Look at the View

On Monday morning, I decided to resist the day for a few extra minutes, linger over my tea and crack open a library book.  I had just picked up A Short Guide to a Happy Life by Anna Quindlen - because, yes please, any help I can get - and I thought I'd just read a few pages before getting on with my day.  Well, I read the whole thing.  In about 15 minutes.  It really is a short guide.  Much of it espouses the message you might expect: "Life is short.  Enjoy it, and be grateful."   Fairly cliché, I suppose, although it's a cliché because it's true, and it's a reminder that I imagine most of us could use on a regular basis.  I was finding it to be a nice, little read - a little obvious, but nice - and then I reached the final anecdote, and something in me shifted.

Over the last two short pages (spoiler alert), Quindlen shares a story about meeting a homeless man on the boardwalk at Coney Island.  As they sit by the sea, legs dangling over the side of the boardwalk, he tells her about his life: panhandling on the boulevard, hiding from the police amid the carnival rides, sleeping in a church on cold nights.  But most of the time, he explains, he spends his days sitting on the boardwalk, even in the cold.  "Why?" Quindlen asks.  Staring out at the ocean, he replies: "Look at the view, young lady.  Look at the view."

I sat on my couch in silence, legs dangling over the side, and looked at the view.  A view I've seen a thousand times but on that morning, it looked different.  

The laundry that needs to be folded.  Light bulbs that need changed.  My silly-eyed banister.  How lucky I am to have laundry to fold and light bulbs to change.  How lucky I am to have little people to make giggle with silly eyes.

The beautiful little table that was in our dining room growing up.  The ballot box my eldest daughter set up so we can nominate others for their good deeds and kindnesses.  Photos of my girls when they were babies.  Beauty and love to greet all who arrive.

The green couch and chair my ex-husband and I bought 15 years ago, our first real adult purchase.  I was 23 and he was 24 and we were over the moon to have just bought a house, and that couch and chair were the only real grown-up furniture in it.  I've been longing to get rid of that old couch but that morning, I thought about that exciting time in our lives, and the hours I later spent sitting on that couch nursing my babies.  I thought of the moments when they learned how to climb up on to that couch.  I'm not so eager to get rid of it anymore.  

And the blanket over top of it, crocheted by my mom.  Hours of love knotted together. 

The paintings my daughters made the other week and more photos of their beautiful smiles. The antique wooden box with the hearts, the only thing I've ever purchased at an auction.  I outbid a fancy old lady and it was empowering.  The lantern from my grandparents' farmhouse, and the weird metal object with the balancing acrobats that was the only thing of my grandmother's that I wanted when she passed.  We used to play with it every time we went to her house as kids.  I think of her every time I see it.  Or do I?  I fear that on too many days I don't see the view and this love and beauty and these stories are just another part of the landscape, a backdrop to preoccupations. 

Over the last few days, this new mantra has stayed with me: "Look at the view."   

Navigating snowy streets:  Look at the view.  Look at the road, but also the view.  I have a reliable vehicle to take me home.  I can afford gas.  I move through this city alone and feel safe.  And to top it all off, I have a button in my car that operates technology the sole purpose of which is to keep my bum warm.

Waiting for a medical appointment:  Look at the view.  I'm fortunate to have medical care.  I'm fortunate that I'm not so sick that I need to be rushed in.  How grateful I should be for the good fortune to wait.

My snot-nosed daughter climbs into my bed at 3 a.m.:  Look at the view.  It's not pretty but it's beautiful.  My child reaching for me, wanting my comfort. That's better than any dream.  That is the dream.

It's sometimes hard to see the forest for the trees.  Life gets busy and a home is a place to be cleaned, the drive and the waiting room just irritating interludes between point A and point B.  And the snot-nosed kid is wiping her face on your pillow and disrupting a glorious night's sleep.  But take a moment today to look at the view.  Because my god, the forest is beautiful. 

From my spot on the saggy green couch, I see the coffee table that my sister and I would hide under and dance on top of as kids, a stage that now belongs to two other wee sisters.  The TV table that my father-in-law made, which has scratches on top, fossils from a plastic dinosaur party.  The cushions my girls leaned against the other week, reading stories to each other.  The stained carpet that ordinarily makes me cringe...but I have a home to live in, and money for food, and tiny grubby feet to trample it.  

And I see the sunshine.  I woke up to another day.  Another beautiful day.

No Less than the Trees and the Stars

Working on it.

