Saturday morning I woke up wondering why I inflicted travelling on myself. Given that I struggle to find my place in my own country, why do I consistently embrace every opportunity to leave? To travel to strange lands where I am, by definition, an outsider? It's something I've given a lot of thought to and I've decided that one of the reasons I love travelling is this: travelling is a stark reminder that everything is temporary, including how I feel. Removed from the comforts and distractions of home, emotions are magnified such that despair really feels like absolute hopelessness, loneliness like complete isolation, and alienation like I don't, and never will, belong. Equally magnified is my awareness of how quickly these feelings can change; the knowledge that despair, loneliness and alienation can be so very quickly followed by a new friend, new sight or a new love.
And this was the case that Saturday. Having decided that I "might as well" fulfill the Parisian tourist requirement of a visit to the Sacre Couer, I descended the metro stairs in the Latin Quarter relieved to escape the cold winter rain - if only for a short time. Exiting the metro in the Montmartre area I was met by the same cold winter rain; however, it was to a whole new world that I emerged - one marked by an atmosphere of pure, undeniable celebration.
I heard the difference between the Paris I left and the Paris I was about to enter before I saw it in the form of children's laughter. As I ascended the metro stairs, this sound was quickly followed by the sight of twinkling fairy lights decorating a small merry go-round. The streets were packed with couples wandering arm in arm purchasing cheese, seafood, desserts and other delicacies for what I imagined were Saturday evening dinner parties comprised of well-dressed Parisian sophisticates. Revelers wearing jaunty Santa hats and carrying bags of wine and pastries announced themselves at friends' doorways before pushing open doors to reveal hidden, candle lit courtyards before swinging them shut, away from my prying eyes.
Cafe's were packed to overflowing and patrons filled the patios chattering happily with only their red noses and ruddy cheeks belying the cold. As I wandered cobblestoned streets bedecked in twinkling Christmas lights, I passed under a banner happily proclaiming it to be 2002 at the same time as a trio sporting striped knit hats jumped on their bicycles to meet with their evening plans. Watching them peddle away, their laughter wafting back to me, I was filled with wonder. Where a few hours earlier I had been counting the days until I could go home, now I wondered how I could ever leave.
I bought my dinner and wandered up the hill to the Sacre Couer where I found a seat that afforded me a view of Paris spread out before me. As I sat in the cold night's rain, the Pantheon directly ahead and the Eiffel Tower twinkling to my right, I was kept warm by a sense of happiness, well being, and having come home. As I ate, I thought of this: THIS is why I travel. Because in the space of a few hours depression can change to elation, boredom to wonder, and alienation to a sense of belonging. In the time it took to walk up a flight of stairs, I was changed.
Travelling is at all times a dare to the universe, an expression of your willingness to be surprised, and an affirmation of your confidence that, regardless of what comes your way, you will be ok. It is these fleeting moments that turn tourists into travel junkies and that impell me to leave the comforts of home and open myself up to alienation, loneliness and depression knowing full well that new friends, new sights and new loves may be as close as a metro stop away.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Friday, August 19, 2005
lucky me
When I changed jobs a few months ago, it was a decision that I struggled with. I loved my old job but commuting 3 hours a day was getting to me. It was ok for the first year and bearable the second but slid rapidly into intolerable in the third year. I opted against a move to 'the Hammer' and, instead, began looking for a job closer to home. Which I found. My new job, 20 minutes from home, happens to be in the general area where I grew up. A suburb large enough that I'm not backtracking on myself but small enough that I'm occasionally surprised by random ghosts from my past - like my drive through my old 'hood a few days ago.
When I think of the encounters of these last few months a vivid picture forms in my mind: one of those DNA ladders - two separate streams of energy periodically connecting at discrete, finite points. I'm beginning to think that this may be the reason I was called to take this job: so that the now-me would have the opportunity to cross paths with the then-me.
