Thank You and Goodnight

Writing this blog has been a wonderful, creative experience for me.   I’ve met amazing people, people who have bona fide writing talent, and who’ve been generous in sharing their passions.   Every single person who has left their heartprint here at Ain’t Life Strange in the form of comments has done so with either humour, caring, curiosity, or  sometimes all three!  One thing for sure is that your comments, dear Reader, have always been positive and genuine.  And to you, dear Reader, who flew in under the radar, I appreciate your visits and felt your support, even if you shied away from leaving your heartprint for all the blogworld to see. 

This is going to be my last post here at Ain’t Life Strange.    For a while.   I say for a while, because letting go is so hard, and I can’t bring myself to say goodbye.   Maybe this is a hiatus.  Maybe I’ll resurface one day under a new blog with a different slant than this one.  When I do, I’ll be sure to link them so that I can find you again, dear Reader. 

In the meantime,  I welcome you to read the archives of my thoughts about my life over the past few years, and to leave your comments as you wish.   It will warm my heart to know that you’re still there, dear Reader, and I most certainly will respond to any heartprint that you leave here at Ain’t Life Strange.

It’s not goodbye, just goodnight……

 

 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxox

An AmeriCan Yarn

I love Rick Mercer.   (Go to www.rickmercer.com)  He’s funny, smart, irreverent, and is never afraid of making a fool of himself for the sake of  his country.    He talks about political things that I can never say on this blog, so I thank him for being my voice.   Plus his famous rants are always bang on, and leave me cheering and laughing.   Rick’s sense of humour projects what lies at the heart of Canada:  cheering for the underdog, the ever-present self-loathing and inferiority complex along with the justifying need to overcome those things, the desire to do the right thing, and the righteous beast within that rears its head in the face of injustice and especially in the wake of stupid politicians’ actions and words.  Rick is a master at highlighting the inconsistencies, fallacies, and sometimes just plain dumbness of politics in Canada.  And with that as a springboard, he’ll never run out of material.

A few years back, he ran a segment on his show, where he went down to the States and held man-in-the-street interviews, asking your average American citizen questions about Canada.  The point was to highlight how little Americans know about Canada and Canadians in general, as opposed to our ingrained  knowledge of the USA, its culture and its politics.   And you know, it stands to reaason that we WOULD know more about the US,  given that they are bigger and more influential.   Even if I sometimes feel Canada is saturated with American culture, it’s still better to know the score with your neighbour than it is to be ignorant, even if you come by that knowledge and understanding through assimilation and osmosis.  (I’ll try to apply that same logic to my own tale of two solitudes……but that’s a whole other blog post). 

ANYWAYS…..  Rick Mercer’s segment was funny, the people interviewed were good-natured about their ignorance of we, the people of Canada, and it made for good TV.  Everyone was happy.  But here’s where I got to thinking……

As you know, dear reader, my Mr. C. is an American living in Canada with me, his French-Canadian sweetheart (his words, not mine).  You would think that there wouldn’t be too many differences between us, given that I’ve just said that Canada is absorbed into US culture.    However, Mr. C’s political views (sometimes) clash real loud with mine, and we’ve had many opportunities in the past two years to put the word “truce” into action.  Yet our cultural differences have knit us into this warm and woolly scarf, where we bask in happy contentment & respect for each other’s country.  There’s more to be gotten from learning and understanding then there is in standing with your arms crossed, unwilling to budge.  Especially when you’re married.  And you sleep in the same bed. 

As Mr. C. and I embarked on this amazing knitting project of enmeshing our two selves together, I found myself feeling more and more….dare I say it…..ignorant.  Ignorant of my heritage, ignorant of my culture, ignorant of how my government operates.   As a newbie to Canada,  just about everything was new and different to Mr. C.:   our “Monopoly” money (he eventually conceded that ours is better),  health care (’nuff said),  looking for work, Celsius degrees, our politics, our history, our history as it relates to American history, our perceptions of Americans, our perceptions of him….HE was new and different here;  people were quick to pick up on his accent, to his growing bemusement, because he doesn’t feel he has one.   I keep trying to explain that we ALL have accents, however, it might take time. 

So whenever Mr. C. came across something he wasn’t familiar with,  he would, of course, turn to me, his smart Canadian wife, his link with his new world, and he would ask:

“Why did Trudeau repatriate the constitution?”   ”What’s the House of Commons?”    “What’s the FLQ?”   “What’s the NDP?”    ”Why do I have to take my shoes off in the house?”    “Why do you have  a Governor-General?”    “Why do magazines cost more in Canada?”    “Who’s Brian Mulroney?”     “What’s the deal with Québec?”        “What’s that in Farenheit/gallons/miles?”     ”Why the conflict between the English & the French?”     “What’s a ‘too-que’ and why do you pronounce it ‘too-que’ but you spell it ‘toque’ ?”  ……..

And I, in all my Canadian smartness, found that more often than not, I could only smile sweetly and say: 

“I’ll have to look that up and get back to you…..”. 

It’s embarrassing.  It took marrying an American to make me see how pathetic my knowledge, awareness, and understanding of my own country was.   When you know your history, when you understand your culture, how your government works, all of that stuff, it goes deep inside of you and gives you a much deeper sense of belonging and enlightenment.  You understand others on another level, you see past the garbage-media-fed mentality and you succeed in “un-stunting” your own growth:  in other words, what was “Us vs. Them” becomes “Us & Them”. 

