Highway Therapy

Am currently holed up in an undisclosed location in the interior of BC. My journey began with a stop at the folks’ place in Canmore, which was mercifully empty and blissfully quiet. And then I watched Flashdance.

My original plan didn’t involve 1980s cult classics. It involved communing with nature, meditating and the deep breathing of clean mountain air. But it turns out, on Monday night at least, what I really wanted was pie and an inspirational movie.

Best line in Flashdance (second only to 'As a matter of fact, I fucked his brains out')? "If you let go of your dream, you die."

For obvious reasons, Pie and Movie Night is a favourite of mine. I have it whenever I am emotionally depleted, exhausted or freaked out. Pie equals comfort in my world. And when paired with the sweet aroma of inspiration... It’s heaven, that’s what.

I need to be clear here. When I say pie, I don’t mean a cute little slice after a healthy, vegetable-soaked dinner. No. I mean, sitting down in front of the TV with a whole pie and a fork and calling that dinner. It is decadent and ridiculous and I love it.

Now you know my secret. Don’t judge me. Let’s move on. To another of my Favourite Things - The Highway Drive.

I don’t know if I’ve written at length about how deeply happy a highway drive makes me. I’ve heard yoga referred to as ‘moving meditation.’ Well, call this Road Yoga. Roga? Whatever.

Six or seven hours on the highway, by myself, is the most spiritually uplifting and creatively fulfilling thing I can think of. That and running for two hours, but that requires a little something called Physical Fitness, which I appear to have misplaced somewhere.

Driving requires a certain amount of concentration, of course, but it’s not the same level of concentration as, say, disarming a nuclear bomb. So the parts of your mind that aren’t paying attention to the yellow line or the yahoo in the pickup doing 140 can wander and play. Sometimes your attention will be present with the scenery. Sometimes you will wonder how Fleetwood Mac got so effing awesome. Sometimes you will be focused on your rage and confusion at the Honda Civic Of The Variable Speed in front of you. And sometimes, if you're lucky, a bestselling novel will just pop into your head.

See, I have this favourite patch of Highway 1. It’s just past Revelstoke and it’s lined with burnout roadside motels that probably have vibrating beds and cockroaches, and there’s a random Go-Kart place where no one ever go-karts, and also a sad little trailer park next to a pile of rusted cars. So, not exactly scenic. But, it’s still my favourite piece of road.

Of course, there’s something about how it opens out to six lanes after you’ve been stuck behind a single lane of slow-ass RVs for three hours. Or about how once you hit Revelstoke, you’re Almost There because it’s only a couple of hours until Kelowna or Salmon Arm, which is Really Almost There. If you’re going to the beachy-lakey places in BC, that is.

But for me, this is the point at which the ideas are really flowing. When the highway opens out like that, it’s as though God opens the floodgates and a tsunami of creativity engulfs my car. Whole stories will emerge unbidden. Scenes of dialogue for plays or movies. Fabulous characters, themes and concepts. Or in yesterday’s case, a full album of songs celebrating the tough times with your loved one.

Rough Patch Greatest Hits – available now from K-Tel Records – features such timeless classics as Happy Awkward Anniversary, Baby, Let’s Get Counseling, and the hit single I’ll Stay (At My Mother’s Tonight).

And there’s more where that came from. Much, much more.

The point, for today, is this: when you find something that works, just do it already. I don’t care about sugar and saturated fat – Pie and Movie Night is about feeding myself exactly what I need, physically and emotionally. I don’t give a damn about gas prices either. Highway driving is essential for my creativity and my soul, and for a measly sixty bucks, I spent the entire day tapped in and connected to grace. I was my hope-addled, dream junkie self again! And that, to borrow from Mastercard’s masterful ad campaign, is priceless.

Rewriting the Story

After a harrowing weekend of incredible music, I am off on my next adventure: several days of solo-soul-searching in the mountains. Um, wait. Folk Fest was harrowing? Yes. It was.

For four days on seven stages, I was surrounded by people living their dreams, at a time in my life where I feel creatively quadriplegic. It was excruciating. The high point was what I'm now calling Self-Doubt Saturday. The day where I woke up with this thought in my head: "I'll never make it. What's the point?" And that thought had little barbs on it or something because it stuck there for the rest of the day, making it impossible to enjoy the music, and it eventually led to some casual crying by the river.

Self-Doubt Saturday came on the heels of me finishing a rather fluffy bestseller called Julie & Julia, a memoir of a woman stuck in a dead-end secretary job who decides to do all 524 recipes from Julia Child's Mastering The Art Of French Cooking in one year. And she blogs about it and ends up in the New York Times and then she has a bestseller.

Rather than feeling buoyed by the fact that if this woman can do it then so can I, I hated her and decided that I will never be happy and I'll be stuck in this angsty purgatory of confusion and blocked creativity forever and ever and ever.

After this uplifting decision, a million singers and musicians blasting their raw talent at me through mega-watt speakers was like a sonic slap to the face.

And then. Then! I met up with the two women with whom I might be starting an HPV support thingy. And we talked about rewriting our stories. Rewriting the poor-me-with-HPV victim stories into stories where diagnosis and surgery are catalysts for change in our lives. The points at which we become the people we've always wanted to be.

I realized I've been trying to rewrite my reality, but in a way that's not grounded in faith and intuition – the stuff I've been evangelizing about for four months. I've been frustrated and thrashing and desperate, clinging on to anything I can see that might possibly be the answer. Go back to Paris! Write a novel! Become an organic farmer! I'll probably start buying shit off the Shopping Channel soon.

Right now, I'm a little tired of pretending everything's gonna be alright. Right now, this is my story: I am afraid. Deeply, deeply afraid. I am afraid that Depression will return and ruin my life like it was ruined before. I'm afraid I'll be stuck doing work I don't want to do in order to pay my bills. Or that I'll keep doing creative work that doesn't pay. Which keeps me in this purgatory state of not feeling like a true artist. I'm afraid that my relationship isn't right for me, but that if I leave it, I'm leaving one of the only truly supportive people I've ever known. I'm afraid that I'm sabotaging myself, only I don't know what parts are sabotage and what parts are not. I'm afraid I'll never feel as alive and as vibrant and as much myself as I felt in Paris. I'm afraid that was "it" and "it" is over.

And...I'm driving off by myself into the forest.

Don't worry. I'm not going to poetically and pathetically end it all or anything. I just want to quit trying so hard to solve everything. I want to stop. Re-boot. Start from scratch. Get quiet enough that I can hear. Get empty enough that I can refill. Go far enough into the wilderness that I can find myself again. I'll let you know how it goes.

Depraved/Saved

Last night was the first of the four-day marathon of music that is the Calgary Folk Festival. You hear 'folk music' and you probably imagine a bunch of hemp-shirt wearing, patchouli-scented 50-something hippies with terrible frizzy grey hair waving their flabby arms in time with bizarrely un-hearable world music. Right? Um, no.

Folk Fest in Calgary is a Gathering of the Cool People on a freakishly grand scale. Folk Fest people are unwaveringly a la mode: elegantly tattooed, impeccably stylish, thoughtfully disheveled and all sporting heart-stoppingly chic sunglasses. This year is an 80s sunglass revival year: Ray Ban Wayfarers on the men and white-framed Cyndi Lauper behemoths on the ladies.

Don't get me wrong, you've also got your overweight women in peasant blouses and your skinny-legged dads wearing embarrassing hats, wool socks and sandals. But those folks fade into the background of a four-day tragically hipster fashion show of smart ass t-shirts, skinny jeans and Converse All-Stars.

This is our third year of Folk Festing. And the first year where, I suspect, the majority of the four days will be spent in the beer garden, making asinine small talk and missing all the fabulous music we paid $120 to see. It will be a hard journey, but I'm secretly thrilled because it's like this town's version of the Spanish bullfights. Which, since I just finished The Sun Also Rises, makes me feel rather chic in a 1920s Lost Generation kind of way.

I've been thinking about that lately. And not to take this post down a serious 180-turn or anything, but are we not lost? Are we not a generation of people casting about, collectively kind of pointless and decadent and spoiled? Seeking a way out of the meaninglessness by recycling our newspapers and pop cans. Or doing our hair like Edith Piaf and buying the largest, ugliest glasses we can find. Trying to connect to some bygone time where things seemed to make more sense.

