Beautiful Cynicism III

Someday, emerging at last from the violent insight
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L’observatrice

Thursday, 9 December 2010 | 21:02

C’est drôle, un école pendant les vacances. Des immeubles peuplés de rires d’enfants, des couloirs habitués aux pas lourds de petits pieds. Maintenant, le silence y règne. Et si les murs pouvaient parler? Qu’est-ce qu’ils nous raconteraient? En réalité, ils nous parlent tous les jours; c’est qu’on ne sait pas les écouter. On pourrait découvrir toute l’histoire du monde entre ces murs. Les chuchotements des jeunes: leurs peurs, leurs secrets, leurs amours clandestins – car la jeunesse n’a pas peur de la parole, ni de la partage. Les jeunes parlent sans cesse, aux autres mais aussi aux murs, aux arbres, au soleil, aux oiseaux.

Je ne vois plus d’oiseaux, ni du soleil, depuis ma poste dans ce couloir. Un couloir baigné de lumière fluorescente. Je me suis installée à la place désigné au plein milieu du couloir. D’ici je vois tout, bien qu’il n’y a rien à voir. Il n’y a personne, sauf quelques professeurs ennuyés et quelques gardiens errants. Et la jeune dame qui fait le tour du campus. Elle se promène partout et nulle part, ses mains remplies de papiers, ses pas plein d’urgence. Elle a l’air importante. Est-elle importante? Personne ne le sait. Mais on la voit marcher, marcher sans cesse. J’attends. Je passe des heures en attente. De quoi, me demande-t-on? Un peu d’activité. Sinon, je me contenterai d’une petite geste ou d’un sourire gentil.

Il y a des gens qui éclatent de lumière, dans lesquels la lumière bouge, danse, scintille. Des âmes radieuses. Voilà un garçon. Ses yeux sont bleus, mais pas le bleu riche de l’été – plutôt le bleu pâle de l’hiver: limpide, lumineux. Il y a un clarté presque effrayant dans ses yeux, tel que son regard est sérieux. Pourtant, ils sont plein de curiosité et de douceur, ces yeux. Ils révèlent une fragilité et une tendresse peu communs. Quand il vient m’interroger, il me regarde avec une intensité dévastatrice. Pendant ces instants, son regard m’appartient. Pendant ces instants, toute son attention m’appartient. Pendant ces instants, je ne peux regarder qu’à lui, ne peux me concentrer que sur lui. Un garçon, un étranger. Mais pendant ces instants, il m’appartient, et je lui appartient. La durée d’une conversation, la durée d’une éternité: c’est pareil.

On se demande ce qu’il y a d’important dans la vie. Et on répond par la bouche: l’amour, la famille, la charité. Puis on répond par nos actions: une piscine, une villa en Espagne, une télévision à haute définition. Qu’est-ce qu’il y a d’important? Le vivant, certainement. La mort aussi.

Mon rôle changeant, ma peau changeante. Des tâches d’encre au bout des doigts: petites preuves noires et moites d’un après-midi réussi.

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Brain freeze & other problems

Monday, 6 December 2010 | 22:23

I wandered the hallowed halls of consumerism this evening, making my annual wintry pilgrimage to the mall in search of random trinkets to be excitedly unwrapped three weeks from now. While I adore the Christmas season, and for me the holiday is decidedly secular, I generally despise the Christmas shopping season and all that goes with it. The visual onslaught of signs screaming SALE! DISCOUNT! DEALS! in seizure-inducing colours and fonts; the pouty children demanding this or that toy right now; the pushy crowds willing to trample anyone who dare come between them and the last Tickle Me Elmo doll on the shelf… But today was different, perhaps due to the fact that the dates are still in the single digits. Or maybe the change was in me: I went to the mall with a purpose, namely a shopping list three names long. An hour and a half passed, and I walked away – bags full, wallet empty, a sense of accomplishment floating around me. Is this not the very definition of an empty accomplishment?

