thebluesock

By Cynthia Bigrigg

Exactly one year ago today, I was driving fast down the wide-open Trans Canada Highway from Winnipeg to Calgary.  I had been on the road for three days already, by myself, with nothing but my tunes and magnificent landscapes to keep me company.  It was glorious.  On this particular day I watched the prairies fly past me, views that my imagination had never done justice to.  Flat land, and the widest expanse of cloudless blue sky.  I passed granaries and oil pumps, gas stations with outdated, flip-switch pumps and old men sitting on a bench outside the store, and cargo trains that stretched for miles.  In the afternoon, I sat in a Wal-Mart parking lot in Swift Current and had a meltdown.  I had made the rookie traveler’s mistake of not telling my bank that I was on the move.  My cards were frozen and I couldn’t buy gasoline. After an hour of pleading with the bank, I filled my tank and hit the road again to discover lush, green fields of wheat, fences built with someone’s dedicated, calloused hands and dusty, unchanging, one-light towns.  As I hit the Saskatchewan-Alberta border, I saw what I will always remember as the most incredible sunset – dark clouds spouting large drops of rain above me, and beautiful bright light in the distance.

There really was no going back from there.  I was hooked.  On life, on exploring, on new places and how they could make me feel.  I’ve got the wandering gene, and I don’t have a plan.  I’m learning that I am less structured than I thought I was, and that flying by the seat of my pants gives me a thrill.

Flash forward eleven months.  Victoria, B.C. is the most vibrant place I have ever been.  I drove down with two great friends over Easter weekend, dropped them off in Vancouver, and took a ferry to the Island. The air was practically buzzing with goodness.  People are so happy there.  People are friendly, and they smile at you as you pass.  The city is full of good food and cafes with the most unique artwork for sale on their walls.  Buskers set up on the sidewalks at sundown.  The air is fresh and easy to breathe.  The flowers are bright and fragrant and the whole place smells amazing.  It is clean and absolutely beautiful, right through to its core.  I felt so entirely welcome, and it felt incredible.  It physically hurt to leave.

I have unfinished business here in my mountain town – commitments I will keep and experiences to have. But I have an inkling of an idea in the back of my mind.

The days are getting longer here and the town is coming alive again.  People – tourists and those who will stay the summer and work – are coming back into town.  I can feel the new life they are breathing into it.  It makes me hopeful.  New people means new opportunities.  I thrive on relationships.  The winter here was hard for me, but I have come to realize that I can’t change the ebb and flow of this town.  I can’t change the coming and going, the here-then-gone.  But I can accept that this is how it is and change my attitude.  I know I will put in my time here, but I won’t be here forever.  I don’t want to look back on this experience and wish it were any different than it is. I won’t be someone who puts up walls – I have no desire to shut anyone out, and I am not a fair weather friend.  If you put the effort in, I will match it, whether you are staying a week or a year.  I am not afraid to take it as it comes and enjoy it while it lasts, and I am not afraid of that moment of sadness I will feel when it’s gone.

I left for a million tiny reasons, but I came here for one big one: To learn how to live life.  That is what my year has been all about.  So here is to a new summer, an incredible summer.  To new people, new adventures, new opportunities, and new roads not left un-taken.

By Cynthia Bigrigg

Since I found myself I know things. All sorts of things. Good things. Empowering things. Things that make me proud. Things that inspire. Things I didn’t know I knew.

I don’t know when I found myself. It wasn’t like “Oh, THERE you are! I have been looking everywhere for you!” There was no reunion, no squealing, no warm squeeze of a hug. There was a simple recognition, a slight internal nod. Maybe one day I will lose myself again, but I doubt it. Me and myself, we’re pretty tight.

People have been talking a lot lately, their words a barrage against me. “Your skin is too thin.” “You’ll learn to accept it when you have experienced it many times.” “You can’t keep up with me.” “I doubt this will work.” Since I found myself, I know better. I know that caring does not make me thin-skinned. I know that if something is unacceptable we should work toward change, not apathy. I know that I am fast and smart and open to new things. I know that I have what it takes to get what I need AND what I want. Since I found myself, I know myself. Since I found myself, I cannot be shaken. Since I found myself, I have nothing to prove.

People have been talking a lot lately. At me, through me, around me. There are precious few people who talk to me, who are interested in a dialogue, a conversation, a collaboration. These precious few are where I will focus my energy, since I found myself. These precious few are the ones who Get It.

Since I found myself, I know what I want. I am clear on my values. I am clear on my truth. I want to speak it loud. I want to speak it far and wide. I want to speak it to pass it along. Since I found myself I am strong and wise and wide, wide open.

