Just When You Thought You Knew Me …

Posted on November 5, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

You probably don’t.

(But Jane Fonda does, and more on that coming up.)

You probably don’t know ALL of me. Not the past traumas that shape me to this day. Not the deep, dark secrets that society once dictated remain in the shadows. Not the thoughts and feelings that are still coloured by fears and doubts that germinated decades ago. We are all products of our pasts and the truth is, if you’re looking for an easy way out, just blame yesteryear.

Or your parents. because it’s pretty much a given they had some hand in the ultimate shaping of YOU.

My son Sam Drysdale’s latest record is called “Who’s Going to Love You the Way I Do.”  It’s a sweet and sad song to be sure, but also contains lyrics that intrigue me, his mama, immensely. Is he taking me to task?

“We were always scared of love, parents could’ve showed us better. We were always scared of love, parents couldn’t stay together.”

Hmm. It would appear that I am at fault here somewhere. Well, me and those three other parents.

But then I listen to Carly Simon sing a song called “Didn’t I” and my favourite lyric is –

“Sorry that your mother dropped you on your head, maybe her mother dropped her too.”

Brilliant.

In the end we all get dropped and black and blue (thank you, Sylvester “Earl” Powell – songwriter).

However …

I am a person who values accountability (especially when it comes to my son) and so I look back over my shoulder, way back to my teens, and the beginnings of my own struggle to create and maintain relationship. Why the heck was it always so damn difficult?

Jane Fonda has the answer. Jane says that a woman needs three things to forge a successful union:

  1. She needs to feel safe.
  2. She needs to feel seen.
  3. She needs to feel cherished.

Well, holy crap! This may explain a great deal. About me.

My father was a wonderful, supportive, loving and attentive dad. He also had a wicked temper and a long-instilled set of beliefs that were quite at odds with his teenage daughter coming of age in the 70s. His wicked temper was at times matched by my wicked tongue and, on occasion, when he hit “the wall,” he backhanded me.

My first serious boyfriend (read: lover) also ultimately decided that hitting me was a surefire method to silence my lips. He succeeded a few times until we finally broke up.

My next love was witness to Boyfriend #1’s violence when, after our first evening together and his subsequent departure, B#1 (who had been spying) marched into my parents’ house (they were away) in a drunken rage, demanded that I sleep with him, smacked me a few times and then threw me down a staircase. He finally stopped this rampage when he saw something protruding from my arm (broken bone?). After swatting me away from the wall phone (where I was desperately trying to call the police) he begrudgingly took his leave, slamming and shattering the screen door in the process.

I immediately called New Boyfriend who returned to console me, treat my wounds (it was not a broken bone in my arm but my ribs were cracked) and express disdain that any man could behave in such a way!

My parents were also none too pleased … with me. Wanton young slut that I was. Sure, they weren’t thrilled that I got the shit kicked out of me but when B#1 came calling, quivering in his boots and simpering like a wounded dog, so sad was he that he had decimated their screen door (and maybe their daughter), they forgave him.

They fucking forgave him!

B#2 and I ultimately got married. Not because we were desperate to tie the knot but we really wanted to live together. My parents icily informed me that, were such an arrangement to come to fruition, they would disown me.

Period. Full stop.

Nice.

So, even though I was far too young and too inexperienced with all things related to love, we got married. And guess what? After our first month of wedded bliss, Husband#1 hit me. He actually pinned me to the linoleum, banging my head into the floor.

That was the first time. There were a few more before I took my leave.

(I would see him several years later, at which time he confessed humiliation and remorse at his primitive behaviour and assured me it had never happened since – thank God for his new wife.)

So let us analyze – was this violence my fault because I have a quick wit and razor-sharp tongue? Did I inspire these men to ferocious outbursts because I used my words as weapons? Would it behoove me to be accountable to MY roll in all this brutality?

Maybe. But I think by now we know that physical assault is never the answer, no matter who is inflicting it or why.

For me, the bigger significance is Jane’s #1 point – how could I possibly ever feel safe in a man/woman relationship when every man in my early life hit me?

(To be clear, no man has attacked me since although one subsequent beau did exclaim, “If I was ever going to hit a woman, it would be you!”)

And how could I possibly ever feel safe when my very own parents threatened to disown me? Because they didn’t agree with a lifestyle choice? What might possibly compel me to believe that anyone might have my back when, in those formative years, no one actually did? My lack of safety, my mistrust of men and their hurtful tantrums and even my eventual contempt for my own role in these dramas was a heavy anchor. And even when my physical security was no longer threatened, I wasn’t home-free.

Because feeling safe isn’t just about safeguarding from injury. In order to truly feel safe, we must feel emotionally safe as well. We must feel free to express our innermost thoughts and fears, confusions and questions and we must feel that our emotional safety is of such value to our partner that he will protect it as he would our corporeal sanctuary.

