Near the end of the summer, my sister and I went to Crux Climbing and Bouldering Centre. Wall climbing was something I’d wanted to try for awhile – ever since 1998 when, while in Orlando for the space shuttle launch, my family and I visited Wonderworks. Wonderworks is an indoor amusement park/science centre filled with all types of mind-bending activities and physical “challenges” … one of which is a climbing wall.

In 1998 I was obviously much younger and in far better shape than I am now. Add to that the rather simple climbing wall – if I recall correctly, it didn’t require much skill – and I was sure to make it to the top. Not that any of this registered in my mind at the time. Oh sure, I knew the wall wasn’t very high, but the experience still led me to believe that real wall climbing - with all the ropes and equipment - wouldn’t be that hard. It was a belief I held right up until the moment I decided to embrace this challenge as one of my 40 activities this year.

If you’ve never tried wall climbing, here’s a tip: don’t expect to win any beauty contests. Those harnesses are not flattering. They push your skin and fat into weird places, make you look lopsided, give you an ass where you don't have one (I would know). They also give you a mega wedgie. No joke. One of the three-point safety checks includes the “wedgie check”. If you don’t have a wedgie, the rope isn’t taut enough. So take it from me, you want the worst wedgie of your life!

Tip #2: When belaying, expect a wedgie far higher on the wedgie scale than that of your climber. Seriously. Belayers suffer more. My sister will back me up here.

The best part about this experience was that the technical stuff wasn’t as overwhelming as I expected it to be. We had a great instructor who allowed us to test ourselves many times to make sure we were comfortable with the process. We learned about the different types of harnesses, how to put them on, and most importantly, how to secure them.

We learned how to tie a perfect climbing knot (that’s a figure 8 knot to you). 

Perfect climbing knot, thanks very much!

Instructor belaying while I try the training wall.

We learned how to thread the rope through the Grigri belay device. 

We learned all the safety checks – both for the belayer and the climber – before a climb could begin. 

Safety check complete. Now what?

We learned the signals we would use to communicate: 

Once we had (mostly) mastered these commands, our instructor observed us while we took turns climbing (he's the one who took all our photos, too). This is where things became interesting. At first, we just practiced going up the wall maybe 10 feet. 

Belaying. Always watch your climber.

It was a little nerve-wracking, mainly because you have to completely trust your belayer. I trust my sister without a doubt, but did I trust that she wouldn’t drop me? This kind of trust is entirely different! Knowing that another person – even using that handy Grigri – has control over whether you stay put or fall is, to say the least, uncomfortable. But, as I said, I do trust my sister, and I had to have faith that she would do her job. Which she did (of course). 

Here I go!

A little higher ...

And higher ...

Those first 10 feet offered good practice, and I felt more confident for the second go. This time, I think we came closer to 20 feet (I’m guessing here, because I can’t remember exactly how high it was). We were on the easiest climbing wall, and our goal was to reach the top. We both did it! Yay! My sister did it with more confidence than I did, especially when I found myself in strange contortions and uncertain how to get myself to the next grip. But I did manage, though I was very relieved when I was able to come down. 

On our third run, we decided to go to the next level of difficulty. It meant a longer rope and a wall that stretched beyond the top edge of our beginner wall. I belayed first, and I have to say, I was quite encouraged by my sister as she pulled herself from one grip to the next. 

Look at her go!

She made it to about one quarter from the top, and only stopped because she was tired. Darned impressive! Then it was my turn. I wanted so badly to reach her level, and when I looked at it from the ground, having seen her just complete that stretch of wall, I thought, “I can totally do this.” But something happened on the way up. When I hit the top of that beginner wall and tried to push myself to the next grip, anxiety overtook me. I wasn’t afraid of falling. Not even a little. I just suddenly started thinking about how high up I was, and though I’ve never been afraid of heights, my heart began to pump, my stomach flip-flopped, and I just … froze.

I called to be lowered. When she asked if I was tired, I had to admit that I was anxious. I just couldn’t force myself one step higher. 

Ah the relief of being lowered!

Halfway down, the rope began to turn and fling me in all directions, and of course the anxiety disappeared into peals of laughter. I was twisting and turning and flying around banging into walls. How could I not laugh? It was actually pretty fun. Ha ha! I don't have any photos of that. Sorry!

When I once again reached the ground, I felt relieved. I also felt a little deflated, despite the hilarity of my descent. I was disappointed in myself. My mind had undone me. I’d allowed fear to get in my way. 

