by Krista | Oct 4, 2019 | Spring
Sometimes Bear and I look back on the past 8 months and just laugh. Other times I have a good old cry and he holds me, kisses me on the forehead and says, “I know, babe.”
It has been dreadful. Awful. Scary. Painful. Overwhelming. Frustrating. But also, somehow, one of the most treasured experiences of my life.
One day my friend Peter, a lovely and inspiring cancer-warrior and life-embracer, asked me, “Do you feel this experience has changed your life?” I didn’t even stop to think before responding:
“Yes, it has changed me deeply. I feel like I no longer fit in the life/habits/beliefs/thoughts/coping mechanisms I held before. I feel cracked open, in the best possible way, with all the unnecessary stuff spilling out. I told my husband I feel hollow, scoured, quiet, and I’m in no rush to fill up again. I’m reading and writing a lot, observing my reactions to things and just sitting quietly with them, waiting to see if these things are “me” and something to embrace, or just something to observe and let float past. I feel very hermit-y, like I need to protect this time of healing and change. There’s a lot of letting go, a lot of deep breaths, some bouts of anxiety when I get scared about where all this change is leading, yet also underlying peace that even in this upheaval, I am safe.”
I’ve read those words, my words, so many times since then. They’ve been a touchstone for me, a grounding place of truth that helped me accept, face, and deal with my entire life skidding to a halt, the removal of everything that normally comprises life to me, everything that made me, Me. No medieval events, no herbal workshops, very little writing work, no social life, no farm work, no art or cooking or creating. In one fell swoop, everything disappeared and I was left with silence and solitude. For the first time in my life, life was stripped away and I was alone with myself.
It has been the greatest gift.
At the beginning of all this, I pledged to myself that I would go through whatever I needed to go through to heal the deep things, the dark, festering, hidden things, to let everything come into the light once and for all. And I did. The tidal waves of emotion that accompanied that journey were epic. And gutting. And exhausting. And glorious. Anger, rage, fury. Loss, grief, agony. Anxiety, fear, terror. I let it all come, welcomed it, wept and screamed and slept, then sat in the incredible silence that followed. I really do feel scoured, as if an emotional hurricane has hurtled through me, obliterating everything in its path, leaving me feeling rather dazed and battered but beautifully clean and empty.
I feel whole. Connected. Grounded. Strong. Filled with deep love and forgiveness for my dear, weird, wonky, and rather lovely self. And the love I feel for my loves? Well, it’s so much nicer because it comes from a healed and healing place. I will never cease to be in awe of how much better we love others when we love ourselves beautifully.
This week I had a dream. Robbie appeared as a silvery ghost, shimmery and shining, and said, “Babe, it’s time to join the world again.” He gave me a hand up and as I stood, all the things that had anchored me before exploded in a spectacular fireworks show. There was no grief in it, no destruction, no loss, just a beautiful, celebratory ending of what was, and a glorious, light-filled space ready to be filled with the new. I woke with the biggest smile. That afternoon I was told that the surgical incision on my head that had not closed or healed after 8 weeks, had finally sealed and would soon be healed. That made me smile too.
I don’t know what comes next. I’m just taking each day as it comes, doing something good, something creative, something kind, and trusting that the next steps will take care of themselves.
by Krista | Jun 25, 2019 | Winter
It’s cold and blustery this morning, winter winds howling through the trees and sending us scurrying for flannels and slippers the moment we wake up. Boeuf Bourguignon and Chicken Curry are warming our bones on these frigid days even as they fill our tiny house with wonderful smells and make everything feel cosy and homey.
I’m so happy to be home. So happy. I’ve been here a full week after spending 27 days in the hospital while a team of doctors tested and consulted, trying to figure out what was making me so sick. 12 days ago they gathered solemnly around my bed to let me know that they believed I had something incurable, untreatable, and that I would be in the hospital indefinitely. I was devastated, scared, and so sad.
But that wasn’t to be the end of my story.
The next day my friend Farina came to spend the day with me and advocated for me fiercely. Within a few hours, a visiting neurologist who specializes in seizures agreed to see me. After a series of tests, he explained that I did not have the incurable, untreatable, stuck-in-hospital indefinitely thing. Instead, I had a severe virus that had attacked my neurological system causing seizures and all sorts of mayhem, but he had every confidence that with rest, patience, and continued care through an out-patient clinic, I would recover fully.
