Brain Gym

You know, hitting 50 wasn’t as bad as I thought, and now that I’m sliding into my mid-fifties, I can say that wow, yeah it wasn’t as bad as I thought but it sure is bringing a lot of shit I wasn’t expecting.

Amping up my game to offset some of the aging particulars has been in my arsenal for quite some time. A big shout out to retinols, Vitamin C serums and peptides for starters. Making sure I stay active, too, is part of my regular routine. A good diet of balanced nutrition, cutting back on alcohol, not indulging in the puff puff pass as much as I used to (lol wink wink) and recognizing my body’s need to rest more is key to maintaining a balanced existence.

I think that the most important thing that I have done, though, since turning 50 was deciding to learn something new. Actually, two new things.

I signed up for Duolingo to learn Spanish. After a few half-hearted attempts, I dedicated myself to 15 minutes every morning. Two of my friends are also learning, so we joined forces to buy the full subscription which is definitely worth it. I’m now 398 days in of daily practice, and a trip to Mexico in November proved that I’ve actually retained what I have learned when I put my (limited) abilities to work. My proudest moments of the trip were helping our taxi driver with directions all in Spanish, and figuring out what our lovely waitress was asking us at the end of a meal one night. Yes, yes, I am sure I fumbled the pronunciations and of course my verb tenses aren’t outstanding, but that feeling of understanding and being understood was so rewarding.

The other thing that I have taken on was never my intention, but rather the inspiration from my sister. You see, last year she gave me a skein of cotton rope and a how-to macrame book for my birthday. Now truthfully, I was a bit, I dunno, chagrined, I guess. Maybe a bit offended, if I’m honest. I mean, I’m not a crafty bitch. I’ve always felt that my attempts at art have been cringey at best and downright embarrassing in retrospect. But with her encouraging inscription in the book, a day or two later, I dug in to a simple plant hanger project.

Well. Almost a year later and I can say that I am HOOKED. Holy moly, I love this art form. Creating wall pieces, making functional and pretty hat hangers, and other bits and bobs have been my saving grace as I struggled through some stressful times. I find myself tying knots in my mind if I wake up at 2 am, heart racing and panicky (thanks Menopause, you horrid thing).

The most wonderful thing I can say about it is that I am creating art. The simple satisfaction that settles in when I finish a piece is like no other. It’s good for my brain, it’s good for my heart, it’s good for my soul.

And that, my friends, is always a good thing.

Carpe diem and jump in

When I was a child, anytime we would drive places in the summer time and come across a river or creek, I remember always wanting to stop and jump in. The water, bubbling over rocks before pooling into deeply green and blue back eddies were beyond inviting. The subtle swirls of the water in those pools hypnotized me.

We never stopped, though, in all the road trips and camping forays we did. I don’t ever recall asking, since I figured the answer would be no. To this very day, the sight of a river hugging the highway on a hot summer’s day evokes a longing in me that has never been fulfilled.

Until Sunday. My husband and I packed up a lunch and the dogs and some towels and headed up to Duncan Lake for the afternoon. As we drove by the Lardeau river, admiring the pale green of the water, I mentioned how inviting it looked. He agreed. So after a few hours spent frolicking (no word of a lie, we played like kids!!) on the beach at the lake, we headed back. We passed the one spot that I had spied but by then it was in the shade and the access didn’t look easy for a couple people in flip flops. So we turned and went back to the bridge and found a path down to the water’s edge. The river at that spot deepened to a large pool of unknown depth before veering off to some shallow rapids. Alluring and beguiling, the pale peridot water didn’t have to coax us at all.

And so we plunged in. It was refreshing and cold, a stark difference to the tepid waters of the lake that we had just swam in. The pull of the current belied the calm surface, and as always, humbled me to the power of water.

It was a quick in and out, but the icy glacier-fed river quenched that constant burn of childhood yearning. Quenched, and yet somehow ignited a zest for more.

