by Heather Plett | Jun 4, 2012 | Uncategorized
It was the last place on earth I expected to see my dad.
The middle of Union Station in downtown Toronto in the middle of morning rush hour was about as far from Dad’s reality as any place on earth. Yet there he was, looking lost and confused, and yet oh so gentle.
No, it wasn’t my real dad. He’s been dead for nearly nine years. And yet… it was one of those moments when he felt nearly as close to me as he did when he was alive.
The flesh and blood man standing in front of me didn’t look much like my dad, but there was something in his eyes that first caught my attention. Add to that the fact that he looked like he still had farm soil under his fingernails and was completely confused by the mass chaos that is a downtown train station in a major metropolis, and I was captivated. “Do you know where I catch X train?” he asked of several passersby, only to be shrugged off. I wanted to help him, but I had no idea where to catch my train, let alone his.
Eventually, I found my way to my platform, and he found his nearby. I sat down on a bench to wait, and he put a coin into the pay phone to call the daughter who was waiting for him.
“I hate the city,” he said, without bitterness or anger. “There are so many people rushing around and nobody will stop to help a poor guy out.” I smiled. Suddenly I had a flashback to the time when my dad took a bus trip from Manitoba to Alberta, with his tin lunch box, coffee thermos, and eight cents in his pocket. People probably laughed at the farm hick on the bus, but he didn’t care – for him it was an adventure, and years later he still told the story of the young mom on the bus whose child he’d held when travel crankiness set it.
“I love you,” I heard the man say at the end of his call, in a voice so gentle, it clashed with the din all around me. “See you soon.”
At that moment he stopped being the stranger lost in the train station and became my dad.
I started to weep. It felt like I’d had a message from the grave. Oh how I wanted to hear those words from the real live lips of my dad. “I love you. See you soon.”
For the next hour, as I rode to the meeting at my client’s office, the tears kept welling up in my eyes. Nine years he’s been gone, and it’s been many months since I wept for him. The pain doesn’t throb very often any more. He comes up less and less in conversation and when I think of him, it feels more like tenderness and less like jagged, agonizing pain.
But sometimes the jagged pain comes back. Sometimes it creeps up on me out of nowhere and…. BAM! I’m lost in a puddle of grief again, right there on a platform in Union station.
He’s still here. He still has a presence in my life. He still shapes who I’m becoming.
Grief doesn’t follow a timeline. We don’t get to go through stages and reach a finish line. We don’t follow any rules and we certainly don’t get closure.
What we get is a new story to carry with us. A story that’s heavy and complex and beautiful and ugly and painful and joyful – all kinds of complicated things wrapped up together in one unique package.
I’m glad I still carry the story of my dad with me. I’m glad the essence of him can still show up unannounced in the most unexpected places.
I’m glad I’ve known enough love in my life to know what grief feels like.
I’m also glad that there are people who are doing important work in teaching us about and guiding us through grief, like my friends Cath and Kara. We need wise, compassionate people who give us space for grief, remind us of the complexity of it, and don’t judge us for the fact that nine years after a loss we can still be found weeping on a train platform.
Grief is just part of the journey.
by Heather Plett | May 30, 2012 | Uncategorized
It’s true what they say – the things you loved in childhood are clues in the treasure hunt of self-discovery.
As Mary Oliver says, “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”
When I was young, I was passionate about horses. I couldn’t get enough of them. In church on Sunday morning, I would draw them endlessly on the backs of the weekly bulletin. In my high school yearbook, it says something about how I planned to grow up and own a ranch some day.
Luckily for me, my dad always said “I’d rather buy you a horse than a TV.” I wasn’t all that happy about the “no TV” part of that equation, but I was certainly happy about the horses.
Together with by brother Dwight and my best friend Julie, I spent my summers on the back of a horse. We rode every chance we could. We never used saddles. We couldn’t afford them, and bareback was more fun and challenging anyway. The soft animals of our bodies became one with the horses and we loved every minute of it.
One summer day, Dwight and I set out for our daily ride – he on Prince (our favourite, fastest and oldest horse) and I on Lady (a rather finicky horse who didn’t like to leave the driveway, but loved to gallop all the way home). We had just rounded the corner from our driveway onto the gravel road and started picking up speed when something went seriously wrong.
Prince, who was part race horse and loved nothing better than running at break-neck speeds along the straightaway, did something completely out of character. He veered into the ditch and started to stumble. Dwight tried to bring him back on course, but it didn’t work. Prince’s head went down on the ground, he tripped and somersaulted, throwing Dwight head first onto the ground about 5 feet ahead of him.
