tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-98402312024-03-13T15:10:36.638-06:00Comforting WordsInspirational true-life essays for people concerned about love, equality, freedom and justice in a changing world.Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-45023315688249129792010-05-18T18:25:00.002-06:002010-05-18T18:27:14.463-06:00Black Women Need to Wake Up - By AbigailThe 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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRMy3e-eeMeIAM3S0ZC22WibmViDCz9MF78ZqN0hdkWVOi1aYbpu-v8_aT6a-u5NcU3cPodq9EBIsCIBLiq4Hl_mAYswyzdDadQ5YEwYlBU9QfPqnO3-6J3e-XvrU1bMtQx6W-g/s1600/smallofabi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRMy3e-eeMeIAM3S0ZC22WibmViDCz9MF78ZqN0hdkWVOi1aYbpu-v8_aT6a-u5NcU3cPodq9EBIsCIBLiq4Hl_mAYswyzdDadQ5YEwYlBU9QfPqnO3-6J3e-XvrU1bMtQx6W-g/s320/smallofabi.jpg" width="184" /></a></div><br />
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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.<br />
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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?!!!!<br />
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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 <br />
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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!<br />
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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! <br />
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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???? <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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I know my black is beautiful, and whoever don't like it can bite it!Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-6529411397800724572010-05-13T18:54:00.004-06:002010-05-13T19:06:32.121-06:00Sad State of Affairs<span xmlns=""></span><br />
<span xmlns="">"You have any suss'?" usually comes about five minutes into every conversation with my daughter.<br />
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<span xmlns="">'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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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!"<br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">Sitting on the side of the roadway my laughter turned to tears – of sadness and gratitude.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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 $50. Apparently her three year old baby needed a fireman outfit to attend career day at his school!<br />
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<span xmlns=""><span style="color: red;"><b>"What the @$&* you just said Abi?"</b></span> I screamed in the phone. When I get really annoyed my Jamaican accent and patois comes pouring out. <span style="color: red;"><b>"Har tree ear old hav' career day?!!! <br />
</b></span></span><br />
<blockquote><span xmlns=""><b>"Are you %@@ kidding me? Which tree year old have career day? Did you ask her if you a di' baby father?"<br />
</b></span></blockquote><span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns=""><b>"Career day mi' backside!" <br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">When I got back on the phone to Abi my laughter had been replaced by gratitude. <br />
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<span xmlns="">"Now you understand why we had to get you out of that place?" I asked Abi. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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."<br />
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<span xmlns="">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).<br />
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<span xmlns="">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."<br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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." <br />
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<span xmlns="">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."<br />
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<span xmlns="">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." <br />
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<span xmlns=""></span>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-71523315699290996912010-05-11T18:37:00.004-06:002010-05-11T18:47:36.463-06:00Excuse Me But Simply Giving Birth is not the Holy Grail<span xmlns=""></span><br />
<span xmlns="">It has been a while that I have written a post that generated so many comments – some public but most in private emails.<br />
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<span xmlns="">Is it because I have not been writing a lot lately or was it the topic? <br />
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<span xmlns="">Judging from the nature of the comments, I venture to say it was the latter.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Truth is my gal. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">I have no doubt that somewhere in my mother's heart there is hurt and sorrow. At least I hope so. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">It is clear that my understanding of forgiveness is different from many. Forgiving is not forgetting. </span><br />
<span xmlns="">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?<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">I can never forget not hearing to this day "I am sorry," from my mother.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">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.<br />
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<span xmlns="">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. <br />
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<span xmlns="">Blessings!<br />
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<span xmlns=""></span>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-35024949416244501312010-05-10T18:37:00.006-06:002010-05-10T18:46:59.718-06:00Flipside of Mother's DayYears 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Yet being a child who very rarely felt the proverbial “love of a mother,” that woman’s comment felt hollow and self-centred.<br />
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Mother’s Day is not necessarily a happy occasion for everyone. I am one of them.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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It has taken many years, tears and even some therapy (spiritual and psychological) to help me to the place I now am.<br />