But when you don’t fully know from whence you came, and when you can’t explain the whys and hows of important events that have shaped your country, it’s more than embarrassing.  It’s apathetic.   Apathy is the opposite of passion and enthusiasm.  And I am nothing if I’m not passionate. 

So, in case I’m not the only Canadian who finds herself in this apathetic boat-to-nowhere, here’s what I propose to Rick Mercer:

Mr. Mercer, in the same vein as your “What do Americans know about Canada ” segment on your show, maybe you could do one where you hit different provinces and ask the average person on the street what they know about Canada.  We’re quick to laugh at Americans’ lack of knowledge about us, but I think we’d get a bigger laugh at our own deficiencies about ourselves.   We’ve proven time and again that we have a great sense of humour (elections, anyone?),  and think of what this would do to the self-esteem of Canadians everywhere….by doing this, you would greatly contribute  to the enlightenment and progress of this magnificent country!  Take a step to lead us out of this apathy, Mr. Mercer!   Show us the short-sighted, unaware people that we really are, so we can become open-minded and true citizens of Canada and the world!

I, for one, am trying to take a more active interest in how my country is put together, if only to preserve the image that Mr. C. has of me.  If he starts suspecting that I may not be completely up to snuff in the brains department, I may NEVER get him to take his shoes off inside the house! 

In the meantime, me & Mr. C. will cast on,  knitting &  purling our lives in a unique red, white, and blue pattern, happy and content to know that our warm and woolly scarf grows warmer and woollier with each difference shared and understood.       

Love,

Chantal xoxox

The Cure

Sunday morning.  Slept in and woke up amazed that it was so late (8:30am….).  But like a spin of the kaleidoscope, my thoughts quickly turned from snuggling in a warm bed to wondering what is the measure of my faith?  Yeah, I know, that’s a leap, isn’t it…… It’s the Sunday-morning-thing, where I’m now like a fish out of water, feeling I should be in one place, but finding myself in another, afraid of judgements (from others) and loathing (from myself).    This brave, new territory is unfamiliar, I’m unsure of how to express my spirituality anymore.  I’ve reached that crossroads that so many face, and yet I always felt it would never be my own experience.  I always thought I’d travel the safe road of organized religion til the day I died.   Despite having been preyed upon (as opposed to prayed upon, ha!) as a kid, and despite being officially excluded from certain rituals and sacraments because of my remarried state (thankfully no one human person has ever made me feel excluded from the Church, except the Church itself), I found lots of comfort and healing, doing all the things I did to express myself spiritually, Catholically (that’s my new word).

And then I didn’t.  No comfort, no healing.   Only sorrow and sadness and bewilderment. 

And it’s the sorrow and sadness, and especially the bewilderment, that trickle and flow inside me, like a thawing creek bed with melting snow and ice, revealing the cold, hard rocks underneath.   These cold rocks and pebbles that are smoothed by the passage of time and water.  Maybe the sorrow/sadness/bewilderment works the same way on my soul, smoothing, shaping, pushing along.  

(Spring Creekbed by Jake Wells, 2006)

The questions bubble to the surface and break:   Where do I go from here?  How do I find me a new set of spiritual chops?  Better ones than I had?  I have this craving inside to be close to Him again, and yet I don’t know how.   This makes me cry.  I question all of my attempts at prayer, I start off with gratitude and praise for His gifts and then quietly mumble my apologies for my smallness, my doubts and my unwillingness to reconcile what I know of Him with what I’ve come to despise about the Church.   In my heart, I know He’s bigger than the Church.  In my heart, I know that He knows that I try to let His love shine through my actions, even if I’m not an “active participant”.  And I know that He knows I fail at this, and sometimes I fail miserably. 

I can separate church and state, I can separate church and God.  It’s finding Him after I’ve separated Him from church that seems elusive.   I lack understanding of His word, and I wish for more discipline and desire to read and meditate what He tells me in those pages.   I take Him for granted, because I know He’s there in all the kindnesses and love that I give and receive, but I’m so slow to realize it.   

But He is patient.  And for that, I sob in my bed on a Sunday morning, certain that a rekindling in my soul is imminent, but not knowing how to build an S.O.S. that is worthy, that my journey into this darkness is unknowable to myself, having now lost a compass.   The crying doesn’t last long, just long enough for me to sense that it’s more than just a boo-hoo-hoo kind of thing.  Maybe it’s an expression of my faith, of my soul.  Maybe my tears are a balm.   Maybe they’re a cure.

” Do you know a cure for me?  Why yes, he said. I know a cure for everything:  salt water.  Salt water?, I asked him.  Yes, he said, in one way or another:  sweat, tears or the salt sea. “                                                                                                       (Isak Dinesen, “The Deluge at Norderney”, from Seven Gothic Tales, 1934)

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

The Good, The True, The Tender…..

“Nor need we power or splendour, wide hall or lordly dome;

the good, the true, the tender, these form the wealth of home.”  

Sarah J. Hale (American writer, 1788-1879)

Mr. C:  Ok, now take the Highway 417 East ramp.