As I weaved my way through the crowds I observed my fellow consumers. There were happy couples, teenagers with attitude, elderly ladies badgering their grown sons, harried-looking mums with tots in tow. I moved among them effortlessly, never really feeling a part of it all. I think I may have actually been smiling.
My family gathers together on Christmas Day, but remains within each smaller immediate family unit for Christmas Eve. I realised that this will be the first Christmas Eve that I spend alone in nearly a decade, my family unit having been decreased from a cozy two to a solitary one. As I walked across the bus loop to the street, I thought of the ghosts of Christmases past, and thought for a moment that I had become one. I felt unmistakably ‘of the past’, as though a fraction of a moment from some indistinct winter long gone had been displaced to the present day. Maybe it was the way the light hit the ice on the pavement, or the way the snow smelled as it fell on my face, but I was suddenly utterly convinced that I was about to hop on a westbound bus and head for my grandparents’ house, which I called home, and where I would find my Baba hard at work canning something or other in the kitchen, whilst my Dzizi dozed on the chesterfield while a football game played loudly on the TV. Life is so very different now.

Instead, I headed east, taking the bus downtown. Seeing the traffic snarl at The Bay, and knowing I was armed with the appropriate fuzzy winter accoutrements and a pocketful of music, I decided to walk the rest of the way home. Blocked streets gave way to deserted, if slippery, sidewalks, and I walked uninterrupted all the way to the village. The falling snow glowed green by the light of the giant Christmas tree at Great-West Life; as I stepped on to Osborne Bridge I looked down at the icy river and noticed that someone had made a snow angel right on the riverbank. Ten years in and these Winnipeg winters still feel magical. After awhile it gets tedious, and I complain as loudly as anyone else about the bitterly cold winds – but early on in the season I’m still in awe by the sheer preposterousness of the snow’s whiteness, the water’s iciness, the wind’s sting. In some ways I’m glad this place still doesn’t feel like home, because I think if it did, I’d lose that sense of wonder.

In the village, three strapping young lads walking just ahead of me started a snowball fight; when one errant sphere nearly hit me, all three stopped to apologise profusely. So many perfectly lovely human beings, so many handsome men… yet we tend to think only of those who show no interest in us, or who happen to be the “ones that got away”. Are we really that vain? Is it really all about winning after all? Or are we just all emotional masochists at heart?

I may be an atheist who loves Christmas, but I’ve never felt the need to defend that seeming contradiction. For me, Jesus is not the reason for the season, nor is it all about packages, boxes, and bags, as the Grinch said after his change of heart. It’s just another excuse to draw those you love and who love you near; to talk, laugh, eat, drink, and sing; to celebrate being alive and being together – albeit against a backdrop of old timey music and twinkly lights. Now that’s a holiday I can get behind.

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Englishmen had activities

Wednesday, 24 November 2010 | 22:04

Has it really come to this?

Weeks slip by, unnoticed: time refuses to stand still. I’ve always been acutely aware of the passage of time, yet this doesn’t seem to make me immune to the shock of the realisation that a stretch of time has suddenly passed without fanfare. It’s been weeks since I’ve posted, though I’ve been writing almost daily. Nothing fit for public consumption – and I do use the term ‘public’ rather loosely. The past month has been a frenzy of work-related diversions, little bursts of productive energy punctuated by long walks, endless music, and not enough sleep.

I’ve recently fallen into a bit of a musical memory hole, dusting off albums that I haven’t listened to in years. Each song calls forth a memory of a time, a place, a glance, a touch, a scent. It’s odd how seemingly insignificant remembrances can appear to us, so achingly real that we feel them in our very core. A re-experiencing of the past? Or is it just an illusion of the past? When it’s that vivid, I swear that I’m re-feeling my past… but how can that be? Isn’t it really my past as viewed through the lens of the present? But then how can it seem to feel so authentic?

The city is once again covered in an ever-thickening blanket of snow, returning it to its virgin state. The trash carelessly littering the sidewalks and back alleys, the small oil spills and puddles, the crosses laid at intersections where lives were lost: all have been covered completely now. It’s this city’s endless second chance; a chance to start over once again.

I feel a cold coming on. Trudging through the snow on the walk home from work, I felt the heat rise through my body, up to my cheeks. I knew my eyes were glistening. Whilst waiting at a crosswalk, I got lost in the falling snow. Mesmerised by the flakes swirling around me, I momentarily forgot where I was. It didn’t matter that I was surrounded by noisy cars and exhaust fumes and ambulance sirens and the glow of orange fluorescent streetlights; for a moment, all was calm, and all was beautiful. For a moment, I lost myself, and time stood still.

