When I attended a BlogHer panel today I left really, really frustrated Both the panel and the audience, and perhaps rightly so, seemed to be very “grrrrl.” Everyone seemed to reflect each other both in dress and in speech and it everyone seemed to be just so focused on the pain of women, how women writers need to tag everything they do as “women” and how we need to kick some ass (ours! theirs!) and get angry at not being “equal” or as perceived as smart as men because lord knows we’re better. There was an energy in the room that for me was really uncomfortable. It was as though everyone was just riled up and angry at anything not “grrrl” oriented. In talking to a several people after about it, I wasn’t the only one that picked up on it. But then, none of the people I spoke to were “grrrls” (actually, a lot of them were really hot women who held engineering jobs in Google and Yahoo. Their openness made you want to talk to them. Their brains made you want to listen).

Despite having the word “girl” in many of my site and creating sites based on women and for women, it has never, ever been at the expense of men. I do not feel the need to be “PRO WOMAN” to get ahead. I get along fine with the fella’s, can talk business and smack with the best of them, and am taken seriously too. It’s why with almost every site (even the ones “geared” towards women), my readership is always almost 60% female and 40% male. I tend to do things universal because I just believe we’re all here to connect. And I don’t care if you’re in a dress, pants, blue hair or blonde. It’s what is interesting and useful to me that counts and not defining myself in a small group to try to gain power.

For the past couple of years I have taken a seasonal gig at my favourite store; not only to indulge in their very generous discount but because I adore talking with the ladies, dressing them up and just having fun for a few hours a week.

One night, an older woman came in who was a little bit cranky and tired. She came out of her dressing room in one of our dresses to see how it looked in the three way. The dress was so pretty but the womans expression was not – she didn’t understand the power of the dress because she was too worried about other things. Things one shouldn’t worry about when wearing a pretty dress because a pretty dress is permission to just relax and laugh, not having to be a business woman, a mother, a house cleaner, a teacher, or anything else. It’s time to just remember to be a girl.

When I walked over to her she said as she looked at her self in that critical way, “I’m not so sure…”

I leaned into her and whispered, “you know, the dress, it twirls.”

“Excuse me?” she said.

“It twirls. When you go back in the changeroom, just spin yourself round really quick. You’ll understand.”

She just looked at me and walked back into the changeroom and before shutting the door gave me a look as though I was crazy. But just a few seconds later I heard a giggle come from her room. Then another.

She bought the dress.

Last month in Vancouver, my best-friend, her son and I went on a horse drawn carriage ride around Stanley Park. For forty-five minutes the horses pulled the heavy trolly in conditions which were actually pretty good – no large hills, not a lot of traffic racing around and pretty mild weather. Still, we weren’t sure how we felt about these animals being made to lug us around and wondered if it was good for them or if they’d be better off hanging out on a farm somewhere.

When we asked the guide about it, she explained that this particular breed, the rare Grey Shire Horse, was bred solely for the purpose of pulling large weight (mostly for pulling coal out of mines). Because they were bred specifically for this, it’s necessary for the horses to do work each day in order to keep their leg muscles strong so they can support their body weight (1700 to 2000 pounds). Without those muscles, their legs would literally snap and the horse would collapse. Without fulfilling their purpose, they would destroy themselves.

Somehow I don’t this unique to horses.

Several years ago I wrote this quote down in my journal after reading Bette Davis’ autobiography. It’s taken me a few years of living in America, however, to really comprehend it.

In all the other countries I’ve lived, you see single women out and about. You hear people being direct with their words and you see them being OK with achieving and having things. In America, I don’t find that to be as true as often. Women tend to be more insecure in the US, going out in clumps and staring at girls who are out alone (she must be a freak to be in a theatre by herself!). People have to talk around issues and watch people’s feelings and sensitivities because in the US, more things are taken personally (was she saying that to get at me?). In the US, if one has money or success they’re gossiped about by those who don’t (oh, he can’t be president. He has money – he doesn’t understand life!).

Despite everyone in the US wanting to achieve success (personally, financially and job-wise), it seems that those who achieve anything (who are happy, have money, have a career, are pretty, are not obese or are just simply OK with where they are are hated. They’re immediately thought of as stuck up, plastic, snotty, mean, pretender, spoiled, unrealistic, cheaters, swindlers or asses.

