Smiling Eyes

I used to be very concerned about the lines around me eyes.  I've bought creams and lotions, I've tried scrubs and serums.  Truth is, my skin is pretty great, and I am very blessed, and I am rounding 44. 

And in the words of my momma - who is rarely wrong when it comes to these sorts of things - "you know you wouldn't have those lines if you didn't smile so much..."  True Story.

At Least I Wasn't Wearing That Dress

So the funk... It's still lingering.  I still have very little motivation despite the stacks of paper on my desk.  But yesterday, I felt the break.  I knew when it cracked.  I felt it.  And do you want to know what did it?  The Golden Globe Red Carpet. 

I know, right? 

Years ago, I started watching the Red Carpet for all the events - Golden Globes, Emmy's and the Oscars... ohhh the Oscars. It's the biggest, the brightest and the best.  I didn't watch it alone, of course.  This was always a Sunday with mom.  We'd watch for the dresses, the outfits and the stars.  The whos who of the whos who.  What's she wearing, who's he with, and did she just fall UP the stairs?  It makes me gloriously happy.  I don't really care about the awards at all. I just want to see what she wore...

Last night, I was wallowing in it, still.  Let's be honest.  It's just gross.  Like, dude, go outside.  But no... the couch held me.  I turned it on without knowing it was on.  E-Live! At the Red Carpet!  Yes!!!    My soul jumped a little.  I know it's weird, you don't need to tell me.  I gawked at the dresses, I gasped at the feathery suit.  I wanted that necklace... and then, I texted my mom. 

Suddenly it was like she was sitting right with me as we gawked and ewwwed.  And the lonliness was a little less.  And then my phone buzzed and Dana said "ummm did you just see what that dress..." 

Well, yes I did.  And I laughed.  Across two provinces, from three little towns, we watched the Red Carpet Glamor and gushed over Scarlett Johanson, and wondered what Gwenyth Paltrow was thinking, and is that half a dress Carrie Washington was wearing?  Are those Beyonce's boobs in her sleeves?  What is going on?  This year may have been the year of the most ridiculous dresses and I cannot wait for the Oscars! 

I guess what I'm saying is, I've been a little blue in all this grey here in the snow.  There's a bit of funk in the air.  There's busy times, and some adjusting to do.  There's the settling still and the figuring out, and the planning and the year ahead.  It's been a bit of a time for our souls ( I hear you loud and clear friends and I love you all so much)... But... at least, we didn't have to wear that dress. In public. 

It's going to be better. Hang on, you can do it.  I love you.

J

Outside Of the Winners Circle

So often, we tell about painful periods of our life from the winners circle. It’s not very often that anyone tells a tale from the vulnerable, raw parts of their soul, sharing the hurt, the pain, the real parts that happen in life to get the part where we are supposed to grow and learn.

Well this is one of those days for me - not in the winners circle. Guess what, friends? Not all my days are spent in the winners circle. Shocker, hey? I bet not all of yours are either - and it’s from that place, whatever the opposite of the winners circle is, that I find myself sitting smack dab in the middle of.

I’ve been staring in the mirror lately at someone I don’t recognize, someone I don’t like very much, and frankly someone I despise. I am angry - All. The. Time. I am spent. I am exhausted. I am irritable, and listless and voiceless. I feel needy and unsure. I am sad and anxious and frankly lost in my days. My motivation is zero. My ambition took a hike and left me behind. I feel like a shitty partner, a questionable parent, a terrible friend, and a weak individual. Weak. I am in pain. I feel so much less of myself than I have in so, so long. I don’t know how to fix where I am, and I am scared.

For a long time now, I’ve been asking myself just how long the rope is, because I’ve been at the end of it for so long, just tying knots trying to hang on to whatever is left. Everywhere I look there is so much brokenness, and I am fighting to see the beauty in the days. Where did my optimism go? How did the monsters get back in - those ones that tell such convincing lies? And how was I so easily convinced of what they said?

The truth is, it happens. It’s a bad week. It started six days ago and the let up is taking a bit longer this time. But all I can know for sure is, that I hope it will - let up, I mean. And it’s in that hope that I tie another knot.

I want you to know something. I feel like shit right now. Maybe you do too. A few days ago I asked some people if they'd remembered anything I'd written, anything that was particularly memorable, or something relatable. Turns out the answer was yes, and one of the things people said is that I wasn't afraid to be raw and talk about it. So here we are, talking about it, and I hope, maybe it helps someone other than me just to put some heavy words down.

