Fact: I visited four states in four days.
Fact: I brought my camera. I did not, I repeat, did not, take a single photo.
Why? Because I wanted to look at everything myself, and not crowd a camera into the mix--ie, take in the images of new places and new people at face value so to speak.
I had a fantastic time.
I will write about it here.
But there won't be any pictures; just the ones you get in your head from my descriptions.
And really, that's so much better, isn't it?
So here I am, home again.
Bittersweet as always.
Touching down at Billy Bishop and de-planing I realized I'd lost of my love of seeing the buildings rise up to meet me as the plane lands. It didn't fill me with tears of happiness to see the CN tower, to be back on Canadian soil.
Instead, it left me empty with sadness, with missing Mike, missing Maine, missing that life.
I had my first runner's high in months one mile into my second run on my second day there, headed to the beach, to my ultimate favourite, running on sand. I haven't had that euphoric rush in a long time.
As I had described to a friend last year, it's like I'd been 'numb'.
I went without coffee for two days in Maine and CT. I just didn't need to amp myself up to do yet another task I was dreading and couldn't put off. When I'm with Mike I don't dread anything.
New England is as nice as you imagine. Being away from this city that I've embraced for so long is even nicer. I just never thought I would feel that way. The rushing, the crowds, the fishbowl-effect, the rudeness--all of it daunting in a way I've never experienced.
The fishbowl-effect: let me expand.
Meaning, in a city, when you are in its grip, to me, you are IN the fishbowl, smugly looking out, feeling not a second of doubt that you want to be in that bowl, swimming around and around, doing the same thing day after day, night after night, without a thought of trying to jump out.
Well, I want out of the bowl. Or maybe I'm already out? Did I take the leap and not even realize it?
Am I lying on the table gasping for air, or did I make the leap to a bigger, better pool of water, one where I don't have to hemmed in, acting the same as all the other fish, swimming in the same direction, chasing after the same world that doesn't exist?
Things to ponder.
More about the mini-trip in a bit. I've just arrived back, there is laundry to do, and dinner (at 10pm) to be scrounged up.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Everything's Better
Because I'm in Maine, if only for a short time, with Mike.
Because we can eat oysters at 2am while cleaning the kitchen and I can dollop habanero tabasco (wayyy hotter than normal tabasco) on them before sliding them down.
Because running on the beach is alot more fun than running on city streets.
Because I found and drove to Target, Starbucks, and a great used book store, by myself yesterday, without needing to ask for directions.
Because after landing at Logan airport, I figured out how to take the bus here. I ended up in Portland, but Mike came to get me from there.
Because I can read the whole New Yorker from cover to cover, ipod on 'random', on the bus, and it's like eating sugar. Delectable, rewarding, a secret treat.
Because I can listen to Astrud Gilberto, Terry Edwards, Ours, Bob Marley, and just "be".
Because I get to meet more of Mike's family and fall in love with them too.
Because people are friendly and kind in Maine. A stark contrast to ice-cold Toronto.
Because I'm away from work (a reminder in here: work=not good.)
Because I can be who I am without worrying about how I'm perceived.
Because I'm with Mike.
And that makes everything better.
Because we can eat oysters at 2am while cleaning the kitchen and I can dollop habanero tabasco (wayyy hotter than normal tabasco) on them before sliding them down.
Because running on the beach is alot more fun than running on city streets.
Because I found and drove to Target, Starbucks, and a great used book store, by myself yesterday, without needing to ask for directions.
Because after landing at Logan airport, I figured out how to take the bus here. I ended up in Portland, but Mike came to get me from there.
Because I can read the whole New Yorker from cover to cover, ipod on 'random', on the bus, and it's like eating sugar. Delectable, rewarding, a secret treat.
Because I can listen to Astrud Gilberto, Terry Edwards, Ours, Bob Marley, and just "be".
Because I get to meet more of Mike's family and fall in love with them too.
Because people are friendly and kind in Maine. A stark contrast to ice-cold Toronto.
Because I'm away from work (a reminder in here: work=not good.)
Because I can be who I am without worrying about how I'm perceived.
Because I'm with Mike.
And that makes everything better.
(I always thought the line was: "my fear, my only guarantee, so I've got to push on through...." and I would think...yes. It is. " In this great future, you can't forget your past...so dry your tears I say...")
