Energy, empowerment and extroverting for the win

I tried a new thing a couple weekends ago: JourneyDance. I attended a workshop led by the lovely and glowing Michelle Brass and met (and danced with!) a group of exquisitely amazing women. 

I didn’t really know what to expect. I was drawn to enrol in the experience prior to learning I needed surgery and I even contemplated withdrawing right up to an hour before the workshop began. Something told me I needed to attend, and I listened.

I allowed my curiosity to lead me; I knew Michelle a bit and was curious about this dance thing she was doing. I also felt called to get out of my head and into movement and into my body this year. And I wanted to say yes to something that pushed me out of my comfort zone AND was completely about and for me – not my day job, my kid, my marriage, my health, my coaching business. A little bit of luxurious self-care just for me.

And I learned again that taking care of myself extends to all the other aspects of my life. Of course.

And that a group of women coming together in community to heal is incredibly powerful. Of course. 

(We did have one lovely man join us for the evening workshop, and it was wonderful to have male energy on the dance floor as well.)

The experience was challenging and so very rewarding. I was challenged to let go of insecurities (there were REAL, trained dancers in the room!); challenged to connect to my body and turn off my critical mind; challenged to trust my body to move me how it wanted to be moved, to speak for me, to express what needed to be expressed and exposed; and challenged to trust a group of strangers to see me, hold me, love me based on how I showed up that day. And to trust I could do the same for them as well.

The beauty and power and rawness of the music, energy, movement and the women – THE WOMEN – who were present was magic. I felt honoured to be able to witness their grace, lightness, heaviness, frivolity, expression, emotion and connection. We held a sacred space for and of each other. Hearts opened, tears flowed, strength emerged. Beauty everywhere.

The entire experience opened up awareness for me into previously dark or perhaps ignored places. What is my connection to my body? How I can I be so appreciative of all other bodies but not my own, not really? If I was accepting of it, why do I feel so self-conscious of its appearance? Its capabilities? Why do I take it for granted? What does this illness create in terms of opportunity to reconnect and honour my physical body? How do I want to be with my body? Why did I get this diagnosis? What’s the message in it? Is it my fault? 

I’m someone who tends to feel totally okay about my body one day – It’s just a physical form for my soul and mind, right? What’s the big deal? It doesn’t matter what it looks like! – despite all the messages our society sends about how women “should” look (and behave…but that's another post), and then another day, I’m completely disappointed in it and embarrassed to leave my house and be seen.

The fact is, I need this body to do the things I want to do in this lifetime. I need it to work for me, to keep me mobile, to be able to communicate and care for my family and to do the things I love to do, like walk in our fields, travel, create. I need it to be healed. 

In my coaching practice, I use "geography" with my clients to get them out of their thinking minds into their bodies and connect them to their intuition. We use the room or space and our physical forms in it in different ways to open up energy and thought and feeling and perspective. We use the body as a tuning fork, or as a satellite dish for receiving notes or signals from our intuition or the universe or god or fill-in-the-blank. I learned through this experience that I can go deeper, into my own body, and therefore will be more available to go deeper with my clients. I’ll have more range and depth to offer them. 

I happened to catch a few minutes of The Nature of Things on Thursday night as well, and it was all about body language. You can watch the episode here. The part that I caught was a brief interview with Dr. Amy Cuddy who talked about research, often called "embodiment," that shows some emotions we experience are hardwired to display in our physical bodies, and the way we move and hold our physical bodies has an impact on our emotions. How many of us have been told to smile and it will help improve our mood? Did it work? Science says it does. 

So, if I dance like no one's watching, will I move without inhibition? With freedom? With truth? Will my true emotions pour onto the dance floor? Maybe. Dr. Cuddy recommends we fake it NOT until we make it, but until we BECOME it. So how might I move on the dance floor, and through life, in a way that I become what I want to be? And how can I help my clients do the same? 

I was talking with my doctor a couple weeks back about the stages of grief…he said I will likely experience anger at some point…I haven’t. I haven’t felt anger toward my body at all. Regret, yes. I have apologized for not listening to it, to not nourishing it as well as I could have, for neglecting it, but I haven’t felt anger toward it, or the illness.

