the time I almost moved, then didn't

Well, I'm well-rested right now. I had a great night's sleep and the world feels like a solid place again. But that wasn't the case yesterday. I was exhausted.

All night, I'd lain in my bed, not sleeping, turning onto one side or the other, hoping that side would be the magic bullet that would help me turn my head off and go to sleep. It wouldn't, so I'd lie there trying to calm my breathing, then turn onto my other side. The anxiety was there the whole time - thoughts running through my brain. Fears. I'm going to move, and I'll lose all my money and be broke. How will I afford it? All my neighbours will watch my every move. I'll have no privacy in this small town. There are houses all around me. I won't be able to walk outside and just sit and look up at the stars. Or go outside wearing my bathrobe. Or or or...

And so on. Over and over, a cycle without end.

I'd been planning to move. I had an apartment lined up, accounts with the power and phone companies started, friends agreeing on a date to lend trucks and hands to move my furniture. It felt a bit sudden, but not, at the same time. This was an apartment I'd had my eye on for a year or so. The person living in it was having a house built, and these things take a while. The landlord got in touch a few weeks ago to tell me the tenant was moving out soon. I mulled it, I added and subtracted numbers on paper. I figured - I can do it. It'll be a bit tight, but I can do it. I've been wanting to move, so dammit, I will!

The emotions started coming right away. Guilt at leaving my family when we were all kind of getting used to living with each other, sadness at leaving my comfortable home - and my cats! Good lord, I was goig to miss my cats. The apartment wouldn't allow pets and anyway it wouldn't be fair to take a country, outdoor kitty and move her into town. When I wouldn't be home all day. Also, there was excitement - my own place! my own space! a bathtub! and nervousness.

And as it was when I was in university, the anxiety manifested at night. I'd lie down to go to sleep and couldn't. And of course, lying there, thinking: I can't sleep and ohmigod I'm going to be so tired tomorrow, I'll be tired at work, I'll lose my job - it feeds itself. It's hard to make it stop. Make the thoughts lie down, be peaceful.

I took some melatonin. It worked some nights. But I'd feel groggy the next day. And other nights it didn't work, and then I'd lie there terrified. I have no defense against this. Even the pills didn't work. I have to just lie here and take it.

Night before last was the worst. My world felt shrunken down, scary. I felt like I was losing it - tired and out of it. What if I lose my job because I'm too tired? What if I lose myself, again? There is nothing the doctors can really do besides prescribe medication. Not being able to sleep is not something they can operate on. It's entirely internal.

Finally the moment came when I admitted it to myself. This is too much. I'm so not willing to put myself through this. I value myself and my sanity more than showing other people I'm so-called "independent". I value my job too much to sabotage my health.

So, when the morning came, I made some phone calls. I admitted my anxiousness, made myself vulnerable. To my family, with whom I usually set strict boundaries so I don't feel so much like a kid, I admitted I was scared. They said they loved me and they would support me no matter what I did. "Welcome home," they said, though I hadn't packed a single box yet.

I made food that was exactly what I wanted to eat - a toasted cheese and cucumber sandwich. Later, a frozen chicken pot pie, baked and warm, with beet pickles. I took a long walk along a dirt road with freshly fallen snow, hands in my pockets. (I remember reading somewhere, some time ago, that if you walk with your hands in your pockets, it is because you are in a thoughtful mood.) I played card games with my brother, who was also home sick from work. We watched The Office, some of season three. I talked to some girlfriends, who told me, "This is a GOOD thing. You're listening to yourself. Respecting yourself."

Last night, I slept well. I sunk into sleep like a rock into water. And just two days later - two days that feel like they held a whole week - I'm back at work. Taking it one day, one breath at a time. Working on trusting life, trusting that it holds all kinds of good things, and that they'll come along as I'm ready for them.

what yoga taught me, this week

Another rushed blog post in between work items. Writing and hoping nothing interrupts for the next ten minutes. And in that time, trying to get something resembling my thoughts on things - or some thing - for the last week, out into the Internet.

(Having to rush and blog from work like this is mostly because, at the end of my work day, I don't have much time at home. And I don't feel like hauling out my new laptop, which I don't really like using, and connecting to dial-up, another pain in the butt, and then sitting at my desk in the middle of the living room with a big pile of messiness all around, and writing. I'd rather - make my supper, and my lunch for the next day, and have a few minutes of downtime by myself, before going to bed at 9 pm like I've been doing lately, so that I can get enough sleep.)

Yoga started back up and at first I was hating it. Like, my brain was kicking and screaming as I'd get ready to go. I'd feel like I just barely made it through the hour session. Going into a pose and hating it every second, every breath. My legs and arms and torso feeling weak, and then berating myself for the weakness. My face warm and my body tired. I started to wonder what was so different from when I was taking yoga before the summer, when I was genuinely enjoying it, even the difficult poses.

But then last night I went and a few things were different. First, I didn't eat shortly beforehand. I'd eaten a late enough lunch that I was still mostly full from it, so I didn't have to grab a snack or meal before the class.

Second, I spent the time before yoga in my room, being quiet. Not rushing to do something, but just sitting on my bed. Writing in my journal. Petting my cat. Then I put on some new yoga pants that are more spandex-y than my old, cotton-y ones. And I played a song that gets me pumped up, and jumped around my room a little. "I'm going to kick butt," I thought. Then I remembered how Faye, the instructor, says to release all attachment with the outcome, and release all competition. "OK, so I'll kick my OWN butt. And if I don't, that's OK too."

I went. I don't know if it was the spandex-y pants, or the fact that we're a couple of weeks into it now and I'm getting stronger, or what, but I genuinely enjoyed the class again. I went into my breath and challenged myself, and instead of hating every second of it, I actually liked it. Well, maybe "like" is a strong word. But, I was getting something from it, instead of feeling like I was putting all my energy in, for nothing. And I could feel how my body has changed in the past two weeks. Going into "plank", I could feel my arms holding me up. Strong, sturdy, ABLE.

I feel like I have some challenges right now that are long-term challenges. Saving my money so I can move out, while feeling secure. (As opposed to moving out right-the-heck-now, like I sometimes want to, but being stressed about money.) Getting stronger through yoga and other exericise. Figuring out if I have a "next move" - like school, or a career, or what - and if so, what it is. These are things that take time to figure out, that take time to accomplish. And I'm impatient. I like instant gratification. I need some reinforcement each day, and sometimes you don't get that. Sometimes it feels like you're stuck, like you're just HERE, and you're not moving forward. Just holding a pose.

