The Wrong Country

I celebrated my birthday in the middle of a blizzard.  A friend called to wish me happy birthday and asked why in the world I didn’t stay in New Zealand where I could blow out my candles on the beach.

Believe me, I’ve sometimes felt like I’m living in the wrong country.  While others are loading up their skis and snowboards, dragging out their sleds and skidoos, and lacing up their skates and snowshoes, I’m doubling up my socks and sweaters.

My aversion to winter sports may have started my first year in Canada when I was two and couldn’t see over the snow drifts.  Or maybe that same winter when I walked onto an ice rink in regular boots, slipped, and whacked my head.

Sledding is about the only winter sport I’ve ever enjoyed.  Growing up on the side of a BC mountain it was kind of hard not to.  Yes, I’ve done my share of sledding, also enduring the related injuries, including the worst bloody nose I’ve ever had when I crashed on crusty snow.

Skating and skiing were part of our PE curriculum (I think).  At least they dragged us off to the rink and Red Mountain ski hill enough times.  I tried, but I knew things weren’t going well when the teacher asked, “Kathryn, would you like to help the Kindergarten class put on their skates instead?”

I just don’t get what there is to like about skiing.  It’s cold, it’s fast, it’s high (chair lifts: “don’t look down, don’t look down”), and one can snowplow for only so long.

I’m glad many of you enjoy winter sports; I wish I did too.  Maybe I really do have Kiwi climate preferences in my blood.  But if I lived there, I wouldn’t get to shovel walks, drag garbage bins through snow, or start my car a half hour before I go anywhere.

 

Or have a white Christmas.

Anticipation

This time last year I wrote an article called “The Top of the Hill”.  It was about me turning thirty-nine and dreading turning forty.

Well, this week I’ll reach that milestone, and you know what?  I’m fine with it.  No big deal.  I’m forty!!  I’ve earned my gray hairs, spider veins, and skin tags!

Before I turned thirty, I also panicked.  And I’ll probably freak out about turning fifty.  But I’m starting to see a pattern:  Sometimes the anticipation is worse than the actual event.

It works the other way too.  Sometimes the anticipation is better than the event – like the vacation you planned for a year then vomited the entire time.

When I was a teenager, the thought of moving away from home was frightening.  I couldn’t fathom ever being ready to live away from my family.  But I did it.  I lived on my own for six years before I got married.

My daughter worries about moving away from home.  I tell her not to worry – that when it’s time, she’ll be ready.  Funny how that works.  Anticipation can help us to prepare for and accept what’s coming.  A wise man once said, “If you are prepared, you shall not fear”.

Then there’s cleaning toilets, ironing, and dusting – three chores I detest.  When I anticipate them, I am miserable.  When I jump in, get it done, reward myself, and bask in the triumph of a job completed, I am happy.  Why do I waste time and energy dreading things?

I hope that as the years go on, I will wisely remember to savour each moment and each challenge, looking forward – with the joyous, motivating kind of anticipation, not the worrisome, anxious kind – to what the next day will bring.

Reading Week

The week before Christmas was a bust, but the week after was perfectly lovely.  My kids were occupied for hours at a time playing Just Dance on the Wii, so I got to snuggle on the couch and catch up on my reading.

I love to read.  When I have a book on the go, I feel like I’ve always got something to look forward to.

My favourite genres are historical fiction and Christian romance, but at Christmastime I love short stories like A Stranger For Christmas by Carol Lynn Pearson and Christmas Jars by Jason F. Wright.

Lately I’ve been savouring Richard Paul Evans work, including his latest series – The Walk.  Last year The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows impressed me.

I prefer books that uplift and inspire.  I need to be a little more informed, happier, wiser, or motivated after reading a book.  If they don’t meet my criteria I feel cheated, so I’m also very picky about what I recommend to others.

For me, it’s not enough to be a page-turner.  I don’t like feeling disturbed or scared, but I guess some people do.  This past Fall I was dismayed to see some of the titles listed on the order forms that came home from the school.  It made me wonder if we’re putting literacy and the ability to read above the quality of what’s going into our heads.  I believe the books we read contribute to shaping our characters and identities, for better or for worse.  And once it’s in, it’s there to stay.

As a youth, a teacher shared the following quote with me:  “Some books are meant to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested” (Francis Bacon).  I agree.