Me: Ok. 

(Kids jibbering in the back about songs on G’s iPod Shuffle)

Driving along 417 East in Ottawa, on our way to the Canadian Museum of Civilization for a day of fun and wonder.

Mr. C:  Now we have to watch for Exit 122 to Parkdale Avenue.

Me:  Ok  (driving along, marvelling at how easy it is to get around our capital city).  Read me the next few directions so I know what to watch for….

Kids in the back, listening to music, scrolling through the songs, talking and laughing about gross things that pre-teens find so funny…….

Mr. C:  Ok, once we take the exit, you’ll turn left onto Parkdale Avenue.  Then you drive about a mile and then you’ll take the ramp toward East.   After that you turn right onto the Ottawa River Parkway. 

Me:  Ok, that’s good. 

We reach Exit 122 and turn left onto Parkdale Avenue.

Me (watching for the next direction):  Ok, now where do I go again?

Mr. C:  It just says to take the ramp toward East. 

Me:  That’s it? 

Mr. C:  Uh-huh….

Me (driving along, probably too fast, suddenly seeing a median to my right with a sign “EAST” pointing towards a ramp on the right of the median, and below it a sign that says “WEST” indicating to continue straight through) (pointing): THAT’S IT THERE, RIGHT? 

Mr.C (pointing): EAST!

Brakes slamming, screeching, sideways skidding, BUMP-BUMP-BUMP, scraping, sudden stop……  The median found itself underneath our car.  

Mr. C: Everybody ok?

Me (nodding): …….

Kids: ……..

Mr.C (in a strong, gentle voice):  Just try driving forward and off, Sweetie…..

So I did. 

Kids (recovering & laughing):  Whoa!  Did you see how the Shuffle skipped when Mom hit the curb!…..Mom, next time, just keep going straight…..

Amazingly, the only (visible) damage was the front left hubcap that was dented & popping out when the wheel hit the curb and hopped the whole car up onto the median, which stands to reason as the front left wheel received most of the impact.   All the wheels were ok, nothing fell off from underneath the car…..We’ll know more next week when I take the car in.  I was sure I had busted up the wheels and ruined our Thanksgiving weekend in Ottawa.    As I continued our drive to the museum, I thought of how much worse it could have been…..when I saw the sign & realized I wasn’t going in the right lane, then felt myself losing control as I tried to get onto the East ramp, the car could’ve rolled had it hit the median any other way, or I could have found myself spinning back into traffic…..

I was a little shaken and completely embarrassed for the rest of the day, but tried to put it out of my mind so that we could enjoy our family time visiting one of the nicest museums I’ve ever been to.   I pride myself on being a good driver, and Mr. C has always said how safe he feels in a vehicle when I’m driving, that he doesn’t feel nervous as a passenger…..now I felt like a complete dweeb, worried that this incident would change the way he sees me.

But just when I think I love Mr. C as much as I possibly can, something happens and my heart grows bigger, because I’ve just discovered another aspect of his character that makes me love him even more. 

When I hit that median, he was very calm.  When he told me to drive off,  with a voice that people have when talking to someone who’s in shock who needs to react but won’t unless you use a gentle, authoritative tone.   Now I know I can count on him to be calm and clear-headed in an emergency, in case I can’t be.    As I reflected on this whole shebang (accent on BANG) in the days that followed, I knew I was married to one of the most caring and sensitive men in the world, because not once, NOT ONCE, did Mr. C ever say anything derogatory or mean about my driving.   He didn’t make any stupid jokes about women drivers.  He didn’t fly off the handle and scream at me.   In fact, once we parked the car at the museum and assessed the damage, he hugged me as I sobbed, and he immediately took the blame for the incident, saying he distracted me by shouting & pointing when he saw the East sign, and that HE should’ve been paying closer attention to where we were going.   

Nevertheless, I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t look him in the eye for a long while, yet he waited patiently, waiting for me to talk about it, then reassuring me that it was all ok.    Since that day, unless I talk about it, he doesn’t bring it up. 

Feeling that you’ve disappointed your sweetheart is not a good feeling.  Mr. C could easily have been angry with me, or continued to rub salt in the wound by being sarcastic or by ridiculing me, or he could have given me the silent treatment, thereby letting me know how stupid and incompetent of a driver I really am.  But Mr. C is a man whose strength lies as much in his heart as it does in his biceps.   I marvel at this tall, red-blooded American who has such a gentle grace about him, in how he intuitively senses what I need from him and gives it to me freely and in such subtle ways that I’m not always aware of  it until I’ve had time to reflect, like I’ve been doing for the past three days.   Then, after mulling over  his actions in my head,  the honesty of his love for me rises in my heart like the Harvest moon.  

With each passing day, with all of the joys that we share, with all of the deceptions that we face together, I’m rooted in security and peace of mind, knowing that no matter what, I’ve married a good man who will stand beside me through it all.  He asked me the other day how does a couple know they’ve reached the “true love” stage, when do they know they’ve passed the initial infatuation/romantic/lust stage…..(ok we don’t really get past the lust stage, do we?).   So I thought a little bit and said:  You know your love is true if it feels like you’re Home. 

Welcome Home, Mr. C……..

