childhood, Uncategorized

Idle hands idle minds

Growing up our time was scheduled. All of it. What we ate, what time we ate, how long we had to eat. The same with reading, praying, sleeping, study. It was all scheduled right down when and for how long.

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Ever read how to do mind control? How to make someone malleable to your ideals. It has some similarities. Once I was in the world, in a real school with access to a real library I read a lot. About cults, Satanism, mind control, sociology, psychology, and of course romance. I loved the worlds I visited in books. I still do.

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Back to the scheduled time and being busy. Once I was on my own and starting to get the hang of functioning as a responsible (adult) in the world. I began making money, paying rent, trying to cook for myself and learn how to be around people. I found out that they (the ones I knew) spent a lot of time sitting, watching TV. I didn’t understand it. I had difficulty following the humor as most show’s make references to things in life everyone knows as common knowledge. Unless you grow up locked away with no radio, newspapers, television, news or outside contact. A few years ago I was listening to a comic and got so excited because I GOT his jokes. I had been in the world long enough to understand the references. Seems like a small thing but it isn’t.

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I tried so hard to learn to sit and do nothing. To sit and watch television, to lay at the beach, to sit around talking. It was difficult and I’m still not very good at sitting still for long. I did have a few years where I was actually good at it. Although in hindsight that may have been due to stress and depression. That’s a story for a different time.

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Back to scheduled time … I always felt guilty if I wasn’t doing something. I still do – makes it very difficult to paint my nails! I fear missing out on life. FOMO they call it nowadays.  I don’t’ want to miss the warm weather, the cold weather, the snowflakes, the giant droplets of rain to dance in,  the sky, the clouds shapes. I just want to do and play in every moment until I need a rest. All those moments that should be spent doing not resting. I’m now starting to think that’s because I grew up with my time scheduled. Taught to be busy. That idle hands cause idle minds which then begets trouble.

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Reblog to help a friend…

I have never reblogged something before. This hard-working young man asking for help seemed worth a share on facebook a few cups of coffee and a reblog. Kudo’s to him for not only going out of his comfort zone but also for not giving up!

Happy Saturday everyone 🙂

Cyranny's Cove

Hello Lovelies!

We all go through rough times at some point of our life. And when it hits, even if you work your hardest, it may seem like nothing’s turning up positive. Family matters, health issues, lack of a job…  Troubles add up, and at some point, you have to be able to ask for help.

Colin, from “Welcome to my World” is having a tough time lately. The young dad is working hard to get the training to become a driving instructor and provide for his family, but the bills are adding up faster than the money coming in.

If you have a couple of dollars to spare and a big heart, please come and pay a visit to the link below.

“Sharing is caring” they say   🙂

I never thought I would ever, in my life, write a post like this. As I am writing this I’m not…

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Uncategorized, vacation

On a lighter note

It seems my posts got a little serious lately so I thought I’d try and find something a little lighter for a change. How about a little peek of our awesome trip to Silverwood theme park this week complete with photos!

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My daughter turned SIXTEEN last year and after much thought, she chose a family trip as her birthday present. Love that she considers family trips that highly as she was offered a horse, pet pig, and other such wonderful pets. In case you don’t know my daughter she adores animals of all shapes and sizes.

 

Pictured above: pet George the huge snail eating a banana that she befriended during our visit to Kenya. Hugs with her cat that randomly moved in and adopted us one winter. My daughter with her friends and brother proudly showing off their huge collection of slugs during a trip to the Westcoast. Just a few examples of her love of living creatures.

As you can see I was surprised she turned down another pet. I was actually extremely relieved! Two pets are enough for me as both kids are now getting ready to learn to be on their own. I have a feeling when they go the pets are staying! If you follow my Instagram you have probably surmised the dog has me wrapped around his little paw!