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My mother, on the other hand, to this day denies she did any harm.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.”<br />
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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. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvTwJDwhvhSP1GDyyOMFsCM6JefL7_D-mKV3f9NleAaNtm0xfQn76387oxDGGmDgxZbWFC0wcQ0cGiSmWNk8F4VKLQ4sKrh-ajZ01ETyUqtWK7kyyfpkKwVlsjWT86DrfNkP2dWQ/s1600/smallof+us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvTwJDwhvhSP1GDyyOMFsCM6JefL7_D-mKV3f9NleAaNtm0xfQn76387oxDGGmDgxZbWFC0wcQ0cGiSmWNk8F4VKLQ4sKrh-ajZ01ETyUqtWK7kyyfpkKwVlsjWT86DrfNkP2dWQ/s320/smallof+us.jpg" width="320" /></a>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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It is too late for my mother and me.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Mothers with young children today – heed my warning.<br />
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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.<br />
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Give us a break…understanding…not judgment.<br />
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Blessings,<br />
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<i>Claudette</i>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-64565652611306205162010-03-31T18:11:00.005-06:002010-03-31T18:24:12.599-06:00On Being 45<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkgZ2GZ4Ne3ieU5jHR9NyNdCklJ9UDpEmB5HN19ZjhLH666wC8Akmudze6VV8uYVbSsZVBzj-ccKmIpPpOHljWRaZxV9IHG8Ip4SeJT2497g4UqkXzZ3dpHyFOxMouwGIOmZmwg/s1600/claudette5%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkgZ2GZ4Ne3ieU5jHR9NyNdCklJ9UDpEmB5HN19ZjhLH666wC8Akmudze6VV8uYVbSsZVBzj-ccKmIpPpOHljWRaZxV9IHG8Ip4SeJT2497g4UqkXzZ3dpHyFOxMouwGIOmZmwg/s320/claudette5%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span id="goog_629880547"></span><span id="goog_629880548"></span>I turned 45 this year. <br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">They say age is but a number but 45 is playing with my mind.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sixteen was a big number for me. Sweet Sixteen we called it b<span id="goog_629880549"></span><span id="goog_629880550"></span>ack then. Whatever else was going on in my world that February, turning 16 made everything beautiful.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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<sup>th</sup> 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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next big anniversary should have been my 40<sup>th</sup> birthday but for several reasons it was my 41<sup>st</sup> 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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The bright spark of my 40<sup>th</sup> year, however, was my daughter’s 18<sup>th</sup> birthday in October 2005, which was marked with a befitting celebration including a well-laid table that would have made my mother proud. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Looking back, my 40<sup>th</sup> 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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And now I am 45; the midway point between the beginning of freedom and the big 50. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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.</div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Cutie, what do you want to be when you grow up?”</i> my mother would ask me and the answer was never far from my lips.<i> “A doctor,”</i> 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?<br />
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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">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). </div><div class="MsoNormal">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. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Henri Arneil it was who said <span class="QuoteChar">“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.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">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!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Blessings,<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Claudette </i><o:p></o:p></div>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-33522380132925747392010-02-15T19:55:00.024-07:002010-02-15T20:05:56.752-07:00Performing Arts My Ass! Conclusion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJ4Ri-H0MFhiCnVjqZh1cS-s2IzbIj8zrIEhiMUoVx-0pY_dyuRVYdJ92ftz9y8R_kxtwQTvHeQOIJxUxwOVV38c_BLZyu9ek6CmYZEH3j9XrDqfNR-_z28NmKVHIwfof3-2B4Q/s1600-h/judge.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJ4Ri-H0MFhiCnVjqZh1cS-s2IzbIj8zrIEhiMUoVx-0pY_dyuRVYdJ92ftz9y8R_kxtwQTvHeQOIJxUxwOVV38c_BLZyu9ek6CmYZEH3j9XrDqfNR-_z28NmKVHIwfof3-2B4Q/s320/judge.png" width="320" /></a></div><span xmlns=""></span><br />
<span xmlns="">Three years after Whacko 'attempted 'to murder The Witch, we were finally in Court.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">But I am getting ahead of myself here. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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 <i>sans</i> 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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Things changed when the cross examination began. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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! <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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:<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><i>"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><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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!<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><b>Mr. Defense Lawyer:</b><br />
<i>"I noticed that you have a Facebook link on your blog."</i><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><b>Me:</b><br />
<i>"Yes?"</i><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><b>Mr. Defense Lawyer:</b><br />
<i>"So, you are still using that name?"</i><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><b>Me:</b><br />