I’m never judgmental about other people’s bodies. I truly marvel at all the shapes, sizes, colours, abilities and differences between all the people I encounter. It’s all so fascinating! How can one species be so very diverse?! The wonder of it all! And yet, the things I think about my own physical form would be completely unacceptable if I said them out loud to another person. Why the double standard? I'm aware of the beliefs around negative thoughts and emotions and cancer. Did I cause this? Did I manifest it? I'm not entirely convinced, so I'm being curious about it.  

JourneyDance opened up a lot of curiosity for me. 

I moved my body. I danced like no one was watching. I likely looked foolish. And that's okay.

I laughed. I cried. I witnessed. I held space. I grew weary and sore.

I even extroverted and told some fascinating women I want to keep in touch with them. I dare say I made new friends. 

If you're interested in exploring emotion and self-awareness through movement, check out Michelle's site for her latest offerings in the Regina area. 

In love and light,

Jilly

What to do if you might live next Tuesday: another list

After my last post, I also got to thinking there are lots of things I can be looking forward to when I wake up from surgery. So, here's my list for that!

• Being alive.
• After-drugs. What colourful pharmaceutical adventures await me???
• Binge watching Netflix guilt-free.
• Sleeping in. On a Thursday. Maybe on TWO Thursdays. 
• Ooh and naps! Afternoon naps!
• I will be several ounces lighter than when I went in for surgery. Possibly pounds if they have to remove more than they expect. 
• Wearing pajamas, yoga pants and other not-safe-for-work bottoms EVERY DAY!
• I will get to keep working with my AMAZING clients who are doing and being AMAZING. Have I mentioned how AMAZING they are?! 
• I will eventually be back at work with my AWESOME team to do AWESOME stuff. Mwhahahahaaa!
• Experiencing the beauty of spring in the country, and then summer (flax fields!), and then fall...
• I'll get to keep cheering on my American sisters and brothers as they rise and unite in love and decency to overcome the hatefulness, bigotry, misogyny and fear that is being stoked by the decoy-Trump and REAL-scary-man-Pence in their nation.
• More SNL sketches. 
• I might treat myself to a new pair of rubber boots.
• Marc and I will get to celebrate our 10th wedding/15th dating anniversary. 
• I'll get to see my sister-in-law signed to a label (come ON, Universe!)
• Goat-sharing with our neighbours. 
• All of the coffee. All of the cheese. All of the wine. 
• Maybe adopt another dog. Maybe. 
• Start teaching/leading meditation classes.
• More travel. 
• More star-gazing. 
• And, I'll get to watch this kid become even more herself.

In love and light,

Jilly

What to do if you might die next Tuesday: a list

My surgery is scheduled for next Tuesday. There is a small but very real risk that I may not wake up from the anesthetic, or there may be other complications that cause me to die on the operating table.

Small, but real. 

So, I've thought about how I want to spend my last few days, if that's what they end up being. 

Here's my list, in no particular order; I do hope it won't be my last. 

• Get my taxes in order. I mean, that stuff is just a royal pain at the best of times, so I don't want to leave a complete mess for Marc to figure out. And, I'll need to get them together anyway and I probably won't feel like it when I'm recovering, so...I'll just do it.
• Love my kid. Spend as much time with her as possible doing ordinary and mundane and magical things. Have breakfast in bed; watch a movie; make a snowperson; throw the ball for Morris; walk in the country; create art; read stories; whisper in the darkness; look at the moon and stars; eat ice cream; laugh and hug and cry and snuggle and watch her sleep. I told her this morning that there is a chance something could go wrong during surgery. "And then I won't have a mom," she said, matter-of-factly. I'll still be your mom, I told her, I just won't be in my body anymore. And you'll be alright, kiddo. You'll have daddy and your aunts and uncles and cousins and friends. "I know mom. Do you need a hug?" This child. 
• Finalize my celebration of life plans. Hint: buy or polish up your most fun pair of rubber boots! 
• Create videos for my loved ones. Attempt to boil down all the life lessons I want to pass along to Chloe, and parenting and partnership thoughts for Marc, and gratitude for my family and extended family and friends. 
• Drink some good wine. 
• Give Morris belly rubs and soak up his doggy-goodness. 
• Sit in the sunlight and the moonlight and wonder at the magic and chaos and randomness of it all.
• Connect with Marc and say the things that need to be said. Reminisce about the amazing life we've built and shared. 
• Make soup. Red lentil coconut. Italian peasant. Miso ginger noodle with crisp winter vegetables. Then my family will be nourished by my love, and if I survive, I'll have lots of healthy food for recovery. Win win. 
• Listen to all my favourite songs. Like this. And this. And this. And this. And this. And this. 
• Deliver Chloe to her grandparents' to have a sleepover with her cousins. Hug and kiss her more. Never let go.
• Drop the dog off at the kennel.
• Drive to the hospital. 
• Count backwards from 10...9...8...

