new space will be filled with your true desires (not the ones you tell people, the ones you hold in secret).

Creating space can be hard for some. It takes either a swift kick or that big relocation for the stubborn ones to let go of the clutter. What I have learned and therefore can advice is that when your kick or move appears - do not resist but embrace the pain of saying good bye to your treasure trove of junk.

The ‘rush’ that you will experience from being opened up and with room for more and seeing how the Universe (or Nature) will fill that space is worth it!

I know this for sure because I am living it now.

Blessings until I get to Calgary!

Claudette

Work It!

2008-03-30T09:22:00.011-06:00

Years ago I heard this phrase and it evoked mixed feelings in me.

“It works if you work it!”

The cynic in me at the time thought it was just one of those things that people say to feel good. I was supported in this thought by my then partner who scoffed every time it was said or I brought home a piece of reading material that made reference to the idea.

However, after my first months as a regular attendant at the Universal Centre of Truth for Better Living in Kingston, Jamaica back in 2000 the idea “it works if you work it,” started to make sense to me on all levels.

Johnnie Coleman, founder and then head of the parent church – Universal Foundation for Better Living – was credited with espousing this idea. Several publications were, and probably still are available, with her testimonies as to how she worked “it.”

Initially, I was not too sure what the ‘it’ was. It took several months of literally sitting at the feet of the senior minister, Reverend Sheila McKeithen, and a woman who would later become not only my Bible teacher but mentor and woman-friend – Reverend Dr. Phyllis Green.

What these women, and others over time, taught me was basically what has become a fad for some in the last couple of years.

The Secret – was no secret to me by the time it was on Oprah. The Law of Attraction – the basic principle of The Secret is what Reverends McKeithen and Green taught me. The ‘it’ I learned was the law of “what you think about, you bring about.”

Ever since learning that principle, I have tried to be mindful of my thoughts (a Buddhist approach to life that I also learnt at this Christian church). My rate of success varied from dismal to overwhelmingly wonderful.

Many a stories I could tell about my ‘working’ the principle, not least of which would be how I got my permanent resident status to Canada against what then seemed like insurmountable odds. All I will say is that that was the first time two years after learning the principle that I was spooked!

For almost 8 years now I have continued “working it,” and it has never failed me.

Even in those moments when my life experiences could not seem more horrible – I was working it. You see, it is true that what you think about you bring about. Maybe it would be better to say whatever you think about – healthy or unhealthy – it will most certainly be your experience. I have proven and continue to prove that.

On the night of December 31, 2006 into the morning of January 1, 2007 I decided to do a collage. Being a somewhat visual learner, making a collage of my goals and desires for the New Year was my way of focusing my thoughts on a picture of new life for myself.

Regular readers might easily recognize this period as the first festive season after the traumatic and devastating end of my then 16-year relationship. While most people were out partying, I was at home literally struggling to make sense of my life. How to reconstruct a future from the heap of rumble that I was in the midst of was the biggest question facing me.

With limited reasoning ability, a weakened physical state having lost over 30+ pounds in less than two months and emotionally and mentally broken, by December 2006 I was slowly beginning to turn my full attention to the teachings of my spiritual reawakening for guidance.

Visualization is a major part of ‘working’ the Law of Attraction and so early the morning of January 1, 2007 I had a poster board and all the ‘O” and Chatelaine magazines in my house spread out on my bed.

I, my health, a home, a career, friendships, travelling and relationships were the main themes for me. I cut and pasted every picture and word that resonated with these parts of my life that I wanted to rebuild and/or nurture.

Fast forward to December 31, 2007 and I was doing the same thing – ‘working’ the Law of Attraction. I took down the collage I had made a year before and reviewed my journey in 2007.

Some things had manifested among which were:
• I was experiencing the best state of health in over 14 years. I am diabetic, have thyroid disease and have struggled with my eating habits (rather addiction) for most of my life but particularly throughout the years of my then relationship. By December 2007, my doctor was saying that my sugar levels remained the best ever in 17 years!

• I had ‘accidentally’ landed into a career path that would have been my last prediction. Prior to migrating to Canada, I had decided that after 10 years in communications and marketing it was no longer the path for me. My sense was that ministry, particularly spiritual counseling was what I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing. So soon after ‘settling’ in my new country, I entered that stream by enrolling for my second Master’s degree in Theological Studies. However by January 2007, Life was leading me to deeper involvement in the criminal justice system with a semi-permanent job at a women’s correctional facility!

• With a break up you lose relationships and even communities. This was probably the hardest part for me – saying goodbye to people who had played a role in my life over the years and to fairly new friendships. What I received in their stead however was a core group of friends who had encircled me during what was the most emotionally challenging period of my life. Those people – women, men, gay, straight and in-between – wiped my tears and kicked my butt through 2007 and for them I am most grateful.

As I reviewed my 2007 collage, I realized that there were things that were still outstanding and even with those that had manifested additional ‘working’ was necessary. So I decided not to re-invent the wheel but refine the collage for 2008.

Though not as spooked as I was back in 2002 when my visa was ‘miraculously’ delivered 4 days after I was told it would take at least 9 more months, the manifestations to date remain awesome.

Not only have I continued to remain in good health, my friendships continue to deepen and widen and my career is taking me to unanticipated places. Over the last few months, I have travelled to a few cities across Canada both on work related training and for my volunteer positions.

Some of the most notable manifestations have been the major improvement in my relationship with my mother, the level and depth of self-love and healing that has occurred within me and the beauty of my personal space.

Possibly the most ‘spooky’ manifestations have been the appearance of Robert in my life and the new job that I will assume next month (April 2008) that will have me moving from Edmonton, Alberta. What is breath-taking about these (and all of the others manifestations) is the ease with which they came once I stopped obsessing about them and surrendered to the Higher Power.

Those who have read or seen the DVD of “The Secret” will understand that this “it” – the Law of Attraction – does not require any religious conviction but only a belief and an understanding that whatever you focus on – consciously or unconsciously – will be your experience.

For too long, I like many of you have lived my life unconsciously, believing that my experiences and the manifestation in my life were the luck of the draw. Nothing could be further from the truth.

There are truly no accidents in life – even the abuse that I have endured. This is probably the most challenging aspect of the Law for many people. I know it was for me – understanding and accepting that all the forms of abuse that occurred in my life were learning moments for the journey.

What I have come to learn is that 'choice' – my power to choose – is what makes the difference. I could choose to focus on the anguish and hurt that occurred in my life or I could choose to acknowledge and accept that harm was done to me and then use the experience as fodder for my growth.

That is a hard lesson to learn – no doubt about it. The last column in Oprah’s magazine is entitled “What I Know for Sure,” and what I do know for sure, after years of experimenting is “It works if you work it.”

Nothing I have written here – and at any time – is meant to brag, boast or proselytize. Explaining her mission, Reverend McKeithen once said her role is to lay a buffet, with all the teachings she has learned and invite us all to the table. It was our choice to take what we wanted and leave the rest.

As Reverend McKeithen modeled for me, I too am merely setting a table with my experiences. Take what you will. My only addendum is that I honestly believe in personal testimonies and this is mine.

“It works if you work it!”

Blessings,

Claudette

Meet Marley

2008-03-02T19:19:00.037-07:00

I know this might seem silly but who cares!

After a leisurely morning and breakfast, Robert and I decided to drive out to Bruderheim, a small town about an hour outside of Edmonton to meet Angello's children.

Regular readers will recall the story about Angello's first and only encounter.

Well that produced 4 offsprings - three girls and one boy.

The deal with my friend, the gentle giant whose name incidentally is also Robert, was that the pick of the litter would be mine. "If you decide not to keep it, then you will get whatever amount of money it's sold for," Robert assured me.

At the time of making this deal, I had mixed feelings about whether to keep my pup or sell it. "The money would be nice," I thought, given how much I had recently paid and continue to pay for medical/veterinary care for Angello.

Abigail, my daughter, from the outset thought I should keep the pup. In fact, she toyed with the idea of taking one herself but quickly realised that she could not - her apartment does not allow pets and she really is not up to the responsibility.

As the mother went into labour, the gentle giant called me. "Sapphire is having puppies," he declared. For the next 5 - 7 hours, I called every hour on the hour, just as I did the day Angello was trying to get the deed done.

After the first two were born, I declared to my friend, "the third one is mine."

Well fate would have it that the third was not only a male but the only one in the litter. To top it off, of the four pups the mother finally delivered, the third was the only one that totally resembled Angello!

In that moment I knew my boy was not for sale.

Few weeks passed and my career path begun to take a curve - with the possibility of me moving to another town increasing. Robert and I have been discussing the implications of this on our relationship - some days practically and on other days emotionally charged.

With things still up in the air - "living in the grey" I like to call it - we decided to drive out this afternoon to see the dogs.

Just as it was 8 years ago with his Dad, once I laid eyes on him I knew that he was coming home with me - wherever that will end up being.

Robert obviously felt the same way as he took so many pictures and was cooing over him (and the others) like he is the Dad!

On the drive home we talked about names. I had come up with Junior - got it? Angello Junior? Abigail did not think it so cool a name and Robert shared her opinion.

So I allowed myself to be overruled and Robert named him Marley. His argument for that is that the pup is part Jamaican and that name is almost synonymous with my country of origin. Please forgive him - he's fully Canadian but he's cute :)

Meet Marley. He is cute too.

Life is good and miracles do happen.

And we are going shopping for the puppy next week :)

Blessings,

Claudette

How I Love Him!

2008-02-25T18:43:00.012-07:00

It has been awhile.

Over a month and I have not written a word much less a post for this blog.

Blame this on the man.

No, no. Not the one I am dating.

Yes, I am officially and exclusively (at least for now) dating someone – a guy who came into my life just after I gave up!

Is it not strange how the Universe works? The moment you surrender, the thing you were seeking the most appears.

The Universe also has this incredible sense of humour. Sometimes I wonder if God is a comedian!

The moment I wrote and declared that I was done with the man-thing and certainly frustrated with the fallacy of the dating scene, not only did the Universe produce someone for me but he came with the same surname as my ex partner!

Yes, it is true – the same surname and born the same month. The silver lining though is that he is a Sagittarian – one of the most compatible signs for an Aquarian (me).

Anyhow, that is not the man who has caused me to not write for a month. Barack Obama is the cause of that.

At first I was all into the woman-thing, in more ways than one, supporting Hillary Clinton. However, my virtual vote swung the more I listened to Obama. The deal was sealed when my current date sent me the full “Yes, We Can,” speech.

Now Robert, yes that is his name, and I are glued to the television every debate and primary night doing our own analysis. Honestly, if there was a way for us to legally vote – we would go down to our neighbours in the South and cast ours.

My reason for being so excited by the idea of Obama really has nothing to do with his African heritage, although the historical significance of it is not lost on me.

I am supporting Obama for the sense of hope; those words and big ideas that make even me at a distance feel the energy of “Yes, We Can.”

Looking back on the trajectory of my life – it is exactly Hope that has taken me this far and that wakes me up every morning. There were days when giving up felt the easiest thing to do but through the Hope of others – what they saw in me – I made it through.

Many are skeptical about this word but the power of Hope is undeniable.

Recently Oprah Winfrey named to her Book Club a title that I bought on sale months ago for Cdn$6.99. “A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life’s Purpose,” by Ekhart Tolle. The book attracted me not because of the obviously devalued tag but I was very familiar with the author’s work, namely his book “The Power of Now.”