<i>"What name?"</i><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><b>Mr. Defense Lawyer:</b><br />
<i>"McLaughlin"</i><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><b>Me:</b> (Stifling a laughter that was about to overpower me<i>) " I never used that name, Sir, before last year when I got married to one [R] McLaughlin."<br />
</i></span><br />
<span xmlns="">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:<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><b>Me:</b><br />
<i>"One of the ironies of life, Sir."</i><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">He did not hear me the first time, so I kindly repeated it for him. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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:<br />
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>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.</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[…], 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.</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"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."</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>Court heard […] had separated from […] in the months leading up to the attack. […] remained in the home and got a restraining order.</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[…'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.</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>A concerned friend offered to have […] stay the night …. The pair stopped at […'s] apartment to feed the cat and pack an overnight bag.</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>At that point […] started to conceive piece of performance art.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[…] selected a cheese knife and a filet knife from … drawers.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[…] would go to […'s] home… and stand … with the knives [to the] sides, to show that […] has nothing to fear.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[…] would say aloud: "I am not a violent person," and throw the knives over [the] shoulders [and] would fall to [the] knees.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[Then]…they would talk.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>Plan in mind, […] turned to [the] friend and asked her to drive to [the] home.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>The friend tried to persuade […] it was a bad idea, but […] was unstable and threatening… <br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>The friend dropped […] and frantically called […], then 911.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>She was so hysterical the 911 recording is virtually inaudible, Browne said.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[…] broke into [the] home, went upstairs and found […] and […] barricaded in the bedroom.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[…] lunged into the bedroom with a knife in each hand, […] fled across the bed and [the] new partner …seized the raging […].<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>[…] 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.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"Jealousy is one of the most powerful emotions we all have to deal with at some point in our lives," Browne said.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"I reject categorically and completely the suggestion that […] went to the house to do performance art."<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><br />
<span xmlns="">Now, my dear readers do you understand why these posts are entitled: "Performing Arts My Ass?"<br />
</span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">Blessings,<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Claudette<br />
</span><br />
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<span xmlns=""></span>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-28350226334859762562010-02-11T18:05:00.023-07:002010-02-12T07:00:47.835-07:00Performing Arts My Ass! Chapter 3<span xmlns=""></span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Back on February 25, 2006 had I possess the negotiating skills that I now have things might have turned out differently. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">On that fateful night, I was the only one standing between Whacko and a murder-crime scene.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Tried as I might, Whacko insisted that The Witch deserved to die and the killing was going to be done that night.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">On the elevator ride down from the 11<sup>th</sup> floor apartment, as we entered my car and driving out of the parking lot my pleading intensified. Still Whacko was not listening. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">We got to Jasper Avenue and I pulled over by a plaza and said "Here is Jasper, get out!" <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Whacko refused. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"Take me to the house."<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Either I was transparent or Whacko could mind read – whatever it was that was not going to happen.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">I drove. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"You can counsel me there," Whacko said to my warning that prison life is not pretty.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"Good, I will wait in the dark," Whacko said calmly. "Pull over!" And there was that threatening gesture again.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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?"<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns="">Whacko slammed the door and headed off in the dark.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">For a couple seconds I sat there paralyzed by the threat to deliberately implicate me. <br />
</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"You have to do something!" the righteous Claudette screamed at me, dragging me out of my reverie.<br />
