Fly

I turned 24.

When I was little I used to climb up on the counter in the bathroom and half kneel by the sink in the mirror, estimating how tall I would be in my twenties. That little girl had so much expectation about who she would be.

The career- path dreams changed (first National Geographic employee, then dancer, then yoga-teacher, then journalist) but my desires remained the same, I wanted to create change.

The number of 24 suddenly struck me. Not because of its significance, but because of the significance of 25. Because I am approaching the height of expectation of the little girl I once was.

I know what you're thinking. I know I have time, years and years, I know I am young (blah, blah, blah).

But I want to reach that quarter-century and be building something that resembles a life.

I am tired of believing that my age makes my time, energy and emotions disposable. That because I am young I need to lead a life that is frivolous and have relationships to match.

In the past two years since moving to Toronto, I have been more of a "typical young-person" than ever in my life.

Gone was the girl who trained, sweat, bled, cried and lost sleep for her ambitions.

Instead, I tried on rebellion. I hung out with people who weren't good for me, I stayed home, ate bad food, didn't hand in my homework. I kissed girls, kissed boys who smoked cigarettes and pretended I didn't care. I went to Sneak-Dees (five whole times). And now, I stand at the other end, knee deep in self-resentment, realizing that angst isn't what its cracked up to be.

I was always a girl with a dream. And I still am.

But I am also now a woman who doesn't want to live in a dream world anymore. A woman who wants to make dreams into reality. Many of my dreams have come true, but I am ready to cash in on some of the big ones. The ones that felt so big that they were impossible, the dreams about the things that meant something to me. The ones about making change, about living in a way that makes me feel proud to wake up in the morning, about allowing myself to feel whole.

So, I've wiped my slate clean, cleaned skeletons from the closet.

I've been talking honestly for the first time ever. I've told people when they hurt me, when they angered me, when I felt negatively. And something magic happened: they didn't run, they didn't retaliate, they didn't leave or tell me to.

I've purged the old relationships and what-if's my heart was hanging on to and hoping for. I've sifted through old and new dreams and ambitions. I've studied old wounds and realized I don't want to use them as excuses to hold back anymore. I've reached out to old friends and new ones. I've taken a good long look in the mirror, at the mistakes and the messes I've created and realized I know how to clean them up and best get to it.

I stand now, and realize that I am ready to live. Really, really live.

I have a city of possibility.

A home.

Friends who are family.

In the past, I've had inspiration and vision, but for the first time I feel like I can clearly see my own potential. I see that I haven't risen to it. As I stood on the edge of achieving my dreams I was missing the faith in myself to take that final leap. Toward success, toward rewarding relationships and friendships, toward stability, intimacy and achievement, all the things that have for so long scared me.

But now, I am ready. Scared, but ready.

I'm going to jump.

If I don't land on the other side... well, then I might just discover I can fly.

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.

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.

"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....

Election Musings...

Well, it is the eve of one of the most historical elections in my lifetime (if not ever), even the music on the evening news is more dramatic. Personally, I must say I am both excited, and a little terrified.

I sincerely hope that all of my American friends use their votes wisely, go out and make their voices heard tomorrow.

That being said as a "Canadian" or at least permanent resident of this country I feel a mix of emotions.

For one, I feel that the world needs America to elect Obama. In some ways I feel like everyone is willing to forgive the US for electing George Bush, even the second time, but they need some sort of indication that the US is no longer aligning themselves with the Bush Doctrine, something that a McCain victory would in no way indicate. We need America to redeem itself.

I do have to confess that despite desperately wanting an Obama victory, in some ways, I fear it. It has been reported in newspapers this side of the 49th parallel that if Obama were to win, Canadians would be significantly more likely to align themselves with US policy, especially that pertaining to border regulation (soon to be seen at your border stations, mandatory identification cards that provide all your info to the US). Which, given the post 9-11 privacy policies of that country, is frightening.

I am not, however, one of the Canadians that is scared of Obama's contentions with NAFTA regulations. I realize that it could mean a huge problem during an economic era in which even bumps can be deadly. But I am a British Columbian who has seen huge losses in the softwood lumber dispute, which has seen the US violating free trade agreements with little consequence. I am a concerned Canadian who understands the strength of our resources in a time when Global Warming is threatening the contamination of drinking water. A time when the scarcity of oil is putting a higher priority on discovering new ways to generate energy, and Canada has a wealth of hydro, wind and thermal energy capacity. Those types of resources are not things I would want to be traded freely under regulations that too often play to the sound of the US tune. That and hearing the plight of women in Juarez, Mexico which is largely a result of free trade regulations under the NAFTA agreement. So any move to change NAFTA regulations, if not dissolving the concept of free trade (which, really, does not exist) is fine by me.

