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Category Archives: wild women

Two Pink Lines

08 Sunday May 2022

Posted by Delena Rose in Mother's Day, reflections, wild women

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Mother's Day, motherhood, parenthood, pregnant, two pink lines

I was sitting in the staff washroom at the I.D.A Pharmacy in a tiny town in central Alberta. I had driven in from my cabin on Pigeon Lake, specifically to buy a pregnancy test to confirm whether or not I was pregnant.

I was six weeks late.

I had told my partner not to worry. Every once in a while I might have a late period, especially if I was under any kind of stress. I had been diagnosed with endometriosis when I was younger and told that I will probably be unable to conceive on my own. I had already had one miscarriage ten years earlier. My new boyfriend and I had only been together for three months and neither of us were ready to start a family. I was being careful and always tracked my fertility dates just to be sure. Besides, I was turning 40 in just a few days. As a OB-GYN patient, I was considered geriatric.

I was the only customer in the pharmacy. There was an elderly lady at the cash, another elderly lady who who was stocking shelves, and another elderly lady, although perhaps a little younger than the other two, working the pharmacy counter. There were four tests to choose from. One in a pink box, one in a blue box, and two in generic-looking packaging. The house brands all claimed to be 99% accurate.

“Excuse me,” I asked the shelf-stocker. Her tightly curled hair was dyed dark brown and her eyes appeared very small behind her large glasses. She slowly rose from her position, kneeling on the floor in front of an open box, and walked toward me, smiling.

“How can I help you?”

“Out of these four tests, can you recommend one in particular?”

She looked up at the top shelf where the pregnancy tests were displayed. “Well,” She said slowly. “We’re not supposed to give out medical advice…”

“But as a product…” I asked.

“Well, they all seem to say 99% accurate…” She began picking up the boxes and reading them. “Let’s just ask Bernice here at the pharmacy.” Bernice was only a few feet away and reassured me that they were all good. I chose the pink one. I don’t know why. Perhaps pink for ‘girl’. 

A thought suddenly hit me. “It just occurred to me.  If this test comes out positive, I’ll need to come right back to buy some prenatal vitamins.” I said to Bernice. “Rather than driving all the way home or going to a nearby coffee shop, could I use your staff washroom and do the test here?” I asked.

“Absolutely!” Said Bernice. “It’s just around the corner here.” She said as she pointed down a hallway just behind her.

I walked up to the front of the pharmacy and paid for the pregnancy test. The elderly lady was pleasant and avoided eye contact with me. I wondered how many other small town “girls” come through here each month, head down, buying a pregnancy test, and grateful for the discretion of this grandmotherly cashier. I took the test and made my way to the staff washroom at the back of the store. I had done this a few times before, years ago, and both tests had reported ‘negative’, ‘not pregnant’. Nothing to worry about. I read the instructions, peed midstream on the little stick, then waited.

Two pink lines. 

Two pink lines indicated the presence of human chorionic gonadotropin (hCG) hormone in my urine. 

Two pink lines meant pregnant.

Wow.  I exhaled. 

Pregnant. 

I looked in the mirror eyes wide, and suddenly smiled at myself. Forty years old… and accidentally pregnant.

“Prenatal vitamins!” I announced to Bernice as I approached the pharmacy counter once more. 

“Congratulations!” She said warmly.

“How wonderful!” My previous helper exclaimed, clapping her hands.

“Is this happy news?” The cashier asked, warmly but neutral, as I paid for the vitamins.

“Well, I am 40 years old and this was a surprise… but yes. Very happy news.” For me.

It was such a deciding moment, a slice in time cleanly dividing my life into two eras: BP: before the pregnancy- with myself as the sole priority, and AP: after the pregnancy and physically carrying a child, my child, in my belly. I was glad that I had made the choice to stay at the pharmacy and do the test there. Sharing this intimate experience with these women—even though I had never met them before, felt right. I felt surrounded and supported by their grandmotherly care and concern. I felt that this was a moment that needed to be experienced among other women. Other mothers, perhaps. I walked out of that pharmacy promising to come back when I needed more prenatal supplies and thanking the ladies for sharing in my happy moment.

