Falling Back
October 20, 2009
Falling Back
In autumn time is jumbled—fast-forwarded, yet simultaneously slowed. Maybe it’s the way the leaves change colour seemingly every hour, definitely day by day. Or the way the mornings feel like winter, bright afternoons like summer, and evenings like the season it is. Maybe it’s that returning to schedules makes everything feel rushed after summer’s meandering. And then there are the quick-to-come-long-to-leave dark hours of stretching winter nights. But whatever the reason, I feel time—its effect, its pressure, its gift—more tangibly in the fall.
A few of the latest reminders of how fast time goes:
I have a 16-year-old daughter. When I wrote my first column for The Standard, she needed a car seat. Now she’s in the driver’s seat. When I look over at her adjusting the mirrors and fiddling with the stereo, I don’t see a young woman, taller than me. I see a toddler’s blonde sticky-uppy ponytails bent intently over the plastic steering wheel of her bright yellow ride-on racecar.
I have a 13-year-old son. I thought that him turning thirteen wouldn’t feel strange, seeing as I’d already done the have-my-baby-become-a-teenager thing. Wrong. It was absolutely bizarre. After all, he was my baby-baby; my daughter had been “big” (her proclamation) since he was born when she was almost three. Now I have two teenagers. No babies. Can I still call them that though, please? (“Mooom, you’re sooo weird!”—I’ll take that as a no . . .)
June 2010 is the 20th anniversary of my high school graduation. I have been married for over eighteen years. My baby sister is 31 ½. (The last was the real shock; I can never remember she’s actually turned 30, let alone surpassed it.) I am 37! (A year I always looked forward to and so far, so good!)
A chime announcing that no matter how quickly it moves, in important ways time doesn’t change you:
I spent last weekend helping my 80-year-old grandma move from her farm in Hazelton to a shiny one-bedroom apartment in Houston—just across the hall from her 82-year-old sister’s suite. It’s hard for my brain to reconcile the age eighty with who they are, giggling and whispering, full of plans to gallivant (a Hawaii cruise), walk to exercise classes, feast regularly at a nearby Chinese restaurant, go visit with their other siblings and children . . . Their excitement about living back in such close proximity was cute and somehow comforting.
Time doesn’t end. It exists as is, made up of all that’s gone before. I don’t just have a sixteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old. I have them, plus who they were at every age and stage. My husband and I will (soon) celebrate 19, then 20, then . . . many more years (hopefully!), but we are also just met, just friends, just falling in love . . . My grandma would say (laughing), “I’m an old woman,” but she’s also a kid in a warm blue hood riding a toboggan with her slightly older sister who wears bright red. She’s a young woman going to the city with that same sled-riding sister to get a higher education. She’s a teacher in small rural school. She’s a new bride and a widow. A mother of eleven! A little treasured sister. A grandma. A great-grandma. At eighty, still a cheeky kid: “You may look younger than me, Mary, but I look more intelligent!”
Soon we’ll set our clocks back an hour and I’ll revel in the delicious feeling of having more time, knowing full well that’s just a trick. It doesn’t matter how fast or slow, time passes whether we hold on tight or let it go. I want to savour it.
First published in The Terrace Standard, Oct. 14, 2009
Pen Caving
September 17, 2009
Sometimes in the middle of a moment or event, I find myself slightly removed, watching with my psychic pen in hand, wondering even as I experience something how I will write about it.
This strange, constantly penning side of my brain often draws parallels between adventures I’m having and my writing life. One of the latest examples of such analogy occurred this summer, when I was caving in Horne Lake. Yes, caving. As in burrowing deep into the earth via rocky tunnels and winding, blacker-than-black channels into surprisingly wide caverns and the like.
My obsession with caves (and writing) started when I was young; I blame Mark Twain. While I loved Tom Sawyer (of course) and could never understand his passion for insipid Becky Thatcher, I adored Huck Finn. And the descriptions of the caves he got to explore (where Injun Joe lived for a long while) always threw me into paroxysms of jealousy. Why couldn’t I live in a cave? Why couldn’t I at least live near caves? Second only to sunken treasure, caves were the top of my romantic-things list.
Fast forward to holiday planning 2009. As I investigated interesting things we could if we got tired of Rathtrevor Beach or jumping off small cliffs into Englishman River (which would never happen, but it was fun to see all the Island offers), I came across ads promoting Horne Lake caves. Real caves. Twisty, freaky, creepy, awesome ones.