But … there’s always a but … I wasn’t going to let it stop me. Is it possible to look at fear as a delay? Of course it is! I am in charge of my own destiny, after all! Besides, climbing is really fun ... even with that fear thrown in. It’s interesting, it’s challenging, and it offers a great sense of achievement. If I have to do that beginner wall 50 times before I feel comfortable climbing higher, that’s fine with me. The pleasure is in the journey. (But damn if I don’t intend to kick that wall’s ass one day.) 

"Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent."    — Marilyn vos Savant.

Lesson learned: Sometimes, fear can sneak up on you and stop you in your tracks. Literally. But when that happens, it’s important to remember to breathe. Get your feet on the ground. Regroup. But most important, don't give up. Trust yourself enough to keep trying, because eventually – with enough practice – you will reach the top.

Onward and upward!

"... over our heads will float the Blue Bird singing of beautiful and impossible things, of things that are lovely and that never happen, of things that are not and that should be." 

-- Oscar Wilde

Ever since I can remember, I have loved to sing. When I was a young child, I would sing to my heart’s content without worry or fear … just for the joy of doing so, and even when I didn’t know – or couldn’t properly pronounce – the words.


When I was around six or seven, I performed with my sisters at a special tribute for our father, who was stepping down from an important role in our synagogue. The only things I remember about that performance are the awful dress I wore and the fact that I forgot to close the car door before we left, which resulted in a nasty Crash! Boom! Bang! when my mom backed out of the garage.

When I was 11 years old, I auditioned for the fifth grade play. I was very excited to show off my singing talents (despite the fact that I knew none of the words to the song I was auditioning to sing – Every Breath You Take by The Police). I don’t need to tell you how disappointed I was that I didn’t get that particular solo (even though I was disappointed), because my consolation prize was a different solo: the glamorous single, How much is that doggy in the window? 

I don’t remember much about that performance, either, except what I can glean from old photographs.

My point is (yes, I do have one), I’ve forgotten how it felt to get up there and sing before a crowd. Was I nervous? Did my voice tremble? Did my hands shake? Or did I just enjoy singing, as I had done every day of my life up to that point?

Whether I was nervous or not is, I suppose, immaterial. I know that at the very least, I enjoyed it. But at some point between that performance and adulthood, I forgot the joy of singing. Oh sure, I still participated in car sing-a-longs with the family (my sisters and I did a mean rendition of Billy Joel’s For the Longest Time). I still sang in the shower, or in my room while listening to the radio. I sang the lyrics in my piano books – without accompaniment, because I never learned to play chords and could do only a simplistic one-handed melody on the keyboard. When I grew older, I sang in the car … usually alone. To this day, it’s my favourite place to belt out bad notes in a key too high or too low for my range.

Despite the fact that I’d been singing all my life, puberty and adulthood brought with them a monster case of self-consciousness. I became so shy – so terrified – of performance that I refused to join the choir in high school. I refused to try out for anything musical in university (not that there was much to choose from at my small school), and even after university, when I really wanted to just do it, still I allowed my fear to get in my way.

I can’t say that I gave up singing. I never gave up singing. But I lost that ability to sing without awkwardness, to sing without worrying about what others might think. Even around my family, I often found myself lowering my voice so I couldn’t be heard above the radio. And when the radio wasn’t playing? Forget it. I might hum it in my mind, but I would never sing a song aloud … not if I thought someone might be listening.

About a month after I came up with my 40th year plan, I started remembering some of my old dreams – the longings of my youth. One of these longings was to improve my voice, to learn proper technique. It was a wish that had gone unfulfilled because I always found reasons why it wasn’t practical (because you know, the words ”I’m afraid” just weren’t in my vocabulary). It’s too expensive! I’m too old to start! My voice isn’t good enough!

But maybe ... maybe ... I was ready for change. Maybe I was ready to start my journey just a little bit early. Maybe I was already eager to step outside of my box. Maybe I was simply tired of not doing something I desperately wanted to do. So, in a moment of strength and determination, I decided to go for it. I researched voice coaches, found one who seemed to be a good fit for me, reached out to her, and ended up having an amazing conversation with a woman who had been through something quite similar to my own experience. Kismet.

My goal was to learn how to sing better. I didn’t really know what that meant at the time, but I figured it had something to do with breathing and vocal technique. I vaguely remember telling my coach that I wanted to feel confident enough about my voice that I’d be able to get up in front of people and belt out a tune (and belt it well).