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A compendium of solitudes

Thursday, 21 October 2010 | 17:18

On the train to Barcelona
out of nowhere, he came
Impish grin,
striking a studious pose in the doorway
We all have demons fast on our tails;
I can’t help but wonder which ones haunt you.
Pen in hand, cigarette dangling from dry lips
you are near,
releasing particles of yourself into the air between us
I take you in despite my better judgment;
he said I’d always been attracted to the unattainable
It was then that I understood the meaning of the rain

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On the hunt

Sunday, 10 October 2010 | 22:25

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another. (Anatole France)

For the past several years, I spent nearly every day in a particular neighbourhood in the city. Six months ago, my reason for being there disappeared, and I too disappeared from the neighbourhood. Well, technically, anyway; I’m still in the area twice a week to visit my grandparents, but I never go beyond their home. Further north I had not ventured – until yesterday.

It’s funny; what we do and who we know determines which neighbourhoods we frequent. Any city’s citizens are rarely intimately familiar with every area, every quarter, every street. We have our comfort zones – where we live, where we work, where our favourite haunts are – and we rarely, if ever, leave them. Sitting on the bus yesterday evening riding down Main Street, everything felt normal, banal – until I reached the frontier: the street past which I have rarely gone in the past six months. I felt something shift inside me, a change in my consciousness that was palpable. As the bus continued on its route, I felt myself slipping into a time warp. Looking out the window at these streets which had once been so familiar to me, so quotidian, I suddenly felt foreign and strange. I recognised those streets, I remembered them; I could hear them telling me their stories, stories that I already knew but hadn’t heard in a long time. For the first time in quite awhile, I felt nostalgic.
The bus turned, and we went from one neighbourhood to another. The sun was beginning to set; there was a faint smell of smoke in the air from the odd backyard fire pit. I knew that the last time I had been on that street, in that area, was months ago, in another life. Something totally unprovocative, unremarkable: the fodder of everyday life. And yet yesterday it felt so powerful, almost overwhelming. For the first time in quite awhile, I felt sad.

I do not lead an empty life. I love the people in my life; I enjoy my job; I’m not lacking in passions or things to do or places to go; I’m feeling settled in my soul. I’m relatively happy. And yet, something has been missing. It’s been quietly gnawing on me for awhile. I hadn’t been able to put my finger on what, exactly, has been bothering me – until last night. I got off the bus one stop too late, and had to walk awhile; it was then that it dawned on me. Something so simple and cliched as to be embarrassing to admit: I feel purpose-less. Not necessarily lacking in goals or ambitions; but in a sense of building towards something.

I spent most of my twenties building towards something: building a life in a city in which I hadn’t counted on staying for long, building a life with someone. Relationships are always complicated. It wasn’t just him; I thought about all the people and places that had become part of the rhythm of my life over the course of the past eight years. And when a relationship ends, or metastasizes into something almost unrecogniseable, you lose not only a partner, but a whole network of people and places that you had become a part of, and that had become a part of you. Family and friends, restaurants and parks, streets and homes you visited regularly are suddenly divorced from your reality. Which isn’t to say that this new reality is necessarily unpleasant; it’s merely become a shadow of its former self. A skeleton lacking meat on its bones, a corpse waiting to be fattened up. A life waiting to be rebuilt in a different way. What I had been building for all those years had already collapsed before my eyes; the shaky foundation gave way some time ago, despite our honest efforts. But as I walked through those familiar streets last night, I realised that I had lost something else in the implosion: the main thing I had been focused on for years. My “purpose”.

By the time I left the store, darkness had settled over the city. As I waited for the bus, a couple out for an evening power walk strode quickly by, hand in hand. I realised it’s been over six months since anyone has taken my hand. The bus pulled up, and I climbed on, groceries in hand, and took a seat near the back. It was too dark to see out the window; all I could see was my own reflection staring back at me.