This is where my second husband (Sam’s father) ran into difficulty. I knew he would protect me, my son and our home like the fiercest warrior ever to defend. But his interest in fostering my emotional safety was minimal. “I don’t need this shit” was a phrase uttered more than once. And I learned quite early in our union that if the sensitive (read: irrational) atmosphere in our dwelling became too fervent, he would simply remove himself from the premises. I would then calm down (ha!) and life would go on … his way.

And so there I was. Unsafe AND unseen (Jane’s #2). And I learned that, in order to keep peace (and my marriage) it was I who had to accept this reality.

Did I feel cherished (#3)? Yes, I guess so. I knew I was loved. Loved in HIS definition. Just not in mine.  Or Jane’s. Because in order to adequately cherish someone we must first discern what makes them feel cherished. And then act on that (not our own notions).

So here I am now (in my dotage) wondering how much of my storied past has made me who I am today? Or even who I was 20 years ago? Could I have done better by my son? If I knew then what I know now about early trauma and its lasting effects, or if Jane Fonda had befriended me and shared her insight, might I have changed the course of history, mine and my family’s?

The thing is, we all did what we could with what we knew and what we experienced. This goes for my parents, my son’s father and me. Twenty years later we can’t rewind anything with all our newly acquired wisdom. All we can do is move forward, learning from the past, avoiding the repetition of mistakes and perhaps even understanding that we were all products of “a different time.”  A different culture.

I am not condoning. Merely attempting to understand.

What I do know is that for all we may have withstood and endured, we should now teach our children just a little bit better. And perhaps try to learn from them too.

Son, sorry if I dropped you on your head.

Maybe my mother dropped me too …

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When Are We Finally Old Enough to Be Good Enough?

Posted on September 11, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

A few weeks ago, I was chatting with a younger friend (and by younger I mean mid-50s), about a dinner party she had recently enjoyed with some older friends (and by older I mean mid-70s). At this soiree the conversation turned to all of the things the older crowd wished they were doing better. Eating more protein. Exercising more strenuously. Losing more weight. Taking more supplements. Fighting sagging jowls and widening hips. Sleeping without pills and staying awake during evening television. It seems everyone had a gripe about something they weren’t getting quite right. Some expectation they were not living up to. Some ideal they had not yet accomplished.

And my friend thought with despair, “These guys are all in their 70s! And they are still not happy with themselves. When do we finally get to be good enough?”

What an astounding question!

When do we finally get to be good enough? At what age do we stop clamouring for perfection and settle into imperfect contentment? Does it ever happen? Or are we the products of lifelong conditioning? That persistent voice telling us day-in and day-out that we should do better. Be better. Act better. Eat better. Sleep better. Do EVERYTHING better!

I believe that even the laziest sloths among us are guilty. Guilty of self-deprecation. Personal belittlement. A constant need to announce to the world that we KNOW we should be trying harder. Even when we’re not. As if making that pronouncement might somehow be enough and allow us to abdicate the responsibility of actually DOING whatever it is we think we SHOULD be doing.

But here’s another concept. How about we all strive for unmitigated self-worth. Self-love. Self-acceptance. How be we all embrace that at a certain age we are not only allowed but encouraged to slide into our final chapter without being perfect. We don’t need to bemoan every flaw nor do we need to publicize every failure. We can simply run with, “I’m doing the best I can do today and I will try again tomorrow.” We can take a break from striving, starving and suffering and simply enjoy our days with pure consent. We can grant ourselves permission to be imperfect. Damn, I mean I think when you get to official senior citizenhood you should be able to relax a little and lighten up!

I can only imagine my younger friend’s dismay at the prospect of aging with such a fierce agenda of self-improvement. That’s not to say we can’t all accommodate some renovation. A little change, some positive development and cultivated growth are all good things.

So is a healthy ego. Peace of mind. Acceptance. Even relief!

So … when are we finally old enough to be good enough?

The answer is … NOW.

Now is the time. Because only YOU can decide when you are good enough. Why waste another moment when a million more moments are not guaranteed? Let’s not take a single one for granted. And let’s decide whole-heartedly that we ARE, indeed, good enough.

Right. Now.

For God’s sake, we’ve got to give those 50-year-olds something to look forward to.

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Part 4 … And Just When You Least Expect It …

Posted on August 26, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Yesterday I made the long drive back to “the specialist” to find out the results of my PET Scan. Actually, I already knew the results (I am clean!) but now it was time to discuss next steps. I’m quite sure he had told me that even a clean scan wouldn’t be definitive since Spot was so small. A biopsy would be next.

I was resigned. Pretty cool and calm. Ready to face the next step and just get on with it.

Dr. Specialist welcomed me into his office (he always asks, me and everyone else, ‘How are you?’ which seems like an odd thing to ask a person who might have cancer). He began to explain the test results, immediately realized I already knew the test results and then stopped cold when I said matter-of-factly, “I know, now we book the biopsy.”

