spring greens

(Or, thoughts had while driving home at 11 pm on a foggy Sunday night, and written down and posted shortly thereafter.)

Spring is here. Leaves are out on the trees, and it's a relief. After fog and rain and cold, and feeling like our climate is changing, I'm so glad to see trees just bursting with new life, covered in lush greenness. A promise that there will be a summer, that there is some normalcy.

Well, I mean, OK, I'm not just feeling it, the climate is changing. We all know that by now, don't we? I mean, tornadoes, hurricanes, and scientific data that just won't quit? Can we all stop saying "well maybe it's something that is supposed to happen every 10,000 years by itself" - anyone who's ever had anything to do with alcoholism can tell you, that's denial, people.

I like a comic I saw recently somewhere online that was some scientists at a climate conference. There was a list on a whiteboard of "benefits of reducing our impact on the world" - things like "healthier kids" and "better food" and "stronger communities". One guy in the audience stood up and said "Yeah but what if it's all a hoax and we make a better world for NOTHING?"

That's pretty much how I feel.

Like, can't we stop arguing over whether or not it's a hoax, and just do the right thing already? Because even if somehow it is a big hoax, isn't reducing our voracious use of the planet's resources a really great thing?

Most of the time I feel like standing in the middle of a street, or a mall, or anywhere at all, and just yelling "Wake the fuck up everyone!" Just yelling it, over and over and over. Partly because I like saying the word "fuck". (If you thought I was only a "sweetheart" and that I never offend anyone, you were wrong. Sorry.) Partly because I want everyone to WAKE THE FUCK UP. And then DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT ALREADY.

But doing that makes you a social pariah and people don't listen anyway.

And besides, people wake up individually and unfortunately we do not, as a world, collectively make decisions.

So what to do?

Hunker down. Shop at the farmer's market (and get asparagus and greens in season, and eat the earth's rhythms to instill them in yourself). Laugh and dance to make yourself feel less crazy, and let the real feelings OUT. Talk to like-minded people, like I do with my friend Kate, with whom I try and walk once a week. We talk about this feeling of living in two worlds. One is the world of cars and TV shows and getting your food at the supermarket, frozen, in pretty packages, and being "normal", ordering things and talking about next year like the world we live in is never going to change. Like "positive growth always" is actually possible, like we live on a magic planet with infinite resources and a reset button. The other is the world of fear, of who knows what might happen, of eating dandelion greens and scrounged beans and needing to know how to shoot a gun because everything has collapsed due to Peak Oil. And these days? It feels like those two worlds are starting to merge. Like I said, tornadoes and hurricanes. Scientific data that just will not quit. That just keeps coming.

I gotta admit some stuff. I like driving. No, scratch that, I love it. I do. I'm an environmentalist (and sometimes just a mentalist - ask my family) and I love driving. I'm not saying I love what it does to the planet. Nor what it has done to cities and communities. But I do love it. I love doing it. I love the freedom. I love the speed. I love pressing on the gas and feeling my car speed up, go faster. I am in control, my hands are on the wheel. I can take myself there.

Also, today I shopped at WalMart. Not that I do this all the time, but it was kind of nice. There was so much stuff. It was abundant, and shiny, and well-ordered and cheap. I watched people and sort of took in how they pushed their carts and the neat stories of each person I didn't know. I actually enjoyed myself.

I think it's important to recognize these things about myself. About ourselves. That I am so NOT perfect. That I do not stand apart from the world, that I am part of it.

The other day at work some men were talking about how they're going to travel, whether they're going back to the US by plane or by car. One said, "We're flying, so I'm not sure when we'll get back." "No, no," said the other one. "Remember, for that leg we're driving." Then, sardonically, sarcastically, but (I got the sense) not as aware as I was of the full meaning of what he said, "We're controlling our own destiny."

Man, have we ever fooled ourselves. But it feels good, doesn't it?

(She said ironically, but also earnestly. Sadly. And in some weird way, because she's a sensitive one, with joy.)

sunshine, you are my sunshine

"Ain't no sunshine when she's gone..." has been stuck in my head lately. We've been covered in clouds and fog for at least two weeks now - although, today, almost as if Mama Nature heard me bitching mightily yesterday about how sick I am of the rain and cold, the sun is poking through. (I like to imagine the sun as a person who is up there actually poking her fingers through these obstinate clouds. Determined.)

"Only clouds when she's away..."

I read this article on Saturday (sitting in a cafe in Sydney, drinking and eating and taking an hour to myself, which was just lovely) and it really struck a chord with me. I haven't been getting enough sleep. Worse, I really undervalue my sleep. I know it's really important, but for some reason everything else always seems more important. And that's not right.

Because the other stuff - going on Facebook and reading what "everyone else" is up to, or going on Pinterest and zoning out while scanning interesting photos, or even doing the dishes - really isn't worth skipping out on sleep. Precious sleep that helps my brain repair itself, my body clean out toxins, my sense of balance return.

This week I've been inspired, therefore, to shut the computer down at 9 pm. To sit and stare off into space. To go to bed at an earlier time, and to not worry about the stuff that does not get done. It's like I've just had it with being stressed about anything, and I just don't want to give stress free rent in my head anymore.

Maybe that's how the sun feels about the clouds.

chopstick basket, part two

 

A friend on Facebook commented and asked about what it looked like, folded up. So, there it is. The chopstick basket folds up, and that's what it looks like when it does. So nifty! I love this basket more and more each day. And don't worry, Grandmaman, I have no intention whatsoever of painting this puppy.

***

Over on Kal Barteski's blog last week, people - mostly women - have been responding to Kal's request for "ugly beautiful truths." Kal started it off by admitting she writes thank-you cards but never mails them, she feels lots of pressure to keep up with the Internet's bloggers and crafters, and that she only washes the sheets once a month. It touched a chord in lots of her readers, and people felt compelled to leave their own ugly + beautiful truths. Some left their real names, some didn't. It's in the vein of "Post Secret", that website where people send in anonymous postcards with secrets. There is something very freeing about reading them, and also about writing your own. A release. 

It's gotten me thinking, certainly. Also this week, I started doing a writing exercise where I write for 10 to 15 minutes, just free writing, whatever comes to mind. Then at the end I rip up the page. Just rip it up so no-one can read it, or put it through the shredder. It's been really interesting - an exercise, literally, in letting go. I'm so used to writing in order to keep information, in order to be able to refer to it later. But with this, you really can't. You write it, then it's gone. No way to hold on to it. Even if you like the images, even if it would make a great poem, rip it up. Try it - it's really freeing.

Earlier this weekend I found myself in another town with a whole morning just to myself. No-one could reach me, I was on my own with a room (with an adjoining bathtub! So exciting for me, at home we only have a shower) and some time. So I took advantage of it. I did my daily writing exercise. As I was ripping it up, I liked the look of the random scraps, with little pieces of writing. Like mosaic shards. I arranged them. I took a picture to show you.

I also had the Globe and Mail, Saturday edition. Feeling a little guilty ("Oh, I'm ignoring world events!") but trying to let that feeling go, I only read the Style section. I came to a piece I really liked, about a designer who works with type and had made a table with her own letterforms etched in to it. I thought about keeping the page, and using it down the road in collage or somehow or other. But I decided instead to engage with it, then let it go. Here's what I did:

I didn't have any scissors. I just had my hands. So I ripped up the quote I wanted to save, and arranged it so I could fit it all in one photograph. Once I'd done that, well, there was nowhere else to go but into the recyclables. Rip up and squish the pretty, perfected plan. And then look - there's beauty there, too.

