Cat Skinner Club

Sliding Backwards

I’m listening to Patrick Watson and you are everywhere. In every space I try to fill. In every breath I try to draw. Here’s another thing that was uniquely mine that I must reclaim. This music belongs to me. But then there’s a warm summer night full of rare city stars, the smell of you so close, your hand sturdy in mine and the haunting melodies that only you know how to love like I do.

How can you be gone?

No amount of running, or drinking, or kissing can change the fact that we have ended. I believed us to be limitless. Like mountains. Like the sky. I believed we were about to finally have a real shot, with all of the skeletons out of the closet. With all the truths told. I believed we both believed in us.

Now when I try to decide what to believe about us, I can’t find a single thread of truth beyond the untouchable fabric of our children.

That will be enough.

When I’m with my little souls, I feel like myself again. Alone, it’s like I don’t know this woman I’ve become. She’s like someone I once loved and lost touch with. There are wild places in those eyes, and fragility so intense I often feel like I have to hide her from the world. I know how to make her happy, and I feel intensely proud of that. It’s not as hard as you’ve come to believe.

Give her truth and transparency.

Honor her need for safety.

Feed her with beauty and natural places.

Never try to diminish her passion.

Trust that if you get even half her heart, she’s given you an entire universe, and she’s done so believing that you are worthy of such a gift.

How long does it take for this pain to fade? This pain of having loved you as wholly as I knew how, and yet still not enough? This pain of knowing you’ve found yourself reflected more perfectly in other places. This pain of what you have chosen over what you have turned away from. This pain of having to ring the doorbell of the house I once called home, where my entire family continues to live without me.

There is nothing fair about the end of love.

I will build an altar for the pieces of my heart. I’ll surround those fragments with flowers and honey, and treasures collected from the places I visit as I bleed out the memory of you. I will make an offering of the rest of my life. To move forward in truth, with love for myself, devotion to my children and the desire to wholly experience the few precious years I have left in this life.

Without you.

Without us.

Entirely mine.

The Process

Thanks for your patience. I’ve been wading through this complicated new reality, not always keeping my head up, and not always feeling like I wanted to share.  The grieving process is like that sometimes.

The other morning I woke up at 8:00 am, took my canine companion for a walk in the rain, still wearing my pjs, unloaded boxes from the trunk of my car, fried some bacon, scrambled some eggs in the bacon fat, made coffee, sat down at the table near the window overlooking the garden and I felt good.

A few nights ago, I cooked dinner for myself, poured a glass of wine, settled into the cabana in the backyard (I’m house sitting again) and binge watched the new season of Queer Eye on Netflix. That show has literally injected pure joy into my heart on numerous occasions through the last several months.

I feel good.

Not all the time. Certainly not the day I spent sorting through bins of stuff while my ex helped me purge garbage bags full of old clothes and fabric I forgot I even had. Certainly not when I found out the apartment I thought I was moving into wasn’t going to work out. Certainly not when I went to see the first couple of alternative apartments available in my budget and was terrified of both the filth and the neighbours. That was a double-whammy of a day when there was also a full moon and I was in the throes of PMS, but these moments of bad feeling are quickly replaced with a sense of hope, and a sense of peace. There’s a voice somewhere just beyond me that keeps insisting that it’s going to be okay, and that voice feels very true.

There isn’t a single part of this separation that has gone the way that I want. It doesn’t matter. I’m not in control. I’ll work with what I get, and keep trusting that voice. Maybe I wasn’t meant to spend this year of healing in a basement. Maybe my moments with my daughters, though far less frequent, will be of greater connection and quality. Maybe constant trips to the home we made together when we were a family would have made it too hard to really let go. Maybe living with my parents for the summer was always going to be a safer place to land as I start this new life. Maybe lawyers are painfully slow because there are more conversations that need to be had, and greater understanding to be achieved.

I’m spending more time thinking about what I want than crying over what I’ve lost. So, on this bright and sunny morning, a moon into my single-hood, here’s what I want for the summer:

Quiet Saturday mornings for writing and eating home-cooked breakfasts

The feeling of liberation that comes with getting rid of mountains of stuff I don’t need (both physical and emotional)

Continued work opportunities to create this new life for myself

The fun of dreaming of a new living space

Dinners with great conversation and people who I feel good around

A camping adventure or two, and one that includes the kids

Someone to teach me how to become an expert paddler

Weekly hikes

Time for reading, just for fun

The courage to embrace the lonely and overwhelming moments, sit with them, and know that they aren’t forever

Great moments of bonding with all of my kids

Continued acceptance of change, even if I don’t understand other people’s choices

A safe, clean home of my own in a place that feels good

The momentum to create a routine of ongoing physical activity

I think this is a great list, but I’m always open to suggestions. For example, a dear friend challenged me to get a massage. I never do things like that for myself, so I’m going to schedule an appointment. So, can you be a pal and throw some of your own suggestions below for the #summerofme?

