~ If you could....~

Okay, next one...

If you could see any thing in the world....what would you want to see?

There are wonders, and natural wonders, and all kinds of wondering.

I have seen some of the wonders....wonder which ones?

Grand Canyon - check

Chichen Itza - check

Golden Gate Bridge - double check

In about five weeks I'm adding another to this list....hmmmm...let the wondering begin.

P.S. Thanks M's....I've seen Niagra Falls already...will add that to my wonders list.

~ Where in the World is....~

If you could go anywhere in the world.....

where would you go?

~ Fiona Steele ~

If you have not experienced the wonders of Fiona Steele, well, you simply have not lived.

You can't read her, you can't Google her, you can't ask your friends about her. She's not famous, she doesn't own any property, she has the clothes on her back and the little bit of sanity that she carries in her backpack.

I met Fiona Steele one dark Saturday evening while making a late night stop at my office.

Work was crazy, the kids were dropped off after a weekend of basketball and fudge-ee-os, and I had stopped to grab some paperwork. My intentions were simple, get a head start on the work week by taking work home. Seems simple enough.

Upon exiting my office building, which you'll remember is located on the Tsuu T'ina Nation, I...and my companions, came upon a small woman, sitting alone in the snow. She was not there when we arrived, but she was certainly there now. I wouldn't have noticed her at all, she was so petite. Now, a small side note, Ms. Fiona Steele has exceptionally punctuated language. And when I say punctuated, I mean course, and when I say course...I mean she has one of the foulest mouths I've heard in a long time.

"My ribs are messed up"

Let's pretend those are the words she used, it is what she was trying to say...though she made it far more flowery.

Our progress of loading paperwork and a scammed printer into the truck halted. Sitting cross legged on the ground, holding a backpack in her lap, touque with those braided hangy things on her head...sat Fiona Steele.

Where she had come from, we never found out. She was specific on where she wanted to go. Not to the emergency room, definitely not to the police, but home. Sounds easy enough. Where is home? Wrong question...

Thus began 45 minutes of trying to read through the lines of a alcoholic, high, and possibly schizophrenic Fiona Steele.

I felt bad leaving her there. She was small, obviously in pain, alone on the reserve. I did not fear her hurting us, as she maybe weighed 90 pounds, and my companions have a leg that weighs more than that. So the three of us looked at her, looked at each other....and let her get in the truck.

There are a few things we learned very quickly about Fiona Steele. First....there is an "e" at the end of her name, and she'd appreciate if we'd not forget to spell it that way. Next, she's Scottish. We could have concluded this by her accent, however it was also made obvious by the fact that she would randomly and loudly pronounce that she was Scottish. I found after a few times that it was the start of her reel. See, she'd get going on a tangent, on many tangents actually...but it seemed to be when she directly exclaimed..."I'm SCOTTISH"...that she was starting the reel over again.

She had a goal, I'll give her that. She believed that her "home"...or place of residence was next to the gravel pit. Excellent. Only problem, it's nearly midnight, we're not supposed to be on the Reserve, since we are not First Nations...and we're not at all sure where the gravel pit is. She seems to know. Or, at least there were times during the endless confusing conversation where she seemed to know.

Those that know me are aware that I'm not afraid to talk to strangers. I quite often talk to strangers...in surprisingly direct ways. Talking to this small stranger was not permitted. If I asked too many questions, she would yell at me..."Would you let me speak please!"

Okay...(hands in the air in resignation)

There came a time when we sat on a gravel road, not moving...wondering how on earth we had got ourselves in the presence of Fiona Steele. Not at all sure how we were going to rid ourselves of her...and wondered if J was going to have to open her door and boot her out.

Her chatter gave us a world wide view of history, religion, love and sacrifice. Culture, nature and relationships. She let us know her preferences, her dislikes and just who had eaten her porridge.

We finally came to a dark spot, in the middle of nowhere, and Fiona felt that we had reached our destination. We were all relieved. I felt guilty letting her leave on a cold, snowy Saturday night. I wasn't sure what else I could do to help her. She was clean enough, smelled only of the drug of choice, and was as happy as the mice that she painted their toe nails.

I gave her some food, which she informed me the dogs would love. She hugged me and exclaimed that I was beautiful. I didn't take it literally.

I've wondered about Fiona Steele in the last few weeks. Wondered if she made it through that cold night. If there really is a home somewhere on the Reserve.

Could we have helped more? Taken her to the drop in centre? Taken her anywhere? I doubt it. As long as we were driving the direction she felt was right, she was calm. When we altered her direction in life, she was agitated and confused.

Good Luck Fiona Steele, in where life takes you...and may no one steal your porridge.

~ Waffling ~

Why is it called Waffling? There is nothing about making a decision that involved sweet, bready, syrupy goodness. None the less, I've been waffling.

Waffling on whether to keep blogging. I enjoy blogging. I find it fun and therapeutic. I think out loud...shocking I know, none of you figured that at all. But it's hard to have such a roller coaster of comments and emotions associated with this blog. If I post about my life, I'm flaunting. If I don't, I'm hiding. Seems that I get hit no matter what. I'm here to tell you blog land, I'm tired of being hit.

Two weeks ago, I was done. Done with feeling life my life was judged by a blog. I've had a year of feeling not wanted...having that continue in the comments on a blog, it's stupid...quite frankly.

But here's the thing. I don't blog for you. I blog for me. As I said, it's therapeutic. I'm a venter. To deal with my life, happy or sad, I vent. I talk stuff out, purge it from my brain...and move on. Well, I don't always move on, but I feel better and can continue on.

So, read or don't read. Comment or don't. I blog for me.

And since I blog for me, I've also made this blog public. Going private was a security issue before. I needed a safer place to vent. That was the feeling at the time.

Love me hate me, accept me, reject. I blog for me.

Moving on.

What does your safe place look like? The safe place you go in your head, when life gets tough?

This was a conversation I had recently. I was going through a rough time. While talking through that, and finding the real reasons for my struggles, rather than the surface reasons...I was asked what my safe place looks like. I didn't have an answer. I had never considered this place to have a physical appearance. But it does. I discovered I know exactly what this place looks like, what it does for me, when I retreat there. I also discovered that I never really leave my safe place. I let the walls down, but never all the way. I rarely let anyone into my safe place, I might let you get near it, and talk to me...but never inside. Recently I have allowed certain people in that place. It takes a lot of trust to let someone in your safety zone.

Why do I never leave my safe place? I am not a person who will allow people to hurt me. Not saying it never happens...it happens a lot. But when I do get hurt, my walls get thicker and I put myself in a place where that won't happen again. I set myself up to avoid that situation. Not necessarily the right way to go about life, I know.

Anyway, think about it. What does your safe place look like?