"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.

Top Ten Moments of 2008...plus a few

Runners Up...

New Years Eve, 2008
Smoking green for the first time with Laurie and killing myself laughing. Cooking great local food, binging on that food and falling asleep content on the quite hillside of Bowen Island.

Seabus Rides in Vancouver... any one, any time I just love watching the city and the mountains loom closer....ahhhh

Girls night with Laura in Zurich. Sex and the City + Champagne + Paris' hotest DJ + Zurich's most adventurous femme fatale= made for one of the best nights out EVER

In no particular order...

10) February 27th 2008... New York City, USA
Dressed in a metal shirt (if you could call it that), white skinnies, my MiuMius and hot pink lipstick, I hit the town with my favorite of favorite ladies Nuala, met up with some mutual friends and rocked the martinis at Marquee.... fast forward 8 hours and I was on the bus from Hoboken to Long Island, watching the sun rise over the Manhattan skyline grinning ear to ear. Fun times.

9) May 27 -29th 2008...Gimmelweld, Switzerland
So Switzerland was full of highs. It is tough to choose between strolls by lake Zurich and cake at Sprungli, but out of all of it Gimmelweld and the Lauterbrunnen Valley were the highlight. Hiking in the Alps, soaking in hot tubs and listening to goat bells, biking through the valley with Danielle and visiting the Tremelbach waterfalls... nature at its best. It seemed as if I was living in a fairy-tale.

8) June 6th 2008...Venice, Italy
I got up early in the morning and wandered alone through the winding streets catching scenes with my camera. I watched the tourists and went in the opposite direction, and wound up at a fishermen's market. Walking among the amazing Venitian produce, and fresh fish with my red heels and red lipstick the fish mongerer's called to me, "Miss Red, Miss Red, smile at us please!!". I truly felt like I was in Italy, fresh food and sexy men.

7) June 12th 2008... Cortona, Italy
I made it, to the place where one of my favorite films was made. But the best moment was when I ordered an appetizer from the restaurant where Dianne Lane pens a postcard in Under The Tuscan Sun. Made of steamed Riddichio, local cheese, barley, cream and "local secrets" I died an went to heaven with each and every bite. And the wine....Oh, the wine!

6) June 14th... Cinque Terre, Italy
Basking in the sun, I decided to go for the best ocean swim of my life. Buoyant in the salty Mediterranean I feel head over heels for the sea, the rocky beaches and mountainous skylines of Cinque Terre. It was so, so incredible.

5) June 22nd 2008... Paris, France
After weeks of museums and galleries I found myself alone in Paris. After a search I found exactly what I was looking for. A beautiful cafe with gorgeous outdoor tables, the freshest of baguettes and streets bearing food, fashion and people to die for. That night Paris leapt to life and I found myself surrounded by musicians and beautiful Parisians partying in the streets. Magic... but what else did you expect it was Paris!!

4) July 1st 2008... Prauge, Czech Republic
Nikki, my cousin and I, walked over the moonlit St Charles' Bridge, we drank an absurd amount of booze at hidden martini bar in Prauge's old town. We found a guardian angel for the night, by the name of Marek, who decided to make it his duty to show us all that Prauge's nightlife had to offer. Two hours later I was salsa dancing to hip hop with a Mexican stranger who insisted on dancing the night away. Nikki and I walked back to our hostel barefoot, across the warm cobblestone in an empty Old Town Square watching the sun rise over some of the world's greatest feats of architecture, stumbling giggling and dancing all the way....

3) Sept. 2nd 2008... Toronto, Ontario
The first time I saw a Ryerson University sign, and knew, I had made it there.

2) October 12th, 2008... New York, USA
Coffee in Chelsea, dance class at Broadway Dance Center. Getting dressed to the nines, and meeting up with BDC's best looking ( and rather good dancing) dancer and having the most fun night out that in recent memory. Never, have I had so much fun dancing and connecting with someone.

