by Heather Plett | May 20, 2006 | Uncategorized
To my hands 
You’ve been ever so faithful, all of these years. You’ve soothed the brows of feverish children, you’ve washed alot of dishes, and scrubbed alot of floors. You’ve carried burdens, and gotten dirt under your finger nails. You’ve proudly worn your wedding ring for nearly 13 years. You don’t look so young any more – you look well used. It’s the way you should look at 40. You’ve written alot of stories, with pen or keyboard. You may not be the originator of thoughts, but you’ve put them to paper many, many times.
To my feet, my lovely little feet 
I’ve always loved you, my little ones. You’ve carried me so many places. You’ve climbed mountains and held me up on waterskis. You’ve run to catch airplanes and trains. You were always my pride and joy. I particularly loved the way you often fit into bargain bin shoes that most people couldn’t squeeze into. You’ve let me down a little lately, though – made me buy orthotics and expensive shoes. I guess you’re making up for all the money you saved me. But maybe I let you down by not taking enough care of you in my youth – by squeezing you into shoes that were too narrow. I put you to the test early on already – forcing you to walk more than 20 miles in the walk-a-thon when you were only six. Thanks for putting up with my need to wander.
To my eyes
Ah, my lovely eyes. I’ve always been happy that you were blue, and that you were steady and strong, never needing glasses (yet). You’ve seen alot of things these 40 years
. You’ve stopped me in my tracks so that I wouldn’t miss the beauty of a rainbow or a shimmering butterfly. You’ve cried alot of tears – tears of sadness, pain, joy, frustration, and shame. You’ve kept watch over our children and helped protect them from danger. You are faithful and true, my lovely blue eyes.
To my breasts
I’ll be frank, my dear breasts – I’ve never been particularly fond of you. You’re 
too big, too floppy, and you sag nearly to my waist. I’ve never been able to squeeze you into department store bras. You made me go to specialty stores to buy genuine over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. You’ve caused permanent indentations in my shoulders because of your wieght. You are a burden. Ah, but perhaps I’ve been unfair, dear old things. You’ve patiently suckled three babies and provided plenty of milk to keep them healthy and happy. You were faithful and true, even when you ached or the nurses said your nipples were too flat to properly feed a baby. (Boy, did YOU prove them wrong!) You’ve carried the pain of unused milk when our little Matthew died. You’ve been steadfast and reliable, and I thank you for that, dear old breasts.
To the little crease between my eyebrows
I’m not quite sure what I think of you, little crease. You’re one of the latest additions
to this 40 year old body. You look a lot like a worry line, and I was sure I’d have laugh lines before I’d get worry lines. I’m a little surprised at you, permanently embedding yourself into the architecture of my face. But perhaps I should be proud of you. Perhaps I should wear you with pride. You show the pain I’ve lived through – pain of loss, of death, of heartache. You carry my worries and proclaim to the world that I have survived. I won’t botox you away, little crease. You give me depth and paint wisdom on my face.
To my mouth
Ah, dear mouth, we’ve had alot of fun together, you and I. We’ve eaten much, talked much, and laughed much. You’ve comforted children with soothing tones. You’ve spoken to c
rowds and offered advice to lots of people. You’ve smiled at your husband and offered him kisses and encouragement. You never figured out how to sing well, but I forgive you for that. You’ve given me contentment as I offered you delicious food. Sometimes we got a little carried away, you and I, and didn’t know when enough was enough. But we’re still learning, even after 40 years of trying to get it right. You are good to me, dear mouth.
