Tag Archives: gratitude

An Attitude of Gratitude

11 Monday Oct 2021

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It’s the second Monday in October, which means it’s Thanksgiving here in Canada. Despite the state of the world today – and the struggles and challenges in my little corner of it – I do have many things to be grateful for.

I am thankful for my rough and tumble house. It’s old, it needs a lot of work, and sometimes I seriously wonder what I was thinking wanting to keep a whole entire house in the first place… but this house has been my home for more than a decade. I know it well. I’ve made it my own – with a lot of help – and plan on continuing to do so. My winter project is to get it painted. I’m absolutely useless at this task, but I can tape baseboards and outlets and other things like a whiz, and delegate the painting itself to those who are considerably better than I. This house has trusted me with its care. Its ghost(s) have shown up. I’ve trusted these four walls with my secrets, as it has entrusted its care to me… and yes, I realize how strange that sounds…

I’m thankful for my new job, which is going well. I like the people I work with. There are many opportunities to learn, and I can even take a few opportunities to pass along information that I know. Jenny has settled in well – maybe too well, since she sneaks into my boss’ office to steal the bones that other office dogs have left behind – and looks forward to her weekly meets and greets with everyone.

Speaking of Jenny, I’m thankful for our eight (EIGHT?!?!?) years of partnership. Her intelligence, love, and sassy attitude make working with her a pure joy.

I’m thankful for my two quirky and funny kitties . Wolfie is coming into herself again, and has made great friends with Simone (AKA the Monkey). Simone, for her part, has grown up into a big kitten with impulse control (something I never saw coming!) They each make me laugh every single day.

I’m thankful for my parents, who have each in their own way raised me to be strong, kind, and self-sufficient

I’m thankful for my partner, who’s been with me through some of the darkest and loneliest periods of my life. This past year and a half has in no way gone as planned, but we’re standing together and actively doing whatever we can to make some of the hard things less terrible.

I’m thankful that my divorce is now final. It’s been over for a long time, and now a judge says it is! I’m thankful that, while things went slowly, for the most part they went smoothly, with enough time and space for us to truly part friendly and cleanly. I wish him nothing but love, success, and happiness; I would never begrudge him anything I’ve found for myself.

I’m thankful for my friends – the new, the constant companions, and the friends with whom I’ve recently reconnected. Throughout the past few days I’ve reconnected with old friends and long-time neighbors, enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner with longtime friends, and there are new people in my world that I am grateful to be building new friendships with.

I am thankful for my running friends. This weekend was the Boston Marathon – both the physical and the virtual race. For a wide variety of reasons – inadequate training, mental brick walls, and really crappy running weather, among others – I had to sit this one out. I hated it. I don’t ever want to sit out a race again! My running family has been nothing short of supportive – encouraging me to keep going, while offering support, comfort and commiseration that things didn’t go as planned. Over the past few days, I’ve received several calls and texts – “So, what’s next for you?” in short, I gotta get off my duff and get moving again! And my running family will be there, whatever that process looks like.

I’m thankful that my beading room will soon be a place of creativity. When I started reclaiming this home as my own, I moved my beading table down into a small room that was used for other things. I wanted to create, to make pretty beaded things that could be seen and felt and enjoyed. But then the pandemic hit and that room turned into my home office – hardly a great creative space. I recently got gifted a new desk from our local Buy Nothing group, and I couldn’t have asked for a better one. My plan this week is to spread things out, find places for them, and get back to work. And that room is also getting its own coat of paint!

Today, October 11, is also National Coming Out day. I’m thankful that I live in a country where I can be myself, be proud, and find community. I’m thankful for all the support I’ve received over the past few years as I’ve come to terms with my identity as someone on the asexual spectrum. I’m so grateful for the conversations and writings and community of Ace folks all over the world, and all the ways I’ve been able to learn, share and grow. And I cannot say enough about my allies – those inside and outside of the Ace community – who’ve accepted this as part of who I am with no judgment, no condescension, and no erasure. This is (sadly) quite rare, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude that my little corner of the universe is full of kind and understanding people.

I generally have a hard time with the perky, don’t worry be happy, positive thinking stuff I see a lot online these days. But if I am being honest, this is truly where I am right now. So for this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for so very many things.

A Little Kindness Goes a Couple Blocks

11 Wednesday Aug 2021

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One of the perks of my new job is the fact that I no longer have to commute by bus. I didn’t mind catching the bus every day before I was sent home in April of 2020, but I feel safer taking transit for fun trips (i.e. as little as possible).

Since the bus routes changed here this past April, I’ve had more frequently frustrating experiences with drivers lately. I’ve asked direct questions such as “What route is this?” because the buses aren’t announcing the route like they’re supposed to; more often than not, I get the response “Where are you trying to go?” I’ve had drivers decide to blow past the stop I’ve pulled the cord to request… and not tell me. I’ve had drivers drive past the stop I’m standing at, stopping 50 feet from the stop only because I’ve waved my arms frantically for them to stop at the place they should’ve stopped, since I have no way to know if they’re the bus I need.