Now that being said, I am not so sure that Obama will deliver on his promises. Yes, he has campaigned on Change yet that doesn't mean that anything will. Not only would he take over a huge mountain of problems left behind by the Bush presidency, but his "Campaign for Change" has largely been paid for by the very elite he claims to intend to tax and regulate should he be elected. Will he do so? I'm not entirely sure.

That and the problem with politics in North America is not lack of visionary leaders, but rather lack of citizen involvement. After spending a summer in Switzerland, and seeing the effect of a democracy in which the population actively participates (the Swiss show up to vote in numerous referendums held through out the year to vote on legislation at numbers higher than the most recent turnout at Canada's federal election) I am of the opinion that we need not only electoral reform but reform of our entire parliamentary structure. We need to participate, we need to be involved and we need to have power redistributed and handed down to the lower levels (we referring to the general population). We need to learn the power of our voice.

Regardless of whether Obama delivers on his promises or god forbid, McCain wins the White House, at least this election has given the US population a bit of their voice back. I like to think that even if a Republican victory becomes the reality, Americans will not take the decisions of its leaders lying down as it has for the last eight years. Perhaps that is the optimist in me, but I like to have a little faith in my neighbors to the south (the ranks of which I hope to join one day).

I like to have faith that tomorrow they will chose the chance (even if it is small) on "Change". I like to have faith that America is ready for a black president (what an incredible victory that would be).

Tomorrow I will be watching and waiting, hoping that my friends are exercising their rights and taking part of history.

Never thought I would say this but tomorrow I really hope that God (Authority, Creator, Allah, whoever will you) does, bless America.

Investment Advice...

About a year ago, I was really concerned about the fact that I didn't have a retirement plan.

Everyone says that its never to early to start planning for you future. So I thought that I should put together a thousand dollars and invest that into some stocks.

Of course one thing came to another (ie one store lead to another) and I never ended up scrounging up the cash to do it.

Now, a year later, the markets have gone haywire and I have learned a very important lesson...

Fashion never fails.

Had I invested my money into the market, by today it most likely would have been mostly gone, yet as we speak my beautiful shoes lie safe and sound in my closet, my trench-coat hangs on its hanger and my jean collection is nicely folded in my drawers. Sure I have lost a yoga outfit or two to the fast handed yoginis of Vancouver... but all and all, investing in fashion was a much wiser choice!!

xo B

Publicity....

I've grown up in an era where people explore their sexuality on the profile pictures of their myspace or facebook accounts, in an era where bad nights and alcohol mishaps are forever immortalized in the zeros and ones of computer file, breakups are blasted across pseudo-"newsfeeds" and first sexual encounters start in chat rooms rather than bedrooms.

I sometimes wonder how this has changed the way feel for one another. Is the Internet helping our relationships or hurting them?

As a woman with family and friends strewn around the world I have always been an advocate of the world wide web. I've had every major Internet network profile that has been popular in the last ten years, from ICQ and MSN to LiveJournal, Myspace and Facebook, I have been there and done that.

But when my most recent relationship fell to shreds, I got a little worried about what my forthright Internet use meant to my emotional state. Of course, I did what any vindictive Internet-era girl would do and skipped egging his car to leave nasty comments (well just one comment...posted over and over about 25 times) all over his "wall". And damn...did it ever feel good.

I dreaded removing my relationship status, for so long I was the lucky girl who owned the profile photo of her and her handsome boyfriend kissing before the Eiffel Tower... but a mere month later I was walking wounded in front of my closest friends and almost forgotten acquaintances. Surprisingly instead of the wave expected embarrassment I was touched and consoled by comforting messages of encouragement.
But months later the story is a little different...

I mean, I admit that I still Google even some of my ex-ex-boyfriends. I still look up old crushes from time to time, sneak peeks at their new lives (and sometimes wives). But is it healthy?