“Come again anytime!” Bernice sang out. “We’re good like that.”

I am so glad that I took the time to record this story when it happened ten years ago. Sadly, the pregnancy in this story also ended in miscarriage and I had a total of three miscarriages before my son, Chayton, was born. My pregnancy with him was also “a story.” In a nutshell, I had been pregnant a third time, miscarried without knowing it (it’s called a “missed miscarriage”) and gotten pregnant again— without knowing. At my first ultrasound the technician announced that there was “nothing in there.” He was looking for an older fetus and told me that my doctor was wrong, that I was not pregnant. I was devastated but confused as my body kept telling me that I was pregnant. Three different doctors told me I was not pregnant yet every woman that I talked to said, “Listen to your body.” About a month later I went for an emergency ultrasound and they found a strong and healthy 7-week-5-day-old fetus happily minding his own business. This fourth pregnancy was viable and after being pregnant for almost a year (altogether with the two pregnancies) I had my son, Chayton Skye Danser.

Today, on Mother’s Day, I honour ALL of the Mothers in my life. All of the women who raised me, mentored me, and kicked my ass when I needed to be reminded to stand tall. All of the women who have gained mastery in their lives and showed me that this was possible for me was well. All of the quiet, nurturing women who have held me in their bosom and let me cry and cry. All of the women who have showed me through example, what it means to be strong, to be intelligent, to be creative, to be beautiful, to be a woman. I honour all of the missing Indigenous women—many of whom were mothers and all were daughters of mothers who grieve for them. Today, I also honour the mothers in Ukraine (war), Shanghai (endless lockdown), Afghanistan (oppression), and India (extreme heat), and elsewhere around the world who today are enduring unbearable conditions while trying to raise children or grandchildren. And I honour my son’s grandma, Lorraine Danser who always has a smile and hug ready for Chatie. I honour my grandmother, Rose Delna Nabess (Ducharme) whose name I carry and who passed away when I was 12 years old. Finally, I honour my own mother, Barbara Lucille Jashyn (Nabess), who passed away nine years ago and never got to meet the miracle of her grandson. May your strength and beauty be reflected in some way in my own life. And may I be a “Mother” to those around me in their moments of need.

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journalling… and a special creativity journal

09 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by Delena Rose in make it, mindfulness, play, wild women, write

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

collage, creativity journal, images, inner work, inspiring words, journal, postcards, quotes, writing

journalsI have kept a journal for most of my life and have found it of great benefit in clarifying my thoughts and articulating my dreams and goals as they have emerged and evolved over the years. In my teenage years, I chose pretty blank journals and used a fountain pen with various colors of ink, loving the way the ink flowed from pen to paper in elegant lines and arches. For the last decade, I made the switch to mechanical pencil with a fine .5 mm tip. I am very picky about my writing tools: the pencil must be comfortable enough to hold for long periods of writing, the journal must feel good in the hand, lie open nicely, and have high quality pages.

As a writer, I also had an inclination toward meditation and reclusiveness, and so have maintained for most of my life a decent balance. ~Francis Mayes, Bella Tuscany

There is something very therapeutic about writing long-hand, even more so, I find, than typing on a computer. Some writers write all of their novels, poems or plays long-hand in spiral notebooks or on yellow legal pads. They say it has something to do with how writing by hand slows the mind processes down enough to fully capture the richness of their thoughts. Whatever it does, journaling and writing by hand has always helped me ‘go deep’ within myself. It also keeps me honest and allows me to be my own best friend as I can vent and complain and giggle and whisper and dream silently into the pages of my journals. The insights that come to me, often unexpectedly, as I write turns the monologue into an interesting and lively dialogue, with burning questions answered and endless more curiosities opened up.

creativity journal

We must be free to follow our muse, and often that means what amuses us… Carl Jung has remarked that creativity is the imagination at play with the things that it loves… ~Julia Cameron

This is my creativity journal. It is unique in that it features the thoughts, ideas and images produced by others. I used to collect photos, postcards, cut-outs from magazines and newspapers and brochures; just anything that caught my attention. For many years, I kept these visual treasures in a small box until the box became too full to hold anymore. Instead of hiding them away any longer, I thought it would be a great idea to put all of these images into a journal so that I could have easier access to them and enjoy them more regularly. I started by choosing a sturdy blank journal.