But there’s something that I have learned through the struggle of the moving forward - it doesn’t last. The Universe will unfold its plan, you just have to have a little faith in it. In my struggle this morning, I was reading - ultimately surprising, I know - and these words LITERALLY appeared on my screen and I thought - holy shit, that’s for me… (I’m not joking… on my screen, and then the little “read more” button, and I did).

One more time, for my people in the back, you are nothing less.

Your heart loves so deeply that most can’t even find the bottom.

I know because mine does, too.

It takes one to know one.

It was gifted the ability to see what could be instead of what is.

It’s a gift.

To see beauty in a world that is surrounded with brokenness.

To love even the unworthy.

To hope amidst the pain.

You are not weak.

~Jenna Irvin~

I still can’t read it without crying today. I’ll probably read it every single day until I can. I might put it on my wall for a bit so I can read it a thousand times. The Universe unfolds itself. I have faith in it. Jenna Irvin shouted it from the Winners Circle.

I heard it loud and clear. I hope you can too. It’ll be better. Just not today. Maybe tomorrow.

You are not weak, and I love you.


J

Harvest

Harvest has begun.

It’s our second year at this grape farming thing.  It’s harvest again.  It’s a busy thing, this farming, and making your own product, and having a store, and selling and being successful at a business.  It’s already been a winding road to get to where we have from where we began, and plenty of people have no idea what goes into our days and love to hear the stories when they visit.  More often than not, we hear “I had no idea it was so much work!”.   I know, right?? 

So here I sit, as the juice press runs and we wait a bit for the next round, taking the time to tell you the story of a day of harvest here. 

Day One:  Siegerrebe

We started our day at 6am.  It’s 10 degrees outside, so we put on some layers that will come off later, when the day warms , or should I say if it stops raining.  We’ve taken today because the rain has slowed from a down pour to a drizzle and we can work in a drizzle.  It’s a day earlier than we had planned, so we have to call in some extra hands and hope they can come a day early too.

But before the grapes - the chickens.  Oh yes, chickens.  We haul out food and water for chickens, tidy coops, feed the growers and collect eggs from the layers.  Let the dogs out, let them run, feed them too.  So while I tend to animals, Kevin’s already at the winery prepping bins, and cleaning buckets.  He’s setting tanks and fermenting bins and testing equipment. 

I whipped up a fast but filling breakfast and make sure we have full bellies for the day.  There’s a good chance it will be a while before lunch.  I eat quickly, tidy the kitchen, and take Kevin his breakfast outside to the winery.  And so it begins... eight of  us at eight in the morning, hand picking rows and rows and rows of Siegerrebe grapes.  I’ve put out coffee and water, but no one breaks.  We slurp water tossed between us down the rows, dropping grapes into buckets, and full buckets into bins at the end of the rows.  We combat wasps, we hide from the sun, we sit on overturned buckets to save aching backs, but now we have aching asses.  We chat amongst ourselves, only rows apart, laughing and telling stories.  Kevin and I smile, and are so grateful for our friends that have come out to help. 

There’s a honking at the winery.  Customers.  I zip over from picking grapes, clean up best I can, and yes, pop open the store for customers passing through.  I beg forgiveness for the mud and my appearance.  I promise I don’t normally look like this in the tasting room.  We laugh and lovely customers taste their way through wine and leave smiling and happy.  I wave goodbye and head back out.  Lather, rinse, repeat throughout the day. 

By three in the afternoon, we are done one varietal of grape on the vineyard.  We have six varietals here to get through before we are done.   Our production has nearly tripled since our first year.  The hard work is apparent.  We gather our crew and share in a crock pot lunch of chilli and buns and salad and toast each other in satisfaction. 

Did you think we were done?  Hahahahhaaaa... No.  It’s four in the afternoon now, and the grapes need to be processed.  Every bin of grapes is shovelled into a de-stemmer where they are separated stems from grapes.  The grapes move down a hose into a press where the juice is pressed out from the seeds and skins.  We have a dozen bins to get through and it’s already five pm.  By 8:30 that evening, we’ve combated a failed press, taking us down to one.  We still have seven bins of unprocessed grapes.  We are sticky, covered in grape juice and defeated.  It’s time to call it a day and carry on tomorrow. 