For a year, we worked at it. Sometimes with more gusto than others, I do admit. There were moments when I wondered whether I was truly committed to the process, and then I’d remember that I wanted to be able to sing. In front of other people. Maybe even on a stage, in an actual performance. This was usually enough for me to push past my laziness or excuse-making.

I chose a song.

I prepared the song.

And this past July, ready or not, I walked up on a stage in front of 65 people … and I sang.
I won’t go into all the things I did wrong – from a technique perspective, there were many. I won’t go into the nerves (egads, were there nerves). I won’t go into detail about my loss of appetite or the tears that nearly kept me from getting up there. After all, there’s no point focusing on the negative! Bottom line: I had made a commitment, and I knew that I’d never forgive myself if I chickened out.

Okay, so I did tell my audience not to look at me. Weak moment! Some of them were kind enough to oblige me, but most just laughed, assuming I was joking. I wasn’t. Sigh. Oh well. As my father says, “You can’t control other people. You can only control yourself.”

So … I controlled myself, as best I could. I took a deep, trembling breath, avoided eye contact, focused on a point at the back of the room … and just sang. I even hit most of the notes (I think). In the end, I received an amazing show of support – a standing ovation, a few tears, and lots of hugs. I can’t thank my audience enough for sharing in the experience, for embracing me wholeheartedly and giving me a safe place where I could be vulnerable. 

Did I learn something? Oh, sure. I learned that I could get up in front of people and sing, despite all the voices in my head that might try and tell me otherwise. I learned that I can sing … and with feeling ... even when my nerves make my voice tremble and my body shake from head to toe. But really, the biggest lesson I learned – from the feelings I’ve managed to process so far – is just how amazing it feels to know I’ve done something I had, quite honestly, begun to believe was impossible.

Will I do it again anytime soon? I can’t say. I know that I’m eager to do something new with my voice … maybe join a singing group, or tackle a type of music I haven’t tried. Jazz? Celtic? Opera? Okay, maybe not opera. I know my own limitations.

The point is, I’m ready to take another step forward. This performance was one of the biggest items on my list this year, and now that it’s done, I’m … overwhelmed. I haven’t processed it, to be honest. I know that it has resulted in a fundamental shift – in the way I see myself, in the way I see my world. I can’t articulate what that shift might mean, and I’ve no idea where my path now leads. But I’m on it, and will continue to follow it wherever the journey might take me.

   
I’m tempted to say that I’ve never enjoyed having my picture taken, but I’m fairly certain that there was a time in my childhood when I would pose for the camera without any awkwardness or self-consciousness. That being said, those days are long gone … or were long gone, before I undertook my 40th year adventure.

I have struggled with esteem issues all my life. Rarely have I felt pretty, or sexy, or happy with my various body parts. I’ve never been able to look at myself in a photo without picking it apart. Oh sure, an occasional compliment might come to mind, but more likely I’d be cringing at the sight of myself – that muffin top, or the cellulite on that leg, or the double chin, or the eyebrows that needed plucking, or the big arms, or the blotchy skin. Not too long ago, when posting a photo on social media – a photo in which I looked ... not my best – I couldn’t help but preface the post with a few words about how bad the picture was. Bottom line: I don’t like to see myself on film. That’s just the way it is.

As part of my 40th year’s journey, I had originally added to my list an item about “taking selfies", because until a few months ago, I felt like the most awkward selfie-taker on the planet. Between the strange fish bowl effect that so often was the result of a selfie, and the internal twisting that occured with the very idea of taking my own photo ... well, you can imagine how much I detested the whole concept of a "selfie". So hey, why not take a whole series of selfies, just to torture myself? 

(And how many more times can I use the word "selfie" in one paragraph?)

Face through a fish bowl? Not the most flattering look.

While I have to admit that this particular idea filled me with more than a little dread, I decided that the one caveat to doing it was that I didn’t have to share the photos with anyone. Stepping outside of this particular box was just for me. A fair deal, I thought. A way to make me just a little more open to taking on this risk … because for me, it truly was a risk. A scary undertaking. A chance to see myself as I really am and just live with it. Can I get a collective UGH?

As I thought about “taking a series of selfies”, I wondered what that process would look like. How did I want to frame this experience? Then I remembered that a friend of mine had, on multiple occasions, mentioned a class she had taken that was focused on this very topic. I went to her Facebook page and searched her timeline until I found the information I needed. Minutes later, I was reading all about the photographer and the class. It didn’t take long to commit. Be Your Own Beloved sounded like a journey that I needed to take! I paid my fee without a second thought, plugged it into the calendar, and then waited for the first day to arrive.