One afternoon a year or two ago, while wandering my local thrift store, I came across a large, 11x14 frame with white matting.  It was nothing terribly special but it was in great condition, and only a few bucks, and I thought it could be put to good use in my bedroom.  I knew just the wall.

I didn't, however, have anything to put in it.  And so, I proceeded to spend countless hours (yep, hours) scouring through photos and looking at art prints on Etsy, searching for just the right piece.  I wanted something inspiring to wake up to every morning. 

The frame sat in my closet, gathering dust, for several months.  I could have just thrown something in there, bought something suitably pretty, but nothing felt quite right and I wanted to hold out.  Picky?  Yes.  But sometimes it pays off. 

I was back in the same thrift store one day, casually perusing the aisles, when I spotted another frame, this one gold-hued and tacky.  This one had a poem inside, and as soon as I read it, I knew it was exactly what I had been looking for.  I bought the frame, brought it home, removed the poem and discovered, as I had hoped, that it fit perfectly in the empty black one.  (I donated the tacky one back to the thrift store...someone will love it!)

The poem is called Desiderata, Latin for "desired things", and was written by American writer Max Ehrmann in 1927.  (According to Wikipedia, it is often falsely believed to have been written in 1692, as it was included in a compilation of devotional materials at St. Paul's Church in Baltimore in 1956, and marked with the church's foundation date.  Indeed, at the bottom of my copy, it says "Found in Old St. Paul's Church, Baltimore. Dated 1692."  I have discreetly hidden that part under the matboard.)  While the poem was new to me, it seems that it has actually become quite well-known in recent years.  For good reason.  Here are Max Ehrmann's beautiful and inspiring words: 

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Success!

What more needs to be said.   

This scavenged poem now holds a place of honour on my bedroom wall.  Admittedly, there are days when it is just part of the landscape, when "the noise and the haste" get in the way of me taking the time to enjoy it, just as it gets in the way of seeing other joy and beauty around me.  But I find that when I do stop to take the time to read it again, the effect is powerful, and different parts speak to me at different times.  This week, for example, the line "enjoy your achievements as well as your plans" is particularly meaningful; as my to-do list keeps getting longer and my eyes are drawn to the handful of unchecked boxes, I am trying to give myself credit for the tasks I do complete, both big and small. 

Whether new to you as well or an old favourite, I hope you too can take something from Desiderata this week.  In fact, if you feel like sharing in the comments below, I'd love to hear what line speaks most to you at this moment.  And I hope you will remember that "you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars."  Lovely.

Next Steps

Finding a few moments of beauty and joy in a parking lot, waiting for a mechanic to repair my car and hand me a hefty bill. Which says it all, really.

As many of you know, I left my job four months ago in order to recharge, spend more time with my daughters, and figure out a new way forward.  The decision was not an easy or hasty one - it took me a good year to get my ducks in a row and get up the gumption to take the leap - but it was absolutely the right one.  The past three years have been the most challenging of my life, and I knew that if I didn't stop and prioritize my health, my family and myself, there would be dire consequences for all three.

When I left my job, my thinking was this: I'd take two months (May and June), while my kids were still in school, to rest and think and have some time to myself, and then spend the following two months (July and August) enjoying quality time with my girls.  And then...well, I wasn't sure what would come next.

Those four months played out more or less as planned.  While the spring was not as productive as I had initially imagined it would be, at least in terms of coming to any grand epiphanies about my life and putting new plans into action, it served as a much-needed restart.  Around that time, I was speaking to one of my best friends about my frustration that I was not further along in figuring out my life.  She responded by reminding me that a machine, when it is restarted, needs some time to fully shut down before it can start back up again, and she urged me to be patient with myself.  I decided, then, to ignore the grand to-do list I had written and just let go.  I wrote without quota.  I read voraciously.  I worked out and nourished my body.  I haunted coffee shops and caught up with friends.  I relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in years.

By the time the kids were out of school, I was ready to be there for them in a way I hadn't been able to be for a long time.  While not every moment was picture perfect by any stretch, my time with my kids this summer was as wonderful as I had hoped it would be.  We went to the beach and explored the city, made living room nests and watched movies, took countless trips to the library and belted out Taylor Swift tunes on car rides, slurped slushies and sidewalk-chalked the driveway.  But most importantly, I held them in my arms and kissed their freckles, eavesdropped on their early morning sister conversations before they climbed into my bed with their poking elbows and soft cheeks and giggles and complaints, listened for "just a few more minutes" and smoothed the curls out of their sleepy eyes as they shared with me their amazing 5-year-old and 7-year-old thoughts and dreams.  For the first time in a long time, I felt I had a few more minutes to give, although I was really the one who received.