Friday, April 27, 2012
Don't Forget Me II
The first part of this post is not something I really intended to write (a commonality in blog entries lately. I sit down to write a clearly thought out missive, with plot, sub-text, and imagery, and a clunky first draft is all I get. I'm sorry). Plot. It's what drives me through a read, and it's what drives me back to blogs I like, again and again. I feel it lacking here lately. Boredom seems to permeate, and as my inner life moves to the forefront of my days, it does so with its calm intention, it's boredom. My inner life, I would think, is boring to read about.
Don't forget me. It's a line in many a song (the Chili Peppers for example:
Don't forget me I can't hide it...come again get me excited..." Same album as "By the Way". I love than album..).
It can be a cry for help, in some ways, a cry of longing, a reminder, a talis-phrase.
For this post it's a reminder to me.
Don't forget yourself, in all the myriads of self-doubt that is making you question everything lately. (I keep reverting to third person. I wonder what that means psychologically?)
Don't forget:
you love to run, even though it's been more challenging this year than the previous two;
you love to read and it feeds your writing
you will get better at everything you practice at
you are lucky enough to have people who love you. It seems unimaginable but there are people on this planet living out their lives without that.
you always have an out, there is always a plan B
you are free--to think, to write, to dream, to plan
you have a future and it involves choices
you will drink great coffee today, you will talk to people you love, you are blessed.
you have a sense of right and wrong.
you have smarts.
you have Mike.
You have it all.
"and all will be reveled my friend....."
Don't forget me. It's a line in many a song (the Chili Peppers for example:
Don't forget me I can't hide it...come again get me excited..." Same album as "By the Way". I love than album..).
It can be a cry for help, in some ways, a cry of longing, a reminder, a talis-phrase.
For this post it's a reminder to me.
Don't forget yourself, in all the myriads of self-doubt that is making you question everything lately. (I keep reverting to third person. I wonder what that means psychologically?)
Don't forget:
you love to run, even though it's been more challenging this year than the previous two;
you love to read and it feeds your writing
you will get better at everything you practice at
you are lucky enough to have people who love you. It seems unimaginable but there are people on this planet living out their lives without that.
you always have an out, there is always a plan B
you are free--to think, to write, to dream, to plan
you have a future and it involves choices
you will drink great coffee today, you will talk to people you love, you are blessed.
you have a sense of right and wrong.
you have smarts.
you have Mike.
You have it all.
"and all will be reveled my friend....."
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Don't Forget Me I
http://carolyninthecity-citygirl.blogspot.ca/2010/06/i-became-grown-up-other-day.html
I stumbled across my own blog entry today from almost two years ago. (little did I know on the date I wrote it that I was writing it on the almost-one-year countdown to my father's death-date. Little did I know that by June 2011, I would be completing, along with my family, a sort-of vigil around his last week, and also by that time, not only would my father leave my life in this form, but my aunt would also leave. The circumstances around that are murky still, they nudge at me from time to time, but for the most part, I let sleeping dogs lie there. But I don't want them to wake up).
I was musing about courage today and its many forms, and when I referenced my blog I had the feeling I'd written about courage in the past, and I had (the link to that post above). In the post I talk about needing all my strength and yes, courage, to get through all that was swirling around me in my uneasy world at the time.
I needed courage again last spring when my father received his final diagnosis and there were so many loose ends that needed tying up.
And then, in those final weeks, to steel myself for the loss that was coming, the support my family was going to need, now more than ever.
After that, as my friend A. said, the 'little things' go away for a time. They do, you know. In grief, life is crystal-clear, priorities are arrow-fine, and all those nuances, those irritants, they tend to dissipate, to vanish, and you are standing there on your own, stripped but for the clouds looming close around you, forming a nice misty barrier between you and the rest of the world.
Outwardly: you look normal. You are normal, really. But your inner life is in chaos, and you don't own your thoughts, your reactions, your needs, your memory.
Gradually the little things move back in and resume their never-ending demand that you pay attention to them. Your memory is not so absent. You function properly, you send birthday gifts to friends that live far away. You get married, in a small ceremony. You send thank you notes to the people who attend, you go on a honeymoon. All normal. You move your remaining parent to smaller, more suitable accommodations. You privately wonder if this is the last time they will ever need to move. You file tax returns for yourself, and your parents (yes, both of them. One return is the last one. It will be a closed file after this one).
