one day

Posted on April 22, 2013 by heidi

She was still, her hands in her lap. Tears streaked her face as she told me her story about loss and aching sadness, loneliness that met her everywhere she went. The sun didn’t shine for her anymore. Life was too much, hard and hollow. “I’m trying to fight, to have hope. But, I can’t. I don’t know how to do this anymore. My family is gone.”

I had told my story on a stage that evening to hundreds of people. 20 minutes of how my life fell apart and how I picked up the pieces. Afterward men and women made their way to me and shared their stories of fallen pieces. Some spoke haltingly, the words stuck in their throats. Other losses spilled out fast, fast. My sister, my baby, my husband. Blindsided by tragedy. They lifted their heads. They wanted to know. “When did it get better for you?”

I couldn’t give them a definite answer. There wasn’t a timeline. I just knew that one day I began to feel better, lighter. Sorrow didn’t disappear, but joy found me. I could laugh, a body-shaking laugh, and I felt that joy and sorrow could exist together, side by side. I didn’t have an explanation of how or why, only that it was true. One day it wasn’t only about what I had lost, but what I had learned. One day I didn’t wake up and wish I could return to the numbness of sleep and shut out a world I didn’t want to be a part of. One day I made peace with my scars and saw them as a map of what I had fought for and how far I’d come.

As we sat across from each other, one by one, knees to knees, sharing heartache and hope, I told them it is possible to get to the other side where the pain isn’t as wide, so deep. The only way to get there is to go through. You did not ask for what happened, but you are capable. You cannot hear one more person talk about ‘the journey’ without growing nauseous, yet you go on. You fight because your life is worth living. You find strength you didn’t know you had. It surprises you, this strength. You will carry it with you and one day you’ll give your strength to someone who needs it. You hang on because you are loved. Have hope even though you’re afraid. You have days where you are angry, so angry it blurs your vision and crushes your chest, but one day it won’t be anger that fuels you. There is more for you than this. Because you’re not a victim. You’re a survivor.

swept up

in my new nephew Brennan! I just want to squeeze him. All the time. This sweet photograph was taken by my friend Lesley.

Posted in grateful, inspirational, my story | 36 Comments

leaving room

Posted on April 9, 2013 by heidi

This is a field trip I am not going to miss. I checked the box and signed my name with a flourish on that pink piece of paper to ensure I would go to the Orpheum to see the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra with my seven year old son Benjamin’s class. We would participate in the magnificence that is Beethoven.

After we settled in our seats and the lights dimmed and the chattering of hundreds of young children quieted, the music began. Violins, oboes, flutes; notes weaving grace. Ben sat in the seat in front of me and after a few minutes of listening he began to squirm, wiggle and sigh. He turned to look at me, pleading with wide eyes. Get me outta here. I leaned over, put my hands on his small shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Ben, you don’t know this yet. But, it is a big deal that you are here in this beautiful theater listening to this beautiful music. Look around you. Take this in. You want to remember this day.” He nodded, one quick bob, and pressed his back against the chair.

At the end of the Symphony’s performance the conductor invited us to sing along. A theater full of children and teachers and parents sang a piece of Ode to Joy. Oh, the sound. The wonder of those small voices. Together.

In the bus on the way home I asked Ben, “So, did you have a good time?”

“Yup!” He bounced, the back of his head crashing into the seat behind him. Over and over again, bounce, crash. He stopped. “I cried a little.”

“You cried?”

“Happy tears. Because of the music.”

My heart swelled, full of joy, full of a little boy who got it.

When so much of life is measured and scored and assessed, this was a sweet, holy moment. A reminder to leave room. For more than tests and grades and math. Jobs and bills and obligations. We are moving, rushing, changing all of the time. And it’s okay…because this is life. Time doesn’t stop. In the heart of busy I want to remember to enjoy, marvel, revel. To listen. I want to be reached when something sacred happens, to have space inside me marked by music and beauty. A place to catch my breath and a place for the breathtaking.

swept up
in this beautiful and poignant post called a Tale of Two Sirens by Julie Gardner. Recently her home was ravaged by fire and she writes about it here with grace.