DSC01276I spread out all of the pictures and grouped them intuitively, not by theme or content, but by color and texture. (This was about eight years ago.) Then I took each grouping and arranged them in my journal, using double-sided tape to hold them in place. There was still some blank spaces on each page and I decided that I would use the space to record some of my favorite quotes. I normally underline favorite passages in the books I read but every once in a while I would come across an incredibly juicy, startling or brilliant phrase that I just had to record somewhere safe so that I would never lose it.

The storm came up out of the southwest like a fiend, stalking its prey on legs of lightening. ~Clive Barker, Abarat

It took another six years of slowly gathering more images and filling the empty spaces with inspiring words, interesting stickers and vintage rubber stamp images, until one day, the journal was full and could not hold anything more.

creativity journal8The passages are written in different colored inks, pencil crayon, calligraphy inks, even watercolor paint. Everything was done intuitively, from the arrangement of the images, to the placement of the quotes, to the color and size of the hand-writing. I once heard an artist explain that this type of intuitive creative expression is a mirror of our subconscious. I like to think that if someone took a walk inside my mind, that this is exactly what they would find. A gallery of ideas, colors and words…

Make thy books thy companions. Let thy cases and shelves be thy pleasure ground and gardens. ~Judah ibn-Tibbon

creativity journal7

When I first started writing poetry, I kept what I call an ‘image bank’; a photo album I stuffed with museum post cards of paintings, photos, typed lists of words I liked, anything that struck me as co-related with the writing process… Traveling, I’m especially aware of storing what I experience and see. ~Francis Mayes, Bella Tuscany

creativity journal6

I used to pack this journal along with me on trips and I would read it, cover to cover, like a novel. Now, the binding is getting old and the cover quite frayed, so I keep in it a drawer next to my bed and sometimes enjoy the last quiet moments of my evening enjoying the creativity journal. Many ideas for projects have come out of this ongoing process…

Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world. But a few do not. JOIN THEM. ~Arthur Shopenhauer & R. Sharma

creativity journal5

When you meet a person who has inner authentic presence, you find he (she) has an overwhelming genuineness, which might be somewhat frightening because it is so true and honest and real. You experience a sense of command radiating from the person of inner authentic presence. This is not just charisma. The person with inner authentic presence has worked on himself (herself) and made a thorough and proper journey. He (she) has earned authentic presence by letting go, and by giving up personal comfort and fixed mind. ~Chogyan Trungpa Rinpoche

creativity journal4

I dreamed a limitless book, a book unbound, its leaves scattered in fantastic abundance. On every line there was a new horizon drawn, new heavens supposed; new states, new souls. One of these souls, dazing through some imagined afternoon, dreamed these words. and needing a hand to set them down, made mine. ~Clive Barker, Abarat

creativity journal3

… if you follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in the field of your bliss, and they open the doors for you. I say, follow your bliss and don’t be afraid, and doors will open where you didn’t know they were going to be. ~Joseph Campbell

creativity journal2

Chamdi and Guddi wait for the carriage to pass and then they both run behind it. There is a hutch in the back, small enough for them to fit in, and Guddii gets on and sits down. She faces him now and stretches her arms out for him, and Chamdi tells himself that he does not want to get on that carriage, no, he will spend his entire life running behind this girl because the moment he steps into the carriage her arms will no longer be outstretched. No one has ever done this for him, stretched out their arms, although he has dreamed of this moment many times, but in his dreams it has been his mother and father coming to the orphanage as he runs into their arms. He has never pictured a girl his own age with brown hair and yellow teeth, but this is better, so much better. He does not realize that the carriage is moving farther and farther away from him, and he does not care. All he wants is to carry this image in his brain for the rest of his life. ~Anosh Ikani, The Son of Kahunsha

creativity journal1This creativity journal, which took years to fill up, is deeply personal and filled-to-overflowing with images and words that inspire and delight me. When asked, “If your home was ever on fire and you could only take one thing, one object, what would it be?” My answer is always the same with no hesitation: my creativity journal. This collection is invaluable to me.