But one thing is different.
You are.
I wrote to a friend in an email recently, someone I hadn't been in contact with for a long time, that I haven't quite been the same since. Since being since my father's illness, suffering, and subsequent death. I didn't even realize at the time that I was writing that. It just kind of pored out and as I read it over after sending the email I thought, I haven't? I haven't been the same?
I tried to pinpoint the differences myself. The social withdrawal I guess is one example. There was a very lonely time in my life when alot of my good friends were getting married, some moved, others were busy getting to know someone, and I was alone alot. I worked two jobs (long hours at both) but still found myself with energy and time to burn. I moved, and that took time, and that was around the time I began to look at Sundays with dread and anxiety--so many hours to fill, so much lonely time. Now, after adjusting, a Sunday ahead of me with nothing to do and no one to see fills me with more joy than I'd like to admit. Because the adjustment did happen--I trained myself to not only exist with my own company, but to enjoy it.
Another thing is my complete indifference to rise to the occasion of a disagreement, an argument, or a situation that involves conflict, that creates resentment, that makes someone feel bad about themselves. It's like the grinch in Dr. Suess. A rudimentary metaphor; his heart grew two sizes.
For me, my compassion dial turned up higher, and I can't seem to turn it back down. So, in essence, I just wait for the conflict to evaporate, for my feelings to calm, for my responses to neutralize.
Don't get me wrong; I can still get very angry at things, work being a good example (I hold it in though. Not the healthiest thing, I know). And I know that regular readers will point out that I have been far less than charitable when musing about my ex's fall on extremely hard times, and in letting my aunt back in my life. I know all of this, believe me. And it does eat at me at times. I turn the lens onto myself and I am wanting and lacking every day. But it doesn't compel me to just give up on ever improving, which is how I USED to look at it.
The title, the aim of this post; don't forget me. Hmm. Courage.
Where do the two co-exist you ask?
I don't want to forget that courageous self who did all that stuff. I know that we tend to look back on portions of our lives and extoll our own virtures (ie, "Oh I was so fearless back then, how can I get that back" when really, we're fearless all our lives, every time we do something new, meet someone, make a friend, extend a hand, start a project, heal our hearts).
A friend shared some news today which I felt showed real courage. I'm not sure if they are there yet in their estimation of how courageous it was, but it resonated with me. It also reminded me I can't forget about myself and the timelines I want to remember. One of them is that when my father was my age, he had twenty-five years left of life. I remind myself: Carolyn, if you knew that was all you would have, what would change right now? And for the most part I know the answer. That's probably what makes courage all the more necessary.
For now I tread water, fill in paperwork, and get ready to 'make the leap' or so it seems.
I stumbled across my own blog entry today from almost two years ago. (little did I know on the date I wrote it that I was writing it on the almost-one-year countdown to my father's death-date. Little did I know that by June 2011, I would be completing, along with my family, a sort-of vigil around his last week, and also by that time, not only would my father leave my life in this form, but my aunt would also leave. The circumstances around that are murky still, they nudge at me from time to time, but for the most part, I let sleeping dogs lie there. But I don't want them to wake up).
I was musing about courage today and its many forms, and when I referenced my blog I had the feeling I'd written about courage in the past, and I had (the link to that post above). In the post I talk about needing all my strength and yes, courage, to get through all that was swirling around me in my uneasy world at the time.
I needed courage again last spring when my father received his final diagnosis and there were so many loose ends that needed tying up.
And then, in those final weeks, to steel myself for the loss that was coming, the support my family was going to need, now more than ever.
After that, as my friend A. said, the 'little things' go away for a time. They do, you know. In grief, life is crystal-clear, priorities are arrow-fine, and all those nuances, those irritants, they tend to dissipate, to vanish, and you are standing there on your own, stripped but for the clouds looming close around you, forming a nice misty barrier between you and the rest of the world.
Outwardly: you look normal. You are normal, really. But your inner life is in chaos, and you don't own your thoughts, your reactions, your needs, your memory.
Gradually the little things move back in and resume their never-ending demand that you pay attention to them. Your memory is not so absent. You function properly, you send birthday gifts to friends that live far away. You get married, in a small ceremony. You send thank you notes to the people who attend, you go on a honeymoon. All normal. You move your remaining parent to smaller, more suitable accommodations. You privately wonder if this is the last time they will ever need to move. You file tax returns for yourself, and your parents (yes, both of them. One return is the last one. It will be a closed file after this one).