***

Then I got to writing. This past week was also International Women's Day. Some people question having such a day. "We don't need it anymore," they say. I feel like what happened on Kal's blog (what's still happening - have a look) dovetails with this holiday. Here's the free-writing I did that flowed from it.

The ugly beautiful truths

We are all here. We are imperfect. This is news? Yes, it is. Because: we live in an age of glossy magazines, of TVs that blare at us, we can't see for the glare of perfected images. Sexy and sexiness and giving in and giving it up for rewards - as women especially we are told to part our lips and make a low moaning sound. These roles can be fun but it is not all of it. It is not our every day reality.

The whole, the perfect product, comes after a lot of hard work. This is what the ugly beautiful truths is teaching me.

And I expect the opposite, I expect to just snap my fingers and have it be done. A great poem. A cake baked. A bed made. A relationship crafted and loved. A house dusted and vacuumed and kept that way. A body honed, toned. Babies raised and taught and helped to become good people. A world fair and just, with punishments for shitty deeds. A job where you feel competent and creative and conscious. A connection to the world around me, to the leaves and the trees. Actions made, having thought about them (instead of just posting crap out into the world, typing it out and hitting "post" or "send" without rereading, rethinking, letting time do its distillation of truth).

And reading these comments that women are leaving on Kal's website I see I am not the only one. We are all here, we are all imperfect. This is news? Yes, it's the daily news. It's breaking news, heart-breaking. And then, heart-making. (You've got to break things apart to make new things. Mosaics - sharp bits of ceramic.) We are all poems, we are all stories, we are all houses waiting to be dusted, we are each an equal and hearty part of a relationship in the middle of being crafted, loved. We are blood, we are feet and toes and hair and bellies, weight that stayed after making a baby, weight that came without warning, without reason, weight that won't go, weight that goes too fast, weight that just is without trying. We are hearts, minds, loves, hates, annoyed and convinced and contented and mild and strong and and and - all emotions and adjectives that men have too. We are the reason International Women's Day exists. Jill Scott asks "what would you do if I were gone?" I can't even believe the questions still exist, questioning that feminism has a need, a place.

But then again I can't believe all these amazing women have all these ugly, beautiful truths, and are ashamed of them,

and yet we do. I do.

I pick my nose.
I change my sheets three times a year, at best.
I am jealous of other women, who I should actually be supportive of.
I
I
I

I could keep going, for a long time. But I'm going to put that out there and use this exercise to get stronger. To get better at recognizing my own beauty. My own worth and inherent right to be here, imperfect as I am.

make me human. keep me humble.

It's my own fault, really. I read blogs of women who are accomplished photographers and graphic designers, and then when it comes time for my own weekly blog post, I feel

inadequate and

like I've got nothing to show.

Plus most of the time these days I find I walk around with less-than-inspiring thoughts. Tired, just-want-to-get-out-of-my-work-clothes-and-curl-up-with-a-chick-lit-novel-and-escape thoughts. Lately it's been hitting me, over and over like a dodgeball, or - what was that ball called that was attached to a rope, that was attached to a pole, and it would spin around and you'd hit it? Whatever that ball was called, my thoughts are like that these days. Spinning back around, hitting me again.

Here's what keeps coming back at me - you're human, kid.

You'd have thought I would KNOW this. My blog is called "humin bean" for goodness' sakes. And it's not like I'm some other species. But it seems that I go around thinking I'm supposed to be better than human, that I'm supposed to always be thinking inspired, powerful, grounded and sensible thoughts. Or getting my life "figured out", as if a person's LIFE can be summed up and then conquered by a really great PLAN.

But instead of always being some super-human, inspired and positive radiant being, a good portion of the time I'll feel cranky, irritable, annoyed at things. Or jealous of other people's success. Or seriously putting off looking at my financial stuff. (I really, really hate budgeting, it seems. It makes me really uncomfortable to sit down with my papers and a calculator and crunch numbers.) Or just down on myself.

And every time I think something along those lines, a voice pipes up with hey, you're human, kid. As in, cut yourself some slack. Every single person out there feels the same way sometimes. It's all a part of the thing called life, and life wouldn't be normal without these feelings.

Still though, I forget. I ignore the truth. Then the dodgeball - or whatever it was called - comes spinning around the pole again. Have compassion for yourself. Smack. Smack. Smack.

So when it comes to posting on my blog, I need to remember: not only am I human, but I'm allowed to write whatever the heck I want. It doesn't have to be some amazing photo shoot of really interesting and beautiful things, or an inspired re-telling of a fantastic event, or even a creative interpretation of day-to-day stuff. It can just be - this.

And that feels brave.

***

Clocks fell backward and we returned to Standard Time. Now when I am done work at 5 pm, it's dark out. It always feels like a surprise, this time of year. The darkness coming on at 4 pm - right now, in fact - like an invitation to go to bed early. To snuggle up, to wear drawstring velour pants. To breathe out. To realize, the year is almost over, and that's OK.

stuff it!

This year brings changes. First there was my new car - a big change for a girl who's always gotten rides from other people, and driven rental cars every now and again but never owned anything more expensive than her laptop. (Not to mention for a girl who is mostly environmental, loves to bike around and do things that are sustainable, and half-hoped she wouldn't have to ever own a car.)

Then there's a new job - as of last week I was hired to start a full-time job in April. I'll reveal more about it when I actually start and I feel more like letting the public in. But - it will be a change for me - I'll be learning a lot, a lot. (For those of you who are concerned about my lifelong dream to be a librarian, fear not: I'll be keeping my small amount of hours there, at least for as long as that makes sense.)

Also, I decided this was the time to get myself a new bed. I've only ever had a twin bed, and the one I sleep on here at Mum's is the same one I've had since Grade 7. So I went on the hunt, looking online (bless Kijiji!) for a Queen-size bed-frame, and in local stores for a mattress and box spring. Again, learning, learning. When you know nothing about something, you have to just admit (at least to yourself) your ignorance, and jump in. How does one buy a bed? Do you buy all the parts separately, or together? What are the parts even called?

By next week (fingers crossed that all the pick-up arrangements fall into place), I will likely be sleeping on a new bed. Not just a new bed, either, but a new, big, comfortable bed. On a beautiful cherry sleigh bed-frame.

All these acquisitions have got me thinking about stuff. The stuff we collect and carry around with us. The stuff that fills our homes and fills magazines and fills stores. Prints, patterns, fabrics, styles, wood finishes, lamps, lines, colors, "space management." Now that I have a car and can get to Sydney whenever I feel like it, I feel this odd pressure that I have to go and acquire, buy, get stuff. All the dreams and desires about stuff that I've had all my life - reading and collecting magazines like Canadian House & Home and Chatelaine, tearing out pages of things I like - now, because I have a car, now is the time to go forth and acquire! (At least, that's how it feels.)

I think this is at least in part because my little village is about an hour's drive from Sydney, the nearest large commercial center. All my life, when you needed something other than groceries or hardware, you went to Sydney. School supplies, clothes, furniture, shopping at big-box "bargain" stores - all warranted a day's trip to Sydney. For a long time I didn't realize that there was more to Sydney than the gritty highway and the tedium of the malls. And when you plan a day's trip, you try to get as much into it as possible. You plan it out: leave at 9, get there for 10, shop for X Y and Z until 3, when you have a medical appointment (let's say), then return home. Exhausted.

