Judy Price is Writing

For a few days I have been digesting the frightening reality of the brutal sexual assault on Lara Logan that took place in Egypt recently.

As I listened to a local news anchor reporting this story, my first gut reaction was tears. 

I cried for this young woman’s pain and her traumatic journey to recovery that she must now endure. 

I cried for all women everywhere.  I cried for men.  I cried for the human race.

I have watched this reporter on ’60 minutes’.  Her beautiful spirit shone through her professionalism. 

She, along with too many women to count, is now scarred for the rest of her life.  The scars may not be visible, but rather hidden, influencing her behaviour in perhaps subtle ways.

She is now a survivor of ‘war’.  Just as veterans suffer with post traumatic stress, she will be changed forever.  Hopefully, she will learn to overcome the most debilitating of these after-effects.

Far too long in this world, women have been viewed as expendable objects.

Our struggle as women to become ‘human beings’ in the eyes of men, so that we could vote and have legal rights as they do, rather than be seen as their ’property’, is well documented throughout history.

We have come far, especially in North America, yet have so much further to go. 

Sometimes I fear we are our own worst enemies.  Our competitiveness with one another at times overshadows our common human goal.

There are countless ways women undermine themselves by ‘selling’ themselves sexually in the media and in society.

“The oldest ‘profession’ in the world” is how prostitution is portrayed to attempt to justify its existence.

Women who ‘buy’ into this myth are perpetuating the very idea that female bodies are objects to be bought and sold, rather than celebrated and honoured.

Men who value women as the ‘closest to God they will get  here on earth’, must be crying as well. 

These men do not use or abuse, but rather respect and at times revere women.  They embody the spirit of love.

The plight of women is highlighted when a high profile person is victimized.

I pray that with God’s help Lara Logan will heal, enabling her to be a ‘strong’ voice in the future to affect positive change for us all.

The world will then be a little better place after this tragedy than before it.

Not eighteen months, one month shy, no more in fact.  Nineteen now. 

It actually took me a while to recall the exact number of months since my mother’s death.

Must be a sign of healing.

I will remember the significance of the fifteenth each month of every year. 

The number 15 is imprinted on my soul and in my mind and heart.

That date will be the one I set aside each month to honour my mother’s memory.

Not that I don’t think of her at other times. 

She is a part of me and my daughters, my siblings, my nephews and nieces, and my grandnephew. 

In each of them I see a different aspect of her.

In myself I feel her heartbeat. 

Her eyes peer back at me every time I see my reflection and when I look into my eldest daughter’s face.  

Last summer in Vancouver I saw her in my elderly aunts, two of her sisters.

I enjoyed laughing and sharing with them while they appreciated my visits.

We ventured to some of their favourite spots, and now they are in my treasured memories along with my Mom.

I am very glad I made that trip when I did.  

‘Timing is everything’. 

The eldest sister is now suffering with the after-effects of a fall which broke her hip just before Christmas.  She will not be able to go home, as she requires nursing care.

I must call to keep abreast of her progress.  There is a dread to do so, as I am not ready for more grief to bear.

When February 15th approaches each year, the day before will conjure memories of love in my childhood home, when my Dad would bring the largest, ‘mushiest’ valentine he could find to my Mom, along with red roses and chocolates we all could share.

Words of endearment and nicknames graced their cards to each other.

My Dad was a passionate man who showed his love for my mother.

He never needed reminding of important ‘couple’ dates as many men do.

I have so very many memories of happy, loving times as both a child and an adult. 

As I move forward in my own life, many more memories are yet to be made.

Watching a sombre solid sea of blue, led by red RCMP, all marching proudly in our city, gave me pause.

The finest from across North America gathered in solidarity to honour one of their own.

During the ten thousand strong procession down University Avenue, the only sounds I heard were footsteps and hoofs on pavement.

The above freezing temperature today allowed drizzle to fall from gray sky. 

A metaphor to weeping souls holding heads high.

Ryan Russell, a Toronto police sergeant, fallen in the line of duty while protecting our citizens, provided the opportunity for multitudes to join together at his funeral to pay tribute.

It is as if all of his comrades from sea to sea and south of our border, have given us all permission to grieve our human tragedy.