It turns out I didn’t take photo’s at Silverwood this trip. Maybe because I took so many when we went 7 years ago. Or maybe because the kids wanted to do their own thing and seem to keep a frowny face whenever the camera swings there way. I do have one priceless photo…

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So obviously that isn’t us. I thought it would be helpful to see it’s a rather steep descent that makes everyone scream…

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Just to explain the reason behind the next photo…

 

 

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Yes, that is me… hair straight back, eyes tightly closed, shreaking for my life and it hurtles past me with a rocking clacking racket at top speed. I kept that expression for the ride called Aftershock – the floor folds away from you before the ride starts!! No I didn’t have to ride it however my son couldn’t be telling his friends he went to Silverwood and didn’t ride it. The plan to go in it scared us so bad we couldn’t eat our dinner.

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My son – the back right already knew what to expect as the poor bugger road that alone when he was 9 years old. He was white as a sheet after that ride. He thought he was going to fall out of it as his butt never even touched the seat once the ride started. A thin bar he says, no seat belt he says, I thought I was going to fall right out of it he says…. so this time he felt much safer… His friend didn’t seem to feel very safe… He didn’t leave the wave pool for two days after that ride! My daughter like me likes to close her eyes and pretend it will be fine. The  ‘this isn’t really happening to me’ mindset. Her friend obviously goes eyes wide open terrified of what will come next. She was probably wondering what kind of family does this to kids calling it fun!

The following evening I thought it best to take the terrified young man for some kiddie rides so he doesn’t leave Silverwood with the taste of terror in his mouth. It took some bribery for him to even consider leaving the water park as he was quite certain we never needed to go to the amusement park side again! We went the swing, the frog hop (my children are pictured below – the middle two from our first trip ). The teen girls were also there in line to ride this cute little frog.

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And of course lastly kids the Ferris wheel. Complete with animal seats and umbrellas built for all sizes but meant for the kids and faint of heart riders. After the animal Ferris wheel ride, he was a happy young man, he came running towards me with an excited smile saying how awesome it was…. Until he remembered my teen son was also with him at which point he pretended it wasn’t quite that big a deal!

 

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My adorable daughter on our first trip. I asked her if she wanted to change before we go into the park. My daughter: hands on hips looks down saying, ‘ what’s wrong with this outfit? I’m wearing all my favourite clothes!’ I let her wear it. I mean really who am I to judge what looks good on the outside when she feels confident and happy inside and out?!

 

childhood, Uncategorized

How could she 

So here’s the question of my mid-life emotional crisis. HOW COULD SHE???

I look at my children who are now teenagers. Gangly, pimply, know everything and nothing. Pushing me away and then needing me. Hugging me then turning away from too much contact with “mom”. How they need me and manage to admit it once in a while. The fragile grip they have on adulthood. The guidance needed to help them become confident individuals that are happy and give back to society.

So how could she let me go at 13? How could she deny me at 14 to return? I sat waiting, praying, mentally in anguish begging ‘please let them say yes’. I wanted to come home.  So I sat waiting for the staff meeting to end. Waiting to find out what their vote would be. Would I be allowed to live at home again with my mother or would I be sent away?

What I didn’t know at 13 was that if you left you couldn’t just come back even if your parents were there. I left because I was angry at the lack of understanding over my grief. I left because I was overwhelmed with loss and fear. I left because I never knew if mom would do as she said. Would I come home to an empty house? I never knew if she would be locked in the house in the bedroom in the closet with daddy’s bloody clothes. Or if she would be gone with the little ones. The rifles and ammunition gone as well. Maybe it would be their bloody clothes I would have to add to dads. She kept saying it would be easier to do that. The fear was staggering at that age. She had already proved to me once that she would take the younger ones and abandon me.

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So I left. I said goodbye, got on my bicycle and peddled away. Six months later I wanted to return. I missed my siblings and mother. Mother seemed to be doing better now. It was then that I learned you can’t just move back with mom. That the commune has to vote and decide if I should be allowed home. Who fucking knew that at 13? I should have known. Even though no other child had left like I did I should have known. No other child dare ask the questions that I did. Dared to stand up when I thought things didn’t make sense or seemed odd. I didn’t realize what I pain in the ass I was to those idealists.

So some select commune leaders held a meeting to decide my fate. I sat on pins and needles. My stomach in my throat. If I chewed my nails they would have been bloody stubs that night. The unanimous decision was NO.

