Huston, We Have Lift-Off

Nancy Huston is my favourite writer, hands down.  Although Margaret Atwood comes a close second.   Maybe they’re tied for first.   Anyhow, I’ve just gobbled up the latest of Huston’s books,  Fault Lines.   In fact, I gobbled it twice:  when I reached the end, I wanted it to go on, and I was so taken and astounded by her power of weaving this story that I returned to the beginning and read it all over again, with a new perspective.  

I’m not saying anything about the story subject of Fault Lines, I don’t want to spoil it.  I’m not saying anything about the remarkable talent Huston has for drawing you into the story and keeping you there…..ok, I guess I just did.  Reading her novels is like hearing echoes of your past.  Or of your present.  You’ll be carrying on in your daily life, doing dishes, driving to work, playing with your kids, then whoops, you find yourself thinking of a certain character, or a particular event you’ve read in one of her books and you can’t wait to sink back into it to discover the affinity you share, or to explore the aversion you sense rising inside of you.  

Now, this is not chick lit.   Nor will you find a big ugly “Opr*h’s Pick” sticker on Nancy Huston’s books.  (I apologize to all Opr*h lovers out there, I am not one of you.  While I’m at it, I’m not a W*l-M*rt hugger either.  Sorry).  

Nancy Huston’s novels are dark and reveal things of human beings that we know are there, but that we don’t always talk about.   Human revelations.    The emotions felt for the characters, especially in Fault Lines, swing from empathy to antipathy and back again.  Much like our own feelings toward ourselves. 

Her greatest appeal for me is how she tells her stories with a respect for the reader’s intelligence.  

Along with Fault Lines,  I’ve listed other books of Nancy Huston that I’ve read, in my page “The Ideal Life According to Mark Twain”.  

 

 

   

Meet the PHIMHs

I don’t know which causes me more aggravation, my fear of carwashes, or my inability to say the right thing in moments where I’m intimidated.  I try to take on the voice of someone I know who is really good at speaking their minds, but their voice comes to me hours after the fact.  Kind of defeats the purpose.  I wish my brain would have an automatic-pilot retrieval system, where as soon as my body gives physical signs that my mouth is about to shut down, this little mechanism kicks in to make the right words travel from my brain to my vocal chords.

I live in a 60-unit building.  We have three washers, three dryers, that’s it.  In consideration for my fellow tenants, when I do laundry, I only do one load at a time, not three.  It can sometimes take up an entire afternoon and evening to do it this way, depending on how many loads I’ve got (because I usually wait til we almost run out of underwear or facecloths before I declare laundry day).  The point is it’s not fair to anyone for someone to hog the machines.  If you have 6 loads of laundry that you need to get done ASAP, go to the laundromat down the street. 

Friday, the kids were off school due to a teachers’ professional development day so I took the day off.  We had done our errands, now it was raining and I thought it would be a good time to do laundry.  So I sorted my five loads, and brought the first one down to the laundry room.  Great, nobody here, Friday afternoon, most people are at work.  Thirty minutes later, I’m back down to put the first load in the dryer, and to wash the second load.  Thirty-one minutes after that, I walk back down with my third load, and I’m greeted by the PHIMHs (pronounced fimz; one fim, two fimz) committee.  PHIMH = Paris Hilton Is My Hero.  That probably tells it all, but I’m on a roll, so I’ll elaborate.