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Two thousand and six

Saturday, 25 September 2010 | 17:45

i, asthmatic vegan,
deplore cigarettes & leather
  but on you their scent is
  intoxicating

Photo: frigante @ Flickr

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Doubtful

Wednesday, 13 January 2010 | 19:25

Discord

between light and dark
     sun and wind
     word and deed
like hoarfrost on a winter’s morning
like a heart hardened one time too many
firm, yet so delicate
     suspended in time
     and cold to the touch

It never happens in one fell swoop.
Goodness slowly chipped away
     one molecule at a time.
Units of trust and respect, expressed in
     smiles
     laughs
     sighs
     and gentle moans.
Can we ever be aware, truly?
Can we ever comprehend the loss of something
we never knew existed?
That delicate balance of trust and respect,
of hidden and visible,
of knowledge and fears.

Our lips move, yet our words betray us.
We dance, yet our bodies are mute.
Our eyes search, yet do not find.
What is it to know the hidden life of the Other?
To truly know, we must realise
there is nothing to know.
The hidden is indistinguishable from the visible
and the Other is Us.

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Resignation

Monday, 11 January 2010 | 9:24

Calm, above all.

Operant conditioning of the soul
Am I so used to the shock
as to have rendered it no longer shocking?

I wade knee-deep into memories
the scent of cilantro
    warmed by afternoon sun
the song of the wind in treetops
    dancing in Mount Arrowsmith’s shadow
A sign of strength, or a sign of
    weakness?
And what if I cannot tell the two apart?
And what if they are one and the same?

My heart aches, my blood boils
my breath catches in my throat
    that familiar feeling of
    hitting my head against a brick wall
    again and again

The moutain, bathed in the
mauvish hues of a sunset,
my curves, soft and supple,
bathed in pleasant but ancient history,
my cloak of bubbles a message
from another time,
    of Molotov cocktails and
    love in every room

I bear witness and feel… nothing.
Well, something.
I can’t forget, as was sung
and, equally,
I forgot to remember to forget
as heard on my mother’s stereo
so many moons ago.
Why does the wisdom of our elders
not prevent us from repeating our mistakes?

Pensive? Perhaps,
and why not?
Have I not lifetimes to conjure,
    memories to deconstruct,
    hopes to nurture?
    … or was that the other way round?

Perhaps I have grown used to the treachery
Perhaps I have grown tired of it all
Perhaps I have grown
    Or
perhaps it matters not, simply because
he is here and so am I

“I should like to withdraw my resignation”.

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Morning dew

Thursday, 19 November 2009 | 10:43

402938_october_dawn

dis-com-bob-u-la-ted
I love to go a-wandering/Along the mountain track/And as I go, I love to sing/My knapsack on my back
this song replays itself over and over between my temples. or not
the actual song, but a version of itself
a modern-day remixing of old and new
a marriage of yodels and beats
idiosyncrasies
but this is not exact, not correct
for where do I wander?
(I wander out yonder)
my mind wanders when I work (shh, don’t tell)
my fingers wander over his curves and angles
my eyes wander and settle upon beauty
my tongue wanders over delicious territory
my feet wander until they hurt
I am constantly in motion, even when at a standstill.
discombobulated? perhaps
it’s a constant state, not an aberration.
and yet, regardless how many times I’m surprised
(plesantly and unpleasantly both)
how many times I’m disappointed,
how many times I’m doubtful,
how many times I’m impressed,
how many times I’m unsure,
how many times I’m broken,
I remain hopeful.
Regardless…
a heavy night leads into a clear morning
and it’s just that.
everything becomes clear, and the night previous
slinks away into the darkness
the tint of blue in the sky,
the glint of sunlight on ancient windows,
the scent of coffee bubbling nearby,
the hustle and bustle of daily life all around
somehow makes everything all right.
and I feel it inside of me, growing
sometimes snarling, sometimes purring,
always growing:
that undeniable, unerring sense
that everything is going to be
fine.

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Friday afternoon

Friday, 20 June 2008 | 16:45

Je suis sans emploi (encore!), solitaire, déçue, démoralisée. Tous mes jours se ressemblent; chaque jour n’est qu’un ombre, ponctué de quelques points de lumière. Bref, pour l’instant il se trouve que j’ai beaucoup de temps pour faire n’importe quoi, mais je n’ai rien à faire! Mais parfois ça fait du bien de rien faire. Je termine cette semaine chez moi, seule, tranquille. Les rayons de soleil dansent sur l’herbe, le vent apporte sur son dos le parfum des fleurs, et je suis ravie de ces petits riens, pour peut-être la première fois en un mois.