I was shocked. I had had a friend on my side in that meeting. I had thought she would sway their hearts and minds. I was born and raised in this lifestyle. They made me! My dad had devoted his life to this lifestyle. He had helped build the world they wanted to hide in. Yet they said NO. I was even more shocked that mom accepted their decision. What kind of mother is that? This is Christianity at it’s finest moments. The golden jewel for their crowns.

I would like to think those adults as they grew old regretted turning me away. Realize how cruel to deny a child her mother. Send her to the streets. They made me for fuck’s sake. I was born into that. It wasn’t my fault my father taught me to not be a sheep. To think for myself, to ask questions, be inquisitive. He taught me to be an individual not afraid to stand on my own. To question and learn, to try and understand.

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I know deep down those people prayed for me. Felt they did the right thing. Maybe they never gave that decision another thought. Over the years they grasped on all the fabricated juicy gossip they could. Adding to it and spreading it further. Trying to condone to themselves what they had done. I hope there is a heaven.  And I hope to hell that at those pearly gates they are reminded of the young me. The child that needed love and understanding, not the boot.

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street youth, Uncategorized

How alone are we really

Sometimes I think it’s funny how I’m so used to being alone.  That I chose to do things alone. As a teen, I had no choice. My mother didn’t want me. My extended family didn’t want me. The commune was terrified to have me around questioning them. I was a problem they had created. So I was sent away. The rebel, the black sheep, the one to pray for and to keep out. Keep your children away from her. Warn others not to take her in.

Fired

Now at 40, I’m so used to being alone that I crave it at times. I don’t feel as alone and desolate as I did. That heavy blackness that sucks every part of your being in.  Worse than a black hole. Desperately clawing thru the darkness trying to find the light. Gasping chest heaving silent sobs choking you. That heavy aloneness.

I had a heartbreaking revelation in the middle of the night as a teen. We are like grains of sand. Millions of specks that blend together. Disappear in the chaos of life. I realized I was utterly alone when I might need someone to help me. Hug me, hold me, push back the darkness for me when I was too tired to do it any longer. It took a couple more decades to realize we are only as alone as we choose to be.

One morning at about 5 am I called my aunt sobbing. I had been fighting the demons all night. Trying to understand why I was alone. Why I had no one. Why I was unwanted. I was wanted. I had two dear friends who wanted me but I felt so lost, so confused, so unworthy I hid from them. From their love and support. So here I was calling my aunt. I asked her, “Is this what you meant when you said we are all ultimately alone?” Woken from a dead sleep she struggled to understand me. She had no idea what I was talking about so I ended the call. My mother came to visit and brought me lunch shortly after that call. She was of little comfort to me.

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I didn’t know how to put into words how the demons came at night. Attacking my carefully built walls. Undermining my happiness. I didn’t realize then that something as simple as exercise, sunshine, a nearby friend would help chase those thoughts away.

Now after a full day or a weekend with others I’m exhausted. I need rest, quiet, to be alone. To regain my strength.  For sitting listening to the ebb and flow of conversation, watching the different types of personalities. It leaves me drained. Even when with those that I love and adore.  The ones that I can be myself with. Even that exhausts me. Leaves me weak and depleted, aching craving rest.

I still do things alone. I prefer to be with a friend of course but I don’t let it hold me back. I go out for lunch, kayak the lake, hike the trails, talk to my dog, have a bottle of wine. Live life in general alone. Not afraid anymore. Demons don’t haunt my nights anymore. Turns out this a good quality for me to have as I now have an amazing boyfriend who happens to be a rig worker. As in he is away half the time. I joked on our four year anniversary it’s actually two since he’s gone half the time. Apparently, I’m the only one that finds that funny.

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childhood, Uncategorized

Writing my story

I used to love writing. I wrote a short story when I was maybe eleven years old. Now I find it hard to write. Maybe it’s harder now as it’s easier to remember the negative the hurtful than the nice memories. Or maybe after not writing for so long. Maybe it’s a lazy underused muscle. Maybe my avid love of reading has made my writer side lazy.

 

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I just noticed the fascination for the name Giggles started at a young age with me!