“No!” he blurted, shocked. “No need for a biopsy. We’ll just book another CT scan for February and check the size.”

I was incredulous. I am quite certain that is absolutely not what he proffered last time.

But WHO CARES???

I was ecstatic. I almost hugged him. Might have done a wee jig around his room.

“You will need a CT scan every six months for 2 years,” he added.

Heck, yeah! A CT scan takes three minutes and does not hurt. I will absolutely have that every six months for two years.

And therein lies the rub, although I really don’t mind this rub at all (did that sound funny?). Because the truth, it’s never over. Our health challenges will never be over until our life is over. We will experience hills and valleys, wins and losses, scares and triumphs. And then, just around the bend, something else will happen. And we’ll hop on the Ferris wheel again. The absolute best we can do is be fully present to enjoy the view from the top and fully accepting that the bottom is bearable. With the right attitude and perspective.

I sent out a few very joyful texts yesterday, announcing my great news. One person responded, “Now you can just enjoy life!”

Um … okay … but guess what? I never stopped. Throughout this 6 week journey I never once stopped enjoying my life. Sure I had moments of anxiety and uncertainty, but I always tried to focus on the positives brimming in every day. I remembered to be grateful. I acknowledged that there are many far worse off than I.  And I cultivated joy far more than I succumbed to fear.

Yesterday’s news was very sweet icing on the cake. But the cake itself was a wonderful life lesson in awareness and grace. My old friend Steve said (repeatedly), “All will be good, Vickie!”

Might sound like a platitude but I never actually doubted it. I truly believed that no matter what, all would be good.

Yesterday was great!

Today is pretty damn good too.

And I am very excited about tomorrow.

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Part 3 – The Wait (What Will the PET Scan Show?)

Posted on August 18, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I know this may be difficult to believe (ha!) but I have never been the world’s most patient person. Some might even call lack of patience my fatal flaw. It is something I have worked on my entire life but I’ll tell you, right now, at this very moment, my patience (or lack thereof) is being tested. As is my mindset, my beliefs and my self-control.

Because I am now languishing in that suspended limbo-land of … The Wait.

I endured the PET Scan last Thursday. I only say “endure” because you are asked to lie absolutely still with your arms stretched above your head (holding pegs) for 20 minutes (this is after they inject you with radioactive dye and you have a one-hour non-sensory nap). Even with Lorazepam mellowing me out, my neck and shoulders were screaming by Minute 17. By Minute 18 I was ready to abandon the entire exercise and bolt out of the hospital. By Minute 19 I convinced myself I could hang on with concentrated yoga breathing and at the end, when the machine stopped and I could actually stretch, I thanked God, Jesus, Buddha, Allah, all the angels and (of course) the technician.

No one told me when I might receive results. Dr. Google informed me it might take up to two weeks. The hospital pamphlet advised that, even though I have signed up (and paid) to receive my tests, x-rays and scans, I should resist the urge to look. Because unless explained by a professional, I could cause myself unnecessary anguish.

Fair enough. Who needs more anguish?

Except waiting is anguish. Or it can be.

My weekend was absolutely fine because I KNEW there would be no results forthcoming. It was almost like a vacation. A mini-holiday from “the possibility of cancer” since I feel great and no news is good news.

But now it is Monday. And I suppose anything could happen at any time.

I might be told my lung tumour lit up, it is malignant and now we plan the surgery to remove it.

I might be told other parts of my anatomy lit up and holy shit … that’s just ugly news all around

I might be told nothing lit up and now we plan the biopsy to further test the lung tumour.

Alas (poor me) there is no chance (at this point) for an ALL-CLEAR!

And so … I wait (and write because I don’t know what I’m thinking until I write it down.)

And I remind myself that The Wait is not my life and therefore will not consume by life. I will continue to LIVE. Consciously. And when The Anxiety rears its persistent head, I will banish it with more yoga breaths. When The Fear takes hold I will ignore it and concentrate on The Joy. When The What If starts clamouring, I will answer with optimism – the Positive What If. And when the phone call comes, I will take more deep breaths and remind myself that I am on a journey. A full-life journey. As is everyone else. Whatever happens now – and next – is as uncertain for me as every other vulnerable soul living today.

I’ve said it before and I will say it again – no one is guaranteed anything. When it comes right down to it, The Wait may seem like a more immediate and concrete issue for me than for you, but the truth is we are all in the same lineup, all waiting for different things, all learning patience, presence and gratitude.

Perhaps there is joy in the waiting … if we want to find it.

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Part 2 –Why Yesterday Was Not the Best Day of My Life (pesky tumour) … But Also Not the Worst!

