ever done this?

Take a blank piece of paper, divide it into a table with 9 columns and 21 rows. Enter the following questions into the headers of the 9 columns: activity, when was the last time you did this?, free or costs $?, alone or with someone else?, planned or spontaneous?, job related?, involving physical risk?, fast or slow paced?, does it feed your mind/body/or spirit?. Brainstorm 20 things you love to do and enter them into the "things" column in each of the 20 remaining rows, complete the remaining columns for each of the items you recorded.

I'd completely forgotten about this exercise until I came upon a completed chart while I was looking through old books trying to find some paper today (paper which, by the way, was useless once I'd found it because I couldn't find a working pen. In this entire apartment, not one working pen. I'm a student and I write, how is that possible?). Because I have such an overwhelming amount of work to do, I was happy to procrastinate by giving it another go. Although I didn't do it with the intention of comparing it to the one I'd done a few years ago, it was interesting to look at two together. Some changes, some not at all.

The first thing I noticed was how absolutely blessed I am, that a majority of the "things I love to do" are a part of my daily life. 8 of the 20 things recorded were things I'd engaged in within the last 24 hours, 5 others were things I'd done within the last 2 weeks, and 3 others within the last 2 months. The only real hold-outs were the things I do outdoors which I missed this year since I was away all summer. Other changes: more 'planned' than 'spontaneous' this time, life's just gotten really busy, more things need to be planned; a few more 'with someone else' than 'alone' but still, the things I love to do most are overwhelmingly things I do alone - or in the company of others but with no need to talk; almost everything I love to do is free (good thing); and a couple of work-related activities snuck onto the list where before there were none, a life where "things I love to do" are a part of my job? Say it ain't so ;)

I also found a few other exercises I'd completed which I won't bore you with but the bottom line is this: I'm living the life I always wanted. Lucky, I am, but I also know that I'm living the life I've always wanted because I created it. I worked hard, made choices that scared the crap out of me, and took risks. And so, what now? I'm coming up on a time of closure, of finishing one chapter with many paths beginning to make themselves available to me and doors opening before I've even started knocking. Today I realized that before I start running towards every opportunity that presents itself, maybe I need to step back and take a more conscious approach, to at least start considering what comes next in this life that I've always wanted.

And..uh..in case you noticed the categories I didn't summarize? Yeah. Things involving physical risk? None. Fast paced or slow? All slow. I'm as boring now as I was a few years ago ;)

the great christmas boob-off

For the doubters out there, a photo of the boob-off mentioned a few posts ago (what? boobs & bras are not the topic of Christmas morning conversations in your homes?).

The clear winner would have been my mother but you'll have to take my word for it, she declined to participate in our reindeer games. And she wouldn't forward me a picture with her in it. Instead, I offer you my sisters and I.

In case you're too kind to make the obvious observation yourself, I'll say it for you: an undershirt Rebecca? I know, I know, no competition but, really, I threw in the towel on that game years ago. Besides, just look at my sisters; Laura with her plucky determination to just. keep. bra'ing no matter how much we tease her in all of her a-cup gloriousness and Ekah with her engineer-like mastery of the complex mechanics of it all. Who could compete?

Well played ladies, well played.

beeeeeep

Last Sunday my older sister had me and my younger sister (yeah, I'm the middle child; spare me the long, drawn out "ohhh's" of comprehension) over for dinner. In between yelling to be heard and screaming with laughter I remember thinking that I would love to be able to recount this story...or that story...but I can't. If I tried to transcribe our conversation it would look something like this "Beep beep beeeeeeep BEEEP beeep" because, you see, most of our conversations are like that. We make the Sex in the City characters sound like ladies at a church luncheon.

At one point we were one-upping each other on just how much we love Grandma; as in, "I love Grandma so much that...." and, as much as I do love my Grandmother, I lost. When it comes to out-grossing each other with imaginary things we'd do, I'm no match for my sisters. My older sister put me off spaghetti and raisins FOR LIFE because of her descriptions of what they 'really' were over the dinner table when we were kids and my younger sister? She's a gross-out master. Both of them, they're pro's.

I've been thinking about our Sunday dinner, the pictures my mother sent of Christmas today, an email from my father that I'd saved and, in the spirit of the game, I'd like to pass this message on to my family: I love you so much that I'd swim naked and covered in leeches across the ocean while tailed by boatloads of hollering yahoos to crawl on my hands and knees across a desert covered in shards of glass just to get to the other side to do unspeakable things to both the men AND the donkeys that accompanied me to prove my love to you.

But I hope I never have to.

The front page of yesterday's newspaper carried a picture of Greenland. A green Greenland as opposed to an ice-capped Greenland which, I gather, is normally the case. The picture was to support an article about global warming and, I'm not necessarily a fan of melting ice caps and all the rest of it, but everytime I think back to the picture I can't help but think "Awww, it's so pretty!". Global warming: stable climate, no; pretty scenery, maybe.

On the topic of the temperature, I stopped into a hardware store to buy a thermometer yesterday so I could prove to my landlord that I live in an icebox. I've been meaning to track the temperature in my apartment since last winter so I was feeling very pleased with myself for actually getting around to buying a thermometer when I noticed that every one of them bore a different temperature - sometimes varying by more than 10degrees. If they're all thermometers, measuring the same temperature, in the same store just centimetres away from each other, shouldn't they all reflect the same measurement? I ended up leaving without one (although my sister later said I should have bought the one with the lowest temperature and used that to talk to my landlord. Good point).

And, finally, I absolutely swear that my horoscope in todays paper is the exact same one that I've read before. The earth's climate, thermometers, and now my horoscope - can nothing be trusted ;)

my office

Today at work I was trying to explain just how horrible it is to be me, in Toronto, in the winter. That I feel like I spend 99% of my life in absolute poverty of warmth. Instead of the sympathetic noises I was expecting I was met with the mocking reply of "Eaaasy Gables"; as in Anne of Green Gables the melodramatic storybook character who is never bummed, she's in the "depths of despair", and she doesn't have a good friend, she has a "bosom buddy". Mocked.

I should have known better. I should have known to turn to my family first for sympathy and understanding because, although they are absolute masters of mockery, at least they understand me while they're making fun of me. Must be something in that 'blood is thicker than water' stuff. Or maybe its just that my sisters and I were all raised under the same 'too cheap to turn on the heat' regime because my sister and I had the following conversation earlier this evening (with no prompting from me, mind you)

Sister: "I'm so cold my hands are shaking. I swear my landlord is ripping me off, it's freezing in here"
Me: [Some kind of commiseration about crappy, heat-sucking landlords]
Sister: "I swear, the only place I'm warm is in the bath"
Me: "ME TOO, I get home from work and head straight to the bath" [accessorised with splish splashing sound effects to emphasize that that was my exact location as we were speaking]

Yeah. I was in the bath.

Here's too much information (and an unwanted visual) for you: if you're talking to me or reading an email sent after 6pm, chances are they were sent from my cozy, oh-so-happy, perch in my bathtub. Where it's warm. Because that's how it goes. I get home from work, turn on the bath, feed the cat, gather my dinner/books/etc and retreat to the tub where I stay until its time to go to bed (at which point my electric blanket takes over). It's kind of like my home office.

Which got me thinking. Remember The Fonz from Happy Days? Remember how he used to call the bathroom at Al's Diner his "office" and he would order Potsy or Ralph to "Come into my office" all tough-like when he wanted to talk to them? And remember how we thought The Fonz was so very dreamy until we happened to catch the show in reruns as adults and realized that The Fonz wasn't dreamy, he was an aging mechanic who really shouldn't have been hanging out with high school kids and definitely shouldn't have been dating them. Seems like every woman my age had the same Fonz realization at some point in time - that the dreamy tough guy was really just a dirty old man in a leather coat. Now there's a life lesson.

If you want to discuss, you can reach me in my office.

initiated

Today I was counselling someone I've seen for a few sessions and, as she talked, something began to rise to the surface. Something really, really deep and buried and huge. Something that I don't think either of us were expecting. I really felt for her and this journey she was about to embark on, sometimes we have to let ourself feel worse before we can feel better (or as Rumi has, much more eloquently, said "the cure for pain is in the pain").