The book is not an easy read. The concepts embodied in it most certainly will be scoffed at by many. Actually, nothing that is written in the book is new, however, like Obama’s words of hope and inspiration, this book is an invitation to become the best human beings we can be.

Just over a week ago, I celebrated my 43rd birthday, in the company of close friends. As they ate and drank, I said a silent prayer of thanks for those in the room and those not present who, through their words, their deep sense of hope and their willingness went an extra hundred miles with me. It was on the back of their Hope that I won the struggle to re-create myself.

I also said thanks for Robert who appeared when least expected and who challenges me and who is willing to be challenged to become - as Bishop Spong best describes it – "fully human."

However the Obama’s race for the presidency turns out or however long or short my relationship (it feels wonderfully strange to be using that word in this context) lasts is unimportant.

Every day as I watch him on television, I say thank you God for people like Barrack Obama and my friends who, through their willingness to stand and be counted, are helping to awaken the young, the old and the in-between disenfranchised, marginalized, hurting and disillusioned people – like I once was – to Hope and dream again.

Yes, We Can indeed!

Blessings,

Claudette

Photograph courtesy of Anni’s camera :) Finally, readers get to put a face to the name of my woman-friend who has been beside me through good times and growing times.

DOF 5: Sex on My Mind

2008-01-23T09:38:00.000-07:00

I really should be packing at this time or at least reading the book sent to me in preparation for the meetings.

Since last night, I have been trying to rally myself to focus on the things I need to do in order to catch my red eye flight to Toronto and be reasonably intelligent at the 4-day long meeting I am attending.

My list of to do’s look something like this:
 Get Angello stuff together to take him to the kennel
 Do some laundry to have enough clothes to take with me (I am one of those persons who pack for every minute of the day when going on a trip!)
 Read at least the highlighted chapters of the book the meeting planners sent to you
 Water the plants and fill up the fountain
 Call Dr. B and make sure he remembers to pick up Angello from the kennel as scheduled
 Change email notification at work so that people know you are away for a few days and not waiting for responses from you
 Start packing so that there is no last minute rush

Well, it is now Wednesday morning and except for calling Dr. B, everything else will be done on the fly!

Why am I procrastinating? That is not my usual style but I have other things on my mind, give me a break.

What could be so important that all these very urgent things are left undone?

Sex.

I have sex on my mind.

This all started with a smile last week. Well, actually the smiles have been coming for a couple weeks now but only last week I smiled back. And now, my ‘to do’ list is getting shafted as sex has taken over my focus.

Three of my friends upon reading this post will be laughing but will also know what this is all about as I called them to get their opinion on – sex.

Let me explain.

Regular readers know that I have been doing a series on Dating Over Forty – DOF I like to call it. My interest in doing this series, which started at the prompting of my man-friend Lance, really has to do with my continuing commitment to share my journey. If sharing my story helps one – I am way satisfied.

Speaking of satisfied let me get back to the main point – sex.

So here I am a woman DOF, who is using all the available resources that allow someone of my age and newly single to get back into the dating scene. Being totally averse to the bar and club scenes, the internet has been a valuable resource for me –so too have been a couple friends who have been trying to hook me up.

Now at forty, with a 20 year old daughter, have travelled a fair portion of the world, been through ‘stuff’ – both healthy and not so healthy – divorced and ‘dumped’ – I have been around the block a few times one could safely say.

Therefore imagine my surprise when I received this smile and finally decided to smile back only to later learn that the individual do not believe in sex outside of marriage!

Being as I am truly practicing not being judgmental – lest I be judged – I put aside my immediate reaction which was “You f….. liar! That’s just a nice line to get l… .” Yes, unfortunately, my vocabularly is limited sometimes and my place of employment has helped to colour it even further :(

All non-judgmental I pursued the conversation, only to find that the individual was serious! Themselves over 40 years old, divorced with kids, this person seriously wanted to date for whatever period, then marry and only after marriage have sex. I asked, “Are you serious,” probably sounding like some randy sl.. but who cared? I could not believe what I was hearing.

“Yes, I stand on the biblical teachings on this issue!” was the forceful response I got. This stumped me even further as the individual had only minutes before listened to my entire life story – gore and all – and said they were cool with my journey. It just was not making sense to me.

How can you be such a biblically righteous person and be cool with a woman whose journey included rape, battering, pre-martial sex, same-sex relationship and consensual sex outside of marriage, yet would hold a hard-line (pun intended) on fornication?

I quickly ended the conversation, saying “Okay, I have to go now, talk to you later,” and for the rest of the day played this conversation over and over in my head. That is how sex got a hold of my mind.

By the following day, I came to my conclusion but wanting to ensure that I was not being judgmental or ‘out to lunch’ about this issue, I decided to check in with three persons.

The first one thought the individual might be impotent and wanted to trap someone in marriage before they figured that out. The second, Anni, after she picked herself off the floor, thought that this was a religious nut who wants to convert me so was saying the right things about my past but let the proverbial cat out of the bag when it came right down to it. And the third, my gentle giant R., thought this was a ploy – to sound like a nice person and then there would be hell to pay when Jezebel (me) got them into bed before marriage!

Bottom line was – all my ‘consultants’ agreed that this was one person to run from as fast as I could. I loved what Anni said – “You are no goddamn teenager! That’s something an 18 year old would say but for a woman of our age that’s ludicrous!”

Is it really? Is fornication such a silly notion in the year 2008?

I thought about it – hence my luggage still not being packed and the plants dying from thirst – trying hard to find some merit in this person’s position. My conclusion is, Anni is right. Fornication or to be more politically correct – not engaging in pre-marital sex might be a value we need to instill in our children and young people. Actually, let me adjust that statement somewhat.

Pre-commitment sex is the real issue. Regular readers know my love and adoration for Bishop John Shelby Spong. I have read all his books, met him in person twice and have his autograph – am I a fan or what? The first of his books that I read was a life-saver for me.

“Living in Sin: A Bishop Rethinks Human Sexuality,” saved me from the years of condemnation and feelings of shame that I had inflicted on myself – as society had judged me or told me that I was unclean, worthless and not pure.

It was not my fault that since the age of two I was the target of male fantasy to have sex with a minor. Neither was it my fault that a man thought it okay to rape me – as I was his property. But try telling that to a teenager and worse yet, try convincing an adult who has lived all of her life feeling this way.

And so for years, even while in a long-term relationship, I silently lived with the shame and guilt – afraid to share the pain that I was going through even with my dearest because I felt no one would really understand…and in fact even my closest really did not.

The healing process started for me when I read that book of Bishop Spong and his understanding of sexuality and sex within a committed relationship. That healing deepened when I was able to sit across from him (back in Jamaica) and in less than 15minutes poured out my desire to be a spiritualcounsellor but the shame I felt about my past. His words to me placed me squarely on the path that I now trod.

Sex only after marriage does not guarantee a successful marriage. The divorce statistics prove that. Equally, sex before marriage (or even before a true bond and commitment has developed) – consensual or otherwise – changes the nature of the relationship and brings challenges with it.

I do agree that sex is not the be all and end all of any relationship and therefore whether one continues to engage in a particular relationship should not be determined solely on the basis of sex. But I also agree that sex without commitment is merely lust and involvements started on that basis will not end in a long-lasting and committed relationship.

That is what I eventually shared with this individual. I sat at my computer and did what I do best – I wrote a long email explaining my position that:
(1) I have no desire, at this point in time or in the near future, to get married to anyone regardless of the gender;
(2) we are sexual beings and sexuality is part of our DNA and therefore it would be hard for me (and for anyone) to deny and repress such an essential part of their ‘beingness’;
(3) having ‘been around the block,’ as many times as I have, asking me to either not express who I am at my core for someone who I truly care for and love would be the real sin.

As Anni said, I (nor you DOF’s) are not teenagers, although one have to wonder about some of us. I think I can differentiate between lust and when two people have spent time really getting to know each, time and effrot getting in touch with each others deepest feelings and emotions, and based on those things make a commitment to share the journey for however long life allows.

I received a equally long reply, filled with biblical quotes of judgment and condemnation. The ‘pus’ [cat] was let out of the bag finally! I had a good laugh and then thought – this has to be written; this is Part 5 of the DOF series!

Now I am going to throw a few pieces of clothing in a bag ( I will not be making any fashion statements on this trip :), put the book I should have read weeks ago in my hand luggage to read on the flight tonight and go to Toronto and pretend to be wise (ha-ha).

Blessings,

Claudette

Photos as usual are courtesy of Renato

DOF 4: A Woman with a Past

2008-01-13T12:18:00.001-07:00

Torn between getting dressed and going to the grocery store or writing this post – my final decision is obvious.

It is another Sunday morning that I woke up to … not another human face on the pillow next to me -- Angello, my dog.

If he was not sick and slowly leaving my life this scenario would probably be depressing. Who wants to wake up to a dog every darn morning?

As a child growing up in Kingston, Jamaica, on a couple of occasions I heard a particular song by the National Folk Singers. At the time the significance of the words did not truly resonate with me – now it is a totally different story.

All the words of this folk song escape me now – the vital ones I recall: “Before me go married and go hug up mango tree…mi’, mi’ will live so mi’ one!”

Despite the seeming ‘sadness’ of my waking up to my dog – as the song says – it is much preferably to being ‘married’ and unhappy!

I have both a tendency and a propensity to read several books at the same time and right now I am going through three:
1. Something More: Excavating Your Authentic Self by Sarah Ban Breathnach
2. The Mastery of Love by Don Miguel Ruiz
3. The 8th Habit: From Effectiveness to Greatness by Stephen R. Covey
The first two I am reading maybe for the third or fourth time but this is my first read of Covey’s latest.

All three books have a common theme – one that I recognize as applicable to the single life.

Once upon a time – I hope – it was an horrible thing to be single. Women over a certain age (20) without a partner (read as man) were considered ‘spinsters’ – what an awful word!

Until the advent of the pill and the subsequent sexual revolution – a woman of my age (40+) and status (single, divorced or widowed) would be put out to roost.

It is the fact that this has not only changed but women like myself, especially those of us who are DOF’s (Dating Over Forty) are now celebrated that makes me so excited by Breathnach’s book – to the point of recommending it (and her other one – Simple Abundance that I also read about thrice) to all women and even men.

The entire book, a collection of essays, is a treat but it was the one on “Becoming a Woman with a Past,” that had me saying “Amen, Alleluia!”

I am a Woman with a Past and so is every one of you who have survived life challenges – in their various forms. Breathnach writes: “There is nothing more alluring, intriguing, and romantic than being perceived as a woman with a past. Except, of course, knowing that you are one, which makes you glorious. Magnificent. Powerful."

I love it! The thought and more so the knowledge that I am (and you are) a Woman with a Past is so empowering it is almost scary. In fact, it is scary for many who you meet as a woman DOF. Well, that has been my experience at least.

Potential dates do not know what the hell to make of you as a Woman with a Past! What do you do or say to a woman (or man for that matter) that enters a room knowing that she is glorious, magnificent and powerful – wounds and all?

My experience has been varied – in person, on the phone or through internet dating sites. However, several things are common. And this is where Ruiz book comes in. He calls what others do – those who do not know what to do with you – as shooting their poisoned arrows at you. They try to change you in some way or another, from their place of fear and brokenness – although they would never admit this.