Not only this particular horrible loss, but also all of past devastating events.

Humanity needs this chance to grieve and heal in unison.

Seasoned journalists have stated that they have never seen anything like this before.

With all of the violent disasters occurring in our world, from both natural and human means, our souls crave comfort in the company of fellow beings.

Thank you and God bless us all.

Eighteen months Mom, and the first one of 2011 without you here.

Another Saturday blizzard outside my window.

I would rather be watching and writing than walking today.

Now that a new year has dawned, I am seriously searching for my earthly ‘home’.

Recently, an acquaintance suggested the reason I enjoy being among trees is that I want ‘roots’.

Not long ago, another individual queried of me if I live for my ’children’.

I know I would die for them. 

I prefer to think I live for myself, not anyone else, although I would enjoy a partner to share this life. 

Some of my most memorable and happy times occurred when I was part of a couple with children.

It is feasible that just as my ancestors are my genetic ‘roots’, my daughters are as well.

They do ‘ground’ me on this earthly planet. 

It is a wonderful feeling to be appreciated by them.  That I know.

Now that the astrological signs are in jeopardy of shifting along with the ‘magnetic’ pole, even my ‘air’ status might turn to ‘earth’ !!

Although many astronomers and astrologers seem to concur that the ‘signs’ will remain as they are.  Their readings might be adjusted.  That is all. 

When I try to make things happen ‘my’ way, I seem to end where I began, and the dance starts all over again.

The dizziness of it throws me off balance. 

Little wonder I feel the need for ‘roots’.

With patience, as my life unfolds I will know where I belong.

Born on 9/11, nine year old Christina no longer graces this planet, along with several others who lost their lives to violence this past Saturday.

While I was viewing a blizzard of snow from my ‘sunroom’, the unspeakable horror of unstoppable gunfire, along with heroism, was unfolding in Arizona.

I am told that America is in mourning today.  Anyone in the world who values the sanctity of life is grieving as well.

We are all connected in this universe.  The actions of one or two influence the world in unseen ways.

Negative actions are publicized more than positive thoughts.

When inexplicable acts are perpetrated by ‘seemingly normal-looking’ people, we can only look inward to find the ‘peace’ that these individuals were obviously lacking.

It is inside our spiritual core that we will find the ‘light’ of love and the strength of hope and faith to carry on when ’worldly’ craziness surrounds us .

As the old year draws to an end and the new one is about to begin, I am ready for a new beginning where an ending has occurred in my own life.

For the past few years, I have mistakenly believed that my ‘last love’ would be my ‘soul mate’.

In this the autumn of my life, several months of it have included an attraction to someone who felt familiar, known and comfortable.

His soul was like a mirror to mine, reflecting back to me what needed healing in my own.  I did not realize this truth at the time, which often happens without the benefit of ‘hindsight’.

This individual guided me through my grief when my mother died, which deepened the bond I felt.

It was a shock; actually paradoxical to me, when I discovered that with all of the comfortable feelings I had for him, passion was not one of them.

In spite of that reality, had he allowed me to do so, I would have continued on that path hoping to fall ‘in’ love with him.

Knowing my struggle with this paradox of how I could feel such a comfortable connection to this man’s soul but not passion for him, a friend of mine recently quoted to me another woman writer’s thoughts regarding ‘soul mates’.

What resonated with me was the idea that a ‘soul mate’ is actually someone whose soul mirrors one’s own, to reveal what needs to be learned about oneself.

In my case, the familiar depth of pain I connected with in this man’s soul, was telling me that mine needed healing.  I know that now.

Being a caregiver throughout most of my life, I was not looking at myself, but rather was trying to share my own perspectives which I hoped might help him to heal his pain.

The truth is that only he can heal his soul in his own way and time, should he choose to do so.

My responsibility is to heal the pain in my own soul.

I had already begun this process several years ago through embodying my emotion in the poetry I composed which I am not posting online.

Then I continued healing in nature through hiking. 

I encompassed this as a ‘task’, wrongly thinking that the more disciplined my approach, the faster the healing would occur, which has had pros and cons.

The physical effects are tangible, yet the emotional relief is temporary. 