Maybe these kinds of gatherings are a search for meaning. A writer friend of mine confessed yesterday that she believes God speaks to her through popular music. (Don't worry, her musical proclivities are a little more high-brow than Justin Timberlake or Miley Cyrus.) Time was, the folk singers were the speakers of brave truths. Though the 'beat-up six-string and a cause' acts are still part of it, it seems the new folk singers are super-hip indie bands with high-pitched vocals, full-sleeve tattoos and introspective lyrics.

Maybe this is our gospel church. And the simple fact of collecting in one place and letting music lift us, makes the fog clear, even just a little. Maybe, in the words of Blue Rodeo (Mainstage Saturday night), if we're lost, we are lost together.

HP Sauce

Well, Dr. Best called. Or rather her nurses did. They didn't get clear margins on the surgery, which means there may be some rogue bad cells still there. So, I've got to go back in October for more legs-in-the-stirrups good times.

Which is funny – as in funny-peculiar not funny-haha – because I haven't written a word about HPV lately. Perhaps you've noticed.

Part of the reason why I dropped the HPV bloggage like a hot potato after my surgery was because I didn't think it was good to keep thinking about it. My woo woo beliefs include catchphrases like "What you think about, you bring about," so thinking about HPV/cervical junk didn't really jive with my, like, aura.

So, I quit cold turkey. Only it appears this story hasn't reached its heartwarming conclusion.

Also interesting is that my HPV homegirls are still emailing. Just last night, I received an email inviting me to get in on the ground floor of a sort of HPV hotline so other women don't have to feel completely in the dark about what's happening to them.

Only I wasn't going to do it at all because I was dropping this whole topic like a hot potato. But apparently, this subject won't stay dead. I may be dropping it, but it isn't dropping me.

Regardless. I'm not going to get my knickers in a twist about these rogue cells or the fact that the world wants me to help out with the HPV cause. (Well, to be honest, I probably will get my knickers in a twist about the bad cells. It's what I do. I'm great at ground zero of the crisis and then two days later when my spazzy little mind gets a hold of the worst case scenario, it's game over and I become a sobbing mess. Sigh. Part of my charm, I guess.)

What I'm supposed to do will be revealed to me. Over the past few days, things have been coming clear in the Department of Central Creativity. Creative goals are taking shape, from reworking the screenplay to writing a novel for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month...I'll tell you all about it soon). I'm planning a month-long creative challenge for myself in August, which I'm really excited about. And I'm on the verge of developing a year-long project about committing to my creativity and living as an artist. It's tentatively called An Artist For One Year. I just pulled this out of my butt. I'm not in love with the reference to John Irving's 'A Widow For One Year,' but whatever, call it a working title.

The point is this: I got some weird news today. But it's in the context of a moment where I feel that delicious sense of possibility again. The uncertainty is back, but I feel energized by it, not daunted. Let's not get daunted, shall we?

The Dark Night

Sorry I’m late. Last night I stayed up way too late with a bunch of 20-year-olds watching the Batman movie in a small town cinema. We went on Keegan’s dinnertime endorsement: “It was ten out of ten out of ten.” Which I think meant a hundred out of a hundred or maybe even a hundred out of ten.

If I gave the film any tens, they would all go to Heath Ledger.

Let’s get something straight. I am no longer easily swayed by teen heartthrob types. I find very few Hollywood actors “dreamy” with the coincidental exception of Christian Bale (Batman) who may have my panties any time he damn well pleases. (Although, we heard that he is up on assault charges...for smacking around his mother and sister of all people. Way more horrific than dying pointlessly of a drug overdose at the zenith of one’s talent.)

Which brings me back to Heath. Holy mind-blowing performance, Batman. This man transformed a two-dimensional comic book character not into a two-dimensional comic book movie character like Nicholson (sorry, Jack). Not into a creature like Gollum, although running through his performance was something deliciously sub-human and reptilian. He rendered The Joker into a twitching, lip-licking, hilarious-yet-frightening, super-intelligent psychopath – a believable psychopath. One I could watch all day.

And one I will never get to see again because the person who created this nutcase stuffed too much shit up his nose and killed himself.

As pointless, stupid and wasteful as Ledger’s death seemed in January, it is so much more tragic now. The man was masterful. He was a true artist. I wish his last film had been some sweeping epic with an Oscar-soaked soundtrack just so he could get the posthumous respect he deserves. Because, trust me, I’m not generally a person who spends my morning writing about superhero movies. Unlike the gaggle of geeks behind me in the theatre who almost came to blows debating which ‘Final Fantasy’ was the best. Whatever that is.

Who knows why Mr. Ledger blew himself up with drugs. Maybe he couldn’t reconcile the transcendental art form of acting with the seven-layer dip of Hollywood bullshit he waded around in. Maybe his mean Daddy told him he’d never amount to anything. Maybe he just really liked to party, dude.

The point, I think, isn’t why he offed himself (because addiction is a form of suicide in my mind). But when. He didn’t die during a career tailspin of movies of the week and guest appearances on Friends. He died just as he was reaching the big time, no, the Huge Time. His heartbreaking Brokeback Mountain performance. Followed brilliantly by Casanova (to keep his mainstream appeal). And then the movie that 20-something guys have been jizzing their pants about for a year, The Dark Knight. The movie that makes villains officially cooler than heroes and would A-list him so fast his head would spin.

And...he’s dead.

Dear old Heath is actually hurting my heart today, and he’s a golden, shining, horrifically extreme example of something every single one of us does. This, dear readers, is self-sabotage at its finest.

We take a step down the road to our dreams and then we run shrieking in the opposite direction. We don’t write that fourth draft and send it off. We miss the deadline on an important workshop. We skip the audition with the big director. We burn down everything, however fragile, that we built just to prove ourselves right: it’s too late, I can’t do it, I’m not good enough.

I have been doing it since returning from Paris. Rather than taking this time to actually write, I’ve been lying on the couch, drooling and complaining about not being in Paris. I’ve told myself that it’s my house or my relationship that is holding me back from my dreams. I’ve allowed myself to get blown about and distracted by every little thing that’s come up, using every little thing as an excuse not to write.

It’s probably a self-worth thing. It usually is. We don’t believe we’re worthy of being who want to be or doing what we want to do. Some misguided force keeps us schlepping to jobs we hate 50 hours per week in the name of Normal, Grown-Up, Responsible, Mortgage, Whatever. The same misguided force tempts us into turning on the TV, firing up the bong, refilling the wine glass and turning off that voice inside that wants so badly for us to rise above this mediocrity we call our lives.

We cower in our comfort zones because getting up early to write is hard and auditioning is scary and standing on a red carpet with the cameras flashing is embarrassing. But, what is harder? Setting the alarm an hour earlier or sitting on your porch at eighty-five (hell, even at thirty-five) wondering what would have happened if you showed up that day. Or, in Heath’s case, drowning in a puddle of your own humiliation-scented vomit.

Today, Heath Ledger offers me strange inspiration. In a ‘what not to do’ kind of way, he’s made me feel brave. Poor Heath has shown me the tragic end of the Sabotage Story. Because those things I do to sabotage myself will only get stronger. They will get worse. That’s the thing. Heath Ledger didn’t start out doing seventeen lines of whatever he killed himself with. He started by ‘just taking the edge off.’

The strange thing is, that edge – that feeling of discomfort and even misery – is telling you something. That feeling is the feeling of change and transformation. It’s a feeling, not to dull out or avoid, but to sit in squarely. To soak in, even, until it hurts so bad you have no choice but to send off that story, show someone that painting, play that song you wrote.

This sounds so stupid, but today it is my truth...I’m doing it for Heath. Well, not for him, I guess, but because of him. To let a talent that incandescent go down in flames that pathetically is a waste. It’s not an option. Even if my light is half that bright, I have to let it shine. We all do, really.

All in the Family

I read Hemingway all day yesterday. And by seven, when I turned the last page of The Sun Also Rises, all I wanted to do was get drunk. Good and Hemingway drunk. Only the drink du jour here is chilled white wine, which is a little more lightweight than I had in mind.