We knew we were leaving the surface before we even entered the cave; the change in temperature is immediate and complete, even just at the mouth. Squeezing through crevices that put off the claustrophobic, we ended up in strange room after strange room, filled with nooks and crannies and platformed layers that would’ve made perfect sleeping quarters!
I was almost giddy with the knowledge of how much there was to explore (so much that I suspect no one could ever get through all of it). It didn’t matter that other people were doing the same thing, sometimes in the same area–caves are unique through each person’s eyes, imagination, fears, and purpose. I felt completely alone and cut off–in a delicious, adventuresome way at times. In a slightly awed, fearful way at others–what have I got myself into? Can I get myself out?
The light from our headlamps (and from any others in the caves, though for the most part my son and I were alone and even went our own separate ways a few times) shone in single narrow beams, the inside of the earth being so dark, so void of light that it seemed to devour the rays we tried to cast. I could see only as far ahead as I could shine the light directly. But it was enough.
For fun, we turned off our lights and tried to figure out where to go next, how to get out of a particular spot, by feel. Worms of panic squirmed occasionally–what would we do if our lamps went out? Or if we turned them off and they wouldn’t turn back on? The answer was simple and obvious: we would get out the same way we came in. Step by step, hand-over-hand. We’d close our eyes, so the dark would feel like a choice, and move by thoughtful gut, prodding the air ahead with hand and foot, making sure a steady hold waited for us. Eventually we’d make it through.
The terrain of the caves was captivating and varied: by turns rough and jagged, alternatively smooth and rounded, like mounds of mud rolled down in layers. Deceptively soft looking. Bone dry in parts, sweating beads of moisture in others–and in still others, crystal clear pools glimmered with reflections when your light happened to touch upon them. Often, but no less delightful for the frequency, the glow from my headlamp would bounce against seemingly black, dense stone only to have it light up and sparkle like it was dusted in stars.
Yes, I find writing like exploring caves in every way. Exhilarating. Intimidating. Sometimes fear-invoking. Challenging. Revealing. Often I can see no further in a story than to the end of a line. I know I have to accept the necessity of feeling my way around in the dark. I am continually amazed by the depths and diversity I discover. And just like I can’t wait to do more spelunking, I’m always excited to climb through the gnarl of passageways, dead ends, and mysterious spaces that make up my writing. And my head.
I hope you had a great summer–and whatever they are, I hope you’re feeling inspired and itchy to explore your own passions this fall.
First published in The Terrace Standard, Sept. 16, 2009
Author’s note: This column is a condensed form of a post I published on my blog, Write here, write now.
Apple Boxes
July 29, 2009
When I was little, my family and I spent a year living in Vancouver. I’m surprised by the vivid memories of that short time—it made quite an impression, quite possibly because I didn’t hate it. I shared a miniscule L-shaped bedroom with my brother and my sister in an ancient, tiny house in the east end. I didn’t mind the close quarters or the loss of my private (bigger) bedroom in Smithers, because my mom was a genius and gave me my very own box. I’m pretty sure it was an apple box, because its lid had square holes like apple box tops often do and slid down over the sturdier box beneath it.
Having my own box was way cooler than having a whole room to myself. No one was allowed in the box without my implicit permission. I stored the box at the foot of the top bunk (also my space, though I would let my brother come up to visit) and kept a myriad of treasures in it: My doll Raggedy Anne’s full wardrobe, made by my inspired Auntie Anne (the similarity in names was not a coincidence), bottle caps (because some kid in a storybook collected them), a small white and purple ceramic cow that my grandpa had won at a carnival (and he’d won one for my auntie/bestfriend too), a rubber elf lying on his back with a bright red ladybug perched on his bended knee (from my grandma’s flower shop in Smithers), comics from my Auntie Mary—and oh, so many more great things.
Having that small space to tuck my stuff into, keeping it safe until I wanted to pull it out and look at it, play with it, and dream over it made me feel like I had all the wealth in the world. One afternoon, in a fit of wild generosity, I decided to treat my brother by letting him in on the ceremony of going through the box. We were both disappointed.
On his side: The mystery and hype surrounding the hidden, secretive nature of the box had been absolutely captivating for him, but the actual contents were surprising and not in a good way. “But it’s just junk,” he said (or something to that effect).
On my side: This was my treasure chest we were talking about. If he had fallen prostrate on the bed and said, “I’m not worthy, I’m not worthy,” I might have been satisfied that his response was somewhere in the realm of appropriate. I definitely expected awed respect and grovelling appreciation for his being allowed to see the precious contents.