I yanked on my reins and turned to look at what had happened. Prince was lying there, feet up in the air and head pinned underneath him. Dead. Probably from a heart attack while he was running.
Dwight was shrieking, partly from the pain and partly from the grief of losing our favourite horse. I raced back to the yard and got mom. She did what a practical farm wife does when she has a dead horse on the side of the road that needs to be cleaned up – she called the local mink farmer to see if he wanted some horse meat. By the end of the day, Prince was just a stain of blood on the grass.
We mourned the loss of Prince for months, hardly wanting to ride again. Lady mourned too. She got even more finicky about leaving the yard and the few more times I rode her that summer the only way I could get her down the driveway was to tug on the reins and get her to walk backward.
After Prince was gone, I really wanted another horse. I begged my dad for another one, and he did something that, in retrospect, seems like a rather brilliant parenting move. “I don’t have enough money,” he said, “but I have lots of hay. If you can find a farmer who will trade you a horse for some of these hay bales, then you can get a horse.”
I started scouring the Western Producer, looking for a horse. I finally found an ad that actually said a horse could be traded for hay. I phoned the farmer. He had a young Arabian filly available and was willing to deliver it to our farm and pick up the hay. I was ecstatic. I wouldn’t be able to ride it for at least a year, but at least I’d have another horse. (Come to think of it, it’s rather telling that my first business transaction was for a horse.)
Dusty was a beautiful little horse. I was thrilled to call her my own. Sadly though, being a blossoming teen girl with other interests, I gradually stopped spending as much time with her (partly because I couldn’t ride her yet) and Dusty began to run wild in the pasture. The next summer came and she was uncatchable and unrideable because I hadn’t invested the time in building a relationship with her.
I was determined to change that, and that’s when I learned one of my greatest life lessons. The movies may show rough-and-ready cowboys “breaking” wild horses by dominating them and whipping them into shape, but I knew instinctively that wasn’t the way to tame Dusty.
Instead, I spent much of that summer simply sitting in the pasture near where Dusty grazed, talking to her and waiting for her to begin to trust me enough to approach me. For hours I just sat there, waiting. Some days I brought a bucket of grain to try to entice her. On many days, especially at the beginning, she simply ignored me. Gradually, though, she began to notice me and one tiny step at a time, she came closer and closer to me. At first, I left the grain about 5 feet away from me, to see if she could trust me at a distance. Then I moved it 4 feet away, and then 3 feet, and eventually I held it in my hand.
The first time she ate from the grain bucket in my hand, I didn’t attempt to touch her. I knew that if I spooked her, I might have to go back to square one.
It took forever, but eventually, I could reach out and pat her nose. Soon I was able to stroke her neck, and finally she let me slip a halter on her and begin to lead her around the pasture. Eventually – and again in slow increments – I climbed on her back and began to ride.
When I was eighteen, I took my passion for horses to the next level – I began to teach. I became a camp counsellor and signed up as one of the assistant wranglers. I spent that summer helping reluctant city kids get used to horses. On the weekends, I and the other wranglers would take our horses deep into the woods until we were almost completely lost and then enjoy the challenge of finding our way back again.
One of the most memorable moments of the summer was the final campfire of one of the week-long camp sessions, the night before the kids were leaving for home. A mentally challenged girl, who’d spent the week trying in vain to fit in and make friends, and who’d taken a special liking to me, stood up, and in her boldest voice said “I thank God for Heather, because she taught me how to ride a horse.”
You could say that “everything I learned in life I learned from horses”. I learned about death and grieving, trust, passion, patience, teaching, exhilaration, and sharing.
And then, after that summer at camp, I moved into the city, sold Dusty to a young girl who longed for her first horse, and didn’t go near another horse for far too many years.
Always, though, there was a little part of me that knew that something was missing. I’d watch movies with horses in them, and I’d get an ache in my gut. I’d hear other people talk about riding, and I’d say “I’m going to ride again some day too.” Once my siblings and I started having kids, dad got a docile little pony named Paco or Brownie (depending on which grandchild you asked), and we started taking our kids out to the pasture for little rides. But then Dad was killed in a farming accident, and Brownie and the farm were sold.
I longed for another horse, but having one while living in the city just seemed to complicated and expensive. So I never did anything about it.
But, as you know, these things have a way of resurfacing. First, when I was about to launch my business and this blog, I met a horse named Sophia. It was a powerful moment that I can’t fully explain, but I knew that Sophia had a message for me.