Done? No.  You can’t just leave sticky, grape juice filled equipment out in bear country.  Cleaning is necessary.  We start with pressure washers and hoses and clean buckets and bins, and haul waste and garbage, wash crush pads and stack bins of unprocessed grapes.  The moon is filling the night with light, which is nice.  It’s warm enough that we aren’t freezing despite being soaked in grape juice, and now water. 

Nine thirty.  I’ve succumbed to a hot shower and three advil.  Supper?  Nah.  I’ll eat tomorrow.

It’s been a sixteen hour day before we pull the covers over our head.   Tomorrow we start again. 

Day Two:  Ortega

We allow ourselves an extra hour of sleep and lay till 7am.  Breakfast, chickens, eggs, dogs. Coffee...

My desk, office and admin work from this and my other job is severely neglected.  Oh, did you think I just worked in the vineyard?  Hahhahaahaa!  No. I answer a handful of emails.  I print off some orders to go out. 

Fill orders, package orders, label and prep paperwork for the delivery company, arrange pickup.  Check.

By nine am, I am picking grapes with four others, making five of us, up and down rows of Ortega, hand picking bunches, dropping them into buckets, and hauling filled buckets to bins.  Too busy to stop, we order pizza.  In another twenty five minutes at 12:30, I am given reprieve from the grapes and drive into town to pick up the food.  I swing by and pick up mail and packages to spare another trip, and head back to my crew that has taken shelter in the winery from a bit of a rain shower.  We eat.  We are all exhausted.  Back to the grind, and by four o’clock we are spent.  There are two more rows to get through, and we trudge another couple hours to see them finished.  Haul full buckets, cover bins.  Kevin moves the bins into the shop, we wash buckets and prep equipment for processing tomorrow.  By seven, I’ve retreated to the house while Kevin finishes at the winery.  I grill chicken,  and make pasta, throw together a casserole, eat out the dish and hand Kevin a fork as he walks into the house at eight.  He too, eats out of the dish, too tired to grab a plate. 

Shower, comfortable warm clothes, lots of water to rehydrate, feet up.  It’s 9pm.   We stare blankly at a tv till ten, but our eyes are both closed.  We concede and go to bed. 

Day three: Processing.

With fourteen bins of grapes to be processed and more to come, there’s no time to rest.  7am.  

Breakfast, chickens, dogs. 

Emails.  New label proofs have to be reviewed and signed and sent back to the printers.  Done.  More emails and spreadsheets and invoices.  More statements and orders. 

Bins are shovelled and de-stemmed, and pressed.  Wasps are abundant.  There’s a pump running constantly moving juice into a fermenting tank.  Three people can smoothly run this process.  I have done what I can to help this morning and returned to my office - where, truthfully I am supposed to be catching up on accounting and admin for two full time businesses, but here I sit, clacking away so I can post on our website for all of customers. You’re welcome. 

Update website, update social media.  The rest of my day will be prepping for a market this weekend.  The store will be open, and the wine rack needs refilling.  Kevin and two workers will continue processing grapes.  Somewhere before the weekend I need to fit in grocery shopping.  I haven’t been to the gym but once in two weeks.  There’s a project outback that sits unfinished.  I need to get out to the garden and bring in the herbs for drying. 

And four more varietals of grapes to go.  The store closes September 30 for the season, but we’ve already got special bookings and events planned.  Oktoberfest  and autumn markets fill most of October, with pruning, vineyard cleanup and the continued harvest until the end.  Christmas Markets start Mid November with a cheese festival as filler because we didn’t have enough to do.  Vines and Spines will carry us all through winter.  There will  be equipment to repair or tweak to be better.  There will be tanks and wine and pressures and tests.  There is marketing and festivals and reporting and liquor store sales.  There is licensing and accounting.  There is pruning and pruning, and did I mention the pruning?  

Is that all we have to do?  No.  That’s just what’s on our plates today.  Many of you ask - how much staff do you have?  Well, normally, it’s just Kevin and I.  We are lucky to have a couple here this summer staying and working with us.  We have friends and family that help with harvest, and some bottling.  Our parents are gems and their visits here are filled with help.  We are a small boutique winery.  We are family owned and operated.  We work all the days, usually even on the one day off we give ourselves from the store.  We try to schedule our lives the best we can around business, and harvest, and customers and markets.  It is, alas, just us, doing the best we can.  I think we’ve done a pretty great job so far, and you loving our wine the way you do, tells us we’re right. 