As I realized what she was starting to realize I looked at her with complete empathy and thought "Wow. She really should talk to a professional to deal with this". And then I caught myself - that's me - I'm the professional she's coming to to deal with this!

Ever quick to worry about my skills as a therapist, I'm pretty sure that the only reason I'm not freaking out more about this is that just about every Counsellor I've talked to or read about has commented on having the very same thought process during their early years as a therapist. Guess I've passed that part of the initiation.

Bookmouse

Yesterday at the bookstore I saw a teensy, tiny grey mouse running frantically through the bookstacks and I had a giggle at the thought that finally, after all these years of being called one, I had seen a real, live, honest-to-god bookmouse.

Then I remembered that the term was "bookworm", not "bookmouse", and I felt a bit cheated.

Pollyanna

Driving in this city can be kind of stressful (easy Finland, easy ;) so, provided I have nowhere pressing to be, the one hour bus ride home sometimes emerges as the nicest part of my day. I think about stuff, catch up on phone calls, journal, read, do homework, it's lovely. Today was an interesting ride.

A woman loudly, and with a great deal of anger, made sweeping, derogatory comments about people with my skin colour. For the entire ride. It was awkward. It was also interesting timing; her comments filtered through while I was reading about Buddhist meditation, about choosing to pause to check in with the emotions our knee-jerk responses want to protect before following through on them. I struggled with that tonight as the angry voice forced its way into my thoughts.

The bus ride to and from the university has become a time for searching, questioning thoughts; not exactly the kind of frivolous daydreaming I expected. This is the same bus where, very often, no one will sit beside me. The bus may be packed with people standing in the aisles but the seat beside me? Empty. The entire process of getting home each night has become an incubator for long, internal discourses about race, privilege, discrimination, socio-economic status, appearances, assumptions, fate, you name it.

Tonight I also thought about the clients we'd seen for intake that day. About the fact that no matter what kind of complaints I can fabricate about my parents, my upbringing, my siblings; no one abused me, no one forced themselves on me, no one let/encouraged their friends/partners to force themselves on me. And by 'force themelves' I mean have sex. I thought about the way in which the choice of just one person to abuse the trust and power given to them by a child can impact entire generations of a family. And I thought about the people who are coming in to talk about their experiences and the bravery and courage it must take to choose to deal with it. I'm not so sure I wouldn't stick with repression and denial.

As I write this, I feel a bit silly. I know bad things happen. I know racism exists. I know people live through all kinds of horrible abuses. And I know that some of those people include those in my very close circle - that there are no exceptions. I guess its just that when no one will sit next to me on a bus it hurts my feelings, and it makes me think about assumptions that may be made and the systems in place that support them. When I talk to my third person in a row explaining what their parent/sibling/babysitter/grandparent did to them with a straight face and matter of fact voice it feels very real and I'm again humbled by the absolute grace of fortune bestowed upon me.

meow

Whenever he sees bags being packed, my cat becomes a twitchy, skittering little creature that, quite frankly, is irritating to have around. For that reason, it's always a relief when, having confirmed that he is seeing correctly, there ARE bags being packed, he goes into hiding from what he assumes comes next - getting tossed in the car to be passed off onto a well meaning friend for a few weeks.

Today he was right, there were bags being packed, but it had nothing to do with him - my Finnish touristi was leaving. I think if the cat had realized that he would have panicked even further because this visitor, this beacon of light from across the ocean, he did something never before experienced in this apartment - he PLAYED with Mannix. Red dot game, play fighting, falling for the old 'cat under the rug' trick - oh - it was glorious. And now he's gone.

Another thing this visitor did? He talked to Mannix and Mannix talked back. Great conversations were had, very long conversations were had, and my cautions that the cat would get used to this and I'd be left with a fuzzy, white ball of meowing irritation when the touristi departed? Those cautions were ignored. And now we're alone, just me and the cat. And some meowing. Lots and lots and lots of meowing.

Thanks Mikko. By the way, the cat says meow.

nyc photos

Having been teased by my sisters for my tendency to visit NYC, the city that never sleeps, to do exactly that - sleep - accompanying my touristi there on his North American tour could have been disastrous. But it wasn't. Luckily he joined me in my penchant to ignore NYC nightlife in favour of exploring NYC early-morning-yoga-life.

While Mikko was astounded by the questions put to him by US Customs, I was nearly brought to tears by the customs officer who threatened me with court for failing to declare my morning coffee under section 11a on the customs form - yeah - I'm serious. The trauma of being "educated" by the VERY mean American Customs man was quickly eradicated by the cutest observation, coming one hour into our visit, when my Finnish touristi noted that "I've never been in a place with so many Americans all at once".

We were joined in our yoga-bum tour by Leo who came up from DC and, so, there we were a Canadian, a Finn and an American-Russian in the big apple. Some walking was done, some yoga studios were visited, some pictures were taken. You can see them here.

toronto pics

I love Toronto and think it's one of the best places to live as is, seeing it through a tourists eyes has made me appreciate it even more.

Mikko's Toronto pictures below (with more to come)...

Toronto pics

stuff

So, there was a vacation in Helsinki. That was nice.

Then a quick stopover in Cambridge to visit the lovely Reena where I gained a new appreciation for poor ex-boyfriend G., a Cambridge alumni that I tormented mercilessly for his love of all things Cambridge. Hmm. I stand corrected. If I'd studied there I too would wear my scarf, not walk on the grass, and agree to whatever other nonsense those very smart Cambridge people prescribed. Luckily I fulfilled the necessary tourist requirement of observing out loud that Cambridge "looks just like a Harry Potter movie" within the first hour of my visit so I was permitted to relax and enjoy the rest of the evening.

Then I snuck back to Canada to surprise my family with the only present I could afford to give this poverty-stricken-student Christmas: ME. My return ticket was for December 24th, not December 26th as I'd led everyone to believe, which resulted in months of guilt tripping over my missing ANOTHER Christmas at home. The only thing that pulled me through was the knowledge that I would be home for Christmas and they'd feel like asses for the abuse they'd heaped upon me - well, that and the anticipation of surprising them Christmas morning. I ambushed them while they were opening their stockings in the family room and, finally after 30-odd years of Christmas celebrations, we had an honest-to-god movie moment. It was great.

The rest of Christmas day was wonderful. Some presents were exchanged. Some siblings' physiques were mocked (with love, with love). Some siblings drank buckets of champagne while others were mocked for bringing their own soy milk and taking vitamins (*ahem*).

And now it's over. Sort of. There's a Finn touristi in Toronto and tomorrow we're off to NYC. There's some fun to come yet.

no one likes an office party

Friday night I attended an office Christmas party where I discovered that a dislike of office social events, including Christmas parties, seems to be an international phenomenon. I think I was the only person present that didn't desperately wish I were somewhere else, mainly because I don't live here - I don't have anywhere else to be.

We met at the office for appetizers, champagne and a visit from Santa who, in addition to distributing presents and regaling us with a story about his flu, put me on the spot by asking me whether I knew where Santa was from. This presented a bit of a problem. I figured that it was a world-wide given that Santa lives in the North Pole but it seems the Finns have this idea that Santa is, in fact, from Lapland. Poor, deluded Finns. However, I'm a visitor here so I deferred to the Lapland Santa idea as best I could. I trust Santa won't hold it against me when it comes time for the distribution of presents.

After the appetizers which included gloggi (mulled wine), bread cheese (finnish specialty), joulutortut (Christmas plum tarts), and reindeer meat (didn't try that) we left for the surprise event of the evening which turned out to be a play. In Finnish. Which I don't speak. Between whispered translations and great acting I understood enough of the play to enjoy it (think I enjoyed it more than the rest of the group, actually). A posh dinner followed the play where I confirmed another international phenomenon: people love talking about their kids. Which was a relief since dinner lasted for hours, without children to talk about my small talk skills would have been seriously taxed after the first 1/2 hour.

