don't worry, be happy

My obsession with the "Don't worry, Be happy" busker continues.

On Saturday as I walked up the stairs of a subway stop on a completely different line from usual I was met with the familiar notes of "Don't worry, Be happy". It was him.

It truly is the only song he sings.

scaredy cat

So. I've been busy. I quite literally have more work to do than hours in the day to do it and it shows. My apartment is a living diary of what I've eaten, worn and read over the last two weeks: newspapers scattered; half-read books tucked away in random corners; yoga clothes hung over doors, cupboards and chairbacks to dry; sweaters and scarves discarded here and there; plates, glasses, coffee cups and take away containers left to sit wherever I happened to be while I was eating. It's gross.

If incessant meowing, licking and running madly up and down the hall are anything to go by, my cat thinks so too. At least, that's what I thought he was trying to say. Ok, I also thought that he might be feeling a bit ignored but figured that, like a good night's sleep, he'd have to hold for a few more days until I get through this crunch. He disagreed. And he was pissed.

After my failure to translate non-stop meowling into "pay attention to me please" he decided to send his message a different way; he went *ahem* number two in the middle of the living room floor. I think the message this time was "pay attention to me NOW". I've been told that cats, normally fastidiously clean, will do things like this when they're angry. That may be so, but not my f'ing cat!

Suffice it to say, he got my attention, but I doubt it was the kind he was hoping for; I kind of lost the plot. We've since made up but it might just be a miracle if the little guy dares to go to the washroom ANYWHERE ever again.

short notes at the end of a long day

Took two spectacular spills today. Kind of like the ones you take when you step onto ice, lose your footing, and do that arm-flailing-trying-not-to-fall dance. Except there was no ice (and thus, no excuse), I was inside and walking on carpet.

"Don't worry, Be happy" was the not-so-surprising busker song of the morning. Made me laugh. Which made him laugh. We had a moment.

Street guy called me beautiful AFTER I told him I didn't have any change. Upon reflection it occurred to me that were it not for streetpeople and family members (who are required to think I'm beautiful, it's in the contract) I'd have made it to the ripe old age of thirtysomething with only the annoying label of 'cute' to call my own.

Same guy asked the person after me if they could "spare half a million dollars". Quite a sense of humour that street guy. Hey, wait a minute...

values

Last night, when I wasn't busy laying awake creating "to do" lists that must be completed NOW, NOW, NOW, I had a dream. I dreamt that my car had been broken into and that I returned to it while the thieves, all three of them, were sorting through their bounty. I tend to treat my car as a second home, a mini apartment of sorts, so there's a lot of stuff in there. Enough stuff that it might seem, at first, like the thieving equivalent of hitting the jackpot, but that illusion wouldn't last long. Really, boxes of work files, old clothes and crappy homemade CD's are the kinds of things that hold a lot of value for me but very little on the black market.


In my dream, I was anxious about what they were taking, I use just about everything I have squirreled away in that car, and ran over to stop them. I was most anxious about my yoga stuff which was in my laundry hamper and an old family photo album that was in a box with a bunch of old work files.

I was able to negotiate that they leave both behind asking what exactly they thought they would do with a bunch of dirty clothes and a box of paper files. They agreed, dropped the hamper and the box, and made off with the other piles of things they'd collected.

Both parties left feeling satisfied: me thinking they were total idiots for overlooking the most valuable things in the car just because they didn't look all that expensive and they thinking I was the idiot for worrying about a bunch of junk instead of all the other, more valuable, things they'd taken.

I woke up from my dream remembering that out of all of the things I had in that car that were taken from me the two that meant the most, and that I fought to keep, were yoga and my family. Interesting what comes up when the "to do" listing stops.

halle-freaking-lujah

Loved my internship today. Looooved it. After spending October paralyzed by fear that I would break someone and wracked with doubts about what I was doing with my life, it was so very great to be in that zone again. That place that felt like not only did I kind of know what I was doing but I kind of didn't totally suck at it either. In fact, I was in my element and I loved it.

As the counsellor on call for crisis/emergency walk-ins I met with clients who were recent assault victims, witnesses to traumatic deaths, and at high risk for suicide. It was intense, I loved it. There's nothing good about those experiences themselves, that the clients had to live through them and will have to live with the ramifications in the days to come is just wrong, but being there in that moment of crisis and helping - that felt good. And I did good.

After months of worrying over my choice of words trying to find the perfect phrasing, about whether or not I was being empathetic enough, and whether I was being too directive; today it came. It was the easiest, most natural thing in the world. I'm used to feeling competent at what I do, to leaving work at the end of each day knowing I did my job well and looking forward to going back the next day so these last few months have been hard. Today was a much needed breath a fresh air and a glimpse into what it could be like if I could just ease up and let myself do what may come naturally if I would just relax into it.

It's a day for loving things, I came across this caption which I also looove:

"Humans cannot come to Truth through any organization, through any creed, through any dogma, priest or ritual, not through any philosophic knowledge or psychological technique. They have to find it through the understanding of the contents of their own minds, through observation and not through intellectual analysis or introspective dissection"
J. Krishnamurti

And, finally, chickens can run up to 15 miles per hour? Can that be true?

catchy little song

The first time I heard the subway busker playing "Don't worry, Be happy", it made my day. Rushing from platform to platform juggling my yoga bag, knapsack, and coffee; feeling slightly harried and aleady running late with the day just starting -the song was perfect. After a couple of weeks, however, the novelty has worn off. It's become less of a happy coincidence to catch that particular song at that particular time and more a realization that it doesn't matter what particular time I pass by, this is the only song he plays. Ever.

This morning as the now familiar sound of "Don't worry, Be happy" met me as I rushed through the subway I felt irritated. Ticked off. Enough with the song. Still, as I drew closer to the spot where the busker stood, I couldn't help myself, I began to smile. Maybe it's the way he peppers the song with little comments, calling out "Happy Monday", "Just take it step by step", and "You'll get there", or maybe it's just that the damn song itself is just so likeable; but by the time I reached him I sported a huge grin and cheerfully greeted him with a "Happy Monday" of my own.

And, yeah, the song has been stuck in my head all morning but, really, there are far worse things then having "Don't worry, Be happy" running on repeat through my mind.

Happy Monday all.

sunday's lesson

Never, ever attempt to drive home when your drive brings you past the annual Royal Agricultural Fair at closing time. Took me an hour to clear the exhibition grounds and would have taken a lot longer were it not for my skillful citygirl driving (shut up ;).

Once finished collecting used coffee cups into a tidy pile, browsing through the glove compartment, and seat-dancing to the Backstreet Boys CD I found hidden deep in the car's recesses; I spent the rest of my time in traffic purgatory pondering the usual existential questions: why did I have to have that last, extra handful of pecans (now I feel sick)?, what the heck did I accomplish this weekend (socializing, eating and sleeping scoring top points; housework, schoolwork and workwork scoring anxiety-inducing low points)?, and the Royal Agricultural Fair - who still goes to that?

Despite the extra hour granted by the traffic jam gods, I never did figure out an answer to that last question. Kind of glad that people do still go though; seems like a nice, wholesome kind of thing to do on a Sunday afternoon. Besides, the 'questions stupid city-folks ask' radio segments that follow the agricultural fair crack me up.