Love,

Chantal  xoxoxo

A Fall Reading List For You

A word to you, dear reader:  I had included the links to all the books listed below in my original posting, but somehow the gremlins got in and the links did not work properly.  I’ve disabled the links for now, and I’ll try and fix them asap for you, so please return here if you’re interested.  Thank you, and so sorry for this.  (Really, I want to swear like a sailor and scream like a banshee, but I will refrain). 

I’ve been doing alot of reading, and realized that I have not posted about what I’ve read in a very long time.   Every day is a good day to read, but in the Fall, I start wanting to read even more.  

I recently attended an information night at my daughter’s new school (she’s in grade 7, Lord help me), where the teachers presented their curriculum for the year, and I was duly impressed with their enthusiasm and desire to teach children in that age group.  I could never be a teacher, so to me, anyone who chooses to do this of their own volition, who holds the education of children over and above their desire for advancement or to make money, has my respect.    

That night, G’s French teacher presented her material, but before she did, she began by saying that someone who reads every day holds the keys to not only understanding  themselves, others, and the world, but to learning  how to learn.   Which is very important for a teacher facing a classroom every day;  children who don’t read have a harder time learning, and eventually become adults who don’t read and can’t stay focused. 

I’m fortunate that my mother gave me this gift of reading from the time I could flip the pages of the books lining our bookcase, and thankfully P & G have inherited this same love-for-reading gene, in spite of the attention-grabbing computer and video game worlds.   I can’t imagine not reading, and next to music, reading and writing are my most favourite activities. 

Ever notice how you can tell that you’re having a conversation with a book reader  as opposed to someone who rarely reads anything more than traffic signs?   Formal education, social status,  home environment,  physical health, family……all those things are moot when it comes to talking with someone who reads on a regular basis.    I’ve tread very shallow waters talking with university graduates with great family connections, big important careers, fabulous wardrobes, perfect nails and fancy licence-plated vehicles that cost more than my yearly salary.   I can tell they don’t read (much) because the mutual interest goes no further than what’s on the outside.   The conversation quickly becomes vacuous, and eventually all about them. 

But I have done some amazing deep-water diving, talking with readers from all walks of life, who have some or  little or no formal education, family lives that are less than stellar and usually turbulent, who are unemployed or toiling at a day job while nursing that passion that burns inside of them, be it playing in a band or moonlighting as a chef, or just trying their best to be their best.   I think of the richness that has been added to my life by knowing people who were illiterate, people who would love nothing more than to be able to read but who’s circumstances have prevented them; these people give so much grace and wisdom to those around them.     There’s much to be said for not judging a book by its cover, or its past, present, and future……

People who read formulate opinions and are able to consider others’ thoughts with a little more equilibrium.  People who read can express themselves in ways that build their confidence, which comes in real handy for those who are shy.    People who read can talk about a variety of things with others, they have the opportunity to dream and let their thoughts take flight with what they’ve read.   They are stimulated  spiritually and mentally.   Not only that, but a reader’s brain undergoes all these great synapses that allows them to stay focused, to pay attention, which is important for children and adults alike.   People who read learn patience, learn how to connect ideas, they learn to take their time to learn.     

Now before there’s an uproar over the value of someone who reads over someone who doesn’t, let me clarify that someone who doesn’t read is not someone who can’t read.   Someone who can’t read probably has more skills and a finer-tuned mind than someone who can read but chooses not to.  What a waste.   I guess I can’t imagine what it would be like to be quite capable of reading, but of not being interested, of not having that fire lit inside. 

The next time you’re reading, or you see someone reading, don’t make the mistake of thinking that reading is a passive, non-engaging, anti-social activity.  There’s alot more going on than what you see, and the benefits to humanity that come from the simple act of reading are endless.  Think about that while you have a look-see at books I’ve loved reading in the past few months. 

 

Oryx and Crake  by Margaret Atwood

A gift from Mr. C., which we brought with us for Ms. Atwood’s personal autograph when we met her last November.  A thrill of a lifetime for me (thank you, Mr. C.) .  I devoured this story, and was not disappointed.

Why Do I Love These People?   by Po Bronson

This book has the capacity to renew your belief in the power of family.   Each story in this book was touching and had something in it to which I could relate.  It’s the kind of book you want to buy for everyone you know.

Night Gardening  by E.L.Swann

I know, it’s a romance.  But it’s not your ordinary romance.  It’s way more sensuous, without being ever being trashy or silly.  I think I found this book at the library book sale, and I liked the cover.  I was surprised by the central characters, who are not your typical main romance characters.   It’s a beautiful, very sensual story of two older and wiser people…..there should be more stories like this.

 

Listening Is an Act of Love : A Celebration of American Life from the StoryCorps Project

Another gift from my sweet Mr. C.  I took this book along with me when the children & I visited PEI in July 2008, to have a reminder of my husband who was still living in Florida at the time.  I would read it at night in the  little by-the-sea cottage that I had rented for the week, while the kids slept,  and I’ve re-read it since then.   Surround yourself with good things, I say.  This book  will be dog-eared, I’m sure….. it already has tea stains on it.  A sign of being loved.   

You’re In Canada Now….. A Memoir Of Sorts   by Susan Musgrave

Another twice-read book……Susan Musgrave is one of Canada’s poets and so far, her life has been veeeerrrryyyy interesting. 