“You are too this; you are too that; you shouldn’t say this; you should be like that,” are just some of the things they will shoot at you to convince you that you have no right to be glorious, magnificent or powerful.

Ruiz advice to you/me – Women with Pasts – is “you have to accept yourself and love yourself just the way you are. You are what you are, and that is all you are. You don’t need to pretend to be something else.”

Over the last few months of my stepping out as a DOF, there have been so many opportunities for me to fall back into the old trap – distrusting who I am meant to be. As a single person on the proverbial market, everyone wants to have a piece of you – in more ways than one.

I remember a minister back in Jamaica saying that if you give everyone a piece of you – what will you have left for yourself? “Nothing,” would be my response. Dating Over Forty does not have to be compromising yourself and who you have grown up to be – absolutely not.

In fact the opposite is true. It is your past and who you have become that has probably made you single in the first place but it is also what has made you a priceless commodity.

My lesson in this regard is – do not sell yourself short! Do not settle – because you wake up to your dog on a fine, relatively warm for January Sunday morning!

Covey’s book is written largely with a management focus in mind; however, as he himself noted, the principles can and ought to be applied to daily living and relationships. I am reading this one slowly because of this comprehensive approach – figuring out how to “walk” these principles in all areas of my new life.

One point that grabbed me by the short and curlies had to do with expressing one’s voice. Covey teaches that you must find your own voice – meaning your own style of expressing your uniqueness – then help others to do the same.

Part of being able to do this is living by your conscience – you know that still small voice in all of us that whispers to you when you are supporting life or destroying it. This is what Covey wrote:

“People who do not live by their conscience will not experience …internal integrity and peace of mind. They will find their ego attempting to control relationships. Even though they might pretend or feign kindness and empathy from time to time, they will use subtle forms of manipulation and will even go so far as to engage in kind but dictatorial behaviours.”

Reading this, I first had to admit to myself – “been there, done that.” After releasing the negative energy of being in that place and asking for forgiveness, I was then able to see how this played out and continue to play out in my life now. Actually, less so now than before as I am able to ‘suss’ out those people who have tried to enter my space in recent months whose true purpose was to test my will to become the best human being that I can be.

As a Woman with a Past and one who is DOF (or man, never forget that it applies to both genders), you have to be so attentive to these “players,” I like to call them. Their talk is sweet. They pretend as if they have it all together and that you are a nincompoop because you speak your truth openly and without hesitation. Their wish would be that you just do as they say or recommend because they have ‘stuff’ and you do not.

My question to them has been – “Who told you that I want to be a mini-you?”

And so, my wish for all Women with Pasts (and men) is that as we continue to date, we never let go of who we are.

Quoting again from Breathnach and extensively so to close this post:
“…Authentic success is something much, much more…” than surviving the betrayal of someone loved and trusted.

“Authentic success is …. Surviving the betrayal of someone you loathed and tormented. Yourself.”

How do we stop betraying ourselves – even as we try to date?

“By stopping it, that’s how, just stopping it. Today. By praying right this moment for the courage to learn how to transform the self-loathing into loving every day through your passionate choices.”

My passionate choice is to be the glorious, magnificent and powerful Me.

What’s yours?

Blessings,

Claudette

Works Cited:

Breathnach, Sarah Ban: Something More: Excavating Your Authentic Self, 323 – 325
Covey, Stephen: The 8th Habit: From Effectiveness to Greatness, 82
Ruiz, Don Miguel: The Mastery of Love, 81

Photographs, as usual, courtesy of Renato

Resolution 2008: Living Your Best Life

2007-12-29T11:04:00.000-07:00

There was a time in my life when going out to get that special dress or pants suit for New Year’s Eve night was a must do.

Until I made a bonfire out of them, my bag of photographs (yes, we did not get around to filling albums) held many pictures of me with my ex at New Year’s Eve parties with our dearest friends. No, I only burnt the ones with her in them – it might sound sad but it certainly was cathartic!

My memory also goes back to what I now like to call my Russian Years – when New Year’s Eve night was the longest of the year.

Every other night we had a curfew – 11:00 p.m. At that bewitching hour, unless you knew the “Commandant,” (the keeper of the gate) you slept wherever night caught you and prayed to God that you were not found out.

New Year’s Eve night was different, however, as there was no curfew, no Commandant coming to check whether you had girls, boys and/or liquor in your room and the partying was wild, loud and, well, really wild.

For every New Year, like people across the world I would imagine, we would make resolutions – “I resolve to lose weight, to stop smoking, to quit drinking, to …something that takes the pleasure out of my existence!” These noble declarations were soon forgotten once the hangover kicked in.

The folly of making resolutions continued nevertheless well past my Russian Years and into my life as a mother and lover in a long-term relationship.

Some of the most popular resolutions for me were to make more money, pay all my bills on time and take control of my diabetes. My then partner’s one and only resolution was to lose weight – even when she was not overweight at least in my eyes. (Yes, that’s my African blood speaking – I love my partner to have meat on her body.)

Needless to say, by the middle of the year, the resolutions were long forgotten or when they did cross your mind it was with a “oh yes, I did say that didn’t I?”

Now on the brink of 43 and with 2008 only days away, one of the dear women with whom I work asked me a couple nights ago as we swapped life stories, “So Claudette what’s your New Year’s resolutions gonna be?”

Smiling has become second nature to me – a smile comes to my face so easily now, even when someone is attempting to be rude to me. There is a story there – the short version is how my daughter and I smilingly (she has learned the art well) confronted racism in a well known department store in Edmonton, leaving the woman stunned. She must have thought – where did these Amazon-height women came from?

Racism – in any of its manifestation is not something I put up with and thankfully my Abigail is learning to recognize when she is being treated with disdain because of her skin colour and how to address it without losing her dignity – smilingly that is.

This is all connected to my response to the woman’s question about my resolutions for 2008. She had told me what some of her resolutions were – including the usual culprits of weight, exercise and smoking.

I know she thought I had missed the point – or probably in one of my “chaplain” moments when I told her what my resolutions are.

Excusing myself, I went to my office and returned with a copy of a poem that has come to be a guiding principle for me. I watched her as she read it – not for the first time – and as her eyes filled with tears. She looked up at me and asked, “But how do you practically do this Claudette?”

“Easy,” I said, “think of your child, your daughter.”
You see, like me this particular woman has a daughter (in fact most of the women that I work with have children) and my advice to them – one that I remind myself of all the time – is always think whether your action is something you would want your child(ren) to replicate.

“Would I be proud of my daughter should she repeat my actions?” I most certainly was that day in the store when she calmly walked up to the sales clerk and opened her purse and said, “See, there is nothing in my purse,” and strode off – all 5’ 11” of her!

So, what’s this poem that I shared? It is not new to regular readers as I have posted it before. Yet, it is new if you have not made it a part of your life, your living, your way of being in the world. And that is my resolution for 2008 – to take these words and walk them:

A strong woman works out every day to keep her body in shape…
But a woman of strength kneels in prayer to keep her soul in shape…

A strong woman isn’t afraid of anything…..
But a woman of strength shows courage in the midst of her fear….

A strong woman won’t let anyone get the best of her…
But the woman of strength gives the best of herself to everyone…

A strong woman makes the mistakes and avoids the same in the future…
A woman of strength realizes life’s mistakes can also be the Creator’s blessings and capitalizes on them….

A strong woman walks sure footed…
But a woman of strength knows the Creator will catch her if she falls

A strong woman wears a look of confidence on her face…
But a woman of strength wears grace….

A strong woman has faith she is strong enough for the journey…
But a woman of strength has faith that it is in the journey, that she will become strong.

For 2008, as I embrace being single, being a Canadian and all that means, being a woman of colour and of Jamaican-African heritage living in the Diaspora, being a lesbian, being a professional and becoming a human being with a heart so cracked and bruised yet wide open, those words are my resolve.

In short, in 2008, I resolve to:

Take care of my body, the temple of the Living God, as I pray without ceasing.

Be still and know that the Divine has my back, even when my knees have gone to putty.

Keep giving with a smile, even when others think they pulled one over me.

Pick myself up and brush myself off and learn to read the signs – the life lessons – and proceed to the next class with grace.

Never stop growing, learning and most of all, loving – no matter what.

Just a couple nights ago, in a telephone conversation with a wonderful woman – one with a lot of the attributes that I hope to find in a partner eventually – told me that I am too sensitive. There was a time when that would hurt me tremendously and cause me to try to be tough.

However, now I recognize that being labelled “sensitive,” is one of those things that patriarchy has done to women and it is a label that I personally have re-captured to my benefit. And so, when told this (by a woman ironically) it did not phase me in the least. Statements like that have not had that effect on me for a little while now. Why?

Because it is the truth; of course I am sensitive. I am sensitive to my pain and that of others. I am sensitive to kindness and its opposite – evil (the absence of good). I am sensitive to what is helpful and life-giving and what is soul-destroying. I am extremely sensitive to truth, honesty and lies.

The fact is whether one is considered “too” sensitive is really a matter of what the person who is doing the labelling has in their hearts. The Bible states and I paraphrase: “Guard your hearts because from it flow the issues of your life.”

In 2008, it is my resolve to be a Woman of Strength/Strong Woman - with an open and sensitive heart.

In 2008, I intend to be sensitive – to God’s calling of my name, to my brothers and sisters journey – the pain and joy therein, to love knocking on my door and to the doors that I must knock on to give the only true gift – unconditional love.

In 2008, I will be walking the talk at full speed.

I resolve to live my best life in 2008 so that my daughter may have a blueprint for her own life!

I really invite those of you who would like to try some New Year’s resolutions that are truly life-changing to join me. Maybe we can keep an online journal of our success – notice I did not say progress but success. I will think of something and share that in the New Year.

This is Divine work – nothing but success is guaranteed.

Have a Happy New Year’s Eve night - in your ball gowns or tuxedos (that’s for my butch sistas’) or, like me, in your pyjamas!

Blessings,

Claudette & Angello (woof)

Blue What?

2007-12-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

My head is pounding. Sleep has not been an option for me two nights now.

No, I have not been out shopping all night at the 24-hours stores, albeit that is exciting developments in Edmonton, Alberta.

Just five years ago that would be unheard of – stores opening beyond 9:00 p.m., but Walmart has started a trend this Christmas and many retailers have followed along.

Which leads me to the question – the perennial question – how many people really care about the traditions of Christmas? Does it really matter anymore that this is a religious holiday season – marking the birth of a man who by his living transformed what was the then traditional practice of religion?

Some people actually hate the season – not because of the consumerism that has captured its spirit but because of the memories and reminders that it holds for them. Elvis Prestley, I believe it was him, describes their sentiment with his song “Blue Christmas,” or whatever the title.

A year ago, I knew and shared their feelings.

It was a first time experience for me as Christmas has always been “the most wonderful time of the year,” even when my mother was baking tin ham (go figure) because she could not afford to buy the picnic ham. All my conscious life, until my 41st year, Christmas was a time that I eagerly anticipated. It was when I had freedom in my mother’s kitchen to practice my culinary skills – to varying degrees of success.

Christmas 2006 was a different story. I wrote a very baleful post back then, one that rivaled Elvis’ or any other crooner’s most sorrow-filled Christmas song.

