The Coulee...

I come from Medicine Hat, a land of creeks and valleys... and coulees. It's a lovely little oasis on the desert that is Southern Alberta. When I was growing up, we lived in the house of my Mother's childhood, on a remote street called 'Kipling'. Seven Persons Creek snaked its way through the quiet valley and at the end of the long street was a wonderful place called "Kin Coulee". It was a huge city park, complete with playground equipment, a band shelter, barbecue pits and a ski hill. I spent a lot of time there as a kid, not so much on the playground equipment or ski hill, but climbing the steep, abrupt cliffs of the coulee.

It was parched, dry, brown-dirt country. Trying to gain a foothold was a three-steps-forward and ten-steps-back activity. At the end of a day of scrambling in the dirt, you were camouflaged in a fine layer of the stuff, had cactus needles piercing various body parts, may have had a close encounter with a garter or bull snake, and if you were really lucky, there might even be a small scorpion or two in the folds of your clothes. Sometimes you made it to the top, and sometimes you simply gave up and slid to the bottom, leaving attempts at ascent for another day and trod home on prairie-dirt insoles. This is not unlike trying to scale the abrupt cliffs of life. 

I call it "The Coulee Theory". I can't take credit for its creation, that belongs to a wise counselor I had years ago after my first marriage ended and I was estranged from my children. A friend at work was knitting a lovely baby sweater and brought it in to show it off. I took one look at that baby sweater and was reminded of my own babies, not babies anymore, for their innocence was long gone, but when times were simpler; when I saw them, smelled them, and cuddled them daily. This innocuous baby-sweater-encounter sent me reeling. I was seized upon by grief so intense that I was at home for three days curled up in a fetal position, experiencing waves of sorrow like contractions. I was afraid I'd gone over the edge. 

My counselor confirmed my worst fears when I called him between contractions. He told me that ground-shaking life events were like falling over the edge of an abrupt cliff into a deep coulee. On the way down, you roll in cactus, encounter snakes and scorpions and end up covered in the grime of a long, hard, rock-bottom fall. But eventually, you dust yourself off and start making your way up the side of the cliff. Progress is often slow. Some days you make great strides only to lose your footing and any ground gained the very next day. But you keep trying and eventually, you make it to the top, stronger, wiser, and braver. He was right.

His wisdom has served me well through events since then, most recently, my Mother's death. Some days I'm rock bottom, other days I've gained some ground. I have no idea when I will reach the top, but I know that strength, wisdom and bravery are acquired on the journey. I might have prairie-dirt insoles but I'm still standing. 

The rest is pixie dust...