Elsewhere by Gabrielle Zevin

I found this book at the library book sale, read it in two days, then discovered it was a teen fiction.  I don’t know why that mattered, and actually, it doesn’t.  And I’m sorry to admit that, had I known beforehand that it was a teen fiction, I never would have probably picked it up, let alone read it.   So much for not judging a book by its cover, or in this case, its gendre (I think the reason I took it WAS because of its cover!) The story is thought-provoking, the characters endearing, and I would probably read other of Ms. Zevin’s books.

 

Longing  by J.D. Landis

This was one of those $2.00 bargain books at Chapters (which they don’t have anymore….that store really has changed over the past few months…..it’s not so much fun to go there anymore, but that’s another story for another day).  The story intrigued me, and when I began to read it, my intrigue continued to grow.  This is a book that makes you want to learn more and more about what  you’re reading, about the characters (in this case Schumann & Wieke), about the historical places and events that were going on, it makes you want to seek out their classical compositions and find performances of their work on YouTube.  This is a book that you underline passages, because they are so well-written, or they have struck that C chord in your heart.  I will have to re-read this book a second time, but much slower.  The first time, I was reading it through, anxious and wanting to know what was going to happen next.  It was like eating all the chocolates that I could in one sitting, and knowing they tasted good and sweet, but not really getting the chocolate high, you know?  The next time I read this book, I will savour it and take my time to research the historical characters as I come upon them in the book, so that I can have a better context.    

How To Lose Friends & Alienate People:  A Memoir  by Toby Young

OMG! OMG! OMG!  Read the book then see the movie, like Mr. C. did, or see the movie then read the book, like I did.  But do both.  This was a hilarious read, and much deeper and thought-provoking than I thought it would be, after seeing the movie.   Despite all that he says and does, in the end I was cheering for him.  I’m looking forward to reading his next one. 

The Weight of Water  by Anita Shreve

A dramatic account of an historical event on the U.S. east coast, this author has magically woven a very different past and present into a story where crossroads are reached and to continue the journey requires courage and trust. 

 

Homer & Langley  by E.L.Doctorow

Holy moly, what a discovery I’ve made!  When I saw this new book in the New Arrivals section at the library, I quickly nabbed it.  Hot off the presses!   And I was not sorry.  The story itself is fascinating, but I’ll let you read the book and its reviews.   Go on Wikipedia and search for the Collyer Brothers AFTER you’ve read the book.   What entranced me was  E.L. Doctorow’s writing style.  He is an American treasure who  transforms words into works of art.  This was a book where not only did I lose myself in the story, but I found myself reading and re-reading passages because of  the sheer beauty and genius of this writer.     And imagine my delight when I was looking at the book titles in our bookcase at home, and came across E.L. Doctorow’s Sweet Land Stories!  I must have got this book somewhere along the way and shelved it for a rainy day……Ah, would you look at that, it’s raining……

To you, dear reader,  I thank you for taking time out of your day to read my thoughts on reading, and I hope these book recommendations will give you hours of enjoyment and lead you to other writings that bring goodness to your life.  See?  That’s another, lesser-known benefit of reading:  someone is thankful you read their stuff.  

Love,

Chantal

As You Wish

I had alot of fantasy games that I would play when I was a child, and being as I was mostly a solitary kid, I never ran out of imagination to fill my time with.    I had friends, of course (some real, some not), but I was mostly content doing things on my own, letting my creativity and imagination come out however it would.    I remember once playing with paper cut-out dolls (by myself), and I guess I was really good at giving my dolls voices, because when my mother came upon me in the living room, she was sure I was sitting there playing paper dolls with friends (real ones)!  She  told me about that later on in the day, and for some reason, that story stuck.    As an adult, I came to find out that people were worried about me back then, because I was a loner kind of kid; and sure, there were periods of time where I was too alone, but in retrospect, I see that now as being a form of self-preservation from what I was going through at the time as a young girl preyed upon by a vulture.    But no worries, folks, I turned out ok!    At the time, however, I don’t remember feeling lonely, and I don’t remember longing to play with other kids when I was alone.   I just preferred doing my own thing, I suppose. 

One of those “own things ” was playing school.    I liked school, I didn’t love school.   But I looooved playing school at home.  I often converted my bedroom into a classroom, with stuffed animal students, and my little round  formica play-table serving as the Teacher’s Desk.   When my parents bought the corner store, I had a whole basement to play in, and over the years, many parts of that basement were converted into my school space.   I loved playing school so much that on the last day of school, I would bring a garbage bag, gather all the discarded workbooks from my classmates who had better things to think about, and I would drag my loot home, where I would divvy all the papers into piles and prepare my “class”.   This, on the LAST day of school!  Good grief….

Going to friends’  houses and discovering that they loved to play school, too was the greatest!  I’d get ideas from how they did things, how they set things up, what they used for desks, and how they decorated their “classroom”.   My friend  in grade 5 or 6, her name was Darquise, (yes she was real…..),  she was a popular girl, always the teacher’s pet.  So it was a privilege to get invited to her house.  She had five siblings, and part of their basement was converted to a classroom, with real student desks that their dad had obtained from some sale at the school board.  They had it all, the supplies, the decorations on the walls, the blackboard, even the little bell on the teacher’s desk.  I was in heaven.   Darquise, her siblings & I would play til I had to leave for supper, and I’m only sorry I didn’t get to go back more often.  I met Darquise again a dozen years ago, where we ran into each other at  Wal-Mart (surprise), and guess what she is now?  A school principal! 