The one big adventure my daughters asked for this summer (aside from taking the city bus, which was also a hit) was to go to Canada's Wonderland.  And so, on one of the hottest days of the summer and a Sunday no less, we ventured there.  And had The Best Day.  It was only later that I realized that I hadn't even flinched at the idea of taking the girls there all by myself and dealing with the crowds and the heat and the line-ups and tired little legs, a situation which, in the past, would have been far too daunting for me to even contemplate.  It hadn't occurred to me not to do it and it hadn't occurred to me to be nervous that I couldn't handle it.  I was relaxed and expected to have fun, and so we did.  This realization highlighted for me what this time has given me: it has allowed me the chance to restore my faith in myself and my ability to not only handle any challenge that comes at me but to create a happy life and joyful moments despite those challenges, whether they be the oppressive heat or obnoxious crowds or negativity or what others think or heartbreaks or disappointments.  It has allowed me to move a few steps closer to becoming the parent, and the person, I want to be.

But now, it is September, and the kids are back at school.  So now what?  A part of me has been dreading September and the questions that were waiting for me here, the main one being how I can support my family and build the life I want through a career that allows me to use my talents and do something of value.  I've spent the last few months and several sleepless nights wrestling with these questions, trying ideas on for size, researching options and hitting roadblocks, tuning into my intuition and turning away from anything my gut tells me is the wrong path for me.  I still wish to pursue a writing career; in addition to my writing here, I have finished the first draft of my children's book and it will (WILL!) be sent out to publishers by the end of this month.  And then, I'll be starting on the next, and my writing will continue to be a priority.  I have big plans for this website, and several book ideas queued up anxiously awaiting my attention.  But, as much as I would love to ignore this fact and live my creative life, there are bills to pay.  Publication is, in large part, out of my control and frankly, no one ever went into writing for the money.  Luckily, I have more to give than words alone and I'm making some progress toward fine-tuning my understanding of what those skills and talents are and figuring out a (compensated) place to put them to use.

To that end, this fall will be about testing my hypotheses and beginning to put toes in the water to give some ideas a trial run, amongst other relevant metaphors.  In addition to continuing with my writing and keeping my kids and my health front and center, I will be taking a few courses to further my education and I'm pursuing some volunteer opportunities that will help me to reconnect with my community and gain some experience in fields that I think would allow me to do important work I care about.  I'm also working with an employment counsellor and applying to positions that I think might be a good fit, both for what I'm looking for and what I can offer.  And I'm staying patient, and continuing to have faith in myself.  I have the luxury of having more time to sort things out, but I'm not taking that luxury for granted and I'm aware of the possibility that my best-laid plans may not work out as hoped.  I'm okay with that.  I think that optimism and realism can live hand in hand.

So we'll see.  That's my answer right now to all inquiries about what I'm going to do now.  We'll see.  I'm as curious as anyone.  I have these next steps in place but I have no idea where the staircase leads.  Do any of us?  What I do know is that I couldn't have done all of this and made it this far without the tremendous love and friendship around me, and I want to take this moment to thank you for continuing to read my words here and for offering me your own words of support and advice. 

I don't know what the future holds.  I don't know what I'll be doing and what my life will be like another four months from now.  But I'm more excited about that than scared because I know I can make molehills out of any mountains I may come across on my path, and I know these steps are just a small part of the journey.

Jump for Joy: Literally. Into Puddles.

Go ahead and jump.

On the way home from the park one afternoon a few weeks ago, it started to rain.  The girls and I picked up the pace, dodging raindrops as we giggled our way home.  Approaching the house, I turned back intent on urging those little legs to move quickly and get inside before we got too wet, inconvenient repercussions foremost in mind.  But I stopped short before I said a word:  There, in their sweet faces, turned to the heavens, I saw the pure joy I'm always banging on about.  They were fully in the moment, alive, drinking in every sensation, open wide to the experience in every way.  They were having the time of their lives.

"Can we stay out just one more minute?" they implored, likely doubtful that their too-often by-the-book mama would sanction such an activity.   

I took a breath, letting go of thoughts of carpet-drenching footsteps and muddy laundry.  There was no lightning.  It was bath night anyways.   

"Yes.  Yes, you can."

I stood in the doorway and watched every stitch of their summer dresses soaking through, every inch of their arms and legs and cheeks basking in the glory of the summer rain, squeals of delight bursting from their gorgeous souls.