Posted in annie and ben, grateful | 14 Comments

me as mom

Posted on March 22, 2013 by heidi

When I had my babies and I was thrust into this strange world of breastfeeding and losing sleep and diapering, I was hyper-aware I was a parent. Why is she crying? Should a belly button look like that? How do I get her to be less jaundiced? There were other signs along the way that pointed to parenthood like my 2 year old daughter throwing such an epic tantrum in a bookstore that my husband had to carry her out. While all eyes were on this screaming, writhing child, a small alligator in his arms, I was suddenly very busy paying for my books, not paying attention to that poor man with the crazy child. So, I knew I was a mom. It just took me a while to feel like a mom. And enjoy being a mom.

This past summer I entered another level of parenthood, where I was caught in the middle of Supermom and One Of The Most Disgusting People On The Planet. My kids and I were in a dressing room where I was trying on a bunch of clothes. There was a sale and a long line up of people outside the changing area. I had 2 tops to go. Ben is squirming on the bench. “Mommy, I have to pee.”

I sigh, “Of course you do.” Ben had just downed his lemonade from Starbucks. Nobody can drink sugar like he can. “Can you wait? Or do you have to go, like, now?”

“I can’t wait. I have to peeee.” He’s hopping. This is serious. There isn’t a public bathroom in the store and the nearest bathroom is a few stores down. I can’t go back to that line-up, and these tops are so cute and cheap! What do I do?

Now he’s hopping with his legs crossed. He’s not going to make it. Out of the corner of my eye I spy the empty Starbucks cup. I pop off the lid. “Ben, look at me.”

Annie breathes, “Nooo.”

“Oh yes. Okay, Ben, you’re going to pee in this cup. Annie, turn around.”

I tell Ben to be careful and be quiet. No one needs to know we have just turned this dressing room into a bathroom stall. Ben doesn’t bat an eye, like peeing in a cup in a dressing room happens all the time. He was about to burst. It was the cup or the floor. He didn’t care. Annie is in the corner muttering, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

I stifle a giggle and keep calm. “Sometimes you just have to make do. We made do.” Am I really trying to make this a teachable moment? About what, exactly? “Don’t tell anyone.”

I cautiously put the lid back on the cup, and heads held high, we make our way outside to a garbage can. But, before we step outside I place those cute tops on the counter (priorities!) and tell the cashier I will be right back to pay for them. That was a huge mom moment for me, mortified and proud of myself all at once. A mom thinking fast. A mom holding a cup of pee.

I used to feel as though I was wearing motherhood or maybe it was that it was wearing me, and it didn’t quite fit. Someone else could do this better. Someone was doing this better. With each year motherhood went deeper, settling into my bones. This year I’ve given the changing body talk, talked about winning and losing with grace, and shared moments with my kids that I can’t measure, can’t sum up in a facebook status. I get frustrated and shrill and annoyed, but right alongside that are pride and surprise and joy. I’ve decided Motherhood is all mixed up, not easily defined, and I’m just happy to be here right in the middle of it all.

swept up

in Reese Eggs
I love this time of year where chocolate bars are turned into eggs and everything is so much cuter to eat.

Posted in annie and ben, family | 17 Comments

the gift of words

Posted on March 13, 2013 by heidi

I love words. Some words beg to be used in sentences, like vast and belligerent. Whimsical is as sweet as it sounds. There are words I enjoy because of what they mean like hope and ecstatic and mindful. They draw you in. I like fancy and delightful because it’s fancy and delightful. I play with words, shuffle them around until they become significant, revelatory. In our house we have words we make up like numptyhead. In our car you could hear, “What a numptyhead!” It’s a nice alternative to idiot when someone cuts you off.

Every year I choose a word to point to, something to steady me when my world gets uneven. Like Charlotte spinning words into her web, it becomes a banner, a guiding star. For a long time it was Perseverance. For two years my life was caught up in that word. Then I slowly worked through Overcome.  One year I pursued Generosity. Then Hope…recently Belief. This year a word found me. I pondered the many words in front of me and shook them as if they were contained in a snow globe.  They whirled and floated and settled. One tiny word winked at me on its way down. Shine.

I wouldn’t normally take on a word like that. A small word that packs a punch. It’s a word that deserves attention, a stage. It’s daring. It implies more. Shine wants to be explored and I suspect it’s attached to this manuscript I’ve been working on for three years. Soon I’ll be able to hold my book in my hands and I’ll feel the weight of my words, the heft of my horror, my undoing, and then my redemption. My wish is that these words will make someone feel less alone and fill them with possibility.