In a nutshell, Be Your Own Beloved is a month-long journey of self-portraiture where you focus on being kinder to yourself, of looking at yourself and your world from a different perspective, of moving beyond the physical and truly seeing who you really are. It teaches you to look at your face, your body, your inner self with softer eyes, with forgiveness, with acceptance, with joy, and with pride. If you’re interested in taking this course or want to know more about it, I strongly encourage you to read about it on the photographer's website, in her own words. Her name is Vivienne McMaster, and she is fabulous. She intuitively knows what you need, because she has been on this journey herself – many times. 

I admit that in the beginning, I wasn’t completely bought in to the experience. I was hesitant, cautious, skeptical. Deep down, I wasn’t convinced it would change me in any significant way. But I was still committed to giving it a try - if for nothing but my own curiosity and the fact that it sounded interesting. I remember that I even imagined this post and how my conclusion at the end would be that I still don't like taking selfies. Ha! With each prompt, and with the support of Vivienne and my classmates, I found myself getting more creative with my photos. More accepting. More ... complimentary.

Was I still critical of every single photo? Of course I was! A month of self-portraiture won’t miraculously chase away the gremlins (otherwise known as the voices of the internal critic). But what I found was that there were moments when I truly felt pretty. I could look at a photo and say, “Wow, I like this one” or “My eyes are so expressive” or “I’m looking cute here!” There was even a photo prompt where we were challenged to tell the gremlins exactly what we think of them. My answer to that? Punching them – beating them back. 

Take THAT, gremlins!

With this particular prompt, I realized that I was starting to embrace the message and intent of the days' lessons. It wasn’t always easy; some days I’d take 30 or 40 photos before I found one that I could live with. But even one was an improvement over none! For someone who has been known to throw away photos of herself rather than have anyone see them, this was a big step in the right direction.

By the end of my month-long journey, I had photos that I would classify as: weird, flirtatious, artistic, fun, boring, sexy, soulful, unique, ugly, and yes … beautiful. And look, I'm even sharing some of them right here! So much for keeping them to myself, eh? These are some of my favourites ...

The best thing about this entire experience? I haven’t stopped taking selfies. Oh sure, I still look at every photo with a critical eye. But I’m not as afraid to document myself being silly. I’m not as afraid to have a “bad” photo where my double chin shows, or my nose looks big, or my hair is mussed, or my glasses are falling down my nose like an old lady. I might even open myself up to just being goofy and sharing the moment with others. Case in point: I recently took a photo with a bra on my head. Long story for another time.

If there is one thing I’ve learned from this particular experience, it’s that we have to find ways to silence the inner critic. I have many inner critics, as I’m sure we all do. Sometimes they speak as individuals … sometimes, as a group. Regardless of how they tackle me, they always manage to steal the colour from my world. Everything looks a little greyer … a little duller. But when I silence them – or better yet, when I confront them – I not only get a moment’s peace, I get the colour back. It may not be pretty, and I may not like what I see. But the colour is there. I’m more in tune with myself … and my world … as a result.

I fully intend to do the prompts for this course again. Or maybe I'll enroll in another of Vivienne's courses. I’m not sure if I’d have had the experience I did without her excellent guidance. I’m not sure if I’d have even come close. I want to thank her for helping me see myself differently. I want to thank her for the kindness she extended to me … and the kindness she taught me to extend to myself. It’s a work in progress, of course. But then … so am I.

  
I had a lot going on during the months of June and July, so forgive me for getting behind on my posts. But I’m in catch-up mode now, so watch for a few more updates in the coming weeks!

The first I want to talk about is my experience with speed … and no, I don’t mean drugs. I mean physical speed. Downhill. With twists and turns. It happened on June 20th, and leading up to that day, I admit to being just a wee bit nervous.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

First things first: I’m not an exhilaration junkie. No extreme sports, no crazy stunts, no way. I don’t jump out of helicopters to ski in avalanche territory (don’t expect any posts on that in the coming year, either!) … and I sure as hell don’t relish the opportunity to speed around a track where there might be crash-and-burn potential. So when my company organized a team event at Canada Olympic Park – offering a choice of either mini golf or a ride down the Skyline Luge – I was all set to play mini golf. It’s safe, social, and good for a laugh (especially if you’re as poor a golfer as I am).

