(picture is of my grandmother's garden....my son playing baseball with my uncle....)

When I was young, I was an outgoing little girl.  My mom recalls that I would chatter away to anyone who came by our home.  I confidently entered elementary school, with my teachers commenting on my leadership skills.   I felt good, self-assured, and whole. 

But then life delivered a series of tragedies that gradually shut down my voice. 

My father attempted suicide when I was seven years old, and although he survived, my parents separated for several years while he spun ever more deeply into alcoholism.  My mother did her best to keep life as ‘normal’ as possible for my sister and me, but for me, a layer of shame settled into my core.  Something about our family, something about me, felt wrong.  My voice became quieter.

We all have our stories, some more tragic than others. 

My dad’s story is linked to my grandmother’s story. My grandmother was one of the most influential women in my life.  She both terrified me and thrilled me as a child, sweeping into our home with her enormous energy and authoritarian attitude––as well as a basket of homemade Latvian pirogs and apple cake.

Having been chased from her beloved country and forced to abandon her farmhouse and all her belongings as the Russians invaded during WW2, grandma lived her life with a fierce intensity––always prepared to defend what she had fought so hard to rebuild. 

Despite living in a Displaced Persons camp in Germany for three years, and arriving in Canada with next to nothing, my grandmother’s pride remained intact.  Her firm resolve to rebuild her life created a beautiful legacy for our family:  a garden oasis property in the middle of London, Ontario, and a lake cottage that gifted my sister and me, along with our cousins, with years of joyous childhood memories. 

She started by borrowing a few thousand dollars to purchase a rundown old house on an overgrown, weed–infested acre property just a few blocks from downtown, along the Thames River.   To pay off the loan, she rented rooms to immigrant Latvians, rebuilding her community––and also her wealth. 

When grandma was 98 years old, and Latvia had regained its independence, grandma flew on her own back to her home country to reclaim her farm property that had been confiscated by the Russians.  This was a trip that was against my aunt’s wishes (my father had long since passed away from a heart attack, or perhaps it was a broken heart since he didn’t live to see Latvia again), but grandma went anyway.  Always a woman with a voice, she even gave a talk on life as an expatriate in Canada while she was in Europe.  Turning her property over to relatives still living in Latvia was one of her final conscious acts before she slid into senility, finally passing away at age 104.  

Throughout her life, her voice rang out, clear and true, despite the horrors she’d faced, the disappointments, the losses and the challenges.  She was an inspiration to me––more so as the years pass.  I now have a deeper understanding of the challenges she endured, and how she fought to rebuild a life for her family.  

Although her strong, willful side was perhaps most obvious, I also know she fought depression at times.  During our hours together in the garden, picking raspberries or pulling weeds, she shared how at times she wept with the overwhelming reality of how much they’d lost, how hard it was to build a new life in a new country. 

But, where my dad drowned his sorrows in vodka, my grandmother dug deep within herself, overcame her fear, anger, and disappointment, and found a way to rebuild. 

At my grandmother’s funeral, my uncle asked me if I’d like to say a few words during the ceremony.  I was struck with my familiar terror at the thought of speaking publicly. 

“No.”  I shook my head.  “I can’t.” 

As our family filed into the pews, I looked at my grandmother’s casket, and then out at the gathered mourners.  How could I NOT speak about this amazing woman and her influence on my life?   I leaned forward, hearing my own voice as a whisper in my uncle’s ear.  “I’ve changed my mind.”

On that particular day, I connected deeply with the spirit of my grandmother, the community of Latvians and, of course, with my family.  I found my voice when I connected deeply with my heart and my passionate love for my grandmother. 

My voice rang out, clear and true.  I shared memories of our tender moments, of our talks in her inspiring garden, of the disagreements we had, of the guidance she gave me.  I felt the laughter bubble up, and the tears flow.  My grandmother was alive in my soul, where she’ll reside for the rest of my life. 

And this has been my truth: I found that the way back from the pain of my own inner isolation has been to connect with community; a community that will hold the sacred space for my voice to come out, even if it’s initially as a whisper.

I’ve been blessed to find many of those communities over the years, communities that have nurtured my healing and called forward my voice.  

I attended my first Evolutionary Women’s Retreat in Maryland in the spring of 2007.  During that weekend, thousands of miles from home, it became apparent that weaving together an international network of empowered women was part of a larger plan that was emerging in circles of women; not just in Vancouver, British Columbia, but also in Baltimore, Maryland. 