</i></b></span></span></div><span xmlns="">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]!<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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! <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"F…!"<br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOkYUpnppPX8BAEbpJCJSQk_H5pm35biApSklQEAkgf7mDzx0rgXf8Ziu-Dzdd17rWOCqrAaECvzJDsf6uOs0HOfYQlFk68E1Ks_YM9WiOmpD9Z7EZy-MfL8OnrP6wc0VGXrUug/s1600-h/police.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkOkYUpnppPX8BAEbpJCJSQk_H5pm35biApSklQEAkgf7mDzx0rgXf8Ziu-Dzdd17rWOCqrAaECvzJDsf6uOs0HOfYQlFk68E1Ks_YM9WiOmpD9Z7EZy-MfL8OnrP6wc0VGXrUug/s320/police.png" width="191" /></a></div><span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>An Edmonton newspaper would later report that I was so hysterical that the 911 recording of my call was almost inaudible. <br />
</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns="">The police instructed me to stay where I was until the response team arrived and that happened within a few minutes. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"Yes, she is," the Officer said "But the other lady was wounded."<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"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?"<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Stay tuned for the conclusion!</span><br />
<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-av7F1JBmj4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-av7F1JBmj4&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-38997560595654506042010-02-10T20:26:00.021-07:002010-02-10T20:42:28.375-07:00Performing Arts My Ass! Chapter 2<span xmlns=""></span><br />
<h1><span xmlns="">The story continues…<br />
</span></h1><br />
<span xmlns="">All hell broke loose with my suggestion that we contact Whacko.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">That was when things got really ugly.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuaN8faTyRK9IBK8ng5-OeHYAtaeV9ej2aXEe95AuebSrQ0oH-xvHjPzAy1ntsIIz4x7jhEe-Ut8VOyB-4uHrFNQAN5pB9lTwNIqj6ActH_Yn5W7Vevz1XUtHKZTEn6TBWKR2-AA/s1600-h/angry02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuaN8faTyRK9IBK8ng5-OeHYAtaeV9ej2aXEe95AuebSrQ0oH-xvHjPzAy1ntsIIz4x7jhEe-Ut8VOyB-4uHrFNQAN5pB9lTwNIqj6ActH_Yn5W7Vevz1XUtHKZTEn6TBWKR2-AA/s200/angry02.jpg" width="200" /></a><span xmlns="">I watched Whacko deteriorate from a bright, intellectual, professional artist albeit intense person to a basket case. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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!" <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">That anger boiled over on February 25, 2007. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"You spoiled my plan."<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"What plan?" I responded from the couch. "To hurt yourself again?"<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"No, to kill [The Witch],"</i></b></span> Whacko said in a tone that bordered on maniacal. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"Okay what now," the inner, really scared Claudette was asking. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">"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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">I made it to the door but no further when Whacko shouted "Where are you?" <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Tune in for Chapter 3 tomorrow…maybe.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Blessings,<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><i>Claudette</i><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""></span>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-66015349249212122742010-02-09T20:09:00.018-07:002010-02-10T17:54:09.802-07:00Performing Arts My Ass!<span xmlns=""></span><br />
<span xmlns="">Promises are meant to be kept and I am a woman of my word. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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."<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Well that time has passed. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Nothing however prepared me for the events that would unfold almost four years to the date of arriving in Edmonton.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><a href="http://www.ronstadt-linda.com/perfidia.htm">Perfidia</a> , 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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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.<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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!<br />
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Vjss-mT6N60mjer6trnO8r5EkhiqBk0Mt-W0O8TIgMyjI4TsX7M6MSYF9BbZlt208dWKe0khm-fkANggRQF_Ls_luGI6AvjTDohxQOF8rJClrZ4vZ0Q1_6DAInUTgQTnXO5vfg/s1600-h/witch01.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Vjss-mT6N60mjer6trnO8r5EkhiqBk0Mt-W0O8TIgMyjI4TsX7M6MSYF9BbZlt208dWKe0khm-fkANggRQF_Ls_luGI6AvjTDohxQOF8rJClrZ4vZ0Q1_6DAInUTgQTnXO5vfg/s200/witch01.gif" width="200" /></a><span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">The much touted feminine intuition should never be discounted no matter the pressure received from others, particularly a suspected cheating spouse. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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!<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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:<br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i> "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."<br />
</i></b></span></span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">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. <br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns="">Little did I know how close to right I was!</span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">Come back soon for Chapter Two.</span><br />
<span xmlns=""> </span><br />
<span xmlns="">Blessings,</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><i>Claudette</i><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br />
</span><br />
<span xmlns=""></span>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-83193825927590354322010-01-06T17:43:00.048-07:002010-01-06T18:18:57.914-07:00Closing a ChapterToday was not a very productive one for me. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<i>"So much for that,"</i> I thought. <br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"For crying out loud! I have nothing left to be taken...leave me alone!" </i></b></span><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0X_xoo2dghUbbvULwA67kE2zrC46TeZzaxtNte8zRQ5IBGoI_acwgKFpiRxeEKys4oGIoYin_jKyG847mOMZmJGjK7pPMv49z6W0yui3Ic6snTZoeLvBFAxUVE1EH7lBRmKplZQ/s1600-h/claudette5%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0X_xoo2dghUbbvULwA67kE2zrC46TeZzaxtNte8zRQ5IBGoI_acwgKFpiRxeEKys4oGIoYin_jKyG847mOMZmJGjK7pPMv49z6W0yui3Ic6snTZoeLvBFAxUVE1EH7lBRmKplZQ/s320/claudette5%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br />