As you may have guessed, I have already started on a second creativity journal. I always seem to pick up treasures as I go about my day. Sometimes they are smooth stones, bits of drift wood or feathers… Sometimes they are experiences, such as a fleeting glance of a silver fox in the light of a full moon… And sometimes they are in the form of a thought-provoking image or a snatch of delicious poetry. Capturing these in a creativity journal allows me to spend time savoring them again and again, to grow old with these thoughts and ideas, and to respond to them with my own creative expressions by seeing what emerges from this ever-evolving, playful process.

We all have to do our own interior work. It’s our highest responsibility. To examine yourself and get to know the real you- your true self- and all you are as a human being is the central aim of life. To know more about yourself so you can be more for the world is the ultimate journey. Genuine success in life is an inside job. ~R. Sharma

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Cedar Spirit Flutes

27 Tuesday Dec 2011

Posted by Delena Rose in handmade, Native flute, wild women

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cedar, Cedar Spirit flutes, fire-killed cedar, hand carved, Kooteney mountains, Native flute, play Native flute, soap stone carving, Spring Shine, totem

The carving comes so easily to me, perhaps because I approach it with such reverence. I invite the spirit of the totem animal to come into the wood, just as I invite the spirit of the ancient fire-killed cedar I use for the flute body to come into the world and share its music. ~Spring Shine

Not too long ago, I used to play a small cedar Native Flute. I had only been playing it for a few years when I misplaced it in the move out to the cabin. Since then I have really been missing it and was hoping to find another flute soon.

Then just a few months ago, I heard a Native flute played at a drumming circle and got the contact information of the artist who made the flute. It turns out that Canadian artist, Spring Shine, was just ‘next door’ in the Kooteneys, British Columbia. I ordered my new Native flute and a month later (last week) it arrived in the mail!

Spring Shine of Cedar Spirit Flutes makes handcrafted, one-of-a-kind Native flutes in the tradition of the Plains Indian “Love Flutes”. Your flute is completely your own as you choose the scale (or tone) of your flute as well as your own unique totem, which Spring hand carves. No two totems are alike and they can be custom-carved to an image of your choice. For example, I wanted my flute to be a ‘woman’s flute’- to be played specifically for Mother Earth in honor and gratitude for her abundance in providing everything I need to survive. So I specifically chose an image of the Venus of Willendorf (discovered while studying art history) as for me she was a powerful representation of the nurturing, abundant image of ‘Earth Mother’.

I emailed this picture (above) to Spring and he carved it for me as my personal totem on my flute. Click here to see some of the other totems he has carved. He also makes beautiful carvings in soapstone.

The flutes are made from ancient cedar trees that have died naturally by fire and are gathered from the land that Spring lives on. They are hand-finished with organic linseed oil and beeswax.

Spring makes a variety of flutes, including a double flute, where one body plays a drone and the other plays the melody.

The flutes are shipped in a thick plastic tube, which acts as a carrying case when you slip the tube into the attached canvas backpack. There is also a smaller canvas bag, which holds the flute.

I am now ready to sit with this beautiful new flute. I am ready to learn her unique voice and character and together make the earthy windy music that I love so much.

The sound of my flute carries through the forest like a dream. ~Cedar Spirit customer Ressa Cook

 

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reflections on wind and trees

03 Saturday Dec 2011

Posted by Delena Rose in appreciate the seasons, wild women

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

air, change, elemental air, embrace change, Lucy, nature teaches, resistance, wind, wind teachings, windy

 Two nights ago, we had a ferocious windstorm here in the Pigeon Lake area. It began around 10 pm and raged all night and into the next morning. I love storms and dramatic weather so it was quite exciting to hear the deafening ROAR of the wind coming off of the lake and engulfing the cabin as it passed through. I love listening to the different voices of the wind as it moves through the trees and branches: the howling, whistling and whooshing… the delicate rustle of dry grass moving against one another… the trees bending and knocking against one another, adding a unique layer of percussion to this already dynamic soundscape.

While skiing this morning, I paid particular attention to how this powerful wind felt against my body. I noticed the resistance I experienced when skiing head-on into the wind as I squared my body and tried to block this opposing force. I felt the sting of ice particles hitting my face and how I suddenly felt colder. In that moment, it felt like the wind was a separate, negative and opposing force; challenging me and preventing me from reaching my goal.