Allow me to introduce you, although I’m sure you have some PHIMHs wandering your neighbourhood too:  These two particular PHIMHs are roommates in my building.  They’re in their mid-twenties.  They wear their perfectly highlighted & straightened hair in an updo made to look messy but which probably takes them hours to perfect.  They wear capri  leggings with hoodies as a casual fashion statement, and walk with their Yorkshire Terriers tucked under their arms, like furry luggage.  Always.  I’ve never seen those dogs walk.  Their faces (the girls, not the dogs) are caked with bronzer, their makeup would be called Club Chic (but not by me), lots of eyeliner around those flat, heavy-lidded eyes that look through people, never at them, and lots of lipgloss on those lips that never smile.  Ever.  Not at anyone.  They are way too busy concentrating on keeping their noses in the air to smile at anyone.   I see them with nice, easy-going-looking guys, but the guys appear more as porters (of dogs) or lackeys who follow them two steps behind, and to whom the PHIMHs speak to over their shoulder.  They drive expensive silvery gold SUVs with cream interior.  I have no idea what these two do for a living, but I don’t think it’s in anything remotely connected to working with people……how could you when you’re so busy projecting yourself as being better than everyone else just by the fact that you are….what?  Better-looking?  I’ve seen these girls rush ahead into the building when they saw someone coming loaded down with grocery bags and not even hold the door for them.  They just walked in with their precious doggies under their arms and let the door close behind them seconds before the poor man reached the door.  And it’s not like they didn’t see him.  He was maybe five to ten paces behind them.   If you happen to ride the elevator with the PHIMHs, they visibly cringe at having to actually share space with others, and converse loudly with each other until the elevator door opens and they quickly exit, without ever having made eye contact or said good day to anyone.   

These are the girls in high school who were pros at excluding others and being obnoxious and nasty if not to your face, then behind your back.   They could make even the teachers feel lower than a worm.    Frankly, I wish the PHIMHs would all migrate to Hollywood to feed on each other and leave the rest of us to live in harmony.  So back to my laundry story. 

I arrive in the laundry room with my third load.   One PHIMH is SITTING cross-legged ON the folding table, the table that is meant to FOLD CLEAN laundry, with her DOGGIE on one side and piles of dirty laundry on the other side.  The other PHIMH is standing by the washing machines, as if she’s guarding them with her life.  They’ve loaded the other two available ones with their laundry.  They’ve opened the lid of the third machine that has MY clothes in it, I guess to show me that I’ve kept the divas waiting.  I only have one basket with me, and it’s filled with my third load of dirty laundry.  I take out my wet clothes, put them on top of my dirty clothes and haul it to the dryers.  Now this is a very small laundry room, maybe 10 feet x 10 feet.  I’m guessing.  I have one load of towels drying in one of the dryers.  I don’t want to take up more than one dryer, because I’m considerate.  But I have my third load that I want to put in the washer that I just emptied, and now the standing PHIMH barely waits til I’m out of the way before she starts loading up the third washing machine!  She saw I had a basket of dirty clothes…..GRRRRR!   I sigh, because now I won’t get to do this third load.  I open my dryer and start folding the towels, wishing the idiot PHIMH  who was sitting on the table with her freaking dog would move so I could fold my stuff properly…..but no, she stays there, picking at her nails, talking to her roommate in that affected Valley Girl accent, peppering her conversation with ”like uh….like uhh….yeah….uhh…..”  Real intelligent.   I finish folding my towels, I put my second load of wet laundry into the dryer, and the standing PHIMH nearly knocks me over with her laundry cart as she goes by behind me!  No “Excuse-me I need to get by”, no nothing.  Of course not, silly me……she’s much more important, I should’ve been the one to get on my knees and grovel as she went by.    

Women like these two upset me, because they act like the world owes them everything, and that they are entitled.  They behave inconsiderately and they don’t care.  They don’t care about anyone but themselves, and they don’t care about how they affect the world around them.   I don’t care to change their behaviour, and I don’t care if they ever DO change their behaviour.  I would really love to body-check them into those washing machines.  That’s what I’d love to do.  Or at least have a really good comeback line which would be just as effective as a body-check. 