I'd imagined people arguing in their taxis about who had to sit beside the English girl. Not because their English wasn't up to it but because, lets face it, Christmas parties suck enough as it is without the added complication of making small talk in your second (or third) language. I shouldn't have worried, everyone was very nice. Well, nice in that Finnish more-reserved-than-Canadians-even kind of way (and when one is not thought to be in any way, shape, or form criticizing the Finnish habit of putting babies outside for their naps ;), that is.

I am thankful to that same Finnish reserve for one thing though: no one pointed out that "kulkuset" (bells), my one Finnish Christmas word that I proudly say as often as possible, is also slang for "testicles" - something that my Finnish tutor neglected to tell me (*ahem*). I don't have a camera so there are no pictures from the party but below is a picture from the very pretty shopping street (not its official name ;) in downtown Helsinki

Happy holidays everyone

fazer chocolates

Last night during a prolonged bout of insomnia I finally got up to check the clock. It was 2.50am. Instead of being irritated that I was awake at that time, my first thought was "Phew, only 3 hours until I can have chocolate".

Think it's time I cut back on the Fazer ;)

www.fazermakeiset.fi

om sweet home

I fell this morning during yoga. A full on, whole body smack down that was as loud as it was embarrassing, except I wasn't too embarrassed - I love it when I fall. Yoga, skiing, rockclimbing, whatever - falling, to me, means that I'm trying something, taking a risk. At least, that's what it usually means. This morning it just meant that I was feeling damn lazy.

A few days ago someone observed that I was trying too hard during yoga which is pretty much the single-worst thing anyone could ever say to me. Off the mat, I do try hard; this is something I've realized, in particular, over the last few months. Whenever I'm close to finishing a journal I read through it to see what's been happening. Reading this journal, one of the things that struck me was that, as difficult a fall as it was, it was multiplied many times over by how judgmental and intolerant and critical I was of myself. I was very much my own worst enemy. I thought my practice was exempt from this.

Yoga has always been that one space where I don't try too hard, where not only can I give myself permission to suck but I can feel compassion for myself in that place as well. At least that's how it's been in the past, at some point over the last few months, things changed. Yoga became work. Maybe its the injuries, maybe its being back with my uber-ashtangi teachers, maybe it's that my mind this fall was so hard to face that I retreated to the physical. Probably a combination of all three.

I remember reading an article where the author wrote that in times of sadness she had to crawl to her mat and that just being there was painful. It is. On the mat it's just you and your thoughts. There were times this fall where I really didn't think I could bear to bring myself to practice. On those days I made it my mission to just show up, that's all I asked of myself was just to be there. In hindsight, I think that I allowed myself to retreat from my thoughts by focusing only on the physical. Practicing at my shala made this easy, there can be a lack of compassion to dogmatic ashtanga yoga and my shala is nothing if not dogmatic. Modifications, sitting longer in one pose, allowing a compassionate practice wasn't really encouraged and that worked for me just fine.

Thing is, I'm out of that space now and I'm feeling the lack of balance in my practice. I think it's time to begin cultivating my home practice again, I miss the intimacy that comes with practicing alone.

Seeing as it's raining out and I've been quiet for a while, figured now is as good a time as any for an update from Helsinki. Problem is, there's not much to update. Unless you actually care about long, glorious yoga practices, hours spent languishing over coffee and daydreams and sleep...so much sleep. Yeah, I know, you don't care but me? I'm freaking thrilled.

Today I was asked how I like Helsinki in December. I like it just fine. In fact, I'm loving it. But I can't tell whether it's because of Helsinki or because each time I've been here I've been on holiday and, God knows, I love me a holiday. Morning yoga is followed by half an hour of relaxation and meditation which is pretty much the polar opposite of Toronto mornings which find me desperately cramming one foot into my workclothes whispering "shit, shit, shit" before running to the subway and stressing out for the duration of the ride while calculating just how late I'm going to be. So is sleeping 8 hours a night; I could get used to that.

Helsinki temperatures have been well above zero since I've arrived (there goes another 'Baltic' stereotype) offering the perfect weather for wandering aimlessly looking at 'stuff'. It's light by 9am, completely dark by 4pm, and the hours in between hold a grey, slightly overcast look that lead me to consistently assume that it's 4.30pm - even when it's only 10am. I had wondered whether I would find the darkness depressing, it's not. In fact, it's strangely comforting.

The early evenings bring an almost forced hibernation, like nature knows we've had a long year and conspires to get us inside somewhere warm and cozy where there's nothing to do but relax (and, God knows, I love me some relaxing :). And they grey days? They're difficult to explain, they're...soft. Kind of like the edge has been taken off so that sharp corners and bright lights give way to slightly fuzzy city streets lit with dozens upon dozens of twinkling, white Christmas lights. You see? Cozy.

Still raining though but my time at the cafe has been pushed to it's limits. I'm off. Happy Wednesday everyone.

smart AND cute!

I dropped the cat off at a friend's tonight for a stay at his version of Disney Land: a house with multiple floors connected by actual, oh-my-god, STAIRS. As my sister puts it, the cat acts like he's in 'Nam half the time as it is skittering around corners and hiding under rugs for waiting for just the right moment to unleash his assault but, let's face it, the options in my apartment are limited. Now with a whole three weeks and three glorious floors to play with, the options are endless. I don't even think he cared when I dropped him off, he was too busy running up...and down...and up...and down...

Although he ends up having fun wherever he is (or so I'm assured), transporting him is no fun whatsoever. After one horrific ride that I'm positive left me more traumatized than him, I gave up on cat carriers. Say what you want - I don't care - you've never been stuck in a car with the yeowling, mournful mess that is the cat in a cat carrier. So, he gets free reign to roam the car, sit on my lap, whatever. It's all good.

Tonight as I was flying down the highway at 140km/hr I heard something...then I felt something...it was wind, but from where? Turns out, the cat managed to place his cute little kitty-cat paw on the 'down' button for the back window and had succeeded in getting the damn thing all the way down before I could figure out what the heck was happening. Scary as it was, I couldn't help being kind of proud of him for figuring out how to work the window - smart little guy :)

This would be the same night that I developed a more intimate understanding of just how useful highway shoulders are and that I learned about child-proof window locks. Damn good ideas, both of them.

by the way

Since posting about the "Don't worry, Be happy" busker I've heard from a whole bunch of TTC riding folks all of whom knew exactly who I was talking about. It's official: "Don't worry, Be happy" IS the only song he ever sings.

My shala has moved and I'm back to taking the busker-free bus so I'm pretty sure this will be the last time you'll have to read the words "Don't worry, Be happy" on this blog and the last time I'll have to type them which is a good thing, the words have developed the power to irritate me through the very act of typing them alone.

But, while we're at it, it's Monday and it's cold; be kind to yourself today and don't worry, be happy ;)

home sweet home

My mother & two sisters came over yesterday to help me move a dresser and left 3 hours later having filled several bags full of 'stuff' for goodwill, convinced me to stick a "free" sign on my couch and leave it on the street corner (it was gone within 2 hours) and reorganized my living room, front room and bedroom. Wow.

The harbinger of what was to come was my mother's question, "What can I do?", while we were waiting for my sisters. I was in the middle of making oatmeal raisin cookies and I looked at her, confused, how many people does she think it takes to make cookies? Turns out, she meant what can she do around the apartment because it was "pretty cluttered". Or maybe she said "messy". I forget. But I was concerned because, with the exception of the Saturday papers and the usual odds and ends hanging about, my apartment was waaaaay more organized than usual. At least I thought so.

I was wrong. Apparently my apartment was 'cluttered', 'messy', and full of 'India-yoga bullshit'. When my sisters arrived the three of them transpired into a whirling dervish of activity. I don't know how else to explain it - they just moved and moved and moved while my contribution was limited to standing, confused or trailing aimlessly behind them offering oatmeal raisin cookies. Well, that, and defending burnt-out lightbulbs (who notices that kind of stuff?), non-existent dishtowels (who uses those?), and explaining why I really, absolutely, can't possibly dispose of anymore books (I NEED every book I currently have. Or, you know, I might one day).