Yesterday I did an interesting thing that I had never done before. I was in Sydney, for an appointment, and then I ended up at one of the malls. I told myself that I wasn't going to buy anything. Just walk around and look. Take in patterns and prices, feel up dresses and skirts, but not buy anything. And I did that. Every now and then something would catch my eye, a deal on something, or an item I really liked.

"Nope," I'd think. "I'm not buying anything. I can always come back next week. Besides, there will always be sales. There will always be nice clothes."

And when I left the mall, I felt light. Not weighed down by bags or by the guilt that usually comes with a purchase, no matter how necessary the thing bought. Light because I was able to go into the mall, take it all in, look around, decide on things I liked and didn't like, and then - just leave. Freely, of my own accord.

Oh and - on an not-entirely-unrelated note: I really, really miss my camera. I can't wait for this little part to come in, for the camera people to put it all back together, so I can take shots again. You really don't know what you got til it's gone, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell!

blog action day 2009: climate change

So today is Blog Action Day. This is the third year I've taken part, but I have to say my feelings about it have cooled somewhat, and they were only tepid to begin with. I wonder what it really accomplishes, all of these blogs writing about the same thing for one day of the year. On the one hand, you could say that it raises awareness, and that's a good thing. But on the other, it's all just talk, which doesn't necessarily amount to anything.

I suppose that I feel the same way about public awareness of climate change. Climate change, as you can see from the above image, is this year's Blog Action Day topic. Yes, climate change is on the public radar more so than it was ten years ago, but on the flip side, there is so much greenwashing out there - products that have "eco," "bio," "earth" or "green" on their well-designed logo, claiming in a calming tone or font to be friendly to the environment while having no actual credentials. We all talk about the environment but for a variety of reasons things haven't reached their tipping point and it feels like society is carrying on, business as usual. At least, that's how it feels some of the time. We North Americans still have so many cars on the road and so much food being trucked in to our mega grocery stores. Sometimes a woman wonders if people are doing anything different, at all? As a society we're not walking our talk.

It's ironic that I was going to talk about how I do my dishes, and then yesterday while I was in the middle of a big kitchen project - making a bit pot of roast-vegetable-soup and two chocolate cheesecakes - the tap broke. No water! Cold or hot! I had to go to the upstairs bathroom to fill pots and buckets, bring them downstairs, and heat the water up on the stove to do dishes. And there was a considerable amount of dishes, most of them greasy with cheesecake ingredients. As I was doing all this schlepping, I was thinking about this post, about how I would be taking part in Blog Action Day, and what I might say about Climate Change. I came up with three things.

1. Do dishes to save the world.

Well, maybe this won't save the world. But, if climate change is about emissions, and electricity creates emissions (especially here in Nova Scotia where so much of our power is still made by burning coal), and heating water uses electricity, I've revolutionized how I do dishes. It's pretty simple, really.

I start out by organizing my dishes. This doesn't take any fossil fuels! Just my own time and energy. I get the least dirty dishes together, next dirtiest, and so on. Then I take the least dirty ones, plug up the sink with the stopper - the sink which is still empty - and squirt some dish soap on the scrub pad. (The least dirtiest are usually glasses, interestingly enough.) Then I use hot water to wash and rinse the dish. I continue this way, switching to cold water for the rinse when I see I'm nearing the end of my dish stack. (If I'm not too cold myself, or if the dishes aren't very greasy, I'll use cold water to wash them, too.)

This dish-doing method saves a lot of water on the old-school method of filling the sink first, and then putting the dishes in. And, it doesn't compromise on cleanliness!

2. Get outside and hang out with nature.

Here's something easy we can all do to alleviate climate change anxiety. I find when I'm getting stressed out, what calms me down best is a walk down a dirt road. If you haven't got dirt roads where you live, try a park, or a patch of grass. Wherever you can go that gets your near nature will soothe you and ease your stress. A little backyard you have with some plants and a patch of afternoon sunlight. A city park with benches where you can sit in silence and watch the wind blow the branches of a tree around. Even a concrete lot with grass and flowers stubbornly coming up through the cracks will serve the purpose.

And, the more time we spend in nature, the more we care about it. I don't have a study to back this up, although I feel like if I spent enough time I could dig up one. But it's common sense, really. That which you appreciate and connect to, you care for and will protect.

And, there's another benefit. I feel that after I've taken a walk in the woods or been outside to "refresh" my head, climate change doesn't seem as scary. Well, yes, it is still DAMN SCARY. But when I get a chance to get out there and see the living system around me, I feel that there is hope. Perhaps catastrophic change will happen. We don't know yet how bad it could be. But once you've seen how the system you live in deals with a major storm or a bark beetle infestation, or some other big change, you see that nature's got a lot of tricks up her sleeve. You see that the living things around you adapt.

3. Face what scares you.

OK, so even though you went outside, breathed the fresh fall air, and calmed down a bit, climate change still looms over you like, well, unknown global catastrophes just waiting to happen.

I think my best advice is to face what scares the crap out of you. This applies to climate change the way it applies to anything else scary in your life. Get more information about what it is that is scaring you. Deal with it in a way that allows you to feel the feeling - be angry, be sad, be confused, be whatever you need to be - and then process it. For me, it's writing. For you, it might be another creative outlet like painting or drawing, or it might be getting active - organizing people, making new choices, or talking about the issue more.

As a matter of fact, I do think that talking about the issue is helpful. I think that all these blogs getting together today will make a difference. It's just that there is no way to measure the total amount of change these blogs will bring about, and the timeframe in which they'll do so. That's what's so immobilizing about a global climate threat - it's happening on a global scale, while we humans exist, each in our own bodies, on a small, local scale. Part of coming to terms with climate change and the unknown is recognizing that, and recognizing that we won't see a direct correlation between our actions and the globe. But, processing our feelings and acting on them will make a difference to ourselves and our local communities.

***

What do you think? Do you think I'm crazier than a bag of hammers, or making sense, or somewhere in between?

I'd love to know what you think about climate change, and about how we're dealing with it as individual people and as a society. Click on "comments" to let me know.

nuts to this!

So things are a little nuts right now.

Nuts, but good. Like, almonds or hazelnuts. Those kinds of nuts.

I had another three days of my self-created retreat, and while the whole time was really good, and I'm really glad I did it, it was actually harder than I had thought. You know how meditation retreats are notorious for being really hard, because you have total silence and nothing but your own mind? Well, it turns out that even though I wasn't on a meditation retreat, my time away had some things in common with one. For one thing, for a lot of the time I was by myself. For another, I was in a small cabin away from home. So, you face yourself pretty darn quickly, despite not keeping a vow of silence. (Hey, I have to be able to talk to myself!)

And, I realized - the hard way, the way involving emotions and all that stuff - that wherever I go, there I am.

It's the kind of insight that is so obvious as to be simplistic when you first hear it. But then it becomes real, like in-your-face, painfully-aware-of-your-own-neuroses real, and each word in that simple, small little sentence slows down and gets full of meaning.

Wherever I went last week, whether down to Mabou or up to Cheticamp, there. I. freaking. was. Going hiking and eating in a pub and driving around in my own (rented) car didn't actually make me a different person. I was still me - still me with my anxieties and fears and doubts.

