Author: pegnear

As some of you know, I choose a single word to help guide me this year. That word is LISTEN. For me that means being present, listening to the unspoken, paying attention to signs, opening my heart, as well as my mind to receiving messages that I may have missed before.

Around 6pm last evening, just as my sweetheart got home from work, I was in the kitchen starting dinner and listening to Jukebox Oldies on Galaxy…something I often do during the day.

The song that came on was “Honeycomb” by Jimmie Rodgers. “Anytime I hear that song, I think of Dad” I said to Ron. He said “I know, you tell me that every time you hear it!” We laughed and started singing along as I made the salad.

Immediately after the song finished, another began to play.  “The Reverend Mr Black” by the Kingston Trio.  I sat down the spices I’d been sprinkling on the fish.

I turned to look at Ron, now sitting comfortably in his chair, and he was looking at me. I started smiling like a Cheshire cat…”Hello Daddy” I said. Ron smiled, and said, “I wondered if you were listening”. Oh yes! I was listening. Ron has heard me sing along to that song since we met…one of Dad’s favourite country gospel tunes.

I want to say I couldn’t believe it…but I could. I did.

All evening I smiled, singing the two songs over and over in my mind looking for the message….searching, straining to understand. What was I supposed to hear?

It could be that Honeycomb was to get my attention…to see if I really was listening.

It could be that the words from the Reverend Mr Black, “You got to walk that lonesome valley. You got to walk it by yourself. Oh nobody else can walk it for you. You got to walk it by yourself.” were the message.

Or it could be that he just wanted me to know he was around, watching over me as I struggle to make sense of certain things.

After my husband went to bed, I sat up for awhile reading with the TV on, but not really watching or listening to what was on. Background noise.

Suddenly my head snapped up from my book. WHAT? I had been listening, I just didn’t realize it. Some woman had just given birth and the date of the blessed arrival? June 2nd…my Dad’s birthday. 

Okay, NOW he had my attention. I glanced at the clock 11:52pm. “Dad, what are you trying to tell me?” I asked aloud. No answer. Of course not. The man had been dead 38 years.

Soon after,  I went to bed…still smiling, but quizzical. I immediately fell sound asleep and woke at 8:22am today, late for me…but I awoke full of clarity and feeling happy and validated.

I didn’t dream…that I recall, but I am certain I know the reason for my Dad’s visit.

I have been feeling a little alone lately. As I write some of my blog posts, I struggle with how much to write about certain things. It needs to be enough to help me heal, but not so much as to do others harm. I need to be honest about certain things that have happened in my life and I often write from a place of deep pain, but working through it is, I know, the only way I can let it go and move on. I am slowly finding joy again and feeling cleansed….a sort of rebirth.

And so, I think that was the reason that my Dad had me listen….the three signs were to show me he understands, that he is okay with what I’m doing. He knows that as I write I struggle with balance.

He’s telling me it’s my journey, it doesn’t belong to others. He’s assuring me I am not  being mean spirited or selfish in my pursuit to rid myself of the demons I carry. He’s letting me know that he ‘has my back’.

Thanks for the visit Dad. I’m listening.

From cradle to grave, the only people you’ll have with you, if you are lucky, will be your siblings.

Sure, even with siblings, one of you has to die first…and depending how mad you make any one of them at any given time, that one could be you.

Siblings, well, mine anyway, have long contemplated, struggled with, questioned, and yes, alas, felt very sorry for themselves based on nothing other than the order of their birth.

The Baby. It doesn’t matter if you have one sibling or several, The Baby is the apple of their parents eye. Why? I’ve wondered that myself…and have come to the conclusion that parents are so relieved to know that there will be no more diapers, no more sleepless nights, no more temper tantrums and time outs that they forgive anything and everything that The Baby can throw at them. The Baby, however, believes that the parents reached perfection with their birth and thus stopped. Suuuuurrrre they did!

The Baby rarely does anything wrong. In fact they rarely do anything. Waited on hand and foot, treated like little prince and princesses, The Baby is general the most spoiled in the sibling group. They have parents doting on them as if this was their last chance to get it right, they’ve screwed up the eldest and middle children so badly. In addition, it is also the fault of the siblings as they too tend to get sucked into the outlandish, manipulative and often hellish demands of The Baby.

What happens, as it did in my sibling family, when many years later…ten in my specific case…another baby comes along? OMG!!!! Well, then the new child becomes The Baby, and the former Baby takes on the role of The Martyr….in addition to The Baby.

The Martyr, or as they are more commonly known, the middle child. OMG!!! Do you know anyone else so hard done by? I know for a fact they are the most persecuted, most ignored, most invisible, most misunderstood people in the world….I know because I am married to a middle child AND I have two siblings who are middle children, one legit, the other a former baby. Their empathy for one another is epic. Marriage counsellors, phycologists and psychiatrists  the world over can only wish for unions of middle children. They’d never run out of clients.

Middle children also fancy themselves, the family peace keepers, the care takers, the ones who have love flowing through their veins and empathy from their pores. The truth is they are the “I can get away with murder” siblings. They know that everyone is watching The Baby being precious, and waiting for the eldest to trip and fall from grace, and so, sneaky and conniving, the Middle looks for ways to get into trouble but never get caught…or at least blamed.

And then we have people like me…the Eldest. The REAL marytrs in the hierarchy of ‘siblinghood’.

Not only are we raised to set the example for our younger siblings, we must assume all blame for any of their shortcomings, failures, insubordination, or inappropriate behaviour. OMG!!!! What’s that all about??? It’s not our fault those little rotters don’t listen or do as they’re told!