The general consensus when we (ok, they) were done was "there, now you can breathe". Part of me wanted to go on the defensive but I couldn't, it was true. It's not that I'm a slob (shut up), it's more that when it comes to aesthetics - I just don't get it. I like looking nice, I like my surroundings to look nice but I don't have that eye that tells me what to do to make that happen. Just tell me what to wear or how to organize my apartment and I'm happy.

Lucky for me, every other person in my family has that eye and they were generous with their Saturday mornings (thanks guys :). My new and improved living room with one less couch is so much lighter, the hallway more spacious without the additional bookcase and my room is absolutely perfect now that I've cleared out the extra dresser. I didn't want to leave the apartment this morning. I just wanted to stay home and enjoy it. But I dragged myself to yoga. And that. freaking. sucked.

I don't write about yoga often, there are no words, but lately, it sucks. My wrists hurt so chataranga (like a push up) kills, my ankles are sore so upward dogs/lotus positions kill and my hamstring tears are back in full effect so every single other pose kills as well. It has for the last few weeks and today was just enough. I left the room to cry my big, self-pitying alligator tears in private. So frustrating. And I know it's my head, not my body, but life is settled - I'm settled - so why the head stuff now? Whatever.

All I know is that all I really wanted was to be back in my airy, gorgeous apartment with music playing, cat cuddling, and tea brewing which is exactly what I'm doing. And it's perfect.

the key to a traditional christmas

8am Wednesday morning found me running around my apartment tossing cushions aside, scrambling through coat pockets, and standing idly in the middle of each room, perplexed. I couldn't find my keys anywhere. I missed two buses while I was busy crawling around on the floor looking under couches and I was beginning to get a bit frantic. It really wasn't a good day to be late and I never lock my door anyway so half way through my search I figured 'screw it - I'll just drive' and I would have but I COULDN'T FIND MY KEYS.

Finally, in a last ditch effort, I opened my front door to look outside and, there they were - my keys - still hanging in the keyhole where I'd left them the night before. They jingled happily at me as I opened the door wider to take in what else I'd left in the hallway: my hamper full of clean laundry and several bags of groceries. Apparently I was REALLY tired Tuesday night. As relieved as I was to find everything safe and sound I was a bit peeved; really, keys in the door, grocery bags and folded laundry waiting outside - would it really have killed someone to let themselves in and do me the good turn of putting some things away? What does a girl have to do to get some help ;)

I'm leaving for holidays in less than a week. The full on sprint that has characterized life over the last few months will carry on right up until Thursday night when I head to the airport. This will be the second year in a row that I'll miss Christmas, a fact that my sisters are trying to turn into some kind of 'get out of jail free card' by hinting that, since I don't have to be there, they're going to skip it too.

In an attempt to assuage their sisterly rage I let them in on a little secret I've been carrying for 2 months: I've arranged for a surprise to be delivered to my mom's house Christmas morning. Although I shared this with them in two completely separate conversations, the first words out of both of their mouths when I told them there was going to be a surprise were the exact same: "Is it a stripper?".

Yes girls. I've arranged for a stripper to be delivered to mom's house Christmas morning. After all, what would the holiday be without the time-tested, traditional favourite Christmas stripping elves?

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.

autopilot

Today I stood at the bus stop for 10 minutes waiting for the bus before I remembered that I drove to school today.

What can I say? It's been a busy week :)

tuesday rundown

5.45 yoga, 9.00 meeting at work, 10.30 groceries, 11.00 baked cookies for tomorrow, 12.00 coffee with friend,13.00 project meeting for school, 14.00-20.30 classes, 22.00 home.

It's been a fantastic day and a gorgeous night. After 9 hours indoors it was a relief to step outside into the crisp autumn air so I decided to walk to the next subway stop...and then the next...and then the next...until I ended up just walking the whole way home (after stopping in little Korea to buy walnut cakes from my favourite walnut guy - a girl needs some sustenance).

The walk home has chased away sleep. While blogging can't counter the effects of the night air it does offer a darn good way to put some of the random 'stuff' floating through my mind 'out there' so, here goes:

--was reading the emergency directions for those with mobility impairments at school today (they were there, I was bored). They can be summed up as the following "get to a phone, call xxx extension, and sit tight until someone comes for you". Really? If my institution's emergency plans were that flimsy I think I'd avoid posting them altogether.

--"I joined a gym so that next time I'm attacked, I can run", so stated during a recent intake. I can't shake the matter-of-fact way the student shared this information. Nor can I shake the fact that given her age, her gender and where she lives it very likely is a matter of 'when' not 'if'. The resilience of the clients I work with is as great as their stories are horrific. It's truly humbling.

--recent conversations about love: one person hypothesized that sometimes you love someone until the hurt they inflict grows greater than the love you have for them, and the other was less a conversation than an observation; I. has been married for 37 years, in the time I've known him I've seen him cancel travel plans, care incessantly for an ill wife without complaint, and recently curtail almost all of the activities that sustain him to be there for both his sick wife and her mother (who's not so nice to him). That, too, is love.

--tonight when I stopped to wish on a star (yeah, I still do that), there was nothing to wish for. I gave thanks instead.

A few months ago I put to paper some of the goals/hopes/visions/whatever I held for myself and then promptly forgot about the entry until today while flipping through my journal during class. It's amazing how many of the things I'd envisioned have happened or are well on their way to happening. More than that, it's interesting to see just how much has happened since I've returned to Toronto and to see that (despite myself at times ;) learning is there.

The cookies I mentioned at the beginning of this entry are down four, definately time to get myself to bed before there's nothing left to bring into work tomorrow.

And so ends the longest entry ever :)

I'm attending a series of workshops this weekend presented by A.G Mohan and his son, Ganesh which is very cool; the Mohan family have studied yoga in connection to Ayurveda, physical and mental health extensively and I've been reading their books for years (A.G. Mohan and his wife, Indra, literally wrote the book on Yoga Therapy). Although I was looking forward to the workshops on an intellectual level, interested in what I might learn, I wasn't expecting to be this jazzed. Something happened tonight, I left the workshop filled with a sense of quiet excitement and found myself making plans as I drove home.

More and more I'm interested in yoga as a form of therapy. In keeping with that, more and more I feel like my Masters is just another step in preparing me for something larger instead of the means to an end that it was when I started it (this is both frustrating, another 'beginning' step?, and ridiculously exciting). Mohan studied with Krishnamacharya, as did my teacher Pattabhi Jois, however his approach is quite different from Jois'. Mohan, like Krishnamacharya's son, Desikachar, works with students in individual sessions assessing their needs and creating tailored asana and pranayama programs. I love this.

I planned on travelling to Chennai to study at Desikachar's institute in 2005 before the powers that be brought me to Mysore instead. I've no doubt that Mysore was where I was supposed to be at that time and I can't see myself ever leaving my ashtanga practice, it's as much a part of me as breathing is, but I've never really seen myself teaching it in the traditional way. Actually, I've never seen myself as a yoga teacher, period, but I have always known that I was going to work as a therapist with individuals/groups and that yoga would play some role in that therapy. Lately it feels like the drive to start moving towards that vision won't be put off much longer.

Desikachar runs a 2 year teacher training program that I expect to enroll in one day, there's a teacher training program beginning in Toronto in January and the Mohan's run a 2 month intensive training program every October-November, also in Chennai. It's a good thing I picked up some contract work to carry me through this school year because it looks like I'm going to be a student well beyond April as originally planned ;)

And the Mohans? They were knowledgeable, humble, light and filled with humour. I'm looking forward to the rest of the sessions.

Tuesday

So, yesterday was a good day.

Left the house at 5.30am and returned at 10pm. In between I practiced (lovely), prepared & delivered a presentation (went well), and had 7hours of classes (which were interesting) before catching the subway home. Like I said, a good day.

