Sticks & Stones

From the comfort of my chair this past week, I have bemusedly watched the extraordinary ruckus evolving over one woman’s use of the c-word as a descriptor towards another woman. And while in my younger years, that was the worst word that anyone could use to describe a woman, I am pondering why it just doesn’t strike me as the worst,  or even newsworthy anymore.

Add in the fact that the recipient of that particular arrow of truth deserved that and even worse, made me shake my head in disbelief that in a week full of horrifying news about 1500 missing children, reversals of women’s rights and vile racist twitter rants (shame on you, Roseanne), the fact that one woman called another woman a feckless cunt is what rang the outrage bell for so many.

There were times in my past that even having the word bitch thrown my way would have staggered me if flung carelessly from a male mouth in my direction. But I grew up and I grew older and I staggered and sometimes crawled through the struggles and losses that were written into my book of life, and I came to realize that words spilling from someone else’s lips, especially someone whose opinion I neither asked for nor could care less about, meant nothing.

Yes, words hurt, and history has shown that the female gender is incredibly adept, sly and manipulative about the ways in which we can tear each other apart and spit each other out. What we lack in physical strength, we have always compensated for in our emotional arrows and insults that we fire at own kind. We have always been oh so careful in our roles as nurturers to not tear the males down within our orbits – making excuses for them, protecting them- falling on our own fucking swords over and over  again and then proudly showing them the blood of our self-martyring as symbols of our love and sacrifice for them.

I hold women to higher standards than men, and while I am aware that is wrong and feeds into the martyr syndrome I just described, it has been my own personal experience that women are just better at the loving emotional support that most of us need during the changing seasons of our lives. (minus our middle school ages).

I expect women to support and mentor and teach and raise each other up. To correct and school each other when we damn well need it, but to also be there with arms wide open and with intentional, focused love and forgiveness when we stumble and fall. Tearing each other down at the first sight of blood in a feeding frenzy just alienates us further, and increases the perception that we are indeed those derogatory words so often used to hurt and minimize us all.

I would give anything to gather up the 3 women who were discussed ad nauseam this past week. To invite them into my home and offer them tea or a shot of bourbon and then question what the hell got us all to this place where one was tearing other women down in racists tweets, another was posting a clueless picture of herself holding her child with pithy wording about how nice it is to have your child in your arms, during a week when almost 1500 misplaced children were reported . Ask the last one how frustrated and angry she had to have been to aim and fire that taboo word out on public television at the complicit one whose life is so entitled that she is blissfully ignorant and unaware of the walls that most of us have had to kick down in order to find our own places and spaces within this patriarchal society.

I would sit with them and try to understand what their individual experiences have been  thus far that brought them to those penultimate moments in their lives this past week. Listen with non-judgmental empathy, and hopefully work toward a commonality of some sort that we could all embrace together. Dig through the layers, peel the onions, and cry the necessary tears. Laugh together, and listen and learn from each other how we get to these moments where we forget that most important learning passed down from grandmother to mother to daughter since time began.

In telling our own stories and sharing our pain with each other, we can only grow stronger. It will  only be in the safety of our sacred goddess circle – in the telling and re-telling of these truths and in the sharing of our crone wisdom to our own daughters and other women’s daughters, that we will be able to open the doors to healing and understanding.

At the times that I have been most broken in my own life, it has been my tribe of women who have stepped off fearlessly and then down into the morass with me and held my hand.

It is women who have made the choice to suffer beside me in my pain. To unflinchingly absorb that which was simply too enormous for me to endure alone.

Joanne, who came hundreds of miles immediately to tend to my sons’ hearts and well-being following my accident, when no one was sure I would survive another day. Who has answered her phone too many times to count, only to listen to me cry long distance without saying a word. Who has listened with her whole heart to my jagged pain, and who has healed me in so many ways without ever saying a word. Who once asked me the question that jump-started my journey of discovery, ” When are you going to love yourself as hard as you love everyone else?” If I ever met my soul mate, it is Joanne. That is a truth I know on such a deep soul level, that nothing and no one could ever convince me otherwise.

She was absolutely sent to me by a divine entity and there isn’t a doubt in my mind that I would take a bullet for my “Dodo”.

Cindy, who taught me that softness can frequently get you far further than strength can, and who showed me by example that forgiveness is often the best way to heal your own broken heart. Who sat with me following the loss of my first child, in my own dark night of the soul, holding my limp, cold hand in hers. Who refused to let me slip away into madness, and who held onto me so tightly and lovingly for the rest of her short life, that I was able to endure her loss by reaching down deep to the lessons she taught me and sharing them with the child she left behind.