Who was it that said, “The only constant is change?” Whoever made such an insightful statement should be awarded a prize!

They were? It was well deserved then - as I am here to say that that observation is absolutely true. I have been into testifying lately – not that I have not become a Pentecostal or something of the sort – but I strongly believe that stories that witness to the goodness in and of life ought to be shared.

Change is the only constant. That can and is a frightening thought for many. It certainly was one for me last year – to the point that I did not want to have another – thought that is.

Over an early supper today, I told my woman-friend Anni that the words her late mother wrote on a piece of paper we found in her apartment came to me today as I reflected on this week last year.

Anni’s mother had written, in short, and I had copied in one of my 2006 journals - “I have come to learn that it is not time but love that heals.” The full meaning of those words came home to me today as I reflected on this week last year.

Just a side note here – it has served me well to journal and later re-read my journals. This helps me to see the recurring themes and patterns, see where situations that “were meant for evil, God meant for good,” have played out in my experience and to get back on track or re-focus my energies on “what matters.”

So what has changed this week? What is different this year from last? And, equally important, how has Love been healing my life?

Approaching Christmas 2007, I can gratefully report that:
 My beautiful daughter and I (her equally beautiful mother) were sworn in as Canadian citizens on December 18. This after a mysterious (and probably mischievous) delay, which, along with other secrets, I was able to uncover after several phone calls and clicks of buttons.

 After many arguments, frustration and consternation, my daughter Abigail has this month completed her Diploma and, even better, was hired on the 9th day of her practicum by the hospital where she was placed!

 I am healthy, growing from strength to strength each day. Psychologically I am free from the pills that although they helped me to regain my perspective, somewhat diminished my intellectual capacity. Today, after two sleepless nights of studying laws, policies, and regulations, I sat a knowledge test that, if I am successful at the other two stages of the process, will see me moving into a position of greater responsibility, with more challenges and intensity. Whether this happens is not the main issue however. What is more important is the fact that I am ready to take back my intellectual power, finish my thesis/paper for my second Master’s degree and get my life back on the academic track that I had mapped out since I was 10 years old – which is the attainment of my Doctorate.

 Spiritually, while I continue to be supported by my amazingly wonderful Spiritual Director (God bless her) – I have also found a new church home, still within the United Church of Canada. Additionally, my social justice work continues within this Church and I was recently informed of my appointment to serve for three years on a task group basically on interculturalism within that organization. This is along with my assuming the chairmanship in 2008 of an organization that serves black peoples.

 I now have a vote!! That was the most exciting thing for me about becoming a Canadian citizen my ability to exercise my franchise in the next election. The larger intention is that some time in the near future, given that this is a free, democratic and inclusive country – as a woman of colour and openly of a different sexual orientation, with liberal spiritual beliefs and practices, I will be running for political office.

 Economically, although things can always be better – for the first time in my adult years I feel as if I am truly making it! I live alone – booted out the roommate months ago - and I love it. Actually, this will be topic of my next article in the DOF series – “Single and Loving it!”

 Angello is still alive!

As the saying goes – “I am too blessed to be stressed,” – no blue Christmas for me. Yes, I will be sitting alone in the pew on Christmas Eve night. And yes, it will breakfast for one Christmas morning 2007 – but it will be ackee and saltfish with ham cuttings and fried dumplings, why would I want anything more?

I am alive, I am well and all is well! Thanks be to God! So, I wish you all, my friends and readers, a wonderful Christmas.

If for a moment you forget the true meaning of the season, the birth of the one who came to give life, then just remember the people I will be with on the evening of Christmas (yes, I volunteered to go to work), remember the homeless and remember those who, like me last year, feel so alone, afraid and abandoned and wished they were not alive.

Merry Christmas! You will hear from me before the New Year – that is a promise.

Blessings,

Claudette

RenatoGandia Photos

Don't Stress

2007-12-16T10:33:00.000-07:00

“From the mouth of babes…,” the Bible says and even though physically one may not be able to describe my daughter, Abigail who is now 20 years old, a ‘babe’ (unless you are referring to her “hotness”) wisdom indeed pours out of her mouth.

Take the latest piece of advice she gave me as we spoke on Messenger early this fine Sunday morning (yes, I am totally into this virtual world – with various messaging applications, Facebook, skype – you name it, I will get it!).

We had spent the previous day enjoying our favourite mother/daughter activities – shopping and making more Christmas cakes. It was late when we were done and as we bundled up to go into the cold for me to transport her home, she noticed for the first time what I have been telling her about my/our dog Angello.

Side bar: There has always been confusion about who is the true owner of Angello – the Shi Tzu/Pomeranian cross dog that my ex purchased for me over seven years ago. We had another Shit Tzu – Betty – who I had purchased for my ex some three or so years prior to that. That’s a funny story – the purchase of Betty.

I was driving home from our office – we ran a small and growing public relations firm back then – and came to a halt behind a garbage truck. I noticed a brown and white ‘thing’ hanging through the window and curiosity got the better of me. So I swung out and pulled up beside the truck and realized it was a mangy looking shaggy hair all in knots dog.

Without a second thought, I shouted up to the driver who was holding this thing, “how much do you want for it?” We wheeled and dealed and 15 minutes later, he was driving away with my cheque and I with the flee-filled “thing” on my front seat. I will never, never forget the look on my ex’s face when I presented the flea bag to her!

Betty was with us for a few years and she got mixed reactions from me. I never owned a pet in my life – much less one that lived in the house! However, she and my ex were like peas in a pod and yes, there were moments when that relationship seemed unnatural to me – I readily confess.

Then one day, Betty was gone – stolen in a swoop by thieves who swept through the neighbourhood where we had recently purchased our house. My ex was so heartbroken; she swore we would never have another dog. And we did not for years.

Until Angello and according to my ex, he was mine. She actually wanted to name him “A Fi Yuh It,” translation: “He’s Yours," as she wanted to feel no attachment to him and I guess that was her way of getting me to train him how to be a well behaved dog. Well that plan failed.

Abigail pretended at first to be nonchalant about this dog – until she realized that she could score ‘dates’ by walking him through the neigbourhood. She was right. Her first boyfriend was as a result of Angello’s cuteness.

As for my ex – she could not resist his charm and those big black eyes. Cool as she pretended to be towards him, like her late Dad, you could hear (and see if you approached quietly enough) her romping away like a child with Angello when she thought no one was looking - it was hilarious!

When the time came for us to leave for Canada – there was no question in my mind that Angello was coming once I found out that he could. So, Angello is actually an immigrant to Canada – just like the rest of us in my ‘family. He was the one who settled fastest. The first day of snow, he was out in the yard, rolling in it like a pig in s..t.

Now he is dying. I am writing as I watch him sleep on my comforter and wonder as Abigail did a few minutes ago on Messenger, “is he in pain?” He seems not to be but his hind legs are weak and since last night I have had to lift him to go do his business.

Death might not come quickly. The vet told me only this past week during his 2-month follow-up that his type of kidney disease is rare and so even the specialist who he had referred to did not know how long my darling has to live. “It could only be months, Claudette.” I can see that clearly this morning.

I have sat many times with individuals making their transition into the next life during my Clinical Pastoral training and so my fear of death no longer exists. Hence I know what I am experiencing is not fear as I watch Angello prepare to go. I believe what I am experiencing is a deep sense of loss – one that has been going on since May 2006. That was the time my daughter moved out and my world started to spiral downward.

One after one, my most beloved ones have been leaving my life and Abigail’s advice –“Don’t stress,” is hard not to do. Her wisdom, however, challenges me to look at and for what’s entering my life along with these departures. As I do that I must admit “they are legions.”

Nevertheless, right in this moment, I am grieving for a life that I once knew as Angello makes his exit.

This is not the Christmas story that readers have expected or anticipated from me – that is coming. Right now, I just need to do what Melody Beattie wrote in her book, Journey to the Heart, and not ignore my brokenness and pain, instead gently hold my heart in my hand and caress the cracks as I continue to open it even wider.

That’s tough s..t ! (Sorry for the language, I will explain another day the impact of working in a prison on my vocabulary - ha-ha).

It is just as tough as my daughter’s sage advice not to stress. One decision I have made, however, is that one of those pups from Angello’s first and last sexual encounter is coming home to me.

Blessings to all you pet lovers from a late blooming one,

Claudette

DOF 3: Maintaining Your Friendships

2007-12-03T20:37:00.000-07:00

Where to start? There is so much to tell!

Driving my tired self over an hour late to work this morning – the day after the first Divas’ Christmas party – I had the story line down pat or so I thought. The voices inside my head were in a chattering mood!

They must know about the party!

You have to tell them the menu and that you cooked almost everything by yourself! What about the fact that you shopped, prepped the dishes, cleaned and decorated (even more) the apartment and laid out a spread over three days?

What about the DOF [Dating Over Forty] series?

Are you not going to tell them that it seems for sure the beautiful, intelligent, sassy woman you saw a couple times and finally got “the information” on also does ‘disappearing acts’?

And what about 'the shrink' who you keep declaring to ‘the boys that “we are just friends,” a statement they simply smirk at every time they see you two together?

Although not as ‘exciting’ as the other stories, you must share about “Divas for Kiva.”

It was -20 degrees and over 10 centimeters of snow was on the ground already with more coming down, making my ‘already very late’ drive to work that more dangerous. However, all that was on my ‘mind-screen’ was, as they call it in the media and advertising world, the ‘copy’ and headline of this post.

DOF 3: Maintaining Your Friendships

The title seems boring but it is one of the most important piece of advice that I wish someone had told me when I started dating “back in the day.” It is also the best piece of advice that I could ever share on this blog.

The Party

The Divas’ Party was a success! A flaming success I should say based on the comments and feedback about the food, my apartment, how well behaved Angello was since his sexual encounter, the games, the music and the cause.

Not everyone that I invited came. And that is to be expected at any event. Except for one of my boys who had to stay home to nurse his sick pup and a woman who changed my life’s path a few years ago, the absences, however, spoke volumes.

The food and the drinks were all Caribbean – well aside from the cheese board. Almost every Jamaican favourite you either know or every heard of was served.

I shopped and slaved over the stove for three days to ensure that my guests had the best my country of birth has to offer:
1. Ackee & Saltfish Tarts
2. Jamaica Beef Patties
3. Peppered Shrimp (better that how they make it in St. Elizabeth!)
4. Jamaican-style Vegetable Salad (with our version of vinaigrette)
5. Oxtail and Butter Beans
6. Curried Goat (and it was a ram because I could smell it!)
7. Ham (dressed with pineapples and cherries)
8. Rice & Peas
9. Escoveitched Fish
10. Fried Plaintains
11. Jamaica Christmas Cake with rum sauce

As for the drinks, hardly a drinker I did the Caribbean proud and made Pina Colada, Brown Cow (with Tia Maria of course), Rum Punch (with Jamaican Overproof White Rum!) and Sorrel.

If I may say so myself, the apartment was beautiful and as my woman-friend Anni gushed “it has a wonderful, warm feeling and energy...you have created a superb environment, Claudette.” And she was not drunk yet!

My fire place is actually fire engine red and it formed the backdrop of a very cozy and intimate setting – perfect for the most wonderful group of people I have ever had the privilege to journey alongside.

A Hint to Point #7

Which brings me to Point #7 of the DOF series – and in true Jamaican style – my advice is “nuh dash wey yuh friends fi nobody!” I will translate in a moment.