But one thing is different.
You are.
I wrote to a friend in an email recently, someone I hadn't been in contact with for a long time, that I haven't quite been the same since. Since being since my father's illness, suffering, and subsequent death. I didn't even realize at the time that I was writing that. It just kind of pored out and as I read it over after sending the email I thought, I haven't? I haven't been the same?
I tried to pinpoint the differences myself. The social withdrawal I guess is one example. There was a very lonely time in my life when alot of my good friends were getting married, some moved, others were busy getting to know someone, and I was alone alot. I worked two jobs (long hours at both) but still found myself with energy and time to burn. I moved, and that took time, and that was around the time I began to look at Sundays with dread and anxiety--so many hours to fill, so much lonely time. Now, after adjusting, a Sunday ahead of me with nothing to do and no one to see fills me with more joy than I'd like to admit. Because the adjustment did happen--I trained myself to not only exist with my own company, but to enjoy it.
Another thing is my complete indifference to rise to the occasion of a disagreement, an argument, or a situation that involves conflict, that creates resentment, that makes someone feel bad about themselves. It's like the grinch in Dr. Suess. A rudimentary metaphor; his heart grew two sizes.
For me, my compassion dial turned up higher, and I can't seem to turn it back down. So, in essence, I just wait for the conflict to evaporate, for my feelings to calm, for my responses to neutralize.
Don't get me wrong; I can still get very angry at things, work being a good example (I hold it in though. Not the healthiest thing, I know). And I know that regular readers will point out that I have been far less than charitable when musing about my ex's fall on extremely hard times, and in letting my aunt back in my life. I know all of this, believe me. And it does eat at me at times. I turn the lens onto myself and I am wanting and lacking every day. But it doesn't compel me to just give up on ever improving, which is how I USED to look at it.
The title, the aim of this post; don't forget me. Hmm. Courage.
Where do the two co-exist you ask?
I don't want to forget that courageous self who did all that stuff. I know that we tend to look back on portions of our lives and extoll our own virtures (ie, "Oh I was so fearless back then, how can I get that back" when really, we're fearless all our lives, every time we do something new, meet someone, make a friend, extend a hand, start a project, heal our hearts).
A friend shared some news today which I felt showed real courage. I'm not sure if they are there yet in their estimation of how courageous it was, but it resonated with me. It also reminded me I can't forget about myself and the timelines I want to remember. One of them is that when my father was my age, he had twenty-five years left of life. I remind myself: Carolyn, if you knew that was all you would have, what would change right now? And for the most part I know the answer. That's probably what makes courage all the more necessary.
For now I tread water, fill in paperwork, and get ready to 'make the leap' or so it seems.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Love on a Tuesday
This is a series in my quest to be more positive (stop laughing).
What I love lately;
Waking from a dream that stays with you all day long.
Glimpses of spirit: example--the spirited butterfly on the Bloor Viaduct bridge, my Sunday run, 11 am.
Fluttering just ahead of me, blown but not beaten by the wind. Black with red and white on her wings.
Being incredibly tired but not wanting to go to sleep because the book I'm reading is too good, too plot-driven, and I must ...finish...this....sentence........before I drift off.
Not holding grudges.
When Mike calls and even though we only have five seconds to talk, I savour our exchange all day.
When someone tells me they envy me for running outside in any weather.
Running outside in any weather. And it was Summer, 2010, when I first started loving running in the rain. It's incomparable.
When I use the thesaurus Mike got me last Christmas at my desk in my loft. I feel so..old-fashioned, but in a good way.
Memories of people I love who are gone (too soon) and how they are triggered--a food (in this case, shrimp cocktail. My dad loved shrimp cocktail). Books. The classics. Funny movies. My friend
G_____ and his love of Vampire Kiss with Nicholas Cage. How he had a VHS copy back in the day and trooped over one night for a showing of it. How he loved imitating scenes from that movie--it never got old. Just thinking about it makes me laugh to myself.
Emails from people who've known you the longest, ones who can cut through what you're saying and more importantly, what you're not saying.
Not having to explain myself.
Rain at night.
Rain at dusk, making the day darker and shorter than it should be in the spring time. Pretending it's November and then reminding myself that the days are only going to lengthen from now on.