Je n’ai rien fait d’important aujourd’hui. Un peu de poésie, un peu de musique, quelques sourires pour le déjeuner, un peu de désherbage dans l’après-midi. Il y a de la terre en dessous de mes ongles; ça me plaît. L’arrachement des mauvaises herbes a un effet bizarrement thérapeutique…

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Elle

Tuesday, 22 January 2008 | 12:47

tulipdew.jpg

Les gens qui pensent qu’on peut disposer des mots comme des mouches sont des ignorants. (Monique LaRue)

La lune est grande, très grande, enrobée de brouillard, penchée juste en haut des toits des maisons du quartier. Après une nuit remplie d’un sommeil interrompu, elle s’est levée avec difficulté. Pourtant, elle est debout, c’est ça qui compte. Depuis quelques temps, la ville – et la province, vraiment tout le pays – est dans le grand froid, un froid énorme et lourd. Le mercure du thermomètre ne bouge pas beaucoup: il reste piégé en dessous de -31 degrés, la température la plus chaude de ces derniers jours.

Tout d’un coup, la belle du ciel jette sa cape de brume, et toutes les couleurs deviennent clair dans le froid du petit jour: l’ivoire de la lune, le brun sinistre des arbres morts, le blanc de la fumée des cheminées, le bleu-lavande du ciel matinale. Est-ce que la lune sera pleine ce soir? Peut-être un manque d’équilibre ces jours-ci est normale, après tout…

Un moment – rien qu’un instant – bref et sans importance, gravé sur la mémoire d’une personne, totalement oublié par l’autre. C’est ainsi que la vie se vit: on ne peut pas deviner les pensées secrètes des hommes. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Nous vivons une vie semblable mais pas identique; nous croyons savoir ce que nous trouverions au fond des coeurs de nos pairs, mais ce ne sont que des suppositions. Une vie commune mais séparée. Chacun bâtit sa propre réalité.

Dans son monologue intérieur perpétuel, cette bande son à sa vie, ce sont des petits moments – une geste négligente, une odeur, le reflet de la lumière dans une flaque d’eau – qui deviennent importants. Des moments qui
sont peut-être insignifiant, peut-être même pas remarqué par la plupart du monde, mais qui gagnent en importance à elle. Il y a des souvenirs qui sont très clairs, qui se jouent comme un film sur les paupières, qu’on peut revivre si facilement. Elle prend ces petits moments et elle les tricote, soigneusement, à la main; elle les relie à des autres petits moments, pour fabriquer un tissu riche, luxe, majestueux. Une robe de souvenirs, convenable à elle et à elle seule. Divers moments quotidiens, matière brute travaillée et transformée: la substance de la trame de la vie.

La méchanceté, elle ne l’aime pas. Mais c’est l’indifférence qui la tue.

Un de ses grands défauts est sa tendance de comprendre trop tard le vrai sens des choses. Il y a toujours cette instant où tout devient clair, où on voit droit devant soi et on comprend, enfin, le sens d’une geste, d’une parole errante, d’un regard… Peut-être est-elle trop emballée par sa propre histoire, ses souvenirs, son monologue intérieur? Une douce réalisation la frappe, humblement, sans fanfare, just like that. Face à ce qu’elle voit comme une indifférence atroce, enfin elle comprend. Les êtres sensible réfléchissent à n’en plus finir; ils savent que chaque mot porte un poids, qu’un regard simple peut raconter toute une histoire, qu’un sourire peut changer le cours d’une vie. Ils savent également que les gens les plus sensibles peuvent parfois être étonnament insensible. Ceux qui font de leurs souvenirs une belle maison lumineuse, ouverte à tous qui souhaite la visiter, sont condamnés à une déception perpétuelle. L’âme rêveuse connaît bien le compromis qu’elle doit faire.