Still, I gave it the old college try and by ten o’clock, I was drunk indeed. And antisocial and asleep. How Hemingway of me.

At this beach house, there is a family. It is Boyfriend’s family and it is huge. A giant, sprawling Irish Catholic family, which everybody’s heard of, but until you’ve experienced it, it’s all just theory. The matriarch, Kae, came from ten or twelve siblings and birthed twelve of her own. There are something like 64 first cousins in that generation.

A gathering of this family is so unlike my teeny-tiny family of five that I frequently feel as though an entire Japanese bus tour has descended right on top of me.

It gets a little overwhelming.

Because it’s not like everyone just sits politely, repressing their feelings and staring at their drinks. They're all extroverted beyond extroversion. I suppose you’d have to be with eleven brothers and sisters. How could you possibly get a moment alone? Would you even have the option of being an introvert? Would you know what it means?

All this extroversion brings out the hermit in me. Or maybe it’s the lake, or the 34-degree heat. Or the fact that I can’t go swimming yet because of my surgery and how do you explain to a eight-year-old that someone lopped a chunk off your cervix rather recently and that’s why you can’t go into the lake? Especially when the eight-year-old won’t know what a cervix is and I’m certainly not going to be the one to open that can of worms.

The solution I’ve gone with is “tummy.” Only that’s imperfect too because wouldn’t I have a scar or something on my tummy if the surgery was on my tummy? Perhaps I should have gone with “bum.” And did I mention that I got my period the day we left for this 30-degree lakeside paradise and I’ve had to reconcile giant diaper-like maxi pads with short shorts and butt sweat for the last three days? Interestingly, I’ve discovered that a thong offers unexpected stability in that department. All you have to do is cram it...never mind.

You can see why all I want to do is sit and read.

I get like this sometimes. Perhaps I have a low tolerance level for humans. I OD on them quickly and then need solitude rehab. And I’ve also learned I am a 90-pound-weakling when it comes to children. Surrounded by this many kids for this many days makes my on-and-off biological clock rock back and forth, cry in the corner and shriek for its medication.

This is another thing when you come from a giant family. You become excellent with children because there are always a hundred of them around. Boyfriend, for example, is spectacular with the little ones. He plays with them all day long, displaying a level of stamina that makes my traumatized clock stop writhing and at least sit up and eat a little soup.

On Safety Nets and Security

We are in Naramata, BC wine tasting and hanging out on a beach for a few days. It’s my second of three expeditions west in a three-week span this summer. I’m a BC boomerang for the next little while. But, sitting here on the end of a dock jutting into the morning-calm waters of Lake Okanagan, I can’t think of a better way to spend my time.

Several things have struck me between home and here. One is a phone conversation I had recently with Dana the Artist. She told me that she creates not to make a bunch of money or make people laugh or think, but because it brings her closer to God and keeps her sane.

I started back working on the screenplay. And I understand now what she meant.

Just sitting down to work through a character, brainstorm an idea, meditate on a connection or metaphor or whatever, makes me feel like myself again. I feel peace right to the centre of who I am, but that core of calm is wrapped in joy and excitement. I’m moving forward! I’m living again!

I understand now the necessity of creativity. I understand now what Dana meant when she said that touching someone else with her work was a bonus prize to a reward that can’t be quantified. I understand that denying this part of myself is denying a God-given right and gift and purpose. Which would be a very silly thing to do.

I don’t know why I’ve been so afraid. I don’t know why I’ve been resisting this essential part of who I am. The part that must create, the artist, the child, the core of love and light where it all makes sense.

I think that was the lesson of this brush with depression. It seems that screaming, clutching plunge into darkness is what awaits me if I don’t create. Sometimes learning what doesn’t work is more effective than learning what does.

When faced with the alternative, my fear dissolves.

I’m about to take a big leap of faith. Another one. A bigger, more open-ended one. I don’t know the details yet, but I know they’ll be revealed to me as I go. The leap I am making is to commit 100% to my creative work. Commit in the ‘wake up at 5 am and start writing in the dark’ sense. In the ‘go to Paris for as long as it takes’ sense. The ‘live on the street if I have to’ sense. To make the crazy, delicious, ballsy moves that 18-year-olds do. The ones who get off the bus in New York with five bucks and a suitcase fulla dreams.

I might use my condo as a studio (which means paying two ridiculous Calgary mortgages at once). I might sell my place and use what I make to live in Paris. This probably sounds stupid, pointless, even dangerous to the RRSP-contributing security-minded plan-for-the-future people. But to those who have let their dreams shrivel, those who are starving on the inside, trying to hang on to a life that is nowhere near as beautiful as they’d hoped, this sounds like the best plan in the world. Possibly the only plan.

I’ve been concerned about safety nets. Having enough money, or a copywriting job to fall back on. But after teetering on the edge of depression, I see things differently. So-called security isn’t my safety net. Creativity is.

Sweet Smell of Hope

The morning air in Fernie smelled like honey and flowers. It smelled the kind of sweet that made me think honeysuckles actually involve honey. Which they don't, but I wish they did.

When the world smells this delicious, you pay attention.

We left Fernie unsure where we were headed, knowing only that lunch by the river was essential. We gathered provisions from Sparwood, passing by the World's Largest Truck and a sign reading "Modern mining benefits us all" on the way into the dismal-looking small town strip mall.

We headed further east through the cluster of towns in the Crowsnest Pass. The only thing we knew for sure was we had to find a church. Not for any spiritual purpose, unless you consider espresso to be holy. We were looking for the little church-turned-coffee-house where Drea and Gilles had stopped on their journey north from San Fransisco.

We found it in Coleman, a simple country church with a steeply pitched roof and unadorned steeple, sharing a parking lot with a good ole boys bar called Rum Runners. We gave each other high fives and walked in.

The Blackbird Coffee House is part coffee shop, part knick-knack shop and part museum. It looks as though someone's grandmother shook all the Depression china and crocheted doo-dads out of her 1950s suburban bungalow and into a bohemian 'let's smoke French cigarettes, play guitar and discuss existentialism all night' coffee house.

It's run by a small young family from Calgary who traded urban life for small town dreams this May. She pads around in her Uggs, making really good lattes, while he bakes muffins looking like a welder in a china shop. While we waited for our coffees, their two blond boys skulked shyly around the antiques and doo-dads, waiting for their lunch: homemade soup Dad tended in between cutting up fresh-baked brownies.

The ceiling of the church was hand-painted in pale blue and white. It didn't hold a candle to the ornate extravaganzas in Europe, but standing there in the middle of that transformed church, looking up, I felt something that I didn't feel in any French cathedral. I felt, not hope itself, but hope's power to transform.

I imagined this couple sitting up late, lamplight spilling across at their kitchen table, hashing through how to make their life work the way they wanted. How they could make their dreams come true together. What kind of grand adventure they would create for themselves and their boys. I can imagine his voice rising in excitement at the thought of renovating the back of the church and building in a studio for his glassblowing or metalworking. I can see their hands reaching for each other as they imagined nights filled with song and laughter, warming the dead of winter.

Something different, something better.

It's what Boyfriend and I wanted when we hunkered down in a cheap Waterton motel. Surrounded by the smooth-topped mountains of southern Alberta, we entered new territory. A place where we laid bare all we want in this life, placed it gently on the table and breathed it into life. This was a place where transformation took the place of permanence. A place where uncertainty reigned and the possibilities were endless. A place where dreams would be fought and died for, if it came to that.

In the morning, the smell of smoke blended with the scent of wildflowers in the growing heat of a new day. It was as though something old had burned to the ground so something else could live. I don't know what it is yet. I know it's tiny and fragile and I need to protect it. I know it could be great if we let it.

Rock...Meet Bottom

In Canmore over the weekend, my parents watched me cry through my birthday gifts with a certain amount of horror. For them, it was a flashback to the Bad Old Days, my flippant euphemism for a major clinical depression lasting more than two years.

I remember one Heavy D Day in particular when I met a friend for lunch and calmly informed him that it appeared I was going to cry my way through the entire meal. "Just ignore it," I said. Ignore the flood of tears streaming down my face for no discernible reason and enjoy your noodles!