Except for the fact that yesterday I DROVE into the city.

Lately I've sensed an energy of questioning among those I've met both personally and professionally; not an unhappy or depressed questioning but more a curious one - what else is out there? It's a strange autumn in that sense; far from preparing for a long winter rest, we seem to be rousing ourselves to seek what it is we need. At the same point in time, there's an urgency there, a drive to figure it out now, have the answers now; this I feel very strongly.

Whether I feel frustratingly immobile or amazingly blessed depends so much on the situation. When I think about it, one of the biggest differences is the degree of commitment I bring with me; the very areas where I'm struggling are the same where I haven't actually arrived at a decision yet. In some cases they're also the ones where I've been waiting for others to help with decisions that are mine alone to make. Still, I'm reminded that there's no rush.

Playing with the possibilities is as relevant as committing to a dream. The beauty of this time of year is that the winter provides time to allow our questions to gestate and play with the possibilities that emerge, all we have to do is make room for the dream to form. And, really, there is no rush (I say this more for my benefit than anything else, I seem to have to remind myself a million times a day to just sit with it - whatever it is I'm struggling with - just sit with it. Surely it'll stick one of these days ;)

one elementary truth

This poem arrived in an email today and I'm happily posting it. There's something gorgeous and understanding and compassionate about it that I find timely.

Until one is committed,
there is hesitancy,
the chance to draw back,
always ineffectiveness.

Concerning all acts
of initiative and creation,
there is one elementary truth
the ignorance of which
kills countless ideas and splendid plans:
that the moment one definitely commits oneself,
then providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur
to help one that would never
otherwise have occurred.
A whole stream of events
issues from the decision,
raising in one's favor all manner
of unforeseen incidents,
meetings and material assistance
which no man could have dreamed
would have come his way.

Whatever you can do
or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius,
power and magic in it.
Begin it now.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Snow? What snow?

There was snow today. It only lasted long enough to make its presence known before disappearing into the cold, unforgiving corner from which it emerged. But, still, snow! The funniest part about it was our reaction: we happened to look out the window at the same time to see the evidence highlighted in the lights of a passing car and the conversation missed a beat as we registered that what we were seeing was not rain but snow - big, fluffy snowflakes - before we all began talking at once, as if to erase what we'd just seen. Snow? I didn't see any snow, how about those Leafs?

Coming from the girl who broke out her electric blanket in mid-August, this is not good news. If you need me, I'll be in bed where it's warm. Until June.

heaven's ass

Something came up with someone, somewhere in the family and although I forget who, what, and why, the outcome was the rescheduling of Thanksgiving for sometime later in October. Accordingly, instead of heading to my Aunt's for thanksgiving dinner, tonight my mother, sisters and I headed to my Grandmother's for a decidedly un-thanksgiving Chinese food dinner. To broke to buy flowers, but knowing my little sister would show up with a huge bouquet, I didn't want to arrive empty handed so I decided to bake dessert.

Forgetting that I always try to make cobbler and it always looks horrible, I made pear cobbler. Last week I bought a box of pears because they were both locally grown and on sale. It seemed like a good idea at the time but, I've discovered that I can only eat so many pears before I begin to dread opening the fridge just to see them sitting there, looking hopeful (pick me! pick me!). When I saw the recipe for pear cobbler I must have been so excited over the word 'pear' that I completely blanked on the 'cobbler' part.

Predictably, it looked horrible. Horrible enough that, if you happened to be behind my sister and I as we walked to our Grandmother's, you would have heard a conversation a little something like this:

Sister: Here, you carry this (passes the cobbler back to me), I don't want to carry it, it looks like ass
Me: But it tastes great
Sister: Yeah, well it looks like ass. I'm not carrying it through Grandma's place
Me: But, seriously, it tastes like heaven
Sister: It may taste like heaven but it looks like ass. It's heaven's ass. I'm still not carrying it.

For the record, we were both right. It did taste great and it did look like ass; I didn't want to be seen carrying it either, that's how she ended up with it. We compromised by hiding it in my bag under my computer and the family compromised by hiding heaven's ass under mounds of vanilla ice cream. Heaven's ass pear cobbler and Chinese food: a new Thanksgiving tradition is born.

i have a secret

Ok. Don't tell my dentist or anything but I am in absolute agony. I know, I know, telling my dentist sounds like the logical thing to do but here's the thing: the agonizing-please-put-me-out-of-my-mercy pain isn't coming from the tooth I had the root canal on yesterday. It's coming from another tooth. A tooth far, far away from the root canal tooth. Which means that my teeth have banded together and are engaged in a not so quiet revolution against me.

I've spent the morning engaged in countless activities designed to distract myself from the agonizing pain in my head. Fun things like cleaning and, when that failed, pinching myself because, yeah, introducing pain to some other area of my body does actually help distract me from the throbbing, all consuming pain that's colonized the right side of my skull. So why not call the dentist? Because I absolutely cannot, will not entertain the idea that I might have to add ANOTHER $3,000 to my already huge dental bill.

It's Thanksgiving weekend in Canada and, despite my toothache (did I mention it's causing agonizing pain? ;), I am thankful. I'm thankful that I'm writing in my lovely, clean apartment with the sun streaming in the window, thankful that I'll see my family this weekend and that we're all healthy and happy, thankful for my cat sitting on my lap purring, and thankful that my sister, as per my request, will shortly be sneaking into my apartment and clubbing me over the head with some kind of blunt object to put me out of my misery.

In lieu of further complaining and in recognition that it is Thanksgiving and there is so much to be thankful for, I leave you instead with a quote that I found scribbled on a piece of paper stuck way back under the couch this morning when I was cleaning. It's nice.

"Your daily life is your temple and your religion. And your body is the harp of your soul. And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused signs" Kalil Gibran, The Prophet.

Happy thanksgiving everyone. Hope you're able to find the sweet music in the realities of your everyday lives in your own unique way over this thanksgiving weekend :)

the cost of falling apart

I've been thinking a lot about my body lately. Not, of course, in any kind of self-congratulatory way (a North American woman with a positive body image? Isn't that grounds for expulsion?), but more in a 'Wow! You too!?' way. You see, it seems that I'm falling apart.

I know I've whined before the litany of physical complaints that accompanies big changes in my life and this time around is no different. I haven't been too frustrated because by now I expect them. You could say we have a gentleman's agreement: I continue to take a nice, stable life and throw it into upheaval and my body continues to respond by making it difficult to sit, stand, walk, climb - in general, to move. It works. But now my body is messing with my ability to eat and that is most definitely NOT in our agreement. At least, not to my knowledge. But then, as I thought back over the past few years, I realized something; I realized that my body has been breaking our agreement and tossing in random additional injuries for as far back as I could remember.

Here's the deal. Last week one of my molars broke (well, dissolved, really) so I need a root canal and reconstructive work. Up to this point I've just been irritated by the cost, pissed that I can't eat, and frustrated that this happens every time I leave a job and lose my dental insurance leaving me scrambling to cover the costs. Every. Single. Time. And then it hit me. It's not just my back that responds to change, it's my teeth too. My mind, unconscious, equilibrium - whatever - is so freaked out by change that even my teeth, those things that remain long after the rest of the body has turned to dust, they crumble at the sight of a bagel.

I've decided that I either succumb to a nice, stable life - stop changing careers, stop leaving great jobs to travel, stop ignoring the very stable lawyer type boys - or I get better health coverage because this shit is getting expensive. Whenever I contemplate spending a large chunk of money I usually think first about where that money could fly me if I were to put it to a plane ticket instead. That's why I still have a mattress on a floor instead of a bed. I could buy proper furniture but I'd rather go to New York for the weekend.

This root canal thingy I have going tomorrow? Two separate trips to India. That's all I'm saying.

salmon, soulmates and the meaning of life

I received a message from I. today saying only "the chinook salmon are running the Humber already, just thought you'd want to know". He didn't leave his name, but he didn't have to; other than myself, he's the only person I know who would actually care about something as mundane as fish swimming upstream.