Posted on August 12, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

And so the saga of “the spot” on my lung continues. And I do think it’s weird that no one in the medical profession, not the radiologist or the emerg doc or my family doc or the respirologist at the hospital, refers to it as a tumour. But that’s what it is – whether benign or malignant. I think it’s kind of like when people say, “She passed” or “He passed away” instead of saying, “He died.” It’s almost like we think the word death will jinx us or something. Or make the event sound more dire than it was (huh?). Or maybe we’re just tapping into our spiritual side, suggesting the soul has passed to another realm. Whatever the case, nobody likes the word death any more than anybody like the word tumour.

However …. The CT scan showed Spot (might as well give it a name and is it okay if I make it a him?) is slightly spiculated (jagged edges) which is not a good thing. I read that 90% of spiculated spots are malignant. Hey – I’m special, right? I could very well be in that benign 10% group! But … I am told more assessment is required, so off I go to the Digital Assessment Program (DAP) at the local (bigger) hospital where a respirologist (lovely man) assesses Spot, his size, his location, his characteristics and my risk factors (yes, I was a smoker back in my misspent youth but quit when I was 31 – a long time ago). Still … my score comes up as something like 34%. 34% chance of malignancy.

This seems like decent news (better than 50% chance of it being benign) but …. apparently it is not good enough to adopt a wait and see approach. So now we move on to a PET Scan at a distant hospital (sure, irradiate me … why not?) which may or may not actually work given the diminutive size of Spot. If I light up – bingo! We know it’s malignant. And I go directly (not that minute but soon thereafter) to lung surgery. If I do not light up, it doesn’t count. It may just be too small to glow. In which case I move on to the biopsy phase to deduce if I need to progress to the lung surgery phase.

Good times, right?

So now, everyone (bless my fabulous friends and family) wants to know how I am feeling. How am I doing? Am I freaking out?

Actually, no. I’m fine. Really good, in fact. You see, I was so sick (kick-ass cold) for so long (two months) before this diagnosis, I am just happy to be feeling healthy again. As I enjoyed the early morning one-hour drive to hospital yesterday, I was fully present and actually ENJOYING! The scenery, my cheese-toast, the solitude. The drive home was a little more tumultuous as I processed all the new information, but at the same time I was still okay. Pretty much at peace with the next steps. Because the irony is, without the plague (as I refer to my cold) I would never have had a lung x-ray which means Spot would not have been discovered and Spot may well have developed into ReallyBigSpot by the time anyone knew he was there. I will take this Universal Mischief as a blessing.

And that is why yesterday, while not my best day, wasn’t the worst day of my life either. I mean honestly, do you know anyone who doesn’t endure challenges? Health, heartache, financial, spiritual – we all go through STUFF all the time. And then … we all die.

So … as my journey with Spot continues I will remember to relish every moment of the good heath I am now enjoying. I will delight in sunshine and sunsets and good wine and good friends and afternoon naps and my job and music and great food and morning walks and all the things that make my PRESENT life so fulfilling. Yes, I will be present. I will smile, laugh and be grateful as much as possible. And I will approach these next steps with Spot much like I might approach a large hill that is daunting but eminently summitable.

I am ready to climb. And while I am climbing I will continue to keep making plans like I’m going to live forever! Which of course I am not. But one thing I know – I will make every attempt to truly live for as long as I do.

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Why Last Tuesday Was One of the Best Days of My Life

Posted on July 21, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

(or … How Would You Feel if They Found a Spot on Your Lung?)

I haven’t been blogging for some time, mostly because I’ve been sick. Went on a plane, went on a cruise, picked up some nasty bug and 5 weeks later I am still not 100% healthy. I know … sucks. Poor me. Heavy chest, lots of coughing and plugged sinuses that make me sound like a chipmunk. I do think I am getting better. It’s just that in my entire life I have never been sick with anything for 5 weeks. (By the way, I tested negative for Covid – which I have never had – but who knows with all these new strains?)

Last Monday, I decided enough was enough and went to the small local hospital for a chest x-ray. The emerg doc didn’t see anything (I had done a course of giant antibiotics to eradicate pneumonia) but … the radiologist at the big-city hospital did. He saw a small spot on my lung.

Yikes. Not the news anyone wants to hear on Monday morning. Or any morning for that matter.

I spent the day processing this information, sharing it with a few of my closest allies. I resisted the urge to Dr. Google but a few of those allies did not. They happily reported that 90% of lung spots are nothing and 50% of adults who get a chest x-ray will be told they have a spot on a lung. Oh goody!

I finally had a wee cry and went to bed.

And then came Tuesday (you were wondering when I’d get to the “best day” thing, right?). As I waited to hear about a CT Scan appointment (next step) I started examining my life. Not each mistake, error in judgement or blunder. The past is past and I make peace with it every day. More to my belief in gratitude, my belief that worry accomplishes nothing, my belief that on any given day at any given moment each one of us could die and my belief that, since there are no guarantees, we should live every day as if it is our last.

