I am co-hosting a workshop and would love to see you there, here are the details.

Paying attention to what happens around us, or what the universe is offering is not always easy.

Separately, and in different formats I have repeatedly heard in the past week the same message.

In the moments of first meeting you can see the now, the past, and the future of the relationship. All is present in that moment, you just need to be open to receiving the information.

How open are you?

No matter the direction I turn, the stone I uncover, the tree I climb, I end up at me.

A friend sent this to me a while back and I just now watched it, I loved it and wish I hadn’t waited so long…enjoy

http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html

One day my Dad sent me to the corner store with a penny. I grew up with corner stores, which appeared every few blocks. Ours was two blocks away, which meant I needed to cross two streets; one, which was a quiet intersection, and the other which required more finesse.

Looking to expand my universe, craving for independence, I asked to go to the store on my own, I was very young and my Dad although not completely sure whether to send me, caved in under my insistence. He handed over the penny, repeated instructions several times, me repeating back what I was to get in exchange for that penny. Could I remember he asked, I responded with a resounding, yes!

Until I got older, those corner stores were mysterious and frightening places. Although small they were gigantic to me, and the clerks/owners were always a bit intimidating. At our corner store, the cash register was at the back, which meant that between the door and the register there were isles filled with lots of neat things, from food to sundries.

With this new responsibility and first adventure, I set off from home vowing not to forget what trade I was to make at the store, for my penny. Our blocks were not long and if my Dad stood out on the sidewalk, he could watch me the entire time until I entered the store, I am not sure that he did. Today, we barely let our 12 year olds out of sight for fear they will disappear, but there I was at half that age making my first solo trip to the corner store.

Puffed with pride at with the gigantic responsibility I was given, I chanted my purchase to myself as I left home. This worked wonderfully until the middle of the second block, when, for some distraction, I completely forgot what the penny was for.  I reasoned however, that the storeowner would be able to help, because, how many things could cost one penny? So I continued on.  

The young travel at top speed with boundless energy until they have a destination, then suddenly, things move at a snails’ pace. I was no different, compounded with the anxiety when I arrived, I wove in and out of each aisle searching for something that might jog my memory and remind me what I had to buy. Reaching the storeowner, it became clear that he could not help me. This was my big opportunity to show my Dad how responsible I was, so with the coaxing of the storeowner a purchase was made.

Now on my trip home I was consumed with the dread that not only had I forgotten what to buy, but had spent the penny on bubblegum. I knew my Dad would not have given me a penny to buy gum but the pressure to succeed blurred my reasoning mind into a decision against my better judgment.

The trip took longer then it should have and although I was nervous, my Dad was anxious when I arrived. My instincts were correct and bubblegum was not what the penny was for, and as my Dad lit his cigarette on the electric element of the stove leaving half the tobacco from the tip behind, he clearly displayed his anger. Penny matches, not gum should have traveled home, in my pocket, from the corner store.

When people are seen, they show themselves.

Between June and September last year I had traveled to Canada four times. I have been in the States since 1984 but I am still a Canadian.  I am a second generation Canadian, my parents, German Immigrants.

When I left I was in my twenties. I had declared I would never leave but I found myself living in Oakland. “Why would anyone leave the vast beauty”, I had said, “this is Gods’ country”, It was, in my mind, the perfect living environment. But, at the age of twenty-eight I parked my “eh’s” at the border, and assimilated, the best I could, as an American.

Both my kids have dual citizenship and my eldest is now spending her undergraduate years at the University of British Columbia. A Big Thanks’, to all the tax paying Canadians for making this a very affordable option.

When I found myself faced with a large monthly bill for health insurance I lovingly thought of Canada, where my daughter is fully covered for under $700.00 per year. This bliss was short lived when through subsequent conversations with my uncle confirmed the ridiculous time that is spent waiting for care. In his case, he waited a year to have a hip replaced, two months to have a cortisone shot and a couple of other items that did not impress me. Could we find a happy medium? Paying almost as much a month as the Canadians do in a year is a bit overwhelming.

When I return to Canada I feel out of place. It is obvious I am not Canadian in my manner, and my daughter kindly nudges me to find my inner Canadian when faced with situations that bring out the “ugly” American.

There is nothing like the “go get ‘em” attitude of an American, make a decision and make it right! Meaning, even if it is not the right decision, you have the opportunity to make the changes needed to succeed. No is not really an option, when you want something you just go out and get it!

This is decidedly different in Canada. If you want something, you have to make sure it is something that is offered, within the restrictions, not out of the box, and certainly not right away. Things take time, you must have patience, and you must know and follow the rules.

Of course, these are generalizations of both Americans and Canadians. I feel a bit lost in between these two places, but I also see this as the uniqueness of me. I can tap into my inner Canadian, and get what I dream of by living my American dream.  All that is left is to fold in the German part…

Between June and September last year I had traveled to Canada four times. I have been in the States since 1984 but I am still a Canadian.  I am a second generation Canadian, my parents, German Immigrants.