And, although I assured my mother two days ago that I'm not depressed, now I'm not so sure. Because every conversation I have about what's going on in my life results in the same kind of non-stop noodle house tears from all those years ago. A person simply shouldn't be crying this much.

Drea is convinced that it is my thwarted creativity. That I am suppressing my creative genius (her words) and I'm going under as a result.

I would have to agree.

That and I seem to be making a full-time career out of people-pleasing. I'm so busy managing other people's expectations and trying to make them happy that I am completely and utterly depleted. My personal emotional bank account is in overdraft.

And now, as I fight to stay hydrated against the constant crying, I think about how unnecessary it was to let it get this far. That if I had listened, I'm sure my intuition was trying to guide me to safety all along. Unless, of course, I needed to learn this lesson in order to move on to the heights of greatness. Regardless, here we are again. At rock bottom

I've written about rock bottom before, but the gist is this: it isn't as bad as it's made out to be. It is the end of something, yes, but it's also the very clear beginning of the next thing. The point of necessary change. And a welcome rest from the horrific free-fall that brought you here.

In the past, this is the point where I usually say things like "Freelancing isn't for me" and get a day job in a stylishly decorated office with stylishly decorated people writing about stylishly decorated condominiums. This is also the point where I say "I should go back on my meds" and slurp down my daily dose of Celexa, waiting for chemically-induced bliss to set in in 4 to 6 days. This is also usually the point at which I suck the life and soul out of my romantic partner like some crazed vampire zombie girl, leaving his flaccid, emptied carcass in the wake of my murderous despair.

Or something like that.

So, if only for the sake of variety, I'd like to play the scene a little differently this time.

Ritual Behaviour in TransCanada Pipeline Tribesmen

Normally the offer to accompany Boyfriend into the middle of nowhere to hang around with grubby pipeline dudes would be politely declined. But, this job was in scenic (and possibly romantic) Fernie. And I decided it would be an ethnographic expedition.

So, we threw our stuff in the truck and hit the road. A fat almost-full moon hung in the sky as the blue night spread over the folded earth south of the city. A layer of fog clung to the fields and sloughs, occasionally seeping across the highway.

Usually, when we hit the highway, we listen to CBC’s New Music Canada podcast, enjoying Grant Lawrence’s infectiously (relentlessly?) perky commentary mixed with melodic, folky indie rock. But last night, we just talked. And talked. And talked.

If you’ve met Boyfriend, you know that this is a rare occurrence. Perhaps the full moon had affected his behaviour. I decided to stay vigilant for further macabre happenings. (The only other thing to report was the scuttling of a small, skunk-sized werewolf across the road around Crowsnest Pass.)

We pulled into Fernie at one in the morning, facing only five and a half hours of sleep before we left the work site. I hoped this wouldn’t affect my capacity for objective scientific observation.

After a harrowing but exciting off-road journey through the dust and rock of the mountain wilderness of southern Alberta, we arrived at the ritual site.

I sit now, concealed in a research blind, amid seven dusty pickups, a giant Tonka Truck backhoe, ten swearing hirsute men and miles of open wilderness. The mosquitoes are large enough here to carry me off and make me the human bride of their gargantuan and bloodthirsty leader, but I remain in high spirits.

The only more abundant than the ‘skeets is “fockin” – a word used to describe almost everything in the strangely familiar dialect these pipeliners speak. I wonder what it means?

It occurs to this researcher that this tribe’s language may bear comparison with the Inuit people. The Inuit have, if I recall, 200 words for snow. This population, however, may have 200 meanings for fockin. Further research in this area is needed.

My field observations reveal some interesting aspects of this tribe. Ritual dress appears to be coveralls marked with defiant symbols of virility – reflective yellow tape forming an X on their backs. The higher ranking elders, however, forgo the coverall costume for Budweiser t-shirts and ill-fitting jeans. Some of the elders also have large round bellies, possibly symbols of wealth and prosperity.

The initial phases of this unidentified ritual I am here to observe involves the Tonka backhoe shifting one pile of dirt from one place to another, mere feet away. Much of the ritual also consists of standing, scratching of genitals and referring to members of the cohort as ‘sonsabitches.’ It is still unapparent what the purpose of this complex ritual truly is.

I begin to wish I had assembled a disguise of coveralls, safety goggles, terrible grammar and a hard hat. That way I could penetrate deeper into their ranks unnoticed. As it is, I am not only the sole female within a several mile radius, but the only female wearing yoga pants.

After a designated amount of time, I observe the large Tonka truck maneuver a section of pipe into a trench dug in the dusty earth. In my preparatory background research for this adventure, I came across the colloquial term “laying pipe” which means "to bed a female of the tribe." However, as I observe the laying of pipe by this group of men deep in the wilderness, this researcher firmly believes this is a homoerotic coming-of-age ceremony.

I am thrilled as the purpose of this religious practice becomes clear!

I am fearful for Boyfriend’s role in this practice, but as a devotee of the scientific process, I must remain impersonal. More later...

Fresh Basil and Cold Rosé

Last night, this house was warm with people, voices and light. Drea and her little family arrived bringing groceries and good rosé. Lola fed herself strawberries and sat on the counter. D arrived later with more wine.

Gilles was the chef. Inspired by Jamie Oliver and the Food Network, he filled the house with smells of basil, garlic and tomatoes. He shelled fresh peas, just like the ones I fell madly in love with in Paris. He lunged and sniffed and tasted. Drea and Boyfriend did damage control on the growing radius of splattered tomatoes and oil from the sausages. He was an artist. It was Bastille Day. We celebrated in style.

There is talk of Drea and Gilles heading back to France. Gilles parents live on a huge lot in the south of France – a lot big enough that they could build another house on it quite comfortably. Talk turned to family. The importance of good, strong ones. The sun went down and the lights warmed the inside spaces.

We talked about the living of dreams. We brainstormed ideas. Discussed website concepts that work in San Francisco and debated whether they'd work here. Restaurants. Writing. How well the fresh peas worked with the tomatoes and garlic.

This is what home feels like.

It occurred to me that being bathed in these smells and flavours, being surrounded by these people is one of the best things I can think of. I forgot why, the day before, I was so desperate to leave here.

It's not the furniture that makes a house into the home, it's the people. It's the energy of life and love and connection swirling around a place, seeping into its walls, its water.

This is what I want. A house filled to overflowing with love. This is what home is. This is what family is. This is what has been missing in my life. It's been a tiny leak, my insides slipping out little by little and my heart slowly breaking. The kind of loss you almost can't feel. Until, of course, you can.

New Year's Day

Yesterday was a huge day. One of the biggest days of my life and a very fitting kind of day for my own personal New Year. Although, it took a lot of crying to get there.

I spent Saturday night up in Canmore with the fam. Sunday morning, I opened some of the most thoughtful birthday presents of my life. Gifts that support and acknowledge my creativity, my dreams and the fact that I'm currently residing in the seventh level of hell. I sobbed my way through all of them. The front of the card from my sister read: Find your song and sing it. My dad's gift was the most beautiful leather bag in the entire world. I feel like a female, 21st Century, non-alcoholic version of Hemingway when I sling it over my shoulder.

And then we drove home to the suburbs, where Boyfriend immediately began cutting into a big IKEA box.

See, the retail therapy didn't stop when it should have. We went back the next day and bought a bunch of stuff from that glorious office. Only this time, when I looked at the showroom, it was just an IKEA showroom. It was no longer a soul-lifting window into all that was possible in my dream-filled life.

But Boyfriend wanted so badly to make me happy that when he suggested I buy it for myself as an investment in my creativity, I thought it might work. Maybe, just maybe, $1200 worth of IKEA home office solutions would lift me from the miasma of despair and I would become a functioning suburbitron.

The next day, when I returned from the Walk of Clarity, it occurred to me: There is a return flight to Paris sitting in my garage.

So, when I heard him cutting open my plane ticket to assemble more walls in this beautiful prison, I knew it was time for The Big Talk. The one where I tell him I don't want him to assemble that ottoman because I don't want to live here.

He was silent for 2.5 seconds and then said, "Okay. We'll sell this place and get a smaller place in the city. Then we'll have enough freedom to travel. We can even go to Paris for a month or two." He said he'd call his realtor in the morning, and I nodded, a bit stunned.