But that’s not the point of my story.   Little girls who play school don’t all grow up to be school principals.  Some little girls who played school grow up to be government employees with dreams of writing writing writing.   And they have the good fortune of marrying a man who is a heart-reader.   

We’ve just moved from an apartment to a house,  which means Mr. C. & I are having a blast, shopping the classifieds and visiting the bargain stores for some much-needed good used furniture.   Little by little, we figure out what we need the most, then scour the ads, hoping to find THE bargain.  And we usually do.  So as we slowly settle into our little castle, I saw the need for a small desk that might be set up in the kitchen,  like a little office space kind of deal, you know, to put our papers in, pay bills, make lists, a place where we can find our stuff.   We left it at that, and continued our search for some piece of furniture that would fit the bill.  (When you furnish your house this way, as opposed to walking into a furniture store and saying I want this & this & this,  you need patience and the undying faith that something good will turn up if you just wait long enough…..hold on to that thought because it will become important later on in the story).

So I drive up to the house one night after work, and Mr. C’s truck is backed up in the driveway, and there’s this HUGE old-fashioned wooden desk sitting in the back.  It’s like a schoolteacher’s desk from the forties, with three drawers on either side, pull out shelf-y things at the top to write on, and a drawer in the middle.   And brass drawer pulls.  Not cheapy metal, brass.     Think Sherriff Andy Taylor’s desk in the Andy Griffith Show.    It’s very scuffed and the top of it would need some serious refinishing.   But that’s not what I see. 

I see that little girl again, playing school in her room, sitting at her formica table, imagining herself a great teacher to her panda bears and dolls…I see dreams floating out and around, dreams of being someone special, dreams of mattering to someone, dreams of accomplishing good things but not quite knowing how, dreams of creating a life,  long-ago extinguished dreams of following her heart only to find out that her heart wasn’t in it, dreams of writing.  Not the next great novel or bestseller, just writing.  Period. 

“It’s for you.  We can put it in the family room, and you can set yourself up in there.”  He’s come outside to see what I think of this big old piece of furniture.  He thinks I’ll be disappointed in his offering.   Two weeks prior, at the pharmacy  he & his co-workers were renovating , he asked if anyone wanted the old desk up in the bookkeeper’s nook.  Nobody did, it was free for the taking, so he put dibs on it, paying his work buddies some  beer money to help him load this used-up unwanted desk onto his truck.  Two weeks without saying a word, two weeks of holding in this most wonderful surprise.   He thinks I’ll be disappointed with this old beat-up desk that was so big & bulky back in its day that they had to saw off the back legs  just to get it into that bookkeeper’s nook. 

He thinks I’ll be disappointed…..heck, I am so excited that I feel I could pratically haul the thing out myself!   Over and over, as we set it down, as we clean it off, as we position it in the corner in the family room by the French doors so that there’s lots of light, I thank him, over and over.  I can’t come up with anything more profound to say than “This is the best gift anyone has ever given me!”, hoping he can  really feel how much his thoughtfulness means  to me.    At the time, that was all I could articulate, but this is what I was really trying to tell Mr. C.:

You haven’t yet  sought to create any corner of the house as your own, as your domain, your own special place to write.   Between the two of us, you are the writer,  I’m more the putter-downer-of-ideas.   And yet, the first piece of furniture that could serve you as YOUR writing place, you give it to me.   To set up with my things, my books, my pictures, my laptop.  My space.  A room of my own, as Virginia Woolf would say.  

You bring me this beautiful desk, this very used and abused desk, with sticking drawers and wobbly tablets, a desk only a dreamer could love.  A desk to store all my dreams in, all of my school-girl aspirations that grew and eventually dissipated….or maybe those aspirations only clouded up  into a different atmosphere, re-shaped into different purposes.   A desk only a dreamer could love,  loving it with each object she places on it, loving it by filling up drawers, loving it by running her hand over the rough-yet-smooth surfaces while she ponders the past, while she ponders passed the regretful past and into the joyful present. 

I have never received a more meaningful gift from the heart, Mr. C.   The desk is a tangible symbol of who I was before, and who I am now.  It ties you to me in a way that nothing else does.  Had we found this desk together in the classifieds or at a used furniture shop, it would not have the same meaning for me.  The fact that you saw it, you saw its possibilities, and you offered it to me is one of the purest expressions of love.   When you furnish your house this way…when a couple seeks to care for the other more than for the self, it requires patience and faith.  When the motivation is the other person’s joy, it makes patience and faith a piece of cake.   Adjusting to being a couple is not always a piece of cake, but I’m grateful to Him for having given me the patience to wait for you to mosey on into my life, and the wisdom to recognize the gift that you truly are.        