In another installment from my 'suburban encounter' series, today I ran into my sister's ex-boyfriend from highschool. He looked the same but different, which is probably exactly how I looked to him, but I recognized him immediately. B. was a sweet, naive, eager-to-please, ignored boy who, despite having the best of intentions, always messed up. This combination frustrated my family while, at the same time, endeared him to us.
B. was the boy who, excited at being involved in our family Christmas, yelled out "How to give head" as the answer in a game of cherades involving extended family and friends. He's also the boy who made my mother and I cry when, presented with a crappy, grocery store cake for his 16th birthday, he gleefully cried out "this is my first birthday cake". How can someone reach the age of 16 without ever having been presented with a birthday cake?
I always remember this when I think of B. So much potential but absolutely no support. As much as my sisters and I can find reason to complain about the way we were raised and the choices my parents made, something went ok. I was reminded of this again today when I ran into B. Living with his mother and her boyfriend in the same neighbourhood we grew up in, working in construction, weighed down by massive personal debt incurred by an unfaithful ex-girlfriend, talking optimistically about a patent he's developing that should bring in the big bucks...we're not that.
I don't mean "that" to sound as judgemental as it may. What I mean is, my sisters and I have done so much and moved so far. When I think of us as a pack, I experience a surge of energy marked by independence, strength and fearlessness. If one of us were this way, I could accept it as a personality quirk; however, we're each of us like this - albeit in our own unique way. At different times in our lives we may have been ignored, underappreciated, and underestimated; and we may have felt unloved but I don't think for a minute that we ever were. Regardless of what churns about in my conscious mind, I think I know that at a very intrinsic, core level I am backed by fierce, supportive love and I think that is what separates me from B. Just that.
When I think of the encounters of these last few months a vivid picture forms in my mind: one of those DNA ladders - two separate streams of energy periodically connecting at discrete, finite points. I'm beginning to think that this may be the reason I was called to take this job: so that the now-me would have the opportunity to cross paths with the then-me.
In another installment from my 'suburban encounter' series, today I ran into my sister's ex-boyfriend from highschool. He looked the same but different, which is probably exactly how I looked to him, but I recognized him immediately. B. was a sweet, naive, eager-to-please, ignored boy who, despite having the best of intentions, always messed up. This combination frustrated my family while, at the same time, endeared him to us.
B. was the boy who, excited at being involved in our family Christmas, yelled out "How to give head" as the answer in a game of cherades involving extended family and friends. He's also the boy who made my mother and I cry when, presented with a crappy, grocery store cake for his 16th birthday, he gleefully cried out "this is my first birthday cake". How can someone reach the age of 16 without ever having been presented with a birthday cake?
I always remember this when I think of B. So much potential but absolutely no support. As much as my sisters and I can find reason to complain about the way we were raised and the choices my parents made, something went ok. I was reminded of this again today when I ran into B. Living with his mother and her boyfriend in the same neighbourhood we grew up in, working in construction, weighed down by massive personal debt incurred by an unfaithful ex-girlfriend, talking optimistically about a patent he's developing that should bring in the big bucks...we're not that.
I don't mean "that" to sound as judgemental as it may. What I mean is, my sisters and I have done so much and moved so far. When I think of us as a pack, I experience a surge of energy marked by independence, strength and fearlessness. If one of us were this way, I could accept it as a personality quirk; however, we're each of us like this - albeit in our own unique way. At different times in our lives we may have been ignored, underappreciated, and underestimated; and we may have felt unloved but I don't think for a minute that we ever were. Regardless of what churns about in my conscious mind, I think I know that at a very intrinsic, core level I am backed by fierce, supportive love and I think that is what separates me from B. Just that.
bad lady
If I knew how to create sections, this would most definately fall under the 'not-so-yogic' section...
This morning on my way to work I was caught behind a woman driving a car with the license plate "Chiken". And I hated her. I have uncharitable feelings for anyone who happens to be in the car in front of me especially those who, like her, don't use it as the passing lane but as the 'drive exactly the speed limit' lane - but I had particularly strong feelings for her.
