Your Stories of Kindness

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeling hopeless because of all the challenges we’re facing at the moment. I’ve had this desire to make some grand contribution to create a kinder and more joyful world but all that does is overwhelm me and then I shut down. So, I've decided to try a smaller, more achievable goal. Each week, for 10 weeks, I’m going to share a story about kindness. I believe the world needs to be reminded of and inspired by the random acts of kindness that exist around us each and every day.

 This is where I need YOUR help.

 Do you have any random acts of kindness stories to share? It could be as simple as you giving someone a compliment or picking up trash on your favourite trail. Maybe a stranger bought you a coffee at Starbucks or helped you carry groceries to your car. It’s not the size of the act that’s important, it’s the care put into it.

Please DM or email me your story at brandinixon@hotmail.com.  It can remain anonymous if you like. 

"Your Body, My Choice"

      I mean how can….like who could…why would…this is bonkers!

    Rarely am I at a loss for words but when I first saw this trending slogan, I was unable to grab the nouns and verbs swirling through my brain and settle them into a coherent sentence. But time has passed and now I have a lot of words. Angry, disillusioned, exhausted, ashamed, and disgusted to name just a few. I pride myself in being someone who tries to understand all points of view, but I couldn’t give a flying f*ck what your side is if you declare that you have ownership over my body and choices. Honestly, I don’t even think you have a side. I think you’re just a bitter bastard.

    I grew up in an environment where men were constantly being blamed for trying to control women. I thought this was just an overreaction to unhealthy relationships but maybe I was wrong. There are actually men out there that really, truly, want to control women right down to their ovaries and uterus. And now I can’t unknow this.

    Sadly, at least for now, it colors the way I see men. I know that’s not fair and that these bitter men don’t represent most men but when something hits you so hard that it shakes your belief in the goodness of people this is the outcome. Honestly, with woman’s reproductive rights on the chopping block in the States (and our political leanings are moving closer that way in Canada) fairness is no longer part of the conversation. Now it’s about self-preservation.

    Don't kid yourselves. This slogan isn’t just an absurd trend; this is a movement. And it’s terrifying.

                

                

 

When Success Becomes Scarier Than Failure

I’m finding that fear is starting to paralyze me as I get closer to moving cities and trying to pursue a more creative career. Underneath the fear is a spark of excitement but it’s like trying to find a single flame in a forest fire.

    My main fear in life thus far has been failure. And I really have failed at reaching most of my life goals. It wasn’t my abilities or determination that screwed it up but the inevitable moment when my bipolar symptoms took over and my life either slowed down or stopped entirely. After a few (dozen) crashes I would eventually have to admit that whatever goal I was chasing had been too stressful or intense. My mind can be a fickle bitch.

    However, fear of success is now fanning the forest fire. If failing before I even reached my goals was devastating, imagine the pain of reaching my goals and then being swallowed up into a bipolar nightmare. The fall would be so much more devastating and harder to recover from. I know I can recover from failure because I’ve done it plenty of times but crashing after success, I’m not so sure.

     I feel like I’m moving towards a life where I could spend more time actually feeling fulfilled and happy and less time anxious and angry. Living in a place that feels more like home and following dreams that bring me joy. I don’t know what will happen in the coming months and years of this new life I’m trying to create but at least I’m now scared of success instead of failure. That’s a win, right?

 

 

An Artist's Job

 

 I believe an artist’s job is to bravely traverse their inner world so they can help lead others through theirs. Often underpaid and underappreciated, artists give words and sights and sounds to the feeling's others have but can’t always name. Art can be disregarded as a luxury until someone crashes into love or loss and then it becomes imperative that they find a story or picture or song that they can point to and say that’s what I’m feeling.

As a writer, I don’t tend to see how my work affects others very often but as a reader I know it does. There’s this moment in writing before I spell check and search for synonyms where it’s just me and my voice. The rest of the world stands still, and my fingers just start dancing across the keys until I’m reading what I didn’t know I thought or felt. Sometimes painful and sometimes amazing, when I start to let my fingers tell my story I’m able to create a portrait that others can see themselves in. This may help them understand themselves, those around them, and their place in the world. When I’m open and vulnerable I give others permission to do the same.

Domestic Goddess?