I know now, as I have entered into my 50s, that stopping to smell the roses, or in my case, plunging into a beautiful river to soothe my inner child’s wishes is a form of healing. One where that little girl who fervently wanted to jump into water just because has had her wish finally granted. I felt her gratitude and her contentment that day, that invisible part of me whom I often ache to nurture and reassure. Through her, my joy was immeasurable and my own heart was satiated.

A conversation

We lined up to get gelato one night in Lo De Marcos. My daughter and I, on a much anticipated girls trip, were having the best time together.

A young man in his 30s approached us as we stood in line. He began a conversation with us and I engaged as I am wont to do with pretty much anyone that chats with me. He asked if he could read us a poem he wrote about a young woman he had spent time with in Sayulita. According to him, she “friend-zoned” him and he was quite broken up about it.

I could sense my daughter was not into it as soon as he started reciting the (god-awful) drivel about how broken he was because of her. When he finished, I politely said “Sounds like you really liked her.” He mumbled something and then introduced himself to us, and I reciprocated, introducing myself as well.

My daughter said “Nice to meet you” and then disengaged.

It obviously rankled this man, because, as he left, he told me “You should teach your daughter some manners” and then quickly said “I’m just joking” when I laughed in an incredulous way.

It was a comment that lent itself to the likes of a stinky fart in a beautiful room. There we were having a lovely evening, and this entitled fucking putz felt like he had the right to tell me what to do.

We stayed silent for a bit, and then dove into the conversation. As we both offered our own insight into what transpired, it brought to light a few different things.

You see, I tend to chat with pretty much anyone who approaches me. I am a social person. I’ve been around a LOT of weird folks in my life and have had some of the strangest and funniest encounters which, to me, offers a delightful tapestry of the human experience. I am an extrovert.

But really, it wasn’t that AT ALL. As we talked about it, I realized that while I am outgoing and chatty, I am also a Gen X woman, who was raised by *Boomers. Hear me out. This means that my formative years were steeped in deeply rooted patriarchal ideals and misogyny. I was raised to be polite. To not hurt other people’s feelings, ESPECIALLY men. It is by no means a dig at my parents, but it does bring a generational light to a huge difference in how we handle situations differently.

My Gen Z daughter said that she owed him nothing. Not her name, not her time, not her approval. She doesn’t CARE if he thought that she was rude that she didn’t introduce herself because she doesn’t owe him fuck all. And I saw that I felt an obligation to listen to him, because deep down I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or make him uncomfortable, even though he made my daughter and I feel uneasy. I realized that my own indulgence in him was not a weakness, but more of a throwback to some deeply rooted guilt of the fear of upsetting someone even though their actions were not appropriate AT ALL. It gutted me, truthfully. That I placed more importance on his emotions than hers and mine. I felt a sad shame about it all. But then, I reminded myself that the shame I was experiencing is part of the web of cultural bullshit we’ve been force-fed, especially as women.

He was just another entitled white guy who thinks that the world owes him something. He clearly had no personal insight to his own behaviour. I wonder about that young woman he wrote about. I wonder what he said or did to her to make her leave that entire situation. And I wonder how many times he’s twisted his actions into a blameless reflection of how women are these days – bitches, feminazis, unattainable.

It was enlightening for both of us. I was (and am) deeply proud of the woman she has become. She’s a realist who has the kindest heart and also stands true to herself with fearless power. This isn’t about whether you are a decent polite person or not. It’s more about upholding and honouring personal boundaries. If someone oversteps your boundary you don’t have to protect their feelings.

So, moving forward I’m going to channel a bit of that Gen Z force.

* So I received a very strong comment about my representation of generational ideals. This person reminded me that without the Boomers, we would not be where we are today in women’s rights etc. This is an entirely different conversation, and one that needs to be had. She said “not all Boomers” were patriarchal and misogynistic and it while, yes, this is true, my point seemed to be missed. I was raised in a different time with different ethical/social/economic structures that created my own generation. It is clear that she was very bothered by my statement and while I can understand her frustration, I cannot erase the truth of what I was talking about. And again, I would like to reiterate that by no means is this a DIG. Accountability and awareness of strengths and weaknesses nurtures growth, both personally and as a society.