My relationship with Mr. C. is much like my relationship with my desk:  it’s a work-in-progress.  I move things around, I try different approaches, I make mistakes,  I  appreciate it more and more as time goes on.   I see the faults and the quirks (his, mine, AND the desk’s) as part of  the whole, without which it would not mean anything to me.   I get to take my dreams and bring them to new levels of realization.   So no, I won’t be looking to change it, or refinish it, or give it a new look.  If anything needs changing, it’s my own perceptions.   From the moment I laid eyes on my desk, I accepted it as it was, and I love it as it is.   From that early moment when I knew that Mr. C.  and I were true companions, I accepted that moment as it was, and I love him as he is. 

My desk

Class dismissed.

Love, Chantal xoxox

Being

End-of-the-school-year (G is gone camping for 3 days with her class, little graduation ceremonies, school concerts, outings).        Soccer season starts (P is playing competitive soccer this summer, which means 2 games per week  one hour after I get off work, which means rushing to pick him up at school, then trying to find time to get something nutritious in his body, then get him to his game on time…..plus practices and tournaments…..need to find alternative to McD’s….find time this weekend to come up with fast easy things to eat that can be prepared at home & taken along).       Mr. C has a new job (have to brush up my massage skills to counter those 10-hour days on his feet….and need to make those minutes left over at the end of the day count.   It’s nice to take care of those you love).     New digs await us in a few weeks (we haven’t started packing yet…..but we are SO ready for our new place with THREE bedrooms!  No more mouldy apartment……).    Meeting my new sisters-in-law (SIX of them!) and their families next week at a family wedding for which I don’t have a dress yet…….I tried one on yesterday, a nice cream silky number with a beautiful purple flower print & a sash, except I looked like a big grape   (no pressure, I still have 7 shopping days left……minus 3 soccer nights and one child’s friend’s birthday party evening, so 3.5 days left, really….ok, there’s a little bit of pressure there); need to find something that makes me look like I am, a happy woman, wife and mother, not something that makes me look like I’m rushing from one thing to the next, trying to keep up with this culture that imposes too much on everybody, and certainly something that doesn’t make me look like a giant fruit, no matter how tasty. 

So I’m taking this little moment with you, to breathe and thank God for all my blessings.  I don’t usually like to ask Him for favours, but if I can be given what I need, to be the mother, the wife, the woman that I have to be, that’s all I can ask for.  And I’m willing to put all my energy into being that being.   In spite of my human frailties.   Maybe because I’m such a human.

Blessings to you as you go on living your day and being your own being for those you love. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

If The Shoe Fits

I’m sitting at the car dealership, signing my name on endless papers, turning in my trusty little Hyundai Accent for a new lease on a shiny pearl-black Elantra.  Four doors!  Air-conditioning!  Good on gas, especially now that gas price fluctuations look like temperature readings of a feverish child (100.5, 101.6, 100.6).

So I’m sitting there with Tom the head sales guy, before heading off to work, making this very grown-up lease purchase, nodding and uh-huhing like a pro as if I understand all the car-sales lingo that Tom is throwing out as he explains the various warranties and terms that I’m signing.  Plus I’m feeling very grown-up and summery in my new thrift-store stylish summer skirt, the bargain that I couldn’t wait to wear but had to because the weather hasn’t been that warm yet to go bare-legged.   But today, rain or shine, I’m signing a new lease for a new car and I’m wearing my new-to-me skirt with bare legs and last year’s summer mules!  So I’m feeling good, it’s a good day, I can feel good things happening!

I thank Tom, and he stands up to come around his desk to show me out, and as I rise from my chair, I really have no idea how I managed this but I did.   My feet get caught somehow and I stumble as I get up and nearly crash into Tom’s office door.  Which was embarrassing enough.  But this is me, and embarrassing enough is usually never embarrassingly enough.

My slip-on cute little mule shoe manages to come off of my left foot in my attempt to regain my balance, and lies there, on the floor, face down heel up.  Tom, who is shorter than me, stands there after making a little “whoa” sound when I lost my balance, and we both look down at my bare foot and my upturned shoe.  

Like my older sister taught me, when in a dilemna, think  “What would Jackie O do?” .   If this happened to Jackie O, Tom the head sales guy would have shown his chivalrous side and  bent down himself to turn over her shoe and hold it there while she slipped her dainty foot back in.   But this is 2009, and I’m not Jackie O.    I look at the dirty underside of my shoe.  I inwardly curse its dirtiness and its bad timing at exposing itself this way.   I can’t even nudge it with my toe to flip it on its right side again and slip my foot back in like it was nothing….noooooo, I have to bend down and turn my shoe over with my hand and straighten back up and then put my stupid shoe back on.   All of this with Tom the head sales guy looking on.   That whole process made it impossible for me to brush it off and act like this happens to me all the time.   There was nothing to say.  It was more of  a Bridget Jones moment than a Jackie O moment. 

You can dress me up in the cutest thrift-store skirts,  but you can’t take me out.  

Love,

Chantal Jones

She Thanked Her Sorrow

 The title of this post is from a poem by Terri St.Cloud called Driving Home.  It’s part of a collection of her poems in a book called “Over Tea“.   I received this jewel in the mail the other day, a thoughtful gift from my dear friend, Sorrow,  who by the grace of friendship must have sensed that  I needed a picker-upper. 