Still I suppose the experience was worthwhile. I learned that value is in the eye of the beholder. Whenever I opened that box, I saw and felt much more than the item I happened to pull out. I saw the face of whoever gave it to me, or made it for me, or played with it with me . . . The apple box (though I couldn’t have articulated it this way at the time) was the whole extended family and friend support system that we’d moved away from. By holding onto those contents, I held onto each person.
I also learned that some memories or observations—regarding the really special, personal things—are best kept tucked away for your own perusal.
My husband recently complained that he’d been on my website and saw that there weren’t a lot of articles about him mentioned there (He was joking; he doesn’t actually want me to write about him—though he also doesn’t mind, which is good, considering here I am). Somehow through this small conversation, I started thinking about apple boxes and him, and how he’s right.
As much as I refer to him, our kids, and friends in general (as really, they do inspire a lot my “Just a Thoughts”), I seldom give a lot of specific details about them. I think it’s because together they make up my flesh and blood apple box and our lives together are the whatnot that fill it.
A lot of people have families and most people have friends. On the surface, shared details might make it seem like everyone’s relationships are kind of the same, kind of mundane. But even while that’s sort of true, it’s not true at all. Each nuance is as unique as it is common. It can be lovely and valuable to share, but it’s not necessary and it might even be disappointing if someone else doesn’t see your treasure the same way you do. What’s important is that you secret away all those special inane things and have an apple box of your own.
First published in The Terrace Standard, July 22, 2009
Grass Stained
June 27, 2009
First published in The Terrace Standard, June 24, 2009
I was driving my daughter’s boyfriend home the other day, when I was struck by wonderful take-me-back sight. He lives in a freshly built house, in an area that’s seen a lot of recent development. The object of my, “Oh, I love those!” was a large mountain of dirt, the result of some foundation or another. It was at least a season old, thoroughly covered in knee-high wild grass—the broad-bladed kind that you can whistle on if you’re blessed with that talent (mournfully, I’m not), the kind you can tug carefully from its lower section to reveal a soft, tender, so-light-it’s-almost-white green end that’s delicious to eat, the kind that makes your bare legs itch when you go swishing through it, the kind that’s a haven for spit bugs who love to decorate it with their white foam, the kind that undulates in waves making a whispering, rushing-roar in the wind.
You may or may not have guessed by now, but I have a special affinity for that kind of hill, for that kind of grass.
Once upon a time, my grandparents built a huge new house in Hazelton, BC to replace what was forevermore to be called “the old house.” While the new house (twenty-five-years later, it’s still the new house) was being built and for a summer or two after it was moved into, my aunt/best friend and I called that hill, home. And castle. And ocean. And, well, a great many other things actually.
We each claimed a side of the mountain and made homes. Often, however, we were driven far from our green refuges. We were burned out in wars, were enlisted to go on holy quests, needed to find elf stones, or were surprised while berry picking by creepy-yet-wise crones who informed us of our real identities: royalty ferreted away while we were still babies to save our lives. Now duty called us. Our far off country was in dire need of someone strong enough, ferocious enough, mystical enough to vanquish the evil ruler who long ago killed our parents and took over the kingdom that was rightfully ours.
The latter made deep sense to us. We had, though happy with our simple lives, always suspected we had some unknown destiny. Scared but brave, we’d pack a paper bag full of smoked ooligans and another full of almost-but-not-quite ripe crab apples (My mouth waters even recalling those snacks!), and we’d head out while the sun was still high in the sky. Literally and figuratively, it would be a long while before we returned.
East, west, north, south—a different direction, depending on the adventure.
Across the short gnawed lawn and into the field usually meant we were pirates. Maybe even today, somewhere in that field, there’s still a lumpy weird island marked as ours with a big steer skull (though I’m sure it’s fallen off the stick by now). And there’s still a treasure. I know because I buried it myself. And we made a map. A tricky one. Too tricky. We never found our treasure.
Up the hill to the old barn to jump off hay bales—any number of misadventures could be necessitating those perilous leaps!
To the bone yard. Deserted vehicle after deserted vehicle after deserted vehicle—so many, you wouldn’t believe it. Is it five-hundred-years in the future and have we been teleported back to earth to see if we can somehow postpone its sure destruction?
