coffee conundrum

Anyone else feel uncomfortable ordering coffee these days? As if learning to speak 'starbucks' wasn't difficult enough, the shop where I get my coffee has begun renaming its coffees after the region the bean was grown in: Rwanda, Ethiopia, Columbia.

The result, however unintentional, is that every morning I squirm uncomfortably as I order a 'Tall Rwandan' or 'Medium Ethiopian' to go. Doesn't the US grow coffee? I'd feel a lot more comfortable ordering an 'Extra-rich American' to get me going in the morning...

my yoga teacher made me cry today...

...it was in a good way but how do you explain that? Fears, doubts, blocks, obstinance and resistance - they all reared their ugly heads during practice this morning and my teacher called me on it. Upsetting, but good because he was right and I wouldn't even have noticed it otherwise.

If I were to transcribe my thoughts from practice this morning they would read as "nope...not going to...can't do that, CAN'T do that...not gonna do it...". After my umpteenth half-assed attempts, my teacher tucked down beside me and observed that I wasn't trusting him as a teacher or myself as a practitioner, that he knows my practice and has seen what I'm capable of achieving but I need to stop pulling back so I can let myself move forward.

Essentially, he told me to trust, have faith and let go - and that's why I cried, those are hard freaking things for me to do. An interesting mirror, and by interesting, I really mean ugly. I didn't realize that there was trust missing - but there is. I didn't realize that I was full of 'can't do it' - but I am. And I didn't realize that as much as I'm working to move forward - I'm working just as hard to hold back.

Making the unconscious conscious - that's good stuff.

I heart yoga.

and speaking of boyscouts...

...they were out in full force this weekend. My morning trip to the coffee shop was less a meandering wander, as per usual, and more a minefield of khaki munchkins. Their handlers, the parents, must have attended some sort of "apple hawking" workshop this year, the whole process was oddly organized with many of them doubling up. While carrying the benefits of providing company for their child and someone for them to roll their eyes at; it led to a conundrum for well-meaning citizens like myself: which cute, squeaky voiced child to donate to?

At first, I was unperturbed - I had strategies of my own. I packed my pockets with change, carried my apple high, and brandished my tiny white "I donated" square with aplomb mistakenly assuming that the latter two would act as my protective shield. Unfortunately, no one had informed the canvassers-masquerading-as-scouts what the square meant and I was accosted every few feet by not one, but two, army green donation boxes thrust hopefully at me. Predictably, I ended up donating to both.

Last night was different, it was the older scouts holding sentry outside the video and convenience stores, the ones who had outgrown scouts but don't know it yet. Or maybe they know it but their parents don't. Maybe last spring when sign ups were posted they were still scout-appropriate without indication that, come fall, they would have morphed into raucous, loud and, dare I say it, obnoxious preteens.

Thinking about this reminded me again of how quickly we change, not just the scouts, all of us. The overgrown scouts with their uneasy guffaws and awkward limbs were easy to spot but the rest of us? We're not so different.

Within the space of a few short months obsessions fade, clothing sizes change and tolerable situations change to intolerable and back again. Without the obvious reminders that accompany some changes - such as puberty - it can be easy to forget how fluid we are. That no matter what our age and stage, the only constant we can be sure of is the fact that we're going to change and that, at times, the transition will be so gradual that we may not even notice it ourselves.

things i learned in southeast asia

• That size doesn't matter but the label sometimes does. The same teensy weensy fish that was fascinating one second put me into a full blown panic attack the next when I was informed that it was a reefer shark
• The locals are fine, it's the people in uniforms you need to watch out for
• While riding atop the neck of an elephant may look cool, it is very, very itchy
• That the poorest country financially can be the richest in spirit
• That I'll get what I need when I need it - pay attention
• That although yells and threats may provoke action in other parts of the world, here they just make me look stupid. The sooner I learn to laugh, tease, and cajole - the better
• That I absolutely and truly and totally am never alone
• That it is terrible for my self-esteem to shop in SEAsia - "We no have your size, hee hee"
• That if I don't ask, I may never find out
• That it's best to see things with my own eyes and make my own decisions instead of accepting the reports of others
• That not everyone is a 'kindred spirit' but a surprising number are and I'll meet them when least expected
• Be patient - the boat will come sometime between 6am-10am.
• Also, be flexible - sometimes the boat just won't come and I'll have to take a bus.

a busy idiot or idiotically busy?