After a few minutes, breathless and glowing, they came inside, shedding their clothing at the front door mat and, at their mother's suggestion, flinging it full force down the basement stairs (extra points if they hit the bottom with a satisfying, soggy smack), before jumping into the bubbliest of baths.

Since that time we have twice now ventured out post-rain (having missed the rain itself) in search of the biggest mud puddles we could find to jump into with wild abandon, laundry be damned.  I've seen tentative hops and "Really?  We can do this?" glances quickly escalate to full-on running leaps designed to displace the most water and mud possible (extra points for splashing mom).  I've heard the most beautiful, joyful laughter.  And I've heard myself, the one who only a few weeks ago would have admonished "Get out of the puddles!  Watch your dress!", shout "Come on!  You can get muddier than that!" 

And last night, I jumped in too.  (They know what it's about, those kids.  So much fun!)

Life is short, and these moments are what life is all about.  It's not about the laundry.  It's about all the mess and joy and fun that creates the laundry.  And if you're lucky, you'll have piles of it to do. (Once you peel it, sopping, off the basement floor.  And scrub the mud off the ceiling.  And teach them better aim.)

Jump for Joy is a new series on JTTG about small, simple ways to boost the joy in your life. 

Live in the Now

Wisdom, dockside.
Burlington, Vermont, May 29 2015

When I was packing for my trip to Vancouver a few weeks ago, I faced a dilemma:  Pack my moderately beastly but beloved Canon DSLR camera and face lugging it around in its cumbersome bag, with both my wide-angle and telephoto lenses in tow, or leave it behind to lighten my load and rely solely on my pretty-good-but-no-DSLR iPhone camera to document my trip.  I know.  A First World problem if ever there was one.  But I was so conflicted!  My trusty Canon has accompanied me on all trips and documented all of my major life events since it was gifted to me 10-ish years ago, and the idea of not taking it just seemed ludicrous.  Photography is a major crush of mine and I was going to a gorgeous city by the ocean surrounded by mountains, for Pete's sake, so how could I leave it behind, in favour of taking photos on my phone no less?  But it's so damn heavy!  And I knew that we would be walking the length and breadth of the city.  But the pretty pictures!  So agonizing was my torment that I texted my friend a photo of the bag to ask her opinion, and the reply came that I should leave it behind.

In the end, I agreed, although not without some regret once I saw just how beautiful Vancouver is (hella-beautiful, guys).  Ultimately though, other than a few moments of longing for my telephoto lens, such as when a REAL LIVE BALD EAGLE flew past me, I realized that leaving my camera behind had not only lightened my load but had allowed me to stay present.  With camera in hand, I often get caught up in capturing every moment, every scene, and it can take me away from actually experiencing the beauty around me and the joy of that moment.  As an anti-social photographer ("You go ahead!  I just want to take 300 different shots of this flower!"), it can also take me away from living that moment with the company I'm keeping.

I came home with 114 photos on my iPhone, which may seem like a lot but I was there for 6 full days, making that an average of 19 photos per day, a HUGE cutback from my usual haul.  Most importantly though, I came home with an abundance of memories of time spent with my friend, which was the whole purpose of the trip.  

That experience of staying in the moment was really eye-opening and, without realizing it at first, I came out of it changed.  Last weekend, I went to Vermont with a friend and as we were packing up to go home, she pointed out that I hadn't used my DSLR camera once the whole weekend.  I haven't been clicking away with my iPhone much either.  Yesterday I attended my daughter's school concert and her part was over before I realized that I probably should have videotaped it or something.  Or maybe I shouldn't have.  Without camera in hand or iPhone in front of my face, I fully lived in and loved every moment, marveling at the pride and joy lighting up my little pride and joy.  I saw every smile pass her lips with my own eyes instead of through a lens.  I wouldn't trade that experience for a secondhand version on film.

This is not to say that my camera will be collecting dust.  Photography remains a passion and will continue to be an outlet for my artistic expression and a means for collecting memories.  But moving forward I intend to use my camera as a tool to serve and express who I am now, instead of playing the frantic documentarian trying to bottle up every ounce of now to enjoy "some day", to serve a future that is not promised to any of us.  

On the shores of Lake Champlain in Burlington Vermont, a graffiti artist after my own heart said it best: Live in the now.  I snapped that photo (or, okay, four or five versions...quickly) and then stood in that now, breathing in the hot summer air, gazing at the green mountains and the glistening water.  As nows go, it was pretty marvellous, but you know, so is this one, sitting on my couch typing on my iPad, watching the sky darken on a warm evening, overhearing the Two and a Half Men theme song coming from my neighbour's TV.  Even this now is pretty great.  And I don't need photographic evidence to prove it.