Then my boss told me that the luge really was nothing to worry about. Sure, no problem. The track is only 1.8 km long and drops only 328 feet from top to bottom. Nothing to worry about indeed! Yet before I knew it, I’d agreed to give it a try. After all, I am trying to live outside of my box. And in the words of my mother, how hard can it be? Of course, I agreed before I’d read about it online. I’m not sure whether doing my research post-commitment helped or hindered my ability to face this particular experience with confidence, but it did at least give me a better idea of what I was about to do.

A portion of the track.

For anyone who isn’t familiar with the Skyline Luge, here’s a brief history: The first one was built in Rotorua, New Zealand in 1985. Since then, more facilities have been built in Mount Tremblant, Quebec; Queenstown, New Zealand; and Sentosa, Singapore. The Calgary Skyline Luge opened in June 2013, and boasts the longest single track with the steepest drop.

Excuse me while I barf. 

Heights are not an issue for me. What is an issue is the idea of falling from a great height and breaking my neck. Or careening down a mountain and breaking my neck. Or taking a turn at high speed, tipping over, and breaking my neck. You get the idea. I really do not want to break my neck.

That research I mentioned? I admit that it did cause me a brief moment of panic. The track is so high! So far downhill! So many twists and turns! Yikes! But I was already committed. No turning back! In any case, the pictures on the website showed kids luging down the track. Little kids! And this “evidence” of the track’s apparent safety did give me some peace of mind. After all, if little kids could do it, surely I could do it, too. Right? Riiiiiiggggghhhhht?

The day of the event, I teamed up with three friends in the hope that they’d stick by my side and give me a little moral support. 

Do I look nervous?

First up: basic “training”. This is where you learn how to go, how to turn, and how to stop. It takes exactly 10 seconds. My confidence soared!

Just before our "training" ...

Next up: FREEDOM! Yep, that’s it! They set us loose and … one of my friends zoomed away, quickly disappearing around a turn. All I heard was her gleeful “wheeeeee!” as she zipped down the track. Not long after, another friend vanished. Then a third took the lead in front of me, though she at least remained within my line of sight. I wasn’t completely abandoned!

Have I mentioned that I’m not a speed demon? Right. So imagine, if you can, a three-wheeled car inching its way downhill, barely moving around the curves, while it’s driver repeats at every turn, “I really don’t like this. I’m not liking this!” To be fair to myself, it really did feel like I was going to tip over, especially when I found myself on the high side of the wall during a turn (which happened more than once). BUT (oh yes, there is always a BUT) … I did finally reach the bottom. And in one piece, too! Phew!

When I rejoined my friends at the base of the track, the first words off my lips were … you guessed it! … Let’s do it again!

Nothing to worry about! I knew the track now, you see, so I felt safer. I knew I could control the car. And my confidence rose as our chair lift took us higher. The second time when I seated myself in that three-wheeled “vehicle”, I was eager to get moving. A quick start/turn/stop refresher, and I was off! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

No nerves now!

I feel the need for speed!

Yep, you heard it from my lips first (or fingertips, in this case). I actually went fast. Fast enough to pass people and take the lead of my little group. I zipped down that mountain, whooshing around the twists and turns, and had a grand time (though I admit I still exclaimed, “I don’t like this!” on the sharper turns).

I highly recommend the Skyline Luge to anyone who has a chance to do it – whether in Calgary, or in one of the other locations around the world. It offers great views (I’m guessing this is the case no matter which location you visit), great fun, and plenty of laughter. I guarantee you’ll want to do it more than once. I fully intend to go back! And maybe next time, I won’t slow down at the turns (well, maybe I’ll slow down a little).

No great lesson learned here, except that sometimes new experiences are just about having fun. And speed? Speed can be fun, too! In moderation, of course. You still won’t catch me racing my automobile or leaping from a chopper to ski in avalanche territory. But, hey … baby steps.

 
I am not a joiner. Let’s just get that out of the way right now. I’ve never participated in a team sport, and the only classes in which I ever engaged were related to art or writing – solo activities that just happened to occur with others in a shared space.

When my massage therapist started to push me to try yoga, I was resistant. Not because yoga is a team sport – obviously, it’s not. But because I have never attended an exercise class on my own. I’m the type of person who prefers jumping on an elliptical machine, a stair master, a treadmill … lifting weights in a corner of the gym … stretching … and going home. All with limited socialization and very little attention paid to others.

You saw my post a few weeks ago, about the 5k? Remember how I mentioned that stretching is necessary? And how my hips and hamstrings suffered for a week afterward? Well … yeah. I’ve been needing those muscles to stretch for quite some time – long before I even considered a 5k.