1) December 6th, 2008... Toronto, Ontario
Locked out of my house, I got a hot cocoa with Nyomi. We watched "Love and Basketball" gushing over crushes and stories of love life tragedy till 4am. As I fell asleep watching the CNTower put on a very suggestive light show, I realized, I dream of this moment long ago and never thought it attainable. That I would be in one of Canada's Best Journalism Schools, in Canada's biggest city ( and oh so close to NYC) with a great friend and even greater opportunity ahead of me.

It has been a damn fine year....

infidelity and intuition

"What gives, what helps, the intuition?" asks Leslie Fiest in one of my favorite songs of all time.

I think its this very question that makes our intuition so questionable. Facts without evidence...could it be? And yet, too often the words "I knew it all along," or "I had the feeling..." grace conversations laced with regret. Those words left my mouth so many times after the events in July when an email left me knowing that my boyfriend had traded our bond in for another and cheated on me.

Few facts matter but, of them these are the few that do:

I knew....and I ignored it

When I first saw their facebook connection I knew

When she called late at nights and texted in early mornings I knew.

When he refused to introduce me to her,

When I first saw the her email accusation,

When he touched me.... I knew.

But I ignored it...

One night he crawled into bed, home later than planned, kissed my forehead and a voice inside said "He was with her," Clear as day, may as well have been written on my ceiling.

And yet, I ignored it.

Until he admitted it. Admitted that for a month he had lied to me, that when he accused me of having faltering feelings it was him who was locking himself behind bedrooms doors with a woman of reckless reputation. Admitted that it was him who had talked her out of telling me, him who had let me squirm for a month questioning why I could not connect to him when a lie so large hung over his head.

They say hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn. (I question if the pain of infidelity and the scorn that it arouses is exclusive to the Y chromosome)

If I could describe what hearing those words was like, I would say that they were shattering. In a single moment everything was broken, my trust and faith, hopes and dreams for a future together, every effort, every romantic gesture, every happy memory was instantly shattered. Broken beyond repair , I felt as if I caved in the absence of all the things about us that I had used to stand tall upon; gone was this pride in a relationship that was built stepping across borders of countries, expressed in ink stain and brushstroke, suddenly all of the details did not matter. And as I crumbled I shook not only physically in my hands, but internally within my soul.

That quake, that shake, started the tsunami of destruction that left nothing untouched. I was angry, loud, lewd and violent. I hit him. I wanted to take a bat to his car, and stopped myself only because I knew that his little brother wanted it. I sent hateful messages, swore slander in his ear, I investigated and interrogated every detail. Each act was like a grain of small sand, a mere particle of the mountain of hurt that instantly arose within me. And no matter how hard I dispelled these grains of pain, no matter how many of them I spewed, those acts did nothing but scratch the surface of the injustice of infidelity.


But what was most damaging, was that tsunami also destroyed me. Blew me over and made me weak desperate for love and affection to fill the void that was left by our shattered bond. I stayed, I was swayed by the empty promises, the crocodile tears and feigned gestures of apology. Even though I still knew.... I hung on believing that from the wreckage I could still salvage the bond that once made me strong.

I listened, I waited, put my heart on hold. Until conversations turned to accusations, till name calling began and bizarre narcissistic emails commenced, till all most all promises were broken. Only then did I turn away to survey the broken pieces and let Toronto and New York mend me...

This week when I saw them walking together in the streets of Vancouver, I was not surprised. Nor was I shocked by photos of her in his arms, or his final violation of the one promise he had faked the best : that he was rid of her. Yet what did surprise me, was that in some strange way I was happy for the two of them.

The mad hatter, the compulsive liar and manipulator together with his lose mistress, 'they deserve each other,' I thought. In some weird way I am thankful to this terrible twosome.

Indeed they left me scarred, yet in wielding these wounds of experience I have learned. I have come to understand the importance of listening to whispers of wisdom that seem so fact less. Yes, I have really learned the importance of intuition

I have gained insight to what it means to be a woman. I feel that rising from the depths of such maddening heartache helps to build compassion and empathy. Like I have earned my badge to belong to the sisterhood of women done wrong, and in gaining my stripes and colours I have come to understand the bond that women all share and how we must care for each other. ( This is a whole other blog entry really)

True, there have been times when I have become unintentionally entangled in the relationships of others. There have been sad moments of fear when I realized I overstepped and became the third in a triangle of love that left me running far away in opposite directions. I regret the subsequent consequences and I will not make excuses for my actions.