(I would be remiss, though, if I didn't share a carefully curated few of my Vancouver and Vermont photos.  Please enjoy them as part of your now.) 

Vancouver: (1) Granville Island giants (2) Hipster instructions (3) Retro decor at Nuba Restaurant (4) Oh hello! (5) The ocean! (6) Ripples in the sand (7) Vancouver is super pretty (8) Heron (9) Siwash Rock with obliging goose (10) BALD EAGLE! (11) Bridge, obviously (12) Fountain, obviously

Vermont (Burlington and outskirts): (13) A pretty building off Church Street (14) Lake Champlain (15) Dock (16) And more of it (17) Horseback riding! (18) Horses! (19) Beautiful countryside (20) And more of it (21) Graffiti (22) And more of it (23) Incredible mural in progress

Taking Some Space

Two spaces or bust.

When I was in high school, I took a keyboarding class.  I sort of wish now that it had been a music class that equipped me with the mad skillz to tickle the fake, plastic ivories of a Casio - or better yet a key-tar! - but alas, it was a typing class.  We used what were probably at the time (that time being the early 90s) already slightly outdated electric typewriters.  And I'm going to go ahead and let my geek flag fly and tell you that I kind of liked it.  At home, we had a manual typewriter that I used on occasion and for which I held a certain amount of affection, but those of you who remember these fine, vintage pieces will recall that if you made a mistake, you had to Liquid Paper that sonuvabeech outta there.  Which was a pretty enormous pain in the ass.  Well, I was happy to discover that the fancy schmancy school typewriters had a correction tape in them that would, at the touch of a button, back track and make all your errors disappear in a flash.  To a bookish Northern-Reflections-loon-sweatshirt-wearing half-pint, this was nothing short of awesome.

What I loved most about keyboarding class, though, was learning some of the style rules for correct typing (see above re. being a geek).  The big one was: the post-period double space.  The rule was that, at the end of a sentence, following a period, you were to type TWO spaces before beginning your next sentence.  And I remain, to this day, a hard-and-fast loyal champion of the post-period double space.  TWO SPACES UNTIL I DIE!  

You see, somewhere along the way between the early 90s and now, someone somewhere decided that we should get rid of one of those spaces and just get on with things.  As far as I can tell, this has become the new standard, but two spaces vs. one space remains a hotly debated topic in the writing and publishing world (none of us get out much).  I've noticed that Squarespace, the otherwise wonderful system that serves as the design and content management back-end for this site, has jumped on the one-space bandwagon and as a result, sometimes my two-spaced entries include unintended indents, like the one you see in the paragraph above before "And I remain..." (note to self: The UnIntended Indents...possible key-tar band name?).  I'll admit that it's mildly annoying, but not annoying enough for me to change my ways.

You see, I think the extra space is important.  Having two spaces allows a little more time to pause and consider the words you've just read, a little more white space to separate one sentence from the next, one thought from another.  It allows time to think and breathe.  And if you'll allow me to extrapolate wildly on this for social commentary, I think the death of the second space (or was it the first space?) is reflective of our society's increasing rush to get to the next thing.  We are constantly on the go, multi-tasking and Getting Things Done and pushing for increased productivity and efficiency.  And apparently we JUST CAN'T WAIT that one extra space to get to the next sentence, that five extra minutes to relax with a cup of tea before getting on with our day, that one extra board game with our kids before tackling the never-ending chores.  

I know I for one could use some more space to breathe and some more time to think, and I'm trying to find that space and make that time in all aspects of my life, to varying degrees of success.  Sometimes it's getting up a little earlier so I can have a leisurely breakfast with my girls before getting ready for work.  Sometimes it's letting the dishes wait (they're not going anywhere, sadly) so I can sit with my book for a few minutes.  Sometimes it's stepping away for a second to breathe so that angry, yelling Mommy doesn't make an appearance.  And sometimes it's taking an extra moment to listen, really listen, to what my four-year-old is whining about, because sometimes under the irritating wrapping is a genuine concern she needs me to hear.  

Time is precious and none of us have enough of it, but there are small amounts to be found and collected and turned into moments of peace and joy, if you make a conscious effort to look for them.  You can choose to take that extra time, and let the mad-dash rush-about crowd go on ahead.  Stay behind a moment.  It's peaceful here.  You can choose to savour the space and breathe.  And sometimes, you can even choose to make a full stop.