Being stuck behind her, irriating as it was, was exacerbated by her license plate. I was being taunted - but taunted by someone who couldn't even live up to their claims themselves. I passed her though & as I did suggested she change lanes. She ignored me but it wasn't my problem anymore...
This morning on my way to work I was caught behind a woman driving a car with the license plate "Chiken". And I hated her. I have uncharitable feelings for anyone who happens to be in the car in front of me especially those who, like her, don't use it as the passing lane but as the 'drive exactly the speed limit' lane - but I had particularly strong feelings for her.
Being stuck behind her, irriating as it was, was exacerbated by her license plate. I was being taunted - but taunted by someone who couldn't even live up to their claims themselves. I passed her though & as I did suggested she change lanes. She ignored me but it wasn't my problem anymore...
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
this is where i grew up
I grew up in a small, one street town nestled in the city suburbs at a time when suburbs were more groupings of small, independent towns than sprawling acres of prefab houses connected by donut shops and gas stations. My 'village in the city' (the city limits sign's words, not mine) was comprised of the usual suspects: a barber shop, bakery, convenience store, greasy spoon, church, funeral home, grade school and high school organized in various configurations around the main street appropriately named Queen Street (what else?).
Each of these places came attached to a name: Lou's Convenience, Terry's Diner, Patty C's Mexican Food - and there actually was a Lou, Terry, and Patty C. I knew their stories; was shocked when Lou was robbed and beat in his convenience store and sad when Patty C contracted cancer. Do you imagine that kids are able to do this now? Point out Wal-Mart, HMV or 7-11 in the street? I can't do it here in the city and have no quarrel with that but it makes me sad to think about growing up without that kind of context or connection to my community.
I had the opportunity to drive through that town today - from one end of Queen Street to the other. It was supposed to be a shortcut to the highway but ended up a slow, meandering drive down memory lane.
The Olde Barber House restaurant is still there at one end of town. It seemed so posh to me when I was young. Unspeakably elegant and out of reach. I remember thinking that I would know I had 'made it' when I was able to go there for dinner. I still haven't eaten there but I prefer it that way. If it turned out to be a small town affair with dodgy food it would ruin so much.
The strange, Bavarian-style house that seemed so out of place with its whitewashed walls and heavy brown beams was still there and it still looks out of place. The church parking lot we used to cut through to head down to the ice rink, swimming pool, park and arguably Ontario's best tobbogan hill elicited memories, not of any of these activities, but of thick slabs of bread dripping with honey obtained in that same parking lot during our summer claim to fame - the Bread and Honey Festival.
Lou's Convenience holds strong it's place in town. I didn't notice whether the bakery we used to run to in our Sunday morning PJ's for croissants to be devoured in bed was still there, I was too surprised that the sub shop had become a mediterranean restaurant. That strange knick knack store in the old house (dusty, second hand ceramic moulds, abused books etc) that I never really saw anyone enter is still there. How have they managed that? The adult video store is going strong - that, I understand.
The IGA has become a Shoppers Drug Mart but Cagneys Restaurant, mom's Scotiabank and Two Guys From Italy pizza shop haven't changed a bit. Not even their signs. The next landmark literally caught my breath: the public library. If I were in a movie, the violins would have started their poignant song at that point. That library was where I learned to read, scared myself silly on Dracula books, and borrowed Young Miss magazine to learn how to apply makeup when I should have been researching high school papers. What if there were no library? What kind of person would I have become?
Robinsons IDA, provider of my very first 'real' job is still there. So is the seamstress where I had my prom dress made and the skateboarding store which used seem so anti-establishment but is probably quite pedestrain. Terry's Restaurant has moved on but the Veterinarian's where we would bring our lovely, loved cocker spaniel Timothy Huff Markey is still on the corner that marks, for me, the end of the 'nice' part of Queen Street. The stores beyond that point haven't changed either in that they are still housed in run down, grey buildings and maintain the same forlorn appearance now as they did when I was young.