In the beginning, I was ‘running away’ from the pain of my grief while hiking quickly on the earth that grounded me.

My approach has since changed to one of just ’being’ in nature while walking.

My blog writing, which began as part of my grief healing process, has now become a passionate pursuit that brings great enjoyment to my life.

With the revealing insight I have recently acquired (thanks to my good friend) and shared here, I am now ready to sincerely thank each ‘soul mate’ who has entered and left my life for the incredible gifts that their souls have provided to my own.

Additionally, I have drawn closer to the ‘spiritual light’ that is the most powerful healing tool of all.

Above all else for me, this is my one true ‘last lasting love’.

One week today is Christmas!

A few weeks ago I wrote that I was ready to inwardly and outwardly prepare for His arrival.

In the interim, illness has prevented me from shopping, decorating, festive dinners and parties with friends; the outward trappings.  

However, I am happy to report that this ‘downtime’ afforded me the opportunity to be still and listen, to travel inward more easily.

As life would have it, one of my siblings needed surgery during that time and is now recuperating. 

My quietness allowed me to send constant healing prayers and positive wishes.   

We might not all be able to celebrate together this year, yet will be close in spirit.

Now that I am ready to play ‘catch up’ with some holiday traditions, I found the last Christmas card my mother gave me the year before she died.

Seeing the words of love and well wishes written in her own steady hand brought tears to my eyes and a smile to my lips. 

I could hear her voice speaking to me as I read what she wrote.

Her card is on display with the others I have received. 

Her favourite wreath now graces my door.  Little reminders of her are all around me. 

My Dad is always in my heart, especially during this season. 

He was Santa for his family every year throughout his lifetime!

Feeling the ‘pinch’ with less than a week to go, I expressed my thoughts to my children and their outpouring of support brightened my day.

Messages of faith, hope, love and peace are Christmas blessings which are sent in a multitude of ways, just when needed the most.

Today Elizabeth Edwards died.

Yesterday Mark Dailey succumbed to cancer as well.

They were four years apart in age, both battling illness for several years.

Each was a high profile person in her/his own circle. 

Mrs. Edwards was a mother, attorney, author, and the estranged wife of once presidential hopeful, John Edwards. 

Mr. Dailey was  a husband, father, more than a thirty year veteran of Citytv as the news ‘voice’ of Toronto, and a former police officer.

They were both American born.

There are many people in this world who die on the days leading into Christmas.

My father was one of those, albeit sixteen years ago on November 24th.

Christmas was his favourite holiday.

As difficult as it is for loved ones left behind at this time of year, eventually the treasured memories one has of celebrating  festivities of this season in past years will overshadow the heart-wrenching grief and void felt without this important person’s tangible presence on earth. 

I recall thinking at the time my father died, and subsequently whenever I hear of others who die during this season, that they have gone ‘home for the holidays’ where I believe they are welcomed with more love, light, warmth and peace than we can imagine,

. . . . a reunion of souls fit for the ‘stars’ . . . .

This season holds mixed blessings.

My past is rich with memories warming my heart, delighting my soul.

My present includes gifts of sadness and joy, grief and hope, balancing my life.

My future unfolds mysteriously, one day at a time, embracing my dreams.

Well Mom, I tried to not write here today.

See where that got me! 

Here again, sixteen months to the day you died. 

Just am not ready to let go of this ‘security blanket’, as my grief healing journal still gives me comfort.

It is a sunny, almost mild day in the middle of November, and that makes it hard to ‘fall’ into winter, although our clocks fell back one hour a week ago. 

Since I cannot stop the season, I had better prepare myself for the cold, dark months ahead. 

I sincerely hope we have enough snow this year to brighten our lives in the northern hemisphere.

I will attempt to stick it out here this winter, without a southern escape, to take the time to plan my next move.

I am a few steps closer to that decision as I now know where I do not want to live.

Seems like it will be a process of elimination that will determine my choice, without any clear motivation at this moment in time.

However, life’s journey has a way of changing when it’s least expected, and armed with that knowledge, who knows where my steps will lead!

In the meantime, I will continue to wrap myself in the warmth of my written words whenever I want to feel secure  . . . .