Pen Pals

When I was in French class in grade 9, my teacher had us all sign up for a pen pal program where we were matched with kids around our own age in France. I received my first letter from a girl named Valérie and we began to write each other regularly.

She lived in a tiny village called Châteauponsac, close to the city of Limoges in the central part of France. I’m not sure how dedicated the other kids were in this pen pal program, but Valy and I were OBSESSED. The minute I’d receive and read her letter, I’d sit down and pen my own. She wrote in English and I wrote in French. This went on for years. I know it spurred on my love of the language and my desire to study more French. I even went on to study it for a year at Simon Fraser University, before transferring schools.

In my early 20s I planned a solo adventure to Europe to visit another childhood friend of mine who lived in Italy. So naturally, I contacted Valy, and I went to stay with her for one lovely week in the early spring of 1993. It was an invaluable experience. I met her family, her dog (ironically named Fifi, I kid you not), her boyfriend, and a few of her friends. I witnessed an authenticity of the French lifestyle not afforded to the traditional tourist. Sadly, I also learned my French was not as good as I had hoped, but it didn’t stop me from trying. And Valy, she engaged in her broken English with me, so along with a bunch of hand gestures and our attempts at one another’s languages, we got along just fine.

We kept in touch, albeit a bit more sporadically, and then as relationships sometimes wane, so did ours. I had met the man I was going to marry, and life… well, life just swept me along. Soon, the once-in-a-while letter just withered away.

Once social media arrived, I tried to search her name and had no luck finding her. I ended up deactivating my Facebook account a couple years ago, and thought, well, that was that. But one afternoon, I was telling my co-worker about Valy, and she was so invested that she encouraged me to search her name in FB Messenger one more time.

She popped up right away, and I saw the little green dot that she was online. I wrote her right then and there, something along the lines of “I hope this is the right person, I had a pen pal with the same name and I went to visit her in France in 1993.” blah blah blah.

Immediately, she responded. It was her! I couldn’t believe it! She seemed just as happy as me, and right away, she sent me a couple pics of her and I when I was there.

And so, almost two years later, we still communicate regularly, and thanks to Google translate, we can express anything we want. We’ve shared updates about our families and lives. And just this morning I received a lovely birthday greeting from her.

It’s made me want to go back to France one day, to once again sit with this lovely woman who has the kindest heart, to laugh, drink a little wine and stumble our way though a good conversation. One day, I know it will happen.

*Side Note* Pen pals were such a great thing, hey? I really feel nostalgic for the art of letter writing these days. I’m sure I’m not alone. What a treat it was to get something in the mail, a few pieces of paper that someone took the time to write thoughts and greetings onto. Just for you. Maybe, just maybe, it will make a comeback.

The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

Last Sunday we all went skiing. It was a very low-visibility day at the hill, and even with my low-light lenses in my goggles, I found that I couldn’t see the gradient of the snow very well. (None of us could, actually) The snow was good though. Soft, with some fluffy freshie.

So it wasn’t much of a shock when I went over a bit of an unseen ledge, hit the icy cat track and did the splits in the most awkward and ungraceful way possible. Oof. It hurt. I felt the pull in my inner thigh right away. Once we finished up the day, wowza, I could feel that muscle singing.

I popped some ibuprofen because the forecast said there was going to be a good snowfall throughout the night and both my husband and daughter were keen AF to hit the slopes again. (She had a mini-pass to the hill over the Christmas break and wanted to make sure she used it all up before heading back to school.)

And so, the next morning we woke early and headed up. Honestly though? My heart just wasn’t into it, I was tired and pretty sore. But hey! Ski mantras rang their bells in my head: Suck it up buttercup, amirite? YOLO!!! We must obey the laws of the hill and SEEK THE POW. Face shots and thigh burn and powder oh my.

We headed down a black diamond (Det Cord) for our first run of the day, to seek some roly-poly glades that are absolutely delightful on a good powder day. The hardest part of that run is right at the very top, it’s STEEP, with tight turns, and it tends to be wind-swept and icy, even with a layer of snow on it. Now, I’m an “okay” skier but I tend to prefer a warm-up run before hitting the hard ones. So, I fell on a turn, landed hard on my bum and just felt like a complete loser. It deflated whatever energy I had.