I sometimes feel jealous to think that there was an era when breaking up meant that you didn't have to face a glowing green circle showing you that she or he is online. I resent the women who could walk away and have it be done with over and gone...out of sight and out of mind. Women who didn't have to be reminded of the existence of the jawline that made them weak in the knees every time there was a photo update on so-and-so's page.

And while I envy them, I wonder if the Internet provides us the opportunity to make sure that there are indeed no unanswered questions in life... letting us catalogue our "what ifs" into neat contact groups.

I wonder if the safety of being behind a computer screen takes away from our true knowledge and experience of life's relationship moments. Little things like finding out that the boy in science class really has a crush on you... how much of that thrill is lost when its typed in a chat room rather whispered in the flesh? It scares me to think that I may have kids who have Internet sex before they experience the real thing, and how that may change their experience of it.

I suppose the connection of the web has its ups and its downs. While we have more opportunities to connect more than ever, perhaps we are corrupting and taking advantage of the very thing that truly connects us to each other : our ability to feel with one another in the presence of one another.

I guess at the end of the day, while I support the Internet and all its advancements I will forever and above all else advocate experiencing meaningful moments face to face rather than face to screen.

Shoot the moon...

Today this Craigslist posting inspired me...

In recent relationships I have often become frustrated by people's adverse reactions to my optimism. I suppose that I could consider myself to be a glass half full kind of girl, a dreamer and someone who really believes in manifestation. I have always figured that I can't get what I want if I don't know what it is.

And its true, sometimes I go out and quiz jewellery salesmen at Tiffany's, sussing out my perfect engagement ring, while being single and a good decade before even considering engagement. Which I admit, is a little extreme, silly and earns nothing but resentment from the diamond sales folk,but hey... one can dream right? After all, I should know early whether 1.5 carats would be enough or if 2 is nessecary....(jokes...kind of)

I've always been picky in life. If I go out and I want champagne and they aren't serving it, I won't drink, simple as that. With inclinations as anal as that, I figure if I plan to be successful and satisfied, I need to do just that: plan it.

That means I dream big with wild abandon. I believe in manifestation, the "Secret", law of attraction whatever you want to call it, I truly believe it works. I think that our successes start as small seeds, little notions of directions we'd like to see ourselves travel in, destinations that we would like to arrive at. And the more you know about where you want to end up the more easily you can take the appropriate path (scenic, less travelled, direct or even short cut) to get there.

Now that's not to say that I think you an sit on a roach infested couch, close you eyes and "visualize yourself in your BRAND NEW CAR!!" a-la-Rhonda Burns' Secret and it will happen. You need to put other wheels into motion, there are other laws in the universe too...the law of action being a big important one. You need to get up off that couch find a job and get on your way to that car, but that process starts with some kind of dream, some desire to act within oneself. So, it's important to dream, to have clear ideas of the things you want in life and love (and diamonds).

And really...

the bigger the dream, the better the results.

T Dot...

Finally, I hung my shelves today, a small yet personally significant (final) step to moving in. Moving in not only to my first apartment, but to my new city. A transition that is not as easy as I may have hoped it to be.

Being relatively well traveled, or at least, accustomed to traveling I assumed that moving to this city wouldn't be unlike traveling somewhere for a longer period of time. Yet this really isn't the case. For some reason there is so much more loneliness to moving, little things are what I miss.

Like calling someone just because...

Like having more than one option for things to do on a Friday night..

Like feeling home in company of a friend...

Like knowing there is someone's shoulder to cry on that is within physical reach...

Those are the small yet essential things that I find are really making things a little more challenging than expected.

Being new means that I have to pursue friendship with a new gusto. Every connection that feels nice means that I throw out my phone number like a fisherman, desperately hoping that someone might bite and call me back. That this time I make a friend worth keeping, and when calls aren't returned, while I don't feel rejected, I can't help but feel a little more lonely.

But its not all gloomy,

This city is far more alive than Vancouver wishes it could be. I've gone out a few times and though I haven't found the exact venue that suits my taste (more on my clubbing adventures next time), I know that its out there.

I've found a fabulous little butcher shop that makes incredible sausage, a mere 5 blocks from my new pad.

My program fits like a glove, every project seems easy because it is what I want to do, what I am inspired to do. Hopefully it is something that continues...

Hopefully life will continue to bloom here and I will truly feel at home sooner rather than later.

A woman's right to chose...shoes that is

In reading my school's feminist magazine (which I do plan to write for) I got to thinking.

