Writing is alchemy. Writing that poem, moving out of that
cramped and cerebral space of bitterness into the capacious heart,
I am no longer a victim, an enemy, an injured party.
I am what I am: a writer.
Writing is medicine. It is appropriate antidote to injury.
It is an appropriate companion for any difficult change.
Writing about the change, we can help it along, lean into it, cooperate.
Writing allows us to rewrite our lives.
Thanks Julia Cameron.
...
I believe this to be true.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
What I brought versus what was required.
What was I thinking?
I brought:
Empathy.
Ingenuity.
Strong work ethic.
Authenticity.
Emotional labour.
Integrity.
Reliability.
Thoughtfulness.
Calm, assertive leadership.
Critical thinking.
They required:
Absolute servitude.
Passivity.
Chaos.
Defensivenness.
Victimhood.
Conflict.
Silence.
Pettiness.
Willingness to gossip.
No focus on adding value, building relationships or conflict resolution.
Do as I say--not as I do mindset. Yikes!
It is what it is. My perception. As I see it.
I brought:
Empathy.
Ingenuity.
Strong work ethic.
Authenticity.
Emotional labour.
Integrity.
Reliability.
Thoughtfulness.
Calm, assertive leadership.
Critical thinking.
They required:
Absolute servitude.
Passivity.
Chaos.
Defensivenness.
Victimhood.
Conflict.
Silence.
Pettiness.
Willingness to gossip.
No focus on adding value, building relationships or conflict resolution.
Do as I say--not as I do mindset. Yikes!
It is what it is. My perception. As I see it.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Guest Spot on the Catherine Show
Looks like the guest spot on the Catherine Show was brief.
Originally written in to provide relief, the role quickly became clear.
It was the catch all, the scapegoat, the once in a life-time shot.
A band aid solution. The dissent present long before my arrival would no doubt continue surely, long after my exit. Expect the unexpected, I always say.
The ass kisser still kisses ass.
The punisher still punishes.
No wrongs were righted.
The song remains the same.
I did make a difference.
However brief.
The truth does set you free.
I am no longer being bull dozed by the bully.
Abuse of power, is what it is. I am removed from the script at long last.
Actually the stint was a gift. It's all good.
Best to just let go, gracefully.
Everything does indeed, happen for a reason.
As one door closes, surely another opens.
On to the next gig!
Originally written in to provide relief, the role quickly became clear.
It was the catch all, the scapegoat, the once in a life-time shot.
A band aid solution. The dissent present long before my arrival would no doubt continue surely, long after my exit. Expect the unexpected, I always say.
The ass kisser still kisses ass.
The punisher still punishes.
No wrongs were righted.
The song remains the same.
I did make a difference.
However brief.
The truth does set you free.
I am no longer being bull dozed by the bully.
Abuse of power, is what it is. I am removed from the script at long last.
Actually the stint was a gift. It's all good.
Best to just let go, gracefully.
Everything does indeed, happen for a reason.
As one door closes, surely another opens.
On to the next gig!
Thursday, May 6, 2010
My Anti-Mother's Day Rant
I hate my mother. Why? You ask? A number of reasons, but primarily because she mistreats me.
Looks at me with disdain. Talks to me in a tone that is condescending. Tells me I’m stupid and simple (well not exactly verbatim) with below average functioning skills. Which is of course far from the truth.
She refuses to acknowledge me. My existence. My right to be a person separate from who she is.
Did I mention the narcissism? If I did the graph, you’d see her face at the far end of the spectrum as extreme.
It’s that time of year. All things ‘Mother’. While others will be celebrating their beloved mothers (and rightly so), I’ll be celebrating….wait for it….Me.
Yep. Me. Celebrating my survival.
For others, thoughts of dear mom conjure up love and comfort, safety, protection…even the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Like in the movies, mom is all loving, and nurturing and her eyes light up the minute she sees you. You reside in her heart. You are valued. You are her child.
My thoughts of mom are the antithesis of all of that.
What if you were brutalized by violence, cruelty, indifference and neglect by the woman who bore you? What if the assaults (with weapons and not just fists), the echoes of the insults, the humiliations not to mention the memories of the times you were tortured (with various implements) are what thoughts of ‘mom’ conjures up?
What’s to celebrate?
Recently my lovely mother emailed me asking a question.
What year were you born?
WELL if that doesn’t burn a hole in your chest where your heart used to be, what does? If that doesn’t invalidate you as a person, I’m not sure what else could. Dagger, right in the heart. Thanks for the gumball, mom.
When your own mother can not, or will not recall her own child’s birth date, there is clearly some disconnect. But then again, that is an essay for another day.
Yeah, it’s only words you say. Right. Sticks and stones. But given the context and being on the receiving end….well—let’s just say ‘major trigger!’
Get over it, you say. Hmmm. I'm working on it.
My 6 word memoir reads: Despite your best efforts I survived.
Take that! You witch!
So, Happy Mother’s Day, Mother.
I’ll pretend my childhood did not happen, and I will light a candle in your honour.
Are you even sure you are my mother?
Looks at me with disdain. Talks to me in a tone that is condescending. Tells me I’m stupid and simple (well not exactly verbatim) with below average functioning skills. Which is of course far from the truth.
She refuses to acknowledge me. My existence. My right to be a person separate from who she is.
Did I mention the narcissism? If I did the graph, you’d see her face at the far end of the spectrum as extreme.
It’s that time of year. All things ‘Mother’. While others will be celebrating their beloved mothers (and rightly so), I’ll be celebrating….wait for it….Me.
Yep. Me. Celebrating my survival.
For others, thoughts of dear mom conjure up love and comfort, safety, protection…even the smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
Like in the movies, mom is all loving, and nurturing and her eyes light up the minute she sees you. You reside in her heart. You are valued. You are her child.
My thoughts of mom are the antithesis of all of that.
What if you were brutalized by violence, cruelty, indifference and neglect by the woman who bore you? What if the assaults (with weapons and not just fists), the echoes of the insults, the humiliations not to mention the memories of the times you were tortured (with various implements) are what thoughts of ‘mom’ conjures up?
What’s to celebrate?
Recently my lovely mother emailed me asking a question.
What year were you born?
WELL if that doesn’t burn a hole in your chest where your heart used to be, what does? If that doesn’t invalidate you as a person, I’m not sure what else could. Dagger, right in the heart. Thanks for the gumball, mom.
When your own mother can not, or will not recall her own child’s birth date, there is clearly some disconnect. But then again, that is an essay for another day.
Yeah, it’s only words you say. Right. Sticks and stones. But given the context and being on the receiving end….well—let’s just say ‘major trigger!’
Get over it, you say. Hmmm. I'm working on it.
My 6 word memoir reads: Despite your best efforts I survived.
Take that! You witch!
So, Happy Mother’s Day, Mother.
I’ll pretend my childhood did not happen, and I will light a candle in your honour.
Are you even sure you are my mother?
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