It set my tone. The grumpies that were waiting on the wings seized the day and settled right in. I tried to brush them off, but they stuck. I also felt timid and nervous, which is never something you want while skiing. The fatigue, the muscle soreness and the frustrating fact that my skis needed some work was enough to make me want to go sit in the truck and pout for the day.

I didn’t, obviously, and tried to stay as positive as I could until that afternoon, we were getting off the chair and I caught an edge and fell. Now, normally I would have laughed it off and carried on, but it pulled that muscle (again) and I almost felt like crying. We made our way down the hill, me skiing like a 90 year old, and although my family was supportive about us packing up and leaving, I encouraged them to go for another run. I drowned my sorrows in a delicious hot chocolate and ruminated on the day.

I realized that I should have gone with my gut instinct of staying home, but instead, I felt guilty about that and joined my loved ones for the day. I didn’t want to disappoint them. They were excited to go, and I thought I would let them down if I had stayed home.

I put their needs and wants before mine.

I also realized that my timid approach was detrimental to my day. I used to charge the runs. I use to ski with a group of friends who constantly challenged me and I became a better skier. When we would talk about which run we were going on, my one friend Julie would give me the stare-down if I ever dared to say something like “I’ll meet you at the chair”. I was never forced, but rather they knew I could do it, even when I didn’t. They had faith in me when mine wavered.

There’s a huge difference in feeling pressured to do something and feeling supported in doing what you need to do. If I had said that I was staying at home, I know my family would have supported me. But for some weird ingrained guilty reason, I felt obligated to go.

I acknowledged my mood on the drive home, I apologized for being such a grump. (I’m a believer in facing personal accountability, even when it’s hard to admit! LOL) And of course, they were both very loving and supportive and understanding. And I also decided right then and there that I will no longer feel bad about saying no to something I don’t want to do. That my boundary is precious to me, and worth holding up. And the love and support I felt from them would be a constant, no matter what. And isn’t that what we all need? Love and support, through the good times and the bad? That when someone needs to have a boundary respected, it should be. Always.

My son came over the next night for dinner, armed with all his ski stuff. He waxed my skis and sharpened up the edges for me. So when my daughter and I went up a few days later for her last day before leaving, it made SUCH a difference. I could carve with a clean edge. My turns felt controlled. And we had an absolutely fabulous day on the hill.

January

I heard the wind begin to howl in the middle of the night. I pulled my duvet closer to my chin and curled up, feeling that indescribable bliss of comfort and sleepy warmth as that icy air swirled in the dark, around my home.

January is a bleak and cold month, entrenched in the bitterness of winter, but there’s just something about it that I love. It may feel like we’re hanging in a balance, that things are static, that the pendulum has swung so far that it is suspended in one spot for that mere infinitesimal but infinite moment, but we’re not. The shift is so close. The glimmer of the end of our wintery tunnel is a far-off spark, oh, but it’s there, flickering and beckoning.

As the days pass, the light slowly begins its methodical and agonizingly slow appearance. Suddenly, the rush to walk the dogs before 4 pm isn’t necessary, as the winter sun hangs around just a tiny bit longer. Work commutes aren’t completely in the dark. A mere minute per day adds up, and each passing night reminds me that once again the light returns.

January is a promise. It is a reminder of rebirth. It is that present that you want to open, but it’s just not time yet, so you get to savour the sweet anticipation.

January is a month chock full of no obligations. No holiday fervour. No panic shopping. No guilt-ridden gatherings. Taxes aren’t due yet. A month where you can indulge in self-care. 31 days of quiet coziness: tea or hot chocolate while working on a puzzle, a good book that sweeps the snowy world away, a hot bath and a Netflix spree. A month of nothing, other than the day-to-day doings.

For me, it’s also a sweet month as it was on a January evening years ago that I welcomed my first-born child, one day after his father’s birthday.

