DIY - Before and After

With a student sized budget, I have been trying to outfit my apartment as best as possible, still I won't settle for junk. Inspired by the DIY sections of the design blogs I have become addicted to, I decided to rescue some furniture from the backyard of my old apartment and create my own 'IKEA hack'.

Here below is the before and after, which I think turned out wonderfully!

Before...

After a good sanding, two coats of white varnish and two more of varnish. Finally, I took apart the smaller of the two pieces and then screwed the pieces down to the back of the shelves. Here is the result!

After...

Family Secrets

"What is that smell!?!" my roommate exclaimed poking her head around the corner from our hallway into the kitchen."I thought you were making cauliflower, not something that smells that good!" 

In our house cauliflower dinners were me and my brother's favorite, we developed stealthy skills to steal a piece or two away from my mom as she was cooking and always invited friends over for a taste of our mom's culinary genius. 

This week when my mom decided to air-mail a full head of organic cauliflower, I had to use it up quick and could think of no better way than making my mom's famous dish. Not only that, but I decided to document it so that I could share it with you all!

With no further ado:

Mom's Cauliflower

Ingredients:

A head of Cauliflower sectioned up

4 eggs

2-3 cups of breadcrumbs

1 1/2 cup of vegetable oil

Steps:

Place all the cauliflower into a pot and cover with water. Bring water to a boil and boil until cauliflower is tender, but not soft. You should be able to stick a fork in it without resistance, however watch that you don't boil it till it falls apart. The difference between the two extremes is about a minute in boiling time, so watch closely.

Remove from water when the cauliflower is done and allow to cool.

Prepare your egg wash, by beating the four eggs until you have an even consistency. Coat your cauliflower in egg and then transfer into the breadcrumbs. Cover the cauliflower in a small mound of breadcrumbs, pressing firmly on top. Take out your little 'tree' and toss it back and forth between your hands to remove any excess crumbs, and then place on the side. Repeat until you have all your cauliflower covered. 

In a pan, heat the vegetable oil on a medium heat (this is important so that your cauliflower doesn't burn) and fry your cauliflower until golden brown. Rotate the 'trees' as necessary trying to get them as evenly brown from all sides as possible.  When finished place on a paper towel to absorb excess oil. When you put the next batch of cauliflower in, remember that your oil will be even hotter so watch more closely that your breadcrumbs don't burn.

Serve with tartar sauce and potatoes. 

My mom used to just make boiled potatoes with caraway seeds, salt and melted butter. 

The tartar sauce I got once again from Chuck's Day Off, though I didn't use the arugula I still found that it turned out great! Here is the recipe below:

Tartar Sauce

• 4 tbsp mayonnaise
• 1 bunch arugula, chopped
• 1 large shallot, finely chopped
• 1 large dill pickle, chopped
• 1 tbsp capers, chopped
• 2 anchovies, minced

 

Tartar Sauce

1. Place 4 tablespoons of mayo in a bowl and add all your ingredients finely diced.
2. Mix together. Mixture should be green, chunky and not too runny.

 

Market Daze

My mom's black-currant jam left me eating cheese like it was going out of style last week. Not that I am complaining, each time I dug in to the good stuff I had the company of great friends, but I could do without the breakouts and subsequent guilt of living off brie.

I decided to turn repulsion into prepultion and finally make good on my summer-long-promise to go exploring and seek out the farmer's markets around the city.

I did a little research and found a comprehensive list of Farmer's Markets in

Toronto here at the Toronto Farmer's Market's website.

After teaching a 8:30am yoga class on Saturday, I made my way down to the St.Lawerence Farmer's Market, which hosts a market that has been going since 1803 and continues to run every Saturday 5am to 5pm. Finding it was slightly trickier than I thought, as the market happens in the North building and spills on to Church as opposed to happening in and around the main South building. Happily, I found it and spent a blissful hour walking around, meeting farmers and buying their amazing goods.

I forgot just how good peaches can taste!

Other surpises included the selection of Ontario grown melons, amazing olive oil vendors (where I picked up an amazing Black Olive Tapenade) and amish ladies selling the most beautiful of Dalia's .

I quickly acquired a decadent bunch of goodies in my bag and set off home to put them to good

use.

I used my purchase of green beans (yeah mom, I am eating beans!), new potatoes and farm fresh eggs in an amazing salad I had seen featured on Chuck's Day Off, a great new show on the Food Network. The show follows Chef Chuck Hughes, who whips up recipes for his friends on his 'days off ' from running his successful restaurant Garde - Manger, in Old Montreal.

His hands on, simple cooking style peaked my interests so I decided to give his 'Warm Potato Salad' a go and use up some of my green beans.

I did have to change things up a little in lieu of some of the ingredients. I made the dressing out of 1tsp of Dijon and 1/2 tsp of Yellow Mustard, instead of white wine vinegar I used a 1/8 cup of white vinegar and 1/8 cup of rice vinegar, finally, I switched up extra virgin olive oil for the canola. This recipe was such a success that I think Chuck is in the running to replace Jamie Oliver as my fav. new celebrity chef. Check out the recipe and more here.

My thoughts as of late have been dwelling on the issue of resentment. One of my particularity colorful employers posted a quote on our staff computer about the shackles that resentment imposes upon us. It read as follows:

“When you hold resentment toward another, you are bound to that person or condition by an emotional link that is stronger than steel. Forgiveness is the only way to dissolve that link and get free.”

As I have moved through life and accumulated experience through my relationships, most of which have fallen apart in the most un-pleasant of ways (then again is there a pleasant way to fall apart?) I have also accumulated resentment to the heartaches of the past.