It made me think a little differently about the idea of self-acceptance. Specifically, that if one is serious about loving oneself and changing the negative voices in one's mind, it is damn tough. And, part of the process is accepting that you are probably not going to change very much from the person you are right now, in your lifetime. Going to Italy, going to Asia, going to the moon - wherever you go, there you are. Yes, those experiences will become part of you, and you'll learn new things, and maybe change your behavior somewhat. But it's not like you walk through a magic doorway when you go somewhere new, and become a whole different (cooler, hotter, thinner, more forgiving, more sociable, more introverted, more muscular - whatever it is you're yearning to be) person.

So yeah. So I came back from my week away. I hugged my kitties and did some laundry. I slept and took a walk. I packed more stuff. I hosted a Writers' Group meeting. I slept some more. Then I got up at 5:30 am on Tuesday morning, got ready, and got into my neighbour's car at 7:00 am. We drove to Sydney, part of a daily commute for my neighbour and many others in my area, who live with their families in the Baddeck area, but for one reason or another - usually economic - have to work in Sydney.

Then the fun began - training at the library in Sydney. After these two weeks I'll be back in Baddeck, but they're giving me two full-time weeks at the busiest and biggest branch in the region, to get me fully prepared. So far, so good - although I feel a little like a waitress! Although, the difference is that books don't get cold, and people aren't as cranky when they have to wait for service. It is, after all, free.

But, I'm constantly on my feet, going to the circulation desk, and around to other parts of the library, and I'm really in full-on learning mode at this point. The computer system that's used, the way things are run - I'm saying, "I don't know," or, "Show me?" a lot.

It's really good, though. I'm loving being around all the books, I'm loving helping people, and most of all, I really get a thrill being the one to check people's books out, and wield the almighty date stamp. "These books are due back on October 9th, and you can always call us to renew." Magic words!

hey, it's OK...

In Glamour magazine, there is a page called the "Hey, it's OK" page. I don't buy Glamour anymore, for reasons both economical and social, but I do still have a few of these pages, ripped from Glamour, tacked up on my wall. And I've added to them, too - in blue ballpoint pen I've written in my own things that it's OK to have, do or be.

I like the idea of a list like this. It runs in the same vein as the phrase "Just enough is plenty," which I wrote about a few weeks ago, and which my cousin Maile was inspired by. The idea these two phrases share is that you don't need to be Super You in order to have a healthy and happy life. "Just enough" of something is just that, enough. And therefore, plenty. All you need.

Where "hey, it's OK..." comes in is as a reminder, and as a list we can post on our actual walls, or just carry around in our heads. We then apply the phrase to whatever it is that's flying around us like a pesky horsefly, wanting to land and bite us with guilt. "You're not sexy enough! You're not thin enough! You don't have all of this [whatever your project might be] under control! Everything is chaotic! Why even start that when you know you won't finish it perfectly?" Et cetera, ad nauseum.

Here is the list I have posted on my wall. It's from the May 2008 Glamour. What I've added in blue pen to the real list, I've added here in blue too.

After you read it, tell me your additions to the list. They don't have to be witty, they just have to be true.



Hey, it's OK...

...to cancel things.

...to have a strict no-bed-making policy on weekends. And no socializing, if that's how you feel.

...if you've never quite figured out what to do with the back of your hair. Or the front!

...to ask for whatever it is - an intern, an appliance, a third shot in your cappuccino - that helps you get the job done.

...if you're happy to have sex on the beach, provided it's actually on a bed in a room in a house that's on the beach.

...to buy $200 shoes but hoard Splenda packets from Starbucks.

...if you just don't get the appeal of techno and some indie music.

...to make your guy see the Sex and the City movie with you. Consider if payback for Rambo.

...if you're not especially interested in finding yourself. (Some days of the week.)

...TO SAY NO.





***

i heart art, part two

Here we are, ladies and jellyspoons: the art shots I couldn't upload last time!

What I ended up doing was taking new pictures of my collage, and then going through the usual process of uploading them to my computer, and then onto Blogger. I really do not know what small glitch of code somewhere in the bowels of the software made it so my other photos loaded sideways, and I've come to terms with the fact that I'll probably NEVER know. That's OK.

Above is the entire piece. In real life it's 24 inches by 18 inches, or 2 feet by 1 and 1/2 feet.

Below are some detail shots.







The images I used all came from magazines I had collected over the years: Glamour, Vogue, Chatelaine, and a copy of a magazine that I think is now defunct, Women's Sport and Fitness. I used acrylic paints and regular glue sticks. I want to use some sort of varnish to paint over the whole thing, so the glued-on pieces won't come off randomly. Does anyone know about art varnishes?

I think it's really important for people in general, but in this case women, to create images that represent us, and to put images out there that show what we WANT or NEED to see, images of strong women, of different bodies, of older women, of handicapped women. There are so many images in our society, most of them part of advertising, and for the most part those images represent a world view that hurts us, that makes us think of ourselves as less, and as not worthy of love and a place in the world.

It starts with us. It starts with glue sticks and cut-out images. It starts with art.

Also: these images, like everything else on my blog, is copyright (c) 2009, Leah Noble. However, I give permission for you to copy these images onto your computer or to print them out, and use them in a non-profit way. I also hereby give you permission to be inspired to make your own art!

it is not easy

In my last post I was talking a little bit about wanting to slow one's life down. And I've been thinking that an important part of that process is letting go. I'm learning how to let go, and I think I'll still be learning how to let go when I'm eighty-five! It's a life-long thing. It's like exercise. You don't jog once and then decide you're fit and you never have to jog again. It's a practice.

So how does one practice letting go? And what are we letting go of?

I practice letting go of my need to control things. I practice letting go of my fears and anxieties. To do this, in my mind or out loud, I repeat the phrases "Let it be," and "Let go, let God."

(If you don't like to use the word "God," then don't use it. Replace it with "fate" or "the yet-unknown future" or whatever suits you. I've only recently started using the word "God" to address the Being that I can feel is there. I'm not going to get into a religious/faith debate here, but suffice it to say that I have been atheistic, and I've been agnostic, and I definitely understand both those positions. And while I do have faith now, I'm not a born-again Christian or anything, and the last thing I want to do is push my beliefs on anyone. There. That's all I'm going to say about that, for now.)

"Let it be."

"Let go, let God."

These phrases remind me that whatever is to come, is out of my hands. When we want to slow our lives down, the main opposition actually comes from ourselves - from the way we've behaved all our lives. Our own habits are really hard to break, especially when they don't feel like habits, but like 'just-the-way-it-is'! And one of my main habits, a way-of-behaving-so-far, has been to tell myself that I can control what's to come. But not only is that not true, but it's just going to get me all stressed out!

So when you start feeling tense and crazy, thinking of what's to come, of all the things you've got to get done this week, try one of those phrases. Letting something be is pretty easy, really - you don't have to do a thing! You just let it be what it is, what it has been all along. Let go, and let God, or randomness, take care of tomorrow's business. You can't control it from here, anyway.

We also have to let go of a certain number of items on the To-Do list. If we are serious about slowing down our lives and spending time doing things that are important to us, that means taking time away from other things. So there are things that won't get done, and we need to let go of them. Maybe I won't actually get to volunteer at the different events I want to, and maybe I won't get to socialize with all the people I've made tentative plans with. I won't get to read all the blogs that interest me, or comment meaningfully at each. I won't be able to clean the house every time a part of it gets a little dirty. (You get the idea.)

Each time I feel pent up and anxious thinking of something that won't get done, that's when I practice letting go. I tell myself to take a step back, then to take a deep breath, deep from in my belly. I tell myself to feel the anxiety, and usually, when I let the anxiety just be itself, the tension melts.