It can be a time of struggle, I know. For so many, January is a slog. The days are bitter, lonely, endless. It can mire you down in woe. It has a melancholy to it. The absence of colour in our landscape paints a depressive world around us. Everything is muted, stalled and stagnant.

But tell THAT to the chickadees and nuthatches. They arrive at my feeder in droves, flicking seeds with wild abandon. Perching in my apple tree, they sing a chorus of joy. If the weather is mild enough, it can almost feel like spring. It’s such a flurry of silly antics, a feathery commotion. The giddiness it inspires in me is rather ridiculous at times. I find myself completely entranced.

Yes, these glum days can be immobilizing to the spirit. But if you can get outside a bit each day, especially when the cloud lifts and allows the crisp sun to shine in a brilliance that only January can serve, it will help. We all know that even a few minutes of exercise outdoors does absolute wonders for mental wellness.

So hang in there, folks. Hold tight to the glimmer of hope even when the dark seems to want to drown you. January is here, and February is just around the corner. And February is such a short month which means March is almost here and well, so is spring.

Be well.

Choices

2022. What a year. One that has been filled with change: changes in our home dynamic as our youngest launched off to University to pursue her dreams, a new puppy added to our family who gives us endless entertainment, employment shifts, relationship transformations, and sadly, loss. As always, as the end of December arrives, the need to find a new word for guidance starts to rise up for me. In years past, I have spent several days waiting for the Universe to gift me my word.

Some of the words I’ve chosen in the past are Unapologetic, Resilience, Release, Embrace… each a sparkling jewel in their own way, rife with a rich depth of meaning for that specific time in my life. Sometimes, I find I can measure slight efforts in growth in retrospect.

My family lost two very important and dearly loved people this year. We are navigating the grief as best we can while taking solace in their longevity and well-lived lives. I offered my strength and support to my children and husband as they shook from the loss while balancing my own grieving. The sadness has saturated our daily lives, and we found ourselves now marking celebrated occasions as the first one without our loved ones. The “new normal”, I suppose.

In death, we can learn. Mired in sorrow, we can grow. Lessons are there, whispered gently while we sit with quiet heartache. And realistically, it’s just the beginning of these losses. As our loved ones age, and as we age, we are destined to bear the pain of loss over and over.

Meanwhile, as entrenched in this as my family has been, I’ve recounted my own existence on this planet and spent many a morbid moment wondering how my own death will be observed. All my goodness and my not-so-goodness. I’ve wished for things to be different a thousand times. Decisions I have made in my life that have impacted people I care about and my own trajectory are tattooed heavily on my soul. If I could change certain things I would. In a heartbeat. But I cannot. So I sit with the weight of knowing the effects of my faults. There never is more of a bitter pill to swallow than regret and accountability.

While I was encompassed in this measurement of my worth, I saw that I was overly-devoted to the negative. It’s sort of silly that so many of us can only see the mostly not-so-good in our own selves. Why is that voice that speaks to me so full of hate and vile accusations? If I spoke like that to my children, it would be emotional abuse. Why do I let myself slander my own Self like that? Why, in recounting my traits, are my virtues never listed?

In a weird algorithmic way, upon thinking about all of this, I ended up seeing a TikTok about self worth and how to change your brain from the constant negative inner voice and re-train it to be positive. It’s ultimately rather simple. You just tell yourself every day something amazing about yourself. Even if you don’t believe it. But you have to do it every day. Eventually our emotional brain will respond to it and it creates new pathways in how we see ourselves and after about a month of it, people report being happier and more satisfied with their lives. So, feeling rather goofy and foolish, I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and told myself that I was awesome. That I was funny and caring and smart and kind.

After this, I heard my word. It is something I need to offer to others, but mostly, I need to give it to myself. It’s not easy and it needs to be done over and over. It isn’t static but rather a consistent effort that stems from my need to be kinder to myself. Rather than beating myself up over and over for the sins of my past, I choose to be gentle and gift myself something I haven’t ever done before.

My word is Forgive.