Qu’est-ce qui attend ceux qui sont ultra-sensible? Une vie douloureuse. Une vie étoilée, gaie, pleine de beauté, de tendresse, d’émerveillement – et hantée d’une douleur terrible.

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Envie de l’air frais

Monday, 26 February 2007 | 23:54

snowwalk.jpg

Promenade hivernale
La neige me chuchote
à l’oreille

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Weightless

Saturday, 17 February 2007 | 20:59

cat-piano.jpg

On n’est jamais assez loin pour ne pas se trouver. (Alessandro Baricco)

Et si on ne veut pas se trouver? Si on veut se cacher, loin du monde, dans un petit endroit tranquille, sous le soleil, penché sur une roche? Et si on veut se cacher de soi-même?

A return to a common theme: stress. I’ve always been an anxious sort, and judging by the temperaments of many family members, I come by it honestly. The ironic thing is that when most would experience joy or happiness, I tend to experience stress and trepidation. Such as this past week. During the last several days, I discovered that due to the kindness of others, I would be making a trip overseas; I got a new job; my Baba continued making slow and steady progress; I was able to spend some quality time with the love of my life. All wonderful things. Yet the whole week, I simply could not relax. I went through the motions – warm bubble baths, singing along to Rosemary Clooney, drowsy weekend mornings – yet there was always this tension within me, smouldering somewhere deep inside and refusing to be extinguished, regardless of what I threw on it. I sleep, but don’t feel rested. I laugh, then feel my heart sink.

And yet. And yet…

On dit qu’on devrait voyager avec le coeur léger et l’esprit ouvert… J’aimerai être léger comme un chat, un animal qui saute sans se blesser, qui marche sans faire du bruit. Un animal solitaire et beau, plein de confiance en soi, qui dirige sa propre vie sans hésitation.

It should not be inferred that I’m upset or ungrateful for all the good things that have come my way recently; on the contrary, I’m thrilled. I am excited about the new job, and I’m looking forward to the trip. Perhaps I’m just feeling a little rushed; so many things happening all at once, in a relatively short time frame. Perhaps I just need to breathe…

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A day like any other

Thursday, 21 September 2006 | 10:16

pinkbunny.jpg

Helen opened her eyes.

Another day just like any other day. Alarm clock buzzing, sun streaming in through the window by her bed. She reached over, hit the “snooze” button, and yawned. After composing her daily mental to-do list, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and got up. Morning fog obscured the view of the nearby park, but the sounds coming from the open window told Helen that only crows and seagulls were playing there. It was a beautiful morning. She pulled a ratty pink housecoat over her striped pyjamas and stepped into her fuzzy pink slippers. As she left her bedroom, Helen noticed the red, blinking alarm clock: 7:55.

She could hear Vanessa stirring in the room down the hall. Soon the house would be a flurry of activity as Vanessa was readied for school, but for now, all was quiet. This was Helen’s favourite time of day, the calm before the storm. She put on a pot of coffee, collected the newspaper from the front steps, and fed the cat. “Better make Vanessa’s lunch before she wakes up,” Helen thought to herself. She realised she was too tired to be creative. “Peanut butter and jelly it is,” she declared. The cutting board was kept in a drawer by the sink. Above the sink was a window, overlooking the back yard. As she sliced the bread, Helen watched tiny hummingbirds dart to and from the feeder on her balcony. “Their feathers are so shiny,” thought Helen. “They nearly glow.” She went to the cupboard for the peanut butter and picked up the container: empty. “Damnit!” In the old days, she would have cursed, and yelled to no one in particular, “Can’t anybody replace things when they finish with them?” But that was back when there were other people to blame. Now it was just Vanessa and her. And she couldn’t really yell at an 8-year old for finishing the peanut butter. Helen sighed. “I just hope there’s another jar in the pantry.”

As she walked back to the kitchen, Helen could hear Vanessa moving about down the hall. She waited patiently for her daughter to emerge from her bedroom. The sun continued to rise, warming the whole kitchen. It really was a beautiful morning.