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? <br />
<br />
What is for sure, however, is that I will be one step closer to full freedom.<br />
<br />
Blessings,<br />
<br />
<i>Claudette </i>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-39543678083972861412009-12-28T12:13:00.011-07:002009-12-28T12:27:39.020-07:00Full Free in 2010In 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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
He agreed to watch Bishop T.D. Jakes instead on the computer. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<i>"Kill it, destroy it…!" he shouted. "Then give praises!"<br />
</i><br />
What the heck is he on about I thought. <br />
<br />
<i>"You cannot go into the New Year with the old year's baggage!"</i> he was saying or something to that effect. By now he had my full attention. <br />
<br />
Hash browns in my mouth watered down by my silent tears, I raised my hand when Bishop Jakes said<i>, "I am preaching to somebody in here today!"<br />
</i><br />
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!<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i><sup>23</sup>Keep your heart with all vigilance,<br />
for from it flow the springs of life. <br />
<sup>24</sup>Put away from you crooked speech,<br />
and put devious talk far from you. <br />
<sup>25</sup>Let your eyes look directly forwards,<br />
and your gaze be straight before you. <br />
<sup>26</sup>Keep straight the path of your feet,<br />
and all your ways will be sure. <br />
<sup>27</sup>Do not swerve to the right or to the left;<br />
turn your foot away from evil.<br />
</i></b></span><br />
</div>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<sup>th</sup> year, it was time to "kill" the remnants of my bondage. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Yet, some things are outstanding and cannot be mounted on any board.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i> "Full free"</i></b></span> - 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:<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i> "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."<br />
</i></b></span><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFod-QAmI67xa5dfMKISyAQAydydQQbYEjMk3SIaeizwujghQdHeNPNDfj1twPNKeC88oWZp255Oq9rX9XJxtfpxwIch2PZyYARKgQsYiAegIKPzUp8FHRwc_DhdAQ3AmBzcDXVg/s1600-h/claudette5%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFod-QAmI67xa5dfMKISyAQAydydQQbYEjMk3SIaeizwujghQdHeNPNDfj1twPNKeC88oWZp255Oq9rX9XJxtfpxwIch2PZyYARKgQsYiAegIKPzUp8FHRwc_DhdAQ3AmBzcDXVg/s200/claudette5%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a>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!"<br />
<br />
Blessings!<br />
<br />
<i>Claudette<br />
</i>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-55366400442068503112009-12-22T09:28:00.015-07:002009-12-22T09:36:49.107-07:00No Offense but Merry Christmas Everyone!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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">I came across this very interesting quote recently from Marian Wright Elderman:</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"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." <br />
</i></b></span><br />
</div><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.<br />
</span> </h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.<br />
</span> </h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">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.<br />
</span> </h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">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. <br />
</span> </h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">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. <br />
</span> </h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">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. <br />
</span> </h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit16vShXmlfftAKjarR8uTpsuz3ilUsKai_M67S6KiDiTr_9aQOcDfQyZI4POVpdu6jntfS9lorJg6c-oF25Jqr8aMKLeRNl4L3ojN2O8w2EaTMypinZWmW1Ut1Q3EzhAKuNlgKw/s1600-h/candle03.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit16vShXmlfftAKjarR8uTpsuz3ilUsKai_M67S6KiDiTr_9aQOcDfQyZI4POVpdu6jntfS9lorJg6c-oF25Jqr8aMKLeRNl4L3ojN2O8w2EaTMypinZWmW1Ut1Q3EzhAKuNlgKw/s320/candle03.gif" /></a><span style="font-size: small;">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. <br />
</span> </h3><h3 style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">Merry Christmas to you my dear friends and readers!<br />
</span> </h3><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<h3><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Claudette</span></span><br />
</h3>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-49998753524792211032009-11-13T13:03:00.001-07:002009-11-13T13:03:05.011-07:00Oleta Adams Get Here If You Can<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/PgjJNkBb-kM' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/PgjJNkBb-kM'/></object></p><p>This song has not dulled in my memory....still love it!</p></div>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-34746469310593263602009-11-05T16:30:00.024-07:002009-11-05T16:52:14.711-07:00National Emergency or National Panic Attack?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:<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"Is this H1N1 situation a national emergency or a national panic attack…we'll get some answers when we come back?"<br />
</i></b></span><br />
</div>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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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'.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"What the f… did he just say?"</i></b></span> 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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The word pandemic is used to describe say a disease that is <i>"prevalent throughout an entire country, continent, or the whole world; epidemic over a large area." It is a "general" situation.</i><br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://www.ctv.ca/servlet/ArticleNews/story/CTVNews/20090429/WHO_panic_090429/20090429?hub=TopStories"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"the worldwide total for seasonal flu related deaths is generally between 250,000 and 500,000 a year."</i></b></span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1257463875279">As of October 29, 2009 the World Health Organization was reporting "44,555 official lab verified A-H1N1/09 cases and 1170 deaths.</a><b><a href="http://wiki.answers.com/Q/How_many_people_have_died_from_the_2009_swine_flu_outbreak">"</a> </b>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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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). <br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>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. </i></b></span><br />