I've been thinking about being busy lately. I've been feeling overwhelmed, burnt out and stressed out and it's made me wonder whether I actually am that busy. Maybe the real problem is that I just don't manage my time that well? Or that I have incredibly poor stress-management skills?

Everyone is busy, people have written books about how busy we are; I should know, I've got one of them sitting in my bookcase, unread, at home. I remembered this book as I sat on the subway rushing from work to nightclass and my very next thought, that I should read the book, was quickly chased by the following promise: I will, just as soon as I can find the time....

At this point I caught myself, had one of those 'did I REALLY just say that' moments, and gave thanks that the conversation was a mental one. The up-side of being too busy to socialize - no one else is privy to my increasingly idiotic trains of thought ;)

i heart georgian bay

A few years ago I read a passage in "The English Patient" by Michael Ondaatje that literally brought my hand to my chest and sent me into one of those foggy eyed reveries that accompanies good memories. That I happened to be in Thailand at the time may have exaggerated my response to a small degree but I've never forgotten that somewhere in the 300-odd pages of text there was a passage that communicated 'home' to me in a way that I've never been able to put to paper.

I was reminded of this passage for the umpteenth time a few days ago while on our annual 'last time out this season' kayak trip. I've been tripping through the park we were in for 10 years and, as we moved through the water, I couldn't help but connect that island...this rock...that site... to memories from years past. My first trip there with M., the boy about whom I'll always wonder 'what if?'; that spot in the middle of the bay where V., too drunk to wait, leaned herself over the side of our teetering canoe and peed right then and there; that cliff where the boys insisted on cliff diving, scaring any training about handling head and neck injuries right out of my mind; and that campsite where G. and I spent our last weekend.

Yesterday, I borrowed "The English Patient" from the library to reacquaint myself with the passage that spoke so strongly to me of home that it stayed with me all these years. It took some time to find it but, eventually, I was successful. There it was, buried on page 296 in a book of 301 pages:

"I am sick of Europe, Clara. I want to come home. To your small cabin and pink rock in Georgian Bay".

When I found it, I had to read it twice - I was that surprised. "That's it?", I asked myself. Then I read it again and nodded to myself. That's it. The years of my life are spelled out across the sparkling pink rock that is Northern Ontario.

Summers spent at summer camp learning to canoe, kayak and pack enough belongings to last a week in a tiny little bedroll, never once suspecting that these would all be skills I would bring with me into adulthood. Weeks spent at Kilbear Provincial Park, a place I visited again this summer and realized how the years had passed: that the island I used to be afraid to swim to was nothing more than a large step away; that teenagers still climb the cliffs to sneak cigarettes and flirt with summer romance; and that the tradition of graffiti rock has survived only now the dates read "Smith family 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003" instead of the "1980, 1981, 1982" that accompanied my visits. With time has come new traditions like 'the last time out' kayak trip with my Aunt and Cousin last weekend where I think I surprised my Aunt by replying "None" to the question "How many children?".

In the city buildings are torn down and built over, forests are replaced by Walmarts, and friends move away but up north that tree just gets bigger, the islands hold their place, and that warm spot in the sun - the one on the rock with the built in chair at site 321 - that warm spot will still be there next year.

apples

It's boyscout season and I have apples. I have the apples I bought at the greengrocers this morning and I have the 6 extra apples I bought on the way home after succumbing to the annual boyscout fundraising drive.