To the beaver pond. To the end of the long driveway and along the gravel road toward—a destination never quite reached. Something, someone, would alert us—regardless of the world that we lived in—that it was time to head in. There was a feast to attend to.
After the feast, we headed for the hills again until the lovely summer sky turned purple-blue. Then we returned to our mountain, and if we were lucky, got to lie in the grassy sea and watch the first stars come out before we were remembered, and hailed, for bed.
My grandma scrubbed our feet with a soft brush and lots of soap in an attempt to get the dirt off our thick-as-leather soles, so we wouldn’t track up the sheets. But clean or not, our feet still looked black. She could never fully rid us of the grasses’ deep stains. It’s been many years since I’ve run wild all summer long in that favourite of childhood places. But the grass is still there, whispering, roar-rushing in me.
Growing Ideas
May 28, 2009
First published in The Terrace Standard, May 27, 2009
As I sit down to write today, my fingers and hands look like they’ve seen a war. Small festering prickles are imbedded here and there, my nails are blackened and broken, and I have defensive wounds on my forearms. My beautiful thorny rosebush attacked me last night and while I did manage to cut it back, so that I can paint my house, it made some slices of its own. I was wearing heavy-duty work gloves and its spiny thorns still got through.
When I told my son to be careful around the rosebush because “it’s very mean,” he shook his head. “It’s not mean, Mom. It’s just misunderstood.” Cheeky kid. At least I know he listens to me sometimes. A little while later though, after a too self-assured brush against the plant, he decided I was right.
The rosebush made me realize something about the famous fairytale, Sleeping Beauty. It had to be written by a gardener, one familiar with fighting mighty rosebushes, because only one so blessed (cursed?!) could understand just how adequately a rosebush left to its own devices could protect a tower and persuade any would-be heroes to seek easier rescues.
Other stories inspired by humans’ passion for (or struggle with!) growing things came to me.
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Aside from the pure magic of discovering a hidden garden to play in, the children who seek refuge there find healing and rejuvenation. So much so that it almost escapes the reader’s attention: that place of new growth and life was also the starting place of all of young Colin’s woes, the place that killed his mother and brought death, pain and estrangement into the family.
Beatrix Potter’s hilarious tales of bratty Peter Rabbit, his kin, and neighbouring animal folk. I can’t help but wonder if she had to protect her cabbages from some bunny—too cute to resist being charmed by, too annoying to quite quell the desire to stick him in a pie via Mr. McGregor.
Ideas for my columns (nature-based or not) often sprout while I’m working outside, and last spring, after cleaning out a flowerbed, I penned (okay, I typed, but honestly, doesn’t penned sound more romantic?) my own tale inspired by digging in the dirt, “Wishful,” in which a woman is enjoying a lovely day and wishes things would never change. I guess I wanted to explore the truth in the old adage, “Be careful what you wish for.” In any event, I won’t ever look at the little faces in pansies quite the same way ever again.
I don’t know exactly what it is about yard work that cultivates ideas, but there is definitely something in that kind of toil that fertilizes the mind—and not just the writer’s muse either.
Toiling in my yard, contemplating the growth and bloom (or lack thereof!) of various plants, makes me think about more than just how late spring is. I make plans for summer holidays, I go over things I need to accomplish in the week, and I ponder over relationships with my kids, husband, family, and friends.
Some of my best brainstorming sessions—for work, for writing, for house and home projects—occur with clippers or a rake, not a pen, in my hand. Often any problems—imagined or not—that I’m experiencing get worked out while my muscles do too.
Stress, angst, worry . . . all those negative energy sappers disappear as I focus on helping my plants move out of their winter garb, shed spring excitement that’s burst forth in go-no-where energy stealers—the plants’ own suckers and shoots—and get ready for summer growth and maturity.
I know that comparing garden growth to personal growth is an oft-used metaphor, but as with many things that get overused, it’s used a lot, because people feel its truth. Seeing how things change season through season, watching how the tiniest seed grows into the most profuse plant, marvelling at how the “deadest” branch comes to life when the time and conditions are right is inspiring.
I was the one being cheeky earlier when I said my rosebush was mean—I was feeling guilty for pruning the beautiful thing back so vehemently. I deserve my scars. Really, I’m in awe of its warrior-self that in a few more weeks will be topped with the showiest, soft-as-velvet huge fuchsia roses you can imagine, and I’m already anticipating its heavy, delicious scent carrying in the warm evening air. My mind finds peace and inspiration in the same slivers and blisters that make my fingers and hands seem like they’ve done battle.