</div>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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Blessings,<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
ClaudetteClaudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-40590564066486373482009-10-18T14:17:00.010-06:002009-10-18T14:34:16.143-06:00Too Late: It is FinishedSitting 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:<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:<br />
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;<br />
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;<br />
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;<br />
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;<br />
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;<br />
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;<br />
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace."<br />
</i></b></span><br />
</div>Today is October 18, 2009 and it is my time bloom.<br />
<br />
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<sup>th</sup> level of my 'training' on becoming a human being. <br />
<br />
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<sup>nd</sup> 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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>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. <br />
</i></b></span><br />
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.<br />
<br />
Parallels – that was the lesson. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Nothing is an accident – was the other lesson.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<i>"You are right, life is too short and so I will not waste it on situations that obviously will bring me more heartache."<br />
</i><br />
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. <br />
<br />
Then before I could put my thoughts into words to her, she wrote me to say:<br />
<br />
<i>"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."<br />
</i><br />
The laughter came from my toes as I read her words. <i>"Yes you have done enough,"</i> I said to her picture. <i>"I could not agree more."<br />
</i><br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 46pt;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><b><i>"Pray a Benediction on your yesterday!"<br />
</i></b></span><br />
</div>And so I knelt and read this passage from the Bible:<br />
<br />
<i>"When Jesus therefore had received the vinegar, he said, It is finished: and he bowed his head, and gave up the ghost." </i>John 19:30<br />
<br />
I am finished with the shame and the blame.<br />
<br />
I am finished with asking why and instead simply say why not?<br />
<br />
I have fought a good fight – with the demons of my past – and I am finished.<br />
<br />
I love you – my dear aunt and my dear friend and I always will love you both – but I am finished. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I also get that I am finished now. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
As we sat in the restaurant celebrating my daughter's 22<sup>nd</sup> 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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfv4RnmDDqZe3VA0FbJA5sJ6aT9_puSO90dLrRxqGw2Hi2Up0UKLiis7I9SxBEi9d_CP3e6dnW5O0qIlHJFnBmTtg3NAO99SwLRqweoqjZlmTWf570iN5qtsDjxBUZfGpYpTzhuQ/s1600-h/free+woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfv4RnmDDqZe3VA0FbJA5sJ6aT9_puSO90dLrRxqGw2Hi2Up0UKLiis7I9SxBEi9d_CP3e6dnW5O0qIlHJFnBmTtg3NAO99SwLRqweoqjZlmTWf570iN5qtsDjxBUZfGpYpTzhuQ/s320/free+woman.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>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.<br />
<br />
It is finished. <br />
<br />
Thank you God!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Blessings,<br />
<br />
ClaudetteClaudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-78001443950324767392009-10-08T20:40:00.007-06:002009-10-08T22:05:19.945-06:00Too Late: IntermissionIt 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-style:italic;">“Robert,”</span> I tentatively said, <span style="font-style:italic;">“do you think this is psychological?”</span> Not understanding where I could be going with that question or maybe preferring not to go there, he responded <span style="font-style:italic;">“How?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style:italic;">“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.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style:italic;">“No,”</span> said my husband who sometimes refuses to acknowledge that I am not super-woman. <span style="font-style:italic;">“You are just stressed from the presentations and all that was weighing on them.” </span><br />
<br />
Then as only my Robert can conclude he said, <span style="font-style:italic;">“Furthermore I would have heard it in your voice.” <br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-style:italic;">“Heard what in my voice?”</span> was my comeback to that.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style:italic;">“Depression,”</span> 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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1LE15_sLoP7GxOTevKtIGv_lyS2vyQ2kiLpcxaLahgMVYHruXOBJFZ_RmGHMC3TgC006IQkV_hyGB4IvyIs5PyHd7bSn5WlYMGj41r8QlC5n-NpvRkXXQCUdD9D0aa9f7HRjWg/s1600-h/Honeymoon+509.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1LE15_sLoP7GxOTevKtIGv_lyS2vyQ2kiLpcxaLahgMVYHruXOBJFZ_RmGHMC3TgC006IQkV_hyGB4IvyIs5PyHd7bSn5WlYMGj41r8QlC5n-NpvRkXXQCUdD9D0aa9f7HRjWg/s200/Honeymoon+509.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390425138050756978" /></a>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. <br />
<br />
His eyes made me do it. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