To forgive others of hurt is one thing, but to truly forgive myself may just be the biggest effort in my ongoing self-betterment. But each day, like the that TikTok therapist suggested, if I whisper “I forgive you” to myself every day, then, maybe… just maybe, I will be free of some of the inner torment that has plagued me.

May the blessing of the New Year be abundant, may you find joy in the smallest things and remember that you are loved, you are beautiful and you are enough.

Ghosts

When I look back, I see now when it started. Years before I truly noticed the slow fading, there were odd omissions of invites, minor slights in conversations, the odd glance that I surreptitiously caught out of the corner of my eye and a gradual reduction in online connection.

As time went on, I felt more and more ousted. I’d see posts on social media about gatherings that I would have normally been included in. These were always riddled with hashtags of professed adoration and mutual devotion. Sometimes I’d message a friend, and would not receive a reply. I felt at times sad and bewildered. It started to feel like a competition for attention, and honestly, I have never been a competitive person, so I floundered. I was never good at the “popularity game”. I’d try, though. I’d reach out, brush off my emotions, carry on. There were still gatherings, good times, laughs shared that left me feeling rather foolish, as if I was imagining the whole thing.

When 2020 rolled in and shook the entire world, I saw more than ever that my importance to some wasn’t as mutual as I had hoped. The slight cracks became fissures and silence became the norm. I do know that the strangeness of the pandemic affected everyone differently. I spent an awful lot of time alone, having lost my job due to Covid. Being alone isn’t the best place to be when you’re mired in the murky confusion of intangible loss.

As time went on, and I moved on with my life, I spoke my mind about some current events on a social media platform, and angered someone who was once a friend. And that, I know, as unfair as I think it is, was the nail in the coffin of these connections. The choice was made. I was the ballast to be tossed. No one asked me my views, no one thought how painful it would feel to be voted off the island, no efforts made towards me in any manner that would reflect the tenets of a mature relationship. I was out, and that was that.

I was ghosted.

The funny (not funny ha ha but funny as in oof this will hurt my heart for a very very long time) thing about when friendships fade away or end suddenly, is the unrequited ache of unfinished dialogues, the closure that will never happen. I have had the conversations in my mind, they have been varied in their imagined outcomes, but the one commonality in each imagined scenario is my questions: Do you know how much this has hurt me? Do you care?

I’ve been through the stages of grief with this. I’ve been sad, deeply disappointed, depressed, hopeful, and oh boy I have been nail-spitting, expletive-flying, wall-punching ANGRY too. I’ve accepted it now. I’m okay, mostly. I’ve reduced my social media presence to a post every now and again on Instagram and I have completely gotten rid of Facebook. Elon turned Twitter into a garbage dump, so my presence there is less engaged every day. It’s a vital step toward a healthier grounding, and a more in tune presence with my real life and with those who have been by my side no matter what.

Instead of pining for what will never be, I have chosen to embrace what is. And that I am worthy of kindness and love. And here, where I pour my emotions out into the written word, I find solace and a unique form of therapy. I also find myself.

Thumb-twiddlin’ time

I am now officially unemployed.

After leaving a position this past March for a seasonal job in a different field, it has now wound down and I find myself facing days, weeks and months yawning open before me like… well, I don’t know what. It’s far more different than the time I was off work due to Covid. That vibe was eery and surreal, and I had both my kids still at home to bake endless bagels and cookies for. Now, it’s just my husband, our two dogs and me. And I don’t eat a lot of bread.

I’ve decided that I am not rushing to look for something else, and instead, allowing “The Universe” to roll something my way. It was humbling to face a position that, in retrospect, I was perhaps not overly well-suited for. While I liked the job itself, I found myself struggling with certain aspects. Never, in my decades of working, have I felt so… inept. Admittedly, I did get better and better at it, and learned a lot as I went along, but there were moments when I felt frozen with stress and under a constant scrutiny I have never felt before. That, my friends, can eat away at your self-confidence until you feel like a worthless husk. I’ve been fighting an inner battle over it for a while now.

