Capable.

I carved my first, and second pumpkin ever yesterday, in tandem, having never carved a pumpkin before I was in deeper than I had bargained for.  I took the boys to a carving craft event and, of course, I didn’t really think that I would be doing most of the carving.  During the course of the carving they helped me find the right tools and helped too. It was not as hard as I thought it was going to be.  There are so many things in life that we don’t attempt or do because we are afraid that, for whatever reason, we are not capable.

I know I can’t sing.  I used to mouth the words in elementary school during choir.  I was afraid that I sounded terrible and might just ruin it for everyone if I was to let out the squawk that my singing voice was and still is.  I could probably though, with a voice coach and some training passably move through a karaoke session and impress a small audience of undiscerning listeners with my learned voice.

We can, if we really want to, become better at something; we just have to know that the door is open for us if we really want it to be open.  We can’t be afraid.  I remember graduating high school and moving straight into university.  I quit rather quickly, but I didn’t quit with grace I just stopped going and eventually when I went back and finished, bringing my GPA up was a herculean effort because of the poor grades I had let myself get.  I dropped one political science class because I was petrified to do a ten page paper.  I had never done a ten page paper and didn’t even know where to start or how to ask for help.  I didn’t admit I was afraid.  My professor did not want me to quit the class; he thought I had some promise.  I did quit but eventually I went back, by the end of my final semester before graduating I was taking five courses and working three jobs while whipping out 20 page papers.  I overdid it, as I usually do, but I was determined near the end not to be hungry and to get my degree.

And I discovered something spectacular after finally going back and finishing, I was really great at English Lit courses and I really liked them.  I had always loved to read, you would find me buried in a book while walking home from school- and sometimes into a tree- you would find me buried in a book at a sleepover- in effect keeping me away from the scary world of girls socializing- and you would find me buried in a book before I went to bed.  I loved to read and eventually I loved to write.  I started writing poetry in grade seven, that year, on the same stage where I had mouthed the words to many a choir song I stood up and read my poem to an audience of parents and fellow classmates.  Only one person was chosen to read their poem and that was me.

At this point, a career in writing and English would seem a no brainer to most.  I have a thick head and it took to many years, some dark and some light, to finally come to the place that I have today.  I have my degree in English- recently found and dusted off-and next to it I have my first published piece of work – an essay from 2011 in the Globe and Mail.  It took me too many years but I am less afraid, of being the writer I am supposed to be.  I am working on a book and early on I almost stopped because I thought, “Who do I think I am, do I think I can write a book?  I’ve never written a book.  I can’t do it.” I just about shelved the whole thing when a tiny little voice from inside of me that was quite persistent, said “You can do it.”  I’ve got two carved pumpkins and two happy boys to prove that when you dive in and just do something, as long as you have the right tools and the right encouragement, you can do it.

My guys hard at work.

I quit smoking - Nine years ago.

I quit smoking –nine years ago.  Tonight as I left work I breathed in the fresh air and the tail end of someone else’s smoke as I rounded the corner away from the office.  I have never been disdainful (in fact once in a while I enjoy those whiffs more than I care to admit) of those who smoke after I quit.  I know how hard it can be.  To quit.  It was hard, even cancer didn’t quite put the brakes on the urge like I hoped it would.  Nothing seemed to work.

The love affair started somewhere after I turned sixteen, high school and a desire to rebel against something and perhaps be a little cooler than I actually was combined to create the perfect storm of a future smoker.  Add in a subsequent summer trip to Eastern Europe where everyone smoked everywhere - ashtrays in the office -I was hooked.  I smoked my heart out.  It was like the friend who was always there, a cigarette listened to my problems, my deep seated mistrust of myself as it connected or, in most cases, disconnected from the world – was solved for a moment when I smoked.  Nothing else mattered. With my coffee in the morning, with my drinks at night, with friends outside, at the office, at a party:  Smokers, my people.

I was never quite good at being a smoker, I always needed to have a drink of some kind to coat my throat from the searing the cigarette caused as it was inhaled: A coffee, ice tea, water, martini, something, anything to go with the smoke.  I would wake up in anticipation of that cigarette, some mornings it was the thing that got me out of bed.  My treat to myself. 

My boyfriends smoked, most of them, and the ones who didn’t, I am truthfully not quite sure how they put up with the stink.  Cigarettes smell bad. Period.  I used to coat myself in perfumes and mints to cover it up but ultimately nothing short of a shower and a laundry wash of my clothes made any difference.  There was the one time I smoked on an airplane (yes I am that old) and I was sick to my stomach from the stench of my neighbour’s cigarette.  I am not sure what kind it was but whoa it was too much, even for a fellow smoker.

I tried to quit a few times throughout the years but never had much luck.  I kept trying.  I would tell myself, you smell bad, this is bad for your health, this is- breaking the bank account-expensive, what in the world are you doing, still smoking?  How many years has it been?  I had cancer, I quit for a while.  I started again. And the cycle was vicious, quit, look longingly at all those people enjoying their few moments of peace as they breathed it in and breathed it out- and I would start again as soon as I was really upset over something or sometimes just because I could.   And then I quit one day for good.  How did I know it would stick?  I didn’t, I just had to have the faith.  I was pregnant; after all, I had to give it one good try.  One year later my husband quit.