When I left I was in my twenties. I had declared I would never leave but I found myself living in Oakland. “Why would anyone leave the vast beauty”, I had said, “this is Gods’ country”, It was, in my mind, the perfect living environment. But, at the age of twenty-eight I parked my “eh’s” at the border, and assimilated, the best I could, as an American.

Both my kids have dual citizenship and my eldest is now spending her undergraduate years at the University of British Columbia. A Big Thanks’, to all the tax paying Canadians for making this a very affordable option.

When I found myself faced with a large monthly bill for health insurance I lovingly thought of Canada, where my daughter is fully covered for under $700.00 per year. This bliss was short lived when through subsequent conversations with my uncle confirmed the ridiculous time that is spent waiting for care. In his case, he waited a year to have a hip replaced, two months to have a cortisone shot and a couple of other items that did not impress me. Could we find a happy medium? Paying almost as much a month as the Canadians do in a year is a bit overwhelming.

When I return to Canada I feel out of place. It is obvious I am not Canadian in my manner, and my daughter kindly nudges me to find my inner Canadian when faced with situations that bring out the “ugly” American.

There is nothing like the “go get ‘em” attitude of an American, make a decision and make it right! Meaning, even if it is not the right decision, you have the opportunity to make the changes needed to succeed. No is not really an option, when you want something you just go out and get it!

This is decidedly different in Canada. If you want something, you have to make sure it is something that is offered, within the restrictions, not out of the box, and certainly not right away. Things take time, you must have patience, and you must know and follow the rules.

Of course, these are generalizations of both Americans and Canadians. I feel a bit lost in between these two places, but I also see this as the uniqueness of me. I can tap into my inner Canadian, and get what I dream of by living my American dream.  All that is left is to fold in the German part…

My first dog found me when I was young and only stayed with me for a day.  Not long enough to get a name but he was a perfect dog, the exact replica of Lassie. How he found me I don’t remember, but for that day, we were together.  I knew it was a sign that I should have a dog and this Collie was here to join me in my adventures, stepping in as the sibling I did not have. I took him everywhere with me, made up stories about how he was my dog. I remember a friends’ father really put me to task about the details and I needed to quickly spin a story that quickly unraveled the following day, after my mother made it clear this dog was not staying with us.

The first dog that I kept also found me. I moved from Vancouver BC to Oakland CA and lived at 51^st and Telegraph. This was a very funky neighborhood that lacked the charm of some of Oaklands’ neighborhoods.  She was traumatized and thin, living in the blackberry bushes behind my house, scavenging tossed fast food bags from the nearby restaurants. We would watch each other; me from my second story window, and she, smiling and wagging, each time I thought, okay, today she will let me touch her, only to be disappointed. Until 2 months later we connected. Although I had been feeding her she was emaciated, flea ridden, and very skittish. I managed, over time, to bath her, have her spayed, and train her in the basic commands. She was so smart, and people always said, I had a dog that looked just like her, being immediately drawn in by her looks. She was my anchor, sweet, skittish, and loyal; a small Sheppard with beautiful markings. We eventually moved to San Francisco and then to the Peninsula where she died.  In those 10 years she saw me through a divorce, new marriage and my first child, and although she had issues, she was just perfect for me, and the loss of her saddens me even today.

I felt so empty without her I soon set out searching for another dog. We were a family now with an eight month old and we really did not need the stress of a puppy, but that little American Eskimo fit into the palm of my hand and I could not resist. I called him Bitz.  He was gorgeous, with long white hair (that never got dirty) black eyes and about 25 lbs, half the size of my last dog. He was resilient, adventurous and a bit hyper, I called him the shape shifter because one minute he was right in front of you, and the next he was gone. We got calls from the bar, where he would stop in for a pint, the fire department, to hang out with the boys, people in the neighborhood, people in other neighborhoods, and the humane society. He had several close to death moments, eating snail bait, being hit by a car (which although not harmed, went completely under the car), falling out the window of our car, and the time the vet said ”There is nothing I can do, perhaps take him home and prepare the family, he wont live much longer” (he had the habit of eating things that threw off his digestive system and this seemed to be the last straw). Not ready for the pain of losing a dog I got another, Katie a wiry corgi-terrier mix. Needless to say our close to death Bitz perked right up and lived another 5 years, keeping me on my toes right to the end. Our eldest was now 17, and although we had Katie. Bitz had been there during the times of my life where I had grown immensely as a person.

When Bitz died, Katie was very lost.  Not only had Bitz taught her a few things about being a dog, she had inspired his recovery and become his eyes and ears in his last years. Our Katie, strong, determined and faithful, warning us relentlessly when there is someone at the door, is a dog like no other. We had been a one-dog family for a year, and after months of Katie following me from room to room we took ourselves to the shelter and brought home our sweet Stella. This white poodle is perfect for the hairdresser in me; she has become my 4^th regular client.

We felt destined to have Stella. Lost in our old neighborhood, claimed by someone before us at the shelter, we were the alternates if things did not work out. Stella, is less then half the size of our Katie, 13 pounds, which makes her a perfect lap dog, but big enough to stand her own ground. She is confident, loyal, connected, and charming. She steals the hearts of everyone she meets.