To my body
We’ve lived through 40 years together, dear body of mine. I admit, I haven’t always be
en fair to you. I forced you to carry too much weight, and then berated you for being heavy. I’m sorry for that. I’ll try to do better in the next 40 years. But it’s been good, hasn’t it, dear body? We’ve seen alot of interesting places, carried babies – both inside and out, worked hard, played well, rested now and then, and found contentment. We’ve found ways to indulge our passions, satisfy our curiosity, please our friends, and live a good life. Here’s to the next 40 years together. May they be as good as the last 40 have been.
by Heather Plett | May 19, 2006 | Uncategorized
Sky dive
Go on a bike trip around Eastern Canada
Publish a book
Take my daughters back-packing in Europe
Eat Thai food in Thailand
Have a career as a freelance writer
Hang-glide
Own a house with a verandah (yes, D&L, I’m jealous)
Learn to paint
Go on another trip with just my husband (re-living Quebec City would be nice)
Write a regular column in a magazine or newspaper
Travel to Brazil
Design my own website
Take another pottery workshop and get proficient on the wheel
Live in another country
Get better at photography
Take a hot-air balloon ride
Teach creativity workshops again
Go on another trip with my sister
Be the keynote speaker at a conference
Watch my children grow
Live close to water
Be a travel writer
Buy more Kenyan tea in Kenya
Get in touch with some old friends
Go on a bike trip in a foreign country
Consume less
Make more friends
Attend the Folk Festival at least 20 more times
Visit the Yukon and Alaska
Watch Marcel become a teacher
Learn to do batik
See giraffes in their natural habitat again
Be an interesting senior citizen
Take this creativity workshop in Provence
Go on another family trip with my extended family
Get my nose pierced
Take up horseback riding again
See the Cirque du Soleil
See the women my daughters become at 40
by Heather Plett | May 18, 2006 | Uncategorized
Introducing… my lovely niece Abigail who will join us for her first pilgrimage to the greatest festival on earth, come July!
by Heather Plett | May 17, 2006 | Uncategorized
I’m sitting here staring at my screen. Paralyzed. Wordless. I’ve opened the document named “annual report” a thousand times, and it still has nothing but a heading. I’ve started the first paragraph a few times, but I keep deleting it. I have nothing to say.
The curse of the professional communicator/writer has returned to haunt me. Once again, like every other job I’ve been in, I get to the second or third year that I have to write the same annual document, and I get bored. Seriously bored. It’s not just me either – almost everyone I know in this line of work has an attention span of about 3 years. We can usually stretch our interest in something to the second and even third year, but beyond that, we go plum stir crazy if we have to keep writing and communicating about the same thing over and over and over again.
I can write about almost anything for awhile. In my professional (ie. “paid”) career, I’ve had to write about veterans, agriculture, health, science, and now hunger. I’ve written press releases about commemorative events, communication plans about testing SARS on “non-human primates” (in other words, “how to tell the public we’re really injecting MONKEYS with the deadly SARS virus and then KILLING them, without getting PETA down our throats”), speeches for politicians dedicating new memorials, and articles about how the price we pay for bananas impacts small scale farmers in Africa. I’ve planned photo ops for two prime ministers, spoken to media from all over the world, organized press conferences on a myriad of topics, and advised senior level bureaucrats on the right thing to say without pissing off the Canadian public.
But… the problem is, I keep getting bored. B-O-R-E-D. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve had a career that would make many people swoon with envy. I’ve travelled all across Canada (several times) and even to Africa and Rome. I’ve met all kinds of dignitaries and other famous people. I’ve seen my name in print hundreds of times. I’ve heard my words spoken from the lectern by high level politicians.
But still, after about two years, the end result is the same. B-O-R-E-D. What is WRONG with me? Sheesh!
On June 3, I’ll have been in this job for 2 years. I thought FOR SURE this job would be different. I mean, I’m doing something meaningful for a change. I don’t have to feel like a government zombie anymore. I get to challenge and inspire people to help solve world hunger. I get to travel to developing countries. I get to do more public speaking than before. I get to make a difference. I get to flex my leadership skills. I get to…. oh man, it’s still not working. I’m still bored.