 

When I was young a few very hurtful and emotionally damaging things happened. We subsequently moved and I lost the fragile hold of budding friendships. Lost the comfort of what I finally felt was home. I had been betrayed by my family, my friend, abandoned by my mother. The realization that nothing is real. That love and family is just a word hits hard and maybe never fully heals.

I learned in that time that without a doubt the Biblical time of the end we were being taught was indeed very easily an option. The second coming of Christ, the second death for those not deemed worthy. The hunt and persecution of those in the wrong religion. Ours, of course, would be the wrong one. It was us that would be put to death after horrible torture once our family had turned on us. That was some of my childhood bible stories. Who needs stories of the monster under the bed when you have those.

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Back to my point about why writing is hard. Why it leaves me with a sense of guilt. Yet another excuse to not put my pen to paper. Or in this case fingers to keys.

Since we were isolated there was little for options of lashing out, acting out. I knew nothing of the world except what was deemed appropriate to tell. The basis of truth behind the stories built upon the tellers’ opinion. An opinion from someone who chose to leave the world for a commune lifestyle. See how that is a questionable source?

I wrote as I knew no other outlet. I wrote my pain and anger. My story, my fears, my heartbreak. I had pen pals – remember those? I think my mail probably was blocked to them.  No matter where I wrote my story, where I hid it mother found it. She would be livid every time. How dare I write even in fiction about our pain. Our deep embarrassing secret that really wasn’t a secret as everyone knew it. How dare I put to paper what should never be admitted. I kept writing and she kept finding them. ‘Never write down what you don’t want people to know’ she would say. What she didn’t want to face up to is more like it. Eventually, I let it go and began a new quest… BOYS!

childhood, Uncategorized

Baking bread

Growing up we made everything we ate. Even at one point grinding our own flour. We made our tofu, mixed our seasonings, stored our food for winter by canning, drying, and freezing. As a little girl I ‘helped’ with all of this. Of course, I began to want to do it on my own! My first cookie dough creation was ‘tasty’ to be sure. I was maybe 4 at the time.

By nine I wanted to make some money and came up with the idea to bake bread and sell it to the families. I realize the contradiction of wanting to earn money when we rarely left the farm and certainly didn’t purchase items very often.  The farm had a store that carried many items that making yourself would be difficult. It was a brilliant idea really. The families received a ‘stipend’ for working there and in turn gave it right back to the farm by purchasing from their store.

It was the juice boxes that got me. We didn’t drink anything but water outside of mealtime. A juice box was unheard of prior to this store.  A tiny box filled with juice that came with a straw that bent… I was hooked.

Smiley orangy juice box boy with its shadow and a straw on it

So here I was with a great idea to bake and sell bread to the local families. My mother even supported it once we had dad’s approval. She got out a piece of paper and we labored over the cost of a bag of flour versus the amount used in a batch of bread that yielded 7 loaves. We did the same for each ingredient. The cost of electricity was harder to decipher. Pretty sure she came up with a low sum like 0.50 a batch. Now we had the cost per loaf and just needed to add on profit. I sold the loaves for $1 each. Making one batch each Friday. After paying mom back I probably made maybe 25 cents per loaf but was happy as a clam.

I knew the recipe by heart. Add yeast to the brown sugar and warm water. While waiting for the yeast to rise, mix the dry ingredients. White and whole wheat flour and a pinch of salt. Once the yeast had risen to a proper head add oil and mix it all together slowly adding more flour until the dough was the needed consistency to knead by hand. Shape into a ball and cover with a towel to let rise. Half an hour later beat and knead it back down. Definitely one of my favorite parts. Then shape into loaves placing them into the pans to rise again while the oven preheated.

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I did all of this alone as a nine-year-old for almost a year. Since no one was looking I used more white than whole wheat flour. I added extra brown sugar and oil to the batches. I had the best bread in the entire community and they loved it. The women would ask my secret and I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders. I knew what it was – adding extra oil and sugar. Less whole wheat and more white flour. You know the good stuff! I also knew not to admit that to anyone. Our diet was slowly getting better, we ate supper now, we had margarine instead of corn meal spread acting as margarine. We ate leavened bread and even had Mr. Noodles sometimes. But to admit to changing the recipe – well that would have ended my baking career.

questions, Uncategorized

 Do you have siblings

Such a common question. An easy way to keep a conversation going as you get to know someone. My answer has always been yes. However today I am realizing that even though I am the oldest I feel more like an only child. And am probably not far off really.

