Tag / goals

by Sandy Bassie

The Long Road

Two days ago, the decision, yes, I’m going. Weather has been distraction, playing over in my mind, pushing the word logic to the forefront, making me question it’s purpose and use. Of course there is logic to safety concerns, changes in plans during weather events. I followed online news and updates, official and off the cuff, called on friends and family to report back what they saw, but even so, weather shifts.

Is there really a way to align potential and definite? In the moment, maybe so, but time and distance give a lot of leeway. As much potential for error as success, and travel allows opportunity for distant factors. Life was like that so many years. One day’s promise becoming another’s remorse. If only there was a little remorse on the other’s part; or so I wished. Being the only one carrying the weight of decision and remorse is wearying. Those days are longer than the promise days, so much longer.

I learned this the hard way, through years of days given to promises often ignored, left unfulfilled.

Driving is much like any other relationship. There is promise, fulfillment, communication too fuzzy to be clear, silence turned into action, swift changes you didn’t see coming. Of the two, marital or vehicle, I tend to find the second more relaxing, more predictable, more defined. Even with similar flaws in communication, patterns are navigated on visual evidence for the most part. There is ability to see and predict, plan how to react, and given the worst, a certainty you will react in most situations. By the time marriage gets to needing to react to the visible dangers (because that is what I think of saying reaction to certainty) too much has been internalized as complaint, an excess of words we are told don’t do damage, knowing full-well that they do. Reaction becomes harder. Back bite, not movement. Questioning self as much as other, assuming fault will be assigned, and I’ll get the short end of the stick.

On the road, I had enough early practice to create certainty around my skill. The tests were designed to show comprehension and application, not tricks to undefine and unmake who you are. Driving, even with a punch to head or gut, gave me focus outside of the rage. Eyes still on the grey line ahead, defining space and purpose, a sense of composure I managed to maintain.

So deciding to go on an actual trip, with defined designation, stated purpose and plan, against this and the weather; I knew my skill and really only had weather and other drivers to anticipate. Taking a break, slowing the journey, having needed necessities and contact list, were all calm outcomes for issues that could come up. Snow, freezing rain, slushy roads, these things I knew and had navigated before. That left only the extra attention given to how others navigated the same conditions and whether anything I saw changed any of my own decisions.

Eight hours, two stops, an hour given to body recovery and basic needs. I was good. In a few days I repeat it all in reverse and hope it goes as well as the drive up. I know the road, the length of time, the conditions of this season, and my skills.

I wish I’d been as well prepared for the journey long ago I began and then ended abruptly when danger hit an indefensible state and divorce finally framed the outcome. Winter. Travel. It expresses itself in many ways.

by Sandy Bassie

life … and the kitchen sink

Good advice is easy to come by, and simple to apply, if you don’t overthink. This week again, I got good advice at physio. I spend enough time there for old and ongoing injuries; ones so familiar, they really shouldn’t be called injuries anymore. I got stretched, asked about a few exercises, launched into ways I thought I could remember them and again went home with a chuckle hearing, “Sandy, don’t think so much.”

I do over think, but my days off this weekend offer opportunities to enjoy. After a walk and signing up for a few writing events this weekend through Eden Mills Writers’ Festival, I decided I also needed to see local art friends I’ve missed working through our weekly get together. I had an early shift and nap, but made myself resist falling back asleep. By 7 pm I arrived at my friend’s house, pencil and paper in hand. Good call. Laughter, tea, a home-made chicken pie and deep reduction in the stress I’ve been carrying for months. They each worked on watercolour projects they have underway. I drew lines and circles I left incomplete in my sketchbook while I admired their work, took in words of wisdom, and remembered what it is to relax. I’ve missed them.

I don’t have a great excuse for not working on poetry, memoir, or art the way I wanted this year; a foot injury, flare up of neck and shoulder issues, overabundance of pain as distraction and cause for too much sleeping between work shifts. But I don’t count that as justifiable cause for too little writing, drawing or painting. My friends do. Their words refine my brief shrug at the issues of pain and frustration. I couldn’t find the bag of art supplies I brought a few months ago. I only have my sketchbook. That’s enough. My friends help me see the reality is a functional barrier, not just an excuse. They are happy to see me, and encourage me to come back next week again. Drawing circles is just fine as long as I am there. They too point at ways I overthink, ways I remonstrate myself for imperfections. Why I think I don’t deserve the good I find in words and smiles and moments shared.