Shine is about ownership of a life I claimed 14 years ago. I said yes to life when death came for me. I turned from despair and chose hope and love. I spent a long time fighting, changing and accepting. Today, now, this year instead of something to strive for or aspire to, I wonder if Shine will be my gift.

What about you? Do you have words that guide you or words that beg for your attention?

Posted in grateful, my story, writing | 16 Comments

cabin fever

Posted on February 25, 2013 by heidi

This is just a short post to say I’m alive. I finished my edits and was rewarded with a miserable cold which I passed on to my kids. Now we’re miserable together.

I will be back to post regularly again (seriously. I might actually be here weekly rather than whenever) and to read your writing. I’ve missed you guys! Until then I’ll leave you with what winter looks like in our house.

Posted in annie and ben | 4 Comments

where I’m at

Posted on January 24, 2013 by heidi

I’m tap, tap, tapping into a small space inside me marked crash. It doesn’t take up as much room as it used to, but it’s a room that holds remarkable power. Once you step inside, it’s bigger than it appears, stuffed with old emotion and the unexplored under a thick layer of dust. When your editor tells you to let the reader in, that I need to dig deep; I have to open the door wide, shed my armor, and dust off emotion I haven’t touched in 12 years.

When you do something crazy like write a memoir everything is fair game, up for grabs. I understand the advice now to make sure there is enough distance between you and the subject you’re tackling, so one has perspective and prevents further harm. I couldn’t have written this manuscript ten years ago because it would have been too soon. I wouldn’t have been ready. Memoir is about honesty. Not just telling the truth, but being naked, exposing you to the reader. Here are my darkest thoughts. This is what devastation looks like. This is how heartbreak tastes. And then you have to craft it, find a creative way to say it. You don’t get to cover up with facts, lessons, and a smiley face.

Along the writer way I failed in some of the details, in the ‘going there’. I didn’t explain why I felt this way or I made statements about pain with little to back it up. So I’m at it again with the notes and sound advice of my editor, a wonderful woman who knows her stuff. This week I am writing about the driver. The driver of the vehicle that broadsided us. You know. That guy. I’ve been devoted to not discussing him, armor on, so he can’t creep in. Because he’s done enough. I forgave him long ago and I don’t want to give him more of my life. But, he’s a part of the story, a significant character. I can’t skim over the details, over him. The reader doesn’t know the story. You don’t know how I reached my conclusions and why I made my choices. The short answer is survival, but the long answer is what belongs in the book. I need to let the reader in. My job as author is not to guide you through the story, but to bring you in through all the senses and for you to feel what I felt. It means in order to let you in, I need to let the driver in.

So, when I am not working on Annie’s ballet costume (if you know me you know how funny that is) and terrified I’m becoming a Dance Mom, or catching up on laundry because my son is walking around naked in search of clean underwear, you’ll find me at the computer, hunched over, trying to shine a light on the dark places.

swept up

in a compelling story and beautiful writing. I read The Secret Keeper over the holidays and just fell in love with it.

Posted in my story, obsess much?, writing | 28 Comments

promise

Posted on December 10, 2012 by heidi

This post was meant to go up a week and a half ago and then the flu found us. I’m sorry I haven’t been around, my friends. I’ve missed reading your words. Now that I’ve returned to the land of the living, I’ll visit your places. Here is my belated post…

“I have to back off.” I reached this conclusion after having a long conversation with Scott about our daughter. Annie and I have been busy reacting.

As parents we comfort each other with, “Do what you think is best. You know what’s best for your kids.” Sometimes I don’t know what’s best.

I listen to other mothers and I mentally scribble, sway, scream as I race to keep up. When did parenting get complicated? Was it always this hard? I’m pretty sure I’m giving this too much thought. Maybe I’m pushing too hard. Clearly, I need a vacation and a martini. I long to soften life’s bumps and blows for my kids and, at the same time, I want to teach them to cope. My instinct is to hang on when I should take down the fences. Let them be. After 9 years of knowing my daughter I’m still unsure, I still second-guess. Who is she?

A week ago, perspective found me as I told my story. I heard my breath, the beat of my heart. For one hour my worries lay at the back of the room behind a small group of kind people as I answered questions. I saw my mangled car, the hospital. I saw me. I saw Scott. My family. My friends. Someone asked, “When you were in the hospital, what did you want from people? What did you need? What worked for you and what didn’t?”

I explained what drove me crazy. Self-help books with a heavy religious hand. People with plans to fix. I was broken and I had to be broken for a while. And what helped. People who were there with love and no agenda.