Being the eldest and old enough to feed them, change diapers, and babysit; it was more like being a little mother.  In a way, it was like having the best doll in the world. My dolly actually cried, peed, waved their arms, and had drawers full of outfits to be put into. Much better than any replica doll I ever found for my children. My ‘dolly’ had soft soft skin and smelt delicious like only babies do. My dolly would hug me and follow me around where ever I went. Forever a faithful shadow even when I no longer wanted one.

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Taken on one of my bi-annual visits a few years before mom passed

When I was dating a test question was always, ‘are you prepared to help me raise my siblings?’ It wasn’t exactly a first date question. Definitely came up if things ever looked mildly serious. My ex-husband used to wonder how the heck I knew I would be raising my siblings as my own. He must have thought I had some sort of psychic power. In hindsight, the man had no clue the kind of woman I was and certainly didn’t know how to walk the path I found the strength to walk. With a smile, I might add.

I had no idea my mother would pass much too young. Never once did I dream we would be orphans with me barely legally old enough to claim them as my own.

I did, however, believe for years that my siblings would question the lifestyle that they were born into and leave. Go in search of more. More knowledge, more answers, more choices. The same things I had searched for but didn’t know how. The same questions I asked and didn’t find the answer for until long past searching for them. Maybe my questions were unusual for no one seemed to have the answers. Or maybe in my shame and low self-esteem I was surrounding myself with those that wouldn’t know. People that had those same questions but didn’t speak them aloud as I did.

What I know now I didn’t even know to think of. The options I see now I was unaware of. Unable to find the way there. Blinded by fear and self-consciousness I hid in a haze. Playing like a grasshopper instead of being a worker ant. In case your unfamiliar with that analogy let me tell you the story I heard.

There was a grasshopper who played all summer long. Teasing the ant for working so hard when he could be playing as the grasshopper was. Come winter the grasshopper was cold and hungry and came to the ant begging for food. Now, who was laughing…?

So back to the sibling question I started with. I answer but never truly never from the heart for the answer is complicated. Yes is a simple answer. I lie, deflect, or discuss my baby brother who I adore as my own. Tears of love stinging my eyes when I mention him.

childhood, Uncategorized

Hitchhiking with dad

 

I would often go with dad on his trips to deliver produce. It was a part of the market gardening project. Those trips enabled us time alone to bond. On one of those trips, I tried bubble gum for the first time. Dad spent that 12-hour drive trying to teach me to blow bubbles. One time we ate so much watermelon we stopped to pee every half an hour. Another time we almost died thanks to airbrakes and power steering. So many memories from different trips.

The time I am thinking of is the time the truck died in the middle of nowhere. Before cell phones were common and useful.  If nothing else when in a jam dad always showed me to be resilient and positive. To see that no matter what, there is always a way. “When the going gets tough the tough get going” he used to say.

So here we were driving a large cube truck thru the mountains heading home. The trip had been successful. All the produce was sold. The survival camping gear he wanted was purchased and in the back. It was just a matter of the long drive home. A third of the way in the truck began to lag and sputter before coming to a halting death at the side of the road.

We had recently passed a tiny town and so stuck our thumbs out for a ride there. The first and last time I would hitchhike with dad. Once we got to town it was realized we would need to catch the greyhound home. That meant getting back to the truck for our things and of course the ever important survival gear.

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We stuck our thumbs out and soon enough a nice man pulled over to give us a ride. He was an off-duty police officer who was in no mood to help a man and his young daughter. He dropped us off at the truck and left not caring how we faired or interested in giving us any helpful information. This frustrated my father as we as Christians believed in ‘giving the shirt off our back’ so to speak. Helping others with a part of our values. As a man of the law who was to serve and protect his country and his people, it was saddening that he wanted nothing to do with that when he wasn’t being paid.