To our amazing customers that visit us, and love our wine, and hold us up, we can’t thank you enough.  To our customers that understand when our door is locked and life happens, and promise to come back tomorrow, you are the reason we do what we do.  For the love of the customers, for the love of the community, for your love of our wine, thank you, all of you, for supporting us in this journey. 

Oh Captain My Captain.

How do I start this?  This tribute of sorts?

I once had a teacher - an educator - of epic proportions.  She was both terrifying and awe inspiring.  She commanded respect, perhaps by throwing chalk at a talking face when she was trying to teach.  She rarely connected...but my guess is that may have been intentional.  She was well put together - scarf, shoes, belt, purse - an attention to detail not common in a lady spending her days among grade five and six students.  

I once watched her discipline and comfort a student all in the same hour, rarely holding anger and using experience as lessons that were unforgettable.  She had a wildly infectious laugh.  If I close my eyes I can hear it to this day, and see her smile as wide as the sun on a summer day.  I can hear her heals clicking down a hallway, I can see the sway of her swagger, coffee cup in hand, lipstick on, sass on her sleeve.  She was the teacher that traded Christmas classroom traditions for Halloween and Valentines Day for St. Patrick's Day. I will never again look at a dollar store pencil with plastic leprechauns on the end without seeing her smile.  I can't ever think about telling a ghost story without all the classroom lights being turned out in my head.  Valentines Day?  Blech...  (I may have just discovered where my distaste for it started!)  And even though we traded Halloween for Christmas, there was no other teacher that commanded such enthusiasm during Come On Ring Those Bells.  I see her in front of me every single time I hear it.  

Her desk was lined with little glass and brass bells.  She had a picture of Paul Coffee on the side table pullout in her desk.  She swooned over Craig Simpson, and was probably the only woman short of my mother that I knew at that age that watched hockey with passion and would think nothing of wagering chocolate with a sixth grader on the outcome of the game. She was the teacher who hated rows of desks and rearranged the seating plan regularly.  We sat in groups, or in pairs, or in communities.  Some sat alone.  Some lined her desk with their own, some in a back corner.  We had doodle papers covering the tops of our desks, and we all divided our scribbler pages in half to make the most of the paper when taking notes.  "Take out your ruler.  Put it in the middle of the page. Now draw a line.  I want you to use the whole page."  Waste of space equalled waste of energy.  An unkept desk was unacceptable.  She was very specific.  There were ways of gluing in handouts, ways of tidying a torn out page from a scribbler - there were no stray papers floating about.  She was good at tying up loose ends.  

And so she did.  She fell ill, and didn't make a fuss.  She didn't tell the world, or splash social media with her journey's end.  She stared it in the face, filled her days with her people.  She said her goodbyes neatly and lovingly, and slipped quietly away, at the end of the first day of classes (of course) requesting no egg salad sob fest.  Instead, last week, a group of her biggest fans gathered in a room and told stories. We listened and laughed and cried.  There were people I hugged that I haven't seen in twenty years.  We were all there carrying her love around.  We looked at her smiling in pictures, and running our fingers over her wool scarf displayed just so at the memory table.  It smelled just like her.  There were candles lit, and apples to share from her tree.  It was lovely and sad, and comforting.  

Rita Steele was one of the most powerful educators in my childhood.  Part of me is her, and I'd like to think it's more than the just the half hand writing, half printing habit I picked up in grade five and was scolded for most of my high school english class by Mr. Matheson.  I carry her sass.  Sometimes I catch myself with her swagger when I am feeling just so.  I am grateful for all of it.  

Here's the rub of it all.  I heard a lot of "I wish I could have been there, but..."  I'd like to think, that when my time here ends, and it's the day of my service, the people that loved me, or those of whom who's life I touched in a memorable way come out and embrace each other and stand soul to soul.  I hope more people than not aren't too busy. I hope more people don't only "wish they could have made it" to say good bye.  That day... that day of such sweet good bye deserves more than "I wish I could have been there".  Because you can be, for the most part.  I drove ten hours to hold space for an hour for a person that shaped me.  And I know Rita would say "well lucky me", while twirling the hair on the my shoulders, and saying "not everyone sees importance in such things, but I'm glad you were here".  

Dear friends, stop being too busy for things you wish you could do.  This lesson was brought to you by the letters R and S, and with love.  Ring a bell today, and smile because you can.

"O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won..." 

Parenting Adults

I have to tell you, I love being a parent to adult children.  I love that they are independent and smart, and funny, and that I am able to share their time.  I also love that they still need me. 