Years ago – it feels more like eons ago – as a student in the former Soviet Union I found that among my fellow country people there were few of us who really spoke the Russian very well. Lance and I were counted in that group. The reason this was so is that we never clung to the very small Jamaican community but stretched ourselves and made very good friends with our hosts.

Another thought that comes to mind is a recollection of something that the woman in the Canadian High Commission who handled our immigration papers said. It was a reminder of my ‘Russian years'. “Do not isolate yourself, it will take longer for you to truly settle if you do,” she advised.

I personally took that to heart and from day one started making friends – using that word loosely.

How to Make and Keep True Friends

After finding a place to live, unpacking, re-packing to move house again and unpacking there, it was I who found us – no let me correct that – it was I who found a church home for myself. It was one that my ex partner and daughter would occasionally visit, usually at my begging and pleading.

I volunteered with several organizations, joined community groups, was selected chair for a social justice committee at the college where I was pursuing my second Master degree, I went to seminars, political-type meetings etc. All of this between trying to make an decent living.

There is a popular or once popular phrase here – “I am Canadian,” and I walked (and continue to walk) that talk – daily and in my own style by meeting people, bringing them home, feeding them, ‘struggling or fighting’ with them or on their behalf, comforting or simply listening to them.

The Break-Up and the Break-Down

It was not until ‘the break up’ last year that I realized the impact of my actions.

With my feet over my head and my mind literally and metaphorically falling to pieces – some of these same people encircled and held me and rocked me as I wept.

Five, one with whom I can no longer physically journey, literally stopped me from killing myself. Anni I thank you – pissed as I was then, I now publicly thank you for calling the cops on me.

Then there was my dear senior citizen, Miss I, who scooped me out of a closet (literally) and took me to the doctor.

Marlene is another woman-friend I made here - one who I met a few months before my feet were swinging above my head in Toronto at a conference.

This is a funny story – she is Jamaican-Canadian and had seen my picture and a write up about me in a conference magazine and sought me out. We spent only a few hours together – maybe a day a most – but when she heard about my dilemma last year, at her expense, she jumped on a plane from Toronto to Edmonton and spent three (boring for her) weeks – cooking and coaxing me to eat.

There were the ones who are thousands of miles away but continued to be a part of my life. Zacca, Patti and Dr. Green – three phenomenal women who from a distance helped to nurture me back to wholeness.

One took care of my mother as I was lost in the wilderness, the other two stayed on the phone with me, for hours on end, when I thought I could not live one more day.

Another Jamaican-Canadian, Miss W in Toronto, is the woman-friend that I wanted to smack for reminding me about my bit of profundity about being in relationship with a woman. She was a rock of wisdom on which I would sit frequently.

Abigail – who most readers to now knew as “A” – is both my daughter and my friend. We have had our ups and downs. She has had her challenges with – as she was told by society – my lifestyle.

A more strong or courageous young woman I have never met. She has a mind of her own –and the panache to say, "Mummy, let’s move on,” without words. Yes – she does call me Mummy, even at 20!

My Boys

And last but not least – and I am sure there are people I have failed to mention but certainly have not forgotten their kindness – my boys.

How do I explain this group of men? How do I describe the love, nurture and care that I have received from a group of men (including Lance) that the wider society – both near and far – would scorn? Where do I start to express my deep love and gratitude to this group of culturally diverse men who have adopted me not only as their fag hag but as sister?

It struck me some time ago that it was the men of the LGBTQ community that I have identified with since being in Edmonton who rallied around me. The lesbians paid their ‘visits’ but left with hardly a glance backwards but the men, ‘my boys’, pitched tents in my life and quietly encouraged and cheered me back to wholeness.

Better than Money

What does any of this have to do with Diva Christmas parties, food and dating? Everything!

Last night, we paused for a few minutes at my request. I had something to say and things to give.

What I had to say was “thank you” to my friends for being my friends and for coming into my life and being brave to 'become even more human’ alongside me. I wanted to thank ‘the shrink’ for staying in my life – even though “we are just friends” ( I can hear the boys laughing as they read this).

During my numerous shopping expeditions for this party, I bought gift bags and filled them with ‘little stuff’ – nothing expensive. The party, the fact that it was the first, these party gifts and the hours it took me to cook were all part of my way of saying how thankful I am that these people – both present and excused – are a part of my life and journey.

Without them, I would either be dead or in a psych ward somewhere, and this is not b....ing, just a statement of fact, where my ex’s “exclusive” friend and probably lover told me in December 2006 that I should be.

It was literally because of my woman-friend, D Mc, the one who changed my life the minute I laid eyes on her and the person who is responsible for me serving at a prison today, that I ‘flew’ the coop of the psych ward.

She, and all of my friends, rescued me from a fate untold.

I see the "hands of God" in all of this as all these friends are wounded healers! Each one, including my daughter, has been, for one reason or another, criticized, judged and ruled ‘unworthy’ by others.

The Translation

That phrase, “nuh dash wey yuh friends fi nobody,” means do not throw (or abandon) your true friends – the ones who have stood the test of time and/or trial – for anyone, especially not for a lover (however you understand that word).

Many will come into your dating experience who will have much to say about your friends…run from them!

I did.

Over the last few months of dating, I have been told how unhealthy or unwise it is to:
 have the types of friendships that I have
 to cherish and go 100 extra miles with and for my friends
 to be with gay men so much

That list could go on.

There is another wonderful Jamaican saying – “Good friends, better than pocket money,” – over the last year I have proven that.

Had it not been for these people who I have named and the unnamed ones – no amount of money would or could have brought me to the place where I can testify, yes testify, that “by the Grace of God who appeared as these angels – I am well!” Thank you God! Thank you my friends!

A special thanks to Mark and Mark (yes, they are a couple and their names are/is Mark) for their Cdn$60.00 donation that will go to sponsor two persons at Kiva!

Blessings and in deep gratitude,

Claudette

P.S. Photographs, as usual, are Renato's. You can see more on my Facebook.

Let's Hear It For The Dogs

2007-11-27T23:14:00.000-07:00

My life is not boring – far from it.

Take this last weekend as an example. On Friday, what should have been a couple hours turned into all night shopping and unpacking with two of my boys. We were exiting Walmart at 11:30 p.m. laden with packages – most their’s – and then we headed to my apartment to install a surround sound system that they convinced me was the best buy.

My initial intention was to get a second hand something that would play my compact discs without too much garble – but I learnt my lesson, never attempt to make purchases in a pawn shop with two gay men! Now thanks to them, as you approach my apartment door you hear the blast from this system that I am still figuring out how to use!

Saturday was my lunch date – and that went exceptionally well. I impressed the lady with a lovely four course lunch that she is still talking about up to yesterday. Actually she spent some of her weekend trying to repeat my success with corn bread – but I am not giving up my recipe. The best part though is that by the time she was leaving I had all the information I needed – that was the deal. Stay tuned for more tips, namely on how to get the ‘full bill and receipt’ from a beautiful, highly intelligent and no-nonsense woman (or whatever is your flavour) in my continuing series of DOF.

Later that night, again in the company of some more of my boys, we went to Bright Nights, which is a huge park lit with magnificent displays of lighting for the Christmas season. The night ended at my place – with the boys devouring the leftover from my lunch date. Claudette does not know how to cook for two, so there was enough to feed three grown men and myself. We washed that down with two bottles of the best tasting wine I ever had, supplied by Dr. B.

Sunday morning was time for church. I have declared myself the fag hag – it is an endearing term for a woman who hangs out with gay men. It is particularly endearing if the men are as warm, caring and loving as my boys. We went church shopping as I have been on the market for a new church home. For months now I knew it was time to find one that will satisfy my spiritual needs and my peace of mind – a place where I belong without intrusions. I believe I was successful.

Later that afternoon, my daughter and I spent time doing what has become an annual tradition – baking Christmas cakes together. The part of the tradition that seems somewhat askewer is that I purchase all the material for this Jamaican Christmas Cake and she takes home most of the end products!

Betwixt and between, several of my latest hobbies fill my days (and nights)…not to mention the daily ‘excitement’ of my job (I work at a prison and every day brings it own sets of drama). I have finally succumbed to the pressure and joined Facebook and that site is so addictive. I am on it morning, noon and night.

If that was not enough, I am now downloading music from Limewire – for my Christmas party. My Christmas and entertaining spirit is back in full force and so I will be the host of the first in the series of Christmas parties for the Divas and everybody is asked to bring a US$25.00 contribution for Kiva.

Looking at this one weekend, you can see that my life is full.

Then why am I experiencing this uncontrollable delight and excitement about my dog getting ‘laid’?

You read correctly. Angello, my dog and companion for over seven years and who was recently diagnosed as having a terminal kidney disease, is out performing stud service for two days. This must be like “Make a Wish Foundation for Dying Dogs,” and my sweetie has gotten his dream come through.

Visitors to my home – wherever that has been – can testify to having had to retrieve or peel Angello off their legs. He loves to hump. Last year the doctor told me that he needed to have surgery for his prostrate which was enlarging as a result of him “not getting any.” Well that’s no longer the case.

My gentle giant of a friend called me a couple days ago and told me that his bitch is going on heat and would I like to give Angello his lucky break. How could I say no to a dying dog that has loved me unconditionally for seven years so far? So off he went this morning to get his wish – to have sex.

My friend brought the lady in question over to my place very early this morning to see if she would be interested in Angello before driving all the way outside of Edmonton to his place and she rejected my boy. Well, who could resist the big black eyes and his dark ruddy (and furry) looks? There was no being coy on the lady’s part but my dear Angello for all his years of humping had not a clue where to hump this time.

I felt I had let him down – by not telling him how this was done. The poor fella tried for a couple hours, succeeding only to make a real wet mess off my kitchen floor but not making THE connection. As I watched his poor performance, I could not help thinking about the many disappointed women in this world who have found themselves or are in this position right now – meeting someone who looks better than they are able to ‘put out’.

Hopeful nevertheless for my dear Angello, I spent the rest of my day calling every hour to my friend’s to ask “Did he get it yet?”

I called so many times I felt my gentle giant was going to die with laughter. It was becoming embarrassing for me that my Angello was humping everywhere on the lady’s body except for where he should. My friend told me that he was considering giving his bitch a bathe soon as Angello had succeeded to drench her in …

I offered a suggestion at about 8:00 p.m. – almost twelve hours after this all started. But he didn’t think it funny. I though maybe he should show Angello where exactly to put his…to connect.

On my drive home after work close to 10:00 p.m. I called again, “Did he…?”“Yes, finally, he did and you should have seen the look on his face!” my friend told me. “It was as if he was saying holy s… what do I do now??” Excuse me but my giant’s language can be quite colourful, mine was worse as I pounded my steering wheel, screaming “Yes, yes!” like I was the one experiencing what I hope the lady did.

I share this very weird story because it reminded me to remain happy and hope-filled no matter what. A few weeks ago I thought I was going to lose my best friend and companion. Today, he was losing his virginity and I thought “what a wonderful life.”

For all the entertaining, shopping, drama at work, dating etc., that is going on in my life – or your’s – what really matters are the simple things that make you laugh heartily - like your dying dog having a day of his own brand of fun.

I love it!