It was a good, logical solution, but it wasn't enough. It didn't feel right. I called the BFF Helpline, knowing that Drea would give me some perspective. She said, "If you aren't happy, you could be living in the most beautiful inner city loft condo extravaganza and it wouldn't make a lick of difference."

Selling the house is beside the point.

I went back for Round #2 of The Big Talk. I told Boyfriend that I have to go back to Paris. That if I cut even the tiniest of corners off myself, my dreams and everything I want in this life, I will end up breaking both our hearts. So, I have to go back. And I have to stay as long as it takes.

He looked at me with his big, beautiful eyes and said, "When do you leave?"

See, Boyfriend is a less complicated soul than I. While I am tortured and twisted and passionately driven by a force beyond myself, he is usually watching me with a bemused smile. In his life, he has no need of sweeping epic journeys of the heart. He has found a few things that make him happy, and I am one of them. So, he'd like to keep me in his life. And he'd like me to be happy. If that means letting me go chase down a dream halfway across the world, so be it.

I will leave in October, after my Banff Centre writing course. He will come visit me in November-ish, and we'll take it day by day from there. He is, of course, worried about the Jean-Lucs and the Pierres of the world. But, I swear, the Parisian men were not my cup of tea. The women were way more beautiful. But, given the fact I only hang out with lesbians in Paris, that is cold comfort indeed.

Regardless, I'm going back. I'm going back I'm going back I'm going back! I'm giving myself the only gift that matters – to live my life to the absolute fullest. To reach the soaring heights of the potential God has given me. To take a risk in the name of a love so deep and beautiful I might start bawling again if I think too much about it.

And to do it all now. Not sometime. Not later. Not one day. But now.

Happy Birthday To Me

I'm going back to Paris. In October. It's been decided.

Best. Birthday. Ever.

The Irrepressible Power of Dreams

Why I thought that decorative pillows would have one iota of impact on my happiness, I will never know. It's true, I felt a rush of excitement laying down the new area rug and carefully draping the chenille throw. But the next day, it was like a terribly homely woman wearing bright red lipstick. Not. Gonna. Cut it. Not that the room is homely. It's beautiful, but you get my point.

I think I expected to feel as good as that room looked.

I've never understood the concept of retail therapy or the deep consumerist drive some people have. But, I think I get it now. They are really, honestly trying to make their lives better in a tragically misguided way. I have much greater empathy for shopaholics and those people who order the porcelain dolls off the Shopping Channel at three in the morning.

Sad business, that.

Also sad business that I woke up today, the day before my birthday, feeling off-the-charts miserable. Again. Still. My birthday is my favourite day of the entire year, and not in some 'I get to be the centre of attention' way. In the way that it is and always has been my own personal New Year. It's like an inner reset, a fresh start, what have you.

Only, the past couple of years haven't felt the same. Two years ago I turned 30, and all I cared about on July 13 was whether I was going to survive a 200 km bike ride. I can't remember last year at all. Which is bloody depressing if you ask me. If I was 80? Okay, I forgot my birthday, who cares. I was 31.

And this year, I've been dreading my very favourite day because I haven't been this unhappy since the Bad Old Days. I don't want to start my New Year feeling like this.

This morning when the alarm went off, I ignored it. To the point Boyfriend had to crawl over me to turn it off. I went back to sleep. Not because I was tired, but because I didn't want to be awake. This has been happening more frequently these days. I just don't want to be awake, dealing with life.

Of course I've considered the idea that I'm depressed.

But if I am, it's not chemically driven. It's circumstantial. Sure it's possible that has caused my seratonin to head south for the summer. But it doesn't feel right to medicate myself so my shitty life feels tolerable.

When I finally got out of bed, I walked to the bathroom mirror. I looked myself in the eyes and said, "What's going on? What do you need?" I sat down on the edge of the tub and started to cry. I begged myself for clarity. Then everything got quiet. I expected to hear something like, "Leave Boyfriend and get a condo in the city" in some booming God Voice. But there was nothing. I wiped my eyes with my t-shirt, leaving globs of yesterday's mascara.

At a loss, I got dressed and left for a walk. I've learned over the past two months that it's the best thing to do when Toxic Misery sets in. Otherwise the misery festers and transforms into Passive Aggression and Irrational Bitchiness, which doesn't improve matters much.

So, I walked. I listened to my incredibly embarrassing positive thinking meditation tape. It's from 1989 or so and is narrated by someone named Bob Griswald. He has a funny Midwestern accent and I can hear him swallowing in the background between telling me I am calm and secure. But, he does calm me down. And that's something.

Not five minutes into Bob's soothing narrative, my intuition spoke up. With its characteristic simplicity, my gut had only three words for me. Just. Go. Back.

To Paris.

Go back. Do it again. Do it some more. Don't drop the momentum you had there – writing prolifically, meeting incredible people, connecting with the divine, believing unequivocally that the whole world was at your fingertips. Just. Go. Back.

It seems so simple. Too simple. But that's how it always is. The Universe doesn't give you complex formulae to puzzle through and decode. It gives you simple, indisputable instructions that you probably could have come up with yourself if you hadn't been so busy resisting the obvious and crying in your bathroom.

Of course there are a million details to sort out. But I'm not terribly concerned with that right now. Because I just got the best birthday gift of my life. Hope.

The Answer Is...

Furniture. The answer to Now What? is furniture. Or at least it was yesterday. See, I'm a Cancer. The astrological kind, not the medical kind. When we're not waving our claws in the air and sidestepping the issue, we need a sense of home. A comfortable sanctuary where we can hide out from the world.

We need a sense of home or we go crazy.

So that's what yesterday was about. Me not progressing down the road to Crazy any further. It had to be done. No matter what happens next in the story of Melanie the Artist Moves to the Suburbs, this house has to look and feel better. You think anyone would buy it when it looks like a bare-bones bachelor pad? You think 'There's no decorative pillows!' is a good enough reason to move out? Um, no.

The fact is, it's my responsibility to make this moment I'm living the most delicious moment of my life. And then, more delicious moments will follow, whether I'm in the suburbs of Calgary or the markets of Marrakesh.

Now. Boyfriend's plan when he built this shack was to get the big pieces first, like a king-sized bed, and then fill in the blanks later. There was also a room-by-room plan, which partially addresses the otherwise inexplicable choice to begin with a dining room table when the couch is so small we've been siting on each other's laps for two years.

The furniture-buying project got off to a rough start in a very slick store that I described as "pointlessly expensive." I think one of Boyfriend's life dreams includes being able to shop in a store like that, but it just pissed me off. Besides, I need to make this gargantuan house into a home for the low, low price of $1,000. I didn't have time to waste ogling $5,000 chairs and Calvin Klein bedding. (Although, the Vera Wang dishes were dreamy.)

Finally, finally, we went to IKEA. Say what you will about the Swedish Superstore, but right now, I don't need hand-carved mahogany from some half-naked tribesman deep in the rainforests of Brazil. I need to create a living space where I can breathe. I can't explain this any further, but suffice it to say, this furnishing expedition is about survival right now. I looked up the etymology of 'furniture' and in 1541 to be 'unfurnished' meant to be 'unprepared.' An interesting perspective on how I've been feeling.

Wandering through the gallery of space-saving solutions inspired lively discussions about living in a 327 sq. ft. apartment. I tried to imagine Boyfriend and I, two of the most independent people I know, living together in a walk-in closet. I guess his two server towers would have to get their own place.

And then I saw one of the most beautiful rooms I could imagine. It was glowing white, warm, peaceful and inviting. And the best part: it was full of books. It was a library, sitting room thing, but the way the fake window was positioned with the writing desk in front of it, was exactly the way I've been imagining my dream studio.

See, part of Goal Setting and Manifesting Your Dreams 101 is about knowing what you want. Seeing it and feeling it so that it lives and breathes in your mind and heart.

I've been imagining my perfect writing room for a long, long time. And this room, in I-freaking-KEA of all places, took the room that I pictured and made it a hundred times better. It was a weird feeling, but I didn't judge it. I just went with it.