And sometimes letting go is as easy as opening a fist. Other times it's really hard. But each time I face that moment where I know I must let go, it's practice. And that moment, that's where you learn, and that's how you slow things down.

***

In my counsellor's waiting room there is a small, wooden plaque. The last time I was there I wrote down what it says, to share it here. I like it a lot.

Here it is:



it is not easy...

to apologize,
to begin over,
to be unselfish,
to take advice,
to admit error,
to face a sneer,
to be charitable,
to keep trying,
to be considerate,
to avoid mistakes,
to endure success,
to profit by mistakes,
to forgive and forget,
to think and then act,
to keep out of a rut,
to make the best of little,
to subdue an unruly temper,
to shoulder a deserved blame,
to recognize the silver lining,

BUT IT ALWAYS PAYS.


***

This Blog's News: I like blogs that have interactive features, so I'm experimenting by using JS-Kit's star-rating system. It's pretty simple: just click on the stars at the bottom of each post, to indicate what you think that blog post rates. 1 star means "not so great, in fact not great at all", and 5 stars means "amazing! changed my life!". Or something like that.

Redesign? I've been wanting to have an RSS feed for a while now, as well as wanting to change up the design of this blog. I think at some point in the near future, perhaps the next month, I'm going to change my template so both of those goals are reached. Woot! But the URL will stay the same, so worry not.

I've been inspired by Kal Barteski. And who wouldn't be? She's a one-woman inspiration machine. (She also happens to be Canadian.) And so even though all I've got to work with are the tools within Windows XP, I can still make some of my visions come true. Like the photo above: taken last March, when I woke up before dawn and went to take photos of the ice crystals on the trees.

And the text in the image? Basically, I want to live my life slower. But our culture worships "fast". I've been thinking: how do we make "slow" a cultural virtue? What kinds of things can we do to show that we prize people who do things slower, who take their time to do things right?

What do you think?

Edit: You can now rate my posts, using these handy-dandy star thingamajigs. Just click on whichever number of stars you think the post deserves, from 1 (not good) to 5 (amazing, changed your life). It's an experiment. And who doesn't like quick, untraceable ways to judge things? I know I do. Give it a try.

Now we're cooking with gas!

how to hike the long haul

My laptop got replaced. The one that came back works! Huzzah!

I took a vacation to Pleasant Bay, to stay with friends I've had since I was a little girl. We hiked to Fishing Cove one day (2.8 km down a mountain, then 2.8 km back up again), and then Pollett's Cove then next day. Just now, I tried to measure the Pollett's Cove hike on a pretty good map, using a piece of string, and using the string method, it's 8 km each way. But what the string doesn't take into account is that the trail is about 80% steep uphill or downhill sections, and only 20% relatively flat. (These percentages do not refer to the steepness of the grade. They refer to how much of the trail is steep versus how much is flat.) Wikipedia, on the other hand, says that it is "an arduous 10 km hike".

So that's between 22 and 26 km of hard hiking, in two days. (Or between 13.7 and 16.15 miles, if you swing that way.) My knees were feeling it! But, thanks to my being young and supple, they feel well today. That's pretty good recovery!

I discovered several things on those two treks.

• I should probably get myself new hiking boots at the next possible opportunity. The ones I was wearing were six-year-old Doc Martens, which definitely don't have the same support as they once did.
• It's actually OK, and necessary, to walk as slow as you can up a really steep grade. Once I realized that my hiking partner was also taking it as slow as possible, I let go of the guilt.
  
• I had to slow down and focus on my breathing to make it. The breathing sets a rhythm and a pace that keeps you going steadily.
• Pollett's Cove is much more beautiful and enchanting than any photograph can ever depict. But perhaps later in the month I'll put up a photograph, anyway.

Now it's Labor Day weekend. In the past three or four years, or at least, the years I was in university, this weekend meant the chaos of finishing the summer job, packing up all my stuff, packing it into a somewhat small Volkswagon Golf, and having Mum drive me to Fredericton.

This weekend Mat gets all that chaos as we take him down to his school in southern Nova Scotia. I'm not jealous, not at all -- but there is something of the student life that I miss. There is something about Fall that says "back to school!"

But I consider myself to be perpetually in school now, a school that I control. I'm still doing research and learning all kinds of new things. I direct myself as to topics, and though it's not "official thesis research", nor devising scientific tests, I'm learning what I want to learn, through various means. And there are no deadlines or grades. It's pretty great. The only problem is that most people still recognize university as being the only really legitimate way to learn, if one is in one's twenties. And there are some days when I get down on myself and listen to those inner and outer voices, but then there are a lot of days when I don't.

I guess the bottom line is, I know myself better than anyone else does. I know what I've gone through, from burnout and depression to leaving school and coming home. I know what that journey has been like every step of the way, and I know that many amazing things have come out of it. Too many to count, really! So I also know that even though someone looking at me might see a girl in dire need of going back to university, I know that that's not who I am. I know that I'm actually a girl in dire need of more time here, who is loving being here, actually. I know that I'm in need of my projects, of my one-woman school. Projects like, for example, learning about apples and apple grafting from a local man who's done it all his life. Through all of this, I'm continuing to build my energy back up so I can travel again, and work again.

And slowly, following my breathing and putting one foot in front of the other, it's happening. Even though I didn't think it was OK to do it. And the view at the end? I think it's going to rival Pollett's Cove, if that's even possible.

Have a good weekend.

women rock!

So International Women's Day is tomorrow, the 8th of March, and it's a good way to follow up my last post, which was about my grandmother, Isabel. Now, I don't think Granny ever self-identified as a feminist, but she was a strong woman, and stories about women doing well pleased her. Mind you, she was from a different generation, and her advice to me for possible careers often focussed on being a nurse or a teacher, but you do have to place this into context. Born in 1923, Granny was my age (23) in 1946, a totally different era than today.

As I'm a feminist and a general, all-around supporter of women, I've got a nice holiday goodie bag for you in this post! I'm going to tell you about my rise to "national radio superstardom", as well a book I read lately by and for fierce women, which should get you in the mood to celebrate.

First up: how Cosmo and "va-jay-jay" got me on a national radio show! Well, sort of.

I was listening to Q the other day, the national radio show in question. It's hosted by Jian Ghomeshi, who is a fabulous guy from what I can tell, and he's pretty cute to boot, so naturally I'm besotted with him. He hosts the show every weekday from 2 until 3:30, and covers arts, entertainment, culture and other interesting things.

On Tuesday, he was interviewing the playwright Eve Ensler, the woman behind "The Vagina Monologues", as well as V-Day, and I loved the whole interview. I mean, I love a lot of the interviews on Q, and when Jamie Oliver was being interviewed I even had to lie down on the couch because I was so taken by it, but this one, well, this one was right up my alley. Ensler talked about how women's bodies are a battle zone, how being able to say "vagina" in public has increased as a result of her momentous monologues, and spoke about her international work and the lessons she has learned about what war does to women. And then Jian Ghomeshi asked her about the latest Cosmo cover.

I've since been given a copy of the March '08 Cosmo, which features the pop star Rihanna with a smug — or is that seductive? — look on her face, one hand hooked under the strap of her canary-yellow minidress as if to take it off, the other hand pulling the hem of her skirt up her thigh. The dress is already pretty revealing, with a low bustline, and all over the cover are tantalizing story titles like "Sex He Has Alone", "21 Naughty Sex Tips: Tonight, Treat Him To Some Boundary-Pushing Sex That Good Girls Only Dream Of", and the one that made it onto Q: "Your Va-Jay-Jay: Fascinating New Facts About Your Lovely Lady Parts."