Leaving work and driving home after my 4km run.
When I'm running, reading, writing, looking up from outside my own life for a minute and I suddenly solve a problem that I thought had no solution. There are very few feelings that are better than that.
Knowing I'm going to be on a plane to Boston in less than three days, on my way to see Mike.
Another great feeling: anticipation....love it.
What I love lately;
Waking from a dream that stays with you all day long.
Glimpses of spirit: example--the spirited butterfly on the Bloor Viaduct bridge, my Sunday run, 11 am.
Fluttering just ahead of me, blown but not beaten by the wind. Black with red and white on her wings.
Being incredibly tired but not wanting to go to sleep because the book I'm reading is too good, too plot-driven, and I must ...finish...this....sentence........before I drift off.
Not holding grudges.
When Mike calls and even though we only have five seconds to talk, I savour our exchange all day.
When someone tells me they envy me for running outside in any weather.
Running outside in any weather. And it was Summer, 2010, when I first started loving running in the rain. It's incomparable.
When I use the thesaurus Mike got me last Christmas at my desk in my loft. I feel so..old-fashioned, but in a good way.
Memories of people I love who are gone (too soon) and how they are triggered--a food (in this case, shrimp cocktail. My dad loved shrimp cocktail). Books. The classics. Funny movies. My friend
G_____ and his love of Vampire Kiss with Nicholas Cage. How he had a VHS copy back in the day and trooped over one night for a showing of it. How he loved imitating scenes from that movie--it never got old. Just thinking about it makes me laugh to myself.
Emails from people who've known you the longest, ones who can cut through what you're saying and more importantly, what you're not saying.
Not having to explain myself.
Rain at night.
Rain at dusk, making the day darker and shorter than it should be in the spring time. Pretending it's November and then reminding myself that the days are only going to lengthen from now on.
Leaving work and driving home after my 4km run.
When I'm running, reading, writing, looking up from outside my own life for a minute and I suddenly solve a problem that I thought had no solution. There are very few feelings that are better than that.
Knowing I'm going to be on a plane to Boston in less than three days, on my way to see Mike.
Another great feeling: anticipation....love it.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Completed
Back to list format, for summarizing the weekend, and rainy Monday and all:
2 x 9km runs. Pretty much the same route both times. Yes, there was some walking involved. No, the weather was not great. Yes, I was tired and happy at the end.
One book read: "The Forgotten Affairs of Youth" by one Alexander McCall Smith. I loved that I read it after I got married, because in it, (*spoiler alert*) Isabel and Jamie finally go through with their wedding. They have no guests outside of their housekeeper and their infant son. Later, after they have dinner at home, they put on music and dance by themselves, which is what Mike and I did. I loved the end scene when they did that, and I love that there are people out there who do that, too.
It was my favourite part of the book, and of my own wedding.
Babysitting accomplishments: Took my niece to ballet. Got a coffee, read, and sat outside her dance studio while I waited the compulsory hour. An hour goes faster than I can even fathom anymore.
I literally had just sat down with my coffee, turning my ipod up full blast to drown out the parents ("blah blah blah our cottage") talking to other parents, and other kids, also waiting, presumably for siblings, who were shrieking and running around the corridor of the community centre where the dance studio is, that the hour was up. Noise and all.
Note to parents who are reading this: Your weekend days are my worst nightmare.
I also cooked a full dinner, for my mom and niece and nephew, from scratch, of risotto (yes, I made my own chicken stock. I know. I'm ill) and chicken and shrimp. When my sister got back from the baby shower she'd attended she ate too. It was a nice family dinner.
Blog entry: One. Sunday morning.
Cleaning: the entire bathroom. There are no words.
Weather: Grey all day Saturday. I felt tired and never really woke up, even though my run normally energizes me. Sunday started out grey, but turned to sunshine when my sister came to pick up her winter tires from my condo storage locker.
Noteable food: the from-scratch risotto, with saffron and roasted tomatoes (yes, I've been making everything in my pursuit of bikini season and fitting into all of last years' running gear).
Sunday night dinner--went out with my sister and her friend, to Joey's, the downtown location. It was okay. The washroom in the restaurant is about a half mile underground ( I kid you not). Had a steak, which I badly needed, and even though we sat by a window that was leaking cold air, we had a great time, good conversation about life, love, happiness. They went on to a movie, I walked home at about 10pm. Went right to bed.