Blessings,

Claudette

Dating Over Forty - Part 2

2007-11-23T13:25:00.000-07:00

My man-friend Lance will not give me a break, laughing his head off each time we speak and strongly suggesting that I continue this dating story. "Make it into a series," he insists.

Now why would anyone want to make this horrible process of DOF ito a series? Why would anyone, especially me who really hates pain, want to be the brunt of ridicule, telling stories of dates gone wrong (DGW). Although I really like these acronyms – they are cute.

Dating Over Forty (DOF) is like running a marathon when all your life you have been training for the 100 meter race! In fact, if you are like me and simply hearing the word ‘exercise’ causes you pain in muscles you never knew you had, then you will fully appreciate what I mean.

If you had the privilege of being (or languishing might be more appropriate) in a relationship for an extended period (say 16 years) the 21st century dating scene is a marathon. Imagine getting up from your couch after 16 years, literally in most cases (read as ‘in my case’), and taking up running a 26K through the Rocky Mountains.

There are days when I wonder if I should return to active therapy – not for depression but to check on my mental health status generally. Other days, I wonder whether I need to re-sit the English Language Examinations offered by the Education Board of Her Royal Highness, the Queen of England.

I once spoke Russian fluently and can still help myself after not using the language anymore on a daily basis for over 17 years now. However, conversations on the dating scene cause me to question what language am I using in communicating.

This brings me to the Point #6:
 This might sound bourgeois but trust me – never date someone with an IQ drastically lower than yours! A woman who I am not sure whether we are coming or going (more anon) has on her profile that people who write to her should at least be able to spell the word “definitely.” I found this very funny because I was dating this guy who not only wrote it but pronounced it with great pride and frequently as “definightly.” Needless to say that for more reasons than one it never went too far between us.

Anyone who really knows me can attest to the fact that I do not walk around with my nose in the clouds, thinking I am better than anyone. Certainly, I know that I am smart and well educated – you must be if universities (notice that I used the plural) allow you to walk through their gates with papers stating that they have educated you at the Master’s level. My papers are for real but so too is my love of people.

However, when it comes to dating, feeling “nice” with someone is not enough. Over the last few months I have personally experienced where that ends – thankfully with no permanent damage (physical nor emotional). Some people who I know have not been so lucky.

I knew about ‘gold diggers’ but...wait before you think it let me say it yes they come in both genders...I never thought that that happens in gay/same-sex relationships.

Yes, yes, I know that makes me sound naïve. Very much like the really wonderful little lady that came up to me at church one day last year in the midst of my crisis and said, “Claudette, you are always teaching me. Until your situation, I never thought, it never crossed my mind that gay people would hurt just as badly as heterosexuals when there ‘marriage’ broke up.” Recognizing that her saying this to me required an enormous amount of bravery, I hugged her and rolled my eyes over her head :)

Well stop rolling your eyes those of you who knew that there are women out there, entering relationships with other women and after the requisite amount of time are suing them for half of their properties. So much for same-sex marriage rights!

Maybe my naivety stems from the fact that I am an island girl – hailing from a country where (1) homosexuality is against the law – so you would be jailed before you could even think about suing your partner for anything; (2) we were too busy trying to make the relationship work because it was so closeted and when it didn’t we headed for the beach to wash out wounds in the healing salt waters and (3) we were just too drunk on rum (kidding).

In all seriousness, however, since my own witnessing last year of this scenario, i.e., one partner lying and cheating – or at least attempting to – the house and land from the other, it seems like an epidemic in the lesbian community here in Edmonton, Alberta. Friends elsewhere please e-mail me and let me know what's going on in your neck of the woods.

The other part of this story – the part that is relevant to Point #6 – is that the ones doing the suing and stealing (or attempt thereto) are the less educated ones. I am almost having a sense that they seek out women (or partners) with greater social status and income, bide their time and they go for the jugular. It gives a new meaning to the word bitches. Sorry if anyone is offended by my use of that word but I am just keeping it real.

My advice therefore – date with caution those who are unemployed, unqualified for meaningful employment and/or lie about their qualifications, or refuse to upgrade their schooling or dropping hints that they would go back to school but cannot afford to – do not fall for it.

What I am saying here is not new to the heterosexual community, although it is a practice that is still pervasive among them – women looking for sugar daddies or men seeking "well educated, independent woman.”

In the case of the latter, read those profiles as: “Man looking to nam’ you out.” For those who are not Jamaican – “nam” is the Jamaican for “eat all that you have.”

Lance, you just might get your wish because there is much more DOF stuff in me where this came from. I have to stop here though as I have to go prepare for a lunch date with a woman over forty who has been screening me to make sure that I don’t plan to nam’ her out – too funny!

Blessings,

Claudette

P.S. Another photo taken by Ren. Visit his site at http://www.renatogandia.com

Dating Over Forty

2007-11-12T20:59:00.000-07:00

Some months back I said that it is quite possible that very soon a post like this one would be available.

Here it is and in my usual style -- it's a no holes barred post.

Yesterday, as I prepared to go shopping for a gift to take to a Diwali feast and dance that a couple of my boys were hosting, I realized that I was driving around for almost two months with an unlicensed car.

It was Sunday and I had several places to go but knowing that my car was illegal I was in extreme panic. Instead of heading back into my apartment, I called this giant of a man who loves me to the ground that I walk on and who has become like a brother I never had.

I screeched at him "I need to find a registry! Do you know any that's open on a Sunday?"

The long and short of this story is that he found one and directed me to it and my car is now licensed until 2008. It was something this Caucasian man said to me though that has stuck in my head. "Honey, you know it's dangerous to be Driving While Black!"

Dating over the last few months has been as and in some cases more dangerous than DWB. In fact, Dating Over Forty (DOF) can be emotionally lethal especially if one's self esteem is not firmly intact.

Several months after 'the break up', I finally acquiesced to my friends’, particularly Lance, and my daughter’s insistence that I get out and get a life. Regular readers will remember that post about my first date – it’s one I will never forget, all 15-minutes of it!

One thing I deliberately did not specify, at least not here on Comforting Words, was the fact that this and my subsequent dates were with men. Yes, men.

Those closest to me knew. And those closest to me understood why it had to be that way.

Backtrack just for a moment. In the heights of the drama of the ‘break up’, a dear and long-time woman-friend from Jamaica, who now resides in Toronto, in a telephone conversation with me reminded me of a piece of profundity I said to her some 10-12 years ago. It was not her intention to throw it back in my face nor was she trying to make me feel stupid. She was doing what friends especially those who know you well do - giving me a reality check.

“Girlfriend," she said, “I will never forget how you were there for me during my own divorce.” To which I responded with some words to express how humble I was and that it was no big deal. “No, no, that is something I will never forget and how you opened your home and your life to me, which you didn’t have to do,” she insisted. “But there is something I must ask you if you remember saying to me.”

“What?”

“Remember you told me that maybe when I got over my divorce and ready to be in another relationship, I might want to consider being with a woman.” Without waiting for a response from me, she continued, “You also said to me ‘a woman would never hurt you like a man'.”

If she was close to me and not on the telephone, God knows I would have smacked her because I knew where she was going with this. “What do you feel about that now?”

What I felt was like telling her what a b…h she was for reminding me of how stupid “being in love” makes you. My profound wisdom had come from being in relationship with my now ex for about two or three years and in all honesty while I can now say that pain is pain no matter the gender dishing it out, my experiences with men up to that time had left me extremely wary.

Well gentle people, the last few months have not changed that feeling. No, this is not a womanist lesbian treatise against men. I love the animal. Over the last few months, however, I have met a cross-section of that kingdom that has confirmed my inner knowing that that world is not for me.

All the stories your mother has told you or not told you because she was/is too embarrassed to admit that her life is not what she pretends it to be or r stories she prayed you would never hear or experience are still true.

It gets worse when you are woman DOF – just as bad as DWB.

Just to interject here though – before anyone thinks I am saying this about men only - being a woman DOF and a person of colour, especially ‘black’ in a white majority city, town or country is close to a death penalty period.

I have made speeches at conferences and presentations at workshops on this issue over the last couple years – the discrimination and racism that is rampant in the LGBTQ community. My most recent experiences confirmed my suspicion and the real life stories I have heard about the reality of inter-racial and inter-cultural dating – that it is hard as hell still in this day and age.

Hold it though … please do not believe the lie that a 'brother' will be more sensitive or it would be easier dating your own kind! Been there, done that and it’s a myth!

So what have I learned about DOF? Whether man, woman, a person of colour or Caucasian:

1. You drink a hell of a lot of coffee. Most first meetings take place at a coffee shop and if you are like me who have had 3-4 cups by 7:00 a.m., this can be hard on your bladder.

2. You must read with uttermost caution their profiles if you are doing internet dating. What a lot of them write is about the ‘person they would like to be when they grow up’ not who they are right now. And guess what – most of them will never grow up.

3. Truth is a novel concept for many - something they really don’t understand or believe is a possibility. If you really like someone and want to ‘get to know them’ – well don’t tell the truth about anything. Most cannot seem to believe truth even if she came and kissed them. The better you are at story-telling and myth-creating the better chance you will have at a second or even third date.

4. Never, no never, express your feelings – this is a liability not an endearing factor. Never make the mistake and give gifts for special occasions – it will be deemed that you are moving too fast or want to either move in or have them move in with you. (You all can see how hard it has been and will continue to be for me – as I am a blabber mouth about my feelings and telling the truth! Worse yet, I love to give gifts!)

5. The most popular line is “I am looking for friends.” Unfortunately, most who write or say that has a different understanding of ‘friendship’ than say I do. If you are into head games, one or two night stands, jumping though hoops to prove you are not after their family heirloom, not quite happy with what you have managed to earn through sweat equity, pretending to be what you are not, love to meet for coffee morning, noon or night, cannot hold your knife and fork properly (that’s a pet peeve or mine thanks to my ex) then you are “friend” material.

I could go on and maybe I will someday, however, this should give those of you who are DOF a fair picture of what you are in for. And like I said before – this goes for both genders. Yes, Miss Y in Toronto, a woman can and in fact will hurt (and play games with you) as much as a man can…I am eating crow’s pie.

Am I put off from the dating scene? Am I now planning to enter a convent? Or remain celibate for the rest of my life, dying of old age with my dog Angello by my side? (Incidentally, Angello, the love of my life, was seriously ill a few weeks ago – I thought he was a goner. But after much tests and hundreds of dollars in the vet’s pocket, he was diagnosed with kidney disease and is being treated. Thank God for small mercies).

No, I am not done dating, nor am I going to join a convent no matter how enticing the thought or rushing to a relationship with anyone. And my humble advice to anyone recently out of a long standing relationship -- it's true that you need at least one month for each year to feel the power of healing. It's been 13 months for me now and boy does it feels good!

I am just far more aware, clear that the man scene is not for me. They make great friends, my gentle giant is one such, but my soul - which is what I want to share - belongs to a woman “somewhere out there,” who is self-possessed, "in touch with her feelings", totally inter-cultural, smart, sassy, well-educated and open to the ‘joys’ of DOF. (Seems like a tall order, ah well).

When I meet her, you will be the first to know.

Blessings,

Claudette

P.S. Most of the recent photographs on Comforting Words are courtesy of my friend Ren. You can see his work at http://www.renatogandia.com

Divas for Kiva

2007-11-05T19:08:00.000-07:00

One of "my boys," Dr. B, sent me an interesting email a few weeks, probably closer to a couple months ago.