In the end, despite the pain I feel privileged to have survived, to recovered and learned when so many others are not so lucky.

And at the end of the day, if nothing else, the situation makes for damn fine writing material.

Time is a ticking...

Since it is exam season I thought it appropriate to share with you my newest methods of procrastination. Wonderful Web hangouts have made themselves known to me over the past few weeks, some too good to be kept to myself. So, in the spirit of exam season I am here to share them with you all

www.jezebel.com

Run by a group of women, this site combines all things you always wanted to read but couldn't find in once place, news links, sex advice and ruthless gossip all in one fabulous blog. Many of the femme-based articles skillfully walk the line between smutty entertainment and intelligence...fun fun fun

Pot Psychology

Never in my life have I actually found something that makes me want to go and smoke something green, not until I watched this that is. It was a slow go at first but after watching a few episodes I fell hard for the hosts and their stoned antics. Those of you who are Savage Love fans, will find this equally entertaining. Rich and Tracie post weekly videos in which they answer questions under the influence of Mary Jane. Small disclaimer, if you are squeamish this is not for you, questions can tread into bizarre fetish territory, after all Tracie did write a column for Vice Magazine about how she hired a prostitute to fulfill a rape fantasy that is close to erotica.

You Tube, YouTube, YouTube

I have rediscovered my love for late 90's/early millenium R&B. Jagged Egde wearing oversized fur jackets and dancing like they're in a club to a ballad in 6/8 time... priceless.

I have also found an increadible make up artist thats inspired me to go a little further with my make up than before. While I find this useful, I fear that given the fact she only does make up on herself, it is all techniques that would be used on someone with a more caucasian eyes, so my asian sisters are a little out of luck. Still its worth a browse.

Dance videos, dance videos, dance videos.... I keep tabs on my favorites and find new ones all the time. This is how I get stoked for NYC every time.

The animations of musicANDmuffins is so heart warming that I melt everytime. My favorite, Kate Nash's Nicest Thing, a superb song and an oh so cute animation to melt your pre-exam winter woes.

Oh, Canada.

Peter Mansbridge just admitted to "dragging the puck" while waiting for Stephane Dion's address to the country in rebuttal to the creepy, creeeeeepy, disingenuous address to the nation by Stephen Harper.

"This shit is so Canadian its out of control," says my roommate, " Thank God no one gives a shit about us in the world, or I'd have to be really embarrassed for us."

Between the 80's fro of one of the political commentators, the plethora of patterns (polka-dot, plaid and pinstripe in one outfit) on another and the pseudo-apocolypitic storm over Parliment Hill in the CBC graphics, I admit I spent the coverage of the "crisis facing Canada" giggling like a school girl.

Here are my thoughts.

Since I am not a Canadian citizen yet, I cannot vote. Still, I would not have voted Conservative in the last election. That being said I am against the forming of a coalition.

Here is why...

Despite following the news, I still don't know WHY we are discussing, or creating apocolptic storm cloud graphics in the first place.

Since becoming PM Harper has set a precident for being the most secretive leader in Canada's history, keeping a tight leash on all his MP's and controlling what they say to the media with ferocity. So whenever Harper comes across a screen and makes decelerations or promises I simply cannot trust him. Especially when he is all smiles during an address during one of the most heated moments in recent Canadian politics. Though I really don't believe that Flahtery's announcements were really that terrible for the country, I don't have the confidence that there isn't soemthing hidden within the plethora of pages in the budget announcements.

Not trusting Harper is not aided by the fact that he is continuing to make misleading public statements. Things like claiming that forming a coalition is making deals with the Bloc, which has been confirmed to be not true (yes the Bloc will support the Coalition in matters of confidence, but will not be a part of writing budgets etc). As well, as making false statements that the coalition is violating the constitution of Canada....puh-lease.... every major newspaper in Canada has de-bunked that theory.