This, I do not understand. Why is it so horrible for one to be content? America buys the most self-help books in the world, it’s pounded into American brains that you must go to University and make something of yourself and people play lotto like mad to become millionaires. Yet, there’s this negative energy towards people who might have any of those things.

I don’t understand what it matters what someone else does or has – good or bad. Why hate someone because they have something or like who they are – especially if they’re just being and not being a twat. There’s a weird sense of competition in the US which is odd because I’ve never heard the saying, “no one is looking at you” more than I’ve heard here. Yet, everyone seems to be checking everyone out. Finding what they have, if they’re better, if they’re succeeding more, who is doing lousy, where on some imaginary scale do they fit. Who cares? What does it matter if someone likes themselves or, for that matter, hates themselves? How does if affect you?

With my writing site, when I wrote about being unsure of something the email would pour in by the thousands. Whenever I wrote about an accomplishment or feeling OK, I would instantly start to receive a tonne of hate mail. And this site, it receives a lot of attention yes, but a lot of it is negative. Interestingly, when I put a photo of myself on the front page the hate mail/gossip tripled. People in droves were screaming how huge my ego must be, how stuck up I am and how much of a know-it-all I seem to be. I often wondered if I had put up a picture of a very large woman with greasy hair and a frown, if people would have said the same thing.

Oh, I am by far not the most interesting, most unique, prettiest, coolest, smartest, funniest, talented, best at anything girl. I’ve always said that people can do what I do, see what I see and do it all better. But that doesn’t seem to matter because people dislike the fact that I’m OK with where I am and that I’ve never cared for what others can do, only what I can do and how I feel about that. Personal satisfaction seems to bother those who don’t have it. And it makes them feel like those who do are egotistical nightmares instead of just people being people.

I’ve talked with some of my American friends who have told me they’ve held back from rocking out in the world because they were afraid people wouldn’t like them anymore. That people like to see others struggle because it’s comforting and helps people to connect. I found this really sad; to hold back on being great because you fear people thinking you’ve got an ego and are therefore an ass. Success, though encouraged in America, still isn’t really accepted. And that should really change because after all, what are we all trying to do? Suck? Hate ourselves? Think we’re crap? How much use is that to anyone? How does that make things good? America talks so much about “accepting ourselves” yet it tends to persecute those who do. Self-deprecating humour seems to rank here, as does spilling our guts out in weblogs about how much we suck and suffer and aren’t anythings.

Sorry, but I’d rather not. I’ve only this one life and despite some things being less than stellar through my thirty years, I like it. I like the core of me, even on the days when I’m unsure about some things and flailing limbs around I still think I’m OK. And that’s not ego talking, that’s just feeling sure of who I am because I haven’t spent years competing against others, trying to be something or over analysing every detail. I know my strengths, my weaknesses. I know when I’m rocking out and when I’m not. I know what matters to me and what doesn’t. I know I’m so not better than anyone but I also don’t think I’m worse than anyone because I don’t compete. I don’t have to prove anything which means if someone does or doesn’t like me, ah well. It doesn’t matter so much as long as I’m OK with where I am – and I am.

And I understand that this train of thought in the US makes me sound like I’ve an ego bigger than Texas but I don’t. I’m just sure of myself and everywhere else, that seems to be OK. In fact, it seems to be quite normal.

When I was 13, I was an unusual girl. My days were spent at school and after that they were usually spent outside playing. I had a tool shed that I converted partially into a fort where, with 3 other girls my age and younger, I’d hold class or tea parties. We would also play in the nearby woods, building more forts, swinging from trees or fishing. In the evening I’d play alone in my room with Barbie dolls, lego’s or Tonka Trucks. Before bed I’d read like a mad woman before I fell asleep to repeat again the next day.

This was not normal for a 13 year old girl in my neighbourhood. Most 13 year olds knew what hair spray was, what dating was, what style was. I didn’t.

The school I was attending had only been my school for the year previous and because I was new and oh so different than my peers, I was teased, a lot. Not just by students in my class but by teachers. I was made fun of for everything; how I spoke, how I dressed, how I played. Most days I ignored it because I really just loved playing and what I called “private time” at home. It didn’t matter to me that at school I wasn’t liked because I had a pretty full life outside. Some days, however, when a girl would get too snarky, I’d deck her. That would keep things quiet for awhile.