Every year I look forward to the salmon run and every year I call/email people to let them know that it's 'that time' again with the degree of anticipation you might expect from something 'truly' exciting. Which, for me, the salmon run is. Which is why I absolutely love that I. thought to call. It's one of the many things that bridges our +30 year difference in age and makes him one of my most favourite people ever.

I love nothing more than sitting by the river, letting myself be awed by these fish. By their determination, tenacity, and unquestioning drive; if you think that's a lot to get from a fish then you need to get yourself to a river and watch. Watch the way they rest, gather their energy and then hurl themselves into the dam wall time and time again simply because that's what they do. Sometimes I'm inspired by their determination and others I despair over the futility of their struggle - so few actually make it. Which side I fall on can be an interesting gage of how I'm feeling about life that year.

Last year my friend K. and I sat by the river for hours alternating between talking and watching the salmon in silence. Several days later, I received this email from him: "ps. i've been thinking about those salmon and the question you asked 'how do they keep going through the defeat & the pain?' - i am sure they have lots of pain, and risk of life, and fear and many other things us humans find very discouraging. yet they keep going because it is their path. they are very inspiring - those fish".

It's true. They are inspiring. They'll be running for the next few weeks but particularly active next week leading up to Sunday's full moon, so, if you're in the GTA get yourself down to the Humber or the Credit River and let yourself be awed.

And, by the way, this year I'm inspired ;)

So, my friend made me cry yesterday. He didn't mean to but finding tears seems to be the one thing that's coming easy to me these days. He mentioned that he was wondering to himself whether or not I was "doing the work". This followed my comment that I felt like I was floundering but didn't feel like I was doing anything about it - that I forgot what I was supposed to do about it. When he commented that he noticed the same (about me) I felt like a failure which, in hindsight, seems like a strange initial reaction, but there it is. For all of my attempts to instill that sense of equilibrium that I so want to possess, it takes so little to chase it away, to send me into a panicked spin. I don't know anymore what 'doing the work' is. What that looks like. And it makes me feel ashamed. Aren't I supposed to know?

My tears often accompany confusion, anxiety, uncertainty; attached more to fear than sadness. I hate that I'm not sure what my 'calling' is anymore, I hate that I'm working so hard to apply myself when I'm not sure it's right for me, I hate that I'm pretty sure it is right for me but I'm afraid I'll suck at it so I'm throwing doubt up as a pre-emptive defense, I hate that I have one foot out of the country but am fighting to engage in life here too, and I hate not feeling grounded most of all. But then, I was thinking about all of these things last night and I decided to lighten up on myself.

I am groundless. I would say that the ground has been pulled from under me but, really, I kicked the ground away - quite happily . And I'm glad I did, I was sick of the old ground. I knew I needed change, that there was growth there and that it was really, really important that I make room for it. And I knew it would be hard at times and that I would feel like this at first because I jumped off a professional cliff, I jumped off a personal cliff and I don't know yet how the story ends. That's a lot for this girl to take on at once.

And do I need to mention that even as I type I'm smiling? That I'm shaking my head at myself because I know that in a few months I'll feel like an idiot for even posting this? That I know it'll pass, that this is exactly what I wanted out of this year? I feel like I do. Because no matter how many happy, inconsequential, chatty posts I publish, it's always the one kind of unhappy one that people seem to latch onto. Don't do that. This is good too.

note to self...

A bag of chocolate chips does not count as dinner.

And, no, the fact that they were actually carob chips, not chocolate chips, does not make them a health food. Nice try though.

Enjoy the upset stomach/sugar-rush-induced-insomnia combo. Sucker.

overheard at moonbeam cafe this weekend...

...two girls talking to each other about whether or not to pursue a research position this year with the one girl advising the other to go for it with the reasoning "...I mean, before you know it you wake up and you're 30...".

Yikes! I'm past the "before you know it you wake up and you're X" warning age? Someone should have told me. Or sent me the memo. Or whatever. Here I've been living under the impression that life just gets better each and every year.

Silly me ;)

reason #462 why i freaking love my country

Pope Benedict has had a busy week talking smack about Canada. It seems he's disappointed in our morals, values and politics. The headline of one newspaper informed me that the "Pope Slams Canada" while another, The Globe and Mail, quotes the Pope as berating Canadians for "excluding God from the public sphere" and tells us that "In the name of tolerance your country has had to endure the folly of the redefinition of spouse...". I had to read the articles a few times, I wanted to make sure I understood correctly, but I think I finally got it: the separation of the church and the state is a bad thing and tolerance is undesirable. Wait, no, I still don't get it. So what exactly is Canada doing wrong?

Despite the existence of recent (and self-indulgent) posts whining about my return home, the fact remains that I'm home because I like home. I like Canada and I'm incredibly proud to be Canadian - in large part for the very same reasons the Pope has 'slammed' us for. Separation of religion from politics, freedom of choice, the fostering of mutual respect by encouraging tolerance, call me a heathen, but I'm all for them.

As I walked home I was thinking about the articles and how glad I was to be a 'recovering Catholic' so I could disagree with the Pope without the nuisance of worrying about damning my soul to eternal hell when I was interrupted by an elderly woman. She greeted me by commenting on what a lovely morning it was before assuring me that "there is a healing coming". She wasn't entirely sure when but knew it would be sometime in 2008 and asked me to "spread the word" before she reassured me (repeatedly) that Pope Benedict would care for us all.

I don't know how she knew what I was thinking about but I didn't have the heart to tell her that I didn't think Canada was at the top of the Pope's 'to be rescued' list. She'll see a paper sooner or later.

even street santa got cleaned up

Although the film festival just began today, preparation for the madding crowds began weeks ago with restaurants undergoing last minute renovations, store windows dressed as their most sophisticated, cool, hip selves and freshly cleaned streets sporting new plants. I passed through Yorkville today, the centre of film fest activities, and was amazed at the number of very carefully dressed people very carefully lounging so as to see and be seen. The beautiful people were out in full force.

Street santa is the guy who hangs out in Yorkville dressed only in red sweatshorts and a red santa hat - regardless of the season. He's occasionally belligerent, prone to lying across the sidewalk or getting way up in your personal space while haranguing you for change. Loudly. More often though he's in good humour as he bounces through Yorkville singing or drops to perform an impressive set of pushups, the better to attract your spare change.

I saw him today but almost didn't recognize him; the santa hat and shorts had been replaced with a suit. A beat up, run down, been around the block more than a few times suit but, still, a suit. Looks like the 'see and be seen' gods that wrap their carefully manicured hand around Toronto at this time of year managed to extend their reach to the panhandlers as well. Who knew?

note to self:

Half a tub of peanut butter does not count as dinner. Even if you mix it with honey first.

the picture, big and small

A few postings back when I mentioned that I was having a 'wee bit of a hard time' I was being positive, it was more of a whole lot of a hard time. While things are definitely looking up, there's no doubt about it, North America and I are going through a rough patch in our relationship. There's a certain 'essence de North American urban jungle' that I'm having a hard time relaxing back into. Silly things like the article in Saturday's paper emphasizing the importance of finding just the right lunchbox for your pre-schooler and traffic jams that stretch a 10 block trip into 1.5 hours, things I used to shrug off as the cost of big-city life, now cause me to roll my eyes like a petulant 12 year old while blowing my bangs in disdain as if to say 'I can't even believe I have to be here'.

Yeah, ok, it's ridiculous to lump an entire continent into my complaint; but you know those stereotypical things people say about North America? Those are the ones getting to me. I don't feel like I belong yet. But that's just the big picture I'm talking about; on a smaller scale, day-to-day life in Toronto, I'm doing good.

My friend D. and I always spend our first visit after one of my trips at the lake skipping stones while we catch each other up on the months that have passed (and he mocks my attempts to skip stones). Today was our afternoon by the lake. The drive to the beach brought me along the lakeshore, packed with people waiting for the labour day airshow to begin, past Dempster's bread factory where, if you time it right, you're immersed in the scent of baked bread, and down Queen Street East where rollerbladers, bikers, baby carriages and dogs reign supreme - not cars.