I do this every year. Once I have accumulated a few apples I tell myself that I'm going to stop, that I'll be stronger next time but then, a kerchief-clad gradeschooler flanked by a protective parent takes a few tetative steps towards me and before I know it, I'm pulling out my wallet.

I'm biased with my donations. I seek out the shy ones, the ones hugging the wall or being pushed forward by parents eager to get rid of the damn apples and return home to the weekend papers. If the parents are shy as well, if I detect that desperate "maybe I can just buy all of the apples myself and spare us both this agony" glimmer in thier eye - I buy two.

I recognize my patronage for what it is: a perverse attempt to compensate for my own early childhood fundraising trauma. As a child so painfully shy that conversations with my grandparents set off 'stranger danger' panic attacks, I hated girlguides and I really hated selling cookies.

Every year I would pair up with the same friend and we would make the rounds pushing our chocolate and vanilla junk. My friend was an outgoing chatterbox with matching ribbons in her pigtails. I was toungetied, unable to lift my self-styled, unevenly pigtailed head to make eye contact, and usually returned home with a full box of cookies.

And so, for every shy child and reluctant parent out there, I buy apples. I buy more apples than I could possibly need, I buy apples that I can't even identify, and I will spend the rest of the morning searching my recipe books for things to make that require lots of apples but very little talent because I can't cook to save my life. But that's another story.

ten temporary things

I was mock cleaning this weekend (you know, moving piles from one place to another) and I came across an article I'd saved entitled "Be fabulously disgraceful at 70". The side bar to this article contained a list of '10 temporary things' which I cut out with the intention of creating my own list one day. I haven't quite gotten around to my personalized list yet but there's no rush, the original did just fine:

youth
romantic infactuation
six-pack abs
your job
your troubles
professional importance
relationships
debt
hemmorrhoids
life itself

I'm curious, then, what could be thought of as permanent things...

wanted: kitty cat play date

I think my cat is disappointed in me.

The realization hit me tonight as I was rummaging through my fridge, scavenging for food...no cat. If there's one thing I can usually count on, it's that I'll be greeted by the sight of his crazy-sideways run rushing to meet me at the door each night when I come home. Usually. Tonight I moved around my apartment, meowing-dervish-free and, when I thought about it, I realized that last night was sans cat as well. Although my first inclination was to go and look for him, it was my second inclination that won - the one that said "Hey, this is nice! He's not going anywhere, finish your dinner". My reaction, or lack of, wasn't quite as blasé as it may sound, I knew he was in the apartment somewhere and it was kind of nice to NOT trip about the apartment for once.

It didn't take long to find him. As I turned the corner to move from the kitchen to the bedroom I stopped in my tracks: there he was. Looking at me. Any teenager who has broken curfew knows ''the look'. The one you get when concern has faded to relief before turning into disappointment; that reproachful, wordless stare that says "How could you?" and "I expected more ". Apparently my cat knows 'the look' too. And he wasn't in a forgiving mood; my conciliatory approach was met by his hasty retreat beneath the bed.

I retreated to think about this surprising turn of events. My cat was mad at me. What to do, what to do? I ran the possibilities through my mind. Food? Check. Water? Check. What else is there? Having been raised in the land of dogs, I'm pretty fluent in dog but cat? Now that's a language that is still foreign to me. Language barrier aside, as I thought about the past week I realized that I don't need to be fluent in cat to know that the fact that I was able to count our human-cat interactions over the last several weeks in minutes was NOT a good thing. I've been ignoring my cat, no wonder he's upset with me.

For some inane reason, this realization reminded me of the mid-80's brat pack movie "The Breakfast Club". The one where Molly Ringwald played the 'prom queen', Judd Nelson 'the delinquent', Emilio Estevez 'the jock', and Ally Sheedy...well, I forget her label...but that's kind of the point. When all is said and done, when lunch has been eaten, drugs imbibed and romantic ties forged, the characters share the source of their collective angst: their parents.