See you on the flipside!

With love and light,

Jilly

Feeling the love

Today is one of those commercial holidays that I’m not super crazy about. I mean, the sentiment is lovely, but this day tends to create angst and fretting and a sense of obligation about gift-giving and displays of affection and declarations of gushy-googliness that I’m not really into.

It screams, “Spend money to prove how much you love someone, and they will prove how much they love you by how extravagant their gift for you is!” For someone whose love language is not gifts, this doesn’t “prove” anything. It actually does the opposite.

And, this day tends to exclude or ignore people who are not paired up, whether by choice or by circumstance, and that’s just no fun.

I’m a big fan of Galentine’s (really, I’m a fan of almost ALL things Leslie Knope), and people finding their own way to “do” Valentine’s Day. Like my sister-in-law’s buddy, who, for an anti-Valentine’s event in Montreal this year, created “2 giant vulva sculptures you can sit in and wrap yourself in labial love!” (Check her out: @vulvaluv). Yessss!!

So this year, rather than be a Valentine’s Scrooge McDuck -- OKAY -- to be LESS of a Valentine’s Scrooge McDuck, I’ve tried to cultivate a sense of gratitude to help me feel the love that is all around me, every day. I’ve been able to crank up my awareness of what I’m grateful for in my life, and feel the love coming my way.

Here’s a short list of the love I’ve experienced in the last few weeks since finding out I’ll be undergoing cancer surgery next week:

• Tucking-in snuggles with my daughter in the evenings
• Prayers, good vibes, ju-ju, and other positive intentions from the kindest people in my circle, and beyond -- Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Pagans, Wiccans, atheists, agnostics, and all kinds of other non-particularly-denominational people
• Hugs, lots of hugs, and often from unexpected people I wouldn’t peg as huggers…like one of the guys that built our house (and has since become a friend)…I got two from him last night!
• The free sharing of resources, contacts, information, experiences…my network grows…
• Lunch dates
• Coffee dates
• Kind words from people who, despite dealing with their own personal challenges, take time to reach out….you are amazing
• Phone calls, emails, texts and messages from friends and colleagues near and far
• Drive-by well-wishers at my office
• Slobbery excitement from my dog as he leaps for joy when he gets to go to daycare
• Hand-made cards from my daughter
• Speediness in the healthcare system
• Prompt and efficient and wonderful HR professionals helping me navigate the medical-leave-of-absence bureaucratic process
• Gifts of wine, chocolate and pistachios
• Another foster family opening their home to provide a safe and loving place for the boy that was in our care so I can focus on my health, and the Social Services staff who worked magic to allow it to happen quickly

And so, my heart has been filled and refilled by the generosity of the people in my circle and in their circles.

The world is a good place.

There are good people doing good and kind things.

On this day about love, let’s all remember that.

And spread some! 

Love and light,

Jilly

Big feelings, big love

As I drove home after learning about my cancer diagnosis a couple weeks ago, I thought about my bedtime conversation with my daughter the night before. She wanted to know, How long did daddy and you know each other before you got married?

I told her we knew each other for five years before we got married.

How did you meet?

We met through your Auntie C and Uncle J, actually. Auntie C had a party and I went and that’s where I met your dad. Then we started dating, then we moved in together, then we bought this farm and then we decided to get married.

And you didn’t know true love until I came along, right mom?

Right. My heart was this full of love (holding my hands in front of my heart, making a melon-sized ball) when I met daddy, and then when you came, my heart was as full as the universe.

I wonder who I will marry, she pondered.

Then, I hope you’ll be alive when I’m a grown-up, mom.

Me too, kiddo.

Then snuggles and kisses, and sleep.