This email was a follow-up to a conversation we had about an organization that he had heard of that lends people $25.00 and changes their lives.

For some unknown reason, it took me almost two months to finally visit the site one night after sitting at home basically bored. Not that there was nothing available for me to do -- there was plenty but my mind would not focus. Through the fog, the name Kiva came to me and I rushed to my laptop and searched for Dr. B's email.

Money is not something I am awash in -- in fact, there are days when I feel like a fundraising BBQ might be in order to help me face my own financial situation. However, as I read about the people Kiva helps across the world, I was once again reminded how fortunate I am.

Well into overdraft, without a moment's hesitation I transferred $50.00 and opened a portfolio for The Comfort Foundation.

Many of you would have received an email from me, personally inviting you to join this venture, which I decided to call Divas for Kiva.

You might be wandering where in heaven's name did I get that one from. Well, it so amazed me how quietly "my boys," were helping to change the world - touching the lives of people in places where homosexuality might be punishable by death. And in honour of Dr. B and his partner's bold move, the latter being the person who is always taking photographs of me and who is such a Diva, the name of this new project came about.

So release the Diva in you and either send me an email to be a part of Divas for Kiva or simply visit Kiva and become a $25.00 entrepreneur today.

Blessings,

Claudette

Ship Ahoy

2007-10-10T20:48:00.000-06:00

It is hard to believe that one year ago my world was upside down and I was hanging on to the edge by my fingernails!

As October 8, 2007 approached I was terrified. The memories of last year came crashing in on me like a bad motor vehicle accident. The proverbial "meaning of life," as was I learning to appreciate it, was again threatened.

Never mind the fact that soon I will be under the knife of my 5' 8" surgeon. That was petty matters to was shaping up to be a horrible anniversary. And the possibility that it would be so caught me completely off guard one lovely autumn day as I drove to work and heard the words of Simply Red's song, So Not Over You, on my car stereo:

Don't know why I still slept on my side of the bed
The emptiness when you were gone kept ringing in my head
Told myself I really had to move along now
Stop regretting all the things I left unsaid...

So I tore up your letters
Took your picture off my wall
I deleted your number, it was too hard not to call
Felt a little better, told myself I'd be fine
Got to live for the good times up ahead...

[chorus]
'Cos everywhere I go
There's a love song that reminds me of you
And even though I knew I had to be strong
I was still not over you
'Cos I still believe and I could see how there's nothing left of you and me
That time is over
'Cos I'm so not over you

All my friends try to tell me better find somebody new
Why waste time being lonely when there's nothing left to lose'

Anything to get you out of my mind
I'm a fool if I thought I could forget
And I could not forget

Now I found a way to keep you there beside me
To where my love won't be denied
I can only hope to keep you there and guide me
There's no more need to hide from all this pain inside

So not over you
That time is over
'Cos I'm so not over you

Struck by the emotions that these lyrics arose in me, as I was on the afternoon rotation, the next morning I purchased the compact disc and played Track #2 again and again and again. It felt as if I needed to saturate my soul in the reality. To once and for all accept what is.

Soaked one last time in pain and completely aware of the reality of how my world has changed, of how my life's course has taken a direction I could not have forseen, I braced for what could have been a lonely Thanksgiving Day.

As it turned out, not unlike all the other times when I call for help, my angels came. Thanksgiving Day and in fact the weekend was spent doing just that - giving thanks in the company of my boys and people who have joined me on this leg of the journey, doing what gay and not so gay people do best - shopping, dining and in laughter.

A wonderful man told me over dinner last night that his mother always told him that a ship is of no use if it is not put to sea. She was using this metaphor to teach her son one of the best lessons I have heard about pain and growth.

This wise woman wanted her little son to understand that unless we venture out onto the high seas of life, overcome its storms and, like a ship, return to shore battered, worn, probably with pieces of our stern missing but ready to go again - we have not fulfilled our purpose.

I am off to sea again - in every sense of the word - heading straight into the storm of outstanding legal wranglings, surgery and learning to be loved again and in a way that I have never been before - but this time the waters are not as scary as they were twelve months ago.

As always, there is a prayer on my lips and it is "God, thank you!"

Blessings,

Claudette

For a Little While

2007-08-09T21:23:00.000-06:00

He was probably just over five feet tall but his presence was felt as he entered the room.

Personally I prefer tall men; however, in this situation height did not matter. Partially naked, pants and panty less, with only a thin sheet barely covering my legs, I was even more aware of him.

His initial question put me a bit on the defensive, “why are you here?” Thinking he must know why I am here, half naked at that, waiting for him, I stammered – something unusual for me – nevertheless in a facetious tone “to speak about options to protect myself, duh?”

We bantered back and forth for a few more minutes, each sizing the other up, until we both finally got where the other was coming from. The strangeness (for him) and the tension (for me) rose like the thick early morning fog on that last leg of the drive to the North coast of my home country Jamaica, through Walker’s Wood to Ocho Rios.

“Lie back and get ready for the time of your life,” he declared and I busted into uncontrollable laughter.

That laugh though would soon leave my lips as my heart did a nose dive as this specialist, who my family doctor referred me to and who I waited almost two months to see, gave me the news.

Twenty long minutes later, walking out of his office I desperately went through my contact list on my not-so-new-anymore toy – my blackberry – to get a hold of someone – anyone – to hold my hand as I allowed this news to sink.

Waiting for Anni to pick up her phone, it crossed my mind that yet again it was an ‘anniversary’ of my most poignant life-changing experience – the tenth month of my single hood. Anni was neither at home nor answering her cell so my daughter was my next call. We have not spoken in a few weeks as she is still mad at me for being the protective mother, so I was not sure she would take my call.

She answered on the ring just before the call would go to voice mail, “Hello?” By now, I was driving in afternoon traffic on my way to work, crying my eyes out, “A, I know you don’t want to chit-chat with me but I am just calling to let you know that I need surgery.” Whether it was my tears or the word ‘surgery’ I do not know but I had her attention and her questions.

My response to her questions would be repeated later to Lance, who I called in New York, needing to talk to an adult and still not being able to reach Anni. An hour later, I would retell the story to Anni who finally returned my call. I also briefly whispered the ‘news’ in the ear of my Spiritual Director, asking for her prayer support, who I saw upon entering the place that gave me sanctuary – work – at the worst time of my life ten months ago.

Many days I have tried to understand what led me to my current place of employment. I have had many different responses – all valid – over the last ten months. This time I knew I am here – in the company of women – to be supported through a time that only another woman who has walked this journey could truly understand its symbolic significance.

She is one of my colleagues, an Aboriginal woman, who is so in tune with my spirit that as I stepped and dropped all $800 of the Isobella Fiore satchel that was gifted to me – just because - she asked me “what’s wrong.”

I explained to her that I met a short man earlier who said being with him was going to be “the time of my life” and that he is an Obstetrician-Gynaecologist. He kept his promise with his announcement after I winced in pain when inserted ‘his-whatever’ into my body and placed his hand on my tummy.

The next few weeks will not be ‘the’ but ‘another time of my life, as I await tests and their results to say whether the thing growing inside of me – currently the size of a 5 month foetus- is cancerous.

Whatever the result, I will be having a hysterectomy before I am 43 and the recovering period is forecasted to be 6 – 8 weeks. The ‘guy’ wants to go in asap but I am hoping for a delay in order to be secure enough in my new job so that I would have earned enough leave time to recover.

And so, one way or another, my planned trip to Jamaica to celebrate my Canadian citizenship, my 43rd birthday and to see my mother has to be postponed.

The shock of this latest development in my journey has me confused, crying and prayerful. I recall a woman in the hospital where I served as Chaplain saying to me “I don’t know why God has so much faith in me,” and today I understood what she meant more than I ever did.

Now I need to cultivate the same faith that the Divine clearly has in my strength.

As such, there might not be any posts here at Comforting Words for the next few weeks or months. Also, my apologies to those who were looking forward to going to Jamaica with me in 2008 but God has other business for me to take care of – me.

Blessings,

Claudette

Phenomenal Woman

2007-07-06T09:24:00.000-06:00

Awhile back, I started writing a series – sort of autobiographical – and stopped.

It has been unclear to me why this happened – stopping that is. Until now.

The abrupt end to that series is not dissimilar to the way that I stopped going to weekly then bi-weekly then monthly sessions with my therapist.

Questioned by my dearest woman-friend Anni (who incidentally has been away for almost two weeks now and I miss her so much) about my decision to stop therapy, my response was “It was enough.”

Anni has this way of getting stuff out of me – a direct and forthright stare and then a “cut the bullshit and tell me the truth,” comment. That latter usually gets me talking real quickly.

“Anni,” I explained, “I have been in ‘therapy’ for a long time now, maybe not the same type and definitely not as a result of such emotional upheaval but therapy none the less.”

“What I have come to realize is that it is enough,” I continued, “Enough examination and reflection on my past and more so enough blaming of my mother and my childhood.”

That was a profound insight for me – the depth of which was not clear until the words were actually coming out of my mouth.

You see, for years my favourite pasttime was the Blame Game and I played it well. I had company at this game but not one of my playmates knew this game like I did – I was a master at it.

And then I spent a year doing Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) and met three women who challenged me at my game. They were my supervisors and they would not broker any argument from me that even hinted that my choices were my mother’s fault.

My days of playing the Blame Game came to an end in 2005 when my mother had her accident and was hospitalized with second and third degree burns.

Regular readers will recall the articles I wrote then, apologizing for my withdrawing from Comforting Words for a while, retreating to wrap my heart around the latest calamity in a string of calamities that my mother was prone to having.

This was a wonderful opportunity for me to have continued the Blame Game and even step it up a notch. It was very tempting and I had all the support I needed.

Let me be honest – my mother is no angel and it is and never has been my intention to portray her in that light. She made her mistakes and choices that placed me in situations no young girl should ever have to grapple or contend with.

Yet, today, I can testify from the bottom of my heart – she is the strongest woman I have ever met.

Moreover, in terms of Holy Boldness – she is my very best teacher.

It has taken me all of forty years, childhood sexual abuse, rape, severe domestic violence, the loss of a son, the birth and maturing of a daughter, a failed marriage, a failed same-sex partnership of 16 years, social exclusion - by society and supposedly family - migration, racism, unemployment near bankruptcy, suicide attempts and more to realize the strength of my mother.

Today as I celebrate the news that the job that I have been waiting for is finally mine after almost five years of struggling to settle in Canada, to gain recognition for my professional worth – both in terms of quality of employment and remuneration - I recognize the debt of gratitude I owe my mother, Miss Cherry.

If it were not for her example – I would not have survived my long list of travail and trials.

It if were not for her example – I could not have hung on to my sanity when the world that I knew turned dark and grim, mired in drama, lies, mystery, and even death threat by a woman-friend driven to desperation.

As I have said – my mother is no saint. And you know what – I don’t care anymore that she is not. Actually, good for her!

Miss Cherry, my mother, was never afraid to speak the truth to power, never afraid to be killed for her political beliefs, never afraid to do what she had to do in order to put food in my mouth and clothes on my body.

She never pretended to be what she was not. She grew up in the school of hard knocks and learned how to give it back when needed.