So … now what, thought I? Should I take that trip to Bora Bora? Buy a new house and move? Have a passionate affair with a young buck? Finally get a sports car?

I poured a glass of wine and stared out my window, observing my tiny patch of Lake Huron, surprisingly quiet. Peaceful even. And I realized that I wouldn’t change anything. There were no more wrongs I needed to make right. No lost friendships I felt inclined to reignite. No other career success to yearn for. No forgiveness that wanted begging and no explanations that needed offering. I already have a young buck, I love my house, Bora Bora will happen someday and that sports car – quite certain I can live without it.

And that is why Tuesday ended up being one of the best days of my life. You see, most of us dwell in a weird place of false complacency, day after day, being shocked by the news and saddened by the misery that befalls those around us but complacent still, living the mundane, complaining about silliness, longing for what we don’t have and forgetting gratitude.

Not I. Ask anyone who has ever done yoga with me. I live gratitude every single day.

Last Tuesday I was so very grateful to realize that my life – to this point – was highly satisfactory. Grateful even more to realize that I live in a land with free healthcare and that, whatever the darned spot is, it will be dealt with competently and life will go on. For as long as it does.

For as long as it does. Which is all any one of us can hope for.

I’d say it’s a pretty damn good day when you can look back and feel good, be in the present and be grateful and look forward with optimism to whatever comes next. For ALL of us, whatever comes next is a mystery. I happen to know that I have a CT scan booked for August 1 and after that, what will be will be.

But today … well, today may be the next best day of my life. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and I am alive! Anything could happen …

And it will.

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The Secret to Making Magic!

Posted on May 5, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

This last Christmas, my son gave me a beautiful card, thanking me for teaching him how to make magic. We are both full-on Christmas people and we both acknowledge the festive season as one that is lush with opportunities for enchantment. Seriously, just watch any Hallmark movie and you’ll know what I am talking about.

But we don’t limit our magic-making to just one occasion. Magic is a welcome (and often surprising) enrichment to any life, any time. But the making of it? Exactly how complicated is the making of magic?

Well … you need three things.

  1. Desire
  2. Imagination
  3. Effort

And #3 is the BIG one. EFFORT. Magic does not happen because some twinkle-fairy diffuses stardust on your head. Magic happens when you get to work. When you get to the industry of doing something out of the ordinary, special and unexpected – SO astonishing to the recipient that the word ‘awe’ just doesn’t cover it.

My first stab at making magic did happen at Christmastime, when my son was about 7. He had two “Puffalump Ponies” – little nylon stuffies that he had possessed since birth, his absolute favourites and both beyond threadbare. I knew one more washing might annihilate them forever and I knew he would be desolate. We couldn’t buy new ones because they had been discontinued. He was determined to have the exact same ponies, just brand new.

What the heck is a mother to do?

My dear boy came up with the solution easily – “I’ll ask Santa.”

Like I said, what the heck is a mother to do?

I asked everybody I knew if they had any idea where a Puffalump could be procured. I offered to buy used ponies. I begged and pleaded. But no one had the correct item on offer and no store large or small could help. I was stymied!

And then someone told me about this newfangled thing called eBay. It was early internet days and not many people were aware of this goldmine. But when I discovered the coveted ponies online I was ecstatic. Price be damned … my little boy would have his Christmas miracle and Santa would remain the magical, mythical man we all know him to be.

I will never forget the look on my baby’s face when he opened that last gift on Christmas morning. The combination of shock and elation and wonderment was a movie-moment to be certain.

Effort had won the day. I certainly had the desire and I utilized my imagination to the fullest but … effort won the day.

Many years later, my grown son wanted to make magic for his girlfriend. A new PlayStation was about to be released – in very limited quantities – and he was desperate to procure one for her. He had all of us (himself, both his parents and our partners) on the phone, waiting in queues, hoping against hope one of us might win the lottery. He also scoured all other options as only a twenty-something can, leaving no stone unturned in his quest to obtain this prize. Obtain he did, after which he planned an elaborate scavenger hunt on Christmas day, leading his beloved to her ultimate prize – the rare and special gift she did not expect to receive. It was a brilliant, magical moment. And it gets even better. Somehow my son had (magically?) scored TWO of these much-in-demand devices. So, after the scavenger hunt and the ensuing shrieks and hugs and tears and laughter, he handed a card to his father. His dad had just endured a very tough year, losing both of his parents and too many friends. My boy knew his father was much in need of some magic. He also knew his father liked to play video games. In this card there was an original poem instructing his dad to go look in the back of his truck. And there it was – the second magical machine!

It was a double-magic moment. And … it all happened during the first Christmas of Covid, when many people had abandoned all hope of anything resembling magic. Which is kind of weird when you think about it, because that was a time when we were all so desperately in NEED of magic.

