Joanne Klassen loves comparing family stories to see if her family is as weird as it seemed at the time. She is founder of Heartspace Writing School, home of Transformative Writing™ . Joanne trains facilitators and offers Life Writing and Transformative Writing programs around the world. Her articles and stories have appeared in dozens of publications including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Stories for a Better World. Joanne’s books include Tools of Transformation, Trouble in Grandpa’s Golf Bag and Learning to Live, Learning to Love. |
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© Joanne Klassen Central Canada and the Midwest USA are way too far apart when your parents enter a nursing home and you are too tangled up in your career and life to move home to help ease the turmoil of their transition. From my home in Winnipeg, Manitoba, I reached across the miles to Saline, Michigan and my parents as often and in as many ways as I thought I could, but when they died in 2007 within six weeks of one another I was plagued with thoughts of the many things I wish I'd done differently. As the cloud of grief lifts I am comforted by the awareness of one thing I did that made a positive difference to them in the last chapter of their lives. Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease and for Dad complications from diabetes led to blindness. The people who met and cared for Don and Peggy Hindal, my parents, in the nursing home had no way of knowing the amazing lives these two people had led. Mom was a dedicated registered nurse and Dad an instrument maker whose workmanship orbited the earth in a satellite. In retirement they opened their home and their hearts, to operate an infant and child day care center for over two decades. Even their own great-grandchildren on infrequent visits to the nursing home saw only a shadow of the vibrant, adventuresome, faith-filled and sometimes goofy, courageous people my parents were. My final gift to Mom and Dad began as a gift to myself. Several times a week I'd telephone to hear their news, share mine, or ask for advice. Soon I'd be wrapped in the singular comfort of my parents' voices. Dad answered the phone. He'd call out, “Peg, it's Joey!” Those three words carried me back to my childhood. Suddenly I was being lifted up onto his broad shoulders, my favorite perch, and I was his little sweetheart again. His words told me the welcome mat was out, the porch light was on and no matter how the world treated me, open arms were waiting at the end of the line, every time.
Sunday evenings our calls were different. The call started in the usual way, but Sundays were story nights. With a notebook in front of me and a pen in my hand I'd ask them to tell me a story about some aspect of their childhood or earlier years. I found that if I had a topic to trigger their memories it was easier for them to get started. I'd ask, “Please tell me about your kitchen when you were children.” Soon stories surrounding the wood stove poured out. Like the time she had rheumatic fever and had to sleep on a make-shift cot behind the stove. Or when she and her sister played Old Maid or dominoes back there in their own cozy little world. If I asked about events like how they met, when he proposed to her or their wedding day, I'd get both Mom's and Dad's versions, often with laughter and descriptions as fresh as morning coffee. I'd listen, write, clarify the details and type the story. I emailed the drafts to a friend who'd print several copies and take the stories to Mom and Dad to read with them. Many of Don and Peggy's stories were published in the newsletter of Saline Evangelical Home where they lived. My parents loved getting comments about their stories from the staff and their new neighbours. Often long conversations would start as they reminisced together. Suddenly Don and Peggy were seen and known in a new light. When I contributed several of their stories to an anthology, copies of that book were prized possessions in Mom and Dad's tiny room. I was able to offer my parents a glimpse of the button-bursting pride I felt for them with this last and lasting gift. In a whirling world of change their stories are a reminder not only of who they were, where they came from, and how they chose to live, but a compass of values to guide those of us who follow. |
