"If you are going through hell, keep going"

Good old Winston Churchill...

How can you tell that times have been rough?

I haven't been writing. My journal has been abandoned for so long that it collects dust and I have yet to post since Obama made history. 

Writing is my truth, I bleed words onto pages and screens from the very fabric of me, so whether it is a journal entry or a simple essay I need to believe that what I write is real. Its like I need words to hold something, the addition of my vowels pregnant with life and concenents sharp with truth somehow must equate some figure that leaves a mark, more than just a symbol for a sound, but something with meaning behind.

I just cannot lie when I write. 

So when things get rough, I avoid my truths but turning away from blank pages and screens in avoidance of a plague of sobering reality. Because one always knows, I know when I am deceiving myself, betraying myself, harming myself by continuing to engage in the things that pull me down, so sometimes I run from admitting hard truths.

And in the last two weeks I had reason to run.

7000 photographic memories slipped from the slippery silver disk of my hard drive into oblivion.  Yes, I endured a hard drive crash that left me crushed beyond description. Gone are, all my photos from Europe, recipes from my grandmother, poems, essays, letters and songs. 

Past affairs blazed hot and angry across my screens in voices and tones I have so desperately tried to eliminate from my life : manipulation, selfishness and greed. 

I learnt lessons the hard way, slaps of reality in my face. I slept through alarms, didn't research thoroughly enough, missed work, pulled all nighters and get so frustrated and lonely that too often I could do nothing but cry and pray that some force from the universe would provide some way forward.

I am now one article away from being done...

Where do I stand?

I am in desperate need of a pedicure, my room is a mess (there are post-its glued to the floor, making me feel like a real writer) and laundry need to be done. I haven't put on real make-up in quite a while, and I've made some startling discoveries...

I realized that this city doesn't belong to me yet. Nor do I belong to it, or Vancouver. Which is a frightening thing in the sense that I feel a bit like the littlest hobo, lost and without a place. But not all is lost. Vancouver feels like my hometown, a small place in which I grew strong enough to venture away and develop into something more. I am no longer just a high-school student, no longer just a yoga teacher no longer just a Vancouverite.

And of Toronto, I know this isn't my final destination, but more so a launch pad to New York. It's interesting that I am so determined to make NYC my final destination, but since I was 13, I just knew. There has only been one point in my life where I tried to deceive myself into thinking I would be perfectly happy going back and forth between New York and my city of residence, but that quickly boiled over. No, New York is my destiny and I have never been more certain of anything.

But Toronto, despite just being my launch pad, I want to own it too. I want it to make a mark on me. This city is more alive than my former West Coast home, festivals, events, showcases and parties happen more often with greater vibrance and so far I have yet to engage in all this city has to offer. I know little of this place, I've familiarized myself with some of its corridors, but instead of venturing further I have been desperately hanging on, white-knuckling, any feeling of familiarity. Which is understandable, but as school ends and leaves me without a structure I realize just how rootless I am.  So today I start my journey, back to writing, back to more organization and towards building a greater bond with this new home.

After a pedicure that is....