There wasn’t much that we needed to get from the truck. Our backpacks and the gear. I don’t recall what dad all carried. However, I sure do remember what I had to carry. Two sets of military down sleeping bags. These mummy style sleeping bags would keep you warm well below -20 C. I had one bag on each arm as shown in the photo below. We walked the entire way. No one wanted to pick us up. Dusk had long since turned into the dark of the night.  Hitchhiking wasn’t getting us a ride, the lack of traffic may have had something to do with that. We were in the middle of nowhere at night. Drivers probably couldn’t even see us until they were right on us.

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I probably complained the entire way. The bags were awkward and heavy. The cords cutting into my arms. Dad had no time for my complaints. We didn’t know what time the bus might pass by. It wasn’t even certain that the driver would stop. We walked all the way back to that lamp post. Hoping and praying that the greyhound to come by and pick us up.

 

 

Uncategorized

Cheesecake or is it

I haven’t posted in a while I know. My past had hidden behind my subconscious. It doesn’t want to come out and be poked when my present conscious is too busy. When things get busy, get complicated my feet walk one step at a time. Trying to smile and get from one moment to the next is all. Then all of a sudden at work last night a funny memory hit me. Not from my childhood necessarily but it stems from it.

One of my favorite desserts that mom would make was blueberry tofu cheesecake.pexels-photo-85766

Yes, tofu cheesecake in the same sentence! I would ask for it for every birthday. Once I left home I only spent one birthday with my mother. But that’s a negative weird story for another time. I never did much cooking on my own and certainly never attempted tofu cheesecake unless it turned out so horrible I blocked it from my memory! Which I have a niggling thought at the side of my mind… a little a tiny live photo saying I did and botched it something awful!

At any rate in my late teens, I had a friend my age from a nice blue-collar family who loved to spend time with me. How we even met is beyond me as she was a high school student and I was done repeatedly trying to attend school and live on my own. She was given a nice reliable almost new Subaru for her graduating year. One time we drove to the nearby town that was big enough to have mainstream restaurants.  We went to the Cheesecake Factory. It was a splurge trip for us to have a nice treat. She knew how I loved cheesecake and missed what my mom used to make.

There were so many choices it was overwhelming. I finally choose the mixed berry. I waited with barely contained excitement. My mouth was watering in anticipation of the delicious treat soon to arrive. It had been years since I had had cheesecake.pexels-photo-357748

What arrived was slightly concerning to me. A wedge of white and berry colored marble with a thin graham crust sat upon my plate. I gingerly took a small bite and was shocked at the unfamiliar flavors in my mouth. This wasn’t cheesecake. I didn’t know what this was but I knew for a fact it wasn’t cheesecake. I waved the waiter over and shared my confused disappointment as I had wanted the berry cheesecake. He assured me my plate held such item but I couldn’t wouldn’t believe this. I was led over to the large cheesecake display to search for what I had been looking for. Nowhere did I see mothers cheesecake. The thickened blueberries atop a creamy white spread over the granola crust.

The disappointment was bitter in my mouth. I didn’t understand. What was the item I had been served made of? Why it was cream cheese with berry syrup laced thru atop a graham crust. Cream cheese in a dessert? Wasn’t cream cheese for bagels? I had had them for the first time when living in Quebec. Apparently, it was also creamed with sugar for cheesecake. That poor waiter must have had a hard time not laughing at my shocked dismay. I never tried cheesecake again for years. My childhood treat destroyed forever as now neither tasted good.

Maybe if I had known it wasn’t made with tofu but instead cream cheese. Maybe if I hadn’t been 17. Maybe if I hadn’t been stoned. I just might have been willing to have an open mind when tasting it. For almost anything, I ate in the world was different. It was nothing like I had had before. I knew that, expected that. But that time because I had an expectation of what I was getting I was disappointed. It took me a few lessons in expectations before I realized it is better to go in with an open mind. Be ready and excited for what may come. When you’re not expecting creamy white filling with thickened berries on top the swirled berries and cream can be delicious.