At the beach the boardwalk was busy, the volleyball nets in full use, and the dog parks full of happy, wet dogs. The 'rock balancing guy' was there, as he has been for as long as I can remember, building his field of tall rock formations, playing his digereedoo and explaining to the tourists that this IS his job. He's one of my favourite Torontonians, summers wouldn't be the same without him. The rock labyrinth has been reinstalled in the sand by the water; after making our way to the centre to leave our offerings we headed to the monkey bars where we swung upside down for far longer than is advisable and talked about how much easier it was to 'hang' when we were younger (and lighter ;)

So, yeah, the very 'North American-ness' of life has been kicking my ass but it's nothing that a few hours spent watching the dogs play in the park or swinging upside down from the monkey bars can't fix.

mermaid cooking

The movie "Mermaids" was on tv recently. Most remember that movie because Cher was in it, or because of that strange scene where a teenaged Winona Ryder licked the leather coat of the guy she was crushing on, or because it also starred a young Christina Ricci. My sister and I remember it because it caused us no end of angst. In the movie Cher, the eccentric mother, never actually cooked a meal, she just prepared finger foods and called it dinner. When the movie first came out, virtually everyone my sister and I knew called us to tell us that they thought of us as soon as they saw it. By us I mean my mother, my sister & myself.

Not that I'm saying anything about my mother's cooking or anything; we ate, we were healthy and we were happy. But, you know, lets just say there were some similarities (purely hypothetical, of course). That could shed light on the fact that I can prepare a mean hummous but can't find my way through a soup recipe. It may also explain why my sister, who stayed in my apartment while I was away, left me a cupboard fully stocked with:

-1 can flaked tomato & basil tuna
-3 cans flaked lemon & pepper tuna
-3 cans flaked chicken
-1 can ackee in brine
-2 cans bamboo shoot strips.

Not withstanding the fact that I'm a vegetarian, what exactly does one DO with so much flaked meat?

by the way...

...despite the fact that, since returning home, I've disposed of 8 garbage bags of 'stuff', reorganized all of my closets, drawers and cupboards, and maintained an uncharacteristically organized apartment I still had to pluck a shirt out of my dirty laundry bin to wear to my first day of my practicum.

Shhh...don't tell anyone.

thanks deer

For years I've been frustrated by the fact that I've never seen a deer. Sounds silly, maybe, but my mom literally comes across them on her drive home from work while I take myself hours into the woods backwater camping and - nothing. At one point I got a bit paranoid wondering what the deer had to 'teach' me and why they wouldn't reveal themselves to me. While it's entirely possible that they do hold a lesson for me, I've never figured out what it is but I've also stopped obsessing over it because I finally saw a damn deer.

At the time I was struggling with a difficult decision and I took the deer sighting as a good sign; turned out, it was. Tonight while driving to a friend's place out in the country I saw my second deer, just hanging out in a meadow doing deer stuff. Although I'm not struggling through any decisions right now, tonight was definitely a good night for a 'sign'.

The transition back to life in Toronto has been a blessedly smooth and easy one. I began my practicum today and I'm excited about the experience I'm going to gain. I talked to a few friends for the first time since arriving home to make plans for the long weekend, had a great talk with my mom, and was welcomed back to the bookclub-that-never-reads-the-books with warm, open arms. I feel lucky and loved.

So don't let any of the following take away from that, it's just that I'm having a wee bit of a hard time this week. I'm trying to find the sense of this life I have in Toronto and I'm afraid that it's not here, I'm terrified that I'm going to 'break' someone in my practicum, and today while practicing at home in my living room I felt so overwhelmingly alone.

For that reason, I thank my family for being so sweet, my grandmother for her phone call, the friends who greeted me with such delight after all these months, and I thank the damn deer for hanging out in the meadow so I could see them because tonight was a great night to be reminded that it will all be ok.

reason 234 why i shouldn't be allowed in the kitchen

Ever seen the cookbook "Help! My Apartment Has a Kitchen"? If not, I can happily forward you one of the several copies gifted to me over the years by the well intentioned, usually given while accompanied by some variation of "I thought of you as soon as I saw it".

Having never lived down phone calls to family members asking how to know when broccoli is done cooking or what an ozen is (as if it's some kind of intuitive knowledge that 'oz' is short for 'ounce', not 'ozen'), I've stopped reaching out for help. Instead, I soldier on in silence, disposing of countless dollars worth of irreparably scalded pots and inedible food in the privacy of my own home. Although this has effectively stopped gifts of "Cooking for Dummies" and the like, it's done very little to improve my cooking. As if to remind me of my missing 'kitchen gene' after these months away, today I gave myself a cooking injury during my first real foray back into my kitchen.

Knowing that I return to the life of poverty-stricken student next week, I decided to get into the role a bit early by preparing a batch of soup from the most inexpensive vegetable I could think of - celery. My reasoning was this: celery is cheap, I'm broke and I distinctly remember going through a Cream of Celery Campbell's Soup phase; how hard could it be to make it myself?

To be fair, it's probably not the most difficult meal to prepare. And it may have turned out ok if I hadn't forgotten to secure the lid on the blender. And if the soup, fresh from the burner, hadn't exploded when I turned the blender on. And if I didn't have these welts covering the entirety of my left forearm. Who knew that celery soup, in addition to being an inexpensive meal, also holds the potential to scalds the @#$ out of your skin.

I will be accepting all meal invites for the duration of this poverty-stricken student year.

back home

British Airways taunted me with Finland throughout the flight home surrounding me with Finns speaking that inexplicable language, featuring Helsinki in their inflight magazine and playing "Sybellius" (Finland's unofficial anthem) on heavy rotation on the inflight entertainment system. Luckily, my seat mate was happy to distract me with incessant talk about her PhD thesis on health promotion in rural Finland. In between drinks, that is. A whole lot of alcohol was consumed in seat 28J, I think she must be still in the research stage regarding the definition of health.

The Canada customs team dedicated to implementing their ridiculous 'lets push these overtired passengers over the edge' procedures ('security measures' they call them) made the process of actually getting into Canada incredibly difficult. They put up a good fight but they were no match for this Canadian; me and my suitcase full of undeclared ayurvedic potions made it home with the help of my accomplice (aka: mom).

Toronto is sadly lacking in strangely flavoured sparking water, a city population that embraces summer with complete abandon, and men named Mikko but it's good to be home. As always, I'm amazed by the amount of space I have and more so by the amount of 'stuff' I have filling it. My first morning home found me, still in pajamas, buried in my closet pulling out clothes to send to Goodwill. I've been eating my weight in vegetables and have decided to plan all future trips so my homecoming corresponds with corn season.

Although I defied all odds by finding my mobile, I can't for the life of me remember how to turn it on. Yeah, I'm serious. Please email me your phone numbers, they're stored in the mobile phone from now on to be referred to as 'fort knox'.

unbelievable

The 'baby' in the apartment below me still cries every morning beginning between 3:30-4:00am and carrying on until well after I drag myself out of bed to practice.

Granted, I don't actually have a baby myself but I'm pretty sure that whole 'crying through the night' routine is something they're supposed to grow out of. Before the age of 2.

Sigh.

final dog story

Some final pictures from Finland. The first two are from Suomenlinna, an island fortress just a ferry ride away from downtown Helsinki. The rest are cottage pictures including one of me reading a Finnish children's book about, what else, dogs making this my final 'dog entry' for this trip. I promise.


Hobbit houses on Suomenlinna



More ferry traffic, moving between Helsinki harbour and Suomenlinna on their way to Tallin or Stockholm


Mikko & Utu whistling songs accompanied by Mikko's beloved apple


On my way to the sauna


Reading Utu a story about Koira's (dogs) where I butchered the Finnish language (but made her feel miles more confident in her English, I'm sure)

good intentions

Well, I've tried ignoring emails, news, blogs and just about anything else connected to that irritating little thing called 'reality' but it turns out, reality won't be ignored. This is my last post from abroad, I go home this week.