A Spring Ramble
April 30, 2009
First published in the Terrace Standard, April 29, 2009
I’m always amazed at how Terrace goes from cold to warm and from grey to green almost over night. I’m not the only one excited about the sunshine and white fluffy clouds reclaiming the leaden sky—the streets are alive with people jogging, walking, long boarding, and biking. Yay, for spring! Everyone has the same inclination as me—the desire to take a little spring ramble.
I love seeing the grass green-up, the trees (finally!) bud, and tenacious perennials bursting through the earth. I’m thrilled by the smell of sunshine starting to dry things out, getting rid of the oozing rotting smell that comes on the heels of the snow’s departure. I revel in the sounds of birds, and in the laughs and chatter of kids out biking around. And as I walk to nowhere specific, my thoughts ramble as much as I do.
My dogs pull hard on their leashes, not to be rude—they’re just so excited. There are so many smells to follow that they’re losing their minds. I wish I could smell what they find so fascinating—no, wait. I’ve seen some of the things that they think smell great. I have no desire to know what scintillating filth they’re going to track home. But I do find their enthusiasm endearing.
I wonder idly, What makes a piece of property valuable? I used to be sad that the mill was abandoned, then torn down and left as a concrete scar along the centre of town. No more—enthralled is a better descriptor of how I feel about it these days. Youth have claimed the massive space as an extreme sport zone/urban art gallery. The former? Well, my slightly neurotic nature says, “Yikes.” The latter? It’s brilliant. By turns angry and edgy, but predominantly funny, passionate, and whimsical.
I have favourites pieces—the shadow people, the funky fruit (there was a gorgeous pear last year facing out onto Kenney—now there’s another hidden from the road), and the laughing woman (I think she’s new-ish) in a mural that grows more complex and cooler every day. Last spring, I was so moved by the contemplative, long-haired woman staring out at a geometric city that I had to take her photo—and I’m glad I did, because now her face has been wrecked with green spray paint. I try not to be too upset, because I suppose that’s the nature of graffiti—it’s ever changing—but some of the work there defies that “g” word. It’s Art.
I admire the Canada flag that Save-On Foods displays. Is it just me, or is that flag not crazily beautiful? Somehow, even when there is no wind, the wind manages to ripple it perfectly. The red and white against the bright blue sky reminds me of how fortunate I am to be Canadian. Does everyone feel that way about his/her country?
My patriotism spirals into irritation—on the radio earlier, some political party (I remember which one, but I’m not naming names, because I don’t necessarily dislike them any more than any other) called BC a “have-not” province, and said they have plans to change that. Well, good for them, I guess. I know there are people struggling in BC—struggling in Terrace—but all I could think was, If we are the have nots, who the heck are the haves? Seriously, do our leaders look at the world around us at all? We may have improvements to make (absolutely and forever), but how can anyone living in BC—in Canada as a whole—not realize that calling us “have-nots” is ludicrous?
A truly shallow realization interrupts my inner-rant: I’m almost at the start of the millennium trail and I do adore Maple Walnut ice cream.
I really have no idea how politics and ice cream turn my mind to marriage and economic downturns, but there you have it: how my mind works. I suddenly recall an article I read on Yahoo! News about how fewer marriages break up during recessions. The quoted analyst was cynical, believing it was because people deemed divorce too expensive for such tough times. It’s sunny and I’m surrounded by people walking with their pets and friends and families, and I disagree. Maybe tough economies just remind us that money isn’t dependable and that economics don’t make you laugh or keep you company at night. It’s relationships that are worthy investments.
The dogs are slowing down and I am too—my mind turns to plans for my flowerbeds and my garden plot (or shall I say, my salad spot)—we’re almost home, but our spring ramblings have just begun.
Working It Out
March 26, 2009
First published in the Terrace Standard, March 26th, 2009
I’ve been writing for a lot of years now, and along the way, I’ve noticed some uncomfortable tendencies that lurk within my wordy self. When life gets hard, I like to try to avoid whatever it is that’s making it hard. I don’t think I’m alone this in this—sometimes I wonder if most of our culture’s obsessions with TV, Internet browsing, porn, shopping, over-eating, drugging, drinking, overachieving, oversleeping (etc., please add and add to the list!) are just ways to avoid thinking.
So what do I do when I’m sad about something, or confused or stressed out about things I have no control over? I sleep or work—usually the latter, because my brain too easily recognizes that sleeping too much is a sign that something’s wrong. I can work a lot for a long time before my brain says, “Avoidance much?”