And something -- my intuition, the universe -- telling me: Listen to her. Hear her. Pause here and savour her sweet innocence as she sleeps, tonight. Be here. With her. 

And the next day, I learned about needing surgery.

My biggest fear is that I don’t get to see her grow up. No, to clarify, that I'm not here to support her growing up. Be involved in it. Be a part of her life, physically, emotionally. The potential reality of that situation landed in my gut.

I may not be here. 

I’ve played out the possibilities in my mind countless times since her birth six years ago. That’s the gift post-partum depression and anxiety gave to me -- my mind created every imaginable version of catastrophic worst-case scenario horrific and tragic death scenes. How I could die a million ways. How her dad could die a million ways. How we could both die a million ways and leave her an orphan. How she could die a million ways. In complete graphic, gory detail. From realistic to absurd. My wonderful creative anxiety-riddled mind has created the home movies and full-on emotional responses over the course of her lifetime. So I kinda feel like I'm prepped for anything. 

We experienced very real death early in her life. Her grandma, my husband's mom, died shortly after her birth. Her first road trip at just over a week old was to visit her grandma in the hospital. Her second was to attend the funeral.

The realness of mortality has always been very present in our home. We don’t shy away from talking about death or loved ones who have died. In her lifetime, we've said good-bye to her great-aunt, great-uncle, two great-great-grandmas, a great-great-aunt, and several other people we've loved. We cry and feel loss openly, and remember these people out loud. 

Of course I know that I'm not indispensable. While I may not be replaceable as her mama, we have good and kind and generous people in our lives that will step up and in to support Marc in her upbringing and future. This I know. But still.

I don't want to miss out.

Maybe more so, I don't want her to feel a gaping emptiness at not having a mama to talk to, lean on, yell at, cry with. She's got so many firsts ahead of her...first love, first heartbreak, first job, first home...I want to be there for her to celebrate and comfort. And there are so many days in between all the firsts and seconds and thirds, where life happens. Small victories. New learning. Discoveries. Adventures. Quiet hugs. Shared laughter. Disappointment. Tears. All the messy goodness of life.

I had never wanted kids. I had never wanted to become a mom.

Foreign correspondent, yes.

World-famous author, yes.

Oscar-winning actor, yes.

Discoverer of a cure for diabetes, yes.

Someone with a baby, nooooo.

Then, I met a boy. He wanted kids and eventually I wanted to give him that gift.

And then, Chloe came. Pure magic every time I look at her.

My body carries the beautiful scars of her growth inside me, and her emergence into this world. My body carries the cellular memory of her being within me and of me. My heart overflows with love and pride and fear and gratitude for the experience of being a mom, of her.  

So that's what I worry about, and where my emotions overwhelm me. Picturing her aching, feeling abandoned and alone. Maybe lost. Making poor choices. Heading down a destructive path. See, my brain can come up with all the worst-case options! 

And so, I try to remain in the present, channeling all I’ve learned in my life, through my coach training, meditation teacher training, the experiences of others who’ve been in the same or similar situations. Trying not to dwell and ruminate on the what ifs. Yet. Holding them at bay. For now.

Revelling in my daughter's joyful wonder about the world, and hoping I won't be the one to dampen it. 

Much love and light,

Jilly

A new journey begins...

I've been interested in end of life (EOL) coaching since I began my coach training several years ago. I have witnessed family members, friends and others face their imminent deaths (typically due to a medical diagnosis or simply their body reaching its expiration date) in various ways...quickly, slowly, with a plan in place, in denial, overwhelmed by choices and decisions, and sometimes lost within the barrage of differing agendas: medical intervention (or not), religious protocol (or not) and family dynamics (or not).

I've noticed that sometimes the person is ignored, and the illness or state of their physical body is the focus. This saddens me. I feel like there is something missing for these people. That they get overlooked in the process of analysis, decisions and options. That it becomes not about them as a whole, complete human being, but only about that one -- physical -- part of them. 

I want to create space for people to have 'good' deaths. Deaths they feel ready for. When death comes, I want these people to feel they are more than a diagnosis, a statistic, a sum of the treatments they received. I want them to have had the opportunity -- and support -- to explore their experiences on this planet, and have some attention paid to WHO they are, how they want to BE and what they want to DO, if anything, as they face death...in a way that doesn't ignore a medical condition or situation, but that doesn't make it the central character.