But as I received an email in the last week from one of the very exes it seemed to take forever to recover from, I started to think about the ways we chose to view our departed relationships. "This is completely innocent," he wrote, "but I wanted you to know that I still think about you."

I realized then that I had two options, to either get frustrated that I could still feel a pang of emotion toward the comment, or to graciously accept the compliment and smile for all the good that had existed between the two of us. I did the former.

Further, as I passed the apartment and epicenter of my most recent love-life fracture, I felt that nostalgic lurch in my stomach, and thought,' I can change this. '

If reality is nothing but a perception, then certainly we can chose the way that we perceive the very real things that tug at our hartstrings. For the longest time, I thought that being 'over' something or someone just meant no longer caring anymore. That in order to be healed and to move on I had to feel a complete dismemberment from events and players of my past. But as I move forward, I realize that thats just not me. I will forever care.

Whether its about the boy who still declined to date me after I made (oh god, I can't belive I am admitting this on the internet) a secret admirer puzzle for him in 10th grade, or the last person who I dreamed of puppies with, I will never be rid of it. I have discovered that I am a woman who will forever hold her past loves close to her heart, and who will on occasion feel a tentacle reach from the past, suction to her heart and pull upon its strings.

And so I am left with a choice of perception.

Do I go forward forever carrying the chip on my shoulder of the relationship that ended because of a lack of commitment, or infedelity or the communication crisis that robbed me of both my lover and my friend... or do I look back and remember the good.

I realize it is my choice whether to continually open my wounds by resenting the hurts of my past, or to remember the fond times, treasure the lessons I so painstakingly came by and forgive the heartache. So, from now I will remember instead the late night dinners: muscles, soups, and Venetian pastas. I will remember the wealth of knowledge, learning about brush-stokes, composition and art history, about design, fashion history, energy orbs and the backstage secrets of Madonna concerts.

Relationships are about the coming together of two people, and so two steer the course of the vessel. But when the two once again divide we are once again the masters of our own course, only a little different, more experienced, hopefully wiser and better for it all. Each of my former partners has changed me into a different friend, partner and woman. Ultimately as I stand on my own two feet I get to chose how the rough seas of the past continue to dictate my course of exploration in the future.

And so I have chosen to sail boldly, to remember hard lessons learned but to still dream of thrill of unchartered waters without the shackles of resentment but instead with the wisdom of experience.

I chose for those lurches of emotion to not make me upset with what I devastation tore at my heart, but for them to let me remember that I did, that I do care.

So, I am responding to emails with notes of thanks for kind sentiments. I am passing apartments and choosing to smile, to giggle even at the memory of happy moments. I am choosing the good over the bad.

I am choosing to view my past in a way that is conducive with what I want to see in my future: hope, love, faith, compassion, kindness and honesty.

Picture of the Week

New Obsession

Spices have always proven to be an organizational problem in my house. The only favourable solution to spice storage was one developed by a close family friend and interior designer who installed an insert into what was to become a 'spice drawer' in her home. As this was not an option for me, I have been forced to search out the perfect solution to my spice woes. 

Stealing a page out a from a friend's book who used old small jam jars to store her spices, I headed to Home Hardware and purchased two sizes of mason jars to store my growing s

pice collection. The end result is well-sealed spice storage that is easily accessible by spoon or hand (for those moments when Jamie Oliver calls for a pinch of this or that). 

The labels were made from heavy card-stock, handwriting done by yours truly with a Steadler Brush Tip felt and invisible Scotch-tape (this way they can easily be peeled and re-labeled). 

Here are some other great Mason Jar ideas that I've come across since my new-found obsession. 

To the right are the light fixtures in the soon to open Sam James Coffee Bar, just down the street from my new place. 

Below to the left are some of the Mason-Jar displays put together by the geniuses behind the window displays at Anthropologie. 

So many pretty jars, so little time!! More jar-rific ideas to come!!

♥ B

"50 Ways to Leave Your Lover"

"You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free"

If Paul Simon is the authority on how to leave your lover, (though he makes it sound far to easy in my opinion) I surely am becoming the authority in how to get over your lover.

My usual routine mimics everyone else's - skip work, loads of Hagen Das, bad chic-flicks and plenty of wallowing. But in the absence of a TV(since my roommate moved her stuff out), having already done months of wallowing at the bottom of ice-cream pails on account of my inter-continental move, I was forced to find a new strategy.

Suprisingly, this one works way better. Featuring many of the usual ingredients like plenty of writing, distressed phone calls to close friends, and coffee, this get-on-and-get-with-it strategy is actually one that I have deployed many times before. Essentially it waters down to this : MOVE.

Literally.

When my stunning fire-fighter lover couldn't commit to the lable of boyfriend or move forward in our relationship, I picked myself up and marched over to the home of my family firends and moved their entire apartment to North Vancouver.

When my tall, dark and handsome artist boyfriend cheated on me, I packed my bags and moved across the country (not because of him, but the timing just worked).

And now, when my heart again lies in splinters after yet another (green-eyed artistic cafe-fashion loving) partner, again I am moving.

There is something very metaphorical about packing boxes, purging and letting go and building hopes for a new home in a time when your heart is desperately trying to mend.

I pack a box, expecting my books all to fit and then find that there are awkward spaces I cannot fill, that somethings do not stack or fit together in a way that allows me to just package up my belongings in a way that make sense. I am left with a miscellaneous box filled of random odds and ends. As my frustration wanes, I smirk at the thought of how my belongings mimic my logic, how my questions and conclusions cannot encompass my experiences and leave them neatly packed away. How I am still after all these years left with one space in my heart full of miscellaneous memories, unanswered questions, unfounded conclusions, preposterous hope, stagnant resentment and lingering, unwanted pain.