There are multiple advantages to working, the biggest being: a paycheque, getting things done that need to be done, and the self-esteem and feeling of safety that lies in knowing that you control whether or not you do a good job (as compared to the tenuous feelings of walking a thin line between sanity and madness that often accompanies thinking about life’s problems).
The above benefits of work are genuinely good, important things. Work is both a virtue and a necessity. Everyone needs to eat and have shelter and warm clothes (especially this spring!), so paycheques are kind of a necessity. There really are tasks that are important to survival. People do need to derive a certain sense of satisfaction from their daily activities for good mental health.
And sometimes you really do have to work a lot—it really isn’t avoidance of any kind. It’s the nature of your business, or a seasonal reality. Perhaps you’re an accountant, so tax time is brutal, or a road maintenance person, so winter’s random weather means 16-hour days more often than not. Maybe you have a tight deadline one month. Using work as life-avoidance is more an attitude than a matter of how many hours worked.
I’m usually pretty good at keeping time free for family and friends and other important things like reading, gardening, playing, etc., but every so often I find myself making work (and trust me—that’s something I don’t need to do; I’m a busy person as it is!). I know I’ve crossed the line when I find myself re-working a piece that has been finished for at least three read-throughs or scrubbing the tub surround with a toothbrush. I believe we all know the difference between using work (or some other coping mechanism) to avoid dealing with something, just like we know when we’re attempting to put off an uncomfortable conversation with a parent, spouse or child…. We know.
The problem with keeping busy to avoid feeling negative things is that you can’t be closed off to one emotion and still be open to another. In shutting out pain and confusion, you also bar opportunities for joy and closeness. Besides, avoiding thinking about things that make you sad or uncomfortable only works for so long; eventually if you don’t face them, they really mess you up. Wounds need to be scraped out and cleaned up, kept from festering. You can survive a scar, but infections kill you. Eventually you have to face your life.
I’m lucky because by nature, I have to dig through my head (Gah—did I just say I was lucky because of that?). To write honestly—and I do want to write things that are honest, because otherwise what’s the point—I need to face whatever pain, confusion, or unfixable mess of emotions currently facing me). Thankfully, as I wade through the muck, I often rediscover things that are good, are pure, are lovely.
And so I’m back at my computer again—working on personal writing, not just safe writer-for-hire stuff. The first few days are always painful. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my monitor is a mirror, its dark surface literally reflecting me when I sit down, then figuratively reflecting me as my words grow across the page. In the same way I sometimes groan at my tired, puffy-faced morning self, I sometimes grimace at my confused in-text self. But just like combing your hair is easier with a mirror, and pretty soon the face staring back at you is more human, less scary, I’m already feeling better, more like myself, better able to cope. I love to work, but I need to remind myself not to hide. Taking time to feel is important, even if it’s hard.
Make a Path
January 28, 2009
First published in the Terrace Standard, January 28th, 2009
Many years ago, when I was still a smoker, I was walking to a newly discovered favourite spot to smoke, when I happened to glance down. With a bit of shock, I realized that the grass I tread had already worn into an obvious trail. It only takes a week to make a path, I thought.
Something in that fact struck me as profound and became part of the resolve I needed to eventually quit smoking for good.
Even more years ago—way back when I was six—I was in a Vancouver doctor’s office, listening to my mom and a doctor try to figure out why was I was waking up at 5:00 a.m. every morning, panicked and disorientated. We had just moved from Smithers, but I seemed to be fitting in fine. I fell asleep okay, then wham! 5:00 hit.
The doctor was in dark about what could be wrong, and suggested that time would cure me. Then as we were leaving, my mom made a casual comment that threw on a light.
“It’s just doesn’t make sense,” she said. “She slept like a rock in Smithers—the racket of the trains never even fazed her. Now we’re—”
The doctor interrupted her. “You lived near a train yard?”
A few more minutes of conversation yielded a conclusion. Apparently there was a daily 5:00 a.m. train. From infancy on, I’d heard its blaring whistle at the exact same time while I slept. They decided its absence was an inaudible alarm clock; the silence woke me up.
My mom’s mind was set at ease, and after a week or two, I slept normally again. I found that story fascinating as a kid, and it intrigues me still. Routine is a powerful thing. Even when it’s unintentional, it becomes set.