When you’re a professional communicator, you always end up working alongside people with a lot of passion, but you’re almost always on the outside. I’ve worked with scientists who’ve toiled for years and years, dedicated to the same task – finding a vaccine for AIDS. I’ve worked with social workers, spending their lives trying to make sure aging veterans receive all the benefits they are entitled to. I now work with people in non-profit, who are determined that some day ALL people will have enough food to eat. These people are PASSIONATE. They live and breathe whatever it is they’re passionate about – it gets in their bones. And for awhile, their passion infects me and I get passionate too. For about a year and a half, I was excited about aging veterans. For about a year and a half, I was excited about agriculture. For about a year and a half, I was excited about ending world hunger.
Seriously – what is my PROBLEM? WHY can’t I sustain any passion? Why do I keep flitting from one thing to another like a drunken firefly?
I guess it’s the curse of the writer. We love whatever we land on, and our firefly light shines into the nooks and crannies revealing interesting things hidden below, but then our wings get itchy and we know that if we stay, our light will slowly extinguish and we will die.
This little firefly doesn’t want to die. I want to keep flying. But I may need to find other things to shine my firefly light on, or I’ll get dull. And restless.
No, I’m not quitting my job. When I started here, I told myself that I could give this place AT LEAST 5 years. I still have three years to go. Three more annual reports. Three more church mailouts. Three more cycles of newsletters. Three more… cringe.
After that, hopefully Marcel will be back in the workforce and I can quit and finally be a freelance writer. Then perhaps, if I write about a different topic ever week, I’ll finally be satisfied. At least for three years anyway. 🙂 Sigh.
by Heather Plett | May 16, 2006 | Uncategorized
See that bottom number? The one that says 500.00? Yes, that’s the number of kilometres I’ve ridden my bike in the last month. Not bad, eh?
Actually, I’ve done a few more than that by now, but on the way to Home Depot tonight, the whole family had to stop while I took a picture – I wanted a nice round number 🙂
My goal is to have the same legs I had the year I trained for the Tinman.
. You’ve stopped me in my tracks so that I wouldn’t miss the beauty of a rainbow or a shimmering butterfly. You’ve cried alot of tears – tears of sadness, pain, joy, frustration, and shame. You’ve kept watch over our children and helped protect them from danger. You are faithful and true, my lovely blue eyes.
too big, too floppy, and you sag nearly to my waist. I’ve never been able to squeeze you into department store bras. You made me go to specialty stores to buy genuine over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. You’ve caused permanent indentations in my shoulders because of your wieght. You are a burden. Ah, but perhaps I’ve been unfair, dear old things. You’ve patiently suckled three babies and provided plenty of milk to keep them healthy and happy. You were faithful and true, even when you ached or the nurses said your nipples were too flat to properly feed a baby. (Boy, did YOU prove them wrong!) You’ve carried the pain of unused milk when our little Matthew died. You’ve been steadfast and reliable, and I thank you for that, dear old breasts.
to this 40 year old body. You look a lot like a worry line, and I was sure I’d have laugh lines before I’d get worry lines. I’m a little surprised at you, permanently embedding yourself into the architecture of my face. But perhaps I should be proud of you. Perhaps I should wear you with pride. You show the pain I’ve lived through – pain of loss, of death, of heartache. You carry my worries and proclaim to the world that I have survived. I won’t botox you away, little crease. You give me depth and paint wisdom on my face.
rowds and offered advice to lots of people. You’ve smiled at your husband and offered him kisses and encouragement. You never figured out how to sing well, but I forgive you for that. You’ve given me contentment as I offered you delicious food. Sometimes we got a little carried away, you and I, and didn’t know when enough was enough. But we’re still learning, even after 40 years of trying to get it right. You are good to me, dear mouth.
en fair to you. I forced you to carry too much weight, and then berated you for being heavy. I’m sorry for that. I’ll try to do better in the next 40 years. But it’s been good, hasn’t it, dear body? We’ve seen alot of interesting places, carried babies – both inside and out, worked hard, played well, rested now and then, and found contentment. We’ve found ways to indulge our passions, satisfy our curiosity, please our friends, and live a good life. Here’s to the next 40 years together. May they be as good as the last 40 have been.