Vanessa appeared in the kitchen doorway about 5 minutes later. She was still in her nightgown, a thin, frilly lace thing given to her by her grandparents last Christmas. It was decorated with tiny embroidered flowers. Vanessa loved it; she insisted on wearing it almost every night, if it wasn’t too cold. “Have some juice,” said Helen, as she offered a glass to her daughter. Vanessa replied with a big yawn, flashing her tiny, perfect white teeth. “But I don’t want juice, Mummy. I want pancakes!” Vanessa never spoke harshly. Instead, she always made her demands in a quiet voice, full of sweetness and innocence. Helen couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, all right. Bring me the mix from the pantry,” she replied. As Vanessa skipped down the hall, her hair reflected the rays of sun coming in through the window. She took her floppy bunny doll with her, one of its legs dragging on the ground. The bunny had been a gift from an aunt, for Vanessa’s third birthday. Vanessa immediately christened it “Sam” and carried it with her ever since. She took it everywhere – grocery shopping, family dinners, walks in the park, and, of course, to bed. The only time Sam was left at home was when Vanessa went to school. Helen had tried to persuade Vanessa to leave Sam alone more often, gently reminding her that she was getting older and was no longer a little girl, but to no avail. Sam was her security blanket, and she wasn’t ready to let go. All Helen could do was throw Sam in the washing machine once a week. “If she insists on being seen with a stupid bunny, at least I can make sure she’s being seen with a clean stupid bunny,” she thought.

“Do I need to send a search party in there?” Helen called out.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” was the reply. Vanessa came rushing in to the kitchen, pancake mix in one hand, Sam in the other. Vanessa, breathless, exclaimed, “There’s a mouse in the pantry!”
“No!” Helen shrieked. She hated dealing with rodents in the house.
“Yes!” cried Vanessa. “I saw him. He was small and dark brown with cute little pink ears and a really long, kinda pink tail.”
“Oh, damnit!” Helen said.
Vanessa frowned. “It’s not so bad, Mummy. Just catch him and let him outside like you always do.”
“No, it’s not that,” Helen sighed. She had just remembered the new lunch policy at Vanessa’s school: no peanut butter, due to the increasing numbers of kids with allergies to peanuts. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she knew there was barely time to make a second lunch, nevermind pancakes. “Would you mind having a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich for breakfast, instead of pancakes?” Vanessa rolled her eyes. She put the box of pancake mix down on the counter, and held out her hands. Helen put the freshly-made sandwich on a plate and handed it to her daughter. “How about some hot chocolate instead of juice?” Helen inquired.
“Really?” Vanessa’s eyes were incredulous.
“Yes. A special treat for today.”
“Yay!” Vanessa skipped to the kitchen table, dropping Sam along the way.
As Helen poured the cocoa powder into the steaming milk, with thoughts of mice and shopping lists and laundry dancing in her head, she stood over the sink, looking out the window. It was such a beautiful morning.