A few days ago, I visited Scribo Ergo Sum, my friend Jen Brubacher’s blog. In a funny coincidence, as I had already started this, she had this to say in a recent post: “Writing is about creativity, but it is also about habit. I am trained. I make myself coffee or cocoa, sit at my desk, look at the blinking cursor, and then I start. Well, then I usually start. It isn’t perfect. But it generally gets me where I want to go.
“I’ve just moved to a beautiful house in London, England, with a lot of light and a kettle and coffee maker just begging to make me hot beverages. I have my computer and I have the exact same brain and creativity I had when I left Canada. This means that of course my brain says, ‘Hello, where is my desk? I will not cooperate without my desk. I cannot write while sitting here on this couch. That is ridiculous. Because that is not my habit.’”
Something as simple as desk equals something as complex as a writer’s muse. My friend will adjust, but in the meantime, it will take a bit to get herself primed to where she just sits and the words come.
When I was a kid, I used a wheelbarrow a lot—they’re handy things, wheelbarrows. You can move a lot more wood, a lot more quickly, with one wheelbarrow trip than you can by hand. You can carry everything to the compost all at once. You can fill it with ice and wheel nicely chilled beverages about a party with a lot less effort than it takes to lug a cooler…. You can even give people rides. Yes, the benefits of wheelbarrows are huge.
But have you ever rolled a wheelbarrow over the ground enough times to set a deep groove—and then it rains or the ground swells, or you just plain want to roll somewhere else in the yard? The wheelbarrow suddenly has a mind of its own. It wants its familiar route, no matter what. You can push and pull and shove, to no avail. You will probably have to stop altogether, lift the wheelbarrow out of its comfort zone and start again. Ingrained habits are hard to break.
We humans are creatures of pattern and habit. Of tradition. Of routine. And these patterns we form and adhere to—sometimes unconsciously—can be helpful or harmful. Some result in epiphanies, serve as quirky topics for idle chat, or aid in achieving goals. Others might prevent us from attaining things we want. The trick is being honest about which is what.
If you had plans for changes in 2009, don’t lose determination if you’ve slipped back into a rut. Step out of it and try again. It only takes a week to make a new path.
Favourite Things
December 24, 2008
Favourite Things
By Ev Bishop
First published in the Terrace Standard, December 24th, 2008
When I was eleven-ish, one of my favourite songs to sing at Pioneer Girls (a kids’ club I went to at the Alliance church) was “My Favourite Things.” You know, the one from The Sound of Music—“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens….”
It wasn’t really a Christmas song per se, but to me it always conjured Christmassy images, and I don’t know if my little sister remembers this or not, but I always used to try to cajole her into singing it with me or for me. However, there are some songs that child singers get tired of being provoked into singing over and over again. That was one of them. Apparently. Sadly.
But this week (Ellie, where are you?), I’ve really wanted to listen to it again. I will probably hunt it down on the Internet, and then drive my family crazy with it.
It’s a comforting tune, and I’ve heard a lot of sad stories lately. Of people close to me, or in my circle of acquaintance, who are suffering physically, financially (or both). Of people worried about jobs or family members. Of people who have lost loved ones…. It seems the older I get, the more my holiday memories are bittersweet—I feel gratitude so much more poignantly, if only because I’m now more familiar with loss.
When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad… could just as easily read, when the bank calls, when your heart aches, when you’re missing dad…. Or it could include any of a myriad of other things that can weigh on our minds at anytime of the year, but seem especially hard at Christmas.
The song is a good reminder that the things that cheer us, that encourage us through our lives, that bring us through the hard times are little things, are simple things—are things that maybe we take for granted until we pause and actually consider them.
I had a bit of fun rewriting the lyrics with some of my own favourite things (well, things in addition to the songs original lists which were pretty great—hence, I’m sure, its popularity!).
Small dog and old dog asleep by the fire,
hot steaming coffee and smooth paper novels,
fun daughter laughing as silly son sings…
these are a few of my favorite things.
Red fragrant flowers and long late night chatting,
black ink and felt pens and sushi, oh oodles,
wild friends that call when you need them to ring…
these are a few of my favourite things.
Wearing pyjamas with fuzzy warm slippers,
crazy rain falling while I am out walking,
e-mail messages that give my dreams wings…
these are a few of my favourite things
When the kids fight, when my life stings,
when I’m feeling sad…
I simply remember my favourite things,
and then I don’t feel so bad.