I learned from my parents who threw me a surprise birthday party when I turned 15. It was pretty darn magical for me. I in turn have thrown my beloved TWO surprise parties and both were amazing. A ton of work and a ton of stress, yes. But amazing when they both came together beautifully and brought him such joy.

He made magic for me one birthday when I awoke to find a fully assembled (he had to do it himself on the sly) bright pink bicycle (complete with wicker basket) IN our kitchen! I lost my mind.

I am not suggesting that making magic is all about gift-giving. I do believe though, that people who don’t look at gift-giving as an opportunity to make magic are quite possibly missing one of life’s great opportunities. Effort is the key. I know it’s so much easier to offer cash or gift cards or a bottle of wine. But just think what magic could be made with a little imagination and effort? Life is full of routine, the ordinary and the mundane. Why not jazz it up with the unpredictable, the electrifying and the thoughtful?

Thoughtful. Full of thought. Desire. Imagination. Effort.

For my birthday last year my beloved conspired with one of my best friends to have her surprise me on my special day. Since she lives four hours away, this was a BIG shock and a most welcome one. Magic.

Last Mother’s Day I knew my son was driving north to visit me. And that was all the gift I wanted. Little did I know he would also be bringing one of his friends (my #2 son) and that friend’s dog. Magic again.

My son is now an accomplished singer-songwriter who has recorded much of his recent music at my rustic home (great acoustics) at the lake. We leave, he and his producer move in and musical magic is made (check out Sam Drysdale to find out!). The last time he was here I asked him via text to learn an old song I wanted to hear him sing. I figured it would be an easy task – his producer could play my piano, he could sing, they could record and voila – mama is happy.

Didn’t happen.

When he was rehearsing with his band for his next gig I reiterated my request.

It didn’t happen again.

Has my boy lost his magical abilities?

I don’t think so.

I think he is just busy with his life and other priorities.

It’s a great excuse for all of us, isn’t it? I am busy. I am tired. I have no ideas. I suck at this. I don’t have time. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make magic.

Yes you do.

Desire. Imagination. Effort.

It truly is in all of us. And I can tell you from experience, it is SO worth it.

So go … make some magic. Mother’s Day is coming. But really, any old day will do. As a matter of fact, any old day is the perfect day to make any old day an extrordinary day. All it takes is … magic.

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How Do Your Friends Make You FEEL?

Posted on April 7, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Years ago, I wrote a blog about the “friendship totem pole”. How we all have friends stacked on our poles but how the arrangement ON that pole alters constantly. One day someone is on top, another day their relevance to your life has diminished (and down they drop), someone new comes along and achieves instant lofty status and … on and on it goes. Most of us don’t arrange our friendship totem poles consciously. But the never-ending movement is a clear indication of the fluidity of friendship. Positions change, importance wanes, priorities shift and sometimes, friendships just end. Period.

I have a lot of friends (some call me a “collector”) and I often ruminate on these wavering dynamics. What causes a seemingly powerful connection to evaporate? How does a once trivial acquaintance suddenly blossom into a bestie?

And then I read a thing on Instagram and that thing was pretty simple – how do your friends make you FEEL?

In your gut.

When you spend time with a pal, whether it be in person, on the phone or even virtually, do you feel energized or do you feel depleted?

If we’re talking friendship (and we are), it truly is one or the other. You will rarely feel nothing. You will almost always feel either energized or depleted. That’s not to say you will always feel the same thing with the same person. We all traverse hills and valleys in our relationships and sometimes, when a friend is particularly needy, you might feel a tad depleted by them. But in a true, deep friendship, the tables will turn and BAM – you’re back to being energized again. It’s all yin and yang, give and take, help and be helped.

Except for when it’s not. If you find yourself consistently feeling depleted by someone’s attentions, perhaps it is time to rethink the alliance. Even I, the collector, must face this truth. As much as I may WANT to welcome association, as much as I may desire intimacy and accord and as much as someone else may clamour to attach to my orbit for whatever reason, it doesn’t always work out. Because once you start feeling depleted, time and time again, that alliance is going to drop to the bottom of your totem pole faster than the New Year’s ball at midnight.

And that’s okay. Because if you are a friendly spirit with a loving heart, the totem dance will keep spinning until a new order is achieved. And those perched on top will joyfully receive the blessings of your attention, commensurate always with the attentions they lavish on you. You will energize those who energize you. And those who deplete you … well …

I think we can divide friendship into three categories:

1. True Blue. The ones you trust through thick and thin. The ones you know are in it for the long haul. Who are willing to do the work to navigate troubled waters. The ones who don’t give up when the going gets tough. The ones who have proven through word and deed that their devotion is solid.