Marilyn & Evelyn, the sisters. My mother and my aunt. Who stood beside me as that impossibly small casket was taken out of the car and carried toward us all. First their hands intertwined. Then their arms around each other, a merging of strength for each other and for me. Both of them reaching for me after it was all over. Pulling me between them, and holding me up with them. Infusing me symbiotically with the knowledge of their combined years of suffering and of the fact that it is in the enduring and the surviving that we grow from girls into women. Pulling me along to walk with them, until my legs were strong enough that I could walk again on my own.

It is now the time for me to share these lessons with the younger women I know, and to pass on the wisdom of those that have walked and suffered and endured long before me. To share the love and strength that has been shared with me and to work to keep the circle intact long after I am gone.

All of us have been called bitches in our lives and some have even been called *cunts, but no matter what you call us, there is absolutely no way we will be silenced, or kept down, or defeated.


* even spell-check doesn’t approve of this one!



My Voice

I have been noticing that by the time most women find their voices and their truths, they have basically been deemed irrelevant and uninteresting by virtue of their age.

I have seen it happening at work with younger colleagues but mostly in my personal and social life (such that it is!).

I was honestly gutted when 45 won that election last year. Gutted. Slayed. Bewildered & very, very saddened.

It hit me like a ton of bricks that the patriarchy is alive and well and still running the show. I was not a huge fan of Hilary Clinton. I can admit that. I admired her years of public service and the things she had accomplished in her career, but also side-eyed some of her statements and interests. I was dragged into lively debates with my kids on the whole Bernie vs Hilary thing. Ad nauseum.


I live in a so-called Socialist Paradise – Canada, so I certainly have reaped the benefits of a robust social safety net and access to health care, regardless of what the balance is in my bank account.

So, I get why some believed Bernie was the one to go with, even though I am one of those voters that votes in the safest alternative. She would have been that.

I just cannot get past the fact that in my heart, I believe that she lost because she is a woman– and an older woman, at that. One to mock for her sensible shoes and her tidy, but boring pantsuits. The way the media slammed her in regards to her appearance and her energy levels ( even though both 45 and the Bernster were older than her!) was the finishing touch on my forming my belief.

When I was younger, I was taken aback at the loud, feisty females who proudly proclaimed themselves feminists. I was surrounded by men that viewed feminists as “bitter hens who couldn’t find a man”. “Man-haters”. “Bra-burners.”

In my mind there wasn’t a need to be so loud and confrontational about things. I was a babe in the woods, still nodding my head and rarely speaking up or joining conversations that the men were having. Still wrapped in my belief that some man somewhere was always going to be handy to make sure my needs were taken care of.

My ex-husband used to like to tell people that my mother was a “man-hater”. This seemed to occur following any statement that he made that she might have her own opinion about. She was 50-something when this started occurring regularly.

He would laugh and try to shut her down by proclaiming ” oh, you just hate men- you are bitter is all.”

She was most certainly not a man hater.

She had just reached an age where all the years of listening to some blow hard pontificate on every subject under the sun had caught up with her, I think. She was full up with having things man-splained to her. My Mother, who read an average of 4 books per week and worked full time; who never missed the news or reading the paper daily. She sat for years and listened to men decide and tell and direct and make decisions about her life.

Men who for the most part who had never seen the inside of a grade 8 textbook in their lives.

Then I guess somewhere around her 50th year, she blew. And looking back at it all now, it was really quite glorious.

So, what I haven’t done due to holding back is become much more vocal about my opinion on things, out of a fear of being labeled a “man-hater”.

I actually have an opinion on a lot of things.

A variety of things.

The glass ceiling at work.

Equal pay.


The current reconciliation program with our Indigenous Canadians and the racism I see daily towards our original land owners.

I want to tell my son that it isn’t a “cute” look when he tells people he just throws his money at his partner, and lets her worry about the bills and deadlines and groceries and every other damn thing he thinks is beneath him spending his valuable time on.

I want to tell the man I report to at work that just because he acts like one of my children, he wont be treated with near as much patience and that I am not the “fixer” just by virtue of having the vagina.

I might even cut my long hair off just to spite the last asshole I was in a relationship with. Years of dealing with all this hair just because he found it more visually appealing to him….

So, I have been holding back on being that woman.

And it’s over now.

Only women bleed- my ass.









