Wilma Derksen
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New Quest - 4

4/30/2025

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Chaos and Order

Even in a sleepy daze, I was struck by Jordan Peterson’s ability to unpack complex topics—not as a formal lecture, but as an intellectual journey.

As I spent those early months sleeping and listening to him, I slowly began to understand why he has become the most sought-after psychologist speaker in the world—and why he’s often called “the most influential public intellectual in the Western world.”

He’s undeniably gone viral—not just in the relatively easy realm of cyberspace, but also in the more enduring worlds of print and television.

I don’t agree with everything he says, but he doesn’t expect everyone to agree with him,  Instead, he invites his audience to engage with him—asking questions, offering counterarguments, and participating in the learning process. I came to admire his panelists and guest speakers often so similar to him. They weren’t intimidated by him but interacted with curiosity, often challenging him gently and insightfully.

He became the perfect sleeping pill—his beautiful string of words filling the empty spaces in my mind. I found myself falling asleep to a new kind of melody.

Then he began to speak of chaos —and that’s when the fog lifted.

The subconscious is ceaselessly murmuring, and it is by listening to these murmurs that one hears the truth. - —Gaston Bachelard
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New Quest - 3

4/30/2025

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The Voice

Sleep is healing – and beautiful.

Tucked away at my daughter’s place, I finally had a safe place to sleep the day away—except I have terrible sleep hygiene.

For as long as I can remember, whenever I took a Sunday afternoon nap, I would turn on the TV, my phone, or the radio to a program featuring someone preaching, and let myself drift off to the sound of a voice. One only needs to glance around a congregation on a Sunday morning to know that a good sermon can be wonderfully sleep-inducing.

So, when Cliff died and I found myself struggling to sleep at night, I returned to my Sunday afternoon habit—and it worked. I’d put on a boring preacher and fall asleep easily. But then, predictably, around three o’clock in the morning, I’d wake up—and a preacher would still be preaching.

Except it was rarely the same speaker I had started with. Apparently, YouTube automatically plays the next video, and the next—and so on.

One of the first nights in my new bed, I fell asleep listening to Kris Vallotton and woke up to Jordan Peterson. I have no idea how autoplay found him. I had heard of him, had even intended to hear him speak once, but I’d never sought him out or chosen to listen to him. How autoplay latched on to him, I’ll never know.

I still remember the first time I woke to the sound of his voice. It wasn’t particularly soothing, but his words were fascinating—meandering, thoughtful—perfect for drifting off again.

So even though I would never have chosen to listen to him on my own, I became addicted to his tornado of words. Perhaps it was because I found his swirling words matched my swirling mind.  

“Life is tragic. You are tiny and flawed and ignorant and weak, and everything else is huge, complex, and overwhelming.” -—Jordan Peterson
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New Quest - 2

4/28/2025

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At the Bottom

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand what finally sent me over the edge.

Was it unresolved grief?

​Probably.

I miss him—Cliff—terribly. I especially miss our long conversations at the end of each day: how we would process life together, make plans, and simply talk. Without him, I feel directionless.


Was it my physical health? A few months after Cliff passed, I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I chose to ignore it rather than research it or try to master it. At that same appointment, the doctor also mentioned Type 2 Diabetes and a fatty liver—none of which I took too seriously. I preferred to take the medication rather than change my lifestyle. But, having never taken medication before, my stomach revolted. It was havoc.

Or maybe it was my compulsion—to finish the book.

The one on forgiveness.


Years ago, I had promised myself, the public, and my God that I would write a book about forgiveness after the murder of our 13-year-old daughter—forty years ago. I wanted to compile my survival story, all my little secrets, into a kind of self-help book, hoping to help others in their dark moments.

I didn’t think it would be that hard.

I had worked through my grief over Cliff by completing two major projects: Chasing the Light, Cliff’s autobiography, and Lavish Mercy, my romance novel. So tackling another book didn’t feel like a stretch. I even finished the first draft of the forgiveness book, right on schedule—January 17.


But then doubt set in.

I wasn’t happy with it.

I still hadn’t found the right title, the right voice, or even the right process. I carried the entire manuscript around in my head—replaying it over and over—never quite satisfied, never at peace with it, yet too sick to work on it any further.

I still played Wordle each morning, but that was the extent of my joy, finding myself bogged down in the muddle of swirling, disjointed words—the worst writer’s block imaginable - caught in a swirl of 60,000 words.

Perhaps my burnout was a combination of all three things:
  • the grief of being alone,
  • the discomfort and uncertainty of my health,
  • and the weight of my own expectations around finishing the book.​
Whatever it was, it became the perfect storm... and I capsized.

Thrown into the deep - I encountered something .... did God send a big fish to rescue me?
​I don't know -- it was something.


"The truth is, you don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. Life is a crazy ride, and nothing is guaranteed." — Eminem
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New Quest

4/28/2025

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The Crash

​I need to start this "blogging series" with an apology.

I've been totally irresponsible. For about two months, I didn’t answer emails. I didn’t respond to invitations. I didn’t meet for coffee, or return messages. I ignored everyone.  I just stopped connecting.  I crashed. 

It began back n November. My stomach started acting strangely and it became harder and harder to sit through a conversation. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t concentrate. Even just walking, standing—became difficult. It wasn’t a sharp, urgent pain, but a deep, relentless discomfort that clung to me. It robbed me of my joy - my life and left me tired. 

The exhaustion grew heavier until finally, I crashed.

It happened at the worst possible time. I had plans for a full weekend packed with things I was genuinely excited about: a leadership meeting with church, a staff celebration in Oakville, a Sunday morning speaking engagement, and a special gathering with friends.

In the middle of all this, my body gave out and I knew I either had to go to emergency—or call my daughter

With what little strength I had left, I packed a suitcase, tidied the apartment, and called my daughter. She came all the way from Winkler and brought me back to her home.

There, in her comfortable downstairs guestroom, I crawled into bed and slept.

I was done.

For two whole months—February and March—I ignored almost everything but the overwhelming need to sleep. Even though I felt irresponsible, I couldn't help my self, I was completely incapacitated.

How did I get to the point where all I wanted was to sleep? 
​
There might have been a reason....which I want to explore. I also want to explore this new stage of my life - whatever that means.

“You can be shattered, and then you can put yourself back together piece by piece. But what can happen over time is this: You wake up one day and realize that you have put yourself back together completely differently.” Glennon Doyle Melton



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    "W", stands for writing, walking, wondering, wandering, winning, wincing,  and for Wilma,  This is an invitation to come walk, write, wander with me!

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