A Letter to Present Me from Future Me

Dear Catherine,

(I’m sorry, I just can’t call you Cat. It’s absurd.)

You don’t think you’ll make it through this, but you will. You’re right about one thing, however. You won’t be the same. Nobody is ever the same after grief like this. It’s okay though. Remember how the other grief you experienced made you really learn to appreciate the fragile beauty of life? This will make you appreciate the fragile beauty of holding someone else’s heart. Most importantly, it will help you appreciate the fragile beauty of becoming the keeper of your own heart.

All of those things you’re doing that make you feel better? Keep doing those. Also, be prepared because you’re going to start having to do other things too. Those things you’ve been scared of. You know they’re going to help you get better as well, and if you take a long hard look at the present, you’ll see the time has come. Trust deeply in your ability to survive through this. It’s not going to kill you, and I’m not going to spout any more cliches than I already have.

Your children love you, deeply. If you keep on loving them the way you always have, this love will continue to thrive and flourish. Don’t pull away because it’s complicated. It was always complicated, and now it’s actually simpler in ways that matter more than you can know right now. You may not have the paperwork to prove you are ‘mother’ to all of them, but those two young women have the fiercest, most passionate fairy godmother in the history of guardians. You’re going to rock that role, and they will always be grateful for your persistence.

Stop trying to understand why. You can see how crazy-making that is, and you know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter. Remember that sweet, handsome soul who told you that you’ll feel normal ‘when you can let go of the story of wrong/right as an identity piece’? That particular little nugget will be a game-changer for you. Let go of the wrong/right narrative. It just was. And it was totally different for each of you. Nobody was completely right, nobody was completely wrong, everyone did their best, and everyone lost something that cannot be replaced. See? There really are no winners. Just people, trying to heal and be whole. Stepping away from the story is stepping towards your wholeness.

Start writing a new story. The story of you, taking care of your finances, your children, your heart, your body and mind. Of you finishing books and putting them out in the world because you aren’t paralyzed by anxiety and sorrow. Of you connecting deeply with old friends who know each line on your face. Of road trips to visit new friends. Of adventures with your three munchkins. Of meals that you cook, to thank all of these beautiful people in your life for their kindness and compassion. Plan a trip for the fall when wedding season winds down. Somewhere that connects you to nature. Where your loneliness will feel more inspiring than crushing. Where you might kiss a stranger and learn something new about yourself.

Only you can make this better. Stop asking for the pain to go away. It doesn’t work like that and you know it. Hold that pain like an angry child until it settles and shifts into something else. Hold it while you reach for a different sensation. Send all the feelings on their way and wait for the next ones to arrive. Repeat, over and over until the feelings fall into a new pattern.

Write it all down. Share what you can without making things harder for yourself. Choose only that which truly serves you. Accept this hug and feel it across the miles and the years whenever you may need it.

I’ll see you sooner than you think.

xo

Morgan’s Point

The women in my family know heartbreak like the words to a favourite song. It seems to be written in our DNA, part of the marrow of our bones. So too is the ability to breathe in the beauty of each fragile moment. We are nature lovers who seek solace in our gardens, artists who make music, textile art, paintings and words. We love deeply, we fail spectacularly. We are caretakers and hard workers who make cozy, welcoming homes in any circumstance. We delight in family, and food, and gatherings. We raise babies, and we survive.

In this new life, I follow the path of my ancestors.

The other day, I drove 45 minutes to meet with a wedding couple at their home, where they are getting married in June. (Did you know that I’m a wedding officiant?). They just happened to live on the same road as my Aunt Jackie’s favourite house, and so after interviewing this very sweet pair (who met in later years through a match-making service #hope) I drove to the end of Morgan’s Point Road and walked down to the beach that is part of my aunt’s former property.

