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.

One of the most common criticisms I receive is that somehow I must lead this perfectly charming, easy little life without worry and that if, in fact, I had ever suffered even the slightest, I would be more patient and understanding to those who like to live in a pitiful, complaining and negative world full-time. I would write less “good” stories because in the real world where there’s real problems, it’s not so easy to be kind.

Some people still haven’t realised that pain for everyone is inevitable; suffering, however, is always optional. It’s not a hard concept, in fact, I know an eleven year old girl who understands.

As a lunch buddy last year, I would once a week go to a local middle school and spend a lunch hour with an awkward 11 year old girl. She was Mexican, spoke with an accent and came from a poor family who didn’t have extra money for the latest, coolest gear or hair cuts at a salon. She was a sweet, bright, caring girl but kids wouldn’t see that when they looked at her; they’d just see a target.

On one visit she came running to me, crying. I put my arms around her and held her until the sobbing subsided. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me I couldn’t understand. When I asked her why not and she told me, “Because you’re pretty and everything is easy for you. You don’t know what’s it’s like to be made fun of.”

I just let her cry it all out for the rest of the hour.

However, the next week I brought her a photograph. When I showed it to her, she laughed at it; she made fun of the girl with the short, choppy boy hairdo, the fang teeth, and the funky clothes.

“That was me when I was exactly your age,” I told her. She looked at me in disbelief.

“When I was your age, I had just had my second surgery which caused my hair to break off and fall out. People called me ugly boy all the time. I was born with extra teeth which stood out like fangs in my mouth which was a horrible thing especially since I liked to laugh and smile so much. I limped because I was learning how to walk again and couldn’t play sports for awhile like all the cool kids in my class. And my clothes? Well, my idea of style was much different from my peers and they let me know it every single day.

But you know what? Thats just what happens sometimes. Sometimes you’re going to be awkward. Sometimes people are going to be mean and hurtful, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. Sometimes you’re going to be uncool and not fit in, even if you try. Sometimes you’re going to feel like things will never get better and never be different. But here is the thing that is so important to remember: those times aren’t forever – they’re just moments.

Hard moments, sad moments, painful moments, but moments just the same. And you know, moments don’t last forever. In fact, you get to chose which moments are going to mean something, which moments are going to define you. That’s the beautiful thing about being smart like you are. You can remember all the good moments you have and let those be what matter. The bad ones will shape you certainly, but they don’t have to define you. Ever.”

A couple of weeks later, we walked down the hallway to the lunchroom and a snippy little girl made one of the usual comments to her. She looked at the little girl but didn’t cry, instead she continued to walk with me to lunch. We sat outside, ate our lunch as we talked about all the places we’d go when we grew up and the rides that scared us the most at Disneyland. When I walked her back to her classroom she said to me, “Those moments when we were laughing? That’s what I’m going to remember about today.”

I knew right then, that this girl was going to be just fine.

The clouds were so low and thick today that on my walk along the lake I could barely see it. I knew a tour boat was out on the water because I heard its horn blow. I wondered if the tourists onboard were sitting cosy with a hot chocolate in their hand, and talking to one another about the travels they were on or if they were complaining because they couldn’t see the lake due to the heavy rain setting in. And, I wondered, if it were the latter, if they realised that there is more than one way to experience something – it just depends on your attitude.

I was taught this lesson in my early twenties when, working for a tour company in the Canadian Rockies, a woman called to book a sightseeing tour. I explained in great detail the different day trips available to her and together we picked one out for her to take. She then asked me a question that took me off guard, “Do you offer discounts to the blind?”

At first, I questioned if this woman was serious. A blind person on a sightseeing tour? Who ever heard of such a thing? Who had ever heard of a discount on top? Also I couldn’t comprehend the purpose of taking a sightseeing tour if you couldn’t see, especially in the Canadian Rockies where the sight of the bright green lakes or the ragged peaks of the mountains were something that needed to be seen to be experienced. How bored, I thought, this woman would be, sitting on a 3 hour bus tour without being able to see anything.

So I said to her, “We don’t offer discounts, but I should like to ask why you would want to take a sightseeing tour if you can’t see.”

With a smile in her voice she said, “My dear, there are so many other fabulous ways to see the world. Attitude, darling, attitude!”

She went on to tell me that she had heard our drivers told the best stories and described every detail. This was true. I was once on an eight hour tour where the driver, so passionate about geology, described every nook and cranny in every mountain for the duration of the trip. Near the end when my eyes had failed me from being tired, I closed them and still saw the mountains as he described them over the speaker.

She told me other reasons why she wanted to go on the trip (she liked the hum of people talking on a bus, she liked being out in the cold with the wind hitting her and then retreating inside to the bus or a cafe to warm up and be so thankful, and she liked to hear the rumble of the glaciers falling apart into the lakes) and why, even though she couldn’t see it, she could experience it.

This reminded me of the Mary Engelbreit quote which said, “If you don’t like something change it; if you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.” She can’t change being blind, but she could change the way she thought about seeing.

There are moments for sure when wallowing, complaining or being pitiful is just downright a perfect thing to do. I am prone to fits of flailing limbs but these moments are generally short lived. It’s not being Pollyanna about everything, it’s just choosing to accept what you can do, instead of what you can’t. Like seeing when you’re blind.

When I was twelve, which was 1986, punk was the rage as was those jelly bracelets, jelly shoes, hell, jelly anything. Big hair, bright blush, suits for women, if you had those, you were hip.

I was not hip.

It was at this age that I went into a rummage shop with my mum and discovered the dress of all dresses. (I should mention that at this time I had a huge obsession with Little House on the Prairie and the stylings of Mary and Laura. I thought those girl’s rocked.) This dress was something you would find on the prairie and, unless it was 1895, you’d most likely want to leave it there.

I, however, wanted it more than anything.

Trying it on it was a perfect fit. I can’t tell you how beautiful I felt in this dress that was mostly a smock type thing that went down just past my knees in a straight, flowy fashion. I rushed over to my mum, begging her to buy it for me.

A fashionable Danish woman, she looked at me with rolled eyes. She knew I was a strange dresser but this beat all. This could cause problems.

“If you wear this,” she told me, “People will make fun of you.”

“I don’t care,” I replied.

“I need you to understand that if you wear it, you’re going to get comments, and laughs and teased. And I don’t want you running home crying if that happens. People are going to see this dress on you a lot differently than you see it on you. Do you understand?”

I did and wore the dress home.

Wearing it out, I did get teased – a lot. Not just from children but from teachers, adults and anyone who knew a good prairie joke, which surprisingly there are a lot of.

When I tell you that none of those comments bothered me one bit, I am telling you the truth. Even as an awkward, strange twelve year old, being made fun of for being different had no effect. In fact, most of the time I never even noticed the teasing because I felt beautiful with that dress on and nothing else mattered.

What should it matter, I used to think, what others thought? Who are they to say I can’t feel beautiful or be happy or change my name to Laura? Who says they are it and get to define who I am. It wasn’t that I thought I was better or more beautiful than they were, on the contrary, it’s just that I was OK with liking what I liked. I knew I was here to live my life and not the imagined one of others. Wearing that strange dress gave me joy more than conforming ever did.

Looking back at a photograph I see how much I stood out amongst my peers and really, how sad I looked in that shabby little thing. But it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that I liked it.

I share this because people are so afraid of what other people will think all the time. What people will think of their careers, their partners, their home, their dresses that there is very little enjoyment to any of these things. Worry of others overtakes us and robes us of the pleasure that we are so entitled to. Even if it’s in a pitiful little dress.

Many years ago during a tramp in New Zealand, I learned the importance of hearing.

High in the mountains it was quiet except for one lone bird who called out loudly and continuously. Its call was the most tragic, saddest sound I had heard. I asked my friend why it kept making the noise that it did and my friend told me that it was waiting to be heard.

After a few minutes, another bird replied with one long loud sound which silenced the tragic sounding bird; it had been heard and didn’t need to call out anymore.

This past weekend, I was visiting with my four year old niece who is always terribly excited when I come around. We don’t see each other often and always have much to catch up on. For this reason, she repeats Auntie over and over again, vying for my attention.

When I saw her and she started with her Auntie, Auntie and desperately trying to get everything out to me while she could, I slowly kneeled down beside her, put her little hands in mine, looked at her and calmly said, “I hear you. I will hear you until you have told me everything you need to say.”

With that, you could literally see her little body relax. There wasn’t the worry that I would only pay half attention or walk away. She could relax and slowly tell me everything that was important to her whether it be how we could cut and paste a card together or what she learned in school.

There are so many things as people that we have to pay attention to and with the internet and television we are used to scanning, flipping, and catching only bits. The art of listening, of hearing the other person fully, is slipping away. We tend to assume we already know what they’ll say, the answer to the question or that it’s not as important as what might come next. Hearing doesn’t seem to be important anymore.

I very seldom offer advice (how can I presume to know what is best for someone else and their situation?) but what I always offer is to hear a person. Sometimes people don’t want a solution, they just want to be heard. Sometimes people don’t want things; they just want to be heard. Sometimes people don’t want to be patronised, they just want to be heard.

Often I wonder if we really stopped to be fully in the moment of someone telling us their woes, their fears, or their excitements, how much that would really change things. Perhaps that sounds too easy but often the answers to the most complicated questions are the simplest words. Words such as, I hear you.