    This is important. Word AND deed. Because so many of us toss out “love yous” like yesterday’s garbage but come crunch time (I need your help!) slither away shamelessly, unable or unwilling to crawl into the muck when it does not suit. I once, in such a time, called a friend for fellowship and counsel. Our relationship had tilted strongly in the opposite direction (me helping her) and I could sense almost immediately that she was uncomfortable. Twitchy. Nervous. Finally she said, “I have to go put my blueberries away.” To this day I remember the exact phrase because it was so … absurd.

    That was the day I realized depletion was outweighing energy. This was not a person who might become True Blue (even with her berries). She would be relegated to …

    2. The Acquaintances. You know these people and you like them well enough. They exist on the periphery of your world, neither depleting nor energizing you. You give to them what you can, understanding that you cannot be all things to all people and those perched higher on your totem pole must receive your best efforts.

    This can be a tough one. Especially if someone places you higher than you have placed them.  It means setting boundaries and honoring them (to honour yourself). It means saying no when someone desperately wants you to say yes. It means practicing civility and authenticity at the same time. It means telling the truth. Even when it might hurt someone you genuinely care about. Unless, of course, they have become one of …

    3. The Users. The people who want something from you. Perhaps a character trait they themselves lack? Maybe a lifestyle change they desire? Or possibly just the benefit of your emotional generosity. Whatever it is they want, they will take. And take. Without much thought to what they are offering in return. Because they aren’t.

    These are the real depleters. The ones who belong at the bottom of your totem pole. They may energize you for an instant, just enough to keep you engaged in the relationship. But they will always return to using. Until they have used you up.

    So … the next time you are wondering about friendships and how to best integrate them into your life, take the test.

    Who depletes you?

    Who energizes you?

    I guarantee your friendship totem pole will organize itself pretty damn fast.

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    You Are Only As Insignificant As You Treat Yourself!

    Posted on March 10, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

    Last week I was conversing with a friend, trying to inspire her to take a big leap outside of her comfort box to attract a potential new love. She was ever reluctant and I was ever forceful. “Why not?” I asked. “What have you got to lose?”

    She remained immovable. It was all too daunting. Frightening. Potentially humiliating (I guess).

    I kept hammering (who me?). Look at “Travis Kelce!” I exclaimed. “By all reports he was desperate to meet Taylor Swift and he just kept at it until he finally did!”

    She looked at me like I had suddenly sprouted a second head and moaned, “He is a star football player!”  Like that explained everything.

    But to me it did not. So I calmy responded, “You are not exactly insignificant.” (She is a highly successful, vibrant and beautiful woman.)

    And that is when it hit me.

    If you see yourself as being insignificant, then you will be insignificant. You are only as compelling as you think you are. You are only as important as you imagine yourself to be. You are only as powerful as you yourself feel. You create the roadmap to how others perceive you.

    When I finished university and one summer of professional theatre, I had no idea how to approach the rest of my life. I was a musical theatre actress, yes, but I was also a singer/songwriter with dreams of becoming the next Carole King. So I sent a letter (good old days!) to the biggest local talent booking agency, offering them one last stab at my glorious future before I relocated to Hollywood to claim my rightful place on the Walk of Fame. It was a very funny, tongue-in-cheek missive and it worked! They were putting together a touring band that required a female singer and that singer turned out to be me!

    My audacity paid off. My chutzpah was rewarded. I became significant because I treated myself as significant.

    The flipside?

    Joey needs a new job. His dream job becomes available. In Hawaii (where everyone wants to work). So, Joey doesn’t even apply. Because he is absolutely certain he will not win the competition. He is exactly as insignificant as he treats himself. How could Hawaii even know about him if he does not even attempt to sell himself and his talents?

    Beth wants to write a book. She starts and stops a million times and ultimately gives up, assuming that she is just not cut out for author-hood. She doesn’t look for help or approach any publishers or find an editor. She simply quits. Because she is exactly as insignificant as she treats herself. But what if that book could have been a best-seller?

    Bob has a troubled relationship with his grown kids, primarily because he left their mother (and them) when they were young. Their rapport is now civilized but not terribly warm and he longs for a more fulfilling bond. But what if they reject him? What if they are not interested in anything more? What if he ruins what little they have by requesting extra?

    Bob chooses to do nothing. Perhaps because he feels he is unworthy. He is exactly as insignificant as he treats himself.

    You see how this goes, right?

    Louise decides she’d like to work on radio. As an announcer. She has no schooling or training but she believes she can do it so she works her connections until somebody offers her a job. With still no schooling and very little training, Louise finds herself on the air, winging every moment and having a ball. She tells her boss she wants to work ALL the time because she has every intention of getting very good very fast. The more practice she can get, the better. Boss is happy to oblige because it’s summertime and everybody wants holidays. Everybody except Louise. Louise just wants to be on the air.