Women’s networks, such as Evolutionary Women and Women of Vision and Passion that I co-founded in Canada, provide us a safe community to connect with the Divine Feminine and to explore ways of connecting with other women that may not exist in our families, our workplaces or elsewhere in our communities. 

And it is in these communities of women who are gathering to support one another that many of us are, for the first time, finding our voice. 

When I was at the Evolutionary Women’s gathering on the eastern side of the United States, I rarely found myself thinking that I was with women from another country.  Our commonality, not our differences, defined us.  Borders fell away as I listened to women passionately share their visions for bringing about change in their world.   I was with sisters who cared as deeply as I do, as the women in my circle in Vancouver do, about better education for our children, better access to health care for all, better government, helping our disempowered sisters  elsewhere on the planet we ALL share.  All these women’s voices.  So beautiful.  So powerful.

I’m honoured to be one of the first Canadian woman’s voices to be heard within the Evolutionary Women’s network.  I often feel as though my grandmother’s voice is speaking through me.  I do know that her story has in many ways become part of my story, connecting me deeply to the women in our world who have struggled, who have been oppressed, who have had to flee their homes.  Her ability to fight for, and to create a new life, has empowered me with an ability to find my voice, and to use it to serve. 

Since I was a teenager, the word Namaste has resonated deeply with me.  There are many interpretations of this beautiful Sanskrit word, but my favourite is: ‘I honor that place in you where the whole Universe resides. And when I am in that place in me and you are in that place in you, there is only one of us.”  This interpretation brings Spirit into our acknowledgement of one another, and infuses my way of Being in the world. 

Namaste. 

May we all honour those who came before us. May we all find our voice. May we all be empowered.  May we all connect to a loving community.  May we all find Peace.  

NOTE:  this blog entry will be a chapter in a book scheduled to be published by the Evolutionary Women's network this summer - my first 'published' piece :) 

He's 12 going on 17.    I'm trying to just be ok with what each day brings.  I don't know from one day to the next if I have a loving, cuddly child in my home, a surly teen, or a wise young man, spouting wisdom and insights beyond his years. 

Last week I pulled up at 3 p.m. in front of his school to find him playing happily with a punch balloon that he'd bought at the corner store at lunchtime.  I remember loving those when I was a child - relatively hardy balloons with an elastic band tied to the end that becomes a handle to repeatedly punch the balloon.  There was something so satisfyingly meditative in the repetitive action.  He was entranced, swore it was the best toy he'd ever had. 

We arrived home, and he enthusiastically played with that balloon for hours, until a particularly exuberant toss into the air brought it in contact with the stucco ceiling.  The balloon popped, along with his joy.  Although I'm grateful I'm raising a child who knows how to express his full range of emotions, at times they overwhelm me as well as him. He tore up the stairs to his room, screaming, "NO!" and threw himself on his bed.  His face buried in his pillow, he continued to scream out his disappointment and rage at the short-lived joy of the balloon for several minutes. 

And then, it was over.  He emerged from his room with a wry grin on his face, acknowledging to both himself and to me that the reaction over a broken balloon was a bit off the scale. 

But was it? 

I felt like joining him in the expression of grief for simple joys that are oh so fleeting.  Like his childhood. 

Just a few days later we were cleaning up the ‘pit' he hangs out in downstairs with his friends.   He was telling me about the girl he'd met at the dance the night before, as we pulled the couch out from the wall to clean up the refuse that had been piling up behind it for a few months, including numerous unwrapped and somewhat soggy looking condoms.   I clearly remember the night that he and his friends blew up a few condoms they'd purchased from a washroom vending machine, drew faces on them, and tossed them around the ‘pit' on a Friday night sleepover. 

But how long is going to be before he's using them for their intended purpose? 

Once every six weeks or so, the local community centre puts on a dance for this age group.  It's actually a sort of a mating ritual for several hundred hormonal, pre-pubescent, pre-teens, but given that our culture has few rituals for this transitional stage of life, it serves a purpose.  At least there are a few responsible adults on site to ensure that there is no alcohol use, and that the boys hands don't linger on the girls bottoms during the slow dances.  Apparently ( I am NOT allowed onsite by my pre-teen, but told more details of the dance than I really want to hear) the patrolling adults have to regularly pry some of these exploratory couples apart.  When I picked up my son from the first of these dances that he attended, and asked him how it was, he grinned at me and said, "Well, let me put it this way....I went in chewing Juicy Fruit, and I came out chewing Excel." 