In my last year at this school, I found out about a contest that was to take place for all the girls in the last grade. It was called May Princess which is an annual tradition in most commonwealth countries. To be in it, all you had to do was give a speech in front of the entire school about who you were and what you would do as May Princess to represent the school amongst others in the area. The school would then vote and the girl with the most votes would win and would then get to sit on a float in a pretty dress and throw candy.

I wanted to be May Princess, wear a pretty dress, sit on a float and throw candy.

It’s not that I actually thought I would win, but I never thought I would lose. I didn’t think about it, anylyse it, play it out. I just thought it sounded like a fabulous idea and, without telling anyone, entered.

The day came when 13 of us girls had to sit in front of the school and wait our turn to speak. The 12 other girls were the girls. They had the hair and they had the clothes. But what they didn’t have was confidence in themselves and the ability to speak.

Despite my awkwardness, I did.

I remember standing in front of the school, giving my little speech which was filled with much cheeky humour and a real passion for wanting to be princess. I remember people laughing and the little kids in the front row staring. I remember when I was finished and turned to walk to my seat, the other 12 girls laughing at me like I was retarded.

Later that afternoon, the 13 of us were called to the office to hear the results before they were announced. The headmaster said to us with a look of disbelief, “I don’t know how, but she won. She won with 400 more votes than the next girl.” He handed me the piece of paper that pronounced me May Princess as he kept repeating, “I don’t know how, I don’t know how.”

I sat with a huge grin, the other girls scoweled. It was a very quiet walk back to class and when it was announced over the loud speaker that I won, I sat there grinning while the entire class, including the teacher, looked at me with that “what the hell” look.

Leaving school all the little kids kept running up to me saying, “I voted for you May Princess!” Some even asked for autographs! I was swarmed by all the little children who didn’t care about hair spray or boys either.

When I got home, my mum was gardening in the front yard and I literally shouted to her, “Mum! I won! I was voted May Princess!” to which she replied, “What have we told you about lying?” She didn’t believe some awkward girl who got into more fights with her peers and played make believe in the back yard could win some contest. But luckily a neighbour walked by whose child went to our school and told me congratulations. My mothers jaw dropped.

A month later I sat on the float, in a pretty white dress, and threw candy. It was so much fun I remember. I sat with girls from other schools who knew about hair spray, style and boys but somehow, liked me just the same. They assumed I must be cool to win so they chatted me up and we giggled on board the float. One girl next to me asked me how long I had primped for that day, after telling me about her day at the spa. I told her I had been digging for worms early but I had made sure to wash my hands. Oh, I added, I had taken a few minutes to learn how to walk in a heal. She smiled that polite May Princess smile and I smiled back. It was a good day to be a May Princess.

I often think back to that time and ask how was it that I won by so many votes. My guess is that I’ve always had a connection with kids somehow; they like me. While the older girls split the votes amongst their peers, I got all the primary’s who didn’t know what cool was or who was it this month. They just saw a girl with blonde hair and a big grin who seemed happy and maybe once or twice protected them from a bully on the play ground or played jump rope when they needed another player. I realised at a very early age that you can worry about a few people and be miserably controlled, or you can worry about yourself and have more freedom and happiness. I’ve always had a lot of freedom and happiness.

I also think about why I entered that contest, why I wasn’t afraid or didn’t think I’d lose. I think it’s because my concern wasn’t with how I would look, how I would win, or what it would all mean but how much fun it would all be. I did thingsbased on the enjoyment it would give me and not what was “cool” or “hip.” Actually, that hasn’t changed 17 years later.

I was at a boutique today that had the loftiest ceilings, lots of walls and only one door in and out. Inside this boutique was a bird, flying madly around the high ceilings, looking for a way out, and never finding it despite getting so close so often. In his state of panic, he couldn’t see that if he relaxed on the perch he kept flying to and looked just an inch below, he’d have the exit he needed.

This bird reminded me of people who often feel trapped and confused. They move around all the time, working themselves up, feeling more claustrophobic and chaotic as they search aimlessly for a way out, not really believing one exists.

But there is always a way out. There is always a door somewhere, no matter how hard it might be to find it. If one were to settle down, take a breath and look around before moving, perhaps one could find the exit they need. If they just relaxed, the worry of never finding it would lessen and perhaps, they�d even see beauty in where they were.