The entire perimeter of the room was filled with beautiful white bookshelves and cabinets. A ladder leaned against one of the taller shelves, like an old-fashioned dark library only this one was bathed in light and warmth. Beyond the otherwordly feel of the white, the textures were earthy and grounded, wood and stone and leaves. It was like heaven and earth in the same room. Which is sort of how I think about the creative process. You invite God to come on down, asking him, please, to pass through your hands on the way.

Breaking it down into its pieces, it occurs to me that none of this furniture was very special. There's nothing magical about a big, puffy IKEA couch and some white lacquer bookshelves.

But, for me, it was like experiencing a tiny piece of my dream life, only my dreams were even better than I imagined.

You know that scene in the animated classic, Ratatouille, when the surly food critic takes his first bite of the food and is transported to a moment in his childhood? The dish was nothing special, a few vegetables that you can find anywhere, but the experience was powerfully about memory and love and innocence. It was visceral for him, and this was visceral for me.

For me, this room was filled with the bright, heart-lifting feeling of living my dreams. I understood that the things I've always imagined are there, waiting for me. They are more beautiful than I ever imagined. And here's the kicker: I deserve them. I am worthy and entirely capable of going out and getting that – that room, those dreams, whatever – right now.

Now that, friends, is what I call a successful shopping trip.

So, Now What?

Well, it's been three days since my surgery and beyond the effect of gravity on Alfred Monsel's Amazing Mashed Potato Miracle and the fact that I won't be getting any McLovin on my birthday, there's nothing much on that front to report.

However, one moment from my walk with Drea keeps coming up in my thoughts. She was describing how her husband felt leaving San Fransisco after six years and two successful clubs. He lived his dream and now finds himself in Calgary, Alberta wondering what the hell to do next. Drea said, "You're the same, Mel. You did your dream. Now what?"

This has hit me like a ton of bricks for some reason. Not in a bad way, but a 'why haven't I considered this more deeply' way. I bulldozed right over the part where I feel – really feel – the passing of a dream. I've been a lab rat, trying to outrun the grief and confusion and push the red button at the end of the maze. I haven't been able to figure out if this health gong show is just part of the maze (i.e. a big, fat distraction) or a calling to something greater (i.e. my next mission).

But now, even that's kind of finished. I mean, I had the surgery. I'm healing fine. I'm still eating cabbage. So, now what?

Just like my experience in Paris, this experience has resulted in some powerful and fundamental internal shifts. Taking responsibility for my health – and the importance of doing that – for example. This experience has also solidified my need to serve the world. The very sudden and energetic response to the blog and the topic in general was a message from the Universe. But, again, I come to the Question of the Day. Now what?

On the morning of my surgery, I received an email from the Banff Centre for the Arts. I have been accepted into a week-long writing course/residency in September, focusing on memoir writing.

I applied for it a couple of months ago, thinking I would be working on a creative process memoir of my time in Paris. It occurs to me that an HPV memoir would be an excellent project, too. Not some dry, scientific textbook on the thing, but a very personal account of a virus that 16-year-old girls know more about than I do. Even though I've been getting Paps since they were two years old.

I mean, I'm sure you'll all say, "Write both!" And yeah, maybe I will. But I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm a creative magpie. I start one project and then when it gets to the grunty, third-forth-fifth draft stage, I abandon it for the next shiny thing I come across. I am a fantastic starter. But unless I learn about follow-through, my work will continue to languish in a file. Instead of a bookshelf or a movie theatre near you.

And really, writing a creative process memoir about a screenplay I've left to rot doesn't lend itself to a fanfare-filled ending, does it? Sigh.

Healing into Possibility

Sure, my surgery felt like date rape by BBQ utensil. Sure, I made a simple procedure into a Level-5 traumatic event. Sure, I'm walking a little funny these days. But the incredible, off-the-charts relief I feel makes it all worthwhile.

I woke up feeling tentative, not sure what manner of pain and bloody-whatever I'd be faced with. But really, the only challenge of the day was that the massive overnight maxi pad I wore had dislodged and was stuck to my butt. We can handle that.

I spent the day walking by the river with friends. It was beautiful. I was happy, animated and positive. The ideas were flowing, and on my afternoon walk with Drea, a new and exciting project took shape.

Drea and her little family have just moved back from a period of time in the US. They have, literally, $200 to their name. They are staying with friends and family (our turn is next week), trying to get work and keep their 14-month-old daughter happy.

My dear friend is, on the surface anyway, screwed. And even in this state, her only thought is: "How can I serve?"

I've been thinking about this too, as I redefine my life. I want to make my living in a way that benefits the world. Something that contributes to the rising consciousness – the part of the world that is evolving and aware – not the part that buys more stuff to numb out their pain and fear.

This idea I had (which is Top Secret for now) came together gradually. Pieces sticking in my brain from seemingly random conversations and "insignificant" experiences like my having no clue our city went to ten-digit dialing. At the time, I felt like a bit of a moron – how can you not know what's happening in your own city? But, now, I know why.

I had the kind of day that made me feel that Dr. Best didn't just remove abnormal cells. It felt as though she removed my sadness and my poisonous thinking, too. She zapped off this dark cloud of negativity I've been living under. The world felt and looked different. It looked more beautiful, more interesting, more approachable. It all – whatever it was – felt possible.

My friend Renee sent me an excerpt from a book she'd just finished. Here's my favourite part: "I never guessed that a revolution could be so quiet. My heart lifts and fills. At this lovely, shimmering, indeterminate moment in my life, poised in mid-air, the past and the future extend limitlessly before me. And I'm ready to embrace it all."

I got home and there, sitting on the counter, was a book Boyfriend bought last time we were in Portland. We went into Powell's Books, the most massive bookstore I have ever had the pleasure of getting lost in, and he said, "Melanie, I would like to read more. Will you help me choose a book?" I normally head straight for the Woo Woo section, but we thought Business might be a happy medium. He chose Freakonomics. I chose The Art of Possibility. He bought both.

I opened it up.

You know those moments, those days, when everything makes sense and fits together in a kind of Grand Design way that makes you believe in divine order and guidance? It was one of those days, and this book was the cherry on top. All the messages I needed to hear were in there. I ploughed through more than half of it by the time I went to sleep.

I have been struggling and fighting and resisting. I have been living in fear. I have been closed and tight and miserable. But it all brought me here. It was not in vain. It didn't feel good, but it had a purpose and a point.

I keep learning the same lessons over and over.

Let go. Trust the process. Release the fear. Release the judgment and the guilt. Listen. Connect.

If I had a child, I would teach it these things. I would teach it that knowing there is a grand design, a Higher Power and a big, beautiful plan is only one step. The key is to trust it. To release your fear and your illusion of control, and allow the story to unfold. It's already happening. Stay awake.

Surgerized

I stopped talking around noon. Which is what happens before something big, only the "something big" is usually a performance or a race. Luckily, Boyfriend is a Pro-League Introvert, so Endurance Silence is one of his better events. Which is better, in my opinion, than small talk about condo prices and weather. Way better.

We drove to the clinic with one of my woo woo meditation CDs playing in the background. We got rock star parking on the second pass of the lot. We got box seats in the waiting room. It was a good start.

It got better when Scottish Nurse Jo practically hugged me on sight. She was a big fan of the Herald article. She said I am doing a great service to women. Then she got down to the brass tacks. She showed me another diagram, this time of the LEEP procedure. Grounding pad gets stuck to the leg – to avoid electrocution. Gulp. Anesthetic injected locally into the cerv. It will make your heart race. Check. Been there, experienced that. Zip, zap – an electrically charged metal loop slices off the baddies. Then no heavy lifting, labour or exercise for a week. And nothing up your sleeve (if you know what I mean) for three.

Then I saw the prettiest illustration of my life. It was a fully regenerated cervix. In three weeks, my cerv will be back to normal.

That's when the tears started. Because I thought it didn't grow back. I thought that I was going to be down to a third of my cervix. I told Jo that she was the absolute best. She was the only medical professional that told me the whole deal was caused by HPV. The only one who sat there until every question I had was addressed. And now she was telling me that my lady parts would grow back as good as new.

Her eyes got shiny and she had to blow her nose rather suddenly.

I felt better about the surgery, but I still wanted to know if I could beat it all myself. She said I should just eat fruits and vegetables and get lots of sleep. And not to smoke or drink too much. Not exactly the level of info I was hoping for. That stuff falls well into the Stating the Obvious category. We were going to have to go to the Best for this one.