I've wondered what it would be like to 'go home' - what that would feel like. It wasn't what I thought. It was a sentimental drive, I did expect that. But it was sentimental in a great, fond way that kept a smile on my face the whole way through. What I didn't expect was that I would feel proud. But I did. Proud of what? I don't really know. Proud of what the town was then, and now. Proud that so many of the stores have been able to maintain their hold in this time of big-box mania. And although it didn't really occur to me at the time I think a part of it was pride at being raised in such a nice town, pride at the person I was then and even prouder at the person I brought back to it. It was a good drive.
Each of these places came attached to a name: Lou's Convenience, Terry's Diner, Patty C's Mexican Food - and there actually was a Lou, Terry, and Patty C. I knew their stories; was shocked when Lou was robbed and beat in his convenience store and sad when Patty C contracted cancer. Do you imagine that kids are able to do this now? Point out Wal-Mart, HMV or 7-11 in the street? I can't do it here in the city and have no quarrel with that but it makes me sad to think about growing up without that kind of context or connection to my community.
I had the opportunity to drive through that town today - from one end of Queen Street to the other. It was supposed to be a shortcut to the highway but ended up a slow, meandering drive down memory lane.
The Olde Barber House restaurant is still there at one end of town. It seemed so posh to me when I was young. Unspeakably elegant and out of reach. I remember thinking that I would know I had 'made it' when I was able to go there for dinner. I still haven't eaten there but I prefer it that way. If it turned out to be a small town affair with dodgy food it would ruin so much.
The strange, Bavarian-style house that seemed so out of place with its whitewashed walls and heavy brown beams was still there and it still looks out of place. The church parking lot we used to cut through to head down to the ice rink, swimming pool, park and arguably Ontario's best tobbogan hill elicited memories, not of any of these activities, but of thick slabs of bread dripping with honey obtained in that same parking lot during our summer claim to fame - the Bread and Honey Festival.
Lou's Convenience holds strong it's place in town. I didn't notice whether the bakery we used to run to in our Sunday morning PJ's for croissants to be devoured in bed was still there, I was too surprised that the sub shop had become a mediterranean restaurant. That strange knick knack store in the old house (dusty, second hand ceramic moulds, abused books etc) that I never really saw anyone enter is still there. How have they managed that? The adult video store is going strong - that, I understand.
The IGA has become a Shoppers Drug Mart but Cagneys Restaurant, mom's Scotiabank and Two Guys From Italy pizza shop haven't changed a bit. Not even their signs. The next landmark literally caught my breath: the public library. If I were in a movie, the violins would have started their poignant song at that point. That library was where I learned to read, scared myself silly on Dracula books, and borrowed Young Miss magazine to learn how to apply makeup when I should have been researching high school papers. What if there were no library? What kind of person would I have become?
Robinsons IDA, provider of my very first 'real' job is still there. So is the seamstress where I had my prom dress made and the skateboarding store which used seem so anti-establishment but is probably quite pedestrain. Terry's Restaurant has moved on but the Veterinarian's where we would bring our lovely, loved cocker spaniel Timothy Huff Markey is still on the corner that marks, for me, the end of the 'nice' part of Queen Street. The stores beyond that point haven't changed either in that they are still housed in run down, grey buildings and maintain the same forlorn appearance now as they did when I was young.