Of course, with all things, lessons are learned. About myself, about others I worked with and for those people we served in the capacity of the place I worked at. And now, more than ever, post-Covid, what is important to me and my life is reflective in the choices I make about where I choose to work.

With the endless stretch of time laid out before me, I wake each day now with one question – What will I do today? My well-planned list of things to do is slowly being ticked off, one by one. I had the most horrifying thought this weekend of signing up for Pinterest and tapping into a crafty side. Now, if you know me, my “crafty” abilities tops out at hot glue-gunning popsicle sticks together and then swearing at myself when I glue my fingers together, so we shall see about THAT.

There’s always writing. This forlorn little blog of mine has seen busier days, and I hear it calling to me even while stymied by a gut-punching lack of ideas and inspiration. And my shopping list includes a stop at the local artist supply store to get some paints, brushes and canvases to play around with.

It’s a switch, a difficult one, to go from working every day to a slower pace of being at home, one that I find incredibly hard to navigate. Mostly because of the guilt associated with the old capitalistic ingrained heavily in all of us. I still have worth even if I’m not pulling in a paycheque. “I’m not lazy or useless!!!” I whisper back to that nagging voice inside.

But still, I am daily checking the various sites of employment opportunities. I believe the right thing will come along and I will, once again, be a part of the workforce. Until then, long meandering daily walks with my dogs and luxurious afternoons curled with a good book will be on my to-do list.

Under the moon

Whenever my daughter and I hang out, whether it’s while we’re cooking, driving, camping etc. we have a lived by our golden rule of listening to Fleetwood Mac and, specifically, Stevie Nicks.

Fleetwood Mac was my secret pleasure back in the days of my heavy metal head banging. They never really fit into the scope of my professed music tastes, and yet, like millions of other people, I loved and adored their music.

Stevie’s iconic persona, her rock and roll life, her poetry in weaving profound sentiments into lyrics and her unapologetic essence has impacted generations, reverberating in those who adore her a desire to be like her, swirling and crooning in corsets, long skirts, and untamed hair.

So when the chance to see her live rose up, I bought tickets as soon as they became available. The anticipation was almost unbearable and yet so savoury. Each day passed and my daughter and I would talk about which songs she might bless us with. What would she wear? And most importantly, would she twirl?

And so the day finally arrived. Time passed in agonizing slowness. We made our way to the amphitheater along with throngs of like-minded dedicated fans (and oddly, many who didn’t quite fit the bill of people I assumed would listen to her music. Don’t EVEN get me started at the woman who wore a “Let’s Go Brandon” T-shirt. The smug audacity of that woman and the ignorance of who and what Stevie stands for was appalling, but I digress. Most people, however, looked as though they shared our deep love and awe of our icon.)

While we sat and waited, Elisabeth asked me what my favourite concert was. I thought for a minute, thinking of all the bands I’ve seen live. I admitted I didn’t have a favourite. Sarah McLachlan, perhaps or one of the multitudes of rock bands… But no, not one that jumped out as The Concert.

As the evening fell upon us, the sun casting orange hues on the clouds that hung above the Columbia river and carving shadows along the canyon, the moment finally arrived. Now, you may think this is weird. Some may not understand. But when Stevie walked onto that stage, dressed in her witchy black lace and stiletto boots, her blonde mane reaching her waist, my daughter and I looked at one another in utter joy. There she was, our beloved Goddess.

To say that she can sing is an understatement. To say that her music touched us would be lacking in the wildness of the truth.

Yes, we cried. Yes, we sang along. Yes, we clutched our hands to our hearts in reverence to her talent.

Yes, we worshipped the queen, the Head Witch, the High Priestess while she spun her magic through song. And behind us, the almost full moon rose in front of her like a beacon. As she raised her hands to it, it felt as though she casted a blessing over us all.

I am still reeling almost a week out. It was, dare I say without sounding crazy, a spiritual, prodigal experience, and we are both deeply changed because of it.

As the lights went down and the screams and whistles and clapping faded away, I whispered to my daughter “I know what my favourite concert is now” and she smiled, tears still sparkling in her eyes and said “Me too.”