Out in the waiting room, Mom asked about my career. Not a great move since I have no clue what is going on in that department and am bobbing directionless in a vast ocean of Nothing. Besides that, I am miserable. In general. There are moments of lightness, but for the most part, I exist an emotional wasteland. So, the tears were back for Round 2. Which is when they called me in for the big show.

Nurse #1 gave me a hug, which was nice. Then Dr. Best arrived. I weepily told her about the new pain and 'stuff,' which I described in far more graphic detail than I will here. She said she'd check it out. She told me that she would be describing everything as she went along and did I have any "last minute questions?" Uh, YEAH.

Only by this time, I was buck naked from the waist down, crying and attached to a giant grey machine that looked suspiciously like a BBQ. It had a 'smoke clearance' sticker on it.

I wanted to have a conversation. To see if this procedure was, in fact, necessary. If I could do something different, something that didn't involve electrically charged surgical devices, anesthetic that made my heart beat out of my chest and the word 'cauterize.'

But I had no choice.

Once I was in the clinic, I was theirs. I realize that now. If I had gotten through on the phone, I might not have been there, naked and vulnerable and unquestionably subject to Standard Procedure. But instead, I found myself with my thighs hanging open, attached to a Grill King 2000.

Dr. Best got to work. And the part where she tells me what she's doing went out the window. Instead, the nurses began making ridiculous small talk about some bestselling novel to distract me. Because I'm a writer. And apparently an idiot. Who does this work on? People with an IQ of nine?

I want to know what the hell is happening under that sheet and we're talking about Jodi Freaking Picoult?

All of a sudden, one of the nurses says, "Here comes a pinch." So we're just going ahead now. We're anesthetizing. We're not going to talk about my new symptoms. We're just going for it. And now, I realize I can't escape. It's happening. It's all happening.

I feel three or four needles go in. I wince and Nurse #1 says, "Breathe honey," which will be her only line for the rest of this scene.

Nurse #2 starts asking me what I'm writing or reading or something. I block her out. I'm way inside now. I'm feeling my heart start racing and my legs shaking and my muscles spasming. I'm feeling some foreign something racing through my blood like a chemical freight train. I am particularly conscious of the fact that I can't run because there is a possibility that a very long needle is very deep inside me.

After further Jodi Picoult discussion, Nurse #2 abruptly says, "We're done."

But I can hear buzzing. Which is, I can only assume, the cauterizing bit. I try not to think of steakhouse commercials with the sizzling slabs of Triple-A Alberta Beef. Before I can tell them I take it medium rare, they're slapping on something called Monsel's paste. No one has really explained what this is. It makes me think of some early 1900s apothecary owner named Alfred Monsel who invented this wound-healing paste from a mixture of iodine, baking soda and his wife's famous mashed potatoes. "Works like a charm and tastes delicious!"

Once I'm all good and Monselized, I hear, "Oh and by the way, I didn't notice any unusual discharge or any signs of infection." Thanks, Doc.

I am released from the BBQ and I sit up. I ask Dr. Best how I can avoid another one of these magical medical moments. Not that it wasn't totally romantic and spiritually fulfilling and all. She tells me that she normally advises patients to, and I quote, "Forget about it."

Believe me, I'm trying to.

D-Day for the Ervix-Say

As in Decision Day. About the surgery. I left a message with Dr. Best, but she never returned my call. My LEEP surgery is scheduled for 2 pm and I don't want to be pinned to the stirrups by some crazed surgeon hellbent on my cervix before I get my questions answered.

And there are other problems.

Like the buzzing in my junk has progressed to a constant aching. And there is stuff. Y'know...stuff. Stuff that I have never seen in 32 years of Self-Cleaning Organ ownership.

I've been crying a bit.

I've also been having spiritual moments. Driving up to Edmonton to visit some friends, I realized I need to surrender. It's all happening the way it's going to happen. I can do my best. I can eat my purple cabbage and say my affirmations 1,200 times a day, but it's all going to unfold the way it's going to unfold. I've been trying to wrestle the Universe into submission since I got back from Paris and it hasn't worked. Why would it work now?

So, somewhere between Red Deer and Ponoka, I let go. I said, "Okay Big Guy. I'll keep doing my best, but this is your show now. You take over." And then I sobbed my face off a little more.

And Sunday, the day after the arrival of the Unidentified Stuff, I had another moment. The moment where I realized that I'm being called to do something, only I don't get to know what it is yet. So, I have to wait it out. I have to just watch it all unfold and it will come clear eventually.

The possibilities of where this story could go are endless. Maybe they tell me I have the most aggressive cancer of all time, rearing its murderous head in the span of two measly weeks. Maybe they'll say I have a standard-issue yeast infection and to come back in two weeks. Maybe they'll say, "Hey, let's do a colposcopy!" and then they do it and I have miraculously healed myself just in time for my birthday party on Sunday, an intimate Alaskan cruise for my 57 nearest and dearest. Never know.

Right at the moment, I am not afraid. I spent the weekend with Athena. 'Member her? Warrior Princess of Procreation? Yeah, well, her and McDreamy are the proud parents of 11 frozen embryos and could have a surrogate in a week or so. It's all happening. This tells me that if Life decides to kick the living snot out of you, you can roll with it. You can learn from it. And you can do beautiful things.

So, I'm not afraid. I want to handle this whole thing in a way that I can be proud of, and that you can be inspired by. Because I've been given this gift – you reading this – and I'm not about to let you down. I had a feeling yesterday that it's got to get a bit worse before it gets better. If this were a warrior tale, this would be the part where I was tested. The depth of my conviction, the strength of my character, my ability to endure. That's this part. Lots of hard work to come. Probably some good days, probably some bad. Maybe a few Dark Nights of the Soul.

But, if I do it right, I'll emerge victorious. Which would be the kind of ending I think we'd all cheer about.

Hard Sci Findings

As promised, here are some of the complementary therapies I've found. The supplements I'm writing about today have been backed up by clinical trials. Here's the link to a paper going through them all if the science-ese doesn't freak you out.

In a nutshell, there are two supplements that have been shown to cause regression of mild to moderate dysplasia. They are (drum roll please) Folic Acid and the intimidatingly named Indole-3-Carbinol.

Folic Acid or folate is what us girls are supposed to take when we get preggers and it's found in leafy green veg. The sources I've read suggest taking 10 mg per day. I found some 1 mg tablets...so that means taking 10 pills a day. Yikes. But, worth it if it can lead to regression.

I-3-C is found in veggies like cabbage or broccoli. Your options are to eat 1/3 of a head of cabbage every day or take 400 mg in capsule form. I'm opting for both, kind of. I'm adding more veggies into my world and I'm taking the caps. They are a bit harder to find, but I found them at Community Natural Foods. Brand name is Now.

There is other evidence to suggest that Vitamin A is a good one. Trouble with Vit A is it can lead to birth defects, so scientists are shy to jack the dose. One source I read suggests taking 50,000 I.U. for six months and then dropping back to 10,000. I'll do some more research and get back to you. If you are preggo, you shouldn't be taking more than 5,000 per day.

So, those are the magic reversal bullets. Although, I should tell you that these things aren't 100% effective 100% of the time. If you continue to smoke Menthol Lights and drink Bacardi Breezers, you may not have as sexy an effect as if you ate well, went to yoga class and traded the ciggies and booze for water and a good night's sleep. Just saying.

Other supplements are about boosting immune function and include Vitamins C and E, CoQ10, Beta Carotene, Zinc, Selenium, Omega-3 Fatty Acids (flax or fish oils). There is also some research on green tea and certain mushrooms, but I'll have to find better sources for you. However, the secret password for now is shiitake.

The supplements are one thing, but diet is critical. You already know what you should and shouldn't be eating, but let me highlight a few big ones. Whole grains. Protein focusing on vegetarian sources, chicken and fish. Fruit and veg. By the power of Greyskull, just eat 'em. As colourful as you can get and the more orange and dark green, the better. Purple too...blueberries, purple cabbage, etc. When I go to the grocery store now, I choose the veggies that I normally don't. The weird ones. Like kale. Glorious kale. And Swiss chard. And orange bell peppers. Squash.