But if you breathe through it, you do get better at it.

give a little bit of my love to you

After a long day at work, I'm sitting on my bed tapping away on the laptop. This is a serious feeling of AHHHH.... I'm in my own room, with my own music on. (It's Old Man Luedecke's new album, "My Hands Are On Fire And Other Love Songs", which I highly recommend. Artsy, indie and beautifully lyrical bluegrass. So, so SO good.) My cat is sitting on the bed next to me, purring to herself. Content to be here next to me, although she can't quite figure out why I'm paying attention to this weird black machine thing and not her.

It's raining out, although I can't actually hear the rain, being in a half-basement. However, it rained all evening, and while I was at work (until eight PM) I could hear the rain outside the open door, falling off the eaves of the marina roof. Any time I had to go outside I had to move quickly, because we practically have a long skinny waterfall coming off the eaves when it rains hard.

Thank you all for your comments on last week's post! After I wrote that post, I went back to sailing and sailed a little pram. It was pretty much fine. No meltdowns, no freak-outs. Sometimes I couldn't really get going, which was frustrating. I'd open up my sail, let out the sheet and push the darn boom outward with my hand so maybe the sail could get some air, but - nothing. One or the other of the teachers would come by in her motor boat and tell me to do this or that, and sometimes it would work and sometimes it wouldn't.

Oh, well. I go back tomorrow night, and then one night after that. I don't LOVE it the way I LOVE yoga, but then again the learning curve is a bit steeper. And, it's not something you can just do whenever you please, you need certain equipment (like a boat!) and then time and commitment, which don't always come together with the expensive equipment.

Anyway - I'm glad that I'm taking these sailing lessons. I don't know if I'd take more lessons or not. I'm feeling a bit fatigued of it, but that might be a few things other than the sport itself. (My knees complaining about how much they hurt from kneeling in the pram, for one.) I find that my favorite sports are ones that:

• you can FEEL afterward how you used your body (feel like you really worked out)
• aren't mentally frustrating (lots of confusing rules, etc)
• you can focus on it and lose yourself in it - so something where you're by yourself or if you're with people, you're each focussed on yourself (like with yoga)
  

These days, I think about my upcoming post for pretty much the whole week. This is because I don't have a lot of extra time, so I want to be able to sit down and write something pertinent when I actually get the time to sit down. So I kind of let words and ideas roll around in my head during the week, and then when it's time to write the blog post, I pull them out and see what they have to tell me.

I've been thinking about GIVING. I've been reading the book "29 Gifts" by Cami Walker. In order to get beyond her frustrating and debilitating MS diagnosis, the writer goes on a "giving cycle" - give one gift a day for 29 days. It's a really neat little idea. At first, though, I resisted the idea of the book. I'm always so afraid I'm going to give myself away - give too much of myself. I thought, "This is going to be some mamby-pamby thing about how to acheive sainthood by being selfless - so not the lesson I need!" But I started reading anyway, and it turns out it's not as mamby-pamby as I thought. Walker even talks about how she resisted the giving at first, and about the things that she really didn't want to give. (She says that the things that are hardest for you to give are the things that feel the most scarce in your life. Money, emotional energy, or whatever - if it feels like you really don't want to give it away, it's because you feel like YOU don't have enough of it.)

Although I'm not doing a deliberate 29-day cycle like the author, this little book has definitely made me more aware of any gifts I give - or receive. How giving something as simple as a smile or something small, as long as you do it deliberately, can have quite an impact on you. And, how giving and receiving need each other, how you can't have one without the other. Like Walker says, giving and receiving is "an exchange of energy - a universal transaction that each one of us takes part in over and over, moment to moment."

I'm also GIVING myself permission - to GIVE UP on something. And that something is an expectation of who I need to be with, who I need to find for myself. I'm single these days, and have had a few beginnings and then baby ends of relationships since I broke up with Chris three months ago. And as a real go-getter of a person, I can really start believing the feeling that if I want a relationship, I just have to make it happen! It's a false assumption - that work equals success - and it becomes overpowering. Then I either come on too strong to the next cute fella who walks across my path, or I get disappointed in myself for "not having a boyfriend, already."

But having a relationship and finding someone to have it with are not the same animal as, say, ditch-digging. With a ditch, you know where you stand. You've got a shovel, you dig, you make a ditch. But with a relationship, there are so many factors involved that it's amazing we think we have any control over it at all!

So as a gift to myself - I'm giving myself the permission, the right, the chance, to let go, GIVE UP, the big ol' WANT I carry around with me most of the time. Which is of: A future, a fantasy of a great relationship. "Wouldn't it be SO NICE," I think while driving around a neat place I've never been to before, "To be here with a man? To be with MY MAN, the one who hasn't yet walked into my life?" I spiral off into future-fantasy-thoughts.

What I have to do: bring it back to this moment, to right here, to me, being. I'm good enough as I am, on my own, just like this.

Reminding myself of that, and being gentle with myself as I do it, is actually a gift I that I can give myself. And that myself feels really relieved to receive.

(f)rig it!

So it turns out, sailing is HARD.

OK, let me amend that. Sailing a 420 Laser when you've only ever had one sailing lesson, you're tired from a LONG day at work, and you're not sure what the heck you're doing, is HARD.

Last week I went to my sailing class, after a long, hot day at work. I finished up, went over to the yacht club, ate a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and then helped Linda rig our boat. (To rig a boat is to put the sails on and tie the sheets properly. Sheets are ropes that are used to move the sails. And they need to be tied into shackles and pulleys and things, so they can move the sails with a minimum of work by the sailor.)

The first time I sailed, a few weeks ago, I sailed a pram, which is a simple boat with one sail, one sheet. One person. For some reason which I can't recall now - although it may have had something to do with wanting to try something new, and my boss Stuart who is a sailing genius had said, the 420's were way better to teach you sailing - I decided to up the game a bit and try a 420.

Now, in comparison to a pram, a 420 has two sails (a main and a jib, which is in front of the main), two people (one to be "skipper" and steer and work the mainsail, one to be "crew" and work the jib), and a number of sheets. Like, six or seven or a hundred. I don't know, but more than a pram. Anyway, I foolhardily climbed into the 420 and the instructor pushed Linda and I away from shore. A little too late I realized I didn't know what the heck I was doing.