Then I met Sherri Garrity in an unusual way (though we live 40 minutes apart, and have actually worked in the same places doing the same jobs more than once in the past, we were introduced by an online friend), loved her instantly, and found out that she has a horse named Spirit and lives very close to the place where I met Sophia.
Sherri started talking to me about her ideas around holding horse workshops for personal development, and I was hooked. From the very first time we met, we knew that we needed to do something with this shared passion.
And that brings us to today. A few weeks ago, I finally met Spirit, and I fell in love. I’m ready to have horses back in my life again.
In just a few weeks, Sherri and I are co-hosting our first Horses and Mandalas workshop.
We posted the registration yesterday, and within 24 hours, we were 2 spots away from being sold out. (They’re still available, but there’s quite a bit of interest, so if you want them, sign up soon.) Clearly we’ve hit on something that people want and need.
In honour of Dusty, Prince, Lady, Sophia, Spirit, and all the other horses along the way who have taught me many life lessons, I’m opening myself up to this new adventure.
by Heather Plett | May 20, 2012 | Creativity, mandala
It’s my birthday. I’m 46. There’s a very good chance I’ve passed the halfway point of my life. I think I may have just stepped over the crest of the proverbial hill.
But you know what? The view from here looks pretty spectacular! I can see lots of hills and valleys still ahead of me. And a lot of aimless afternoons spent wandering in the woods. A lot of late evenings lost in meaningful conversations with great people. A lot of adventures in unexplored places. A lot of good books still to read. A lot of fascinating people still to meet. A lot of failures still to live through. A lot of triumphs to celebrate. A lot of disappointments. A lot of love.
Forty-six feels pretty darn good. Sitting here in the early hours of the morning while my family sleeps, I can tell you one thing for sure – I have never felt more content about who I am and what I’m offering the world than I feel right now. My forty-sixth year was full of a great deal of personal exploration and a fair bit of struggle, but it was all very good, because I feel more confident than ever about what I am called to do.
One of the things I am called to do is to help guide people on the path through chaos to creativity. That’s going to be the the tagline on my new website (that I’d hoped to unveil today, but decided I didn’t want to rush it). I’m excited about it because it feels like clarity and a little more focus.
I know a lot about chaos and a lot about creativity. I have been through both places on the journey many times, and I will visit those places many more times in this spiralling journey of life.
As I step into the next year of my life, I have more and more confidence that I am being called to serve as a guide in this journey. There are many people stuck in chaos who feel lost or frantic or frustrated. Maybe you’re one of them. Maybe you need someone to help you shift your perspective, to begin to see the chaos or brokenness or lostness as a valuable part of the journey. Or to begin to invite creativity into the shadowy places. That’s where I come in.
One of the tools I use to help examine the chaos and invite creativity into the space is the mandala. There are so many things we can learn when we sit down with paper, coloured markers, our intuitions, and our openness.
In honour of my 46th birthday, I’d like to offer 10 people the opportunity to have mandala sessions with me for $46 each. One time sessions are normally $100, so that’s less than half price. If you’re curious about them, read more here. (In case you’re wondering, these sessions are usually done over Skype or the phone, so you can do them from anywhere in the world.)
This is powerful, chaos-shifting work (that’s much bigger than me – I am simply a conduit) and I know that a lot of people will find value in it. One of my most fascinating experiences has been a series of sessions I did with Dr. Kay Vogt, a psychologist who found me through a listserv we’re both on. After a series of sessions and many mandalas, Kay experienced a profound shift in her life. Here’s what she said about the work we did together, “Our work together has been extremely powerful for me. As a professional doing something similar to what you do it takes a lot to impress me. I am very grateful for your mentoring. You have been a coach’s coach for me.”
In case the idea of mandalas scares you a bit, let me assure you of this – you need no artistic talent whatsoever to do this. This is not about making art. It makes no difference what your finished piece looks like. It’s about using a creative tool to explore some of things that your right brain wants to discover that are sometimes buried under left brain logic. It’s simply a tool for deeper self-discovery that goes hand-in-hand with the heart-opening conversation we’ll have.
If this feels like something you’d value, book a session for $46 and let’s go on an exploration together.
Discounted price no longer available. You’re welcome to book one for the usual price of $100.
Note: If you’re curious about the mandala at the top of the page, it’s my birthday mandala. I wanted to do something to represent 46 years of growth (there are 46 tendrils growing from the centre) and 46 years of being who I am (there are 46 words around the edge that represent what I love and value).
by Heather Plett | May 3, 2012 | journey
This morning was hard. I was letting the monsters win.