One is abusive, another has high expectations and yet another uses their daughter as a pawn in their divorce. All of this pales in comparison, however, to the pain incurred by Ally Sheedy at the hands of her parents. When pressured to share her story with the group, Ally Sheedy looks up from under her shaggy bangs, pale skin shining luminously, eyes lined with heavy black kohl and dejectedly whispers "they ignore me". She wins the 'whose parents are worst' contest, hands down. Physical abuse, overwhelming expectations, messy divorce - none could stand up to the stark reality of being ignored.

I'm living with the kitty cat equivalent of Ally Sheedy. What I think are random (and lets be honest, irritating) meows are probably cries for help; anguished pleas to the birds flying by and people passing below in the hopes that someone, anyone, will hear his pain: "she ignores me".

I'll have to start closing the windows ;)

what is Peru like?

Worn stone steps holding the mountain sun's warmth.

Church after church after church, each bearing their own grand staircase and prefaced by a central square laying green and beautiful at their feet. Children in uniforms walking home at 6:30pm - are they really returning from school so late? The mountains hugging the town are toppped by a crystal clear blue sky. Laughing kids, blessedly indifferent men, chiming bells, taxis honking for attention, and business savvy young touts fill the square. The touts spout facts about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky when they think I'm American and Toronto and Ottawa before quickly running dry on facts when they learn of my true Nationality. Granola that is actually just puffed wheat - sugar crisps without the sugar. Steep stone steets flanked by white buildings. Doorways revealing art, bright textiles, restarants, and unexpected entryways into grand courtyards with more of the same. Tourists of all kinds - I like the ones fully decked out in their jungle-trekking finery the best.

Warm spots in the sun that quickly turn cold when the sun sets behind the mountains as it just has....

Cusco, May 2004

overheard in Toronto

While basking in the sun on Moonbeam patio this morning...

young girl to her father: "Daddy, are you ever going to see Michelle again?"
father: "Not on purpose"

Made me laugh.

the 'i can't even...' game

I was thinking about Gwen Stefani on my drive into work this morning.

It was one of those "and I can't even..." mental conversations where I look at the accomplishments of others and compare them to my own lack of by realizing that I can't even (insert babystep to the accomplishment here). I'll give you an example: when I heard that my friend's 27 year old boyfriend bought his second house, one of my first thoughts was "Geez, I can't even commit to a magazine subscription at my rented apartment and this kid is on his second house?".

Back to Gwen. I was thinking about how she'd created her 'L.A.M.B.' clothing line around her favourite words: love, angel, music, baby and I thought "Geez, I can't even pick my four favourite words let alone design a clothing line, run a company, and sell millions of records" and I felt bad. At first. Then, the more I thought about it the dumber it seemed.

The ability to select four favourite words is NOT an accomplishment that I need to add to my (admittedly small) repertoire. In fact, it seems kind of gradeschool-ish; like picking my four favourite friendship pins or scratch 'n' sniff stickers. Out of the hundreds and hundreds of glorious words at my disposal where would I even begin narrowing the possibilities down and why would I want to limit myself that way? What would my criteria be? Mood? Temperature? Atmosphere? Activity?

The beauty - the pure, decadent luxury of language is that I can be unhappy or distraught, cool or freezing, happy or ecstatic and, although they fall into the same broad categories, they have wildly different meanings. I love words. I don't want to be able to pick my four favourites, it would be like asking a parent to pick their favourite child. In fact, NOT picking my four favourite words is my accomplishment.

But just for the record, if I were to create my list, the first to be voted onto my word-island would be Zephyr which, in my opinion, beats all four of Gwen's somewhat-simple favourites hands down anyway ;)

disappointment

"Do you know about the pre-cambrian shield he asked?", her mind scrambled desperately through her options. Could she say yes? Would he believe her if she did? She knew enough now to know that questions like this inevitably led to a backstory followed by another seemingly innocent question leading to even more explanation all of which contributed to a very long story rife with meandering tangents best titled "I don't give a sh*t".