It's the use of "Va-jay-jay" that Eve Ensler called "sad". I'm paraphrasing here, but her thoughts on the new buzzword are that it's a kiddie word, like "coochie", something a little kid says, the kind of euphemism that grown women have used for a long time because they were too ashamed or disempowered to stand tall and proud and use the proper term: vagina. Now, she added, if you're in the bedroom with your lover and you want to use that word, it's none of her business — as is anything people do during lovemaking in a safe situation. But using the word on the cover of a magazine, even though it's "hip" and Oprah says it, is like reverting to kiddie talk, and it teaches other women to be ashamed, as well.

Mind you, I don't find it at all surprising. I mean, Cosmo is not exactly the most feminist or empowered publication out there. But I do find it disturbing. This magazine has so much power, and so many women read it, especially young women and girls, that it's teaching a whole new generation that being strong and proud of the word "vagina" is not cool, not colorful and sexy, but "va-jay-jay", well, that's on the cover of a magazine. Sexuality is pushed in our faces on the cover of this magazine, but it's not an empowered sexuality, it's sexuality that can't quite say the right words, that regularly calls women "chicks" and emphasizes "your guy's needs."

Well, I didn't just sit there. I wrote Q a letter. It went like this:

Hello Jian,

Thanks so much for having Eve Ensler on the show Tuesday!

She's so thought-provoking, and I loved her analogy of New Orleans as the "vagina of America".

Her work is timely and necessary, and has deeply affected my growth both as a twenty-something feminist and as a proud owner of a vagina. However, this "new-fangled" feminism is up against a real cultural monolith, as evidenced by the Cosmo cover and everything it symbolizes. Yes, sexual freedom is part of feminism, but so is the strength to call one's "lady bits" by her proper name. Once more, everyone — say it with me: vagina!

I'm a big fan of the show, so please keep up the fantastic work.

Leah Noble
The wilds of Cape Breton

And then, the very next day, Jian Ghomeshi proclaimed my letter the letter-of-the-day. I was pretty dang thrilled hearing his honeyed voice reading my words, and even more so when friends from all over the country sent me messages and emails saying they'd heard the letter on air! Mind you, even though I'm a feminist, I'm also conditioned by my culture and I'm not completely comfortable going "vagina vagina vagina!" on national radio, but hey, I guess someone has to do it. And that someone might as well be me.

So that's the story of how I became a national radio superstar. And no, I don't do autographs.




In the spirit of Women's Day, here is a book I'd recommend racing to the nearest library or bookstore to collect.

"How to Live Alone and Like It", by Marjorie Hillis, was originally published in 1936, and re-bound and published in 2005 by Virago Press (a subsidiary of Time-Warner). This book bills itself as "The Classic Guide for the Single Woman", and when I first picked it up I didn't realize its vintage, and thought it was a modern book, written in the last five years or so. It's small, it looks slick, and I had no real reason to think otherwise. However, once I turned it over and saw "A 1936 Bestseller" written on the back, well, I was doubly intrigued.

In the preface, Lisa Hilton writes,

"Live Alone and Like It is a joyful reminder that feminism wasn't just about hunger strikes and bra burning... Demure though some of the advice might be, as in the chapter on affairs entitled "Will You Or Won't You?" (which concludes, rather darkly, that 'the woman always pays'). Live Alone is nevertheless suffused with a sense of exuberance at the thrilling possibilities then open to women for the first time."

Not to mention, Hillis is quite funny, though practical. Chapter 1, "Solitary Refinement", starts:

"This book is no brief in favor of living alone. Five out of ten of the people who do so can't help themselves, and at least three of the others are irritatingly selfish. But the chances are that at some time in your life, possibly only now and then between husbands, you will find yourself settling down to a solitary existence."

This solitary existence is what Hillis goes on to describe and ultimately, prescribes the methods which will add the most enjoyment to it. A single lady needs to make her own entertainment, needs to realistically visualize herself as happy rather than sad (otherwise other people will see her as gloomy, and then where will she be?), should have several passionate interests, even if on a shoestring, furnish her home to make herself comfortable (again, even if on a budget) and in general, be practical, but also indulge in her favorite pleasures, like a nice comfy bed.

"It is probably true that most people have more fun in bed than anywhere else, and we are not being vulgar. Even going to bed alone can be alluring. There are many times, in fact, when it's by far the most alluring way to go. Whether you agree with this or not, you have to go to bed at least once every twenty-four hours, and you will have to keep right on going as long as you live."

This is the kind of advice that makes perfect sense both in 1936 and in 2008, which is why this snappy little book is a must-read for anyone intending to live alone, or simply "between husbands".


And at the end of the day, even though feminists no longer identify themselves in the public eye by foregoing certain beauty habits, it gives me a certain kind of joy to see Julia Roberts flashing her hairy armpit. May we all see such images more often, and remember that it's normal.

And with that, I wish you a Happy International Women's Day!

slow like molasses in February

So I'm taking my daily walk, earlier today, and I find I'm in a scene that could have come out of the movie "Twister". I'm all bundled up, walking along a dirt road, which in winter could be more accurately described as an ice road: a bed of silvery ice with a thin covering of powdery snow. This road winds its way through the woods, and at times along a small bay. This stretch I'm on could be an extension of the water for all the wind cares, as the roadway is only a few feet above the lake, and there are no intervening trees. It's a bright, sunny day, but the wind — well, it doesn't howl, so much as ferociously swish, as it comes off the lake, funnels down the head of the bay, and blows straight over the road, pushing powdery snow crystals over the snowbank and into the path of any cars that might be there. And over and around me — a sturdy human bundled to the nines and coated on one side with fine snow, like an accessory on my pants. I'm also wearing big sunglasses, which keep my eyes from flinching. I'm thoroughly enjoying this: determinedly walking forward when possible, stopping and turning my back to the wind when it is too high, in order to watch ribbons, clouds and yes, twisters of snow powder dance past me and skid over an open field.

It's here that I think: "If there's one thing in February that's not slow, it's the wind!"

As I keep walking, trying not to slip and fall, yet still go fast enough to raise my heart rate, I keep mulling over this idea of "slow". I've been thinking about this word a lot lately. In trying to do things more slowly, I've realized that I've spent a lot more time in my life trying to speed myself up, so that I've gotten quite good at evaluating my speed, but have hardly any practice at mindfully being slow.

"Hey!" You might say. "That sounds like Buddhism! Are you going to talk about Buddhism?"

And, if you know me fairly well, you might also say, "Isn't your father a Buddhist? Wouldn't he have had an influence on you in this regard?"

Well, yes, it does sound like Buddhism, but no, I'm not going to bring Buddha into this, although Buddhists like Pema Chodron do have some really good things to say about meditation, and bringing a sense of mindfulness into daily living. And yes, my father is a Buddhist, and I did meditate a few times with him when I was younger.

But I'm not a Buddhist, and so my treatment of "slow" comes from my own daily life, and my observations of myself over the past year, learning out of necessity how to slow... the heck... down.


*


About a year ago a very large wrench got stuck quite firmly in the gears of my mental machinery, if you'll allow the metaphor. In university, with my plate piled high and in danger of spilling everywhere, I had exhausted my mind and body. You know when you're at a point where you're dog tired, and you have so much to do, but you can somehow pull reserves out of somewhere to carry you through? Well, I had no reserves left. None. At that point my body, sick and tired of having its anxiety attacks/red flags ignored, simply could no longer get out of bed. I had no energy for anything, and that included making food, which I'd have to rest for, then talk myself through, then go lie down again after.