He knows that this October came with its own set of additional issues – with the emails that I have been processing.<br />
<br />
That is why we are both glad that he is on his way home for our second Thanksgiving together – to help make new memories. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I am truly blessed.Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-30431752927981888192009-10-06T19:20:00.011-06:002009-10-06T19:36:13.994-06:00Too Late? Part 2<a href="http://hubpages.com/hub/Cellular-Memories-in-Organ-Transplant-Recipients">Cell memory</a> – <span style="font-style:italic;">“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.”</span> <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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’.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsfkBaaDoVQ6e18U_FmmnyipzI_XMdSjgJKlzqaD-ElAf6jOXFJQzr0ncm5w6SVWXMaDW73guLhJGfFc_iFfZ-ISaqoOKiVFqdTs5cO5Lf6tefySUol-3C6s3OVy08GfVf924-g/s1600-h/DSC_4248.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmsfkBaaDoVQ6e18U_FmmnyipzI_XMdSjgJKlzqaD-ElAf6jOXFJQzr0ncm5w6SVWXMaDW73guLhJGfFc_iFfZ-ISaqoOKiVFqdTs5cO5Lf6tefySUol-3C6s3OVy08GfVf924-g/s320/DSC_4248.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389662384162389298" /></a>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.<br /><br />I did not think about my pursuer in this way until on my drive to work this morning. <span style="font-style:italic;">“Why now?”</span> I asked myself. <span style="font-style:italic;">“Why doesn’t she just leave me alone?” </span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />Then she wanted to explain some of what happened as maybe then I would not hold such a beef against her.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Really now?”</span> I thought. <span style="font-style:italic;">“Now you want to explain, I don’t think so!”</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Let’s just forgive and forget about the past,”</span> 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.<br /><br />The late Bernie Mac had this line he would use in his television show, <span style="font-style:italic;">“America…let me tell…”</span> 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. <span style="font-style:italic;">“What the f… she cares about my health! She hasn’t concerned herself with me when I needed help, and now she is? !@^%”</span><br /><br />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?” <br /><br />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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Or I could dial the telephone number she included in her second email.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“All I want is for us to be reunited and start communicating in a more friendly manner and not like we are enemies,”</span> she closed.<br /><br />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…<br /><br />Maybe I will drop her a line…tomorrow.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/S3q8wWgmG7k&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/S3q8wWgmG7k&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-75393508163220770582009-10-05T19:19:00.007-06:002009-10-05T19:41:49.777-06:00Too Late?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJF3ziNEjX3VKZM_qJQ2_frZYn3mz_mgDbVgqIhFdkfzcwxiEbUXuaUc2u5lg6buhQlGO23c5pjxq38D2wDeabJmhHsddaNCF2HZT3_Zh2vJHcu8qZe7rNgf6oAi0Oj4Ojn_n1w/s1600-h/DSC_4328.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjJF3ziNEjX3VKZM_qJQ2_frZYn3mz_mgDbVgqIhFdkfzcwxiEbUXuaUc2u5lg6buhQlGO23c5pjxq38D2wDeabJmhHsddaNCF2HZT3_Zh2vJHcu8qZe7rNgf6oAi0Oj4Ojn_n1w/s320/DSC_4328.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389294159249720194" /></a><br /><br />A woman is pursuing me. <br /><br />She will not let up. Try as I may to give her the cold shoulders, she ‘attacks’ from another angle.<br /><br />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. <span style="font-style:italic;">“It’s time to talk,”</span> was the sum total of the very public message she sent.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Then she went silent and for weeks I heard nothing in response. <br /><br />Yesterday, another Sunday in solitude as my husband is away, a response finally popped up on my laptop.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“You have been on my mind,”</span> she wrote.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Too late for us…”</span> was my terse response to her. <span style="font-style:italic;">“I have no time to waste.”</span><br /><br />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? <br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />“Ridiculous!”</span> I thought. <span style="font-style:italic;">“It requires much more than that.”</span><br /><br />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? <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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? <br /><br />Hang on…hold it…wait a second….<span style="font-style:italic;">"Could this be part of God’s Grace?" </span><br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“It is well with my soul, it is well, it is well, with my soul…” </span><br /><br />Really? The Voice in my heart asked.<br /><br />Then why are there a couple empty places…spots quietly earning to be held, softly and gently...wanting...no still needing to be healed? <br /><br />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. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Ping!”</span> my laptop gave out as it announced the arrival of a new message. It was another from her.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">To be continued.</span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wziwGZq06PE&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wziwGZq06PE&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Photo by Renato GandiaClaudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-27524398643890118312009-09-30T20:46:00.001-06:002009-09-30T20:46:39.202-06:00Keith Urban - You'll Think Of Me (video)<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/B-oKxpQrRY4' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/B-oKxpQrRY4'/></object></p><p>"Sweeping out rooms that my emotions left...."</p></div>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-41163084906800190372009-09-19T11:49:00.001-06:002009-09-19T11:49:45.084-06:00Keith Urban - Only You Can Love Me This Way (Audio)<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/JCd84rUMnnY' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/JCd84rUMnnY'/></object></p><p>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!