    Four months later Louise is offer a job co-hosting one of the top morning shows in Canada. Because Louise is exactly as significant as she treated herself. Louise believed in herself, in her worth and in her ability. She believed that if SOMEBODY was going to be successful, why couldn’t that somebody be her? Yes, she believed in hard work and tenacity but she also believed in her own significance.

    You’ve probably figured out by now that Louise is me. (Louise is my middle name.)

    Call it confidence. Call it faith. Call it courage or call it boldness.

    I like to call it resolution. The firm resolve that you ARE significant and therefore you treat yourself as such, learning along the way that most people will mirror what they witness. When they witness your star shining brightly, they will treat you like a star.

    Your significance is all up to you.

    My friend still has not taken any brave and daring action. But I know she is THINKING about it. She is rearranging her embedded beliefs and conjuring a new mindset, one filled with possibility and enthusiasm. Because life is far more fun when your fear of failure is outweighed by your faith in yourself.

    Be significant.

    Because you will be. When you believe that you are.

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    Confessions of an Out-of-Control Empath …

    Posted on March 5, 2025 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

    We all look at empathy as a beautiful attribute, a quality we should happily possess and nurture. But have you ever wondered what happens to a person when their empathy runs amok? When they are overwhelmed with compassion? When their understanding reaches such an absurd level they almost become one with the object of their empathy?

    I have.

    Yes, I have come to know intimately that empathy can run out of control which is, obviously, unhealthy for all concerned.

    I go back to a situation many years ago, when a fairly new friend lost her husband in a plane crash. She was a mess and, even though our acquaintanceship was young, I took it upon myself to be a mess with her. I showed up every day, to help with the details, to hug and cry, to hear stories and memories, drink wine and ultimately take over the planning of the memorial. I was consumed with this poor woman’s grief. I was consumed with doing everything in my power to help her through her grief. I was consumed. Period.

    Until my then-husband very kindly took me aside and said, “Vickie, I am still alive. YOUR husband did not die. Why are you acting like this is YOUR tragedy?”

    He was absolutely correct. I was so immersed in this tale of woe – a “there but for the grace of God go I” kind of story – I forgot to remember that this was NOT my narrative. Yes, I should be on deck to help out and yes, I should be a good friend and yes, I should empathize to the best of my ability. But NO. It was not my job nor was it in my best interest to saturate myself with her pain. It wasn’t in HER best interest either. Because the closer I got, the more she needed and the more I gave, the more she demanded. I became her lifeline until I myself collapsed in exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion.

    But this is what an out-of-control empath does. Too much. Too strong. Too intense. Is there such a thing as being too helpful?

    You’d think I might have learned my lesson. But no. My staggering desire to empathize with someone else’s adversity advanced the ultimate destruction of a long-term, very close friendship. With this troubled pal, I didn’t understand the term ‘boundaries’ so I never set them. I was available at all hours in all locations for all communications required by my dear damsel-in-distress. Her neediness sucked the life out of me and I let it happen. Over and over again. For years. Until our relationship imploded.

    And that’s a fact most of us never see or recognize. Empathy is a divine and necessary ingredient to any affiliation. But even empathy – astute empathy – must have its limit. We must learn to make our hearts available without inviting them to be trampled on. We must learn to offer solace and space without sacrificing our own sovereignty. We must try to understand without living someone else’s problem as our own.

    For many, this is not a dilemma. Lots of people are able to offer sympathy (“I feel so sorry for you”) without ever crossing into empathy (“I understand you and your pain”). I know people who quite consciously temper their engagement with overt self-preservation. People who “don’t get involved” because it’s “not really their business”. People who even call themselves “selfish” because their own comfort is more important than offering comfort to someone else.

    I will not find fault nor will I condemn those people. Sure, in my perfect world we would all be a little more selfless, a little less self-absorbed and a whole lot more empathetic.

    But …

    In my perfect world I would also NOT be out of control. I would not dive into everyone’s pain-pool like it’s a day at the beach in July. I would not allow friendships to implode (or explode) because I never set proper, healthy boundaries in the first place. I would utilize my empathetic spirit wisely, in a way that is helpful to others without being detrimental to me. I would find that all-important balance between selflessness, compassion, generosity and self-care.

    This is an ongoing, daily exercise. And if you too are an out-of-control empath, I am quite certain you know exactly what I am talking about. I know it sounds funny but I’ve concluded that controlling my empathy is much like controlling my wine intake or the number of cheeseburgers I consume. Availability is paramount but moderation is key.

    Whether it is crying at the news, aiding a troubled friend, feeling my son’s pain like it’s my own or fearing for the entire world, I am no good to anyone if my out-of-control empathy ends up destroying ME. So, henceforth …

    Control.

    Empathy that is useful. Empathy that is reasoned. Empathy that is true. But …

    Empathy that is in IN control.

    For everyone’s benefit.

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