"Use the tiller!" said Linda, and I did. However, the instructor, getting smaller every second as we drifted away from shore, yelled after us, "Your rudder is only halfway in! Push it down!" But how? Because meanwhile, we're moving into the path of other boats, I'm trying to steer us and I still have no idea how to work the mainsail. There is a rope that looks like it might be the right one, but it's hooked into all kinds of pulleys, so where do I pull it from? Meanwhile my "crew" is no help, because she's working the jib sail and telling me what to do with the tiller, which is still no real use to me because it's not pushed down all the way and I still have no idea how to do that and -

OH EFF the boom just cracked me in the head

Do I have a concussion? Oh shit, isn't THIS perfect - OK, no concussion, but this EFFING HURTS - fuckity fuck fuck fuck - OK steer -

I hate sailing!

I want to go home!

Oh shit the tiller, right, OK - breathe!

Meanwhile the instructors, two women in their early twenties, are going around the eleven of us in their motor boats, going, "You're doing great!" No, I'm really not great here. Every time I think I have it figured out, something else frigs up and I'm left freaking out a little more. We make it around a few marks - miraculously I've figured out how to control my mainsail, no thanks to any of the instructors, who just followed us around going "You're doing great!" and then suddenly -

We're tipping! The boat is going over on one side dangerously close to the water - how the EFF did this happen? Linda's going "What are you DOING LEAH!?!?" and I'm pulling on things and letting things out but none of it is helping as slowly but surely we go degree by degree closer to tipping this whole frigging boat, sails and all, into the water, oh lord what a mess that will be! And then suddenly -

We right again. BREATHE. The other women in their boats clap for us and I give them a grin but inside I'm going WHAT THE HECK JUST HAPPENED?!?! I can't actually remember the few seconds between the boat nearly tipping and righting again. No idea what happened or what I did.

The next time the instructor comes around I tell her - "I don't think I do this." She tries to convince me that "I'm doing great" but I just keep saying I'm not doing well, so she ties up her boat to a buoy, puts Linda in it, and climbs into the 420 with me. I climb into crew position, at the front of the boat with just the jib to deal with. She knows what she's doing and she brings us around a few marks. All I have to do is pull on the jib sheet to match the main sail, and duck my head a little when the boom swings sides. I can feel the tears building behind my eyes - relief, so now it's time for the dam to spill over. I try to keep it back. She says,

"So then we'll switch, and I'll crew and you skipper."

"No, I don't think that's a good idea." Of course I'd love to be able to - would love to give my teacher what she wants, would love to be a great student. But I know myself better than that, by now. I know that I'm melting down. So we return to Linda in the rescue boat, and this time I get in it. Linda and the teacher go for a few turns. I sit in the moored boat and just

float

there for a few minutes. It's heaven. It's soothing. I don't want to cry because I'm afraid I'll lose my contact lenses so I just sit and breathe. Look out at the other women moving their prams around. Every now and then one of them goes by me and asks what I'm doing in the boat, and I laugh and say, "It's a long story!"

By the time Linda and the instructor get back it's time to go back in to the wharf. I crew this time. Linda skippers. I can tell that she sees how hard it is, now that she's the one doing it. We make it back in. We bring our boat up onto the dolly and wheel it onto the dock. Then we de-rig it. Mona's husband Jim is there and he gives me a big hug and tells me I did great. (He's a former windsurfing pro and loves to sail. He and Mona are among my favorite people.) I'm cursing all over the place, "Fuck that was hard!" Then I apologize for it. "I'm sorry guys, I curse when I'm stressed."

"That's OK," says Lois, "I curse when I'm NOT stressed!"

The sails get folded up, put away. Everyone else leaves and it's just me and Mona sitting there on the steps. The instructors have locked the doors and gone home. We sit there and watch the lake, and talk. We talk about sailing - and how it's actually harder than it looks. How there is quite a lot on the line - despite the cheery view of sailing as the All American sport, rosy-cheeked, white-pants-wearing, robust and healthy men and women pulling on ropes and raising sails and saying "Ahoy there," it's actually life and death out there. Let's face it - if you get water in your lungs, you die. If you get tangled in the ropes and your boat tips and you can't get out of there, you die. And when you're sailing, you can't just pull over to the side of the road. You're out on the water and you somehow have to get back. And the conditions are constantly changing, and you have absolutely no control over them - the wind could be coming from one direction when you start, and then switch around. Who knows what will come up when you're out on the water?

I tell Mona that sitting out in the moored rescue boat, having my private freak-out, I doubted myself for one of the first times since starting work at the marina. See, all day long at work I'm on land, I'm talking the talk but not walking the walk. I talk about halyards and moorings and charts and all of it, and I'm around boats that are on land or are moored to the dock. So it's fairly easy to feel confident in that environment (even when you feel like there's so much to learn and you know so little). But to actually go out in a boat, go out into the water and learn how to control the boat's movements - that's a whole other game. And that day, I seriously wondered - "Do I belong here? Was this a smart move?"

I came back in again and cursed with the other women and realized, remembered, was reminded - that learning takes time. That we can't expect ourselves to master something on our second bloody lesson. That sometimes when you push your limits it's too much. Pull yourself back in again.

Hoo boy.

So here we are - another week has slipped away and become the past. Tomorrow night is sailing night again. This time, I'm preparing. I'm getting off work an hour early. I'm going to go somewhere quiet and rest. Then I'm going to show up at the Yacht Club, and rig a pram. Start again with the smallest boat. Go out by myself, one sail, one sheet, one person.

I bet you've got something great to say. Leave a comment, I'd love to hear from you. I love it when I check my email and I get one saying that someone has left a comment. It makes my day! Tell me about your meltdowns, your sailing experience, your doubts about changes you've made in your life.

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!

seedlings in may

The seeds are teaching me something about myself.

You wouldn't think so; they're only tiny seeds, after all. But there you go: the seeds are teaching me that deep down, I like things quick, I like things NOW, I like to set the pace. And boy, is that not possible with these little guys!

Last summer, I saved the seeds of two different types of cherry tomato, Tumbler and Cherry Grande. (How that is done is a topic for another post, perhaps this coming fall.) I saved them in two small, black film containers and waited for spring. Then when spring came, I planted them into eight pots, four for each kind. I mixed dirt with manure, and loaded each pot up with nutritious, delicious soil. I set them in the oven to germinate, as tomatoes need darkness to germinate, and our propane stove's pilot light provided just the right amount of heat. And germinate they did! After several days, during which I (of course) checked them every few hours, up came little green leaves.

Excited, I set the pots onto a tray and sat them by the sunny windows, rotating them every so often when they would start leaning too much towards the sun. And in a week's time, they put on about an inch or an inch-and-a-half worth of growth! It was fun to watch them coming along, the speedy little dudes. (Or dudettes.)