So, I finally decided that it was time to heed my body's signals and get myself to a yoga class. Anyone who lives in my fair city probably knows that we have many, many studios offering many types of yoga – and a multitude of different classes for each type. Calgary is an active city, full of cyclists and runners and hikers, skiers and snowboarders … people who generally care about their health and fitness. Finding a yoga studio, therefore, should have been quite easy.

But here’s a fun fact: finding a studio that offers the right type of class for your body, at a time of day that works with your schedule, is more difficult than it may seem. After months of investigating on and off, I finally found one that looked promising. The studio was a little out of my way, but not too bad. And it offered a few classes that appealed to me, at times that wouldn’t require me to go home and then leave again (I’m not good at that – once I’m home, I generally just want to stay there).

But going on my own, having not tried yoga for at least a decade, and with so many injuries and issues to address? Scary!  I guess I'm one of those people who erroneously believes that to do yoga, one must already know yoga. Which is, of course, ridiculous. Everyone has to start somewhere, and you can’t learn if you don’t go! The rational part of my brain knows this. However, the non-joiner part of me – the wallflower – really doesn’t care about what’s rational.

When I first decided to volunteer for the Calgary Humane Society’s Dog Jog, I did so more because I wanted to support the animals than to step outside of my box. But when the list of volunteer roles became available, I started thinking that there might be an opportunity to do something different from the usual – something that would force me just a little outside of my comfort zone and get me more actively participating in an event that does so much for animal welfare – a cause to which I am quite devoted.

If I had volunteered for this event in the past, I’d have been – most likely – drawn to the registration area. It’s shaded – in a tent. There are chairs to sit on, and a to-do list, and a very easy way to support the organization without any degree of discomfort. For someone like myself - shy, introverted, awkward in situations that require me to talk with people I don’t know (especially when those people are in large numbers) - the registration tent would make it easier, because I’d have a very specific job to do. But that’s just it: it would be easy. 

What would not be easy? Getting everyone riled up. Cheering them on as they started on the path, and then again when they reached the finish line. That would be outside the comfort zone! 

I've already established that I'm introverted, so obviously, I'm not much of a cheerleader. Sure, I cheer on and support those close to me. But getting up in front of a crowd and making a fool of myself? Not so much. Yet, when I sent in my volunteering preference to work at the start/finish line, the Volunteer Coordinator was ecstatic! Apparently, she just knew I’d be great at this job. Maybe it’s my passion for the animals that hooked her. I can’t be sure. What I do know is, her enthusiasm was infectious. It helped, too, that my partner in crime would be someone I already know – a person far more outgoing and cheerleader-ish than myself (her name is Jessie, for future reference).

On the day of the event, I was expecting to be parked at the start line to take everyone through some sort of warm up session before they began. Boy was I wrong! I attended a high level orientation, and then Jessie and I were given our instructions: move through the crowd, pass out promotional items, and get people excited for the event. Then, at the proper time, we were to take signs to the start/finish line to guide people to the path … and away we go!

It took me awhile to get warmed up, even with Jessie’s help. But once I got over the initial “oh gawd, it’s a stranger and I have to talk to them!” moment, I found my voice and nature sort of took over. What was there to be afraid of, really? People were there with their dogs. Cute, furry bundles of energy! Who cares about making small talk when a dog is around? We already had something in common! All I had to do was bend down, compliment the adorable dog, ask its name, pet its head, and offer a doggy pedometer or poo bag. Voila! Instant conversation! 

The people were excited to get their promotional items. The dogs were excited to get the attention. I was excited to pet, visit, and admire hundreds of dogs – something I don’t have an opportunity to do every day.



Fast forward to the start line. When Jessie and I parked ourselves at our “station” – which was really just a patch of grass where we held up big “START” signs – we became the most popular people at the event. Instant fame! Everyone wanted a picture with us and their dogs. We didn’t have to get anyone riled up, because they were already excited! They’d been through a warm-up and their dogs were ready to go. The best part was watching those little bums wiggle and shake as they took off down the path. And yes, I am referring to the dogs.

My favourite dog at the CHS Dog Jog: Figo (my fur nephew)

As the jog ended, more people wanted pictures. And then more. We actually had groups waiting in line for a photo with the FINISH sign. It got to the point where we were handing people the sign and taking their cameras/phones to snap the pictures so they could be there with their dogs. I went from Canine Schmoozer, to Start Line Sign Holder, to Finish Line Cheerleader, to Photographer! Yay! More dogs! More smiles! Total cuteness (dogs again)!