Not everything is made better by doing an exercise like this, but a lot is. Take a little time out during this busy season, especially if you’re feeling a little down or overwhelmed by life these days—maybe gather your loved ones close, or maybe steal away by yourself—and have some fun. Make a silly list of things you love and see if you can reword the song too. Then sing it loud and proud.
I used to worry that finding joy or comfort in seemingly trivial moments, activities, or possessions was shallow of me, that maybe in the context of bigger struggles, it was somehow a failing that I could be “distracted” by these little “favourite things.”
These days, I feel differently. Gratitude goes an amazing distance in helping you through tough times. The little things that spark a smile or a good memory can save your life—or your sanity at least. Now I consider them gifts from God, a reminder that in the hard times, the struggling times, good things exist too. I’m happy when I recognize them.
Whether your holidays have thus far been merry and bright, or more like going into a dark night, I wish you comfort and joy and hang-in there power.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all.
Good Reads
November 25, 2008
First published in the Terrace Standard, November 25th, 2008
“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me,” said C.S. Lewis, and oh, how I agree!
It’s that glorious time of the year again—the sky opens up and pours regularly; ever-dropping temperatures chase us inside for warm, comforting mugs of cocoa, tea, and coffee; long dark evenings call us to the couch. It’s also time for my annual book recommendation column.
I have fond childhood memories involving overflowing bowls of popcorn, orange juice and long stories read over the darkest, coldest months of the years. To name a few:
Laura Ingalls Wilder’s famous Little House series (especially Little House in the Big Woods and Farmer Boy).
James Herriot’s All Things Bright and Beautiful featuring often hilarious, occasionally bittersweet, anecdotes from the author’s experiences as a country vet in England (and if you have small children, look for his picture books).
The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame is another grand read. Adventure and danger, friendship and betrayal (or perceived betrayal), fast cars and old mansions (I want a huge house I call Toad Hall!), this story has it all. There is nothing cuter (or more pathetic) than Toad in his leg irons. I think there are versions written in “updated” English, but I have to admit, I love the flavour the older language provides.
The Several Lives of Orphan Jack by Sarah Ellis is from my son’s youth, not mine. We’ve devoured it several times. Constant word play and every literary device imaginable make it a read-aloud treat—very fun!).
More currently, I’m excited to report the discovery of three great reads by new-to-me authors. Yay!
The French Executioner by C.C. Humphreys. It’s 1536 and Jean Rombaud, French executioner and expert swordsman, has just been brought to England out of the kindness of King Henry VIII’s heart—a final gift to his soon to be ex-wife, Anne Boleyn. Death by sword was cleaner and quicker, than death by axe. Just prior to her beheading, Anne asks Jean to lop off her six-fingered hand as well, and to take it and bury it at a certain crossroads in France. He accepts the mission and is off and running, literally, as he’s pursued by people who will do anything to get Anne’s legendary hand.
Packed with well-researched history, the invented plot gallops at breakneck speed, carrying characters you adore. Full of the gruesome details of a bloody, treacherous time, Humphreys doesn’t blink at the greed, corruption and cruelty of the Church and other authorities. However, he also celebrates the indomitable power of friendship, loyalty and love, and the importance of staying true to your beliefs, despite personal cost.
The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. If you told me that I’d speed through a novel about a racecar driver (jammed with racing facts and trivia and how-to’s) written from a dog’s point-of-view, I wouldn’t have believed you. If you added that not only would I enjoy the car stuff, but I would laugh out loud, cry, and spend time thinking through philosophical ponderings put forth by a canine (Enzo wants to be reincarnated as a human), I would’ve shaken my head and said, “Riiiiight.” But you would have been. It’s a fantastic story, wistful and wrenching, but joyful and optimistic too. And if you have a four-legged friend? Well, the book will be that much sweeter.
The Mephisto Club by Tess Gerritsen. I can’t say enough good things about Gerritsen’s grisly thriller. My biggest praise is how well this book worked as a standalone. Usually books from later in a series are at best, okay, when you haven’t read prior novels. With this one, I loved the characters, realized half-way through that little dangled details about their back stories were probably whole novels (yay!), and felt only excitement, no info dump fatigue or out-of-the-loop angst.
I know you have your own ever-growing to-read list; perhaps you’ve even added some of the books I’ve mentioned here to it. Go pour a big mug of tea (add honey and a shot of real lemon to make it a perfect cold weather treat) and settle in for the evening with a good book. Better yet? Get the whole family to do the same. Ahhh…. So many books, so little time. Cheers to a long, cold winter!