Jackie hosted us there over countless lazy weekends in the summer time. She held reunion barbecues, holiday gatherings, and parties on the regular because she was a spectacular cook who loved to entertain. Her home was full of exciting music, delicious smells, fresh flowers and light. I always had the sense that she felt a deep, spiritual connection with this place, overlooking the often turbulent Lake Erie. I slept in the hammock as a child with the warm summer breeze tickling my sunburned skin, listening to the crashing of the waves. Morgan’s Point was Jackie.

Morgan’s Point was also where her relationship came apart. Where she became a single mom to her son.

I don’t know what I was looking for, visiting the Point. A message from a relative I felt a strong connection to? Some reassurance that things would be okay? A ghostly encounter in the place where her ashes were scattered? I prowled the property line and snapped a few photos vaguely wondering what I might say to the owners if they discovered me in the bushes:

“My aunt used to live here.”

“My family spent one particularly warm Christmas here, shaking the house with our drumming and dancing around a raging bonfire like crazy pagans. I smoked pot with my cousins. Don’t tell my mom.”

“I ate shark for the first time on that back deck. I only did it to impress my cousin’s gorgeous half-brother. I still have a crush on him and it’s two decades later.”

“I just came here to know that I’m not going to die of a broken heart.”

Thankfully, there was nobody home.

I sat on the beach and took a half-assed selfie. I’m getting to the age where selfies feel foolish, but I know I must resist this feeling. Giving in would mean giving up. There were hundreds of little flies swarming the driftwood logs where I tried to sit for a moment of reflection. A moment of connection to Jackie, her essence. Sure, the lake was pretty, but in no more magical a way than any other lake. The flies felt like they were discovering a new home in the mess that was my hair. Finally, I selected a glittering black rock from the beach. Something to remember the moment. Or the complete lack of a moment.

Because a house is just a house. A beautiful property is just a piece of land. Home is made by people, connections, moments; the memories created behind the bricks and mortar. The imprints left by little feet racing across lawns and hurling rocks into the waves. Jackie wasn’t at the Point because we are not tied to places. Everything I need of Jackie is part of me already, courtesy of DNA and grey matter, where a thousand memories of her strength and beauty are stored. All I need to do is close my eyes and hear her wailing the chorus to ‘Blue Bayou’. When I was a girl, the way she sang that song made me burn to understand what it was all about.

I’ve always thought of myself as a nomad. This will sound preposterous to anyone who knows how much stuff I own, but it’s true. I can feel at home just about anywhere. So, I guess it’s time to purge and pack. To find a new place for memories and moments to play out. Time to start dreaming of a space to call my own, to live modestly and within my means while I repair and heal.

Still, Morgan’s Point is awfully pretty. You should visit it sometime if you can.

Full Moon in May

Mother Moon, do you recall at the beginning of this year, when I brought my children out into our snow-covered postage stamp backyard to meet you? We performed our first moon ritual as a family, with both mamas lending their feminine energy to our circle. Each of us wrote a full moon wish on a piece of paper (even little Noodle) and we burned our wishes as offerings before releasing the circle and heading inside for hot cocoa.

I asked you for the truth. You’ve delivered it in ways that have torn my very soul from my body.

Tonight’s moon is not to be taken lightly. It’s my first moon phase in this new life, and I’ve never felt more uncertain and unsteady. I realize now that I must be very careful about what I call towards me. You clearly don’t mess around.

Please grant me the ability to access love, even when I’m moved to feel hurt, anger, betrayal and fear.

Grant me the foresight to make careful, considered decisions for my own future and the future of my children.

Keep sending me moments of beauty and joy so that the moments of sorrow and grief do not cast such dark shadows.

Draw love to me in every form that you believe I can handle right now.

Continue revealing the truth. I will believe it, even if I don’t want to.

Protect my children. Help them see me, and see the love I have for them, and the gifts I have to bring to their lives.

Please grant me financial prosperity and continued success in my work. I need this stability desperately right now.

Send me breath when the sorrow feels too great. Show me there is more than just my suffering.

Help me build a home that is emotionally stable, safe, and a place where I can heal.

Bless all of the incredible friends and family, near and far, who have shown me that I am not alone and that I am worthy of love.

Let me turn this pain into beauty, and let that beauty help others move through their own suffering.

Guard my health so I may survive this time and benefit from the inevitable changes ahead.

As always, I am grateful for your light and divine feminine energy. I realize that even in the midst of this suffering I have an abundance of blessings. Underneath the heaviness, there is a part of me that is both curious and hopeful about where I will be at the end of this cycle. The path forward is unclear, but I will trust that I am exactly where I should be.