I've wondered what it would be like to 'go home' - what that would feel like. It wasn't what I thought. It was a sentimental drive, I did expect that. But it was sentimental in a great, fond way that kept a smile on my face the whole way through. What I didn't expect was that I would feel proud. But I did. Proud of what? I don't really know. Proud of what the town was then, and now. Proud that so many of the stores have been able to maintain their hold in this time of big-box mania. And although it didn't really occur to me at the time I think a part of it was pride at being raised in such a nice town, pride at the person I was then and even prouder at the person I brought back to it. It was a good drive.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Meeting Iain
"You must do yoga" he said, putting out his hand to stop her as she made her way out of the coffee shop. She stopped, surprised at the interruption to her reverie. "What?" she asked politely. "You must do an aweful lot of yoga" he repeated and then elaborated "or something. The way you can sit there for hours, crosslegged and then get up and just walk away - you must be very flexible and I thought you must do yoga or something". She understood. He'd noticed her sitting crosslegged on the couch reading the Saturday papers. "Yes" she replied. "I do a lot of yoga". "It's really quite remarkable" he continued "the way you sit so still reading with the light passing over your face - you're relaly quite lovely". She laughed at this and repeated "it must be the yoga" before wishing him a good weekend and carrying on.
She'd noticed him before - in fact - he'd become part of a pleasing community in her mind. Always the same trio of early readers each Saturday morning in the coffee shop, always in the same places - she on the couch, the man who'd talked at a small round table by the window and another man, the one who gets up several times to walk down the narrow, creaking steps to refill his coffee, he sits in another armchair across the room. They'd never talked, in fact they'd barely made eye contact or exchanged smiles but she took pleasure in the consistency of thier presence and had made them friends in her mind. It struck her on more than one occasion that this sameness, this shared space and silent company was enough to pass for community - at least in a big city like hers.
She'd wondered about the man who'd stopped her to talk. An older gentleman. She was never good at the age game. Instead, she divided people into probable roles that accompany various ages. This person would fit firmly in the 'grandfather' category, with his silver hair, friendly blue eyes and warm voice. Because of this, she was able to respond with warmth and humour to his question instead of her the flustered, embarassed, eyes-averted bumbling answer she would have provided had he belonged to any of the categories falling between 'high school' and 'grandfather'.
She had wondered about him. He was always writing. What was he writing? As she left the coffee shop to continue on her way, she couldn't help but wonder whether things would be different next week. He'd changed the dynamic of the threesome by talking - would it be awkward? Would they start having actual conversations and move the friendship from her mind into reality or would they settle back into the old pattern? Then she remembered. She was on a kayak trip next weekend. She hoped he wouldn't take it personally - this is the way her mind worked.
She'd noticed him before - in fact - he'd become part of a pleasing community in her mind. Always the same trio of early readers each Saturday morning in the coffee shop, always in the same places - she on the couch, the man who'd talked at a small round table by the window and another man, the one who gets up several times to walk down the narrow, creaking steps to refill his coffee, he sits in another armchair across the room. They'd never talked, in fact they'd barely made eye contact or exchanged smiles but she took pleasure in the consistency of thier presence and had made them friends in her mind. It struck her on more than one occasion that this sameness, this shared space and silent company was enough to pass for community - at least in a big city like hers.
She'd wondered about the man who'd stopped her to talk. An older gentleman. She was never good at the age game. Instead, she divided people into probable roles that accompany various ages. This person would fit firmly in the 'grandfather' category, with his silver hair, friendly blue eyes and warm voice. Because of this, she was able to respond with warmth and humour to his question instead of her the flustered, embarassed, eyes-averted bumbling answer she would have provided had he belonged to any of the categories falling between 'high school' and 'grandfather'.
She had wondered about him. He was always writing. What was he writing? As she left the coffee shop to continue on her way, she couldn't help but wonder whether things would be different next week. He'd changed the dynamic of the threesome by talking - would it be awkward? Would they start having actual conversations and move the friendship from her mind into reality or would they settle back into the old pattern? Then she remembered. She was on a kayak trip next weekend. She hoped he wouldn't take it personally - this is the way her mind worked.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
F* you knee
Now, I'm no expert in yogic philosophy but I'm pretty sure that telling your body parts to f* off and really, really meaning it violates more than one of the basic tenants of the practice. The offending pose was Janu Sirsasana C where, far from embracing "the lovely moment" (as Vanda Scaravelli refers to the asana in her gorgeous book Awakening the Spine), I sat, eyes millimetres from my knee, fighting with myself.