I don’t own an apron, I think a “dash of salt” is a ridiculous and confusing measurement, and fancy ass pots and pans are wasted on me. Martha Stewart I am not. However, early on in the relationship with my husband, Kevin, I decided to fry him a steak. I tend to only cook meat in the oven because cooking on the stove top makes the smoke alarm go off but we all do crazy things when we first fall in love.

I arrived at Kevin’s place with the steak and he provided me with cooking instructions, a fancy ass pan, and a splatter screen. The recipe seemed simple enough. Oil and warm fancy ass pan, rub meat spices on the steak (gross!), and cook each side in 5-minute increments until done. Cool, I could do this. 

About 15 minutes later I went to find Kevin and told him the steak didn’t appear to be frying properly. He walked into the kitchen, froze, and then covered his mouth to try and hide his laughter. “Oh, honey”, was all he could get out.

Everything had started off fine. I had oiled and warmed the fancy ass pan correctly and rubbed the meat as needed but that’s where I fell off the correct cooking path. Sitting on the stove was the fancy ass pan, splatter screen, and steak but in the wrong order. For some reason it seemed reasonable to me that the correct order was fancy ass pan on the stove top, splatter screen sitting on top of said pan, and the steak sitting on top of the splatter screen. Basically, I was steaming the steak with oil.

I am actually quite intelligent but in some areas of life it’s like I’m new to the party. I once knew this guy who was incredibly intelligent. He read Nietzsche and studied Latin and Greek but sometimes went to his university classes with his shirt on backwards and inside out. That’s me in the kitchen. All backwards and inside out.

It's Not Really About the Milk

FADE IN:

SUBURBAN HOME – NIGHT

 

WE OPEN on a modern suburban kitchen. We see Molly (partner 1) stirring a pot on the stove with a toddler in a highchair and infant bouncing in her arms and Sylvia (partner 2) comes in wearing a dishevelled shirt carrying a briefcase.

 

Molly

Did you get the milk I asked you to pick up?

 

Sylvia

I forgot.

 

 What do you think an effective response to this would be:

 

a)Molly: What do you mean you forgot the milk? I rushed home from work to get dinner ready and you couldn’t even pick up milk?!

 

b)Molly: You never do anything I ask you to do. Remember last week when you said you’d fold the clothes and I found them 2 days later still in the dryer?

 

c)Molly: Ok. Is there a reason you couldn’t pick it up?

 

(Hint, it’s not a or b.)

 

I get it. It’s the end of a long day and both of you are exhausted trying to be the employee, partner, and parent so it’s easy to fall into the habit of anger and defensiveness. But honestly that’s a needlessly exhausting way to deal with conflict that usually ends up with no one feeling heard and everyone cranky as f*ck.

In my experience being able to answer with choice C is a lot easier if you come into conflict, or possible conflict, trusting that your partner is not trying to hurt you or make your life harder. (And if they truly are trying to do those things, the issue is much bigger than forgotten milk.)

 

For me it’s all about intent. My husband and I both share the belief that neither of us would intentionally try and hurt the other person so there’s a lot of leeway given. When you start to show up to murky emotional situations with empathy and curiosity instead of judgement and accusations an interesting thing may happen. You may realize that a lot of their emotions and behaviour aren't really about you. It’s about how they were in traffic for an hour, had a disagreement with their boss, and they’re worried about how to keep paying the mortgage.  A lot of conflict seems to be about wanting to really feel seen, heard, and cared for. 

15 Years...

    His love feels like a calico purring on my chest in the late afternoon and tastes like chocolates wrapped in gold foil. He is soft with his words and firm with his forgiveness. Slow with judgement and quick with compassion. His hugs make me feel heard and his kisses can make everything blurry. He taught me to soften my gaze when looking inward and has helped me rewrite so many of the painful stories I’ve built my life around.

        

    My love looks like true north on his internal compass and sounds like the soulful rendering of an R&B ballad. I am soft with my guidance and firm with my honesty. Slow with disapproval and quick with tenderness. My hugs make him feel safe and my kisses make him unravel. I taught him how to create a safe place for vulnerability and inspired him with my strength.

    Our love sometimes feels like the moment between the end of an amazing performance and a standing ovation and once in awhile it feels more like the sporadic clapping after an awkward performance but mostly it feels like home. The best and worst parts of us fumbling together trying to create a life that is more than we thought it could be. We’ve created a love with the space to fall apart and rebuild over and over, each time coming out a truer version of ourselves. 

 

         Happy anniversary, my love.