But now... they've slowed down. They're taking their sweet time, and only putting on a millimeter or so a day. (Not that I'm measuring...) And this is how the seeds, now seedlings, are teaching me about myself. I've realized that I see tiny seedlings and I start thinking ahead, all sorts of grand thoughts about how they're going to grow into big, bushy tomato plants, dripping with little red globes. I see the first rapid growth spurt and I think, "Wow, this will only take a month until I'm eating cherry tomatoes on my salads!" (And I'm only exaggerating my thought-process slightly.)

But, no. Life works differently. Nature works differently. And for sure, tomato seedlings work differently. They work at their own pace. This is only May, they keep reminding me. Relax. Sit back. Have some tea, and watch the rain falling on the sodden garden. We will make cherry tomatoes, but it's going to take a bit of time.

I do still check them often, rotating them on sunny days. But now I look at that checking time as an opportunity to just appreciate the little spunky seedlings, instead of bemoan what they aren't, just yet.

***

In other news, my brother Mat is home now from college, and he is working at his co-op job. So now my "office" is back to its previous function, which is his bedroom, so I'm not online as much, now that I have to dig under piles of clothes to even find the computer. (I'm mostly kidding. Mostly.)

I'm also not online as much for a few other reasons: one being that since Mat is home, I hang out with him more, and when I'm not hanging out with him, I tend to be doing my own thing, but not wanting to be on the Internet. Another reason is that the weather is nice now, or at least, it's not sleeting or snowing, so there is outdoors stuff to be done. And by outdoors stuff, I mean the gardening, but I also mean the very necessary "task" of sitting on the deck with my big sun-hat on, reading or listening to my portable radio. Ah, it's rough, this life.

One more thing: I recently finished two really good books, pretty much one after the other. The first one is "The 100-Mile Diet", a book which has gotten a lot of press over the last year, but which I hadn't yet read. So I requested it from the library, opened it to the first page, and didn't leave until the last page, give or take a few trips to the bathroom, and sleeping. It's a fantastic book, but rather than get into an in-depth review, I'll just say, you should check it out.

The other book really, really worth checking out is "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. It was also published in the last year, and has gotten a lot of press. Different people have recommended it to me, but it wasn't until I heard the author speaking with Shelagh Rogers on Sounds Like Canada that I thought, OK, I really need to read this book. So I went on the library website and looked it up. The regular-print version had a waiting list 40 people long. The large-print version had 3. Guess which waiting list I put myself on? So that's how I came to be reading "Eat, Pray, Love" in 16. pt lettering, which is a little hard on the eyes after a while, but not so bad if you hold the book far away from you.

Anyway, I inhaled the book. I started it Friday night and finished Sunday morning. I laughed, and though I didn't cry, I did take in an awful lot of an amazing journey to the center of the self, to God, to the bliss that is possible. I found I had a lot in common with Ms. Gilbert, and I also found she had a lot to teach me. So now the book is on my "Gotta-Buy" list, which I'm compiling until it goes over $40, at which point I can get free shipping at the Chapters-Indigo website.

So that's our news of late: it's been raining a lot, the garden and lawn are greening up, Mat is home now, and we're here, breathing and reading, loving one another, and eating as much delicious, local food as possible.

How about you? What are your thoughts? What green things are you watching? Have you read either of these two fabulous books? Do tell.

sweet.

I just wanted to make a few changes to the blog -- add a copyright notice, and perhaps a short bio of myself. I figured I'd play around with the template a bit, see what kind of a mess I could make.

Well, minutes turned into hours pretty quickly (I've noticed this happens a lot on the Internet) and before I knew it I was geekily reading source code for different weblogs I really like. Then I taught myself how to do two things that have always seemed so impossible (like reading The New Yorker if you're just learning your ABC's), and cool, which in hindsight were quite simple.

Thing #1: How to make titles appear over links when a reader runs the mouse over the link. To see what I mean, run your mouse over this next link, or try doing the same to some of the links in the tables to the left. The link is for the Syracuse Cultural Workers' catalog, which I visited today; click here to visit it yourself.

Thing #2: Footnotes! Now, most people that know me, at least on an academic basis, know my fondness for footnotes. These are a different kind but just as wonderful. Instead of sitting at the bottom of a page of written text, these pop up into little windows, when a reader clicks on the linked text. Marvellous!

So, I now know, thanks to reading source code, how to make footnotes, which I hadn't had a clue how to do before.

I'm guessing that my readers fall into three categories when it comes to my new discoveries about link titles and footnotes.

1. People who already know how to do these things and are mildly amused with my naivety.
2. People who don't know how to do this either but frankly don't care, or don't need to care.
3. People who blog and also want to know how to do this.

If you fall into the third category, just read the source code for this page, and mess about with your template, and you should have it. If not, we can communicate.

Now I think it's time to leave my computer and step back into the "real world" for some cooking. One of the cats has been hovering around, meowing, as if to say just that.

rise up!

I wish I could show you how beautiful the garden is. I think even photographs taken by someone skilled would fail to do the plants and the sunshine and the fresh breeze justice. Sometimes when I'm in a cranky or desultory mood, I go sit outside, somewhere on the deck, and look around me. It is July, and I am home, and this is what I wanted. This is what I dreamed about in February and March when things were so miserable, and this is what kept me afloat through April and even May, with the snowstorms and slow growth. Things may not be perfect, there are still issues to deal with, and my energy is still low. But it is July and I am home.

This means: forget-me-nots and buttercups, delicate blue and yellow, mixed together the length of the driveway. Calvin mowing our lawn every few weeks and making the lush growth of the garden stand out. Irises a splashy dance in many colors. Scented stock and sweet rocket making the air smell of clove at night. Tall grey clouds and the sudden rainstorms they bring. My cherry tomato plant putting out little yellow trumpets that will one day in late August be little cherry tomatoes. Green, green, everywhere green, and most everything putting out buds or new growth of some kind. Sitting on the deck in the shade of the maple that grows through it, reading and drinking juice, while the cats lie splayed beside me.