By the end of the event – which for me lasted a good five hours – I was exhausted. But I was also happy. Not just because I’d stepped outside my comfort zone, but also because I’d found it much easier than I expected. And have I mentioned all the dogs? Dogs! DOGS! How could socializing with dogs be difficult?!

What did I learn from this experience? Well … as it turns out, schmoozing at a dog-focused event really isn’t schmoozing at all; it’s meeting friendly critters. The people just hold the leash. Who cares about them, anyway? Ha ha, just kidding.

In all seriousness, I learned that when you embrace a “job” in support of a cause that means something to you, there really isn’t much that is “out of the box”. How can there be? The cause is the focus of your journey, and the job, whatever it is, is just a means to an end. I already knew from doing pet therapy that animals break down barriers, help establish human connections, and bring people out of their shells. I guess I never expected to be on the receiving end, but that’s exactly what happened. The dogs gave me strength. They gave me courage. They gave me something in common with hundreds of strangers. In the end, my “job” felt nothing like work. It was all fun … as it should be.

I know that stepping out of my box won’t be this easy every time, but I’m hopeful that as each experience comes up, I’ll discover new courage and enthusiasm for doing something new. Dogs or no dogs, cats or no cats, birds … you get the drift. Whatever the environment, whatever the result, at least I’ll be able to say, “I did it.”

Now … on to the next one. Woof!

On Sunday, June 1st, I did my first 5k. I’d like to say that I ran my first 5k, but I only ran part of it. I did finish in better time than I had hoped, and placed at the middle of the pack in all categories. Considering that I didn’t train for the race, my result came as a surprise – especially given that after running most of the first half, I was struck with a pesky stitch in my side that was so severe, I felt like I was being stabbed. No exaggeration! Obviously the second half of the race was spent walking more than running, but I still had a decent result in the end. And hey, I finished! 

These shoes are made for running ... er, walking ... er, running ...

But hold up, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back a few months, shall we? 

When I started thinking about my year of 40 out-of-the-box adventures, I thought a race might be a great way to begin. I was an avid runner in my younger days, but it had been close to a decade since I’d made running a part of my routine. Even so, I figured I’d be able to do it. Since January I had been shedding the extra pounds, and though I wasn’t nearly as fit as I would like, I figured carrying around less weight would make 5k a breeze. My body will remember how to do it, I thought. It will be a piece of cake! Um ... not so much. Good thing the physical achievement became a much lower priority than the opportunity to run for a cause.

Getting ready to kick some butt!

When a fellow member of the Pet Access League Society – better known as PALS – sent an email blast looking for volunteers to run as part of our “Healing Paws” team, I didn’t hesitate. It was as if life was telling me I had to do this. Fundraising may not be my forte, and joining a team – in any type of sport – is certainly outside of my norm. PALS offered me an opportunity not only to step outside of my box, but to do so in support of an amazing program about which I am quite passionate.

PALS is a fantastic organization that supports people’s physical, mental, and emotional healing through contact with animals. I have seen the joy these animals bring to individuals whose lives are impacted by disability, injury, violence, mental health issues, and age. It takes so little to change a life: the touch of a hand upon a furry head, the sound of a purr, a wagging tail. Week after week, these small things add up. The light returns to people’s eyes. The hurts disappear for awhile. The hope and courage fill their hearts. All because an animal was there to soothe their suffering and offer unconditional love and support.

I have been a volunteer with PALS since 2007 when my cat, Bingley became one of the few feline pet therapists in the organization. Because cat temperaments are not generally suited to car rides, unfamiliar environments, crowds, strange noises and smells, and being passed from person to person, it is difficult to find cats with the right qualities for this program. Lucky for me and for all those he’s visited over the years, Bingley has these qualities in spades. He is friend to everyone and everything, doesn’t mind being on a harness and leash, and loves being the center of attention. He’s not afraid of traveling in the car or carrier; he even has a special kitty stroller that allows him to visit in style! He truly adores the senior residents at the facility where we visit, and enjoys kids, too - of all ages and with all kinds of special needs. Since he passed his initial screening, he has become well-known in PALS as “that big fluffy orange guy”. He has made such a difference, in fact, that I decided to try out my other cat, Fergus to see how he would do. In 2012, Fergus, too, passed the test, and now I have two of only a dozen or so cats in a program with close to 400 animals. I’m a proud mama!

Bingley and Fergus are natural pet therapists.