They are good friends to have, and I am grateful.

I think back to last weekend’s visit from my son. How many times he made food, did dishes, suggested ideas for easy meals I can follow until he comes again. He’s patient with me. We had one emotional scuffle, the first day, but shifted more easily than we have into acknowledging it and moving on to things we appreciate in each other. I’ve promised to keep my fridge clean(er) and do dishes at least every second day. I’m poking through the excess of things I own. Things he may not need or want if life is shorter than I’ve been told. For some reason, family and friends see me thriving another thirty years. It’s a long haul to a steep age and may come about, but if not, steep better not represent the pile of things I leave for my son to sort. He’s been quite clear this is my mess and mine to solve. Knowing how kind he is in the day to day helps, I have to chuckle and agree I am working at it and will up my game if I must.

So today, as I finish this post, the kitchen sink awaits and a very small pile of dishes to fill it.

Wishing you smiles shared and a clean sink. 😉

by Sandy Bassie

Does AI Overload?

Was sure I hit ‘publish’ but maybe I dreamed it.

Three days into an overdue vacation, my mind still turns to questions: How are they doing at work? How far behind are they? Who is looking after returns?  My body looks the other way. Immediately seeking my bed, illusion of rest. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, I abandon hope of sleep and give in to playing games, matching pieces, learning words, pretending I will do some cleaning when I get up. 

There’s a gap somewhere between responsibilities I’ve taken on and those I own. A glitch in the system holds me in place. Almost. When I’m very quiet, I feel the tremor, nerves, muscles, something else return, return, Some imagined starting line that made sense but has no place in memory. Disturbing. I like when things line up – dot to dot, puzzles edges, a ruler line that doesn’t slip. 

The weight of this week does not compute. I see the days, the dates, the times. I coloured things by categories, try to work inside these lines. What a laugh. I ended up with ten days off rather than five because my lines don’t work, did not line up. Ninety days of saved up hours became five days with time on my hands and another five for family and friends. 

Silence may be golden to some, but it spins my wheels with nowhere to go. There is plenty to do, I haven’t done, and only three trips to blue box down the hall. Four carboard boxes sit in my car, waiting. If I fill them, we can take a run to the local Thrift, and another stop for outside and trees. Uncomfortable. I don’t know why. 

I’m wasting time, not yet into the day, wondering if a list would help and if I asked it, does AI overload?

by Sandy Bassie

I don’t know

I’m tired of being tired. Dragging and dragged over rocks of grief. Realizing the many ways and places this grief is laid out over years of unmet grief.

July 15

My first day back to work. Four hours. Folding clothes. I may not make it, there are updates to online training that need to be completed. That’s easy. I can do those. It’s the floor that scares me.

July 20

Yesterday, day three. I shook. Forced myself through four hours. Kindnesses of staff.

A coworker called me brave. I was negating myself again; fear of change, fear of loss. Berating myself for falling, hitting my head, struggling to heal. Knowing I’m not okay. Missing Jack. Showing up triggers me. Too many memories of waiting for him to come through the doors. Working apart. Not able to go to him. Listening to people yell or complain about petty things. I’m afraid. I can’t go back to listening to it right now. Doing this … staying alive and learning to grieve … it does not play fair. I had no idea.

I live with levels of stress accumulated in decades of abuse. Crisis a daily reality. I thought pain would go when I left my ex, slide back into something others call ‘normal’. I would laugh off that word telling people “normal is just the fat part of the graph. Statistics.” But this is not funny. Dissociation is a common experience of abuse, of PTSD. So are the panic attacks that wake me at 2am shaking from dreams or something I don’t remember. It’s strange how …. thoughts lost.

July 25

I had rough days this week. More than rough. I get angry at myself for them, for their unpredictability, for not being able to control myself or the days. Long hanging silences on calls to the crisis line, then sobbing because I’m frozen in bed, my body a lump of shock, sizzling. Blood pressure high, pills taken, bathroom done, back to bed, lay and shake. And so I call,

“hello, my name is …. how can I help you?”

“I, um I …” my mind and thoughts racing with guilt and grief and disasters past and pending.

The thoughts freeze in my head. Instinct. Fear; of living, being, lost and labelled. Something my ex would say, A negative judgement on who and how I am. And I can’t do it. Getting it out takes a breath, and sometimes that’s where they start. But first I give my name, the basics of identity. Then the call.