Somewhere among the glossy pages filled with interesting chick fueled articles a pattern started to emerge. A pattern denouncing the consumerism of our era, and a corporate driven desire to 'look good' and be fashionable.

But really, since when did feminism become synonymous with a rejection of femininity? Simply because skirts and flowing fabrics are paraded down runways and sold in designer stores, because Karl Lagerfeld choses a model to his taste instead of a woman's (or even the taste of an average man, for that matter) we should reject the entire fashion industry?

Ridiculous, I say.

For me there is nothing more empowering than walking the streets in an banging outfit that just screams sexy, nothing like feeling fabulous about a well moisturized face, with the right shade of lipstick and a new oh-so-volumous mascara. The sidewalks then become my runways, regardless of whether Karl would approve or not.

I don't think that in order to feel empowered about my rights as woman I need to reject the very thing that makes me feminine. And yes, I believe that make up, fashion, flowing fabrics and stilettos are all a part of my femininity. Which isn't to say that there aren't other women out there who feel just as feminine and empowered in a pair of overalls or baggy jeans, all I'm saying is, that is just not the path for me (and trust me I tired it... a whole year of Tommy Hilfiger overalls did nothing but create a pile of unflattering photos).

To me feminism is empowerment, its about a woman's right to create herself without feeling pressured to behave a certain way or become a certain version of herself. And so, while women should have the right to walk away from the design industry and reject mascara, I should maintain my right to daydream about tomorrow's outfit and my next perfect pair of heels.

The truth is the women's movement is about the right to chose, and whether its and abortion or a pair of designer heels, we should be able to do so without discrimination from men, and especially without discrimination from each other.

Travelling...

The last lazy days in Zürich have been both enjoyable and insufferable. It was pleasant that whenever I had seen it all I would stumble upon a spot, or a square that took my breath away. What has been so enjoyable is that the folk of Zürich seem to enjoy these spaces as much as me, men walk through parks together after work, couples make out, business folk read newspapers and the glamorous women stroll in their Prada flats.

While I have so enjoyed girl talk with Laura and Timo, lunches, shopping, eating cake and drinking wine over the past few days, I have been secretly counting the minutes to my departure. Of course, I am anxious to see Andrew and have someone to experience travel with, but also I....just...wanted...to...move.

It got me thinking about the nature of travel. While I see travel as an invaluable experience that brings understanding, tollerance, patience and education into a persons life, I also see travel as an indulgent, and even dangerous, escape. As we travel I feel we seek to somehow escape the disquiet, dissapiontment and discontent of our lives. Perhaps its a week in Mexico to forget about work stress, or a month traveling through South America to escape capitalism, or a weekend in the mountains to escape the city, we all run from something.

The very literal word of travel, to move away from one location, be it emotional, physical or spirtual to the next.

Its no wonder that scores of North American twenty-something students spend summers running around Europe, Asia and South America as they escape the pressures of deciding just what to do with their lives, themselves and discovering how they would like to relate to the world around them. I too am guilty of seeking such escape.

I took this trip to experience Europe before heading to journalism school, to enjoy a little down time, but also to get away from a career that has in many ways recently disapionted me, to escape my fight with my yoga practice and to just fill the time and the space until I could finally, finally just start to persue what I feel I was born to do. In my final days of spending time here all of those feelings have moved back into my life, that itch to go forth and make something of myself, the desire to move away from the things that no longer fullfill me the way they once did. And at the end of the day, that disquiet and discontent all gets channeled into the feeling to move on, move forward and explore something, somewhere new.

I have always in some ways admired those who travel for months, years or decades on end. The lifestyle is something I could not handle for too long (I need a larger shoe collection than this type of lifestyle allows). But I also wonder how it is that folk like this can detach themselves from stability both physical and emotional. I think of all the relationships that blaze like shooting stars bright and brilliant, but lacking the true depth that can only result from time with another. I wonder how they can detach from the stability of having a home (and a regular washing machine) physically.

In the end, I feel that travel is a very double edged sword. Travel offers a beautiful escape with life changing and expanding experiences, but can be dangerous, addictive, and indulgent. I suppose one simply has to know the difference between the two.

An oldie...but a goodie.

This post is from my old website... but I like it so here it is for you to enjoy...