By the end of the day, we had an accurate diagnosis, a treatment plan in place, and within 5 days I was home again, recovering in the place I love best with my Bear, our animals, and most restorative views of trees, fields, and gardens.
Recovery is slow but steady, and we’re celebrating every little bit of progress, from being able to walk unaided and driving again, to going grocery shopping for the first time and getting to pick out all my favourite things I missed while in hospital.
It’s been a big lifestyle shift for me in so many ways. I know I will get back to full health and strength, but in the meantime, I’m learning to ask for and receive help, embrace consistent self-care routines that support my healing, and learn contentment and happiness in a much slower way of life. Bear is steadfast support to me, making meals, feeding animals, accompanying me on walks to rebuild my strength and endurance. I’m so grateful for him.
I’m also deeply grateful for the support and care of the dear folks who have visited, called, texted, brought food, flowers, and books, and showered us with love and care. My friend Molly set up a GoFundMe account, and I cried and laughed and cried again, so thankful for the kindness and thoughtfulness that enables me to truly rest and recover while our bills are paid for, animals fed, and fridge filled. Thank you. XOXO
The wind is really picking up now, howling around the eaves. Fezzik is curled up on the floor, toddling over often to check on me and get a scratch and a cuddle. It’s time for a bowl of hot curry, a cup of tea, and maybe an old movie to make us laugh. xo
by Krista | Mar 26, 2018 | Autumn
It is quiet and still this afternoon. Fezzik, our new Rottweiler pup, is sleeping on the floor beside me, a pork roast is slow-cooking in the oven, filling the house with wonderful smells, and the cuckoo clock is ticking softly, making everything feel peaceful and steady.
I’m feeling so thankful today after a decidedly rough couple of weeks.
I’ve had a feeling for a while that my body was nearly ready to tackle the next layer of bad stuff from my past. I wasn’t looking forward to it – the darkness is painful and sad and awful – but I was looking forward to the light I knew would come after.
The trigger came the day a friend asked, “Did this happen to you?” That simple question blasted a hole in the dam of that next layer, and memories and flashbacks poured in like a flood. That week was supposed to be spent writing my travel articles early so I wouldn’t be cramming at the end, but instead it was spent processing those memories, grappling with grief and fear and pain, wrestling with the painful truth that no one is all good or all bad.
It would be so much easier to deal with bad guys if they were all bad, but they aren’t. And I think that’s what traps us sometimes, what keeps us in abusive relationships, families, work situations, friendships. I think that’s what makes us feel guilty when we break off contact or limit contact or set boundaries with people. Yes, we tell ourselves, this person makes me afraid, insecure, unworthy of love or kindness or respect, this person physically harms me, emotionally crushes me or spiritually abuses me, BUT sometimes they’re really nice, so we stay, and other people think they’re really nice, so we stay, and we don’t have enough money/support/knowledge to leave, so we stay.
It’s the staying part that crushed me the most this week. How could I not have known that “this” wasn’t OK? How could I have “let” them do this? How could I not have done then what I would do now?
My friend, Alyssa, shared these words, and how I love them:
“Forgive yourself for not knowing what you didn’t know before you learned it.”
There’s life in those words, life and hope and comfort.
So I did the healing work.
I wrote out the truth of what happened, how it affected me, and how it made me feel.
I drew out the truth.
I spoke out the truth.
And I forgave myself for not knowing what I didn’t know before I learned it.
Through it all, I took extra good care of myself, because such things take the stuffings out of us, don’t they? Homemade soup, walks outside, puppy cuddles, hubby cuddles, as much sleep and rest as I could get.
And when all the bad was out, it was time to fill in those spaces with good things, with truth, with connections to good, loving people.
We had our medieval friends over for a sausage-roast over the campfire, fun projects, and, most importantly, good hugs. When you’ve worked through betrayals from the past, it’s deeply healing to connect with the faithful friends.
We went for bike rides and painted on the veranda and bought flowers and seedlings to put in my gardens.
I also started building good, loving connections with my past. Remembering the good things doesn’t blot out the bad things or make them OK, it just reminds me of the good things that shaped me, kept my soul intact, and gave me the courage and strength to survive the bad.