I talk and talk, through getting up, getting going, going to work. Even with the fear. A rational irrational place where emotion and action don’t fit the norm, but given the circumstances I understand. Tears or not, I have to go. I push too hard. Don’t overdo. Am warned. Holding myself back from demanding full hours. I don’t want to hurt myself again. The side of my head that hit the floor is ok, but not ok. Numb or tingles at times. Stress?

There is so much I can’t predict, so much I just don’t know. I’m trying to be ok with that; not knowing. Living and being is the hard job right now. The rest will ease in slowly, not smoothly. I hope, but am learning I can’t expect it. My body needs to purge the grief, but also years of pent up grief or things attached to it. Chaos of layers, interwoven connections, years forming. I’m just taking it a day or two at a time. Feeling useless, but knowing I’m not. Telling myself to be quiet when I want to rebuff the kindnesses and compliments of others. Still so much fear letting others in. I understood that far too well, Jack. We were kind to each other’s broken places. Love lingers in the tenderness.

Sanctuary.

by Sandy Bassie

Determination

I have a few posts on the go, not yet sure which will post first. Creativity is a big part of my journey and thought process lately. Today’s art prompt, I didn’t know I needed one, but it was shared by a friend: Determination. Ugh.

Stubbornness. Does that count? I’m not so sure. As I write my memoir, I’m struggling with qualities I have that were strengths and weaknesses. Sometimes they look very similar. Being determined. That should be positive, right? Some sites commented it can be mistaken for anger. I did look it up … determination … quotes, images, characteristics, definitions. In general, it represents as:

“intentness, decision, decidedness. steadfastness, staunchness, perseverance, persistence, indefatigability, tenacity, tenaciousness, staying power, strong-mindedness, backbone, the bulldog spirit, pertinacity, pertinaciousness.”

All good things, but I thought about the comment it can be perceived as anger. It shows in the faces that came up. Even the one I chose. I did one drawing from my search of faces. A baby. Yeah, at that age, we are all about determination, and stubbornness. This little guy has it, for sure.

sandy-bassie baby 20200609_180300

Cute, and he still looks almost angry. Poor thing. I shared it to the art group. I’m learning to do that more this year – share things. Let sharing become smiles.

 

As I was finishing the drawing post, I noticed my inbox had something from a local publisher doing an anthology of healing stories. I’ve read some from others and debated last year whether to contribute. After some internal argument, I decided I would risk it. Today, I received the edited version of my story for me to review and comment. I’ve sent my reply and will try to not think about it too much more.

 

It’s scary reading things I write when I get feedback from others telling me they’re good, or in this case ‘powerful’. I love words and putting them together in ways I believe share my story of growth, healing, risk, learning trust, and other paths in the emotional journey I’m taking. But hearing others tell me the ways my words impact them, that is still hard. I’m learning to keep moving, keep writing, to tell myself not to linger too long over what was said, to look forward even while looking behind.

 

Determination. I guess this is that place. I’ve called it stubbornness, been told it’s patience, laughed and shook my head. In the end, whatever I call it, I hope it continues to lead me, encourage me, remind me to breathe. I want to write. Will write. But humbly, knowing others take hope from them. Find reasons for their own journey. I hope that means they also find reasons to  laugh. I’ve valued the laughter. It fills me and feeds my ongoing determination to find life in each day and hope for way ahead.

 

Determination. Yes, I’ll think on it further, and value it.

 

by Sandy Bassie

Hope

July 3, 2019 at 10:10 am I started this topic – only a heading, no more. Sometimes you need to drop a line and see what comes. Maybe that’s what I was doing. Maybe I was wise enough to know I’d need the bait, something to catch me and pull me in. A word, a question.

Yesterday, i saw one of those signs … this one had a bible verse on confidence in things hoped for … looking forward with a sense of expectation, anticipation. As long as what we anticipate is good, the world seems a safe and happy place. It’s only when our hope is skewed that how we engage with life goes awry.

I live in both places; expectation both welcomes and pushes me as I move towards something desired or a challenge I’m willing to face. Hope isn’t easy. Sometimes I have been disappointed. Had someone suggest I’m not living the best ‘today’ I was designed to achieve. I’ll think about it. There is some truth there. I’ve stayed stuck too long in unhealthy places and bypassed some offered opportunities. But, I like who I am, and am willing to work with where I am today. I hope I’ve learned some things. I know I’ve pushed myself beyond comfort the last few years, and this year actively sought discomfort in achieving writing goals – small steps, practicing balance.