So I have this wondrous book that I keep very close at hand, like my own private cheering section, with its poetry of comfort and reassurance.    I’m not sure if Terri’s full intent was to put into words what so many of us are lacking in courage to say to ourselves, let alone to others, but she does so with great sensitivity.  Even her name,  Terri St.Cloud,  evokes a soft blue, fluffy bathrobe that envelops you in assurance and caring.

Some poems are a dozen lines or more, some are just one powerful sentence, but each is set on its own page, a small island of solace in an expanse of creamy hushed paper.    I’m refraining from the urge of getting my kids’ colouring pencils out and drawing in the emotions I feel in the space around those poems.   I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold out!    I’ve read it cover to cover, and now I return to it often, reading at random Terri’s thoughts on friendship and on discovering the beauty of the other.  

You know, beauty is often something we overlook, especially in this world where our focus is pulled in so many different (and un-beautiful) directions.  We think we know what makes up a beautiful person, a beautiful character, a beautiful mind.   But letting the media, or anyone else for that matter, dictate to you what is and is not beautiful, is a path of soul destruction.   Be careful, though, it’s not by closing up or censoring that beauty emerges.   Opening my mind has been a way for me to see that in fact, it’s the “not beautiful” that truly is.   If you see the beauty in others but not in yourself, does that count?  Does seeing the beauty in others make you beautiful?   If who or what you see makes you feel beautiful just by being in its presence or just by looking at it, isn’t that true beauty?  Isn’t being moved by someone’s spirit or the light in their eyes, or soaking up the four thousand shades of green that you see at this time of the year, isn’t that the kind of beauty that transforms a person?   Doesn’t  beauty, and recognition of it,  sometimes come from pain and sorrow?   Terri’s poetry is about discovering that beauty in yourself and in others. 

http://www.robinlassiterart.blogspot.com/

I thank my Sorrow, tuck it away, and continue my drive Home.

Love,

Chantal  xoxoxoxo

A Little Rx

It’s OK!  Don’t panic!  You’re in the right place!  It’s still me, at Ain’t Life Strange…..I just mixed up the colours a little.

Being as I spend alot of time staring at a computer screen at work, I fiddled with the colours on my monitor a long time ago to come up with a combination that was soothing to my eyes.  Most of my co-workers  have the black background  with coloured writing, either red or blue or even hot pink!  I always found those combinations to be too bright, so I found that a medium grey background with white and black writing worked the best for me.  Because we sometimes move around alot, I got wise and wrote down the colour combinations so that I don’t have to waste time fiddling with the colours on my computer every time I move (if only I could remember where I put that paper…..) 

The most frequent comment I get when people see my screen is :  “How can you see that?  Don’t your eyes hurt?”  I’ve come up with “It works for me!   Now whaddaya want?”.  Ok, maybe I don’t really say whaddaya want…….  But I really like my choice of colours on my computer, especially that they don’t make my eyes tired.

So today, I’m reading this snippet in Zoomer magazine:

CONVENTIONAL, SQUINT-INDUCING LOOSE-LEAF PAPER HAS MET ITS MATCH.

Whitelines, the brainchild of Swedish designer Olof Hansson, is a carbon-neutral collection of writing paper and note pads that puts white lines against a grey background, erasing the perceptional stress that can occur on eyes when dark lines appear on a gleaming white background.  Hansson’s eco-minded masterwork translates into low CO2 emissions and line-free photocopies, making whatever you write and draw easier on the eyes — and the environnment.               Jessica Green  -  Zoomer magazine, June 2009

AHA!  White lines against a grey background…..just like my easy-on-the-eyes computer screen!  I was gratified to read that a very cool and hip designer, from Sweden no less, put this great idea to good use.  Now when people go ugh at my screen, I can tell them, Hey, Olof thinks this idea is so cool, he applied it to writing paper and now markets his Whitelines with great success.  So if it’s good enough for Mr. Hansson, innovator and designer, it’s good enough for me. 

So I got to thinking about you, faithful blog reader.  How are your eyes?  When you read my blog, were your eyes getting tired from reading the black writing on the harsh white background?  Did you have to squint after a while just to get through my latest post?  I’m assuming that if your eyes did get tired, it wasn’t  because of my writing.   (It’s not, is it?) 

I’ve had the same blog theme since I started writing here two years ago, now.   I’ve checked out other themes, but I always came back to the same one, white background, pink outlines, with the pen at the top.  Simple, clean, leaving more room to focus on the writing.  But after reading about Whitelines today, I thought maybe Ain’t Life Strange could stand a little change, and maybe I could ease the strain on your eyes while I was at it.  So I found this new theme that has a similar layout to my old theme, because I like change, but not too much.   The colours are a little bold, red and black and grey are all power colours, which don’t really describe me…..I would’ve liked the red header to be a soft pink or a nice light olive green, or maybe a peaceful blue like the domes of Santorini, Greece.   But the white writing on the grey background should mean less eye strain. 

I’m going to keep this theme for a little while, see how it goes.    I like it more than I dislike it, but I’m also wanting to know what you think.   Don’t be shy.  Don’t hold back.   If you hate it, you hate it.  You can tell me.  I can take it.  No, really, I can take it.   I know I’m sensitive and you know I’m sensitive, and being sensitive means that I can take anything you can dish out.  After I’ve cried.

I’m KIDDING!!!!!!

Life is good. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxox