by Gail Heney | Jun 1, 2026 | Weekly Musings
If I didn’t know better, I would swear that today’s warm temperatures and blue sky are only an April teaser. I am still wearing my leggings and heavy sweatshirt to my early morning workouts at the gym. Two weeks ago, the doors were open, and the rowing machines were dragged outside. The next day we had frost. My newly planted peppers and tomatoes are continually struggling against cruel gusts and single-digit temperatures as they cling to the soil pressed firmly down around their young roots. The evening ritual includes a debate about which plants need to come indoors, whether we need the tarpaulin over the garden, and will the planters against the garage survive the never-ending assault from the northern gales.
Sipping coffee after a dog walk and garden inspection, confessing through my fingers to my laptop, I am confounded by the heat wave in Europe and our endless wind from the north. The dark green and brown squares of the rolling hills beyond our hedgerow confirm that the farmers believe it’s time to plant: no more frost, longer days, more sunshine. The apple blossoms are finally unfurled. The rain that has ruined several weekends, sent campers back to the city, and cottagers cursing Mother Nature, is welcomed by those who work the land.
During my university years, I did an internship at a hospital in Ottawa. It was spring, and I shared a student ghetto flat with four classmates, each of us working at a different healthcare facility. We slept on mattresses on the floor and stole milk crates from convenience stores for our clothes. One of our flatmates was a vegetarian, so we all decided to join her regimen. It was easier and cheaper.
My placement was at a rehabilitation hospital. A sprawl of red brick buildings set back from the busy street. I worked with stroke victims, a handsome young man who broke his neck diving into a pool, and a comical woman with advanced multiple sclerosis. I had my first viewing of a vasectomy scar as I taught my favourite stroke patient how to dress himself with one hand.
My supervisor, Rita, was a person governed by the barometer. She had tanned skin, a perfect dark brown shoulder-length bob, and always wore coral lipstick. Each day, she responded to my morning greeting by defining her mood and predictions for the day ahead according to the weather. She was happy and had lots of energy when the sun shone. She was impatient if it was too windy when she walked from her car to the entrance of the hospital. She felt gloomy if the skies were grey. She was tired when it rained. She counted down the weeks, then days, then hours, then minutes until she would be on the beach in Mexico. It was June. I hoped she already had a November booked. Now I wonder whether she was a plant, karmically recreated in a human body.
By now, I have lived through all kinds of weather. I have been horrified by pictures and headlines of earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis, volcanoes, tornadoes and floods. We now have frequent apocalyptic forest fires and ice storms. There are mudslides, rockslides, atmospheric rivers, heat domes, and snowstorms that require military intervention. The winds that careen up the valley now tear the shingles from our roof.
I feel the weight of my years when I comment on the shift and ferocity of weather patterns. It challenges me to be resilient and tenacious instead of fading into a comfortable chair with a book and blanket on my lap. I am relieved to still feel joy in the change of the seasons, awe at Mother Nature’s aggression, and energy to be in the weather rather than an observer.
For now, I wish to be a warrior against the elements. There may come a time when I need to retreat to a more hospitable and blander climate ~ not yet.
by Gail Heney | May 19, 2026 | Weekly Musings
I am compelled once again to write about aging. Forgive the repetition. I am on the cusp of a birthday that will propel me into a new decade. After five years of unpacking the emotional upheaval that emerged around my 65th birthday, here I am facing another milestone. The process is speeding up. F*k.
As a teenager, I was a disciple of Seventeen Magazine. I remember sitting on my yellow and green flowered bedspread with my friend Cathy, the glossy pages spread open across our folded knees. Between the fashion and makeup “must-haves” was a suggestion to have fun imagining what we might look like when we were older. We were instructed to grab a mirror and place it on the floor, lie on our stomachs on a bed, and hang our heads over the edge. In addition to the blood rushing to our brain, we could look at our reflection in the mirror beneath us. That, said the bold print, would show us what our middle-aged faces would look like.
The face looking back up at me was a collage of my mother and grandmother. The skin no longer held taught to my cheekbones. The smoothness around my eye sockets now baggy. The weight of my eyelids narrowing my gaze. I was horrified. Yet we laughed. It was unfathomable that could happen to us.
Now I occasionally pick up House and Home or the Oprah magazine, or a self-help book that promises to propel me into the realm of joyful and fulfilling old age. There are testimonials preaching the science of longevity; eat greens, do strength training, and track my REM moments and blood pressure blips on my wristwatch. Dotting the pages between the editorials are promises of age reversal serums, surgeries that turn back time, and vacuums that will suck fat from my belly and deposit it on my cheekbones. Once that’s done, I can live in a gated community with everyone else who looks like me and go on river cruises.
I am reminded of the time I was paired in a ladies’ day golf event with an 80-year-old woman. Untouched by the relentless media and societal sway of anti-aging interventions, her grey hair, lined skin, and tiny frame radiated vitality. As she quietly placed the club face behind the tee and took an easy swing back and through, the ball soared straight and far, landing in the middle of the fairway. She was gentle and supportive of my struggling game. We laughed often. I was inspired by her authentic and humble nature.
I often feel overwhelmed with the fanatical pursuit of youthfulness. I am envious of eastern and indigenous cultures – elders are revered for their beauty and wisdom. While we strive to stay relevant and look like our children or movie star photos, they settle into their excess skin and grey hair. Their life experience is considered worthwhile, a teaching tool. Rather than launching a defensive regime against time, they cherish it. Family gathers closer, rather than fanning out into “they’re busy with their own lives.”
I’ve worked hard, emotionally, physically and spiritually to find my path through the threat of feeble, invisible, irrelevant, saggy and wrinkled. Each day doles out servings of blessings and curses. I am humbled to admit that I have a finite amount of energy. I am plagued most mornings by lower back pain, my left knee is cranky, and the knobby joints in my hands ache. Undaunted, I huff and sweat at the gym, lift the couch and shoot the rug underneath with my foot, and haul my clubs around a nine-hole golf course. I do all this to ensure I can pick up my grandchildren for a proper full-body hug, sit on the floor and build towers, and catch them as they jump off the side of the pool. I do all this so I can hike gnarly trails, ski steep slopes, and climb up on a stool to get my favourite pitcher down from above the wall oven. I do all this so I can be active and engaged in family and community.
As I brace for the next decade, I know how much it matters.
by Gail Heney | May 5, 2026 | Weekly Musings
For most of my life, I have been a woman of action. With barely a mention, I show up to move furniture, make a meal, take a walk, paint a wall. I am comfortable in the kitchen, on the trail, or bedside rubbing moisturizer into the scaly, dry skin of an ailing friend or relative. Saved from the discomforting challenge of finding the right words, action is a refuge for me.
Until it’s not an option. Until I’m left to witness grief, fear, tragedy, and illness. And there’s nothing that I can do about it. Or with it. I am familiar with the paralysis within that accompanies those feelings. I almost feel less helpless when they are my own. I am off the hook for words of consolation.
Recently, I have faced a wave of horrible news, heartbreak and deep worry. Things that weren’t supposed to happen to those close to me are happening. These are situations and events that are out of my hands. The call-to-action baffles me, because there isn’t one.
Instead, I am required to turn inward and ask myself what can I do? What does a person in need need? I am reminded of the power of being present. My father battled cancer for several years, each time becoming more infirm and ill for longer, with less of him coming back. While I willingly straightened his bed, helped him up, and got him ice chips, the deeper sense of connection and solace occurred in the silence between us. Me sitting on the shiny green vinyl chair, as close to his bedside as I could get. Him shrinking beneath the rough cotton sheets, dozing and awakening to look over and make sure I was still there. I only quizzed the doctors in the hall. I chatted with the nurses outside of his room. He needed me to show that I trusted the care. I can too easily add to the chaos with my fix-it energy. Only lately do I understand that it comes from my anxiety and contributes to others’.
In the past, I have underestimated the power of a phone call. Technology has made it easy to establish hands-off contact at my own convenience. In times of flaring emotions and an indescribable need for consolation, a live voice attached to a listening ear provides support and a safe space to fall apart – if that’s what would help. Unless asked for input, I am holding back from trying to say something to “make her feel better.”
In a conversation with a sage advisor, the futility of the “at least it’s . . . “was pointed out to me. It’s always been an admonishment that has left me feeling ashamed and silenced. While the intention might be to shift the focus, or “look on the bright side”, for many, it discounts their feelings when they most need validation. While “it could be worse” might offer a temporary diversion, for many, the relief is fleeting, and the reality seems desperate and immediate.
I am reminded of another phrase that comes to mind when we are included in the sharing of a situation or an emotional splurge. “I understand.” Rarely do we truly understand because we can not be in the other person’s shoes, mind or heart. The sharing of our own experience might create a temporary deflection; what is most needed is space to be open and accepted as they are, in this moment.
~
I wrote the above passage four years ago. Coming upon it, I knew it needed to be shared once again. As I struggle with the demands of warp speed technology and screen addiction, I am looking for the brake pedal and blackout curtains. I was reminded in my morning reading that in the Buddhist practice, impermanence and suffering are life characteristics. Accessing my inner self to be present, appreciative and engaged stills my racing brain and enables me to connect meaningfully. It is my life’s work.
by Gail Heney | Apr 21, 2026 | Intrepid Challenge, Weekly Musings
Advice to “let it go” or “let them” triggers a resistance within me. It travels from deep in my belly up to my brain. My annoyance is further exacerbated by the speed-talking nasal drone of a particular podcaster. She uses examples of toxic, hurtful and disempowering behaviours as throwaways . . . you’ll feel better once you’ve decided to just let them. It is not in my DNA to ignore, enable or otherwise push down or aside something that has grabbed my attention. Years ago, in a therapy session, I commiserated that I had been told, books had been written, and wise people preached the gospel of letting go. You can’t do that; you crave connection. She had seen me, given me permission to buck the trend of “Hakuna Matata”.
Last week I attended a spiritual retreat focused on yoga, meditation and breathwork. The jungle setting was a kaleidoscope of thick green, with views of the blue Pacific, frothy white waves and an endless sand beach. Each day, we lay on mats listening to music and chants that seeped into my soul. I heard words and mantras that challenged my stories and moved my muscles and bones gently beyond their normal limits. My mind, body and spirit were in constant states of peaceful insights and resets. Bobbing in the warm ocean as we watched the sunset each evening reminded me of my humble insignificance in the vastness of the land and sea.
I had arrived at the retreat with the intention of silencing my inner critic. Her name is Edna. I’ve written about her, to her and at her for years. She holds the strategies and energy that diminish and detach me from myself. She tells me what to do to please others, be better, do more, fix my body, hair, clothes, and home, and try to be worthy of attention and affection. She exhausts me.
There is a common saying when doing inner work. You might not get what you want, you will always get what you need.
Edna is not leaving me. I didn’t come back with her eulogy written out. Over the course of the week, I discovered that she lives in my subconscious. This is a space of muted colours and constant flow and movement. It manages 95% of my behaviours and habits. It is the keeper of my comfort zones, past experiences and beliefs. It holds my long-term memories. With mindfulness, meditation, writing, and other tools for emotional growth, I can lay down new neural pathways. I have the capacity to shift my beliefs and patterns. To recognize the voice of Edna without buying into her diatribe.
While exploring my childhood and emotional evolution, I discovered that Edna played a significant role in keeping me safe and moving me forward and seeking success. She was the driver for me to get attention from my father, to challenge the boys club and glass ceiling in the corporate world, to take risks and seek power. By reminding me that I wasn’t enough, she made me work harder, faster and longer. At everything.
Recognizing and respecting her place in my psyche, while trusting myself and leaning into being authentic and compassionate, frees me of her disparaging nature. When I’m stressed or tired, and she sneaks a peek and comments, I don’t have to attach to it or even believe it. The Buddhist teacher, Pema Chodron, advises we examine and move through both the unpleasant and pleasant.
Loving all pieces of me is my Intrepid Challenge.
by Gail Heney | Apr 2, 2026 | Weekly Musings
Several springs ago I was walking with a close friend in a city park. We were circling a large open space dotted with clusters of people wincing as their dogs galloped and slid joyfully through the mud. Answering her “how are you”, I shared that I had been feeling lethargic and flat. You always are this time of year; you hate spring. She was a friend who knew me better than I knew myself and was unafraid to utter the truth.
It’s April again. The ground is so soggy from the snow melt and rain that each footfall sinks, each paw finds mud, and creeks and rivers have no edges. Over the past few days we have had sideways rain, lightning and thunder, snow squalls, small round globes of hail, winds that pulled the shingles off our roof and moments of sunshine as cruel teasers. I should feel brightened by the brave crocuses poking through the dead leaves in our garden, and the expansive maple buds as the sap runs. The fog that greys my valley matches my mood.
The wind-down of winter makes me sad. Our ski community is the pulse and force that carries me through the bitter cold, snowstorms and ice, and the effort necessary to dress, equip and ski on a small Ontario ridge. On a winter morning, there are texts crisscrossing the valley advising of meet-up times, gatherings of friends at the top of popular runs, and tables jammed with extra chairs so that we can sit together for lunch.
On a weekend when we are blessed to have grandchildren visiting, the routine shifts. The morning advisory informs who is on the beginner hill, who is in the chalet with the babies, and who has been granted a pass to take a few runs unencumbered. The camp out in the cafeteria, with highchairs, enormous padded bags filled with snacks, bottles, toys and diapers, and almost mobile toddlers, is a series of smiles and tears, treats for bribery, and chaos.
The calendar flip to April signifies those days are over, at least until next season. On the final afternoon, our children and grandchildren have all headed home. We are back to our core group, squeezed around picnic tables on the deck in the sunshine. Mother Nature has gifted us fabulous spring skiing, the corn snow forgiving, and the hills to ourselves. Over the years on the chairlift and around these tables, we have shared the roller coaster ride of raising our children, grieving illness and loss, wedding plans, newborns, and holiday experiences and plans.
Today, we are nostalgic. As the years and turns are showing up in our creaky knees and hips, and we pack up our boots and skis, we know we are fortunate to have had a long and full winter. Our safe and beautiful cocoon of normalcy in the midst of a scary and deeply troubled world is shutting down for many months. The spontaneous connections that happen during the lunchtime buzz are over until next year. I will miss the intimacy of conversations that spring from sitting side by side with flattened hair, frozen fingers, red noses and goggle lines on our cheeks. We are stripped down, tired and exhilarated as we chat and reach across the table for a French fry.
I have an elder friend who reminds me that enduring another April is better above ground than below. Being resilient and nimble as spring plays hide and seek with us, as I freeze in cotton sweaters and bake in down jackets, is my intention. Without the ready-made connections of a day on the slopes, I will need to reach out to establish coffee, lunch, hiking and golf dates. As friends drift to travel, cottages, and summer sports, different groupings and gatherings emerge.
It will be different and yet the same. The summer gang will nurture friendships through hiking, cycling, swimming, and sharing meals. On hot, sunny afternoons, we will congregate at the beach with our coolers and snacks, and occasionally strollers and swimmies as we introduce our grandchildren to the magic of Georgian Bay.