There are so many things I'm looking forward to: shopping at the bakeries and greengrocers along Bloor Street, taking a bath, rollerblading in the beaches, being back in my own kitchen, hiking the Bruce Trail, sitting in Yorkville watching the beautiful people drift by, early morning coffee in moonbeam cafe, painting my apartment, and rediscovering my city - it's such an amazing city.

The months before I left to travel were a waiting period of sorts, I felt disconnected and unenthused but it didn't matter because I was leaving. I remember this when I think about coming home and it worries me. Free from my job and a student again, I'm also free from the frameworks I've relied on for too long to define what I do, who I am, what I'm all about. This, of course, was kind of the point when I decided to make some changes and it's liberating but scary. 'Home' no longer holds a picture in my mind; I remind myself that this means that I'm free to create something new, I promise myself that I'll create something fantastic, and I work to keep that intention.

Yoga

In what I'm thrilled to find is, apparantly, a universal tradition, Finnish cottage-time consists of sleeping in late, eating too much food, taking afternoon naps and, in our case, yoga. To avoid 'mökkihöperö' (cabin fever) we drove into Turku for a great vegetarian meal, a movie and, first, some yoga in the Turku shala. Below, photos for avoiding 'mökkihöperö' becca & mikko style (the last one is me ;).

the summerhouse

For months I've been hearing about 'the summerhouse' - the lake, the sauna, the...sauna...and...did I mention the sauna? In what appears to be common knowledge to everyone except myself, the Finns are crazy about their saunas. For weeks after I arrived in Finland most incoming emails included the question 'So, have you had a sauna yet?'. How did you people all know this? Since arriving, I've learned a great deal about saunas, more, really, than the average person actually should have to know, including this: it's not just an outdated stereotype, the Finns really do like their sauna's. As it was best explained to me, the summerhouse is really just an excuse to have a sauna.

Originally, I was far more curious about the idea of a 'summerhouse', it's such a grand name, did summerhouse mean cottage cottage or Muskoka cottage? After a while, though, I cared less about the building and more about the sauna. The idea of voluntarily moving from lovely, warm room to cold lake and back again really didn't seem too appealing but, having had several nights of 'the sauna' I somewhat grudgingly admit that I'm a convert. It's a lovely tradition.

I can also report that 'summerhouse' translates to cottage cottage, as in a proper A-frame, wooden building fronted by a wall of glass windows overlooking the lake and a porch swing that I've made my temporary home. Pictures below.


Me & Hannu being rock people


Eppu & Katsa preparing to brave the lake


Eppu & Katsa rowing & the sauna off in the distance


Shaving

Contrary to what the Finns may think...

This


is NOT a Canadian Goose.

Stockholm

When I was a kid I, like every other girl my age, was ridiculously jealous of Vicki, the Captain's daughter from the tv show 'The Love Boat', because she got to live on a real, live cruise ship. I mean, how cool is that? Turns out, not very.

While it didn't take my fickle, pre-teen mind long to realize that Vicki had a bowl cut, a one way ticket to the land of the very uncool; cruise ships still seemed kind of neat, like a floating summer camp. This was before last weekend's 16 hour overnight ferry ride from Helsinki to Stockholm after which cruiseships, like Vicki, have been stripped of the illusion of coolness.

That's not to mean that it wasn't fun. I can't tell you how surreal it was to enter the disco in the middle of a karaoke cover of Nine Inch Nails' "I want to f* you like an animal" being belted out complete with strong nordic accent. Or how good the feeding frenzy, aka breakfast buffet, was even though they tried to be cute by disguising some kind of crazy fish pate as peanutbutter. And there was tax-free shopping (as they reminded us over and over and over) which we took full advantage of by buying a whole chocolate bar. No, it was all fun, just, not exactly cool is all I'm saying.

We skipped the bingo, magic shows, 23€ buffet dinner, disco, and lounge acts to chill on the top deck much of the time and it was gorgeous. The view presented from the deck as we approached Stockholm in the morning and of the archipelago as we departed in the evening is not something I'll forget anytime soon. Our time in Stockholm itself was lovely and lazy: meandering through the city punctuated by frequent stops in parks, cafes and an amazing vegetarian restaurant overlooking the harbour for a late lunch with the charming Christofer before returning to the boat.

Pictures below. As with the pictures from Turku, these aren't mine (except, of course the ones of Mikko - I took those ;), I'm piggybacking on Mikko's talent again. Enjoy.

Ferry traffic



Taking pictures in Stockholm


Me & Christofer, coffee by the harbour


Christofer and Mikko on the way to Christofer's gallery



Watching the sunset


Sunset from top deck


Arriving in Helsinki, Sunday morning

another hard day as a tourist

Saturday was a day of sightseeing. We began in Naantali which I knew only as home to the President's summerhouse and Moominworld. Moomins are deserving of their own post altogether but, for those reading in the west, they're the equivalent to our Smurfs only infinately better; strangely melancholic but strong and optimistic at the same time. People often have 'their' character, the one they identify most strongly. Growing up with the Smurfs, I had a choice of Smurfette or uh...Smurfette (the only female character whose distinguishing characteristics were limited to her long blond hair, her love for strong smurf, and her disdain for brainy smurf) the Moomins have a far richer cast of characters and they're just amazing, click here if you're curious.

I expected Naantali to be like our Canada's Wonderland/Vaughan area where the amusement park came first and the suburbs built up around it. Instead, Naantali was a gorgeous seaside town with weathered wooden homes, cafes and artisian shops. Moominworld, along with the exasperated parents and overexcited kids that I'm sure accompany it, is relegated to an island slightly offshore from the town.



After Naantali we returned to Turku to visit the castle, old town and have dinner. Unfortunately, the sightseeing was kind of limited to this ferryride across the river. Due to the demands of the increasingly hungry tourist, the castle was closed by the time we got there.



After dinner we headed to the park to say hello to the ocean, play along the shoreline, and bask in the evening sun. It was a very good way to end the day.

a dog show of another nature

My tendancy to judge a city by its dogs was questioned this weekend while visiting Finland’s oldest city, Turku, where I was exposed to another kind of dog show altogether.

The Finnish saying “ulkoiluttaa mäyräkoiraa”, which loosely translates as “taking the dachshund out”, refers to picking up a 12 pack of beer typically called a dachshund because of its shape. As the weekend approaches and the weather holds there is a noticeable increase in the number of dachshunds making the rounds. Last weekend’s visit to Turku coincided with an annual music festival ‘Down the by the laituri (pier)’ held by the river running through the city and, let me tell you, it was a veritable dog exhibition.

I’m beginning to think that it’s just my city that holds an intense dislike for pesky people cluttering up the sidewalks because Turku, like many cities I’ve visited, seems to understand that cities are meant to be lived in as opposed to moved through. Accordingly, those attending the festival weren’t simply allowed to enjoy the public spaces, they were encouraged to. Roads were closed for pedestrian traffic, people lined the riverbank (dachshunds close by), and long lineups for riverboat restaurants were made more bearable by restaurant service while they waited.

Questions about people being ‘allowed’ so close to the river’s edge (what if someone fell in?), public drinking and, my god - is it always so easy to find parking here? were met with patience and a furrowed brow as if to say “What else would you expect?” and I began to feel like a gauche North American. I would expect to park at least 1/2 an hour away, that the areas where we were allowed to have fun to be clearly marked and cordoned off, and a very heavy police presence lest someone lose themself and try to drink in public - in the daytime no less.

In one of those stupid tourist moments, I was thrilled when a woman (who had clearly spent several hours ‘taking out the dog’) bumped into us and was moved to yell “VOI VITTU”. Voi vittu just so happens to be my only Finnish swearword and, although I don't have an exact translation, I know that it is very, VERY bad. Probably the kind of phrase that I would never actually use if I knew what I was saying but damned exciting to hear it in real, live action from the mouth of a real, live Finn and actually know what the heck they were saying because, believe me, THAT doesn't happen very often.