Although I kept thinking, "One more week away from school and I'll be fine," it became clear after a month that there wasn't going to be an amazing rebound. So I pulled the plug on school, and I came home to Cape Breton. I have been here since last spring, living a slower, quieter life than I did before, building my energy back up slowly. Ever so slowly. It's been damn hard, it's been chock full of lessons, and it's been frustrating and rewarding, both.

And the word that keeps coming up is "slow". As in, slow down. As in, tasks done slower still get done, and time passes even when you're voluntarily putting the brakes on. That's what it feels like — like I'm in some sort of vehicle, a train or a car, say, which is constantly getting faster, just a bit faster, and I have to learn how to gracefully and smoothly apply the brakes, enough to travel at a balanced and manageable pace.


*


This, by the way, is a lot harder than it sounds. For illustration, imagine the last time you took time off. A day, an hour, a week, whatever it was, truly off. No work to do, no kids demanding attention, no-one calling on the phone. Time and space truly yours. Did you automatically make the switch from "On Task" to "Relaxing"? I'm going to guess "no". Even in a whole week off, it takes a while to adjust and be able to willingly pause and stare out the window, say, while sipping tea, not caring how long you do it for. And "real life" — schedules, demands, community — never really go away, so it's a rare person who actually gets a whole week undisturbed. (You're most likely to get time like this during a retreat of some kind, including, yes, Buddhist meditation retreats.)

So the trick is to apply those brakes whenever possible, whether it's time off or not. Remembering to take deep and slow breaths, for example, and using that time to gain perspective on whatever is speeding you up. Then there is actually physically stopping the body from following habit. I find I even have to say aloud, "No, I'm not going to read while I eat lunch, I'm going to eat, and look out the window." And by doing this, practicing it each time, I'm slowly — there's that word again! — learning how to apply the brakes with grace.


*


One reason my so-called "time off" keeps teaching me to slow down is because it has to. I have to learn how to adapt my pace to my energy level, otherwise I'll just keep burning out. That's a fact, and that's the necessity part of it.

But there's another interesting aspect of this "time off" that I keep remembering. It's the thing I recall when I'm getting anxious about trying to get a certain number of things done in a day, and it is this: there are no deadlines for this time, except those I impose on myself. It's a stunning thing to think about! That I'm able to work myself up about my productivity and output, all on my own, even now, when literally no-one else cares! What I mean is, I'm no longer in the academic environment, where productivity and output really matter, and where deadlines are a large part of the lifestyle. People around me here care about me, and how I'm doing, but not about whether I get four, five, six, or — heaven forbid — zero things done in a day. So when I get agitated about the number of things I want to get done that day, I have to stop and realize that this pressure is coming from inside me. This discovery has been truly amazing to me. It's like I've isolated that voice inside, which exists to drive me faster, and I can hear it continuing to push, even when I'm in a place where constant pushing is no longer necessary.

And yes, that voice serves a purpose. But if I listened only to it, I'd be a mess. I'd be afraid to slow down, so afraid to press on those brakes. And this is true whether you're like me, enjoying a stretch of time with few deadlines, or in the thick of things with deadlines all over the place. I'm proof that the world doesn't end when you slow... things... down.


*


There are a lot more things I could say about slowing down, and as time goes on, I probably will. But there's only so much I can write in one post, right? For now, please leave your thoughts on "slow" in the usual place. But, you know, there's no rush. :)

book review #1

Book review: The World Without Us, by Alan Weisman.

Canadian edition. Toronto: HarperCollins, 2007.




"Without us, Earth will abide and endure; without her, however, we could not even be."




In "A World Without Us", Alan Weisman imagines the kind of grand scenario that I used to dream about when I was around 13. Bullied and unhappy, my 13-year-old self would daydream about a world where everyone — or at least, a large percentage of the population — just disappeared. Poof! Gone. Since it was my daydream, I got to choose who would and wouldn't go, but it wasn't as easy as the people I liked staying and the people I didn't like going. My imagination being what it was, and still is, I went further to imagine what our village, and the world beyond it, would look like with people gone but all the remnants of human life left behind: cars, electric power plants, stores. How would I — and the band of people I allowed to remain in my depopulated dream world — live? I imagined us first caching all the food we could find, then going on to appropriate neighbors' houses, getting to choose which domicile we wanted to live in. But we'd still have to haul wood and keep our food from going bad in a world without power. I was as realistic about it as fantasy would allow, and my so-called dream world ended up pretty drab. Well, maybe that's not the right word, but "challenging" might begin to cover it.

Weisman's fantasy doesn't even let the 13-year-olds stay. Everyone goes. He asks the question: what would happen to this old earth if every last human were suddenly gone? The project was born from his agent asking him that very question, after she re-read an article Weisman wrote about Chernobyl after the meltdown, which described the way "nature rushed in to fill our void". After reading about birds and beasts repopulating the area around the Chernobyl site, she asked him: what would become of the Earth after we left, but left our messes behind? Weisman writes,

"It was a deceptively simple question that, I came to understand, lets us view our Earth's current myriad stresses from the disarming vantage of a fantasy in which we supposedly no longer exist, yet somehow we get to watch what unfolds next. Watch, and maybe learn."


*


I first heard Weisman talking about his book on CBC's Sounds Like Canada, in autumn, and thought it sounded interesting. The next time the book popped up in my life was at Christmas, when my brother bought it for himself with gift money. (Thanks, Granny and Grandpa!) I didn't get a chance to read it, however, before he left to go back to school, so I requested it from the library. And from the moment I opened to the first page, I couldn't stop reading — and imagining.

Weisman went a lot farther with his scenario than I did at 13, and that's an understatement. The view of this book, if you can imagine his descriptions coming at you through a camera's lens, starts in the Ecuadoran Amazon, then flies to the Poland-Belarus border, then to North America to begin "unbuilding" the modern home, and that's just for a start. The first stop, to see the Zápara people, introduces the idea of life during and after immense trauma both to the environment and to the people who live in it. The Zápara are now driven to eating the very spider monkeys they once revered as their ancestors; will we in the so-called "developed world" be driven to similar choices soon, given the strain to which we've subjected all natural systems? Instead of postulating an answer similar to those given by other authors before him, an answer based in reality, Weisman takes his into the realm of imagination, asking the reader to dream of everyone just ... disappearing. Doesn't matter why, it just matters that we all go. And now. And ironically, as a device, this works.

To see the world without people with the mind's eye actually brought me to realize how there is no such thing as the world without people. I don't mean the obvious — that the whole thing is a flight of imagination. I mean that even if our human bodies were gone, our legacy, meaning every single thing made by human hands or invented by human minds, every house and road and skyscraper and bridge and car and so on, would still be here. And there would no longer be humans to paint or scrape or re-pave these items. Natural forces like wind, rain, erosion or animals, to name just a few, would continue to have their way with our stuff. What would happen? Where would all our stuff go, and what would the planet look like in 50 or 100 years? How about 50,000 to 1 million years, and beyond? What state were things in before we came along with all this stuff? And what relation might the future world bear to this earlier state?