I drew pictures of the things and people and experiences that brought me joy then and bring me joy now: singing around the Christmas tree, camping in the Canadian wilderness, beloved books and old movies, popcorn, cheese and apples every Sunday night, campfires and s’mores, sleigh rides at night over the Alberta prairies, listening to audio books on road trips, playing with legos, canoeing when mist still hung over the lake, watching old Disney movies, reading old books.
These are the things from my past that I cherish, the things I carry with me into the life I have now, a life I’m beyond grateful for.
What are precious things from your past that bring you joy today? xo
by Krista | Oct 3, 2017 | Spring
It’s been a long few months of drought here in Queensland. Every day we looked up into clear blue skies and wondered when the rains would come, hoping it would be soon.
The storm clouds came this week, heavy and dark, and dropped gentle, steady rain upon us. Water soaked into the cracked earth, softening grass browned and crisped by the sun, cleaning the air and washing dust from every surface.
It brought life back to our little world, and hope to my heart. Watching the rain fall reminded me that no matter how desolate the situations we find ourselves in, relief and life will return one day. We have no control over when it will return, but we can make the waiting easier by caring for our dear selves, connecting to those amazing people who love us, and finding something good each day to keep us going.
I spent much of Sunday on the back veranda, watching the rain fall while I read books, wrote in my journal, and took a nap. I’ve been reading “The Gifts of Imperfection” by Brené Brown again. It’s one of those books I like to read regularly to realign myself with wholehearted living, a life of courage, compassion, and connection.
This read-through showed me how I’d slipped back into self-sufficiency, the wonky kind, the kind that makes you believe you have to do everything by yourself, that asking for help or being in need makes you a bother, an annoyance, instead of just a regular ol’ human being. And I closed my book and went inside and pulled a chair up to Bear’s desk and we had a good chat. I told him the fears and stresses I’d been keeping inside so I wouldn’t annoy him, and he laughed and shook his head and pulled me in for a cuddle and reminded me that he actually likes hearing about my fears and stresses AND happinesses and successes. That’s what love is. That’s what friendship is.
And I cried and hugged him tight back because when you’ve been keeping stuff bottled up out of fear or shame and you can finally let it out and realize that you never, ever had to keep it stuffed in after all, well, it’s quite a relief. And you feel both foolish and inestimably comforted at the same time.
It’s funny, isn’t it, how much comfort there is in letting your guard down and being weak and wobbly and messy, and discovering you’re loved anyway?
And funny how we can’t find that comfort until we’re brave enough to reach out and connect with people. To let them see us with all our doubts and worries and spectacular stuff-ups.
It’s a risk, always. But one worth taking. And bit by bit, person by person, we build a little retinue of people who love us anyways, always, no matter what, and let us love them that way in return.
I’m grateful for that kind of love from Bear, from my friends, and for the comfort and strength it provides.
I’m also grateful for the non-people comforts of life, the rainy afternoons and good books and bowls of homemade soup.
We had lots of soup this week, drawing inspiration from what’s growing in the gardens: onions, carrots, potatoes, fresh herbs. Sunday was a creamy Curried Carrot with lots of fresh ginger, while today was Beef Vegetable with carrots, onions, peas, and a rich, savory broth fragrant with thyme.
Tonight I posted my first newsletter in a loooooong time, talking about what happens in life When Healing Changes Us. Click here to read it, and click here to subscribe to future newsletters.
Now I’m going to settle in with a cup of elderberry and hawthorne tea and read a bit before bed. I have a big day of wood-working ahead of me tomorrow, and an early night is sounding rather wonderful.
What are some of your favorite non-people comforts? xo
by Krista | Aug 13, 2017 | Winter
The sun is just inching over distant hills as I snuggle deeper under my blanket and sip my coffee. I like the dark quiet of early morning, but it’s always a thrill to see the sky brighten and know that our shivery little world will soon be filled with light and warmth.
Bear and I like to listen to audio books while we drive. There’s something about sharing a story that builds bridges and strengthens bonds, providing a shared point of reference for future conversations. Usually we just pick up stories from the library – stories we’ve never heard of – and give them a whirl. But sometimes I share the stories of my childhood (or adult childhood) with Bear, the ones I grew up with, ones that shaped so much of who I am. Narnia, Harry Potter, Brambly Hedge, Little House on the Prairie, Lord of the Rings, Anne of Green Gables, Miss Fisher Mysteries, Agatha Christie, anything and everything by John Buchan. The list is endless, for books have always been my lifeline, my solace and escape, my inspiration and guiding light.
