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