I know there are good bus drivers out there; I know some of them personally. I also know they are undervalued and are asked to take on a stressful job without a lot of support. Even understanding all that, as a passenger, I need to get where I need to go safely and effectively, and that can’t happen when I’m playing the twenty questions of “where am I?” and “where are you going?”

But I must give a shout-out to a bus driver I met yesterday. I was walking down a busy avenue sidewalk – the same one I’d taken just that morning. Jenny guided swiftly and flawlessly, and then she stopped and turned into the grass. Thinking she had to answer nature’s call, I let her sniff for a spot. That didn’t interest her. So forward we went…. Jenny put on the brakes. I moved my foot gently forward, and felt the concrete just… end. That wasn’t there that morning!

I was just about to turn around to retrace my steps, to cross at the next major crossing, when I heard a set of doors open, a bus ramp kneel, and the route announce itself. The driver asked if I needed a hand, and I asked what was going on up there. He said there were construction barricades, because they were ripping up the sidewalk. He asked if I needed a lift, and I gladly accepted.

The trip only lasted a couple of blocks, but it saved me from having to go all the way back to pretty much where I started. It also gave me some useful information about the area around me. And it was just… nice.

So, to the driver of the #52 bus on Tuesday, August 10, if this makes its way to you, thank you! You have a hard job, and I appreciate the extra effort you took to make sure I got home safely. They say a little kindness goes along way. I think it goes as long as you need it to… and sometimes, that’s just a couple blocks.

An Open Letter to Those who Get it

23 Saturday Mar 2019

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If you’re reading this and think you might recognize yourself, you probably know who you are. If you’re reading this and wonder why I’m writing this about you because this should be common sense, you probably know who you are. If you’re reading this and know I’m writing about you… I’m probably not.

 

I’m a person with a visible disability. You are somehow part of my life. You could be a colleague, a teacher, a friend, a stranger in line at a coffee shop… less commonly, you could be a family member or a romantic partner. Your life could’ve intersected mine in a hundred different ways. Before meeting me, you’ve usually had little to no experience with the day to day realities of living with a disability.

 

And yet… you get it.

 

You get it in ways I can never put into words until I fumble and falter and try and thank you for just understanding so I don’t have to explain at all. When I stammer out the words of joy and gratitude I feel from deep in my soul, more often than not, you remain still for a moment, eyebrows raised, and ask me with all seriousness what the big deal is. Because more people should understand. You think that more people should stop asking intrusive questions. You believe that nobody should grab my body when “trying to help”. You think I belong at the table just like everyone else, and you’ll quietly move heaven and earth to level the playing field so I’m part of your group and not just a token participant. You understand why some ideas are so harmful. You may not know what my life feels like, but you leave me plenty of open space so that I can fill in the gaps – not because I owe you an explanation, but because you know that so few people leave their agendas at the door.

 

You may be a new friend, or a colleague who got to know me on that project one time. You may be a stranger who offered assistance when I was standing in line at a coffee shop and just knew how to help and let me be when it was no longer required. You may be a random group of people who regularly play board games. You may be a part of a group of musicians. You may be a member of a sports team or other club. You could literally be anybody. Often times, you intrinsically understand me – and my life with disability – better than many of my family members, partners, or friends. As much as we love them, there’s always been a growing experience, an adjustment period, a drawing of boundaries. With you… that’s never once been there. You’ve always just… known. You’ve never called attention to my disability, but you’ve never neglected its presence either. You’ve never asked questions unless they directly flowed out of a conversation we’ve been having. You’ve understood – with no input from me – why little things that many people say shouldn’t “get to me”… get to me. You’re furious on my behalf at intrusions into my privacy, and yet you’ve given me space to fight the battles myself. You’ve presumed me competent when I’ve spent so much time trying to convince people that I’m not just a child in an adult body. For all of this, you have my undying gratitude.

 

You get it.

 

All of it.

 

And you’re right, more people should. But maybe, just maybe, if more people did… I wouldn’t be so aware of the rare and precious mystical belonging places. It’s more than the absence of negatives; you’ve given me something that so few people have… the gift of true acceptance. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

 

Go ahead, raise those eyebrows. If you think I might be talking about you – if you remember some stammered, incoherent conversation about thankfulness and gratitude toward you – I probably am. If you don’t remember this conversation… that’s OK. I’m probably not writing about you directly right now. But I could be… or someone else could be down the line. Read this post again. And again. And again. And let it sink in. It’s not hard to “get” disability; it’s a leaving behind of preconceptions, a listening to what’s being said, an opening to a change in script. I’m eternally thankful for people who intuitively “get it”, and also for those who want to get it, own their missteps, and don’t lay all the emotional labour on me. It’s never too late to move forward, to be that person that doesn’t understand how something so simple can be so profound.

 

And yet, it is profound.

 

You get it.