I've been wary of dairy (ha!) for some time now, much to the irritation of my parents. But that's just me. Soy products have an estrogen effect which, depending on what you read, can be beneficial or harmful. But you can't go wrong by drinking a couple of litres of water every day. So do that and I'll get back to you on the other stuff.

When I was training for Ironman, I began to look at food as fuel. It was incredibly useful because I could see the end result (greater endurance and better performance) as I was cooking and eating. This is good from an affirmation perspective, too. Believing your food is fuel (or medicine in this case) helps to make it true. So, food is medicine. Or poison if you are making stupid choices. You know what's good for you. Eat it.

Last night I watched the movie version of 'You Can Heal Your Life.' Interviewed for the movie was a woman named Mona Lisa Shulz, a PhD behavioral neuroscientist working in the field of intuition. For those right-brained types, what she had to say about affirmations was illuminating. People, affirmations are cognitive behavioural therapy. Period. As she said in the film, "This isn't some fluffy, woo woo stuff with purple." I love a woman who says "woo woo." Affirmations (or CBT) actually causes re-wiring in the brain. So you can literally change your mind with these things. If you can't deal with loving-the-self stuff, why not try, "My healing is already in progress." Or even, "My food is my medicine."

Pity Party

I'm not going to lie to you. I've been in a serious victim mindset these past few days. I've felt all hard-done-by that not only do I have to deal with a wonky cervix and Global Television's 'How Many Times Can We Say Sexually Transmitted Virus In One Segment' contest, but now my creative process blog has turned into an HPV blog. Poor me.

Enough of that. Victims aren't sexy. You can quote me on that.

So, everybody out of the pity pool. It's time for a little gratitude. And a little game of Count Your Blessings. Because that's the quickest way out of the hole. And it's a good way to share the inspiration around.

Here's what rocks about having cervical dysplasia:

• I have been given the opportunity to take responsibility for my health. This is the perfect excuse to stop eating crap and sitting on the couch. It is a swift kick in the backside to a healthier Mel.
• I have been given an audience for this change...you! My readers will inspire me to stay the course and use this as an opportunity to evolve.
  
• I can give back to my faithful readers by sharing what I learn and by my honesty. Those who read this will know that they are not alone in their confusion and, hopefully, I can bring some new proactive ideas to help you get and stay healthy.
• I get to focus on me. Finally. It's my turn for my full, undivided attention. Ahhhh.
• I get to eat Rainbow Food! I get to make regular, non-Ironman-intensity exercise a habit again. My meditation and visualization practice has the opportunity to grow. I get to tune into my intuition and Inner Guidance System which never leads me astray.
• All these things will help my creativity to flourish and grow. This is not necessarily a detour, it might just be another step on the path. In fact, I've already had ideas for two plays and a book.
  
• Embracing this situation and making the absolute best of it will help me grow as a human being whether I 'cure' myself or not.

Boyfriend's mom sent me a sweet email the other day. She said if I didn't want to be the HPV poster girl, I should be the poster girl for getting through it all with spunk and panache. Hmm. Don't mind if I do.

Day Two & Three

Went to the library and got four thousand books on what to eat when you have cancer. Which I don't, but there were no books called 'What To Eat When You Don't Have Cancer But Would Rather Not Get To That Point, Thanks.' Also got a couple books about life transition and uncertainty. Because I never met a self-help book I didn't like.

I also love working on my diet. I love, love, love it. Nothing makes me feel happier, cleaner and more 'in control' than piling my plate with a rainbow of veggies. Last night's culinary experience? An omelet of Omega-3 eggs, oyster mushrooms and green onions and a salad exploding with Swiss chard, orange peppers, tomatoes and purple cabbage. Meanwhile, Boyfriend scarfed down 'pizza-flavoured' scrambled eggs and chocolate milk. We live on different dietary planets. But we were both grinning like morons as the purple cabbage juice (or spicy Genoa salami juice in his case) dribbled down our chins. So I guess that's good.

This morning was Meditation Day One. Kind of. I practiced yoga six days a week for several years, so I'm no stranger to meditation. It's just that I've been away for awhile. Like a long, long while. I put on my whale sounds CD and set a timer for 20 minutes. Figured I'd start slow. Turns out, twenty minutes feels approximately like seven hours on Day One. I was fidgety after about a minute and a half. Couldn't find my breath at all. Felt like I was breathing through a straw. Which isn't relaxing, incidentally.

And then the phone rang. At seven thirty. Who calls at 7:30 am? Are these the same brand of people that call at 10:30 pm? Who are you? Why are you calling during the No Call Zone? Is it not a universal truth that calling before 8 am (9 would be better) and after 10 pm is just simply not done? To be fair, I think it was one of the perils of moving in with a night person. Everyone knows Boyfriend will be awake at 10:30 pm...or 2:30 am even. But 7:30 am? That's just cruel.

For me, it was Distraction #1295 of 4390. I guess Day One went as well as could be expected. There have been many, many Day Ones. Most times, I never return for Day Two. And sometimes by Day Two I think I'm pretty much a pro, so I try the Advanced Sleeping Meditation. Also known as A Nap.

I don't know why I aspire to be a meditation rock star on Day One. I have a feeling the gurus of the world didn't achieve enlightenment right out of the blocks. Which is what I appear to expect from myself. But I'm not even trying for enlightenment! That's not my goal right at the moment. Just a teeny tiny bit of silence upstairs is all I want. A wee break from the swirling chaos of thoughts and strategy and over-analysis. That's it.

Maybe it's time to bust out some AA slogans: One Day At A Time. Easy Does It. Etc.

Going easy on yourself is important. But so is continuing to make healthy, evolved choices. Over and over again. Rather than falling for the Snooze Button's 9 minutes of paradise. Or the toe-curling desire to order ten pizzas, watch the always-available 'Kitchen Nightmares' re-runs and completely check out of life for six days.

Alt Health Rabbit Hole

Damn you, Alternative Health. I love you, but why are you so difficult to navigate and so overwhelming? Should cleanse my bowels first or just drink more green tea? Is raw veganism the path to enlightenment? Give me a sign!

Yesterday was the unofficial beginning of what I am thinking of as the Six-Month Health Experiment.

My gradually unfolding plan includes diet renovation, regular exercise, soul-filling affirmations, visualization and meditation, and anything else that resonates with me. My idea is to create a workable, relatively inexpensive, low-on-the-Weird-Scale lifestyle shift that not only works to reverse my cervical dysplasia, but also makes me feel vibrantly, joyously healthy and balanced. And one that might help others.

My inital goal was to find clinically supported evidence for some supplements I plan on taking. (To make the hard sci folks happy.) I sipped my green tea and tried to ignore the humming of discomfort in my nether regions. Which I am praying is psychosomatic Type-A obsessive compulsive manifestation and not my cells morphing into cancer. This uncomfortable feeling has persisted for a few days now. Anyone who has a cervix knows you can't usually feel it. Mine is aching. Buzzing. It's weird and I wish it would stop.

I found some nice stuff about folic acid, green tea, vitamins A and C. And then things got abruptly weird. As they do when you type "alternative therapies" into Google. I found a site convinced that cleanses were the key. Tell me, why do cleanse sites insist on showing you photographs of what will be purged from your toxin-filled body? Like I need to see gross bowel crud and liver stones and freaking tapeworms. This just makes me not want to cleanse. In fact, I begin to think that the cleanse has put those horrific tapeworm mob scenes in my body in the first place. And the best way to avoid tapeworm is to continue to be blissfully, toxically unaware.

Then I found something called Beta Mannan that a whole crew of women are swearing by. This sounds like an ancient Mayan religious sect, not an aloe vera-based miracle cure. Apparently it's expensive, but also apparently you can talk them down. If you're the type to barter on magic beans, that is.

I found a woman who reversed her mild dysplasia using a hardcore raw vegan, alkaline diet, green tea suppository process. Easy as one, two, nine hundred different supplements and products with weird names. Wait, did she say suppositories?

Which is another thing I've heard. Don't just take the green tea capsules orally...stick 'em where the sun don't shine too! And all I can think when I read this is: what's green going up has gotta be green coming down. Yikes.