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Awareness, Triggers and Full Circle Personal Stories Transformative Writing™ provides tools for getting the most out of our life stories by guiding us directly to them with awareness; getting specific using Triggers, and then helping capture the essence of a lived experience, often in just five minutes (J5M). Further, Transformative Writing™ moves us on to discover the gift each experience offers today. I call squeezing the nectar, “Full Circle Stories.” Full Circle Stories take us from the present to the past and back again, full circle, to arrive with fresh insight. This process includes three phases: 1. What happened?--the details of the experience. 2. So What?--where the awareness or memory took us, or its gift. 3. Now What?--how we can use this awareness now. Here's an example: What? As I drove to my condo yesterday I became aware of a Trigger; my eye was drawn to a decal on the rear window of the car ahead of me. It was the symbol of Free Masons. Immediately memories of my Grandpa Mellerup, my mom's dad, poured in. What flashed across my mind was a black and white photo of Grandpa on his 90th birthday at a party in Mesa, Arizona, his winter home. He is dancing in a chorus line with two of his Mason buddies. The three of them have surprised the assembled crowd by appearing dressed as women. Grandpa, a mountain of a man, a big Dane, well over 6' tall, is muscular, sturdy with dazzling sky-blue eyes. His usual spiky white brush-cut is covered by a blonde wig. Decked out in make-up and earrings, he's kicking up 3” heels. I can hear Grandma Mellerup's voice, that of a true Victorian lady, chiding Grandpa on so many occasions when his frolicking child-like side would emerge, “Charles, please.” She was probably thinking this as Grandpa surprised the crowd dressed in her clothing. So What? The gift, or ‘news I can use' from this story is the joy Grandpa lived and gave others when he slipped free of propriety and stifling self restraint. Grandpa reminds me today to take risks, to stretch limits, to live life more fully--surrounded by good friends. In truth, I can't remember when I last threw my head back and laughed from my nose to toes. Lately I've been way too busy with work, focused on obligations and tasks that I think require my attention. I've been more impatient and critical than I'd like. Now What? Grandpa always made everything around him seem lighter, brighter. He made me and others feel special. His was a very hard life, but he still chose to enjoy the moment. This balance is what I want for myself. This is his true legacy to me. This story inspires me to schedule more time with friends, especially friends I can be goofy with.Lynne Forbes comes to mind; I'll call her today. We all carry the buried treasure of countless life-enriching stories within us.Transformative Writing™ gives us step-by-step tools to become aware of and uncover Full Circle stories, complete with timeless gifts of yesterday that we can enjoy today. |
Big Hairy Deal I imagine that most people have aspects of their appearance that they’re comfortable with and other things they are self-conscious about. For me, teeth fit into the first category, hair the second. I was born with thin, fine, stick straight brown hair. No amount of curling, coating, fluffing or fixing has ever achieved a look that allows me to walk confidently into the world. Even my baby pictures show me wearing hats. This is where a true friend comes in. A friend consoles with reassurance that it’s not as bad as it seems and they help put things in perspective. I have just such a friend, Nina Lee, my best friend in the whole world. I wish everyone could have a friend like her. She offers empathy, and when she feels it’s called for, sympathy. Early in our friendship, as we talked on the phone, Nina Lee sensed that all was not well and asked if anything was wrong. I broke down and sobbed about getting the worst haircut of my life, just before an important speaking engagement. “Oh your poor darling,” Nina Lee said, with real feeling, soothing my sorrow. Mercifully, she didn’t say what my mother always told me, “It’s only hair. It will grow back.” Fast forward a year or two from Nina Lee’s understanding remark. I was again reporting my haircut woes on the telephone when she exercised another friendship quality. With both kindness and backbone she said, “They can’t all be the worst haircut of your life, Joanne.” This was a moment of truth. In a flash I realized she was right, haircut complaints had become a pattern. Every haircut couldn’t be the worst one in my life, even if it felt that way at the time. When I took time to reflect on my reaction, I was able to trace my problem back to an experience when I was 13 years old, just before a big dance. My mother took be to the local beauty school for the “bubble cut” all the girls were wearing. Even cemented in a cloud of hairspray, my hair looked like a soup bowl turned upside down. That was the start of my dread of hairdressers. When I turn back the years even further, I recall an even worse haircut, in the days I was a carefree child, before I became so self- conscious about my hair. It didn’t start off as a haircut, that came later, by accident. It happened around Christmas when I was seven years old. My dad’s sister, my aunt Corrie, invited me to spend the