Recently we listened to “The Secret Garden” – one of my most cherished stories. Bear had never read it before, and when it was over he looked at me and said, “This story means a lot to you, doesn’t it? What is your secret garden?”
His questions made me teary, because six years ago, Bear brought me home, broken, shattered in body and spirit, and asked me to close my eyes as he walked me through the farm yard. He guided me in the gate, through fallen leaves and past his work sheds, until he stopped and said, “Open your eyes.”
He’d built me gardens. Two of them. They had sturdy fences to keep the goats out, lovely big terracotta pots full of potting soil, plots dug up and ready for planting, iron bark planks to walk on, and even a worm farm so I could feed the soil. He hugged me tight and said, “They’re yours. Do whatever you want with them.”
Bear hoped he was giving me something that would be meaningful, but he had no idea how precious that gift was. He hoped the gardens would be something that would help me heal, that would provide a place just for me where I could work through what needed working through, and figure out who I was, what I believed, thought, felt, and loved.
They did.
We laugh about them now, because, in the beginning, those gardens were the bane of my life. You see, when I arrived in Australia, when my body knew I was safe, loved, and cared for, it decided to let go. To stop hanging on for dear life, to stop living in fight or flight, and to just go ahead and crumple. I crashed. Oh how I crashed. Depression and PTSD hit me like a freight train, I was sick – so sick, I packed on weight, every night was an agony of nightmares, and the thought of interacting with other human beings was so terrifying I could barely function. I wanted to stay safe and quiet in the house with Bear and the rest of the world could go to buggery.
But those bloody gardens had to be watered. And weeded. And looked after. Bear had put so much effort and love into those dratted gardens, that I just couldn’t let them wither away.
So every day I dragged my depression-fogged self out of the house and sprayed water on plants I didn’t care about and pulled weeds – at least I thought they were weeds – and tried to keep things alive. I was a horrible gardener. Somehow the inate gardening skills that brightened the lives of my brother, mother, aunts, and grandparents had failed to illuminate mine. I killed more things than I harvested. I couldn’t tell the difference between weeds and actual plants. I didn’t know fruit trees went dormant each winter, so every year I pulled up the “dead” fruit trees and grape vines and threw them away.
But I kept going and Bear never intervened. Not once. Bear and I love working together. We build fences and drench goats and make hams and brew wine, but to him my gardens were sacred spaces, and he never entered unless invited. He’s a brilliant gardener and knows all about soil and compost and mulching and pruning, but he let me muddle through and make a spectacular mess of things and figure it out for myself.
It was the best thing he could’ve done, and slowly but surely things changed. As my soul and mind healed, I started caring about the gardens. Instead of looking after them out of duty, I began to genuinely be interested. I wanted to understand plants and learn what helped them thrive. I started composting and making comfrey nettle tea to build up the soil and make it healthy. I began mulching so the plants could endure the harsh heat of summer. I stopped pulling out “dead” fruit trees, and, lo and behold, those dry sticks were covered in buds and leaves in spring.
I love my gardens now. Truly. And I thank them often for bearing with me when I was such a horrible caretaker. I’m grateful gardens are such forgiving things, waiting patiently, soldiering on through drought and neglect until we’re ready to love them. How they flourish when we love them.
As we listened to “The Secret Garden”, a sentence leaped out at me that I hadn’t noticed before. It was about Archibald Craven who was trekking through the Alps in a place so beautiful “it would lift any man’s soul out of shadow.”
Out of shadow.
How I love that.
I’m not in shadow anymore. Now and then I have shadow days or shadow moments, but that enveloping darkness is gone. I still have the occasional nightmare, but I can wake myself up now and speak truth to dissipate the fear. I’m still overweight, but I’m strong and active and healthy, and I know the weight will come off when it’s ready. I still have bouts of anxiety, but I have good people and thriving gardens I can turn to for solace and strength. I am grateful.
What beauties in your life help lift your soul out of shadow? xo