People have been talking a lot lately, and what it comes down to is this: I have a lot to learn, and you have a lot to teach me. I have a lot to teach you too. And, if you’ll let me, I will.

By Cynthia Bigrigg

Mom. She knows me better than anyone in the world. She’s the only person who really understands.

I remember driving home one day with my dad. I was sixteen and we lived in a bungalow in a four-corners kind of place called Cedar Valley. The road into town featured snake-like turns and big old maple trees grew on either side, their leaves forming a poetic, green canopy over the pavement.

I was at odds with Mom. I had been for most of my life and I would be for several more years. I vented my frustrations to my dad. He chortled and told me that even though Mom and I couldn’t stand each other at the time, one day we would be best friends. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t believe him for a second. I craved a Gilmore Girls-esque relationship with my mother but with the way things were going, I thought we were destined to be at each others’ throats forever.

My dad has been wrong about a lot of things. I mean a LOT of things. But this time he was right.

We moved for the bazillionth time. A new house was supposed to make all our problems go away. Of course, it didn’t – a THING could never fix these kinds of problems. The screaming matches between Mom and I that I dreaded so much dwindled and ceased. They were replaced by utter silence. I couldn’t decide which hurt more. I didn’t realize Mom wasn’t herself. I had never known her to be in any way different than the way she was now. I hadn’t learned her lesson yet.

I finished high school. By the time autumn rolled around and I was preparing to leave for university, Mom and I hadn’t spoken in months, and I didn’t even know why. Still, she came with the rest of my family to move me into residence. When I hugged her goodbye, she began to cry.

They left quickly. When I came home on weekends, things seemed better. Mom and I talked, but we just skimmed the surface. We didn’t seem to have anything in common. We had gone from not talking to talking, and again, I didn’t understand.

Flash forward a year. I am home for the weekend, sleeping on the futon in the basement. Mom comes and sits on the bed, like she did when I was a little girl and she had something hard and important to say. She tells me that she and Dad are getting a divorce. By now, I am trying to start my own life, and I am so fed up with my parents, so angry about the things they shout at each other, that I don’t even care. I don’t feel any sense of panic, despair or relief.

The next year is hard. I can’t talk to either parent without hearing some kind of nasty insinuation about the other one. But slowly, Mom changes. At first I am a bit freaked out – for twenty one years Mom has been the SAME. I don’t recognize this person. I don’t know how to handle her. In later years I will begin to understand the kinds of struggles that she faced in her marriage, that made her who she was. But that is her story, not mine.

I begin to realize that our conversations are less pain-filled and more joyful. She talks about Dad less and less until he doesn’t come up at all. I begin to really look forward to seeing or talking to her. It is like getting to know this new person, and she is so beautiful. She colors her hair a flaming red and she loves to laugh and enjoy herself. She is fun and down to Earth. She is great to be around as she enriches the lives of others. She loves animals and nice things and she loves to talk. She has awesome style. She believes in the basic principles of life and she is interested in learning about anything. She wants to take a pottery class. I can talk to her about anything. I can ask her anything. She is supportive and full of love. She has so much to teach me. She is a great mother and a great friend. I am so proud of her, and I am so proud to be her daughter.

Mom wasn’t thrilled when I told her I was going out west. I think she was scared. But she understands now, that I am on my own path. She is happy for me and proud of me. We talk all the time. Our conversations are always positive. My mom has become my very best friend.

My childhood is long over and I am long over it. This is now, this is what matters, and I am the luckiest girl in the world to have Mom on my side, sharing in my journey.

By Cynthia Bigrigg

It’s hard to have a decent adventure in the Canadian Rockies in January. The days are short. The air is so cold that my breath sticks to my scarf in little icicles. Most of my adventuring lately had been in my head, while I am curled up under Great Aunt Helen’s yellow-and-purple honeymoon quilt…

My hair is long and it is summer. The trees and fields are green and my loose, flowy dress sticks to me with the humidity. It smells like rain and I love it. Maybe there’s someone with me or maybe there isn’t. It doesn’t matter. I’ve waited over a year for this and I want to devour it but I let it come easy, let it wash over me slowly.

I park the car in the middle of nowhere, beside some old farmer’s field. It has been plowed and I take off my shoes, let myself feel the dirt between my toes. The air is hot and the earth is perfectly damp underneath me and the sky is dark and it is glorious.