Later that night, on my way home, belief was on my mind. When I was jerked from a coma and confronted with a question, “Heidi, do you want to live?” and I answered, “Yes,” I knew I could get through. When my conviction wavered, the belief of my family and friends carried me. I rested in their hope.  Trust heals and strengthens. Belief is often what holds Scott and me together. We’ll get lost and then find our way, each other’s anchors.

I parked the car and hurried inside to tell Scott about my great evening. Annie stood just inside the door waiting, “I wanted to say goodnight.” I squeezed her hard; buried my face in her hair.

“Mommy, that’s too tight.”

I sighed, “I know. It’s because I love you so much.” I released her with a kiss, “Have a good sleep.”

I watched her shuffle to the stairs, tripping over pajama pants that puddle at her feet. And I ached. I didn’t know I could hurt this much, feel this guilty, get this angry and love this much.

I don’t always know what’s best and I don’t always know what I’m doing, but I’m her promise. To love and believe.

Posted in annie and ben, family, grateful, speaking | 26 Comments

public speaking tips

Posted on November 20, 2012 by heidi

I’m working on a presentation I’m giving at the end of the week and I thought, hey, why not write about preparing speeches and what happens when you find yourself in front of a group of people giving the speech? Here it goes…

Do what works for you. I write out my speeches. Some will say that you shouldn’t – notes in point form only. Either way, do what works best for you. Writing it out helps me to get a feel for where I want to go. Every time I give a talk I tailor it for that particular audience. I’m not reading my speech. I will glance down from time to time and it helps me to keep track of where I am.

Present to the mirror. Give the speech at home to a chair, to the kitchen cabinets, to the mirror. Doing it out loud allows you to get a feel for the pacing, where you stumble and what needs to be fixed.

Waiting is the hardest part. The anticipation of speaking is worse than speaking in front of thousands of people. Scott can attest to this. I don’t know how many times I’ve shout-whispered at him, “This is going to suck. I have to change everything!” In that half hour leading up to the presentation, I am sure I will bomb. It’s normal. You’ll be fine.

If you bomb. Debrief with someone you trust. Shake it off. Have a drink. Move on. Obsess about it for days. No, wait. Don’t do that.

Don’t picture people in their underwear. We were given that brilliant advice in school to help calm us, but here’s the thing. It’s creepy. Don’t do it.

Don’t consume alcohol before delivering a speech. Years ago I was the keynote speaker at an event where they plied me with drinks. It was very generous of them, but I wanted to be coherent. I stopped at one martini and followed it up with a lot of water and food. I was fine, but I’ll never do it again. You want to keep your wits about you. No one should be so relaxed they’re slurring their words. A couple of months ago I gave a speech, bee-lined to the bar as soon as it was over, grabbed a glass of wine and began to drink like I earned it. Ah, victory.

Expect nervousness. Butterflies are normal. It keeps you on your toes. In fact, if you’re not a little nervous, I would wonder what is wrong with you.

Engage with the room. Make eye contact. Not shifty eye contact, like you’re looking for a quick getaway. But clear, controlled eye contact. Move your head. Look for the people paying attention, smiling. Focus on those people. Don’t be distracted by the person on their phone or the person who’s leaving. Stay with the people who stay with you.

Smile.

Use humor. My story is heavy. Heavy, heavy. So, as I list all the terrible that happened I tell a funny story or make a casual observation that relates to the topic to lighten the room. It gives your audience a chance to exhale. After sharing the sad tale of losing my left leg after a 2 month battle to save it, I often list my favorite things about the hospital – one of them being morphine. Sweet, beautiful morphine. Sometimes I wish I still had access to a drip.

Slow down. But, not too much. Because slow talkers are the worst. I have a tendency to talk fast, especially when I’m nervous or I’m eager to get to the good part. My life was horrible and then it wasn’t! Ta-da! But, as I’m talking I remind myself these people are here to hear you. They don’t know the story like I do. Breathe. Pause. Speak clearly.

Beware of tics. Throat clearing, ums and uhs. If you’re prepared, that helps curb the tics. If you’re doing something on the fly, those tics love to hang out with you. I don’t have any special tricks. Just be conscious of the tics and try to eliminate them. Instead of an uuuhh, swallow or take a breath.