Speaking of reading, what I'm mentally devouring these days is a book Grandmaman gave me last Christmas, which I'm finally getting to, called "Ride the Rising Wind: One Woman's Journey Across Canada", by Barbara Kingscote. It's the true story of how Barbara travelled across Canada when she was 20 on the back of her mare, Zazy, in 1949 and 1950. It's incredible in pretty much every way: her age, her inexperience with that sort of travel, the way people (in general) were so kind to her, not to mention her writing describing the places and people she passed. Also, she travelled at a time when horsepower on farms still came partly from horses, but this was changing rapidly to the modern, mechanized way of doing things. Kingscote thus witnessed both small, subsistence farms, which she describes as having dignity and eking out a living while respecting the land around them, and the larger operations of farming, logging and urban sprawl that were creating a space that was "an obsolete battleground where the battered corpse of wilderness lay unburied, for everyone to see and no one to mourn." Kingscote calls it like she sees it, with clear, dancing prose, and I'm only halfway through--we're just about to enter the prairies. We being the three of us, of course: Barbara, Zazy and me, riding that "rising wind".

And speaking of rising, I've been thinking about mornings, the time one rises, what one does soon after rising. I'm enjoying having time in the mornings, to do those important stretches, eat breakfast on the deck, spying on the birds at the same time. And sometimes, when I get up extra early (7 or 8 am, these days) I feel like I've done something productive just by getting out of bed. There's something special about the early morning and the few times I do get up early, I enjoy it -- there are mists that will later burn off, and shades and angles of light not seen at other times of day. Of course, my body is usually extra cranky at an early hour, so there's a pay-off.

Now it's your turn to rise to the occasion. What's your morning routine? What's early and what's late? What's so special about getting up early, anyway? Do tell.

nice rack!

Just in time for the chef's birthday! (Catriona MacInnes turns 23 on the 27th of this month.)

This photo was taken by my friend Catriona, during her final exam this year at NSCC (Nova Scotia Community College), Ackerly Campus (Dartmouth, NS), a month or so ago. Two weeks later, my mother remembered we had a rack of lamb in the freezer, which none of us know how to cook, so we asked Catriona -- home for a break between school and her summer work placement -- to come and do us the honor, not knowing she'd passed with flying colors on the very dish we were asking her to prepare for us. Serendipity in the kitchen - my favorite kind!

Catriona arrived with an industrial-strength briefcase, filled with culinary art supplies: knifes, spatulas, pastry cutters, molds, a scale, squeeze bottles, a handheld mixer, measuring cups and spoons, pliers (removing fish bones, not last minute plumbing repairs), icing tubes, and an assortment of funny-looking metal tools that turned out to be the melon ballers, a butter curler, a lemon zester, and an apple corer. Don't get in this woman's way! Ever the professional, she also changed into her chef's whites, complete with neckerchief and a digital thermometer clipped to her arm, looking like a more svelte version of Gilmore Girls' chef, Sukie: same gorgeous smile and cheery chatter.

My brother Mat became her "apprentice chef" for the afternoon, chopping garlic, mincing rosemary, mixing the rub (garlic, rosemary, dijon mustard, honey and olive oil), as per the chef's instructions. Catriona herself was involved in preparing the meat: cutting the fat cap off, then cutting spaces or "windows" between the ribs, then scraping the rest of the connective tissue, fat and cartilage off the meat. Her joy in her chosen trade was evident: when she she first cut between the rib bones and pulled away the meat to create a neat square space, she exclaimed, "Ah, look at that window!"

This photo is also from Catriona's final exam, and it's the point at which the "windows" have been cut between the ribs, the unwanted tissues removed, and the rub spread on the meat. Our meat looked a little different from this, as it was grown and butchered at a small farm, not prepared for commercial use as her exam-lamb was. Also, because our lamb lived its life free-range and was fed organic feed, its fat, Catriona noted, was less stiff, and actually harder to handle.

After she had braised the meat in two cast-iron pans, and then rubbed them with the prepared mixure and set them to bake in the oven, Catriona prepared the reduction sauce. Her Scottish ancestry was evident: as she hoisted a bottle of Valpolicella, a red wine, to begin, she said enthusiastically, "The best thing about sauces is there's alcohol in them!" Later, I sniffed the pan, in which was simmering red wine, orange zest and juice, and fresh mint, and it smelled like sweet lollipops, Laura Secord orange suckers, only for grown-ups.

While we were waiting for the meal to cook, Mat wheeled into the kitchen on the office chair, and Catriona "knighted" him with the knife sharpener, a long metal dowel: "I knight you the best un-official apprentice chef ... in the world!" I was on the couch -- all the activity had tired me out -- writing notes and laughing. The house smelled divine: roasting lamb, rosemary, garlic, wine, orange zest. At the last minute we pulled together a salad of garden greens (Turkish rocket and dandelion leaves), with some chopped apple and a balsamic vinaigrette. Catriona "presented" the food beautifully, using a squeeze bottle to make a design on the plate using the reduction sauce, and arranging the lamb pieces on the plates much like her final exam. We all sat down, ready to dig in, impressed, excited, happy, and most importantly, hungry.

After our meal, flipping through the textbook she had brought for me to look at, I found a quote that I realized sums up the delight we all shared in this meal. I'll leave you with it. Also: Happy Birthday dear Catriona, on the 27th! Here's to good friends, and good food.

"Eating is not merely a material pleasure. Eating well gives a spectacular joy to life and contributes immensly to goodwill and happy companionship. It is of great importance to the morale." --Elsa Schiaparelli, Italian fashion designer, 1890-1973).

not exploding, just moving (at a slower pace)

"Unless you are utterly exploded, there is always something to be grateful for." (From Bellow, Saul. Herzog. Ed. Irving Howe. New York: Viking, 1976. p.7)

The other day Marlo was reading this book at the kitchen table, and I was reading Scarlet Feather, by Maeve Binchy. She laughed aloud at this quote and then read it to me, and then wrote it out onto a scrap of paper which I tucked into my book for safekeeping. I did that because it seems the sort of advice to keep with you at all times, and it will also remind me of Marlo.

Not that going home to Cape Breton is at all comparable to being utterly exploded, as there are many, many good things about home and being there. The sound of birdsong from the porch is one. The restfulness of the woods is another. But this is a big change for me, moving home and leaving here uncertain of return, and I've not yet completely recovered from the rough period that began this past February. Each day is still a question mark, some days are good, and some days I have very little energy and can't do very much. It will still be some time before I'm up to my usual tricks, or up to tackling anything too difficult. It is hard to admit this, because as Chloe said to me the other day, "You're quite a go-getter!"

I was very used to going and getting, it is true, and these days involve a lot of staying and resting. I find it hard to accept the fact that my body wants me to stop and let it rest until it needs no more resting, not just recharge enough to pretend I'm OK. I find it hard to accept that this can happen without my consent! I also find it hard to accept that when it comes down to it, after all my fears that no-one will understand, the person who understands the least is actually myself.

However, when I think about it, I realize that these things that are hard to accept are actually just fine. The harder it is, the better I will feel as I begin to accept them. Does that make sense? The harder the task, the better you feel when you accomplish it.

So, back to the point of this post: I'm going home to Cape Breton. I should also mention that none of the packing that has been happening lately would have been possible without my mother, who came here last week and is spending her week off here with me, helping me every step of the way. It sure makes a difference to have her here to tell me what needs doing, and do the things that I can't.

On Sunday we pack the little Golf and move. In the process I have to get rid of my old monitor, as it barely works right now, and I am going to dump it here and then buy a new one when I get home, a flat-screen model. I made many calls and nowhere in Fredericton is there a place to safely dispose of computer equipment, so unfortunately for my ethics and principles this monitor I've used for five years is going to end up in the landfill. It seems such a waste! Why, oh why, can't recycling technologies and businesses fill this obvious need as quickly as I would like them to? (She cried to the skies, not expecting a satisfactory answer.)

I probably won't get a new monitor right away, so I'll be using my mother's computer on a slow connection, or the computers at the library in town, my old fall-back method for when at home. That, combined with how little energy I've got these days, and the fact that I really do love posting, means I will still post, just not all the time. I just wanted y'all to know.

Allow me to counteract what seem like moderately unpleasant comments in this post with a few "good things", but have no fear, I'm not turning into Martha Stewart:

1. Maeve Binchy novels with their comforting predictability and take-charge heroines.
2. Driving out into the country with Mum, Marlo and a map.
3. The way the indoors feels when it rains out: cozy, complete.
   
4. Lebanese takeaway: falafel wraps, grape leaves filled with soft, tangy rice, tabouleh with lots of parsley, baklava with a melt-in-your-mouth texture.

So, that's all the news at this moment. And if you can't think of anything better to do, some Lebanese takeaway is always a good idea. I'll write again from the little island that could.

*Source of the photograph: unknown. Picked it up somewhere while trawling the Web for inspiration, saved it, and found it again today. If it's yours and you don't want it used, tell me.

good medicine: a play in two acts

[Dramatis Personae

LEAH, a young woman of 22, soon to be 23.
MAN, a fellow Odell Park enthusiast.
NEIL, an elderly gentleman of 92

SCENE: Fredericton, New Brunswick]

Act One

Scene: Odell Park. The place where three wide paths meet, and form a big open circle underneath tall pines and birches. There is a bench here, and the ground is covered in snow, which is itself covered in bits of fallen trees--needles, bark, lichen. There are footprints in the snow and dog prints too. The sky is overcast and there is a wind that makes the green branches sway back and forth. The deciduous trees' branches are bare, and they sway too, forming silhouettes against the gray sky. LEAH is sitting on the backrest of the bench in a black coat, a black toque, a bright blue scarf, and blue jeans, her feet in brown Doc Marten boots resting on the seat of the bench, because it is covered in snow. Her head is tilted back and she is looking up at the sky through tree branches, thinking about things. A MAN in a blue jacket approaches from a long way down the path.

LEAH looks at him, then back up at the sky. He is still too far away to speak to. When he comes closer, she turns her head and smiles at him, as you do with anyone you meet on Odell's paths. He is middle aged and walking swiftly, looks to be of East Indian origin. He doesn't pause to speak, but keeps walking as the two converse.

LEAH: Hi..!

MAN: Hello there. This is a nice place to rest, isn't it?

LEAH (smiling broadly): Yes, yes it is.

MAN: You look lovely, sitting there.

LEAH: Thank you! (pause) Have a good day.

MAN: You, too.

He is gone down another path, his blue jacket long on his torso, his compliment left hanging in the forest air for LEAH to smile at.

Act Two

Scene: Living room of NEIL's house. NEIL is LEAH's landlord, a man of 92. Up until last year, when he got sick, he still gardened, walked regularly to church, and drove as far as Ottawa. Over the three years that LEAH has been his tenant they have become good friends. Today she is paying a quick visit to impart some news; she does this fairly regularly because soon she will be leaving and she wants to see NEIL as much as she can. NEIL is in a mechanically-reclining chair which he operates with a button. The television is on behind LEAH. After a friendly conversation LEAH is ready to go back downstairs but decides she will ask another question.

LEAH: Do you ever read Maeve Binchy novels, Neil?

NEIL: Nope.

LEAH: They're not Harlequins, you might not like them!

(Both laugh at this. NEIL recently admitted he reads Harlequin romances.)

LEAH: Well, I'll go back down below and curl up with a blanket, a cup of tea and a good book.

NEIL: It's amazing how you don't get sick of that diet!

LEAH: Yes, I know! One thing I'm glad for, out of this whole thing, is having the time...to just sit and read, and do things like watch the crows and squirrels do their thing.

NEIL (agreeing): And just let things happen.

LEAH: Exactly.

pot roast post script

As sort of a post-script to the previous post (about doing things that distract you, and are also productive) and also just as a sort of "I'm proud of myself so I want to tell you all" shout out, I wanted to talk a bit about pot roast.

Today I made my first ever pot roast. I said to Marlo, "This is one of those dishes that mark adulthood for me." As a result of having to clean out my freezer over the next few weeks, in preparation for moving back to Cape Breton, I have to eat some of the meat I didn't eat all year. There are a few pot roasts in there, meat from Cape Breton farms, meat that was allowed to graze free-range, and fed good, chemical-free grain. Pot roasts are the sort of thing I've put off making because I was busy, and I had never done it before, so I was nervous to try. It takes patience, several stages of cooking, combining ingredients and heat and time in a specific way for a specific outcome. I wasn't sure I could attempt it! But since the freezer needs clearing I thought I would give it a try.

So today I followed the list of instructions Mum had given me. I browned the big chunk of beef on both sides, tossing in some chopped onion. I made the "pot likker" with water, old spaghetti sauce, and a can of mushrooms. (Apparently you can also throw in things like wine, sherry, yogurt, gravy--anything you've got in the fridge.) I set it to simmer for a few hours. About a half hour before I wanted to eat I threw in carrots and potatoes. When I went to cut the meat for my plate it practically fell off the bone, and subsequently was melt-in-your-mouth delicious. I mashed up the potatoes and carrots on my plate and put a few spoonfuls of the pot likker on top, which was all full of beef fat--yum!

As I sat at the little table here in my apartment and chewed, I felt that distinctive feeling that you get when you are both remembering a taste from childhood and realizing that you're making a new memory, that of your adult self re-creating the childhood dish. It's a feeling of pride, of "Hey, I can do this after all!" And the sense that you're growing into your mother, and that's OK.

As this is a post-script, and comes soon after the last one, I'll still read the comments of the last post, as I'm still interested in what you might have to say about it.

after the storm

Wow. Well. Here I am, after a full month of not posting. It feels surprisingly good to fire up the ol' Blogger again, to click on "New Post", to put tentative feelers out into the blogworld --and the world in general-- again.

I can't believe, in some ways, that it has been a month. Each week has brought a fresh batch of challenges, a fresh batch of decisions to make, and feelings to sort through. The "grubby details", as Marlo called them, belong to me and a few close friends, but the truth is simple: I've been sick, am still sick, and am taking time off from school in order to rest and get my strength back. I burnt myself out, more or less, and have had to deal with the consequences, which have been more than I bargained for.

My life has changed since I posted last. The things that remained the same are physical location (Fredericton, New Brunswick, the East Coast of Canada), and the dear friends and family who support this old bean. It's really funny, surreal actually, to stand at the center of your life and watch it change around you, watch yourself stop doing things because you can't do them anymore, and mourn your losses. It's like traveling to a foreign country, not knowing the language or the currency before you get there: you see what happens one day at a time, sometimes one hour or minute at a time, even one breath at a time.

This makes for a more intense experience, for better and for worse. I have certainly become "hyper-aware", as one person put it, of my self, my feelings, my needs and my desires. Having this awareness does not make it any easier to put such needs into practice, but it helps. It also influences what I have to talk about, necessarily! I can't wait for the day when I have a conversation with someone that doesn't include my own issues. But in time, that will come, and I know that having been there for a number of the people who are holding on to the corners of my "safety net" right now means they do, actually, want to be here for me. I'm not a burden as much as I'm just taking my turn at leaning.

What I'm doing right now (along with the physical acts of resting and no longer attending classes, taking a break) is what Clarissa Pinkola Estés calls "homing" or "returning to oneself". She writes about the necessity of this in her bestselling "Women Who Run With The Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype" (New York: Ballantine Books, 1995):

What is homing? It is the instinct to return, to go to the place we remember. It is the ability to find, whether in dark or in daylight, one's home place. We all know how to return home. No matter how long it's been, we find our way. [...]

For some, home is the taking up of an endeavor of some sort. Women begin to sing again after years of finding reason not to. They commit themselves to learn something they've been heartfelt about for a long time. They seek out the lost people and things in their lives. They take back their voices and write. They rest. They make some corner of the world their own. They execute immense or intense decisions. They do something that leaves footprints.

For some, home is a forest, a desert, a sea. In truth, home is holographic. It is carried at full power in even a single tree, a solitary cactus in a plant shop window, a pool of still water. It is also at full potency in a yellow leaf lying on the asphalt, a red clay pot waiting for a root bundle, a drop of water on the skin. When you focus with soul-eyes, you will see home in many, many places. (pp. 283-6).

So I'm homing. I've come through a storm, and now I'm sorting out the mess it left. I'm resting, I'm making good food for myself, I'm taking up things I haven't done in too, too long (writing for myself, drawing with charcoals, pencils, pens, inks, reading a book that isn't for class). I'm mourning the losses, and trusting in something --faith? life? the way things tend to go?-- that the voids will be filled. I'm seeing that indeed they are, one breath, one moment, one day at a time.

Oh and, the picture was taken by Marlo. I like using her photographs to illustrate my writing, because they tend to be of subjects in my immediate environment (since we're room-mates and fellow Fredericton residents and explorers), and she takes such thoughtful and striking photographs. At least, I think so. I also thought that this one, called "iceplants", is both fragile and strong, the kind of strength that comes from remaining, and therefore pertinent. I also really love the colors.

What do you do to go home? What are the endeavors, actions, creations and thoughts that bring you back to yourself? Have you done them lately?

sleepy bean

I took this picture earlier today to email to Dan along with a bunch of others in a series (it ended with my head on a pillow, a very nice place to be). I think it accurately sums up how I'm feeling nearing the end of a semester that seems to have been revved up from the word "go": damn tired. If I made a list of the reasons why, well, suffice it to say there would be more than one item on it, but that's not really the point, nor what I've learned. And I think on a blog written by a university student, it's important to talk about these sorts of lessons, since my life is not just made up of enjoying snowfalls, going out for coffee with girlfriends, and joyous essay-writing. (In fact, I think "joyous" and "essay-writing" don't really belong in the same sentence. I reserve the word "joy" for things like holding babies, drinking wine with a dear friend, and the first frost.) The lesson is, of course, that there's only so much Leah to go around, and Leah herself wasn't getting enough.

I told a professor I really admire that I wouldn't be able to work with her, and she wrote back to tell me that an important part of success is to know your limitations. Funny how I can tell myself that a hundred times, but hearing it from her has more weight. But when I made the decision to say "no", it added a bit more weight to my own opinion of what my priorities are. It's also funny how we can forget things that seemed so important at a time when things were more balanced: at the end of summer, before uni began, I told myself that my five classes were going to be my priority, that keeping my scholarship, learning lots of stuff, and enjoying my work by also giving myself time off from school were the most important things, and anything more than that was too much to take on. But once I got back on campus, I found I was comparing myself to a lot of other people, seeing what they did or didn't do, took on or didn't take on, and allowing those comparisons to dictate what I, consequently, should do or take on.

As I said to Mum in one of our conversations lately (she's my go-to counsellor, healer, helper) I have realized it is more of an adult thing to do to realize your limitations and make decisions based on that, than it is to take on a whole lot of stuff. Of course, everyone's got their own limit, so someone else's "manageable amount" is my "way too much" or maybe vice versa. And I think as I'm coming into my adult self, this is something I will need to keep remembering, and re-learning.

So what am I going to do about this? Well, for starters, I'm going to read back over last November because the same issues were rearing their ugly heads then, too. Nothing like a little perspective. And I'm going to make sure I get lots of sleep--so much it feels like too much, and then maybe a little more. And as this is a long weekend, I'm going to take full advantage of it, and maybe do something other than schoolwork for a good solid chunk of time (my scrapbook, and oh how painful it is to admit I have a scrapbook, needs last summer put in it, for posterity, and there is always the prose stylings of Diana Gabaldon to spend hours with).

I just wanted to put this out there in case you were feeling the same way. Are you? If not, what do you do about it?

this man IS mick jagger

This morning, Prof. Bourassa (click here for a bio and a nice, candid photo, as well as a list of this man's six--count 'em, six--degrees, ye gads!) was in a silly mood.

"I can't get 'Can't Get No Satisfaction' out of my head!" He said. "I think we should all start singing it at the end of class. Today, I am Mick Jagger." Then someone questioned the syllabus, how we had a week of poetry scheduled for now, when in fact we did that the first week and now we're doing Lolita, and his response was, in a British accent: "Fuck poetry, it's all about rock'n'roll!"

Apparently.

Honestly, though, having this one English class floating in the sea of Sociology (forgive the metaphor, but hey) is quite a relief. It helps that the professor occasionally likes to impersonate rock stars. It helps that the view out the window is of the St. John river valley and is quite pretty at 9 am. And I'm not accusing sociologists of being un-fun--Clow and my colleague Fuller are certainly examples to the contrary! But there's something about talking about texts, narratives, books, morals, art, especially with Bourassa, that is such a welcome break from the discussions of contextualization, social theory and metatheory, research methods, and so on. Especially when you can laugh and feel like you're part of a lively discussion (Bourassa should really give tips to other professors on how to engage your students, because honestly, there's nothing worse than a silence aching to be filled after a professor asks something and then stares out at the audience, saying "I've got lots of time! I'll just wait!"), as well as hear exchanges like the following:

Bourassa: So, what else can we say love is?
Student: Love is not lust.
Bourassa: What? Oh god... I owe apologies to more than a few people!

music to my ears: the sounds of Cape Breton farming, summer passing

The other day I thought, "August 17th really marks the death knell for Summer." It seems like someone sneaked in, in the night, and turned the calender pages on us, because it seems like just yesterday I started work, moved up here, and it's August 17th??? And now, only three short days later, it's August 20th???

Forgive my disbelief, but I demand a refund.

Oh wait--I just looked back in my calender, where I would write down the daily happenings every few days, and to paraphrase Calvin and Hobbes, and contrary to my remembrance, the days were just packed. If I wasn't working hard, I was making hay, swimming, hanging out with friends old and new, or mastering the art of befriending myself, either by reading (so many good novels were digested this summer) or by working out, or sleeping. MMmm.. I have become such a fan of sleep.

So my point is, I suppose, that though time has flown, at least I know I spent it well. It doesn't make it any easier to leave Cape Breton in two short weeks, but what else do you do, with a life?

Right now I'm reading "A Thousand Acres", by Jane Smiley, which I think was made into a movie with Michelle Pfeiffer, but which is, regardless, just an amazing book. It is amazing because the author has the wide and well-founded perspective needed to give insight into all her characters, the sensitivity to the currents of a community and of human lives, and all the right words for saying it. It's about a farm in Iowa, and the last book I read, "A Map of the World", by Jane Hamilton, was also set on a farm, in Wisconsin, so that when Kathy and I were putting in the last bales of the season last night (mostly clover, so they were wiry, but light) I remarked that I'm learning to farm this summer, but mostly from fiction. We were bouncing along on the haywagon, which was attached to the baler, which was attached to the tractor. Donald was on the tractor, pulling slowly along, making sure the wiry windrows fed evenly into the clanking baler. The hay goes through it and gets packed into bale size, and the baling twine twists around it in some mysterious fashion and then gets cut off with a louder clank. The bales push out the back and pop up onto the haywagon, and we with our gloves on haul them up and stack them. Once it's loaded we ride it back to the barn for unloading.

Oh and, Janice, I changed Laura's URL. So now your web-surfboard need not run aground!

Here's a few questions for y'all, inspired by things I've been thinking about lately:

What are the songs/albums you listen to in the morning? What is it about them that rouse you? What are the songs/albums that would be featured on your life soundtrack? Why?

confessions of a communications slacker

Well, I'm still here! How are you all doing? I've been ex-communicado and it's been, in the Irish slang, "brilliant". I guess I really ought not to beat myself up, since compared to most people most of the time (the statistical average, in other words) I'm usually pretty good at keeping in touch with people. And really, what is more healthy for an aspect of yourself (be it physical, mental, etc) than a dose of change, a bit of something completely different, a break? So that's how I'm rationalizing the fact that I've not been the greatest at keeping in touch with folks I miss and care about, and I won't be made to feel bad about it.

Today is a hot, hot day and I've returned to North River after two days off spent on the North Shore. I was in the company of friends, one in particular being an Irish musician travelling through the area, who has given me reason to worry about what people might say. For the most part I'm a pretty chilled, low-gossip-quotient kind of resident, more likely to listen to a friend's scandalous tales of summer romance than to create them, but since a week now I've been the one who steals kisses, dances in the rain, and swims in the moonlight. And it's been fantastic, so. Although, as Paul Mac said, someone should have warned me about hanging around with fiddle-players, since you get to the party and they jump right in and play, but that's quite alright with me. I've been more than content just to [fill in the blank: listen to him play, lie on the beach, play some frisbee, make a meal] while the long days pass.

Cape Breton in the summertime is quite a magical place all around. It doesn't seem to matter what the tourist numbers are, if they are down or up--if you're willing to be open to a quiet beauty that sneaks in to everything and makes each moment golden then you'll find this place charms you. Though that sounds incredibly cliche (along the lines of "Kumbaya", whoever invented it) it is true. I was strolling along a cart track last night, heading to the ocean, flipping a frisbee between my hands, thinking thoughts to myself, taking a bit of a break from the people and the house, and could feel anxieties falling away, a bit like something crusty you've been soaking in hopes to clean. I don't know who thinks segregating human life from nature is a good thing, because in all my experience nature is where I go to re-realize the truth, that there is a bigger force out there, that it cares about field grasses and blueberries and honeysuckle just as much as it cares about us silly human beans. And that in the grand scheme of things, it's OK to be confused or sad or tired--or heaven forbid, content--because life is continually mutuating, surprising, changing. What is worrisome in your life right now will change into something else--sorrows become beauty, children become adults, gardens become the harvest.

I guess we all just do the best we can to count our blessings, make changes happen, and live in the moment.

So with that, I'm going to take this sleep-deprived, memory-stuffed little head outdoors and maybe swim, maybe listen to some of the new Dixie Chicks album, most likely drink some cool drink with ice in it.

What are the lessons you're learning this summer? What are the things you're doing that differ from the daily? How goes summer with you?