Over the weeks she had created a game where, as she watched his mouth form the words of the story she never asked to hear, she tried to trace the conversation (if it could be called that) back to it's roots question by question. Today's lecture began as usual with her only contribution to the conversation: "How was your week?" which was all he needed to launch into his Saturday morning monologue. This week he had visited the Sharon Temple and she groaned inwardly when he named the place - she'd never heard of it. Of course, he asked, and as she replied in the negative, she eyed her morning papers longingly knowing what was to come: a surprised "Oh, you don't know where the Sharon temple is?" and a description of how to get there town by agonizingly small town; one town was built using the 'board and beam' style unique to Ontario and his question "Oh, you don't know what 'board and beam' is?" was followed by a detailed description of the style, chosen because of the hardness of the wood which came from the pre-cambrian shield... at which point she interrupted him, conjured up a breakfast date with friends and made her escape.

It's not that she didn't mean it when she asked him how his week was, his weekly adventures were part of what had charmed her when they first met. She felt that each story he shared contained a lesson: stop and smell the roses, be curious, look at familiar sites with new eyes, explore, read, learn...this was back when they were new friends. Before his comments about her 'nice ass', before he started referring to her in the third person while she was sitting right in front of him 'and what does R. think?', before his probing questions about her childhood, before he started caring so much about what she thought.

Why did men have to be so predictable? The opposite sexes were never allowed to just be friends, they were a FEMALE and a MALE first, friends second. I. was more than twice her age, she knew his comments about her appearance were harmless but they were irritating all the same. Why the f* did it matter? Why did he feel the need to comment at all? It was so freaking predictable, exept she hadn't expected it. She hadn't expected him to fall into the male habit of deferring to her first. It was annoying. She had enjoyed thier conversations specifically because they were just that - conversations. Now as he talked, she couldn't shake the feeling that his monologue was rehearsed; that as he had moved through his week, gone about his adventures, he had been mentally planning how he would present them to her and that all she had to do was ask the question, "How was your week?" for his prepared monologue to come tumbling out with barely a pause for breath.

Far from looking forward to their Saturday morning coffee-talk, she had begun to approach them with a mixture of dread and disappointment. She continued to show up with her papers and coffee in tow hoping that they could revert back to their old pattern of reading their papers in compatible silence, sharing headlines when so moved. This was never the case. Instead, I. talked and she carefully arranged her face with the appropriate expression: surprise, sympathy, interest...all the while resenting her obligation to do so, his refusal to notice that she'd contributed nothing more than 'uh-huh' to the conversation, and, lately, a feeling of suffocation at his cloying, inappropriate comments.

wah wah wah

In bed by 9:30 last night. Phone rang 2x, E. checking to see if I'm ok. No. I'm depressed. Drowning. Floundering in water, arms trailing above, watching the light fade as I sink deeper and deeper - depressed. I can see the light, I know that I used to be a part of it and that it was effortless to be there but I'm gone and I don't know how, or why, or what to do to find my way back.

I want to be rescued. To be attached to someone stronger to pull me through, to rely on someone else's strength for a while. I'm tired - no - exhausted and I'm through doing it all on my own.

Today on the subway I watched an older, blind man struggle with his cane - bent parallell to the ground, cane swinging without reason before him, buffeted by the people rushing through the subway. I rushed past too and then stopped and watched him for a few seconds. The platform had cleared and he was making his way towards the stairs leading up to street level but he wasn't moving with direction, with purpose. When I asked if he needed help he responded like someone who was drowning himself. Yes. He was looking for the eastbound trains accessed by the stairs in the opposite direction from which he was headed.

I offered him my arm and we walked down the stairs where, for once, the eastbound train was waiting. My first thought when I began typing this was a question: what right do I have to be depressed? Wah, wah, wah. Life is not what I thought it would be, so what? It's only as I type this that I realize there's something else there for me: the realization that I let someone else attach themself to my strength for a few moments and it felt good. Really good.

Paris, December 2004

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.