This really is the premise of any holistic coaching practice: to help people be at choice to live a life that brings happiness, fulfillment and satisfaction, as defined by them and only them.

Some people realize early on that they want to choose how their life unfolds. Others discover this later, after they have followed a path they believed they "should" or "have to" follow, and find themselves unfulfilled and unsure who they are and what they really want. And others learn after a scary diagnosis, major injury or other life-altering event that their time here is limited, and they want to make the most of it. In reality, none of us knows when and how our lives will end, so living in the power of our choice, in a life of our own design, is available and meaningful at any point. Imminent death just brings a sense of urgency to it. 

I began following leaders and trailblazers in this realm, people who have brought the 'good death' conversation into the mainstream. Dr. Martha Jo Atkins. Sarah Kerr. The Conversation Project. Death Cafes. Death Midwifery and Death Doula groups. (just Google 'em!) These are individuals and communities striving to bring choice and awareness about death to others in an effort to demystify and normalize death. (Spoiler alert: It happens to everyone!) These are people who want to create space for good deaths, who've found ways to make these conversations acceptable and comfortable. I've found wonderful resources from these people and groups. 

And now I get to apply them to myself. 

A couple weeks ago, I found out that a polyp I had removed from my cervix was cancerous. The immediate plan of action, medically, was to have a cone biopsy and other exploratory surgery to see if there is more. Since then, I've had blood work, a CT scan and now am awaiting a consultation at the local cancer centre and a surgery date from my doctor. 

While the surgery itself is fairly routine, I've never been under general anesthetic, and I have a pre-existing immunity-suppressing disease so recovery from anything can be prolonged in my case, so I'm doing all the advance care planning things one should do prior to surgery.

And it's been a journey. 

My husband and I created wills after his parents died and we had our daughter, so the legal stuff is mostly in place. Using my health region's guidebook, I assigned a proxy, and created my living will/advance care plan. This covers delightful topics like the level of life support I'd like should things not go as planned during surgery; if I'd like CPR or not; how I'd like my organs and tissues donated or not; and then the things I'd like or not like to happen if I am declining and death is clearly approaching -- music, visits from certain people, things said or not said, etc.

And breathe. 

I made a list for myself of the other things I'd like to have in place if the surgery doesn't go well. While many people don't want to think about these things, let alone write anything down for them and then talk about them, in my family's experience, NOT having things written down creates agonizing choices for loved ones who have the task of making arrangements on your behalf. Plus, I'm a planner and dare say a control freak, so planning is a) fun for me, and b) helps me feel like I am controlling something in this time of unknowns and what ifs. The list includes things like: 

• planning my funeral or memorial service, including music, food (no ladies' auxiliary sandwiches!), who speaks, and the feeling I want the event to have (I was an event planner in the past, so...)
• collecting all my logins/usernames/passwords for bank accounts, email, etc. and putting them in a secure place
• updating my will with particular items to be left to particular people, and instructions for particular actions or wishes I have after I'm gone
• recording video messages for my husband, daughter, parents and siblings
• writing love letters to the amazing people who have been part of my life

The practicality of focusing on a list and checking it off helps keep my big emotions in check, most of the time. So for me, it's a coping mechanism. A way to stay present and productive.

I've also begun to answer some big questions about my life using resources from Willow EOL. I'm finding that exercise way more challenging than I thought it would be.

I often ask my coaching clients these similar questions and what I've learned is it is way easier to ask than to answer. Especially when there is a very real chance my answers may need to be final in the next couple of weeks. So, I keep putting this exercise aside and focusing on the "practical" stuff. It's just easier. Heart work is hard work. 

Sharing about it helps bring awareness to the need for practicality in these situations so that hard decisions can be made more easily in the moments when big emotions are present. I hope I'm making it easier for my people. I know there will be sadness and grief and anger and all the big feelings, but at least they will know what I wanted, so they won't have to worry about choosing wrongly.

Like for most of my life, they just have to do what I tell them and everything will turn out fine. 

I will write more here about the other aspects of my diagnosis, the EOL planning I'm doing and the big emotions I experience, so if you're into that, I invite you to subscribe and comment. If you're not, please go about your business. 

Much love and light,

Jilly