my happy

motherhood
audrey’s giggle
noah’s sparkle in his eyes
music
effortless writing
feeling connected
running
the woods
making a difference
sunshine
feeling understood
laughing
friends
feeling part of something bigger
campfires
meaningful conversations
lattes
Saturday paper
helping others
sleep-ins
good food
good wine
...with friends of course
autumn
BC fresh air
Christmas trees
Kitsilano
a ski in fresh snow
Grand lake
a morning paddle
feeling hopeful
living in the moment

Hope

I think hope is a feeling that comes from within. We can choose to feel hopeful or we can surrender to hopelessness. What makes the difference? How is it that some people can find a reason to be this way while others simply can’t? Is it our circumstances? Is it the way we were raised? Could it be the amount of hardship one endures that presents the defining hopeful gene?

I wonder about the beauty of this feeling. It can change the way you see the world. I have dug deep for this feeling many times only to discover one simple truth about it. It’s not a magic feeling that falls over you like rain with minimal effort. It’s not something you wait for. Hope is not free, and sadly it seems to come at a price for most.

I have sat in this very spot and felt both extremes. Hope hasn’t always prevailed. I remember the night Mark was given his probable diagnosis of leukemia, we had to wait till the morning for another test to confirm it. The two of us sat here that night, we cried, we talked and we hoped. I remember hoping for a chance that it was all a mistake, I hoped for it so badly that I ached. The following day we returned from the hospital and spent the night lying on this couch. We watched TV just to do something normal but it didn’t mask the reality. Mark’s tests had confirmed our worst fears and he was diagnosed with cancer. The absolute desolate, flat, hopeless feeling from that night is one that has set my barometer for everything else since.

I have felt deep hopelessness since, but in a surprising way my desire to feel hopeful again has grown. Watching Mark slip away has given me a renewed desire to chose hope whenever possible. It doesn’t always come easily, nor has it been an instant transformation, but I do have a cause for optimism about the world that I never had before.

I see the impact Mark has on me mostly when I am faced with a choice. In the past, things used to seem more complicated, defining what was important and what should weigh more heavily wasn’t always so clear. Now, it feels natural to feel hopeful when I can because I know it can change in a heartbeat. What’s important to me now is clear and there’s no guesswork involved.

The amount of energy it takes to feel hopeless is exhausting. When I look at Audrey and Noah, I know that I owe them the effort of making that choice. There’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on the past or worrying about the future so for now, I choose hope because it feels right.

My little Nutcracker Angel

Shift

You keep changing on me. Every time I get used to where you fit in my life, something shifts, is it me? Am I the one who’s changing? I can’t tell. It used to be such a constant. I was just sad all the time, I missed you and it was so easy to identify. I missed you with intensity because you were stolen from me. I was sad and I was angry, left to raise our kids and watch them grow without you. I felt a hole in my heart that I grew to accept as a part of me.

As time passes, the empty hollow feeling seems to come and go rather than persist. It hangs in the background and I am able to brush it aside with less effort than before. I feel as though there are times when I can choose to be sad rather than have those times choose me. Have I just learned to wrangle this grief or is it really, truly fading? The answer to this question changes depending on what challenge I face today or the next.

Each time I watch our children do something amazing, whether it be Noah printing his name for the first time or Audrey dancing in a recital I am caught between two opposing feelings. At first, my heart feels heavy and aches because you aren’t here to witness them; your absence is never forgotten. Sadness still creeps in when I catch our kids growing before my eyes. Then, I remember the way you used to smile when Audrey did something so ordinary. I remember how Noah’s squeal as a babe made you smile ear to ear, I can picture you clear as day nearly three years since you’ve been gone. You were in awe of our little ones from the day they were born; you cherished them like precious little gifts without any direction from anyone.

This true delight you took in our kids is something that trumps the sadness every once in a while for me. I can’t say I don’t get bogged down by my circumstances because I do (and I vent and I cry). But as time passes, I feel like it’s becoming easier to catch Audrey and Noah being kid-like and to let go of this pervasive gloom that has become a part of me. I try not to forget that you would give anything to have another moment with them; I’m now learning to be thankful that I get to have a lifetime with them.