Telling It Like It Is !

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Well, I Never……

When I read this mornings prompt, I had an immediate response.  The question is do I have the courage to publicize something I have for decades kept to myself.  I have an urge to disclose my shameful experience and am easily embarrassed to think of the few people that know that me as the writer of this blog.  I am not completely anonymous.

Well, damned the torpedoes,  full speed ahead.  After all,  this is not who I am but a part of a past experience that in the end was a worthwhile lesson, firstly,  on how I think and feel about the human body,  and secondly,  not to act to quickly and do the research.  This second lesson took me years to acquiesce to and recently I had a slip and needed to relearn the value of saying… “I need to think about it”.

Back to the experience at hand.  Allow me to set it up.  I  was 30 if I remember correctly and had my daughter and my son.  On some personal level,  I was attempting to reconstruct myself as a young woman.  I had always been modest in the breast department, but after albeit a short breastfeeding sojourn with my babies,  I was left with frighteningly deflated looking boobies.  I imagine you have guessed where I am going with this.  It was the 70’s and breast augmentation was surfacing as an acceptable viable alternative to breast considerations.  I had heard of it, and immediately approached my husband.. Well he almost raced me into the surgery room, no questions asked.

Within just a couple of days of recovering at my mother’s house,  I knew I had made a big mistake.  As I lied there convalescing with tubes draining fluids from my body with these odd breasts sitting up in front of me, I felt an annihilation of the delicate bond I had with my material self.  These feelings were kept private.  Healing took place, and I dismissed any negative thoughts I had about my quick choice to alter my body and carried on with my tasks at hand.  I had discovered that the sensitivity around my breasts was greatly reduced, and was sadden by this.  The Doctor gave no warning that the cost of a more attractive bosom was the loss of sensitivity.  I had not thought to ask the question.  I have realized the we as a plastic surgery obsessed society have truly traded a look for all the joy that makes our bodies pleasurable, it’s extreme sensitivity to touch.

Within a year,  I experienced a hardening on my left side, and my breast had become unmoveable and hard as a rock.  Again I visited the Doctor and he explained to me that it was quite common and happens in a high percentage of surgeries.  Hmm, why was I not briefed on any post surgery probabilities ?  Nonetheless the only solution was to clasp the breast on each side and slam the palms together as hard as possible breaking the scar tissue that formed around the prosthetic causing the hardness.  This was extremely painful and comparable to smashing your thumb with a hammer.  Within five short weeks the hardness had returned;  I was now afraid to come near or hug anyone.

Gratefully I was introduced to a Doctor who’s life’s work was correcting faulty plastic surgeries.  I learned that the Doctor I had randomly selected from a phone book was the worst in the city and responsible for much trauma.  I was scheduled for surgery and at last I would have these saline sacs removed from my precious body.  Upon waking my Doctor approached me holding the prosthetics in his hands.  He informed me that I was lucky that neither had burst as was also common,  as what he held in his hands were actual silicon sacs and not saline prosthetics.  I have since heard of horror stories from women that have had the experience of these breaking and the silicon traveling around the body causing large open sores to appear in random places.  The silicon is impossible to retrieve.

In closing,  I love my breasts as they are and through the miracle of time they have returned to being quite normal and handsome enough for me.  The sensitivity has improved but is not to compare to what it once was.  If you are like me.. advice of any sort is something we can live without.  People will do what they do.  But I have since told my story on a couple of occasions, each time to a stranger who had disclosed to me the desire to have breast surgery augmentation.  I hope my lessons can benefit the young woman who thinks that a change in her breast size could give her LASTING pleasure.  I say look within and change the way you perceive yourself.

The most precious experience that our bodies can provide us is the sweet sensation of being touched.  When we loose that sensitivity to the severing of nerve endings and no longer feel a stroke or a caress,  we have forfeited a great deal of our human experience.  I wonder if it is just not ever mentioned.   Do lips that have been botoxed still feel ?  When the lights are dim and you feel the closeness with someone you love,  how you look looses it’s relevance. There are young women being implanted with artificial prosthetics and I wonder how that might interfere with the organics of breast feeding should that time come.

I am grateful that I have moved to where I am now with my body. It is precious to me.   One key in the  grand piano of humanity and I would hope it to make a pure and glorious sound.

Think twice before you leap.  Love yourself,  give yourself a giant Hug,  you are a treasure as is.


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July 14, 2015 · 7:40 pm

Apples and Oranges.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Memory on the Menu.”