Of course then, there is the coalition of the NDP and the Liberals. Layton, the sore loser of the last election told Harper to accept his defeat and I couldn't help but think of a mustached barking chiwawa... all bark, no bite that's even worth mentioning. Then there is the disorganization of the Liberals that left them so late in handing in their taped statement to the networks who agreed to air it that it got cut off on CTV and Global. Whats more is that the tape was out of focus and so badly framed it made Dion look like a talking head.

As the daughter of immigrant parents, I have always had a particular skill for deciphering my way through an accent. Still when Dion begins to speak I get confused and spend so much time trying to figure out what he said that I miss parts of his statements. While that doesn't change my opinion that Dion is a learned individual who really could have done some interesting and great things for this country, had it not been for his poor communication skills.

In the end I feel that the only reason we're having this conversation is because the NDP are putting politics over the interest of Canadians and is acting to protect both their own salaries and funding to their parties. Yes, the conservatives have now retracted the statement that they would put an end to government funding for federal parties, however the orginal budget opened a huge window for a mighty power grab by a very defeated Dion to try and win leadership in the name of protecting the economic interests of every day citizens.

Do not be fooled this is all about money, power and regardless of what Dion tries to spatter, partizanship.

It will be interesting to see how Michelle Jean will weigh in on this...

I will be watching, and hopefully things will be more a less apocalyptic this time.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow....

So in moving to this East Coast city of mine, I realized that I have not once in my memory experienced a snow storm. Sure I've seen Vancouver pseudo-snow-storms that leave behind a slushy 10cm of snow, which leaves all West Coasters dumb and frozen with stupidity that nearly shuts down the city. But I have yet to witness a bona-fide scared-to-go-out-the-door, can't-see-you-hand-in-front-of-your-face, careful-or-you-might-freeze snowstorm. So while my other Torontonians are still bitter from the bite of last years winter that saw record snow falls, I am  jazzed that the thought that tonight, Weather Canada is predicting the first snow storm of the season.

I've got my boots, my gloves, and my game face on, ready for what promises to be an oh so fun night.

Oh! And apparently, there are blizzards around here too!! Exciting!!!

"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.

Ode to You...

In keeping with the theme of "truth" from previous posts, I have decided to post this poem. It's a personal one, that came to me quite quickly after returning from a February NYC trip, fresh with Nuyorican Poets Cafe inspiration.


....... enjoy.......

Today,
We passed in the streets like strangers

For the first time in a long time,
you did not notice me.
So I studied you secretly.

The contour of your chin,
the dip of your collar
where I always seem to slip,
and drip,
into a puddle of desire.

Before I,
collect,
myself.
And remember:
You belong to another.

But,
this poem is not about
secret fantasies,
unrealized possibilities,
or even girlish jealousy.

No,
this soliloquy,
is about how I wished
I could have run to you today,
take your hand in mine and say:

“You saved me.”

A rescue mission conducted in such a secrecy,
not even you were privy.

You see,
I had studied what it means to happy
so I could mimic its exact geometry.
The art of my deception
rooted in mathematical precision:

I stacked my vertebra
so my columns curve
conveyed confidence,

smiled to a specific degree,

while the angle from chin to nape
denoted a sense of pride,
Inside,
the days were darker than the nights.


Until you blazed across my sky,
bright like Halle
constant like Polaris.
You were the beacon that beckoned
me back to light...

Your bright
shone deep into me
until glee was splashed on my face
and with joy glistening in my reflection
I blanked with a lack of recognition
at the depth of my own stare...
...for the fresh happiness that was suddenly there.

During espresso scented conversations,
I nursed myself on your connotations.

Your eloquence and sense
of humor sang to me…
Light arias and soulful melodies.

Your importance—
was and is—
not defined
by your success at winning me—
not by the sparkle of a blue eye
when you flash your dimpled grin.

But, by your ability
to create a change in me:


You were the push, that
flattened my dominoes
of carefully aligned self deception,

The first call
back
to a truth that has always belonged to me:

My own divinity

And for that,
I will always be yours.
Not always in desire,
but always,

in gratitude.

Because, you saved me.
You were the light that
showed me the way home:

back into my own.