Missing: hmm. Well, Mike, for one. I talked to him on the phone a number of times, mostly convoluted, as Boston is in the hockey playoffs and had a game Friday night, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday afternoon. So, when that was finally done, and it was about 10pm, he could talk. Yes. Right about the time I'm actually falling asleep (yes, even on the weekend. Keep in mind: Day 8 of a brutal cold). So I really remember nothing of our evening conversations. Frustrating, but I'm buoyed by my upcoming visit.
More missing: My friends. Yes. As in no plans with any of them. My sister and I were talking about this. Since when do you need three weeks notice to plan even the most simplest of evenings? Such is life with small children I guess. It's so tiring for the child-less I have to tell you. I read a blog-rant about this last week and said to myself "Hallejuah". I was thinking last night, at about 4:30pm, prior to my plans with my sister, not one person I would want to meet for a quick drink would be available right now. Nuts, isn't it? I miss my twenties/early thirties for that reason alone. Someone was always around (mind you I was always working but whatever). Now, it's like a no-mans' land of plans. I also get tired of weeknight plans (I'm banning them) and trekking out to go to someone else's house.
1) I have a nice home too. 2) I like to see the outside world in the form of places I haven't been in a while. And I get that motherhood changes some people beyond recognition--I'm grateful for those who are still themselves and have an identity that far outreaches their role as 'mother'. To those who understand that I don't want to talk about difficult labour and all that jazz. That really, outside the clubhouse: NO ONE does.
On the other hand, the amount of money I've started to save since all my friends have had kids is awesome. No plans=no going out. I went out when Mike was here, though, and I really enjoyed how we could make spur-of-the-moment decisions on where to go.
It's cememted the fact that kids aren't for me.
It's a tough fence to straddle, when I'm being really honest on the blog. I know that there are alot of people I know who read the blog, and I never want them to feel bad. But then I struggle with the real ME, who is child-free and resents when people say "Oh, just HAVE A BABY". And the real me gets real tired of this.
My friend has a theory that there are three things that people simply will not listen to reason on:
their kids, their pets, and their habits (she mentioned smoking specifically, I'm going a step further and lumping all habits in there--be it drinking, staying out late, liking a certain type of place, etc.).
I wholeheartedly agree.
2 x 9km runs. Pretty much the same route both times. Yes, there was some walking involved. No, the weather was not great. Yes, I was tired and happy at the end.
One book read: "The Forgotten Affairs of Youth" by one Alexander McCall Smith. I loved that I read it after I got married, because in it, (*spoiler alert*) Isabel and Jamie finally go through with their wedding. They have no guests outside of their housekeeper and their infant son. Later, after they have dinner at home, they put on music and dance by themselves, which is what Mike and I did. I loved the end scene when they did that, and I love that there are people out there who do that, too.
It was my favourite part of the book, and of my own wedding.
Babysitting accomplishments: Took my niece to ballet. Got a coffee, read, and sat outside her dance studio while I waited the compulsory hour. An hour goes faster than I can even fathom anymore.
I literally had just sat down with my coffee, turning my ipod up full blast to drown out the parents ("blah blah blah our cottage") talking to other parents, and other kids, also waiting, presumably for siblings, who were shrieking and running around the corridor of the community centre where the dance studio is, that the hour was up. Noise and all.
Note to parents who are reading this: Your weekend days are my worst nightmare.
I also cooked a full dinner, for my mom and niece and nephew, from scratch, of risotto (yes, I made my own chicken stock. I know. I'm ill) and chicken and shrimp. When my sister got back from the baby shower she'd attended she ate too. It was a nice family dinner.
Blog entry: One. Sunday morning.
Cleaning: the entire bathroom. There are no words.
Weather: Grey all day Saturday. I felt tired and never really woke up, even though my run normally energizes me. Sunday started out grey, but turned to sunshine when my sister came to pick up her winter tires from my condo storage locker.
Noteable food: the from-scratch risotto, with saffron and roasted tomatoes (yes, I've been making everything in my pursuit of bikini season and fitting into all of last years' running gear).
Sunday night dinner--went out with my sister and her friend, to Joey's, the downtown location. It was okay. The washroom in the restaurant is about a half mile underground ( I kid you not). Had a steak, which I badly needed, and even though we sat by a window that was leaking cold air, we had a great time, good conversation about life, love, happiness. They went on to a movie, I walked home at about 10pm. Went right to bed.