The flavor,  texture and resilience of memories can be as vast as the Sahara.  Those that are recent, vivid and kinetic are more readily interwoven with the fabric of our daily lives.  Often after having extreme fun with friends I have enjoyed rerunning the tape and immediately upturned lips morph into a smile and my mind is filled with the joy and warmth that were part of that special event.  Like a tool or a nest egg,  a memory that is fresh can be relived for the purpose of sprucing up the present moment. A welcomed past opens into the present.

Unlike the memories of old that carry a patina of a treasured antique;  they are structured, solid, unchangeable and the feelings that are conjured are slightly removed from impacting the present day in the same way,  instead, they seem to display portions of who we have become.  They are interwoven into the fabric of our cellular selves.  More often memories reel the mind back to a corner of our personal experience as it was then.  Although the feelings are readily available it is I who must travel back and submerge myself into the memory as opposed to having a memory metaphorically speaking at the end of a fishing line spinning back to today.

I myself enjoy having memories, all sorts,  the good the bad and the ugly.  It fortifies an idea that I have roots and am part of a community.  I like having a history.  At the same token,  I believe we can outgrow our memories.  As our understanding and acceptance of who we really are becomes undeniable;  and being present,  or another way of putting it may be . .. “Being in the Moment ”   becomes a more frequent practice,  memories become obsolete.  In the moment we occupy a fullness that seems to embrace all there is.  Our memories are no longer broken down in the mind as events, dialogue,  time and place but are perhaps just part of the ether that exists in the stillness of our eternal awareness.

I have a desire to add, in closing,  that these are just my thoughts and musings and a sharing of my own experience of what memories are to me.  I am not a specialist at any one thing, and my only aspirations at this point is to “Know My Self “.

Blessings to all who travel here.

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July 14, 2015 · 5:13 pm

To Sing Again.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Practice Makes Perfect?.”

Some talents are arrived at through years of practice. Most often, by the time an actor stands at the podium proudly holding an Oscar or an Emmy he or she has been in the industry hard at work for decades.  Many artists do not achieve any level of recognition until after their death.  Does this mean they were not talented throughout most of their lives ?  Recognition for work done does not neccessarily designate talent.  I would narrow the definition of talent down to the protégés that have emerged on the scene.. The Beethoven’s. the Mozart’s to name a couple;  those who had an uncanny ability almost from infancy.  As though the entire purpose of their life here was to fulfill the act of providing us with their amazing gift.

Outside of these extraordinary talents, most of us select something we are drawn to or for what ever reason hold fantasies around becoming  and pursue that field of endeavor.  Then,  abilities are honed,  but, I believe that any of us can become astute at our chosen craft if we continue to pursue it and do not give up.

From my own experience,  when the idea occurred that I might want to paint,  like by osmosis, a colleague of mine very spontaneously gifted me with her art materials as she had decided to give it up.  I had never taken a course and was terrified when I began,  but because I stuck to it, I arrived at a place where I could give myself over to it and some thing of some value began to express itself on the canvases.  I discovered the same thing when I pursued Theatre acting.. relatively untrained,  getting past the fear/terror and giving my self over  was the key to becoming present, animated and of course flowing with the words that were indelibly marked and waiting for retrieval in the left brain.  It is my belief that the very fiber of our being is a creative force and that if we can in fact get out of the way of this playful and able divine resource,  all manner of creative ability is available to us.

Now to get back to the question posed by this prompt,  if I were to pick a talent for myself.. it would without any doubt be singing.   I took such joy in singing when I was younger.   I once sang for seven hours straight on the bus from Toronto to Montreal.  A girlfriend and I had gone for the weekend and on the way back we sat right behind the sub driver.  She would name a song and I would sing it…When we disembarked the bus driver looked at me and said “Thank you”.  I was quite touched and slightly embarrassed,  but obviously he enjoyed the show tunes,   and other songs that I softly sung right behind him separated only by a curtain.  No longer can I hold those notes the way I used to,  and I wonder whether with practice I could bring myself to produce a desirable sound.  Although my ability has clearly diminished… the bliss I feel when I am engaged in song has remained the same.

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July 13, 2015 · 5:48 pm

Do, Ra, Mi, Fa, So, La, Ti, Do.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Futures Past.”