If you forget. Don’t panic. Take a beat. Look down at your notes. What seems like hours to you are just a few seconds to the audience. I once spoke at Parliament where the Ministry was giving the burn fund 2 million dollars. Media was there. Important people of the government were there. I was doing well, covering my points. I had not brought notes because I had this. And then. As I approached the end. I blanked. What came after rehabilitation and the importance of community? I didn’t know. My mind was a black hole. I was sure I heard the drip of a leaky faucet on the other side of the building. Somewhere in the static that was my brain, words found me and color returned to my face. Later someone said to me that pause (my freak out) emphasized the point. You could really feel the emotion. And I just forgot. It often feels worse than it actually is. If you forget a part of your speech and keep going, no one will know.

Be yourself. People are there to see you. They’re not ready to pounce if you make a mistake. Unless you’re a comedian or a politician, there is no threat of heckling. You don’t need to be perfect. You will feel natural and at your best if you are you.

Over to you. What are some tips or tricks you use when you’re in front of a crowd and the spotlight is on you?

Posted in speaking | 10 Comments

humbled

Posted on November 8, 2012 by heidi

You know when you’re blah and everything is just off?  You’re pretty sure you will never like writing again. When the phone rings you sigh. An email in your inbox is a chore – like mopping the floor chore. Shopping loses its shine. Even chocolate has let you down – yeah, I was doing all of that for a while. After a ho-hum summer, fall has been gracious and I’m breathing deeply again, reviving a flattened self.

I’m thankful for the beauty of the outdoors and I no longer judge the person who puts her dog in a stroller or straps this dog to her body. (Okay, I still judge a little. It’s not a baby!) I found art for the bare walls in my living room and dining room. The basement is cleaned up and organized after the kids shouted at me to HELP! I had promised to help and then I got sidetracked upstairs, trading cleaning for chocolate. Eventually I gave in to the guilt, unable to ignore their cries. And the best part of my rediscovered zeal for life? I’m working on the acknowledgments page of my book which means I get to thank the people who helped me.

Actually, I’ve been done for about 2 weeks. I just can’t hit send. I can’t part with it. It’s one of the last pieces to my story and maybe the piece I enjoyed writing the most. As I sat at my computer, I thought about the journey – the heart in my fingertips beginning, the agony of the middle, and the rush of finally, of the end. Writing and risking. Querying and rejections. Acceptance and contracts. Revisions, revisions. And now. While I applauded the people who supported me, listened to me and made-me-do-it-anyway, I felt grateful, loved and honored.

I’m especially honored by you guys. Honored that you read my blog. Honored by your encouragement. Honored by your belief in me. Beyond honored, I’m humbled. With all my heart, thank you. You’ve helped make this book a reality, a dream come true.

swept up

I’m thrilled to be featured at She Knows as one of the top 10 inspirational bloggers. I’m #2! Last week I received this good news from Jessica Watson, the lovely author of the article. I am filled to bursting. Check it out and visit the blogs of these amazing women.

Posted in grateful, inspirational, writing | 11 Comments

for the love of writing

Posted on November 2, 2012 by heidi

The day I knew I had to write my heart was in my throat, tears in my eyes, as I took refuge in my car.

I’m in over my head.

But.

I want this.

After completing the first day of a course on writing autobiography, in the obscurity of underground parking and a racing heart, I was hit with fear and love. All at once, I knew there was more.

I fell in love with words a long time ago. Sprawled on my bed reading just one more page before I had to turn out the light. Hiding novels inside text books at school. Excited by every creative writing assignment. I felt abandoned each time a great book ended until I found another. Words comforted, brought revelation and moved me to higher ground.

Before the writing course I began a blog on a dare. Fancy Feet became an online corner to store my thoughts and musings on life until it became more. I had been telling my story to people on behalf of the BC Professional Fire Fighters burn fund, speaking to groups large and small about a 23 year old girl who was in a massive car crash on June 12, 1998. She lost her best friend, suffered burns to her body, the burns so severe her legs needed to be amputated. It was a story of survival and hope, and it began to find its way to my blog. My audience grew, people were interested.

Come join me at Erin Margolins’ blog: The Road to My Writer Roots where you can read the rest of my post. Erin, who is just so lovely, kind and talented (you’ll want to get to know her), invited me to write about writing, and I thoroughly enjoyed looking back on this writing journey and how much has happened since I began my blog 4 years ago. I am honored to be there with her today.

Posted in guest post, my story, writing | Leave a comment