Missing: hmm. Well, Mike, for one. I talked to him on the phone a number of times, mostly convoluted, as Boston is in the hockey playoffs and had a game Friday night, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday afternoon. So, when that was finally done, and it was about 10pm, he could talk. Yes. Right about the time I'm actually falling asleep (yes, even on the weekend. Keep in mind: Day 8 of a brutal cold). So I really remember nothing of our evening conversations. Frustrating, but I'm buoyed by my upcoming visit.
More missing: My friends. Yes. As in no plans with any of them. My sister and I were talking about this. Since when do you need three weeks notice to plan even the most simplest of evenings? Such is life with small children I guess. It's so tiring for the child-less I have to tell you. I read a blog-rant about this last week and said to myself "Hallejuah". I was thinking last night, at about 4:30pm, prior to my plans with my sister, not one person I would want to meet for a quick drink would be available right now. Nuts, isn't it? I miss my twenties/early thirties for that reason alone. Someone was always around (mind you I was always working but whatever). Now, it's like a no-mans' land of plans. I also get tired of weeknight plans (I'm banning them) and trekking out to go to someone else's house.
1) I have a nice home too. 2) I like to see the outside world in the form of places I haven't been in a while. And I get that motherhood changes some people beyond recognition--I'm grateful for those who are still themselves and have an identity that far outreaches their role as 'mother'. To those who understand that I don't want to talk about difficult labour and all that jazz. That really, outside the clubhouse: NO ONE does.
On the other hand, the amount of money I've started to save since all my friends have had kids is awesome. No plans=no going out. I went out when Mike was here, though, and I really enjoyed how we could make spur-of-the-moment decisions on where to go.
It's cememted the fact that kids aren't for me.
It's a tough fence to straddle, when I'm being really honest on the blog. I know that there are alot of people I know who read the blog, and I never want them to feel bad. But then I struggle with the real ME, who is child-free and resents when people say "Oh, just HAVE A BABY". And the real me gets real tired of this.
My friend has a theory that there are three things that people simply will not listen to reason on:
their kids, their pets, and their habits (she mentioned smoking specifically, I'm going a step further and lumping all habits in there--be it drinking, staying out late, liking a certain type of place, etc.).
I wholeheartedly agree.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Dreams on a Sunday Morning
We don't always remember our dreams; when we do, it's often only for a short time, a few minutes in the middle of the night, breathing quietly in the silence; has anyone else seen this dream, we think? Do they know about it?
I dreamed about an old friend last night. Convoluted, as always; the location half-known, the intent of a drink (the dream took place in a pub) certain. The heat of another person, as opposed to the cold marble that comes later.
I have no photograph to record this time of my life, I have volumes of journals though. I have the pair of favourite jeans I always wore, they have followed me from apartment to apartment, along with the journals. I have every book we shared, recommended, gifted.
I have this, inside the cover of this book, on the first page, The Short Stories, by Ernest Hemingway:
"Sorry that I forgot to sign the book. I hope that I haven't brought you too much bad luck. Happy Birthday anyway! love, ________".
Love is underlined, on the inscription.
The birthday in question was my twenty-sixth. The year would have been 1999. {was it ever last century? was I ever twenty-six? These, I feel, are the questions that will haunt me in later life}.
I can't remember everything, but I remember certain things. I also know certain things. I know that I ruminated over that underlined word. And I know that I've never read the whole book, twleve years later, these stories of Hemingway.
Reading "The Forgotten Affairs of Youth" as I was earlier, in bed, there was a random mention of the Artful Dodger, an older man conniving a younger one. This was also the name of a pub we used to frequent, this discovery in my head giving me a jolt. Hence finding the Hemingway book, holding it in my hand, the only really 'real' thing left.
Now it's sitting here on my desk this morning since I went to collect it off the shelf to look at this very inscription, after waking, after my dream, after my moments of sadness and tears. The grey morning, my hacking cough, my lethargy. It all got to me, I guess.
Years ago I made my first foray into fiction, a foray I still have (an attempt at chick-lit co-written with a friend of mine), I gave the manuscript, for lack of a better word, to my therapist to read. She was intrigued. It drew her in. At our next session she said, talking about the plot, "I hope no one dies!".