It would have been 1956-57 when I was 5/6 years old.  The 50’s were great,  and there were no rules or regulations on the treatment of children.  Children belonged to the parents and they got to make the decisions as they saw fit.  Now it appears that children belong to the state/government as there is a lot legislated on what you can and cannot do with your kids.  In fact one story that has made the airwaves this past couple of weeks is the police being called more then once on a family who allowed their children aged somewhere around 5 or 7 to walk to the park on their own.  The park was apparently 4 blocks away.    So there is one example on how things have changed since the gold old 50’s.  It is illegal to drive without proper seating for your children,  which is very good for the manufacturers  particularly when they are outlawed on a regular basis.  We must keep buying the upgraded version or God forbid our landfills start to decline.  Okay forgive me I am getting a bit facetious, and off subject…

When I was five, my parents would go shopping to the Bonsecours Market in Montreal.   I was given the option to go or not.  Often I would opt to stay behind.  If  my sister went, I had the house all to myself.  This was my private time.  At first it felt a bit strange.  I would walk around and things looked and felt different to me in the stillness.  It was as though I need not fit anything but could expand myself to feel a room in it’s entirety.  It was a different house with just me in it. The quiet was palpable and I heard every creak my steps would make.   I was a sensible child and knew not to touch the stove… why would I ?  I never disturbed a thing.

Before long, I would find my way over to the kitchen sink, above which sat a mirror that had been bolted to the wall with clear plastic thingies. I would prop myself up on little bit of ledge that surrounded the sink and gaze into the mirror.  That is when the singing began.  I would sit there like a canary on a perch and sing my heart out for the entire time.  I never tired of it.  I was raised with the musicals, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers,  Judy Garland, Gene Kelly etc. etc.  My fantasies were all about the singing and the dancing.  That passion of mine lasted for years,  but this was the first of it’s emergence.  It somehow embarrassed me though and after a couple of hours I would start to be very diligent about keeping an ear out for the return of my family.  It would have been devastating for me to be caught in this display of loving myself.  Because that is what it was.  When I sang, I was feeling the love… and I would watch myself in the mirror, because I obviously enjoyed watching myself.  This was almost forbidden in my house as a child and I might have been either punished or surely reprimanded for thinking so highly of myself.

I still enjoy singing but it takes me a while to warm up, and now, I have good days and some not so good when it comes to vocalizing. I am still quite shy about it.  I have thought to join a choir a couple of times but have not managed to do so.  It is impossible to sit still with any kind of live music in the vicinity and in my younger years I danced 4 days a week.  I still love dancing, but do not have the moves I used to.  I honestly think that singing and dancing is one of the healthiest things a body could engage in.  it covers all the bases, movement, voice and and a beautiful way to creatively give yourself over to the music.

I have always favored the creative arts.

.   .


July 10, 2015 · 9:31 pm

Night at the Museum.

016In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Clean Slate.”

That is an ambitious title for my blog today, as I doubt any of the items I am surrounded by will come to life and masquerade about the house in search of adventure.

Firstly I am in my mother’s house in a room which has been designated as my room which frighteningly puts me somewhere in my teens.  This was not a harmonious time between my mom and I so will steer clear of that topic.

So here I sit,  in a room that has been clearly packed up, boxes line the closet floor and shelves.  I know this as the closet door remains ajar it being a place of constant fussing in search of something or other.  I am in transition and am spending much time out of the country. When I return for a short stay I see the uselessness of the things that I have decided in my last purge that I needed and go about it again.  If I were to put all my things in a locker these treasures would probably fill a 5 ft. by 10 ft. space, that would include my bed and my round wooden dining table.  When I think of it that way I tell myself I am doing very well.

Now, getting back to the moment at hand, I will describe to you the visuals in this most interesting room that has the bobbles that I favor in it.  My eyes look at a tambourine that sits on the wall above a dresser.  Also on the dresser are two cobalt glass candle holders with two very tall gold candles.  The dresser holds an assortment of semi precious stones,  crystals, lapis lazuli, herdonite, datalite, tourmaline, apophilyte , aragonite, to name a few ;  they sit in a favorite dish of mine.   This dish has 5 inch legs.  I like dishes with legs attached. Things, food or whatever are nicely elevated in it.  From a fan that spins a top the bureau is heard a soft hum.  The window is ajar but  it has been hot lately.   There is a radio I keep, as I occasionally like to listen to the CBC.

The drapes are another favorite of mine.  They are a burgundy with well spaced images of elephants,  deer,  a tree bearing fruit,  a cheetah,  a monkey an occasional flower;  they are very functional as they are lined with a dark sheet which prevents the light to enter.  I have a couple of paintings on the wall, one which I painted myself. On a wall opposite the window you will see a framed photo of my son and his wife above which sits a little ceramic  angel.  Below is a bookcase will a collection of books both new and old.  Most of the books tell a story of a search for greater meaning in life,  conscious evolution,  Bruce Lipton is a favorite, some  self help, with a few having historical and biographical  content.  I always find it hard to part with books, but am getting better at it as well.

Beside me on a blue upholstered bedroom chair sits Molly, my little Scotty.  She has not seen me for 3 months and has not left my side since I returned just a couple of days ago.  I missed her as well.

It is fun to see my things upon returning, but when I think again of leaving town, I realize, I could half my chattels and still feel as though I have more than I need.