night at her apartment. When Dad dropped me off Saturday night, I guess he expected to see me looking like the same girl when he picked me up Sunday afternoon. That’s not what happened. Corrie decided that curls would perk up my appearance. I was wearing my hair in two pony tails, one above each ear, held in place by two rubber bands. Out came the rubber bands. She brushed my hair and decided that a Toni perm would make me look adorable, like the little girl on the box. She rolled my hair in tiny slips of paper on plastic curling rods and squirted smelly liquid on top. Then Corrie opened a beer, lit a cigarette and turned up the radio. To pass the time while we waited for the curls to appear, she painted my fingernails with her scarlet polish, singing along as she added my toes. While Corrie talked on the phone, I jiggled one of my loose front teeth. When it was almost out I gave a tug and out it came--along with a big spurt of blood. What with the wet wash cloth, the ice and cleaning up the blood, we forgot all about my curls. Corrie tucked me for the night on the couch in the living room. My tooth was waiting for the Tooth Fairy under a shiny fringed pillow that said “Niagara Falls.” I guess the fairy couldn’t find me because I was at someone else’s house, it was still there in the morning. When we woke up Corrie tried to unroll the tangled curlers, but they wouldn’t budge. She had to cut them out of my hair leaving me with odd looking fuzz where my pony tails used to be. “Your manicure looks great,” Corrie said, taking a sip of her coffee. I agreed, sipping mine. As we waited for Dad to pick me up, I started fussing with the other loose front tooth. Just as we heard his footsteps on the stairs, my tooth popped out, and just like the other one blood spurted out. As he walked in the door Dad stopped short. I rushed to the door, holding up my tooth. “Look Daddy!” “What in the blazes…?” He said, running his fingers through his dark wavy hair. There I stood with blood dripping onto my shirt, my two front teeth missing, fingernails a flaming red, and without exaggeration--the absolutely worst haircut of my life. This is Christmas week. In two days I am leading the Christmas Eve worship service at church. When I look in the mirror at the short haystack on my head that wants to stick out in all directions, I am tempted to pronounce my recent haircut with the old phrase. I stop as I hear two women’s voices in my mind. Nina Lee is helping me keep this in perspective with her gentle reminder, “They can’t all be the worst haircut of your life, Joanne.” Mom, who always liked to have the last word, chimes in cheerfully, “It’s only hair. It will grow back.” They’re right. It’s a bad haircut, but compared to at least two others I can think of, this is no big hairy deal. © Joanne Klassen, December 23, 2010 Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada jklassen@write-away.net |
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© Joanne Klassen Norm was one of the most interesting people I knew. He was a pharmacist, a business owner, cowboy |
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On the breakfast table at Grandma and Grandpa Mellerup’s kitchen on Walnut Street in Des Moines, they have things we don’t have at home. Things I like. One is a white china pitcher for milk. It came from Sweden with Grandma’s Grandma. At home we have a glass milk bottle. I also like what’s in the Mason jar: chunky cinnamon applesauce that Grandma made. It’s like breakfast dessert or you can put it on the Kellogg’s Corn Flakes from the box with the rooster. Right behind it is the little stapled book with the colourful cover that Grandma reads a story and a prayer from after breakfast. A lacy white plastic table cloth covers their table. At home our table is bare. Ours has a gray top and chrome legs. My Mom is short, like a girl, but both her parents are really tall. Grandpa has white hair and false teeth and tattoos (best kept covered, Grandma says) from when he was a sailor long ago. Grandma is almost as tall as he is, with nice gray hair pulled away from her face and curled, in a beauty parlour. She wears necklaces and big shiny earrings. She always talks politely. She’s proper and Grandpa is fun, like a kid himself. He shakes hands and slips me a quarter between his fingers, then winks. Their house is always neat and tidy with books and stacks of Arizona Highways magazines. It smells like lemons and they have lemon drops and sometimes Grandma’s homemade Swedish candied orange peels in a clear glass candy bowl with a lid. The bedrooms are upstairs and the bathroom with the huge tub with scary lion’s feet is on the main floor. They have a screen porch on the front where I am allowed to sleep with Judy if it is really hot and we are good. Donnie sleeps upstairs with Mama. It’s a quiet house. When we come to Iowa to visit, Daddy sleeps across town on Maple Street at his own Mom and Pop’s house. I like it better here. It doesn’t look or smell as nice but Aunt Phid and her family live next door on one side and Uncle Willie and his family live on the other side. Grandma Hindal has a noisy yellow bird in a cage. People are always coming and going, banging doors. Grandpa is yelling and everyone teases everybody. It isn’t neat and clean all the time, or ever, really. There’s a black cat clock that rolls his eyes and wags his tail and I get to stay up later, way later. I don’t know why Mom doesn’t want me to stay here—it only seems fair to share. She says she’s afraid I won’t brush my teeth or say my prayers, which I don’t, but nobody seems to mind. Joanne Klassen |
Mountain Misery
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Fatherland I first saw the term “fatherland” in Story Catchers, a new book by Christina Baldwin. As I began to think about what resides in that place within me, an image from Christmas day, two weeks ago, crept in. It enfolded me in a warm glow and made me smile. For more than 30 years my husband Ted has thoughtfully gifted our immediate family with a special brunch at a hotel on Christmas day. The numbers around the table have swelled and shrunk over the years as our five children added boyfriends and girlfriends, and later spouses and children to the circle. This year Anna and her husband Stu are expecting their first baby in Birmingham, England where they live. Tiffany and husband Luke are busy with 2 ½ year old Ben and 6 month old Leah in Rockville, Maryland, their home. Ty, our oldest, is farm-sitting in the Slocan Valley of British Columbia, near youngest son, Mike, his partner Laurel, and children Hartley, Alora and Riley, who are enjoying their first home in Salmo. That left a small table at Christmas brunch with just Ted and I and Winnipeggers, Steve, his wife Val, seven year old Noah and four year old Lily. At the end of Steve’s prayer over Christmas Brunch at the Holiday Inn, almost as a post script, Noah piped up with a phase I’ve only heard my Dad say, “And bless the cook!” Noah and Dad never met. Dad passed away last February. Mom and Dad’s last trip from their home in Michigan, to visit Manitoba, took place the year before Noah was born. When Noah was three I mentioned one day that my dad always said, “Bless the cook” at the end of meal prayers. At our house I have heard Noah add this phrase to the end of “God is Great God is good…” My dad wasn’t shy about exercising the practice of mealtime prayer in restaurants, which at times, I admit, embarrassed me. When I heard Noah spout out this closing wish at the Holiday Inn, I was transported, body, heart and spirit, back to the fatherland. In his great-grandson, the lively voice of Don Hindal, my dad, caresses me still. |
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Mom was white starched nurse’s uniforms She was Cashmere Bouquet dusting powder, She was pristine white soft-soled shoes Dad was plaid flannel shirts He was jeans, white cotton socks Brown wavy hair Ted was tailored business suits and oxford cloth He was leather—briefcases and notebooks, What will the kids say when they think of me? I hope it’s not Kleenex wads and |
Grief is… Grief is fog, sleet, a tsunami, a volcano, a waterfall you didn’t expect beside a single desert blossom. Grief is uncommon, unvarnished emotion. It is outrage over unintended slights, annoying platitudes. Grief is Grand Canyon-deep gratitude for unexpected kindness, words of comfort, precious cards. Grief is skinned-knee all-over tenderness, faded parchment fragility, over-exposed vulnerability. It is re-ordered priorities, distressing trivialities, stroking guarded pearls of memory. Grief is hug-hunger, solace-seeking withdrawal. It is longing for acknowledgement of unmasked sorrow. Grief is climbing mountains of the mundane, slip-sliding, frightening mental power outages. It is mechanically walking slow-mo through a Tilt-a-Whirl world, spilling, tripping, forgetting to zip. Grief is wordlessness, blubbering to strangers, re-telling enshrined stories like a child, for the 100th time. It is an empty fridge, no appetite, eating peanut butter out of the jar, last drops of years-old Drambuie. Grief is going home to your God, leaning into the arms of grace, praying to get through one more hour. Dedicated to all who grieve, each in our own way. |
Cynthia Booden Firth Cynthia's dynamic and creative approach to life is reflected in her passion for the visual arts and the written word. Well-travelled, well-read and well-versed in matters of the mind and heart, she embraces life with both reverence and gusto. |
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Life unfolds and our direction in life proceeds with or without our awareness. Most of us amble along without a cosmic road map of where or what our ultimate destination is. The path itself is full of inherent obstacles and detours. But, when we finally begin to make some progress in figuring out our life’s treasure map, there is often something that continues to prevent us from digging in the spot marked X. What is the greatest obstacle in our lives? Truly, it is ourselves. If we could just get “out of our own way” and be open to our destiny, obstacles could have the opportunity to melt away. Our biggest roadblock is our fear. Fear of being wrong and fear of being right. Fear of the unknown and often more importantly, fear of the known. Fear can paralyze the most courageous among us, but conquering that fear can allow even the most fanciful dreams to take flight. We all seek moments of truth and pure clarity – the second where the mists of uncertainty part and before you lies the authenticity of yourself. I have been blessed and cursed to have experienced that moment many times in my life. Even still, at that crucial time, I allow fear to creep in and allow myself to turn away from it, to deny my shining self. I dismiss the truth as impractical, or worse, believe that I am, at the core, unworthy of such a divine assignment. Thankfully the moment continues to come and I can slowly inch myself towards acceptance and with perseverance, I may even achieve action. We all seek that clarity; the moment when divine inspiration sends you an epiphany; when you realize what you were meant to be. The moment of a soul deep recognition that this is who I am meant to be. The clarity is as real as the fear is imagined. You are, just you, you are enough |
Crystallis Crystal Clear Moments Invade |
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I am the resurrection and the light. |
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I am a woman who seeks the divinity of still. I am lost in the reflections that provide insight. I am a woman who is most grateful for my life. I am successful in body, mind and spirit. I am a woman who has faced adversity in my life, yet has come from a life of privilege. The challenges have been to my heart and soul, not just my physical body. I am a woman who has been blessed with an inner eye and compass ~ a voice that tells me when I am on the right path, or at the very least, when my direction is generally right. I am a woman who is open to the metaphysical, in a way that most people would never admit to. I have experienced that which is not of this plane. I have met my soul mate in my mind’s eye and we have shared the experiences of millennia. I am a woman who is a product of a kind and loving universe, one that has provided adversity only as a means of challenging my complacency. I am a woman whose life is a testament to my ability to find the good in everything. To have my cup always half full and to view the world through the eyes of Tigger. I am a woman who is grateful for my ability to see things no one else can see. I have the ability to see reflections where others see none. I see depth where others see flat. I see hope where others see despair. I see magic where others see ordinary. I am a woman whose gift is my perspective. My ability to make the world a brighter place for others, but at the very least for myself. I am a woman who is insanely lucky. I have the ability to make my wishes a reality ~ especially if I concentrate and have the patience to calm my waters and truly respect my clarity of purpose without allowing my inner critic to distract me. I am a woman who has the ability to inspire people. To take their vulnerable souls, scared and shy, and hold their hand, escorting them to the other side ~ the other side of magic. I am a woman who is a gambler at heart, willing to take any risk, to put it out there as far as the limit is. I can be hesitant, but if pushed and giving myself permission, I can go all in and be happy with whatever hand I’m dealt. I am a woman of strength, courage, truth and authenticity. I am a woman who is the master of my own perspective, and when I remember that, my wings unfurl and I truly fly. I am a woman with all the time in the world, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. The same as everyone else, truly, sufficient time to achieve everything I need to achieve, as long I remember to stop limiting my thoughts. I am a woman filled with possibility, my mantra “what if” ~ not in distracting way, but in a motivating way. I am a woman with a complexity of love, laughter and life. I am blessed, I am loved, and I am a woman continuing on my pre-destiny at exactly the right place and time. I have released all my inner distractions and vibrate as one with the universe. I am a woman with the ability to seek and provide. Clarity of purpose is a blessing as I know where I should be. I am Strong |
A Thousand Tiny Lights Sparkling in the dark |