I hoped no one would die either, although the possibility had really never occurred to me.
A few days ago I had a conversation with Mike, on the phone. I was telling him about my plans to add him as a co-beneficiary of my assets, things like life insurance, RRSP's, that sort of thing. Those things you think about after someone actually has died. His immediate response was
"But you're never dying, so none of it really matters". And it struck me (continues to strike me, days later), that others have the same intangible fear that I have, about everyone they love, that terrible "what if..." that sentence we don't fill in. I don't, anyway. It was strange to me to exist outside my own head, if only for a minute.
This wasn't really the post I planned. I planned more on something about how fast the weekend is going, how long my cold seems to be dragging on, but it didn't work out that way. What happened was that I started writing in the fawn-lark journal (oh--morning pages! does it count if it's been an hour or two since one awoke?) details about my dream. The parts you don't share, the way people wriring memoirs must feel when they talk about the happenings in their lives, the real happenings, in no particular order, the way things play out in dreams. Scene-jumping, one minute you are in a pub, searching for a pint and a chardonnay, the next you are somewhere else, outside maybe, or in a bedroom, somewhere suspiciously familiar, but unknown.
For mere minutes or seconds at a time, unable to savour any real details, but absorbing them, to try and hold onto them, no matter how fleeting they may be, for later.
I dreamed about an old friend last night. Convoluted, as always; the location half-known, the intent of a drink (the dream took place in a pub) certain. The heat of another person, as opposed to the cold marble that comes later.
I have no photograph to record this time of my life, I have volumes of journals though. I have the pair of favourite jeans I always wore, they have followed me from apartment to apartment, along with the journals. I have every book we shared, recommended, gifted.
I have this, inside the cover of this book, on the first page, The Short Stories, by Ernest Hemingway:
"Sorry that I forgot to sign the book. I hope that I haven't brought you too much bad luck. Happy Birthday anyway! love, ________".
Love is underlined, on the inscription.
The birthday in question was my twenty-sixth. The year would have been 1999. {was it ever last century? was I ever twenty-six? These, I feel, are the questions that will haunt me in later life}.
I can't remember everything, but I remember certain things. I also know certain things. I know that I ruminated over that underlined word. And I know that I've never read the whole book, twleve years later, these stories of Hemingway.
Reading "The Forgotten Affairs of Youth" as I was earlier, in bed, there was a random mention of the Artful Dodger, an older man conniving a younger one. This was also the name of a pub we used to frequent, this discovery in my head giving me a jolt. Hence finding the Hemingway book, holding it in my hand, the only really 'real' thing left.
Now it's sitting here on my desk this morning since I went to collect it off the shelf to look at this very inscription, after waking, after my dream, after my moments of sadness and tears. The grey morning, my hacking cough, my lethargy. It all got to me, I guess.
Years ago I made my first foray into fiction, a foray I still have (an attempt at chick-lit co-written with a friend of mine), I gave the manuscript, for lack of a better word, to my therapist to read. She was intrigued. It drew her in. At our next session she said, talking about the plot, "I hope no one dies!".
I hoped no one would die either, although the possibility had really never occurred to me.
A few days ago I had a conversation with Mike, on the phone. I was telling him about my plans to add him as a co-beneficiary of my assets, things like life insurance, RRSP's, that sort of thing. Those things you think about after someone actually has died. His immediate response was
"But you're never dying, so none of it really matters". And it struck me (continues to strike me, days later), that others have the same intangible fear that I have, about everyone they love, that terrible "what if..." that sentence we don't fill in. I don't, anyway. It was strange to me to exist outside my own head, if only for a minute.
This wasn't really the post I planned. I planned more on something about how fast the weekend is going, how long my cold seems to be dragging on, but it didn't work out that way. What happened was that I started writing in the fawn-lark journal (oh--morning pages! does it count if it's been an hour or two since one awoke?) details about my dream. The parts you don't share, the way people wriring memoirs must feel when they talk about the happenings in their lives, the real happenings, in no particular order, the way things play out in dreams. Scene-jumping, one minute you are in a pub, searching for a pint and a chardonnay, the next you are somewhere else, outside maybe, or in a bedroom, somewhere suspiciously familiar, but unknown.
For mere minutes or seconds at a time, unable to savour any real details, but absorbing them, to try and hold onto them, no matter how fleeting they may be, for later.
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