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Homesick

Sunday, 23 April 2006 | 18:24

Voilà une photo m’envoyée par une amie (et une fidèle de ce blog), chère Elysabeth. (Merci!) De belles fleurs d’un beau jardin.
There have been sunny skies for several days now; flowers are poking out boldly from the earth, bright green buds have sprung from the tips of branches. Spring comes slowly in this part of the country, almost like a whisper; there are no sudden bursts of blooming flowers or full, green trees. Perhaps because it gets so cold here in the winter, nature’s slumber is that much deeper, and it simply takes that much longer to wake up. Life restarts gradually here, but restart it always does.
I’ve been thinking about the coming months, and how I’ve been lucky enough to go back home every summer for several years. This year promises to be different. My financial situation is up in the air, my employment situation is worse than usual; I don’t think I’ll be able to afford a holiday this summer. And I’ve realised how much that bothers me. It’s not about having time off – my work is so spotty during the warm months, I’ll get enough time as it is. It’s about going home.
Ce fut presque 7 ans que je vis ici, dans cette ville, sur les prairies du Canada. J’ai fait une petite vie ici; j’ai beaucoup de famille ici, et mon compagnon, qui j’adore… Mais malgré tout cela, je ne me sens pas complètement à l’aise ici. Quand je parle de “chez moi”, ce n’est pas ici dont je parle; c’est la côte ouest. Pas nécessairement ma ville natale, mais cette région. Mon province, mon île – ils me manquaient beaucoup quand j’ai déménagée; tout le monde disait que je m’habituerais à mes nouveaux alentours. Suis-je habituée? Oui. Mais ce n’est pas ma ville, ma régoin à moi… vous comprenez?
Don’t misunderstand – the prairies have their charms. Endless fields and meadows have a certain beauty, and give way to a seemingly endless sky; with nothing to obstruct the view of the horizon, all the wonders of the heavens are on full display here: sunrise and sunset, lightning, cloud formations, rainbows… But I admire these things in a passive sort of way, like a tourist. I still feel like a tourist sometimes. My parents are both originally from this area, and for almost as long as I can remember, my mum wanted to “go home”. I’d say, but we are home! And she’d explain that she meant the prairies. Family is very important to her, and she grew up here, but it wasn’t just the people; she missed the golden wheat, the big sky, the feeling of wide open spaces. She always said she felt claustrophobic among the towering mountains and evergreens. As for me, I never understood the draw for her; how could she long to return even after 24 years?
When I moved away from home, to this very different part of the country, I came to realise what she had meant, and also just how strong those ties are to our birthplaces. I believe that where one is from is internalised somehow, and becomes part of one’s very fabric as a human being. When I say I miss being home, while I am talking about my dad and grandpa and my friends and the memories my hometown still holds for me, I’m also talking about so many other things. I think about Cathedral Grove, a stand of old-growth forest 15 minutes from my hometown; I think of the moss and lichens clinging to the tree trunks of 300 year old Douglas firs, the deformed mushrooms boldly jutting out from their branches; I think of Long Beach, a stretch of sand and driftwood that goes on for kilometers along the Pacific Ocean, the smooth, soft sand juxtaposed against the rough driftwood and forest mere meters away; I think of the towering mountains, coloured that blue-green tint synonymous with dense, thick tree cover; I think of the rainforest, slippery boardwalks, humid air, and green, bright green, everywhere. I think of the salty coldness of the ocean, the lush colours of the flowers, the quiet beauty of the Dogwood tree. I think of the very visible bald patches on the mountains, representative of the sad spectacle of clear-cutting and de-forestation. I think of clear, blue lakes and the wooden docks floating on them, perfect for sunning on a summer’s day. I think of the forest floor, covered in bark, strange insects, and dirt – and I think of that dirt: dark, rich, aromatic, earthy. I think of the low-lying cloud, the grayness of a rainy day, the swooshing sound the evergreens make as their tops sway about in the winds, the fog as thick as heavy cream. I think of the sounds of all the birds awakening in the morning, a cacaphony of song, and I think of the earthworms squirming through the gardens, unsuspecting prey.
I think often of my childhood. Tending to the gardens in the backyard, where we grew garlic, onions, lettuce, radishes, carrots, peas, green beans, zucchini, cucumber, strawberries. I think of the plum trees in the chicken yard, and the many flowers scattered in gardens across our property: petunias, gladiolas, foxgloves, rhododendrons, climbing roses, hyacinths, daffodils, tulips, irises, amarylis, lilacs, pansies. I think of the wild fruits growing in our yard and on the mountain out back: gooseberries, red currants, rhubarb, wild strawberries. I think of our chickens, roosters, rabbits, pheasants, canaries, racing pigeons, mourning doves, all making the backyard a much livelier place… When I was little, I used to go out and play with the chickens – as much as one could play with chickens :) They were laying hens, and they were my responsibility. I tended to them, locked them in the henhouse at night so the racoons, foxes, minks couldn’t get to them, let them out into the yard at daybreak, collected the eggs, and sold them at my parents’ bakery. (“Larissa’s Farm Fresh Eggs, $2/dozen!” said the sign.)
I think about all these things when I talk about “home”; the lush vegetation, the moist air, the forests, the mountains, the water – it all runs through my veins, every day, every waking moment. Sometimes I miss it so much I can’t breathe. I’m homesick, still, after several years! Et même si je suis contente avec ma vie à présent, je dois me rendre à l’évidence qu’il y a un vide constant dans mon âme qui ne peut être rempli que par la beauté et la grâce des merveilles de nature si abondant dans mon ancien province. And even if I’m reasonably happy with where I am now, my secret desire that I carry with me every day is a wish to just go home.

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