I pick up a project, in need of bookshelves I decide to salvage furniture left for dead in my backyard. As I stalk my apartment in frustration after discovering that my friends, indeed, are taking sides, I grab the sanding block and purge. My frustrations fly like the dust from beneath the block remaining on the floor in a pile at my feet until my muscles are sore and the burn of my anger has subsided to mere ash, mere wood-dust. Picking up a paintbrush, I soothe the wood back to life with layers of stain and varnish and realize something in me too has been peeled, exfoliated away, soothed and re-furbished.

And then there is the hope, the dream. A new place, a new neighborhood, a new life. Its as if a pristine blank canvas of opportunity suddenly presents itself. In recognition of the opportunity come strokes of inspiration, not only to rescue discarded furniture, re-organize, finish old projects and start new ones but inspiration to make the right decisions. Its a fresh start, like fresh sheets, the first sunny days of spring, a vacation or the smell of lilacs. And somehow, allowing the hurt and injury of the past to infiltrate all that is about to arrive seems terribly wasteful and disrespectful. Moving always pushes me to make clean breaks, to push myself to seeking new opportunities and finding new ways to embrace all the positive things that come with change.

So here I go, packing, re-finishing and goal setting away. My move is on Saturday, expect some great photos to come!!

<3

B

To the new...(an update)

They say that the darkest hour is right before dawn, never till now did I believe them.

I came home today to an empty apartment. Void of my roommates belongings, the clicking of my heels bounced off the walls, ceiling, cupboards, into my chest, bouncing from my heart, to spine, to lungs until - short of breath- I took a seat.

I would have predicted that the feeling that took me from feet to seat would have been anxiety, but I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered -after a quick check-list- that it was just a mix of nostalgia and excitement.

There was something about that moment that pulled me back...

My plane landed at 5:54am, and I waited for my over-sized luggage to arrive at the carousel. In my weariness, I misplaced my camera and lost my mind. It took a year to re-gain it.

The cab took me straight to an apartment that I had arranged through a friend, who by conventional definitions was an acquaintance. I didn't know the city, I didn't know the girl who I was about to spend a year with, and I had no idea what the future would hold, only that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Lugging all my possessions in a large suitcase and an assortment of bags, I settled down on to a futon my new roommate had spread for me in lieu of a bed. I fell into a nervous sleep.

Moving is hard to do. Some say that it is right up there with death and divorce. I have not experienced either of the later, but I must say that this move has been the most challenging thing I have ever done. But, I have written about that before.

It has taken me a full year to feel like I belong here, to have 'Toronto' leave my lips and feel that somehow we are linked. Maybe this new found connection is because I have endured my first TO heartbreak, perhaps it is something about the cycle of 365 days, 52 weeks,that innately makes us feel like we have come full circle. Or maybe I have endured enough changes, enough cycles, enough highs and lows (and oh boy were they low) to connect to the stability of concrete beneath my feet.

I went through phases: I baked 2 peach cobblers a week, then came the chocolate chip cookies, there was the lamb sausage pasta, the bags of Sour Cream and Onion Ruffles, the coconut sorbet, the Lindt milk chocolate with hazlenuts and finally the lattes and croissants. I watched more TV and was less active in the last year than I have been in my life cumulatively. It was good, but it was a little much (an extra 15 pounds on the scale little much).

I can say that I gained friends and lost them, gained love and then lost it, though they say that true friends or love cannot be lost, so either time will show differently or they weren't real to begin with.

So here I sit, my belongings scattered - piece-meal identity- across the apartment. And I am ready for the new.

I am moving from the dark, affectionatly named 'bunker', that has been my hideout (literaly) to a new place, across the street and next door to a park and right on the border of Toronto's Little Italy, where the Italian men walk around saying, "Bonjourno," as if it were the streets of Florence.

My year here has been one of hibernation, adjustment, where finding comfort was paramount. I was blessed, by the resources, the people (God...please bless my roommate), the coffee shops, strangers who became friends, teachers (in all shapes and forms) who made finding comfort possible. But I am now ready for inspiration...

I don't have much,

a bed
dresser (full of fabulous acquisitions)
a desk
6 great hats
3 pots1
1 pan
1 kitchen table
1 love seat
3 pieces of luggage
7 types of tea
1 bag of coffee from Portland
a grater
6 glasses
4 cups
1 nutmeg grater (that I thought was a lemon zester)
1 teapot
1 mug
lucky bamboo
a gargoyle to ward off bad spirits
a 10lb rock I've carried since I was 10

and an assortment of other fabulous, sparkly, feathered things.

With this I intend to build a home. Full of inspiration and DIY ideas, I intend to keep you all posted on my process and finally make good on all the promises I whispered to myself during the cold and sleepless nights I have finally made it through.

The darkest has passed, the dawn is just beginning....

join me on the journey.




-

Discovery's Blunder?

In 2008, biologist and filmmaker Rob Stewart released the movie Sharkwater, an in-depth look at the worlds top predator. His documentary sought to dispel many of the myths that have been perpetuated by our society and media about the dangers of sharks and expose the Shark-finning industry that is endangering sharks world wide. 

Upon release I remember all my friends and colleagues a-buzz with their new found compassion for these giants of the ocean. "My fiance and I are going to go diving with the sharks," proclaimed one colleague. As  more and more people began to talk about the movie I finally saw it for myself, and was astounded by how wrong we have been about sharks all along. It turns out sharks are not the scary, aggressive man eaters as we've seen in Jaws but rather are an intelligent predator that is essential to our ecosystem. In an interview with the Hour's George Stroumboulopoulos Rob Stewart made an astute point, "Elephants kill 200 people a year, sharks kill 5 people a year, we kill 100 million of them and no body notices."