I was struggling with the usual not-good-enough-itis. You know the drill.
I decided it was time to go for a walk. When the monsters start winning, it’s usually a sure sign that I need to get my body moving and I need to be in nature for awhile.
Unfortunately, the moment I left the house, I got a phone call that made matters worse. It was one of those “bad news – you owe more money than you thought” kind of phone calls, and it plunged me even deeper into the monsters’ lair. The tears started flowing as I walked. And then it started raining, which seemed fitting. I kept walking. Oddly enough, walking in the rain often helps my mood.
As I walked down my favourite woodland path, I started beating myself up with old stories. “Why aren’t you better with money? Why couldn’t you have been satisfied with those well paid, upwardly mobile jobs you’ve had in the past? Why aren’t you more successful at this self-employment thing?”
As my friend Desiree said the other day (and I think she was quoting Pam Slim), I was doing some serious “story-fondling”.
Things got worse. I started ranting at God. “Why did you have to choose this particular path for me? Why did you make me so restless that I keep looking for the next journey I need to take? Why did I get stuck with a journey that takes me through so many hard places? Why didn’t you make me an accountant so I wouldn’t have to worry about money? Why didn’t you make me more like those friends who are still content in the perfectly good jobs I left years ago? Why do I have to experience so much brokenness?”
Oh yeah, the monsters were having a party.
And then I spotted something on the woodland path. A small fish. Perfectly placed in the middle of the path, looking like he had climbed out of the river, slithered along the ground for about 200 feet and stopped to catch a breath on the path, only to find that he could no longer breathe. There was a look of surprise in his eyes.
You see the metaphor here, don’t you?
A fish out of water.
Exactly what I would be if I had chosen the path of accountant, or stayed on the path of government management.
Dead on a path that wasn’t mine. Unable to breathe because I was meant for other things.
Fish need water. Birds need the sky. Worms need the soil. Rabbits need the earth.
Artists need to paint. Dancers need to dance. Accountants need spreadsheets. Scientists need test tubes.
Take a path that’s not meant for you, and you can never be fully alive.
And with that, the monsters began to retreat. All I needed was a dead fish on the path to remind me not to listen to them.
A little further on the path, I found a small pink pillow hanging from a tree. On it were the words “The Princess is In”. Hmmmm… do you think I should find a metaphor in that too? Smile.
An interesting side note: I’m in the process of creating a new website that offers a little more clarity and focus for my work, and, even before this morning’s wandering, I’d settled on language that relates to serving as “your guide along the path through chaos to creativity”. If you’re having trouble finding your path and would like a guide, check out my services, and contact me.
by Heather Plett | Apr 27, 2012 | Uncategorized
My hotel room smelled like cheap disinfectant. It wasn’t the ugliest room I’ve ever slept in (at least it had a functional toilet and properly-wired light switches), but it was close.
I knew I couldn’t spend the whole evening there. I needed green space. I needed fresh air. I needed some mindful wandering to help me process all of the wonderful things that had happened on my trip before returning home early the next morning.
So I did what I often do – I opened Google maps and looked for the nearest green patch on the map. About a quarter mile away, past the industrial wasteland, across a freeway, and at the edge of the suburbs, there was a strip of green along what looked like a tiny creek. Hmmm… it looked promising.
What a delightful surprise I found when I crossed that freeway and climbed the embankment! There was a protected greenbelt running along the creek, with a beautiful walking/biking path that stretched out for seemingly miles.
I’m happy for groomed trails when I’m on my bike, but when I’m walking, I always look for the “path less traveled”. Sure enough, closer to the creek was a rugged path made for adventurers like me. Everyone else took the easy path – I climbed through the underbrush to find the one closer to nature.
For the next two hours, I wandered wherever my curiosity would take me. I climbed under bridges, I knelt on the damp ground to get closer to the violets, I scampered after bunnies, and tried (unsuccessfully) to take pictures of an elusive red bird. I scratched myself on low-hanging branches, and I nearly got stuck in the mud.
I was my 10 year old self again, finding secret hideaways in the woods on our farm.
It was heavenly. It was like a deep exhale after an exciting but full and intense week.
Wandering is my meditation, my therapy, my brainstorming session, my stress-reliever, my playtime, and my teacher. It fills me up in a way that few other activities do.
What about you? Do you love to wander? Or perhaps you haven’t discovered the beauty of wandering yet. Check out my e-book on the topic. It’s full of goodness, including interviews with a dozen other people who know the power of wandering.
It was the last place on earth I expected to see my dad.