We are expected, no, forced,  to share everything we own with our siblings…or else! Then, when we loan them our brand new toy and they break it, we are the ones punished!! WHAT????? I didn’t break it!!!

When you throw into the mix, the three siblings that live with you under the same roof  all happen to be female, HMPFT…the dynamics really change.  You can’t even have your own time of the month for gawd’s sake!! Those sisters of a similar age will move heaven and earth to have their cycle match yours. It’s almost demonic!

And forget wardrobes! It’s bad enough that you rarely get new clothes, but wear hand me downs from the family up the street or cousins in other provinces, but when you DO get something new???? ALL of you get something new…and matching. Yes, okay the colour may be different but when you are fourteen who the hell wants to dress like a 12 year old, even if she is more mature than you are? Or worse a 10 year old!!! Dear mother of gawd!!! Weren’t your parents ever put through this same form of hell on earth? What part of their own torture did they forget???

And then it dawns on you…The Parents remember…and this is their grudge taking birth in the form of retribution against you, their own child! Their first born!!! OMG!!! What kind of monsters are these people?

Then, it happens….it starts as a small dot of light…you just catch it from the corner of your eye, but when you turn quickly to look…it’s gone. Was it ever really there? But then, slowly, over time, over hours, then days, and finally months and years, slowly…ever so slowly …the dot becomes a glimmer, the glimmer, an orb…and then? Then the paradigm shifts. And much to the dismay…and fear…of The Parents, you and your sibling become allies. Friends. There is a common enemy and it is the unfair, nasty, tainted, poisonous people you have been placed with…for by now, you suspect…actually, you are certain, that you are ADOPTED. That your real parents are Ward and June Cleaver.

You keep that little gem tucked away. It’s your ace to get out of this hole. You know, in your heart of hearts that Wally and the Beav are your real siblings and that with brothers, you, the only girl will be the darling of the family. You know that your brothers will protect and adore you rather than compete with you, and your real parents will shower you with love and affection, for how can they not? Your brothers are both older than you! You will be The Baby!!!

And then, you look in the mirror. Your fate is sealed. You are not adopted. The face looking back is the younger, more feminine face of your father. You can’t deny it….no more than he can. You do have three siblings and they are all sisters. That too is a fact.

Time passes, you grow up, you have your own life. And so do all your siblings. The rivalry is still there, but now it takes on more of a joshing, teasing form. Oh, you still argue, disagree, get jealous, get pious, get even. You even go through periods of not speaking. You hurt one another.

And all of it is because you know: you are siblings. Sisters. They are yours and you are theirs. To love, to take advantage of, to abuse, but let there be absolutely NO mistake. God help the outsider who does anything to hurt any of them, because He will be the only one to protect them from your rage. You have now, have always, and will forever had their backs:  Sisters cradle to grave.

A few months ago I decided it was time to get off my ever expanding duff and get healthy….and I mean in ever sense of the word: physically, spiritually, emotional and mentally.

As any of you following my blog know,  I’ve had some things I hadn’t dealt with and I finally decided to take the bull by the horns and get a handle on  this pain I’ve been carrying around…a lot of it for my whole life.

I have been writing since I was a very young girl, and it has always been both a release and one of the best medicines I have ever had access to. I have used my writing to earn a living and to help me through some of the most difficult times of my life. It is cathartic. A lifeline in my darkest moments.

I still write letters too…although now I type them, rather than setting pen to paper. Most of my letters are to dead people. Weird? No, not really.

Often, when things are really weighing heavy on my heart, my soul, my mind, I will write to one of the two wisest, dearest women in my life…both now my guardian Angels. One was my grandmother; the other my first husbands mother…my “Mum in heart”. Both were strong influences in my life and both mother figures.

When I need advice, I still turn to them. I sit and pour my heart out, putting the words I find difficult to form in the verbal, down on paper in the written form. The process is totally unstructured…usually without a single point or thought…mostly rambling, confusing to anyone else, but conversational and poignant. Often I type through tears and when I am done the page is covered in red lines, pointing out my spelling errors…looking like my own blood has been splattered across the page.

Metaphorically speaking, it usually has been my blood. With these two women I never hold back. Usually, by the time I am done, I am spent,  drained, exhausted. And so, I sit…my mind blank by this time,  void of any emotion. Silenced. But with my heart wide open. I am listening. Waiting. I know that if I am willing, they will answer, holding me, guiding me, comforting me, still loving me unconditionally. The faces of love.  

I also write to my father, mostly about things more tangible. My grandchildren, politics: we loved debating politics, he and I. I like to tell him about the books I’m reading, the places I’ve travelled to, new people  I have met and my first impressions of them.   I brag too…about me….my successes, things I’ve done…like the hang gliding! He’d have been cheering me on during that adventure! People have always told me that I  am my father’s daughter…I look like him, am self reliant like him, strong like him, and I am proud of that.

The other person I have written too over the last 40+ years is Jack, my first husband and father of my two biological children. I used to write to Jack when we were married, after we divorced, and after he died more than 20 years ago. He never saw any of the letters I wrote when he was alive…I generally wrote them out of anger, sadness, regret…and once I got all of it out on paper, I’d tear them up or burn them. Now I just hit delete on the computer. Mostly I write about our two children, my relationship with them, their relationships, their children, their successes, struggles and challenges.

Cathartic. An unusual word for what writing provides me. A place to vent, rant, rage, sob, question and probe. But mostly, writing provides a safe place for me. To heal, to grieve, to express love, to listen. To be vulnerable…without appearing weak.

If I am still, and open, and willing to listen, I always, always, get an answer. It may not always be the answer I expect…or want, but it is always the answer I need. For me, writing these letters is akin to prayer.  They lighten my load and give me the courage to move forward in this wonderful journey we call life.