So it struck me as a surprise when I heard about Discovery Channel's new campaign to promote Shark Week 2009. The campaign's creators sent packages to members of the press to promote the event. One editor described his package on his blog:

"An unmarked box arrived containing a frosted, seemingly rusted jar. Inside was a pair of swim trunks, "chewed" up and bloody-looking; a key attached to a flotation disk, as if for a boat, and a few other weathered, nautical items. But the centerpiece was the crumpled newspaper clipping of my own obituary. "James Hibberd, Senior TV Reporter and Senior Online Editor of the Hollywood Reporter died Monday, July 6, of a grisly shark attack..."There's nothing like reading a pronouncement of your own death to give you pause."

In addition to the 'press packages', Discovery launched the website frenziedwaters.com, a page that depicts four different shark attacks and subsequent deaths from a victim's perspective. 

While this promotion has bloggers and media talking, I can't help but feel that a nature channel should be more responsible with their advertising. For a channel that seeks to provide e

ducational programing, one would think that they would seek to promote Shark week in a way that reflects their values rather than perpetuating false perceptions. Even though Discovery's Shark Week site provides plenty of information about shark conservation and even articles dispelling the greatest shark myths, it is laced with phrases like "fearsome predator" and features plenty of material about shark attacks. 

The question now becomes, have we gotten to a point in advertising where truth is no longer expected? As consumers are we so desperate to be entertained that we no longer care if the advertising reflects the product?  

What is more disturbing to me is that plenty of the bloggers who have discussed the promo talk about the quality of the marketing, yet not one has mentioned the ethics of perpetuating myths that continue to harm our ecosystems. In an era where "green is the new black" and everyone is desperate to become more ecologically aware and friendly it baffles me that no one is discussing the prudence of this blatant marketing ploy that has little if nothing to do with the content of Shark week or educating the public about the realities of sharks and how our lack of knowledge may spell the extinction of a predator vital to the ocean's ecosystem.

Such a girl...

There is a great gift in being the designated confidant of close friends. Giving advice has stolen my sleep at wee hours in the morning (and I don't like to have my sleep stolen),  has weighed me down with woe (and a girl is sensitive about her weight) and has often left me hurt when those who's hearts I have nursed with the tissue of my own up and leave; despite all this I still cannot help but feel the utmost gratitude I hear a weary voice at the end of a line. 

Recently, as I spoke to girlfriend after girlfriend at different stages of their relationships, I began to see a disturbing pattern emerge. A pattern that painted a conclusion that emotions should be ignored, thoughts and feelings swept under the rug, simply because of an inherent "femaleness" to their logic. Which, many of my beloved girls often conclude can not be labeled as logic at all if it is based on such silly things as emotions.

"I mean, I know I am being so stupid, and so 'girly' about everything," said a friend, who had grown impatient after not hearing from her new boyfriend for over three days.

"I just don't want to be such a girl about the situation," said another friend who was left feeling low after her boyfriend crossed some lines that left her feeling confused about their relationship and his feelings toward her.

"Such a girl,"

We've all said it, certainly its come out of my mouth on more than one occasion. 

The thought patterns of men and women are certainly different. Anthropologist Helen Fisher explained some of this in her lecture for TEDtalks. "I don't know why it is that people want to think that men and women are alike," she began. She says that despite our similarities, men and women have evolved to have significant differences in brain function. She outlined how women have a greater capacity for being verbal, finding the right word in a shorter amount of time, as well as educating, nurturing and educating with words. "Women can talk," she summarized.  According to Dr. Fisher, women are better negotiators, are more imaginative, and more effective at long term planning. "[Women] tend to collect more pieces of data when they think, and put them into more complex patterns, see more options and possible outcomes, and tend to be more web thinkers," she said. 

Which makes sense, in a woman's mind the man who hasn't called in three days has been shot, reconciled with his last girlfriend, found a new girlfriend, he has been seduced by an exotic woman and flown away to Chile, he got hit by a car and is lying mangled in the hospital and no one can tell who he is, he developed a drug addiction, his dog died, his phone spontaneously exploded, he has fallen out of love, out of like, off of the face of the earth or worse, is just no longer interested. The man who is acting differently plotting a murder, a bank robbery, a sex change, planning an escape out of the city the country, possibly the planet or worse, out of the relationship.

And while all of these possibilities may be extreme, (maybe he did just lose his phone or have an off day) what isn't extreme is the real feelings that imagined possibilities stem from. Yet as women we get so caught up in apologizing for the "girly-ness" of our feelings, thoughts and conclusions that we forget to honor the very seed of the situation: that feeling of neglect, insecurity or indifference. We sweep under the rug the little hairline fractures of feeling that become the rifts that tear us apart.

While I am not advocating that all women get up an start crucifying men over the perceived tone of a text or a late arrival, what I am saying is that we should learn to sift through the implausible and even ridiculous conclusions of the web thinking. We should learn to dig out the real issues behind our irrationalities so that we can move forward in our relationships. Maybe when we dig out these small nuggets of emotion we will realize that the problem lies with us rather than our partners, or we will see the real problems in our relationships. At the very least it will teach us to find greater understanding of our thoughts, emotions, and selves so that we can be better friends, lovers and partners.  