I find this work incredibly fulfilling, and I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate my first 5k than by raising funds to help PALS. In the end, our team raised close to $9,000, which will make a huge difference for the organization.

While all this fundraising was happening, I was training. Or rather, I was supposed to be training. Ha! I ran once, about three weeks before the event. Does that count? If my progress on race day is any indication, then no. But with or without training, completing my first 5k was an amazing experience - as glorious and exciting (and exhausting!) as I had hoped. I even received a medal for finishing! And some great photos! And a sense of accomplishment I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Getting close ...

Almost there ...

Did I learn anything from this experience? You bet!

1. Taking action in support of a good cause is always worthwhile.
2. Joining a team can make reaching for a goal more fun, more motivating, and more fulfilling.
3. Train, train, train. Having a history in a sport/activity does not mean you can jump in where you left off ten years ago.
4. After exercise, STRETCH. My poor hips and hamstrings reminded me every day for a week just how necessary stretching is.
5. There is nothing stopping me but myself. This is, of course, the most important lesson – and one that we all should remember. The internal critic can wreak havoc on one’s confidence, but nothing silences a critic more quickly than proving it wrong.

Will I do another 5k? Absolutely! A 10k? A marathon? Maybe. If I want to. Now that I've pushed the boundaries, the next step doesn't seem so impossible. In fact, it's quite the opposite. It's amazing what you can do when you set your mind to it.

I did it!

   
The good news is, this week I was officially released from physiotherapy for my hand, and I'm allowed to do all the things I used to do before I broke it. This means I'll be able to try more new things, take more risks, and enjoy life with even greater enthusiasm!

First up? A 5K race on June 1st. I'm very excited about this event, and hopeful that I'll be able to run at least a portion of it (we'll just ignore the fact that I've barely trained for it). Not only is this my first race ever ... it's also a wonderful opportunity to raise money for a cause close to my heart. Stay tuned for more details post-event!

In the meantime, I thought it might be fun to share some impressions about an every day activity - one that doesn't fall within my chosen 40, but certainly offered me something to think about this week.

Here's a fun fact about me: I love quizzes. Not the ones that are graded and based on actual knowledge/learning, but the ridiculous quizzes that pop up all over Facebook. The ones that tell you where you should live, what colour you are, the type of superpower you should have. You know, the quizzes that are silly and irrelevant to every day life. They're fun in the moment, and that's what counts. I figure if I can get a momentary giggle from spending two minutes answering goofy questions, those two minutes have been time well spent.

So a few days ago, I took a quiz to find out my happy word. It included only five or six questions, and probably took me less than a minute to complete. Here's my result:

Your Happy Word is BLISS. You are happy because you don't need a lot to be content. You experience happiness in the best and worst of times. You see the divine in everything. You believe that every moment, person, and creature is unique and special. You are an oasis of calm in this chaotic world. You never lose your head. You can feel totally elated and exuberant from the smallest pleasures. You don't hold back when it comes to ecstasy. 

Not all of this paragraph is true. I wouldn't consider myself an oasis of calm, unless whatever's happening isn't happening to me. And while it takes a lot for me to lose my cool, I do lose my head on occasion. But that part about not holding back? That's what I'm working on for my 40th year. Experiencing happiness even at the worst of times? I'm trying it. Feeling totally elated and exuberant from the smallest pleasures? That's what these 12 months are all about!

Aside from the description, there is the word itself: BLISS. I have always loved this word. I love the way it sounds, the feel of it as it rolls off my tongue. I love how this simple one-syllable word can be altered so easily by changing one's tone, or accent, or accentuating the ss. And then there's the meaning of the word. According to the dictionary, bliss is a feeling of "supreme happiness; utter joy or contentment. Euphoria."

I remember when I followed my heart to the Humane Society, and found my life's goal was working with animals. The simple pleasure in giving my time to animals and their welfare began to reshape other areas of my life. My outlook changed. I started seeing more beauty in my life, more excitement in the day to day. I remember saying to a friend, "It's amazing how when you follow your bliss, everything else seems to fall into place" ... or something to that effect.

And it is very true. I had been seeking that feeling for most of my adult life, and suddenly, I didn't long for change anymore. I just longed for that fantastic feeling - that euphoria - that followed me every time I spent a few minutes with animals in need. Now, in my 40th year, I'm looking for even more experiences to expand my world and help me to embrace that euphoric feeling in new ways. Living inside out, taking risks, being in the moment and experiencing life differently.

Bliss really is a state of mind. I encourage you to find your own ... and follow it. You never know where it may lead.