I got a phone call yesterday.  It was panicky and disheartened and over emotional.  My boy, so excited to have gotten into college, was slammed with decision making about tuition and start dates and locations and being ready financially, and mentally.  And let me tell you - I was faced with a moment of knowing what I say right then would make the difference in his life in so many ways.  So I thought for a moment, and I took a big breath, and I called him back.  What I said was "what can I do to help you?  Are you prepared?  Are you happy?  What decisions that you make will make you happy?  Are you ready, do you need time?  What do you need from me?" 

I could have said a hundred different things like - you're an adult, sort it out.  Or you should have been expecting this, now what are you going to do?  Or this isn't my problem - this is adulting.  And sometimes I do say those things to my kids - when that's what they need to hear.  But yesterday, yesterday was different.  Part of me knows that he was so reliant on my approval and support.  I know he wants to do what I want him to do, but sometimes what I want isn't the answer.  This day was about what he wants, and what he is ready for. 

I spent some time going over options, and making some phone calls.  It really wasn't much.  But the most important thing I did yesterday was make him understand that no matter what he decides, he is loved, and I am so proud of him in the decisions he's already made lately.  I helped where I was asked to, and not where I wasn't.  I offered support for whatever decision he wants to make right now.  Stay working at a job you love?  Okay.  Go to school, and work through the chaos that will definitely be your week to start the school year?  Sure thing.  Whatever you choose, I have your back, and I am proud. 

Sometimes kids- even as adults, need parenting.  But the shift in parenting is the key.  It's in the support and guidance, not so much in the discipline and rules and expectations.  There are days I still rely on calling my parents, and I am 43 years old.  I know ultimately, my decisions are my own, but still, I turn to their life experience, just as I hope all of my kids will turn to me for mine.  I've been through some ugly, hard things.  I've also experienced joy and wonder and I have never had to doubt my parental support.  It may not have come in the all the ways I wanted but that's life, and the ability to learn on my own was abundant - safely knowing there were always hands to help me up if I fell. 

Kids fall.  Humans fall.  I always want to be a hand up.  And I will forever live by and encourage the mantra: fall down seven, stand up eight.  Defeat is not an option, moving forward is. 

To my children, I will always be your hand up.  I will always be your support.  Never doubt that. My advice or my words may not be what you expect, sometimes they will be what you need despite the look on your face when I speak.  I will always do my part to ensure your life successes, and when you need help, I will always answer the call - no matter how old you are.  I love you all.

Also, thank you, truly,  for calling me, texting me, and for the simple act of asking for what you need from me. My soul shines with your brightness.

Crying Over Spilled Wine

So this happened tonight. 

And then I sat down in the middle of it all and cried. 

What a shit day.  It started shitty, and got a bit better.  Then it was shitty again, and got better again.  Then it was busy and anxiety filled and and screamy and fighty and frustrating and madenning and then really, really shitty.  This.  Broken mess of spilled everything on the floor.  And also the wine. 

It was my last straw today when I thought the last straw had already been drawn.  And I actually thought to myself - if I don't let my words out I am going to explode.  And here we are.  Me at my keyboard, still crying, and you reading, probably thinking - dude..hot mess alert. 

**And let me tell ya, I am really fucking tired of people telling me what not to write, or that their feelings were hurt, or that maybe someone would see this and be offended or angry or upset... If this is you - stop reading and fuck off. ** 

I sat down in the middle of it and cried big, feel sorry for myself, alligator tears.  I cried for the mess, I cried for the frustration.  I cried for everything no one understands about this business and its hours and the work and the loneliness.  I cried because every day I don't love it, but I everyday I don't hate it.  I hate it today.  Tomorrow I won't.  I cried because there are people every day that make my day beautiful and they make me smile.  I cried because I miss my own people like that.  I cried because I am angry and feeling unheard when I speak, and because today someone made me feel like less that I deserve to feel.    I learned my worth a long fucking time ago, and I cried for that too. 

I slammed doors and threw boxes.  I cursed broken bottles and sharp words.  I replayed loud conversations in my head.  I reheard it all.  And I said nothing - so I cried for that too.  I cried for broken promises and because life isn't always fair.  I cried for so many things today, I am on empty. 

Then I picked up the pieces and moved on... because that's what I do. You know what I do know?  That broken bottle doesn't get less broken if you say "sorry" and throw it back on the ground.  That's what I know.