Certainly, men and women are different. Perhaps our differences stem from the neurological differences like Dr.Fisher outlines in her lectures, or from the way our society socializes us. But the bottom line remains the same: if we continue to place the thoughts, feelings and conclusions of one pattern of thinking over another, or one gender over another, we will continue to perpetuate the cycle of inequality in our collective and individual lives. If there is balance to be found in the relationships that build our lives it is to be found in learning to understand and accept ourselves and each other regardless how "girl-like" or "guy-like" our thoughts and feelings may be. 

Unfortunately, we do not live in an pluralistic society that gives equal power to men and women, we live in a patriarchal capitalistic society that places high value on the cut-to-the-chase streamlined thinking of the male mind. And while things remain as such, perhaps teaching that we are all same in a society that doesn't practice equality is futile. Instead we should  start teaching, recognizing and understanding the very things that make us different. Because ultimately, recognizing our differences is the only way to find the common ground on which we can establish true equality.

Dear Toronto,

Forgive me.

I have taken you for granted. You have welcomed me with open arms and given me all things I need to live, to thrive, and yet I have spent all my time running from you. Since I have set foot on our soil I have turned my eyes skyward, and allowed myself to dream. Of New York and new possibilities, of Vancouver and creature comforts of home, of past adventures and ones to come, I boarded too many planes of separation. I became so saturated in my dream world that I forgot to look down, look ahead and take in the view.

But you never gave up, you tried even when I was ready, bags packed off for another whirlwind adventure taking my mind away from the firm footing you gave me to stand on. You sent me glimpses, in a soft wind that caressed nape of my neck, in the kindness of a stranger, the sparkle of the CN Tower, the vibrance of a neighborhood, or the joy of a raspberry stuffed croissant. In those moments I have been roused from my dream like slumber and have found a smile, exploding across my face and gratitude resonating within my chest. 

Truth is, I don't know why I have resisted you. 

You have given me all I need to create a recipe for my own growth and success. You have provided all the essential parts: support, friendship, safety, knowledge, opportunity (and good espresso) . Yet I sat unwilling to engage with my head in the clouds and my eyes on the stars. 

Forgive me.

I pledge to you, that from now on things will be different. From now on TO, we will grow roots together, until I am rooted in you and you are imprinted in me. No more dreams or elaborate schemes of escape. This is our summer of love. Like a good lover, I pledge to stand by you, to embrace and accept you, to discover you — and all your secret spots. Most of all I pledge to let you in, to stand bare before you and allow you to get to know me too.

I'm excited, and I hope you are too.

Love

B

Vancouver in November

Written years ago, I decided to dig this out and polish it a little.

November usually turns Vancouverites bitter, but I always felt that there were profound moments of beauty in the month. This is my best attempt at capturing the moments I now seem to crave most.

...enjoy...



Fall falls from the heights that held the summer.
Ripened leaves descend,
exhausted
toward the earth,

carried

by the exhales of the wind
to join their fallen comrades,

mâchéd

to the ground by the kiss,
of last nights rain.

The air is

sweet with,

their final fragrance

The air is

filled with,

earth.

Far in the ancient cedars
fog lingers,
as clouds sweep
the forests,

Prompting:

"Pay still silent attention
do not miss
the grace,
the whispers,
the serenity"

Their slow
silent bodies
the final remanence
of last night's storm.

Pseudo rain
still falls
in the forest.

Ripe
drops descend
heavily
prompted by the

stir

of ancient crowns.

Dew

clings,

to the earth.
While

a purgatory
stillness prevails above,

the final clouds

peel

from the mountains
bidding valleys adieu,
with accidental elegance.

From the edge of the horizon
new clouds
rush,
eager to exhale the burden
in their bosoms:

rain accumulated
from long
adventures across
the Pacific.

From Hawaii they hail,
to Vancouver they are destined.

Arrival inspiring such relief
that
their

bodies
break
beginning

the long exhale
that wreaks havoc on

city
streets.

The wind,

gallivants.

Shaking all that will rattle,
rattling all that will shake,

playfully playing
with forgotten artifacts
strewn about:

Papers pirouette,

and promenade.

Trash cans tumble.
Rubbish rolls.
Leaves levitate.

Wind, whispers,
( only because it cannot shout):

"We have arrived! We have arrived!"

The heavens give
wholly

until,

roads resemble rivers
sidewalks are streams
windows waterfalls

and heated homes
are the only havens of comfort.

Yet,
there are moments
scattered
among dewy days,

when the heavens break
displaying azure blue
that reminds,

"Its always sunny above the clouds."

The city
stirs with life,
as
autumn sunsets
bathe
her in

Buttermilk
then,
Honey
then,
Gold.

Yes,
sweet sun stains the city
exaggerating juxtaposition of,

modern manifestations:

architecture
against
rich rolling nature.

Onlookers,

stop.

transfixed by the city.
gold leafed from tip to toe.
Gleaming.

But, in the morning,
the mountains make
a rebuttal
to the city's sunset seductions.

From miles away,
every
branch and needle
shines and shimmers
texturizing
the volume of forgotten valleys.

Inviting all...

saunters
scurriers
and strollers:

"Pay attention,
to the beauty in bloom,
the showcase,
the depth,
of
surrounding scenery
too often
uncelebrated
and unnoticed."

Fathers be good to your daughters...

This is the first attempt at a story that could fill volumes. It is with great courage, and not without fear that I begin to tell this tale.

The most challenging thing about moving is losing superficial comfort. In the absence of being surrounded by things that can in some ways soothe you - the presence of a friend who understands, a hug from someone who cares, the relaxation of a flavour or place that just feels familiar- you realize just how uncomfortable you are in your own skin.