*


In order to answer these questions — which he does with aplomb — Weisman takes the reader on a trip. Beginning in North America, and de-constructing the modern house much as Nature would do if we weren't here to stop it, he takes a walk down Manhattan's future streets (which would actually be rivers, with trees growing along the banks, in only about 30 years), then takes off to East Africa's Lake Tanganyika to look at human origins and the possibilities of future ice ages and climate changes. From there it's back to Arizona for a lesson in paleo-ecology, then to Kenya for a visit to Africa's national parks, and the animals and humans who live there in precarious balance.

Part II starts in war-torn Cyprus, to visit abandoned hotels, and then a stop in Turkey, to check out the underground cities of Cappadocia, which have to be read about to be believed. Our human legacy begins to turn the stomach in Chapter 9, "Polymers are Forever", when Weisman goes to the Plym River estuary, in England, to see what happens to all that plastic we use every day (and it ain't pretty). Then it's off to the petroleum patch along the Texan coast to imagine what might happen to catalytic cracking towers if people weren't around to let the pressure off and shut down the alchemical reactions, which takes the feeling of "Oh, my god — this is real?!?!" from the previous chapter and twists it just a bit more. (And if you think that's bad, wait until Part III, when Weisman takes you to the nuclear zone.)

Moving along, we fly from the Chunnel to the Great Wall of China, then from the Panama Canal to Mount Rushmore, to see about the fate of our modern Wonders. Then to the Demilitarized Zone between North and South Korea to see what happens when people go, leaving behind land mines, as well as untouched habitat for endangered red-crowned cranes. Next it's a look at birds around the world, which, like most of the answers Weisman finds, both is and isn't hopeful. Birds are heavily affected by human activity, and it's uncertain what would happen to them in a post-human future. But they have come back in Chernobyl: "Yet skylarks perch on th[e] hot steel arms [of abandoned, radioactive machinery], singing." Considering the nuclear legacy we're burying and leaving behind in barrels, this is positively amazing.


*


Besides all that, there's more. But I'll leave that for you to read in the book itself. There's no way to encompass the whole book in this review, and I suppose that's why Weisman wrote the book, in the first place. But for all that it contains, it's a relatively quick read: at 324 pages (Index and Reading List included), with sporadic photographs and a beautiful design, as well as a narrative that hums right along, The World Without Us kept me hooked through every chapter and paragraph. It puts all that stuff we have, and all that stuff we do, in a whole new light. Much like when you move house, really; you see it all as if for the first time.

"I still have that awful dress from the late-90s? And these cartons of books I never read?"

Only in this case, it's: "I have all this plastic around me? What will happen to the things that fill my house, whether I'm here or not? And speaking of that, what will happen to nuclear power plants?" You get the idea.

Rather than leave the reader with the idea that we're all going to go in the end, anyway, and nature will take care of it, which would be the ultimate cop-out, Alan Weisman's book left this reader with a realistic — which means slightly scary — sense of what we're up against, and a realistic hope that with intelligence and patience, we might be able to mitigate some of it.

The bottom line? We're not going anywhere. But if you want to imagine what it would be like if we did, and get a whole new perspective on the world we live in, read this book. I'm betting you won't regret it.


*


The Official website.
The California Literary Review (more in-depth).


*

the parameters of "perfect"

The Christmas hustle and bustle has begun. People are arriving home on break, trees are being sold, lights are going up. Mat is home, so now on the bed beside me, rather than my papers and an old printer, there are piles of his clothes. (I use his usually-vacant bedroom as my study.) In some ways, things are "perfect": there is lots of snow, the cats are cuddly, we have good music to listen to and good food to eat. But nothing is really perfect, so there have been familial conflicts, arguments and the odd snarl, just to make things interesting.

The other day I was sitting in the living room, knitting away, listening to CBC Radio. It was a program of classical music, about three hours long, one of the ones where the announcer sometimes rambles on about things unrelated to music. This particular time he started talking about Christmas, and how much we want things to be perfect.

"We want everything to be perfect at this time of year," he said. "But it never is, there are usually fights between family members, and someone drinks one too many liqueurs, with the inevitable result, and there's some disaster in the kitchen." He went on to introduce a piece of music by Mendelssohn, which a violinist had insisted was the "perfect" piece of music, and as it played, I thought about what he had said.

He's right -- whether because of pressures within society or within our own families or just within our own selves, holidays of every kind, but especially Christmas, are subject to enormous pressure to be "perfect". But we're never really sure what that means, what the parameters of perfect are. Does it mean all the children will be well-behaved, all the presents will be well-received, and the snow will fall just enough to be pretty but not enough to impair driving? If those are our wishes, frankly, we'd all better get over that idea, because it ain't gonna happen.

I know that simple awareness is not going to erase my desire for a perfect Christmas, but it does help, knowing that it's not possible to reach perfection. That way, the next time my family has an argument, (and like every family out there, it's not if but when), even though I'll be annoyed, I'll remember that this is the reality of Christmas. And even though the snow is fluffy in the fantasy, and the children are quiet and cute, and nobody drinks too much and says embarrassing things, that fantasy isn't real. I'll take the real thing -- dirty pajamas, dusty ornaments, arguments and all. After all, it's the only option I have. And despite how it might look, it's actually much better.

the ghost of winter past

The snow fell last night, or rather, it swirled down out of the sky onto us. It laces the edges of spruce trees and transforms the landscape, so that instead of looking out onto a dreary gray November day, it's a December one, white and blue and green. The white makes all the difference. Thin patches of ice, a shade lighter than the steel-blue water, marble the surface of the bay. Making a cup of tea and sitting inside is cozier, because outside is suddenly covered in cold fluff. Cold fluff that requires gear, new gear, boots and mittens and coat and hat and scarf, before venturing out for anything.

For some reason, the snow looks like it's been there for a while, even though it just fell last night. All snow coverings are created equal? Or, when I look at the snow covering the ground, in between all the trees in the woods, do I see all the winters past? Do I generalize, combining the twenty-three winters I've lived, and stop looking for the little details of this particular winter, this particular moment?

I'd rather look and see exactly what is: the new snow, the blond grass by the roadside sticking up out of the snow, the crunchy slush on the road. And a lot of the time, I do see like that, seeing the snow of the moment rather than just "snowy woods". This year, winter is different for me. A lot of things are different, since my illness, since I have had to take time off and slow down. I have the time to look around, and I notice the weather more, the make-up of a day. And when a particular day is starting to feel routine, as if there is nothing that will distinguish it from the day before, I make myself do something different. Maybe I'll hike across a field that I've always liked looking at, and accidentally get my sneaker wet. Maybe I'll go peer, up close, at a patch of vibrant green moss on a tree. Maybe I'll make a meal I haven't made in a while, like chili with turtle beans I made from scratch.

Ironically, these are probably the kinds of impromptu, interesting things I did as a child, that made each day different, which blurred into "times past," that bank of memories from which, if I'm not careful, I will draw the woods of today.

~~~

I also wanted to mention a new site I have started frequenting. It is called I Love Typography, and it is addictive, pleasing to the eye, and very fun, at least if you're a type nerd like I have recently realized I am.

It's run by a guy who lives in Japan, originally from England, John Boardley. And there are plenty of readers, running the gamut from type designers like Erik Spiekermann and Jean Porchez, to complete type novices like myself. After every article, readers rush in to comment, and the conversations are quite long and varied. This site has only been up since August, and already it's quite popular (again, amongst the type-nerd set), which I think is attributable to the friendliness both of the host and of all the readers, the beauty of the page design, and of course, all that interesting stuff about typefaces.