Oh MY God. 

So, day after the dance, he's MSN'ing with his friends who have convinced him that one of the girls he was dancing with really, REALLY likes him.  He decided to be brave (ha), and ask her out.  Via MSN.  She turns him down.  Apparently she doesn't like him, in THAT way. 

He storms from the room, slams his fist into a wall on the way up to his room, where he throws himself onto his bed and yells into the pillow.

Sigh. 

I scoured the dollar stores the next afternoon, and bought out the supply of punch balloons I found.  I blew up a few of them, and had them lying about his room when he came home from school.  Even put a few grains of rice into one of them, to create the sound that reminded me of my own fleeting childhood joy. 

...and revelled in the sound of my boychild's joy as he discovered them in his room.  And re-discovered his childhood again. 

For a few more moments. 

That was Awesome!!

My son is a gifted LD student.  A few short months ago, ‘awesome' would have been the last word he would have used to describe school.  Three months into grade six, we were losing him.  He was disengaged from classroom instruction, slumped in his desk, not listening, not caring about his grades.  His teacher was frustrated.  I was frustrated. 

This week I picked Maxx up from his current gifted program, architecture and design. "How was it?" I asked him. 

"AWESOME!!".

Hmmm, I thought.  Why is that I never hear that when I pick him up from his ‘regular' school?  I asked him if he could tell me what the difference is between the gifted programs, and his regular class.

He thought for a bit.

"Well", he said.  "It's like swimming pools.  Regular class is like a small pool, about one car-length wide, by two car-lengths long.  It's cold.  It doesn't have a diving board.  Gifted class is like a huge pool with slides, and waves and it's filled with floaty toys". 

Maxx's swimming pool analogy might seem to suggest that the gifted programs are just about fun.  I've witnessed that they are really about engaged learning.. 

Although it isn't currently feasible to offer full-time gifted programming to our North Shore children, we are fortunate to have the programs and the resources that are currently available. 

This term there are more gifted programs available to Maxx than previously - so he's having an opportunity to learn in his own way and on topics that engage him. In his regular classroom, his LD issues prevented him grasping some ideas, particularly in math. But after-school tutoring has completely engaged him.  He even asked for an extra tutoring session this week! 

His teacher was willing to work with a suggestion from his gifted instructor.  Maxx was offered an opportunity to create a self-directed project on a topic of his choosing.  The idea was to let him learn in a self-directed manner.  He chose to do a project on the perils of smoking.  His classroom teacher isn't always happy about the amount of time he's away from her class, but I witness that I now have a child who is now much more engaged with the process of learning. 

In North Vancouver, the GCABC LMG has been producing a series of ‘Super Saturdays' that I wrote about in our last newsletter.  January's session featured both Junkology and a mock trial, facilitated by David Fai, a criminal lawyer who is also father of a gifted child.  Maxx's prosecution team presented such a compelling case that the jury found Goldilocks guilty as charged.

Maxx ran up to me--

"Mom that was awesome!!"

Encouraged by his level of enthusiasm (and imagining a potential criminal lawyer in the making) I took Maxx out of his regular class the following Monday for a trip to Supreme Court to watch a trial in progress--Betty Krawcyk's contempt of court case, from the Eagle Bluff protests last year. 

Maxx was fascinated by the entire process and his engagement has greatly increased his understanding.  Since the court visit we have been following Betty's case in the paper. Having spent time in court listening to the opposing arguments  Maxx now really feels part of the story.

He chose to write a letter to the court in support of Betty Krawckyk.  During the sentencing hearing, his letter was read.  As he was the only child in the courtroom, it was apparent to the 60-odd people in the viewing gallery that he was the author.  He was approached by several environmentalists and journalists to discuss his views following the hearing, and was interviewed on camera by CBC.   Quite an empowering and enlightening experience. 

For Maxx, North Vancouver District's  gifted programming, GCABC conferences -- we both attended and LOVED the recent Bright Horizons conference -- GCABC Super Saturdays,  tutoring, a bit of home schooling, have all supported a transition that is still ongoing.   The challenges shift from day to day, but I know that the gifted program is working when I hear my child come from a session and exclaim:

"That was AWESOME"