Some days, my discomfort excites me as I realize that it makes me reach harder, further, faster to establish myself in my newly-proclaimed home. But on some days, it wears uncomfortably upon me like a wool sweater on a warm day, yet here there is no way to simply shed a layer, release and relax. Yet somehow, stewing deep in discomfort, you find pieces of yourself, reflections deep at the bottom of the pool you knew were there, but had never seen.


In recent weeks the right set of circumstances has lead me to a realization years in the making. The overwhelming loneliness of moving to a new city, accompanied by the still enduring pain of past relationship circumstances, left me craving love, yet unable to fall vulnerable to it.

For the first time I realized that I didn't want some love affair but what I craved was the embrace of a man who unconditionally loved me, a voice on the phone that wanted to hear what I needed to say, and was willing to stay and tell me everything would be okay. I wanted someone willing to hold me, I wanted my dad.

But our relationship has never been such.

Growing up, no one really knew the story of my dad and I. I didn't tell my friends, I didn't write it in my journal nor did I admit it to myself. Instead, I was known as Boy-Crazy-Barb: swept up in the next object of desire. And in some ways, many things have not changed.

I never understood why I was so different about relationships than the girls around me. I loved with a vengeance diving head first into any love, committing myself fiercely to every man who showed some reciprocation of the wildly flaming feelings.

While my passion has lead to some beautiful interludes and affairs, it has also lead to some devastating heartaches. In therapy, my therapist made the connection quickly, I seek men like my father for the familiarity of how I was used to feeling on some level I myself believe that I seek a man like him so that I can succeed where I failed with him, and make a man just like him love me.

It has been hard in the last few years working in the same industry and at the same studios as my Dad, Everywhere I turned people were willing and eager to lecture me about how I should feel and act. I hardly blame them, for the image they saw was one of a charismatic, interesting, personable and intelligent man, different and perhaps quirky but one who cared so much for all his students and the yoga he loved.

And then the element of yoga itself, this discipline of self-understanding, righteous, noble and moral action. How could my colleagues keep quiet when seeing a young 20-something girl, who didn't talk to such an interesting father who cared so much. So I was lectured by more folks than one can imagine, told to be quiet and stop spreading false truths by teachers I admired and respected, and all the while I listened and kept mum.

"Fathers be good to your daughters..."

No one knew, not about the long, forked-tongue lashings that were routine, not about my mothers shaking hands and anorexic frame,not about my stoic brother's tears, not about the dark shadow that could emerge from the bright colorful man he was known to be. They didn't know that at my high-school graduation I broke down with violent tears when my dad walked in the door because I didn't believe that he would show. More importantly, they didn't know how much I loved him.

"Daughters will love like you do..."

When I was 5, and he asked how much I loved him I was tormented by the fact that my little arms weren't wide enough to show him the distance. I would close my eyes and imagine that my arms would leave the earth, go farther than the moon, than Jupiter, Saturn, Pluto and the stars, only then would I feel I had shown him enough. That love, so big and wide, is still within me. But my skin has had to toughen to protect from the blows.

Every missed dance performance, un-soothed broken heart, cancelled father-daughet date. Every angry voicemail, every hour long scolding for how horrible of a child I was, every time I heard he was disgusted with who I was, every time I saw a destaining look in his eyes when he looked upon me, I was hardened. My hardness and hurt began to mount to the point that I couldn't talk anymore. Only when I stopped talking, I started succeeding, and he, standing to gain from the light of congratulation, changed his tune.

And so when my colleagues saw him applauding at a competition or performance, they thought, "Wow, what pride," not knowing that applause came only with medallions and acclaim. When I was young and struggling, when I was getting my heart broken, when no one was there to witness, there was nothing but empty space, not a shoulder to cry on, not a supportive hand to help.

I realize now that this is part of the reason I wear my failures, my slip ups and trip ups harder than the rest. When I exist without achievement I feel as if I am wasting time, energy and worth. Somehow the absence of the one person I loved larger than the universe itself convinced me that without achievement, I wasn't worthy of love. What's worse, is that not only did I believe I wasn't worthy of love from others, but I didn't see myself worthy of self love.

"Girls become lovers..."

I realize that in the absence of that unconditional love I searched for it else where. Between the sheets of one night interludes, or the minutes of three week romances, or multi-month loves I searched for that feeling of validation, for that look in someone's eyes that denoted pride, love, compassion and support.

I suppose that what I had yet to realize is that it wasn't just Dad's love that was missing it was my own. What has been missing over the years is my own voice telling me that I am loved, that I am worthy, that I am enough just as I am, without achievement without success without accolade or praise.

"That turn into mothers...."

But I am working on it. After hours in a small green therapist's den, reading and researching, writing and weeping I am slowly -still have a way to go- finding my peace. For the first time in my life I have moved beyond resentment, frustration and outrage and begun to feel sadness and mourn the passing of a father's presence from my life.

In coming to slowly understanding him, his struggles and his pain has helped me ben thankful, as I realize that my love for this man has made me.

Seeking to right the wrongs in his life, to love him back to life - will make me a better journalist as I seek to finally right some injustice in the world.

Learning to accept who he truly is - will make me more compassionate a woman, a journalist, a lover, a mother, a friend, and daughter.

Acknowledging the gifts he gave me - will help me soar father than I ever thought possible.

Seeking to achieve and to feel worthy - is why I WILL live in New York, doing what I love and dream to do.

Knowing how his hand, tongue and absence effected me - will make me forever want to give back, to women, to girls and make sure that my children will not suffer the same way at the hands of me or their father.

"So mothers be good to your daughters too."