“I just don’t have time to write anymore, between teaching, practicing, rehearsing, taking public transit and fitting in what time with my friends I can, there never seems to be enough time to pick up a pen anymore.” I confessed to Monica
“What about writing while on the bus? I’m sure you could jot things down then.” she replied.
I hate being told what to, or more accurately, I hate the mere suggestion of what I could/should/might like to do. No matter how good your advice is, if its unsolicited it will promptly be rejected. This situation being no different: I lied in response. “I only EVER take transit in rush hour, with bags, BIG bags and I NEVER get a seat. So that would be impossible” Success! Another opinion rejected! Monica simply shrugged, though I’m confident she could see through my ploy.
Now,I’m starting to think that my resistance to such input is a bit of a problem, but its all a part of being so brilliantly stubborn (okay,okay so maybe brilliantly stubborn is an oxymoron, but I think my stubbornness is a sign of good character). But of course her comment stuck in the back of my head and a month I found myself the proud owner of (yet another) Moleskine journal, pocket sized this time, scribbling like a madwoman on the bus balancing with my arm halfheartedly linked around a pole, a 30 kilo bag dislocating the opposite shoulder, in a state of utter bliss because I.... ladies and gentleman...I was writing.

I’ve always written. I have notebooks filled with thoughts and stories from the time I was six (SIX!!!). Every major event in my life has been well documented, and I can easily reference any period in times of need (arguments, breakups, blackmail etc.). What’s interesting is not the volume of writing, but rather the quality of it. How, even at the age of ten, (TEN!!!) I strove to not just tell my story but tell it well; with similes, metaphors, tone and distinct style . I came to love parentheses and side notes, triple dots (...), rhyme, onomatopoeia, and any other literary device I could get my hands, or rather, pens on. Still, I never considered myself a writer.
There are women in the world who buy skirts, shoes, shawls bags or boots without, despite or even in-spite of necessity. I couldn’t call myself female if I didn’t like those things; but my problem is not clothes or accesories , I have an uncontrollable urge to spend money on pens, stationary, notebooks, books and anything to do with the very act of writing. My collection contains writing utensils in varying thickness ( 0.01 being my favorite) and colour (Turquoise or ultra fine black are the colours of choice), notebooks, (Moleskine’s in all shapes and sizes) stationary, ( Good God what they can do with paper these days!) and books (I have over 500 books, maybe a hundred of which I have read) in all sense of the word I am addicted .
To leave the house without a notebook and an assortment of pens (minimum 21) seems unfathomable to me. Words get stuck in my head like songs, I cannot control the fact that I have ‘words of the day’. To spend an entire day writing, be it at home, in a cafe, restaurant, on a street or beach feels like a day well spent to me. I fill hours re-writing my thoughts, re-wording, re-punctuating, until they are worthy of the ink and pages I am addicted to. Still I’d tell you “I’d like to be a writer, someday.”
But I live to to write. To find the words to embody the richness of what I experience. But I’m afraid to call myself a... Writer. I fear I’m not worthy of such a title, I have not suffered this art, I am not ready to face the scrutiny of others, I... am just scared of the title and responsibility of : Writer. I fear that calling myself a writer would bring greater judgement (from me and others) of what I produce and how I produce it (How would and could I cope with the rejection of the language that is so dear to me?) I fear it because the very admittance of the thing would force me to demand a new dedication to and a new quality from my work. Which is another issue entirely.
I’ve always wanted to speak to the world through the pages of novels, newspapers and magazines. But a career? How could I allow myself that? Burdened by the knowledge and idea that I am woman fortunate to have an education, and a North American lifestyle. How could I pledge my life to something that would bring me such great pleasure without giving to those who are less fortunate than I. No, I should become a peace-corps worker, a career political protester, a teacher, a nurse in Africa, a Doctor without Borders, a psychiatrist who helps build personal borders, something, someone, anyone that means something. Someone that somehow makes some kind of difference. But then, between enraged scribbles on the Skytrain, I looked up.
I saw a men reading newspapers, women reading books, people of different ages, sizes, shapes, sexes, races and classes reading magazines. In fact on this busy morning, as all busy mornings, it was easier to count the people who weren’t reading than the ones who were. All these people reading the very words that I love so deeply, all these people making the written word part of their day, part of their routine. All of them, and more, all the people on all the trains, in offices, streets, homes, classrooms, toilets, in every corner and nook of the world need and, more importantly, want words. I thought, ‘If just a fraction of them would read what I have to say, then I could make a difference. I could educate like a teacher, heal like a doctor or psychiatrist, fight for ideas like a protester. With the very use of language breaking all borders physical, geographical, psychological.’
Since that morning what has become more clear to me is that in pursuing what I love, I serve the world too. To be happy individually allows all others around us to do the same. By filling my cup so full of pleasure and joy for life that it overflows into others is the only way to successfully help others. Teacher, Doctor, Nurse, Psychiatrist would never fill my cup the way that Writer would and does. We are not born to cower in the shadow of our calling fear it while envying others for theirs. How ridiculous does it seem to reject our true calling and passion so that we do what is seemingly, stereotypically right? Ludicrous!
“Acceptance is art.” A good friend of mine once wisely wrote, and while I’m still working on my masterpiece of acceptance; I am ready to accept that my punctuation is not perfect, my vocabulary could improve and that my flow and structure need work. I am ready to do that work, hear what people have to say, I am ready to suffer for my art.