The clouds billow and roll, a great wall of deep, soft grey tumbling toward me. I walk into the distance to meet them, tripping lightly, shoes dangling from carefree fingers. Just when I think the air can’t get any hotter or heavier the sky opens up for me. First it’s a few lonely drops and I stick my tongue out to catch them. Then the heavens really let loose and the pitter-patter turns into a downpour. I look up at the sky and grin and laugh and open my arms wide as if to hug the world, and the world gives me a lightshow. Forks of lightning illuminate the field and I spin and spin and dance to the rhythm of thunder and rain.

The air is buzzing with electricity and I am drenched, my hair and dress soaked with rain. When the downpour diminishes to a drizzle and the air is cool again, I dash back to my car, the mud splashing up my legs. I drive barefoot to a house that has a warm towel and a fresh change of clothes waiting for me. I dry off and fall asleep on a porch swing to the sound of crickets and moths fluttering around the single light…

I wake up curled up on my own love seat underneath the honeymoon quilt. My apartment is cold and the window is frosted. I yank the blanket back over my head and count the days until summer and my next adventure.

By Cynthia Bigrigg

Three nights ago, just as I was falling asleep, I had a kind of vision. In it, I was dancing down the main street of my town, loose, free and full of joy. I felt wide open, carefree, as if my soul were bared for all to see. I met someone I knew on the sidewalk and stopped to say hello and give them a hug. The confidence and happiness I felt in that four second vision astounded me so much that I snapped right out of it. I was instantly sad that what I saw and felt in my mind’s eye had vanished, but what I heard and felt in my awakened state was a loud and resounding YES. It was almost New Year’s, and my love for change and progression was putting the pressure on me to come up with some sort of resolution and a plan to go with it. I had searched externally for days, online and through books, in my relationships and in my home, and tried not to be disappointed when nothing inspired me. I knew this had to be it.

So here are my resolutions for 2012:
1) Go to church regularly.
2) Follow (loosely, but DO follow) the routine I have created for myself.
3) Be single and unattached for the year (but still have fun. A lot of it.).
4) Become the more carefree, uninhibited, beautiful, more confident and unchangeably happy person that is dying to show herself from within me.

I have high hopes and expectations for this year. I want adventures. I want fun. I want to have stories that I can write about, but that I will also be able to tell my one-day children (or nieces, nephews and godchildren) – even if I have to omit details to keep the stories age-appropriate and not be accused of being a bad influence. I want new people, new connections and new opportunities. I want to accomplish things. Most of all, I want to squeeze every drop of potential out of each minute, because I am always moving forward, and when I leave, who knows if I will return.

Happy New Year!

By Cynthia Bigrigg

This has been the best year of my life. It hasn’t been the easiest, I did not spend all of it happy, parts of it were devastating and I spent at least one month of it certain that my world was going to crash down around me. But it was the best year of my life.

The second most important thing that I learned in 2011 is how much I need to NOT be seriously committed or attached to anyone for a while. I am too young for that. I (even after all of my adventures) don’t know myself well enough for that. And I am not going to commit myself to anyone else until I have committed to knowing every ounce of my mind, body and soul.

The absolute most important thing I have learned this year is that the only way I will ever be any good for myself or anyone else is to learn how to treat myself really, really well. To respect myself, pamper myself, fuel myself, let myself change and grow, let myself learn, allow myself to follow every little intuition, every gut feeling I get, and show myself complete and utter acceptance and love.

I learned how to stand up for myself, how to be firm without being mean, and how to be comfortable telling someone I love that enough is enough.

I learned that all little birds have to leave the nest, and that for me, becoming an adult meant moving far, far away – I would have remained a child under the thumbs of others if I had stayed.

I learned that grown ups really can do whatever they want, if they have the means to and are prepared to face/aren’t concerned about the consequences.

I learned how to pack my life into a car and take off, how to drive with my knees and how to pull off on the side of the road to take a nap.

I learned that someone can change, but that they can’t change another person. And I learned that it is a waste of time to try.

I learned that I have a lot to learn.

I learned that when the present is entirely satisfying and filled with joy, all of the hurt from the past feels like it existed in a whole other lifetime.

In 2011 I held six jobs until I found the right one. I met people from all over the world. I felt pride in myself and I felt success. I went cliff diving into what I swear was the world’s coldest water. I drove 3600+ kilometers. I slept in hostels and other people’s beds. I tied up loose ends and I learned that living in a space that feels good and right is imperative to my happiness.

2011 was the start of a life not dominated by responsibilities to other people, not dominated by other people’s wishes for me. It was the start of my journey and mine alone. And the journey continues.