Step two...

An exact twenty pages into my spiritual journey, I got stuck. It went a little something like this:

Book: "We seek help for what we cannot face or accomplish alone; in seeking help we accept our powerlessness. And in that acceptance and the acknowledgment that we are not in control, spirituality is born."

Barb: "Hold up, wait a minute, don't go there cuz' I ain't with it!!"

There it was, smack in my face almost as if in bold print, the slanderous message : You are powerless, you are not in control.

This has always been my problem with religion, and has also been a huge hurdle in my own discovery and understanding of my own spirituality. I simply cannot agree that humans are powerless to some all knowing God who plays upon his/her/it's puppet strings.

In fact the only way I began to make peace with the idea of being spiritual in the first place , was the belief that human beings are made in God's image. If that is the case then there must be some peice of Godly-ness within us. In some way we must all be Gods, each a different facet of divinity.

Yet the spiritual truth on page twenty, was seemed to be telling me differently. Confused, I wrote to my therapist, and as usual in a few sentances he put the thing into perspective.

He says our powerlessness refers to our ego admitting that it is powerless to our spiritual self. That our inherant spirituality, our inherant divinity is the true power within us and that our ego does not in fact have any control.

My friend Alex further contributed, "If there is divinity in each one of us, then we truly are not in control because we each have the same power within."

Slowly I began to come around.

I guess my acceptance of my lack of control, is a direct result of realizing that each time I have tried to control my life nothing but the worst has come out of it. I tried to MAKE relationships work when they were fraying at the seams, I tried the MAKE friendships work that were taking advantage of me, I tried to MAKE people love me, I tried to MAKE myself love activities that weren't a part of my destiny.

And each-time I have tried to control my life or its outcomes, be it in a relationship or in the pursuit of a specific end I thought I desired, I have come out the other-side beaten and battered, bruised and bemused, questioning 'Where did I go wrong?'

So, while I refuse to relinquish my own sense of accountability I feel that I am ready to open my mind to having a little bit of faith. Maybe, that guy didn't call after the first date because the relationship would lead to another shattering heartache, maybe my passion isn't coming for a certain activity because I should be following something I love more, maybe an opportunity falls through the cracks because the lesson learned will lead to paths with greater vistas. 

I am not yet comfortable with the idea of 'God', but in my present exhaustion, I am willing to trust a sense of karma or justice, if you will, to the workings and ways of the world. Furthermore, I am willing to sacrifice the bravado of my ego to some spiritual light that lies within. I don't think I understand that light, its nature or its profound-ness, but I am willing to bend my mind to the idea that there is a place of faith within me that is willing to surrender my sense of control to the idea, to the faith that everything will be alright, that it will all work out in the end, and when it doesn't it just isn't the end. 

Gentlemen brace yourselves, we're talking about kids here....

If you would ask my mother, she would tell you she does not regret her marriage. Even after years of heartache and abuse she would tell you that it brought her two children she loves ("and likes" she always adds) and allowed her to come to Canada. But if she had one regret, it would not be the length of time she allowed the relationship go on, nor would it be not standing up for herself more often; instead, it would be the pain that her two children endured as a result of her relationship.

My mother, like many others, would endure all pain, and sacrifice the world for her children. In fact, if you would ask her why she endured the pain of her marriage so long, she would say it was partly because of her love for my father,but mostly because she thought it was best for her children.

And so, she was able to do what mothers do best and everyday: put their children first. Yet I wonder if this is ability is exclusive to women who have had children, or if even those who have yet to give birth are able to make decisions and personal sacrifices on account of their future children.

"I just kept thinking what marriage would be like," said a friend of mine as we discussed her recent break-up. "I realized he would make such a terrible father, his children would hate him and resent him for the rest of his lives." The thought of that resentment helped drive her to her final decision and break off the relationship. As she confessed a light bulb went off in my head and I was pulled back to a conversation I had many months ago.

"Every woman in my family has been cheated on," I explained to my ex's brother."And a part of me thinks, if this guy ends up being the one, how do I turn to a daughter and say, 'Its okay honey, Daddy cheated on me too, but it was only once, you get through these things with time."

"Uh, Barb," he responded, severely uncomfortable. "I think its little too early to be talking about kids here."

But he didn't get it. And how could a man? Somehow I felt and continue to feel, that I owe something to the children I will one day bear. I see the way that the choices of my mother and grandmothers has shaped my life and I realize what a responsibility and opportunity I have in the life I create for my future kids.

I realize that I have the chance to re-write my family history, chose differently for my children than my mother was able to chose for me. I have the benefit of a western upbringing, of years of women's rights, a Canadian education, the opportunity to learn about myself through yoga and a GREAT therapist. All of that means that for the first time, I have the opportunity to chose a man who will not be narcissistic, misogynistic or abusive.

And each time I chose a man, I feel the weight of that responsibility (so, results so far have yet to show this...but I am trying, ok!?). At times, when I have found myself hanging on so desperately to relationship fraying at the seams I, like my friend, have turned to thoughts of future children to find the strength to say, "Enough."

While there is a certain sweetness to the idea of how children can save their mothers, there is a cruelty in it as well. It strikes me as tragic that so many women are find themselves thinking that they could endure the heartache, hardship, devastation or abuse, and would not put an end to it out of empowerment or self-worth but out of trying to save a child.

"Its true," agreed my friend."I could deal with his shit, I could figure out how to handle it and deal with all of it, but the thought of a helpless baby, or a defenseless child in the situation would make me end the relationship."