As I rounded the loop in the trail, I noticed how my experience changed with the wind now at my back. Suddenly befriended, I felt the wind helping and pushing me down the long gentle slope. No longer resisting the wind, I used my body to harness it and allow it to push me in the direction that I needed to go. Working together with the wind, I now felt warmer and supported.

At the end of one long loop the wind seemed even stronger (a deafening ROAR) and this time I stopped to fully experience it. I watched the wind dance its spiral dance, picking up giant swirls of snow as it travelled over the field… I noticed the way the trees would bend and sway and did not seem to resist to the wind but, in fact, seemed to open up their arms to the wind and welcome it…  Inspired by this thought, I put my ski poles down and I, too, opened up my own arms wide to fully embrace the wind. I relaxed my body and allowed the wind to blow through my arms and legs and and push me around. I became wild… I became a tree… I imagined my own roots moving deep into the earth, grounding and rooting me. I felt my trunk being pushed and twisting gently sideways…  my arms swaying like a puppet on a string.  For a time, I simply danced like this with the wind, bending, swaying and gently spinning… I could not help but laugh like a child and hum along… Again, I noticed my own response to the wind, this time playful, cooperative, companionate and joyful. I yearned to fly.

I thought about the metaphor: the winds of change… I reflected on what the wind teaches regarding change in our lives and in our ways of either resisting or welcoming change.

I know that when I feel a force in my life that appears to be against me, I often square my shoulders, become a wall and try to block this ‘wind’, resisting this change. I know from my own observations that wind (or change) cannot be stopped and that sometimes forming a wall of resistance only serves to strengthen and redirect the opposing wind in even more destructive directions.

Today, I took a lesson from the trees. They do not resist the wind by trying to block it. Instead, they relax and allow wind to pass through, embracing it, moving with it, and in turn diminishing and transforming it. Today, I experienced the difference in my body, of how simply changing my posture in relationship with the wind (or, metaphorically to change) changed my entire experience of it. Instead of opposition, I experienced ‘flow’ and the power of aligning myself with this natural force. Instead of frustration, I was lighthearted and laughing. In the midst of this powerful storm, I danced.

I also learned from Lucy, who did not for a moment resist the wind. Instead, putting her nose high in the air, she became perfectly still and reverent and closed her eyes…  I watched as she inhaled deeply, taking in all of the many faint aromatic messages carried by the wind from faraway places… and then she smiled.

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calling all wild women…

06 Tuesday Sep 2011

Posted by Delena Rose in more about us, wild women

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, friendship, wild women, women who run with wolves

I had a dear friend come to spend the day here at the cabin. It was wonderful spending time with another woman with whom I connect with. We hadn’t been in touch for years until a chance meeting at a hardware store recently brought us back in contact. Today we talked, got all caught up on the last few years of our lives, cooked together, looked at her recent wedding photos, hiked with Lucy on the trails, and sat on the deck wrapped in blankets, sipping hot tea while watching the moon rise.

There have been so many changes in my life recently and I found it such a comfort to share all of my stories with a kind and kindred female spirit. Just these past two weeks, I have spent the day with two other female friends who also deeply nourished my spirit. To my dear friends, M, F & S, and for all of you other wild women out there, (I know you’re out there!) I dedicate this quote to you:

…And then there are the cravings.. Oh, la! A woman may crave to be near water, or be belly down, her face in the earth, smelling the wild smell. She might have to drive into the wind. She may have to plant something, pull things out of the ground or put them into the ground. She may have to knead and bake, rapt in dough up to her elbows.

She may have to trek into the hills, leaping from rock to rock trying out her voice against the mountain. She may need hours of starry nights where the stars are like face powder spilt on a black marble floor. She may feel she will die if she doesn’t dance naked in a thunderstorm, sit in perfect silence, return home ink-stained, paint-stained, tear-stained, moon-stained.

A new self  is on the way. Our inner lives, as we have known them, are about to change…

~Clarissa Pinkola Estes (Women Who Run With The Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype)

Good night, wild women…

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