My trip to Jamaica in 2008 – the one that you are invited to join me on – will be both pleasurable and painful. I will return to the land of my birth to celebrate my 43rd, hopefully with at least ten (10) friends, and to ask my mother for forgiveness.

Rumors have it that this trip is being planned by “my boyfriend” and me, that we have started a business. I laughed when I was told that yesterday – not because it is outlandish. I laughed because this trip is way beyond any ‘relationship’ I may or may not be in.

No, I have not started a travel business and, like I told the person who informed me of this latest gossip – I don’t have a boyfriend but “several persons who I am dating and they all know that they are not exclusive with me.”

If any of them will accompany me to Jamaica in 2008, I do not know. What I know for sure is that I will be paying personal ode to my mother – in the words of Maya Angelou - the most Phenomenal Woman I know.

I do hope you will “Come Away with Me,” on this personal and pleasurable journey in 2008.

Blessings,

Claudette

Come Away With Me

2007-07-02T00:26:00.000-06:00

This is history in the making...me writing a very short post!

However, it is one of the most exciting posts that I have written in a very different sort of way.

One of the many things I promised myself when we first came to Canada, was that I would return to my country of origin, Jamaica, the winter/spring after getting my Canadian citizenship.

The time is here to start planning this trip and there are quite a few of people already signed up!!! A tentative date has been set - February 1 - 15, 2008 and it is no coincidence that my birthday is included! I want to celebrate my 43rd with you on my island home!

At this point, you are invited to complete a survey that will help me put together the "best time of your lives" away from your country of origin and in mine!

If you scroll to the right of this screen, you will see a section titled, "Be a Part of..." that will take you to the survey.

As this trip is private and for a select group, for reasons of privacy you must first, however, email or call me for the password to access the survey. Those of you who are already members of the Comforting Words community have received the password in an email. If you are not a member of this community and would like to join us on this trip you have two choices:

Join our mailing list now! Look to the right of the screen and you will see a red box -- all you have to do is to join and select "Group Trips" as your area of interest. You will be required to provide me with some basic information about yourself, in order to be included in this very select, private and personal to me trip. The password will be sent to you.

Email me indicating your interest and we will take it from there.

I am so excited about this trip and even more excited about sharing my island home with those of you who would come. Canada is my new home but Jamaica will always have a very, very special place in my heart -- and I would really like to share that with you.

So either join our mailing list, email or call me for the password and share your needs and desires to "Come Away with Me," in 2008.

Blessings,

Claudette

Holy Boldness

2007-06-24T15:24:00.000-06:00

It’s one of the first things that I do each day as I enter my apartment building.

In fact, it is something that I have always done – long before coming to Canada.

Each day, after parking my car, I walk to the mail box to check if there is anything for me. Back in Jamaica, as I drove into our garage and realized that someone was home before me, I would shout to them, “Posi [meaning the postman] come?”

It was not that I was expecting something special – it is one of those quirks of my personality…I simply enjoy receiving mail and will sit for hours sorting through what others consider junk mail and entering competitions, etc.

Today, Sunday, June 24, 2007 was no different in that after hauling my traveling bags up the steps and into my third floor apartment, I spun around and went to check for mail. Afterall, I have been away five days – “My box must be full,” I thought.

Another thing that I do is that I never wait to get into the house or in this instance the apartment to start opening the letters. So, as I walked back up the steps and along the corridor, I was opening the various pieces.

Nervously, I opened a brown envelope with my and my ex’s name on it only to find that yet another commitment – new and written in black and white – had been broken, not once but twice. My credit rating was being shot to s..t as the non-payment of joint debts were dumped on me and almost every commitment to honour has either been since adjusted and/or broken.

Whitney Houston has this song with these words: “It’s not right, but it’s okay, I will make it anyway…” These words flooded my head and traveled down to my heart and carried me into my apartment.

The words of another song also came to me, it is one I have been hearing since Wednesday, June 20, 2007 as I joined close to 100 women at a Conference in Vancouver, British Columbia. “There must be a God somewhere…” we sang I believe twice every day. I know I sung it each night before my eyes closed.

“There must be a God somewhere,” otherwise June 2007 would not be as glorious as it has been – in spite of and despite the mounting debts, the very recent loss of a ten-year friendship due to the other's expectations that I refuse to meet and my being unemployed.

As I re-read the demand letter from the credit card company, I felt nothing close to panic – something that would have normally been my automatic and reactive emotion in situations like this.

I realize that this was a new memory I was creating – something that two persons had told me would be part of the healing process.

The first person was a professional psychologist and colleague. Approaching Christmas she cornered me at work and asked, no demanded, to know what was going on with me.

At that time, I was trying my best to hold myself together, focussing instead on giving to the women with whom I worked in a season that is extremely painful for them. I needed to ignore my own pain but this woman, psychologist saw the mask that I was wearing. And so I told her about my break-up and the turmoil that I was living through.

Trying to be positive and regain my composure, I said to her, “Anyway, my therapist says that it will be at least a year before things get easier.” She held me with her eyes, smiled and said, “Consider yourself lucky if it is five years before you fully heal from such a betrayal.”

Then she added, “The first year though is the hardest as you have to live through the cycle of memories, the major and minor events that you did as a couple. You will have to create new memories to replace them if you are going to heal and the faster you are able to do that the better.”

The second person who told me that creating new memories was important was one of my current dates.

(A side note here – no, you are not reading incorrectly. I did write “one of…” as I am not rushing into a new “exclusive and sexual relationship.” I made that decision some time ago, knowing that one needs time to reflect on “what was, what did I do right and/or could have done better and most important – Who Am I?” This last question is a major part of that decision, one that I have had to be careful to reflect on and recommit to – as I am not, I repeat not going to waste the rest of my life that that God somewhere gave me.)

Anyhow, the marathon runner, having experienced a nasty separation after an 18-year relationship, told me that a person has to give him or herself one month for every year of the relationship to heal. In my case, that meant 16 months.

With both these ‘teachings’ in mind, there are certain activities and places that I have deliberately returned to – with a new attitude, a new sense of me, with someone different (obviously) – creating new images in my mind of this place or event. Some events, I have completely avoided – such as the Gay Pride Parade in Edmonton, choosing instead to go backpacking and camping with my marathon runner.

As it approached time for me to prepare to leave for this Conference in Vancouver, where I was to present on “The Feisty Feminist and the Ethnic Woman,” my thoughts went to the fact that I would once again be on a plane, going to another city close to the anniversary of my first suicide attempt. It was also month eight – the midway point of my 16 months of healing.

Unsure how I would react now that the reality and significance of the moment hit me I did a couple things differently. Instead of asking my daughter, with whom I am experiencing some challenges again – to look after my angel boy – Angello – I boarded him for the five days at a kennel. He hates hit but life sometimes sucks even for a dog!

Another thing, I chose to do differently pertained to transportation. I recalled the severity of the panic attack I experienced returning from Toronto after my first suicide attempt; due to the fact that that was the first time in my adult life I would be returning from a trip and not being met by my partner. So, this time I chose to park my car at the ‘Park and Fly’ service at the airport.

Both decisions gave me such a deep sense of liberation it was unbelievable!

I think, however, what got me through this week without shedding a tear, convinced that “there is a God somewhere,” was the stories of the women I spent almost a week with in song, story-telling, dance and prayer.

Entering the hall of the Conference Opening Session, my eyes were caught by a striking black woman with completely gray hair. Something about her drew me to her and without a sideward glance I went and sat beside her. She turned and gave me the most welcoming smile I have experienced in a long time.

From that moment, except for bedtimes, I never left her side.

It turned out she is one of the most prominent (and powerful) black women in Canadian history. Here is an excerpt of what has been said about her, which is available on line…because I did not ask her nor did I tell her about my blog, I will not use her name:

DW is one of the leading national figures within the Canadian Black community. She was a founding member of the National Black Coalition in Canada in 1969. DW along with Howard McCurdy, Clarence Bayne, Joseph Drummond, Gus Wedderburn, Ed Clarke and Stanley Grizzle, founded the Conference Committee of Black Organizations which later became the NBCC. During her period of involvement, the NBCC successfully integrated the Diamond & Lasalle Taxis industry in Montreal and tested the Quebec Human Rights legislation with a case against the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, Montreal, for employment discrimination. She served the NBCC in a variety of capacities including National Chairperson, Executive Secretary and Public Relations Officer. She has also served in executive capacities for other community Organizations including the Negro Citizenship Association and the Quebec Board of Black Educators.

She was Montreal delegate to the Sixth Pan African Congress in 1973. As the Canadian co-ordinator she represented Canada in Lagos, Nigeria, at the Planning Meetings of the International Festival Committee for the Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture in 1976-1977. Mrs. W has been very active in the philosophy and promotion of multiculturalism. She was a delegate to the first Federal Conference on Multiculturalism in 1971 and served as the Research Associate to the Parliamentary Committee, Participation of Visible Minorities in Canadian Society in 1983-1984. She was also a member of the Canadian Consultative Council for Multiculturalism in Canada from 1981 to 1984.

DW received an Honorary Doctor of Laws degree from Concordia University in 1989. That year she was also appointed Member of the Order of Canada.

She did not tell me much of this throughout the Conference for visible minority and aborginal women. Instead, I guess she sensed my need to be under the wings of a strong black woman to get through this ‘dark anniversary’ of my life, so she teased me, fixed either my blouse or skirt, challenged me when I shared stories of my ‘battles’ in my own neck of the woods on multicultural issues. She watched me intensely as I cried when sharing about the work that, along with a group of other strong women, I have initiated on behalf of black women dying of AIDS without notice in Canada.

She praised and acknowledged my ‘teaching’ abilities after some other women had told her about the presentation I had made. This was particularly touching for me as I have in the past been the burnt of sarcasm and criticism by my dearest and her family members for this propensity to “teach and preach.”

At the closing worship service, those who wanted to make public their commitment were invited to come the microphone. I went up on behalf of a woman who had to leave early but as I was about to finish speaking on behalf of that person, my spirit told me there was more to say.

Halting and with tears flowing down my cheeks, I thanked DW and all the other senior black women at the Conference, for allowing me to sit at their feet and feed on their love and wisdom. As I returned to my seat, beside DW, she hugged me and said, “God bless you and I will be watching you.”

This morning as we parted company after having breakfast together at the airport, I watched as she walked to her departure gate and quietly prayed, “Thank you God for taking me this far…I now know for sure you are here.”

A thank you card that I received from the Conference planners for my “leadership," had written in it "..and for your Holy Boldness.”

It is that “Holy Boldness” that the sister who wrote that phrase, all the women at the Conference and DW imparted to me.

It is that “Holy Boldness” that allowed me to not scream in anger and fear as I read the demand letter for a debt that is not mine alone.

It is that “Holy Boldness” that led me to seek options to deal with the predicament that I was thrust into, including soon to be welcoming a roommate - a necessary option that will help to prevent me from being homeless.

It is that "Holy Boldness that is causing me to patiently await word that will move me out of unemployment and into the job that has had my heart singing for over nine months. In the meantime, it is the same "Holy Boldness" that keeps my head up while I do menial tasks to pay my bills.

It is that “Holy Boldness” that have me confidently singing, “It’s not right but it’s okay…I will make it anyway.”

Blessings,

Claudette

P.S. The photos were taken in early June in Jasper, Alberta where I was supporting the marathon runner. The second photograph shows me about to strip to cool off in that lovely stream in the mountains.