I noticed him two days ago, sitting in the little water dish on the balcony. When most birds visit, they’re always flittering about, never sitting still; he did. Although his head moved continuously, his body never moved. Instead he just sat quietly on the dish.

Normally the baby chickadee’s come with their mums but this one was all alone. Because of this and the fact he wasn’t moving, I thought perhaps he’d hurt himself. I opened up the sliding door to fetch him and as I walked towards him he didn’t move at all. Yet when my hand got close enough he flew to a nearby tree.

When I retreated inside, he flew back to the balcony and there he’d stay for the next couple of days, feeding, drinking and sleeping. Sometimes he’ll disappear into the trees nearby, but not for long. The comfort of my balcony always brings him back.

My first reaction to this bird was one of great sadness. It’s obvious he’s little and lost his family and doesn’t really know what to do. My instinct was to help him somehow, take him somewhere, make things easy and remove the struggle. But after watching him survive the past couple of days, slowly figuring out the bird feeder, the water and the bird house, I’ve come to realise that the best help for him would be to let him figure things out on his own.

Although he might look scared, confused and hopeless, he’s not. He’s learning to survive and each new thing he does will be more useful to him than my taking him to some bird sanctuary where they’ll lock him up and feed him manually.

I’ve named him Biggie because, despite being little, he’s doing big things. He’s found food, shelter and water in my balcony. He’s even fought off a couple of finches that challenged his territory. He’s learning, he’s surviving.

Biggie has made me realise that he’s no different from people, really. That sometimes it seems far too easy to rescue someone, to let your experience save them or guide them or make their journey easier. But often, it’s the trying, the bumps, the scared moments that really teach us to survive. Biggies proof of that, which is why the story of a little bird living on my balcony isn’t tragic, but hopeful.

Few people, it seems, enjoy the holidays anymore. So many souls seem to go on auto-pilot, pulling out the credit card for gifts that will collect clutter in someone else’s home or gifts that have no meaning but sure look impressive to the Jone’s. Holiday gatherings are done out of obligation and not cosy tradition. No one has time, they say, to invest in real moments, real giving, and real smiles.

I don’t think it takes time, I think it just takes some stepping back, a huge breath, and lots of simple thoughts (after all, if it’s truly the thought that counts, shouldn’t the thought count?).

For me, this means that to keep my love of the holiday season I only give one of three gifts; the gift of time, food or books.

I’m especially prone to giving the gift of food, particularly cookies as I find it soothing, comforting and fun to make a trip to market, load up on ingredients and bake like a mad woman whilst the Charlie Brown Christmas CD plays in the background. I’m a mess while baking; flour all over myself, bowls all over the counter and fingers covered in mix. But I enjoy the day that I set aside for this because it’s something rather fun, as is the end result. (I must confess, if pressed for time I resort to the ready bake sugar cookies but take ten minutes to paint the buggers like a five year old).

Once I bake the cookies (from sugar cookies decorated badly with icing and colouring, my infamous chocolate chips with green and red MnM’s added, the perennial favourite Coconut Jam Thumbprints, and any others I can think of adding) I arrange them carefully in a box, tie it with ribbon and deliver. It’s one gift I know gets used and people have come to wait for them. Simple, inexpensive and terribly fun to do. It’s an event for me and not just a gift for someone else.

As I’ve said on several occasions, I’m not good at baking but that’s so not the point. There’s something so comforting and sweet about making something for someone, I think. Yes, the mall might have fabulous gadgets and the latest gear but sometimes I think when we purchase gifts like that we’re just going through the motion. There’s no meaning behind the gift, no importance. I like to make people feel a little important and them knowing that baking isn’t easy for me and that I most likely wasted a lot of ingredients on burned cookies somehow means something.

If I can’t bake for someone (they’re too far away or I won’t see them), then I offer two other things; the gift of time or a fabulous book. I like to search for titles that I think would appeal to someone and generally scour my little local bookstore for something unique. Books, I find, always make good gifts, especially if you package them up nicely and add some tea, candles or bubble bath alongside it.

Despite giving the same kinds of gifts all the time, they’ve never bored people or myself. It helps me to look forward to the holidays instead of fearing it. It’s simple, easy and terribly charming, I think, to do little things instead of plunking down the credit card for reasons unknown.