I spent the day yesterday withdrawn from the world around me.

The night before yesterday, I fell asleep with the assistance of Ativan, knowing in my bones that the citizens of the US were about to have their worlds rocked hard-core when they all awoke the next day.

The reverberations of the outcome of that presidential election were immediate and felt around the world, and I didn’t have the strength to do anything other than go to work and keep my head down. Dodging water cooler talk , in order to avoid having to discuss what had happened and having to listen to opposing views on the event.

I did not eat or even drink water for over eight hours, to ensure I would not have to interact with others.

I zombie-walked my way through 11-09-16.

My only communication yesterday was a response via text to my youngest son, my soul-searching, achingly earnest baby…the one who has always, ALWAYS, done the right thing.

Followed the rules, walked on the greens, watched cautiously on the ambers, and preferred to let his bigger, braver brother break  path for him his entire life up until now.

He texted me at 8:27 yesterday morning with the following:


And knowing him like I do- those few words said so much to me. He was bewildered.

He was in shock. He was a bit frightened and a whole lot confused.

Because I raised my children colour blind and in a home primarily run by a single mother, his half-awake brain could not even compute all the things that had occurred while he was sleeping.

How the clocks and the years had all been set back.

How the accomplishments and struggles of so many for so long had been neatly cut off at the knees and thrown in a burning, rusty dumpster full of shit and broken dreams.

How a woman who spent her entire LIFE working in public service and primarily focussing her efforts on women and children had been beaten in a democratic process by a misogynistic, xenophobic, racist, ablest, reality-star sideshow barker.

How the conman pulled off the long-con and emerged the winner over the woman who dared to dream there was ever going to be a spot at the big boy table for her.

How hard work and doing the right thing and slogging along on the right path was trumped by a bully with a loud voice and no morals, who has treated women and persons of colour and the disabled and prisoners of war with contempt and disdain.

I have witnessed some atrocities in my life but have never felt so heartsick as I did yesterday, not that the con man won, as I have seen many, many sociopaths rise high over the years.

My heart hurts that there were so many humans in the world that bought into his rhetoric.

My mind struggles in trying to understand how ONE woman could ever cast a vote for that monster, let alone many.

I hold women to so much higher standards than I ever have men, because I know our strengths. I know it is women who run the world, sometimes alone, but often at a man’s side- encouraging, planting small seeds, manipulating, loving, feeding, comforting…but always, always, ALWAYS working to plant those seeds…the seeds of forgiveness, the seeds of love, understanding, caution, consideration for others.

My response to my son was brief, and I prefaced it by saying I had been searching for hours to find even the smallest silver lining, as is my way. Typo intro should be into:


I know my son is struggling to understand and I have nothing to give him this time.

My mother’s favourite response to us when we were growing up and whined that something was not fair, was ” Who ever told you that life was FAIR?”

I hated that response as a child and chose never to respond to my sons in that fashion.

I wanted them to think that if you worked hard, and did the right thing and treated others with kindness and understanding and with respect for diversity, that everyone’s life would be better.

Obviously, I was wrong.


It has always been kill or be killed, survival of the fittest and the louder the voice, the greater the rewards.

History has shown that over and over again.

And money talks…boy does it ever.

Obviously, I’m struggling here and I need a minute to gather my thoughts and get myself back on track. I welcome any and all words of advice from those that are wiser than I am.

But there will be changes for me and they will be long-lasting.

I will be encouraging every young woman and girl I know that despite what we have been shown in the past two days, despite the fact that the nude model,the mail order bride who used her vagina and married rich will be moving into the white house with her con man, the woman who used her power in the right ways is the real winner here.

The one who graciously accepted defeat, and who encouraged so many of us to use our voice, and who supported her very flawed man with poise and understanding for years in the public eye…she’s the winner and the one who will go down in history.

No more will I shut up and sit quietly waiting my turn to express my opinions while a man has his say first and I feel the need to just let him have it to avoid being looked at as an aggressive, mouthy bitch.

No more will I allow anyone within my immediate vicinity to spew a racial slur or even slightly try to tear down or discriminate someone based on their colour, or gender or handicap or sexual preference.

I need to feel in control of my environment or else my PTSD ramps right up and causes me to isolate myself in order to feel safe, but I refuse to allow this dirt that is reality now to shut me up about those values I did my best to instil in my children and which I believe in my heart and soul SHOULD be most important and SHOULD be lived.

So maybe the con man and his deplorable minions won this round, but they won’t win the game.