I think that the bond of motherhood is beautiful, and I think that it is incredible that even childless women can call upon unborn children for the strength to rise against an abusive spouse. But I look forward to the day that I and others can make that decision for ourselves because we value our hearts, our minds, spirits and bodies enough to stand up for our own self worth without searching for a reason outside of ourselves to put ourselves first.

I will continue to look to my unborn children for inspiration to make sound decisions both in my relationships and life. But I hope that when my girls grow up, I will have made such good decisions on their behalf that they will be able to make their own sound decisions upon the same thing that inspires me: their future happiness and self-worth.

Let the journey begin...

One of my New Years Resolutions was to deepen my understanding of my own spirituality.

When I was young being spiritual meant that I got to get dressed up in pretty dresses on Sundays, stare at beautiful paintings on a ceiling and sing with a bunch of people in a gorgeous Cathedral in the German countryside. On holidays there were rituals, walking through the countryside while holding candles, and more singing. 

But when I came to Canada, no one dressed up like they did in Europe, wood panelling replaced the paintings of the cathedral and there were no interesting rituals that allowed me to handle fire at age six. Bored, I defected from the church.

For years, I didn't think of spirituality. Not until I fell head over heels for my biggest high-school crush. A profoundly Christian boy (and now man) he would send me forwards about the glory of God, and the more often I received them, (and the more he rejected me) I began to question what a lack of "godliness" was doing to me my future and the type of real-estate I would end up with in the afterlife (clouds and feathers or coal and whips.... I wonder if you could have both? Feathers and whips, sound much more fun....but I digress)

Anyways.

Fast forward a couple of years, age 17 and still spiritually confused,  I start taking yoga. For the first time I begin to feel like perhaps there really is something within me that has a capacity for a deeper sense of spiritual understanding. So I pursued it, and among studying yoga, going to teacher training and reading some great books I began to get a semblance of a spiritual understanding. The past six years have left me convinced that there is something larger than facts, something more complete linking all of us together, but I... just... can't..... put.... my finger on what/how/who that is... 

You see here lies the problem.

While I have experienced a feeling of levitation in large group meditations, have practiced and witnessed the power of manifestation, and  have read and watched enough material to understand that Western science is slowly beginning to prove the power of perception, of manifestation and even point towards one source energy, I still feel lost.

I feel lost because somehow I feel like I need for my spirituality to have some sort of definition. I would really appreciate if someone could provide me a mug-shot of exactly what this source energy is, pass me a manual and just tell me how the hell to wrap my head around it. 

And no, I don't want a door to door Christian or Jehovah's Witness. In fact my education in the history of religion really prevents me from moving forward and discovering the potential of my spirituality. Every time some kind of "creator", "God", "Almighty" is mentioned it is as if the alarm goes off in my brain and instantly alerting my ears to shut down stop listening and deny all understanding of what is being said.

And while I am admittedly adverse to religion, I crave spiritual understanding. I need to know. I need to know and feel that we are all somehow connected. I need to know that somewhere divinity exists, that there is such thing as some sort of universal justice, some sort of greater power that gives to us, that there is more to us than simply flesh and bone. But I need to have a framework for that understanding. And within that understanding I need answers to certain questions. 

How can I believe in a greater power, when I believe that ultimately we control our destinies? Furthermore can you be powerless and yet responsible?

How can I have faith that someone looks over us when there is so much injustice in world that continues to swell to epic proportions?

How can I understand what "God" is if there is if all definitions of him/her/it are so abstract?

How, when raised in a world of facts and evidence, can I trust simple feelings and ambiguous ideas to form belief?

To start my therapist has asked me read a book called the Spirituality of Imperfection... and I plan to keep you all posted on the issues that come up as I read. But for the moment, anyone have any thoughts? I would love to hear...

Quote of the Day...

"Small dreams make small people"

- Sean

Happy Happy 2009...

The minute the clock struck 12 on NYE my close friend Laurie broke into a smile and proclaimed that a huge weight was lifted off her shoulders. Yet I felt mine tighten just a little (which I attempted to remedy with a bottle of sparkling wine, note to self: wine is for the sharing, not guzzling).

Don't get me wrong I love New Years, and the symbolic turning of a calendar page that makes us feel as if we can all start anew. I get wildly superstitious and believe that "The way you ring in the New Year is the way you will spend it." So I go out of my way to ensure I do something I want.

But as 2008 left I couldn't help but feel a little nervous. I had some of the best moments of my life in the last year, so I was sad to see it go, but I was also struck by the realization of what 2009 would entail.

You see while I travelled around the world, while I danced and bent my body in yoga class I also bought time. For many years I had taken time out to just build 'self understanding' while dreaming big dreams and doing nothing about it. Yet now, I realize I have to act.

2008 was a year of learning, a year of therapy, seeing my homeland, gaining insight through the crash and burn of some relationships and the thriving of others and now I feel like I "get" it more. Like I understand what I have to "do" in order to truly create the life that I want for myself.

But, can I tell you a secret?

I AM SCARED SHITLESS.

Truly. Every time I pick up a pen to write, a phone to call a friend, go to interview a person, step out my front door, I feel a level of sheer terror. Its as if every-time I go to act and take the reigns to steer my own life, I hit the equivalent of a marathon runner's "wall" and feel like turning around, running straight home to Vancouver, climbing under my bed, hanging out with my favorite high heels and never, ever coming out.

But I am determined to do it. I am determined to take the steps to truly become the woman I want to be, and step on to the path that will lead to my dreams. I do not apologize for having dreamed big, but now I must act big to make those dreams a reality.

So, here I go, one unsure foot in-front of another.

I have decided to include more of my journey within these "pages", and I hope you will join me for the ride.