I am ready to accept that: I am a Writer.

I love...

My students. It is so gratifying when someone genuinely tells you they've enjoyed your class, when people go out of their way to make it to your class. I simply cannot tell you how greatfull I feel. When I started to teach I questioned whether I would be able to comand respect within a class, but to be appreciated and enjoyed by students is a fantasy beyond my wildest dreams.

Though I must say this: learning people's names makes such a HUGE difference as an instructor. Since I got back from NY I've been making a conscious effort to learn every students nae in my classes. The value in learning a persons name, is that it builds a connection between teacher and student.
When you use a name you create an interaction, and that interaction can lead to better understanding of an individual, a relationship of sorts is instantly formed. I've enjoyed teaching in the last month more than ever, because of these relationships. I have shared more laughs with my students, more inside jokes and have helped and encouraged more people than in my past two years of teaching. I feel that I finally understand what it means to have a dialog between you and your students. I care about them, they care about me and we share with each other, my students pull me through class as much as I pull them through.

man...this love is forever.

Adieu

Dear Vancouver,

I will never tire of your views. Watching the back allies of Gastown grow nearer and nearer on the sea buss will whet my appetite for your streets forever. My westcoast princess, watching the september sun reveal the intricacy of your peaks, bathing in your emerald green waters and searching for cafes amidst your city streets will draw me back time and time again. No, Vancouver, our love affair is far from over. You will always be my metropolitan portal to the wild, my dewed oasis and my home.

But my dearest, things have to change, we cannot move forward the same that we have . I feel caught and stiffed in your smallness, a quaint city no more, I feel held within your perimeters. And now to grow I must outgrow your city limits and move east. Search for a new spaces, places and faces to fertilize the next growth spurt.

My dear, lets make the most of these final moments. I want to see you in your element, be it rain, sun, wind or snow I want to experience the best of you. Let us make lasting memories so that when we part your brilliance will shine so bright in my memory I will be forced to return to you.

love

Barb

We the mourning.....

"What becomes of a man in his final hour?

What forces draw his soul toward his final rest?

And why?

What sensations does he feel with his last synapses'?

And why?

What final images project in his mind?

And why?

Most of all...... WHY?"

We the mourning ask.

We the mourning, as we are defined: those who have lost. Those who remain to endure the pain of having one ripped from our lives. The tear that leaves us torn......

Torn and asking same questions posed for centuries....

"Why?"

Whole heavens have been constructed....

and still it is not enough.

Schemes of justification have been created....

and still it is not enough.

We are still left sifting through facts, ideals and ideas, measuring the good and the bad the pro and con alike, yet the scales of justice never balance. The cold facts prick like thorn to the very tissue of the heart. Each death, individual in circumstance is similar in tragedy. Yet the tragedy is ours to own. Their souls have departed, be it cruelly or un, they are at rest, whether in a place far from earth, or destined to the very soils that once gave them life. No, it is us: the mourning, that live to endure the pain of loss .

And though we are the mourning, we are also the blessed. It is our lives that were blessed to be touched by the soul and the presence of the departed. The depth and magnitude of our pain a testimonial to the depth and magnitude of the person. Though it is our curse to be the mourning, it is our blessing to be those that loved, laughed, and shared in the life of another.

In memory of Brendan Midgley, though we are sad to see you go, we will always remain proud to have known you...