I would like to add that for me, one of the nicest things is to receive a card that has a little written message in it and not simply someone’s signed name. It shows that they took two seconds to think of me and that is just one of the most wonderful feelings. Everyone is so busy but the clock won’t expand so we have to figure out how to use what time we have and where it matters. If, perhaps, baking, giving the gift of time or searching for something meaningful eludes you this season, take ten minutes, grab a mocha and sit and write a little note to attach to each gift. That itself, can sometimes can sometimes be the ultimate present.

In the fifth grade I was given an art assignment to draw any picture I wanted for a calendar project. At the time I, like most eleven year old girls, was fascinated with unicorns and drew a spectacular scene involving one.

When I showed it to the teacher the next day, she told me to stand in front of the class so that they could see what a cheat looked like. She went on to say that I must have traced it all because I had no talent whatsoever. She told me that I was wicked, a liar and could never, ever do any good artwork. She ripped up my picture in front of the class.

For the next seventeen years, that day would affect me. I would always believe that other people were artists, not I.

After a few years of being in a high level, corporate position, I knew that pantsuits and meetings weren’t my passion. I wanted to do something else, but didn’t know what to do. I wanted to find my heart, my passion.

With great, great fear, I purchased a small watercolour set for $5 (I didn’t want to spend a lot, too scary to invest!) and for the first time in seventeen years, I attempted to create. I sat down, let go and painted how I felt. The result was this:

Afterwards, I sat in shock. Shock that not only had I painted, but that my fifth grade teacher was wrong. I could do something.

I posted that image on my web site later on and to my surprise, people started to ask to buy it. I hesitated. I wasn’t an artist. I wasn’t someone who could sell artwork. I wasn’t real. I kept saying no.

After awhile of inquries I asked myself, who is to say who is a “real” artist or not? Who is to say who can or cannot sell artwork? If someone loves it, if they find value in it, who am I to make excuses and reasons why they shouldn’t? The nerve of me.

So, I made a limited set of prints to sell and a year later, I have sold almost every single one. This has amazed me. It makes me smile. It makes me forget about that fifth grade teacher.

I think everyone of us has something we want to do, to be, but have held back because of someone saying we couldn’t. I say, prove to them, to yourself you can. Because if I can sell artwork after failing art 3 times, anything is possible.

There are a lot of writer’s who write the same way; they follow the rules to a t, use the same language, and cover the same subjects. They write in some voice that isn’t truly their own because they think that’s what they have to do to be published or accepted.

At first, the reader doesn’t notice because it’s new, but after awhile, the writing becomes dull for the reader and they question the writer’s authenticity and intent. After awhile, they’ll become bored with the contrived, safe, pretty writing and move on. The writer is left wondering what they did wrong and so they try even harder to become something they think they should be, instead of something they are.

With my writing, I don’t follow the rules; my language use is different, I tend to write on subjects that aren’t normally discussed because they’re seen as trite and I accept that I’m neither sexy nor sassy. But yet, I get published, I have people enjoying my work and most of all, I feel satisfied at the end of each day.

I think there are a lot of people whose way of doing resembles that of a writer. People try so hard to be some idea of perfect so that they will be liked. They say the right things only, they do everything for everyone and they worry constantly if what they do will be accepted and if it’s not, what they could do more.

I think this creates a barrier not just between people, but between the person and their real self. For me, I value/understand/trust honesty, directness and messiness in a person far more than some illusion they’re trying to create. With the real person, I know where I stand, I know what to expect and I know how to appreciate. With an illusion, I always wonder.

I think some people who fear not being perfect equate being real or honest with being rude and hurtful, which I don’t think is it at all. Being honest doesn’t mean you walk up to some stranger and declare, “My, you’re rather fat and ugly, aren’t you?” I think honesty means sharing your real view when you need to, in a way that’s comfortable with you. I think it means acknowledging when you’re angry, frustrated, sad, scared, happy, excited and eager either with yourself, or a friend. I think it means trusting yourself first and your close friends second. I think it means not worrying so much if people will like you because you know the right ones will for real, honest reasons.

I’m a shy girl by nature but because I don’t try to be some ideal of perfect or wonder if I’ll be liked or accepted, I have an easier time of talking to people, doing things and living as I need to. I can say what I need to without worry if it’ll be offensive because I speak my truth in a way that is of use instead of in a way that is hurtful. And I know that those with whom I’m honest with trust my intent.

Being authentic, being real creates less worry than trying to be perfect does.