By Cynthia Bigrigg

My first Christmas away from my family. I’m not sure how I imagined it. I’m not sure that I imagined it at all. I probably told myself that I would deal with it when the time came, every time the thought popped into the foreground of my mind. Or I may have thought “What family? I have a lot of relatives, but do I really have a family?”. Well, ’tis the season, the time has come, and I’m dealing with it. And I’m dealing with more.

Out of the five of us who comprised my original family, my father and my youngest sister are the only two who live under the same roof. My mom, middle sister and I are scattered. When my parents got a divorce, my father got a new girlfriend and a new family. Apparently we weren’t good enough for him, so he traded us in for another model. My dad and I haven’t spoken since July. I know it’s Christmas and everyone should be all warm and willing to get along, and I’m SURE somewhere it is written that it is the season of forgiveness, but I am SCARED. Quite frankly, I don’t want to give him another chance to lie to me, to let me down, to turn the tables, to fail me, to tell me how selfish and ungrateful I am because I didn’t give him his way. I don’t want to give him a chance to be mean. I am not one of those people who thinks that their father is perfect. I know he is human. And there have certainly been many times where he has been an excellent father. But there have been at least as many times where he has been deceitful and manipulative, where he has guilted and said terrible things, where he has threatened and thrown things across the room. I know that in another life, if I had gone to him and told him that a boyfriend, or anyone really, had been treating me that way, he would have said to me, “You know what to do, Cynthia.”. And I would. And I do. My parents raised me to respect myself and to have standards, and I do. But it hurts like hell that my Dad can’t be my Dad anymore.

And then there’s Mom. Mom was like the Christmas glue in our family. She would spend hours in her bedroom wrapping our presents, and then hiding them in her walk-in closet in an attempt to stop my sisters and I from snooping. She would haul the Christmas tree up from our basement and help us sort through the ornaments. She would decorate the top of the tree where we couldn’t reach. She would make cookies, “spiders” and “bark.” When I was about nine, she told us about how she and her brothers would wake up at five in the morning to open their stockings on Christmas day. This sparked a tradition with my sisters and I that would last until this year. When I was old enough to know “the truth” but my sisters still asked “Mom, do you believe in Santa Claus?” she would reply truthfully and elusively, “I believe in the magic of Christmas.” I thought hearing her say that was the most beautiful thing. Now she says all of the meaning has gone out of it. It holds nothing special for her anymore and she really dislikes it. Hearing that, it’s like the magic is gone.

I think about what my Christmas at home this year would have been like, and I can sum it up in two words: awkward and uncomfortable. Everywhere I would go, something would be wrong, someone would be missing and there would be no magic.

I am reclaiming the magic. (Again, I think there was a “bigger reason” for me coming out here).

I wasn’t expecting any Christmas cards until after Christmas. Really. The mail moves very slowly here. And yet somehow I received parcels from my mom, sisters and grandparents this week! I ripped them open with complete abandon, entirely missing the note on the back of the envelope from my sisters, which sternly warned “not to be opened until Christmas Day.” I grinned as I tore the paper and laughed as I read the messages inside. I didn’t care that to the other pedestrians I looked like a crazy person. I felt great. I felt childish. I felt the magic. When the parcel came from my grandparents (stellar wrapping job, Grandma, I know you’re reading this!) I skipped around my apartment singing “Frosty the Snowman.” I destroyed the brown paper that hid the box and made happy gasps as I pulled out the cheese, fruitcake, chocolate, earrings and the most adorable pair of pajamas, as per tradition. I thought it was the next best thing to being home. But now I think it was supposed to happen like this.

My plans to visit family in British Columbia have been thwarted. Instead, a few friends and I are gathering to make our own Christmas dinner. It won’t be like I imagined, but things rarely ever are. I know we will eat, drink and be merry, and like my Christmas parcels, there will be tidings of comfort and joy.

By Cynthia Bigrigg
I realized today that some of you may not know anything about me, other than what I have previously posted on here. I am going to correct that. Right now. Sort of. I am on a journey of happiness and healing, of self-discovery and self-creation. Here is an incomplete, not-all-encompassing, brief list of some of the things in life that bring me pure joy:

Pretty dresses ~ lit candles in the dark ~ shaking the minister’s hand at the Christmas Eve carol service ~ magnificent thunderstorms watched from the front porch ~ driving fast to country music ~ wheat fields ~ sunsets ~ sunrises ~ a big mug of steaming hot tea ~ realizing that this is the first place I have ever lived where I don’t have to share a bathroom! ~ playful puppies ~ curious kittens ~ incense ~ flowers ~ forests ~ slipping on icy sidewalks but not quite falling ~ chewy brownies ~ Christmas lights shining through a layer of fresh snow ~ girls’ nights out, especially with my mom and sisters ~ friendly strangers ~ dancing ~ red wine ~ mail ~ road trips ~ trains passing through the mountains ~ my bed ~ quiet nights alone ~ sunshine ~ pajamas ~ colourful scarves ~ being silly ~ new haircuts ~ random phone calls ~ log houses ~ baths ~ yellow the shade of butter ~ lattes ~ old things ~ lost and found things ~ good books ~ “The Little Shop Around The Corner” on a cold winter’s day ~ old friends ~ new friends ~ hats ~ beautiful places ~ beautiful spaces ~ warmth when I am cold ~ when things go better than expected ~ music ~ the smell of wood stoves ~ roast beef dinners ~ a good scare ~ hugs ~ embracing womanhood ~ re-embracing childhood ~ mountains ~ oil lanterns ~ a good massage ~ a good discussion ~ people who tell great stories ~ learning, creating, discovering more and more each day. <3

By Cynthia BigriggThe drive from my small mountain town to Edmonton, the booming capital, reminds me so much of Ontario. No majestic mountains, no spread of prairies, just gently rolling hills of sprawling farmland, now covered in a thick layer of untouched snow. Occasionally the speed limit dips from 110 to 80, and I slow to admire a whitewashed one-room town hall in the middle of nowhere, or a blink-and-you-miss-it settlement on my path. These places remind me of the scenes from my mother’s Robert Bateman calendars. Songs of my adolescence and teenage years – country music from the late ’90′s and early 2000′s – play on the radio and I turn them up loud and sing joyfully along. There’s nothing quite like driving through the country listening to those songs. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel good because it feels so familiar. It feels like “home.”
At this exact moment in time a year ago, I was preparing to give up and get going. I was depressed, unmotivated, and I felt hopelessly stuck. And now I am here. Far away and practically drinking up my small success. I feel like the polar opposite of my former self, but I feel close again to the self I was before that. Close, but better. Different.
I know I won’t stay here forever, though I grow more and more attached to my job by the day. I will stay years, yes. I will stay long enough to make a notable difference, long enough to get a good chunk of experience. But not forever. This place is just a little bit alien to me. It is certainly one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, but I don’t fit quite right here, try as I might, and I know it. I know I will always be “not from here” no matter how long I stay. I know that as long as I am young-ish, no matter how much good I do, there will still be a handful of people here who will not entirely trust me. Of course, that will give me the drive to do my best.
It’s funny to me how, when I am determined to be independent of all things Ontario, this town is my home. And I am attached to it – if you have read any previous posts, I don’t have to convince you of that. But when I ache for my family and old friends and the support that comes so easily with them, ache for country roads and evening walks and the heavy smell of rain, ache for the old kind of adventures that will welcome me unquestioned and unguarded, then, Ontario is home.
I know one day i will find my place, but I also know that I won’t have to spend my whole life searching: if home is where the heart is, then I have plenty.

By Cynthia Bigrigg

It feels like forever since I have had meaning in my life.  I can’t remember the last time and I don’t remember what the meaning was – what I was proud of myself for, what I was excited about, what I wanted to accomplish.  I must have been so lost all of those years, wandering around with no purpose and with wishy-washy dreams.

That part of my life is over.

Now when I wake up in the morning, I have a purpose, and I am excited to see my goals achieved.  I am working towards something – something for myself, and for my community.  I never knew that helping my students achieve small successes could bring me such joy, and that I would take so much pride in them.  I  never knew how grateful I could be for a boss who invests in my ongoing learning and development, and who takes a personal interest in my well-being as well.  And honestly, I never thought that working in the not-for-profit sector teaching low-literacy adults would ever, under any circumstances be the field for me.  I always thought that I would end up in the public school system, but after just two days of training for this new position, I was hooked, and I have a feeling that there is no going back now.  What could be better than teaching students who are here to learn because they want to, who take their education into their own hands, and who are more than willing to do the work involved in reaching their goals?  Like I said, I have never experienced such joy.

Maybe I had a rough year or so.  Maybe I lost my way a bit and had to do some searching.  Maybe I was broke and selfish and mopey and unreliable.  I don’t care.  I learned a lot about myself.  The most important revelation was that I won’t stand for something that isn’t right for me.  I wouldn’t change a thing, and now I am back on track.  Sure, it will take a month or two to get back on my feet, but in I am in the right place and I know it and it is amazing.

This bluestocking has a career now.  My mom always said (much to my chagrin), “Those who can, do.  Those who can’t, teach.”

She was wrong.  I’ve got both the job and the letters behind my name to prove it.