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July 8, 2015 · 4:23 pm

Please Think with the Heart.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Don’t You Forget About Me.”

Oddly enough I do think about this from time to time.   I am aware that the me who ponders it is  the me who is engaged with ego and although the feelings may not have to do so much with pride, they are connected to a desire of having achieved  some level of importance.  It seems to me that throughout history,  those who have accomplished greatness whether it be building monumental structures or conquering vast empires have always done so through ruthlessness.  This is not my want.

The phrase that had me thinking  early on in my life was .. “You can’t take it with you” .  Although I did once hear of a man who opted to have himself buried in his Ferrari,  on the whole the toys, jewels and high end fashion items we amass, we leave behind when consciousness passes from our bodies. This started me thinking… okay then,  what do we take with us…the answer… our evolved consciousness.. I have no proof of course but I do have a logical mind and it makes sense to me that the virtues we are able to cultivate may in the end tweak the frequency we resonate with on a very individual basis.  This is all theory mind you, and there is room for argument, I will not dispute that.  We are all part of one supreme consciousness, in which case we can debate the fact that there is no tweaking required simply  breaking through into an awake state.  We are already perfected in every way.  In that instance,  everything is perceived differently while it remains the same. Tricky business.

Although I am pretty good at procuring material items,  I have tried to live with a set of standards that suits my thinking.  For instance,  I would not take a job, no matter the pay if it were in any way damaging to the earth.  The creative arts, the healing arts,  dog rescue, caretaking, theatre,  raising awareness are a few of activities that impassion me.  We are astounding beings and all have so  much to offer  one another.

So, in the end, I would hope to be remembered for being an eclectic sort,  perhaps a bit daring,  inspiring on a personal level,  but mostly,  if I could put a smile on the faces of those who had some affection for me in this life as our paths crossed, I would be very happy.

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July 7, 2015 · 5:48 pm

To Dad.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Honorific.”

He was not the best dad, far from it.  Sometimes maybe even often he could be frightening.  He had no idea how to be a good dad, he knew not what that looked like primarily because no one had shown him.  His own dad, whom I never met was apparently a mean man. How   comforting to know meaness runs in the family.  Nevertheless,  we do not pick and choose who we love.  I loved my father… I could give you a list of reasons,  but they matter not.  Some people we cannot help but love.   No matter what my father attempted to project,  I saw his vulnerability,  his goodness,  his sadness, and his deep concern for his family.  He worked very hard in order to provide, and he had a very grounded sense of our needs.  His divine gift was intelligence.

He suffered greatly in his life,  in the end his dreams of a family life were shattered.   My parents were not right for each other,  and my father would have done well with a woman who was as devoted as he was to family,  but my mother was not that person.  She had a thirst for power and her favorite tactic seemed to be divide and conquer.  I know it sounds very unkind, but the years have illustrated her track record.  Our family has been scattered to the winds and one seems to be pitted against the other.  There are no Holiday gatherings,  no Thanks givings, and I may visit with my children,  but have become somewhat of a nomad.

I have no idea what it might feel like to be part of a family that  actually wants to gather together during festive times.  Please do not take this as a complaint,  in one respect it is the perfect life for me as I am quite non traditional, and am satisfied with the way things are. Freedom is a great commodity and I value it greatly.  A binding family comes with it’s shackles, and this to may sound a bit harsh as so much focus is placed on family and family relations.  One size does not fit all in this case.

My father was a family man and came from a very large family which he left in eastern Europe when he immigrated to Canada after the war.  He had a very strong sense of belonging,   a true blue Ukrainian who missed the black soil of his home land, his family,  his language and his traditions.  He was the only one that worked very hard to keep the old traditions alive in our household,  but after my parents  divorced,  we never spoke the language and all the customs vanished.  I remember the fun we had at new years when we sat at the 12 course meal and my father would take a tablespoon of the kasha, a buckwheat dessert made with honey and toss it up to the ceiling… we would all wait with baited breath to see if it would remain there.  If the pudding stuck to the ceiling we would have a good year, if it fell, well not so good.  Then,  my father would open the back door to let the old year out and the front door to let the new year in.

He was the core of our family,  unlike most families that center around the woman.  My mother was not a very domestic type. Anyways,  I have gotten a bit off track,  but I would be happy to commemorate my father.. and I might have mentioned in a precious blog, that he was also a war hero as he saved the life of a friend who was shot and my father carried him to safety through an ambush.  During the early years while my parents were still together, we would often visit this friend and he would never miss the opportunity to convey the details of how his life was saved.  I am sure that Chano would also agree to the commemoration as would others who championed my dad.

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July 6, 2015 · 5:01 am