That seems to be my way lately. Angry, impatient, bad tempered. I think it has a lot to do with what's happening physically in my practice. My hips have always been tight. When I first began practicing I compared them to cement, moving into many of the asanas felt like trying to encourage cement blocks into motion. In the last few weeks, what had been a very slow process has gained momentum and I've been able to access a deeper place in many of the hip opening asanas then ever before.
As I gain flexibility, Supta Kurmasana has helped bring about a complete revelation. In the past I've had the experience of grief and spontaneously bursting into tears, I'm accustomed to sadness, but when I'm in Supta Kurmasana I access feelings of pure, white, blinding fury. I'm not really a fury-prone person, it's fascinating. I thought that what was stored as part of my physical memory would emerge as depression, loss, saddness etc. It never occured to me that it could be anger.
I've begun to crave the release that comes from getting deeper into the pose, but I have to learn to better handle the emotions that accompany it. It's one thing to pursue a release of held emotions through the physical but it's irresponsible of me to do so without a better means of accompanying the 'stuff' that gets churned up in the process.
That seems to be my way lately. Angry, impatient, bad tempered. I think it has a lot to do with what's happening physically in my practice. My hips have always been tight. When I first began practicing I compared them to cement, moving into many of the asanas felt like trying to encourage cement blocks into motion. In the last few weeks, what had been a very slow process has gained momentum and I've been able to access a deeper place in many of the hip opening asanas then ever before.
As I gain flexibility, Supta Kurmasana has helped bring about a complete revelation. In the past I've had the experience of grief and spontaneously bursting into tears, I'm accustomed to sadness, but when I'm in Supta Kurmasana I access feelings of pure, white, blinding fury. I'm not really a fury-prone person, it's fascinating. I thought that what was stored as part of my physical memory would emerge as depression, loss, saddness etc. It never occured to me that it could be anger.
I've begun to crave the release that comes from getting deeper into the pose, but I have to learn to better handle the emotions that accompany it. It's one thing to pursue a release of held emotions through the physical but it's irresponsible of me to do so without a better means of accompanying the 'stuff' that gets churned up in the process.
Friday, August 12, 2005
virtual immersion
"Boy, it really is a mess out there this afternoon" - officially my least favourite phrase of the day. In this case the speaker referred to traffic but, really, could that be the prelude to anything good? The thought that it could be a karmic payback for doing absolutely nothing at work today was quickly chased away by the following insight after listening to a Stone's song "Hmmm, they really do suck". That's right folks. And I stand by it.
I called my father to see what he was up on this rainy friday evening - it's not so strange a question, his social life usually outshines mine. He asked in return what I was doing tonight. Nothing. Then he asked what my friends are doing tonight and I really couldn't think of what friends he was referring to. I bluffed my way through an answer, hung up and stared off into space thinking...could it be that I've been more involved in keeping up with blogs than I have with friends? Yup. That can't be good. But really, blog-friends are just so easy.
Having duly noted this phenom, I will now commence with my plans to stay in for the night and talk to...well, no one. Hey, I talk all day and I'm tired from last night's insomnia brought to you by the letter S.
I called my father to see what he was up on this rainy friday evening - it's not so strange a question, his social life usually outshines mine. He asked in return what I was doing tonight. Nothing. Then he asked what my friends are doing tonight and I really couldn't think of what friends he was referring to. I bluffed my way through an answer, hung up and stared off into space thinking...could it be that I've been more involved in keeping up with blogs than I have with friends? Yup. That can't be good. But really, blog-friends are just so easy.
Having duly noted this phenom, I will now commence with my plans to stay in for the night and talk to...well, no one. Hey, I talk all day and I'm tired from last night's insomnia brought to you by the letter S.
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