</p></div>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-45807856833755250032009-09-19T11:43:00.001-06:002009-09-19T11:43:49.871-06:00It Won't Be Like This for Long - Darius Rucker Video<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/53Rm-Vgf7h8' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/53Rm-Vgf7h8'/></object></p><p>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!</p></div>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-50726840479323654172009-09-19T11:28:00.001-06:002009-09-19T11:28:33.370-06:00Darius Rucker - Don't Think I Don't Think About It<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/Sa7ot4R_-Qo' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/Sa7ot4R_-Qo'/></object></p><p>Another of my favourite country artists and songs...love it and him!!!</p></div>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-31821006891101167502009-09-19T11:19:00.001-06:002009-09-19T11:19:52.265-06:00"I'm Movin' On" - Rascal Flatts Official Music Video<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'><p><object height='350' width='425'><param value='http://youtube.com/v/k1bxlDAjGCo' name='movie'/><embed height='350' width='425' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://youtube.com/v/k1bxlDAjGCo'/></object></p><p>This is a daily effort...is it not?</p></div>Claudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-71790590072179157632009-08-23T20:02:00.005-06:002009-08-23T20:28:52.517-06:00Fundamentalist Liberal - Who Me?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYgPFDuOHJWbm7K9epyQ5L281K2DnZ31MV_RiwcnsTRrat44H1V6P5DvPSbIbFX9Xu4cHmx46HGWCcwu0dYKrdlBvX6vZbrKKD6mFu4tTYnptFpiJvnxbpnLhb7iYtzt5dlnm_w/s1600-h/DSC01234.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYgPFDuOHJWbm7K9epyQ5L281K2DnZ31MV_RiwcnsTRrat44H1V6P5DvPSbIbFX9Xu4cHmx46HGWCcwu0dYKrdlBvX6vZbrKKD6mFu4tTYnptFpiJvnxbpnLhb7iYtzt5dlnm_w/s320/DSC01234.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373350705996519234" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Lorne Gunter, columnist for the National Post (and Edmonton Journal I believe), was answering questions about his recently published article entitled <a href="http://network.nationalpost.com/np/blogs/holy-post/archive/2009/08/19/lorne-gunter-the-united-church-is-blind-to-true-suffering.aspx">“The United Church is Blind to True Suffering.” </a><br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">“…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.”</span></blockquote><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">“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.”</span></blockquote><br />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!!!<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />What does this have to do with the other event? <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />Truth must always be spoken – no matter the consequences. Truth must always be spoken to power. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />Racism is racism. Bigotry is bigotry. Injustice is injustice. Wrong is wrong.<br /><br />Whether the person in power is rich, poor, black or white; whether they are Christians, Muslim or Jew.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Neither should the church and neither should you. <br /><br />Now back to my games – Mafia Wars, Farmville anyone? <br /><br />Blessings,<br /><br />ClaudetteClaudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9840231.post-68586054835130398182009-07-21T20:42:00.008-06:002009-07-21T20:57:41.306-06:00Why Do People Cheat?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJL88MdMT_SOdiVs5IxmKCV9_XK4jilC5vao7G_uCD8LwH7hf1oZ0FtFMtpl8hCNnqFWacxiWfqCIr88spCkHKaKrS9h7YD1sRaQvGcKV1FzAbUG9rgrqpDSklyB0FS_ni7p6eQ/s1600-h/Renato's+Wedding+Pictures+072.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJL88MdMT_SOdiVs5IxmKCV9_XK4jilC5vao7G_uCD8LwH7hf1oZ0FtFMtpl8hCNnqFWacxiWfqCIr88spCkHKaKrS9h7YD1sRaQvGcKV1FzAbUG9rgrqpDSklyB0FS_ni7p6eQ/s320/Renato's+Wedding+Pictures+072.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361112676617131682" /></a><br /><blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">“Betrayal can only happen if you love.”</span> -- John Le Carre</blockquote><br />Much of my spare time is spent on Facebook – yes, I admit, I am a Facebook addict.<br /><br />The social network offers me lots of free entertainment including clean non-sexual games such as my favourite “Yoville.” <br /><br />Through Facebook I have reconnected with high schoolmates, friends who live in many places across the world from Jamaica to Australia. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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, <span style="font-style:italic;">“Why do people cheat?” </span><br /><br />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.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />“Why do people cheat?” </span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.truthaboutdeception.com">Truth About Deception</a>. <br /><br />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:<br /><blockquote><br />“Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love; it is the faithless who know love’s tragedies.” </blockquote><br />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!<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">“you want too much of me in the vision that you see and I am not that big a person!”</span> <br /><br />Helen Rowland said:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">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.”</span><br /><br />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!<br /><br />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:<br /><blockquote><br />“All good is hard. All evil is easy. Dying, losing, cheating, and mediocrity [are] easy. Stay away from easy.” </blockquote><br />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:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><blockquote>“Cheating is eating a rotting carcass.”</blockquote> </span> <br />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!<br /><br />Think about it and share your thoughts with me. You can find me on Facebook or Twitter!<br /><br />Until then…stay away from rotten meat!<br /><br />Blessings,<br /><br />ClaudetteClaudettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17053589631802000288noreply@blogger.com0