 

And these fumbling, faltering words are the only ones I can come up with to adequately express myself. But maybe, just maybe, they are enough.

An Open Letter to Our Cheering Squad: Thank You Isn’t Enough

05 Sunday Aug 2018

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A week ago today, two friends came over to our house, bearing a massive watermelon. Sure, it was a beautiful summer day, perfect for watermelon, but the summer treat wasn’t for me. I hadn’t asked them to come, but they knew that I couldn’t leave, and had no way of obtaining one for several hours. While the watermelon was being sliced and diced, I was trying everything I could think of to get Jenny, my beloved guide dog, to eat it… to eat anything, really. Each time I showed her the food, Jenny turned and walked in the opposite direction – as she had had every time she’d been shown food the past twenty-four hours. The closest we could get her to the watermelon was to mash it into her water bowl… and even then she drank a bit and walked away.
My friends hugged me as I cried worried tears, telling me Jenny would be OK, offering words of comfort and plausible reasons for why Jenny might be avoiding food after 36 hours of throwing up.
But when Jenny wouldn’t get up and say hi to Ben when he returned home, I knew we were in trouble. Maybe it was a reaction to a medication her vet prescribed, but even so, Jenny wasn’t eating, and this couldn’t continue indefinitely.
A week ago today, Ben and I drove to the north Edmonton Emergency Veterinary clinic with a brave but lethargic Jenny. The vet recommended hospitalization. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was to walk out the doors of the clinic as a vet tech took Jenny into the back to put her on IV fluids and figure out what was wrong.
Within minutes of Ben posting the newest development on facebook, our phones went crazy. Friends and family called, texted, tweeted, facebooked, emailed, cheered as certain ailments were ruled out. On Monday morning, my colleagues asked where Jenny was, and comforted me as I cried and told them she was still in the hospital. Our friends lit a Coleman lantern the first night she was gone, and promised they’d light it each night she was away until she came home.

For Jenny to Find her Way

 

By mid-day Monday, Jenny was no longer dehydrated, but she was still lethargic, and still not eating on her own. We agreed to an ultrasound which showed an unclear image of a foreign object in her digestive tract. They recommended surgery that night, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I got the results of the operation. For the second night in a row, our friends lit the Coleman lantern, and posted about Jenny on Facebook. People I knew – and people I didn’t – were cheering for Jenny, sending prayers, offering comfort. Some friends even stayed up late playing dice games online with me when I was too keyed up to sleep. When the call came that Jenny’s surgery was a success – and they were able to remove the foreign object (a nectarine pit, as it turned out) with less intrusion than they expected – I could see in my mind all the names of all the people who had been with us on this journey. The names and faces and stories seemed to have no end – those who had been where we were, those whose beloved animals never came back, those who came home happy and healthy as though nothing had happened. I was overwhelmed by how powerful even small actions and words could be.

 

The emergency vet’s office staff were all amazing, answering my frequently “checking up!” calls with respect and compassion, giving us as much information as they could, even if it wasn’t encouraging. When we first admitted her, they gave us room and space to spend some time alone with our beloved Jenny, and repeated this compassionate act when we agreed to admit her for surgery. As soon as they could, they called with major developments, cracking jokes about Jenny being a cheap drunk on the pain killers. Twelve hours post-op, she still wasn’t eating, but they were encouraged that she was resting comfortably and communicating that she wanted to go outside. Not 45 minutes later, my phone rang three times from the clinic, and my heart stopped (oh, no, did she get sick again?), but the news was good – JENNY WAS EATING! Six hours after that happy phone call, we got some other amazing news: Jenny could come home!

When we came to pick her up, we got a full update – Jenny was a princess dog (“um, no canned food, please!”) and was a huge hit with the staff. When they brought her out, her head enclosed in a Cone of Shame, she wiggled and waggled and was completely different from the lethargic and stoic guide dog that had come in 48 hours earlier.

 

There was no way Jenny could guide – and I couldn’t ask her to – but Ben and I still had to work this week. We couldn’t leave her alone, and we couldn’t take time off ourselves. While Jenny recovered from her surgery – stoned out of her mind on painkillers – we had offers of “Jenny sitters”, offers made without us even having to ask. Ben’s mom came and kept her company (and snuggled her on the couch) on Wednesday and Friday, and our friends Keith and Donna – bearers of watermelons and lighters of Coleman lanterns – took her on Thursday for a little field trip to their house. I’ve thanked them all for giving her meds, feeding her smaller meals as appropriate, sending me ecstatic messages when Jenny had her first post-op poop… but I don’t have any other words to thank them – or anyone else – for lifting us up in such practical ways.

 

For those who have been with us on this crazy journey – offering words of comfort and hope, giving me space, providing medical treatment, offering practical assistance, sharing our story, cheering us on…

Thank you isn’t enough.

I used to think words were cheap.

You’ve proven me wrong.

Words have power.

Your words have power.

Your words and lanterns and hands and time and prayers… they made all the difference this week.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.