So P & I go back downstairs with the same dirty load to retrieve the clothes in the dryer.  Standing PHIMH is still there, but I see that the last washing machine has 6 minutes left before the cycle is over.  Good.  P & I fold the clothes that are in the dryer.  I turn to put them on the folding table, but it’s covered with piles of her dirty laundry.  So I set my clean folded clothes on the one chair, and I make small talk with P as we wait for the washing machine to become available.   Standing PHIMH  is looking at the sales flyers from the newspaper while she monopolizes all three machines.  She glances at me and says “Are you waiting for the machine?”  Whenever PHIMHs speak, it’s as if you have just sullied their environment by breathing the same air as they do; this affects their speech so that everything that comes out of their mouths has a tone of flatness & disdain.   So, to answer her question,  I smile (cause I always smile, especially when I’m ticked off) and say “Yes I am. I see that one’s done now.”, pointing to the last one.    “Oh”, she says, ” I still have two more loads to do….”   I straighten up, flash my green eyes at her, and with great control, I say “I’ve been waiting to put this load in.”  She looks at me with her big stupid eyes and her big stupid mouth starts: “Oh, well, I thought you were done before…..I have to get this laundry done….”  I swiped my clean clothes off the chair and plunked it as hard as I could on top of my dirty laundry and said “We ALL have to get our laundry done.”  She slunk to the machine and said a most insincere “Sorry”, so insincere and condescending that I wanted to ram it back down her throat so she would choke.  But I didn’t.    I was so mad that climbing the five flights of stairs was nothing, I could feel my blood pressure rising as the adrenaline coursed through my body.   P said “That lady wasn’t very nice.”  To which I replied “Don’t EVER date someone like that.” 

I flung myself on my bed when we reached the apartment, and I tried to breathe deeply.  It wasn’t helping.  I thought “If I don’t calm down, all this anger is going to harden my arteries.”  So I screamed into a pillow.  That helped.  The rest of the night was good (no I didn’t finish my laundry), and once I was calm, I thought about why this upset me so much.   If it had been anybody else, I would not even have thought twice about not being able to do my third load of laundry.  But it’s more about me then about them.  It’s about me not being able to have those words ready to tell somebody that they’re being jerks and to f*ck off.   No, that wouldn’t be good either I suppose.  I would be lowering myself to being rude & inconsiderate, and it would only contribute to the cycle of nastiness. 

BUT IT WOULD FEEL REAL GOOD!

P.S. The good thing that has come out of this is that the kids & I were able to talk about how our behaviours affect others.  My girl G’s advice to her mom was to let it go because one day the PHIMHs will have someone be rude to them.  Bad karma.  As I thought about it, I pictured the PHIMHs as little girls, and they probably grew up in a rude & inconsiderate environment….Geez I can’t even hold a grudge, and I know that if I see the PHIMHs again, I’ll forget the laundry room thing, and I’ll smile & hold the door for them & say what cute doggies they have.  All the while they’ll probably be cringing and thinking “Oooo there’s that (enter adjective of choice here) woman….”  That’s ok, I’ll be kind anyways. 

Love, Chantal xoxoxo

 

Carwash 2 Chantal 1

I can’t do it.  I just can’t do it.

I tried again a few weekends ago, and I was prepared this time.  I had a bottle of water in case my throat got dry and I started to choke, I had a good song I could sing out loud to with my eyes shut tight, it was a cool spring day, and the car was very dirty.  All the requirements for a much-needed, very overdue (like a YEAR) carwash. 

I have a hard time with carwashes.   I thought I had it beat, because I DID manage to go, by myself, in the carwash last March (not this past March, but the one before, in 07…..yes it’s been over a year since I washed my car).  And that wasn’t too bad.  Except for the part where I kind of froze once I drove inside.  I was unaware that I hadn’t driven far enough for the big door to close behind me…..which prompted the person waiting next to buzz the attendant….who came out and gingerly asked “Is everything ok, ma’am?”  I really wanted to ask him if he could just please please please please sit in the car with me while it was being washed, but I refrained.  I just said Yes, all’s good, thankyouverymuch,  in that high-pitched white-knuckled tone that we use when we know what evil is coming over the hill.  So he said very slowly (garage guys do this when they talk to women, they talk real slow, like we’re some crazy person who doesn’t know that she needs to drive up in order for the carwash door to close)…so he said, very slowly:  Wait until I leave, then drive up a little, the door will close and the carwash will start.   Thank you, I said, and did exactly as he instructed.  And it was all good, I stayed in the car, I didn’t open the door while the big brushes were swishing past.  I managed to keep the panic in my head and chest from exploding by singing to the radio, Kelly Clarkson’s Since U Been Gone.  I think that was my saving grace.  Saved  by American Idol.  Ha! 

Ok, so that was over a year ago.  I figured hey, I can do this again.  No problem.   I drove by the car wash several times, doing errands and stuff.  Each time I drove by, there was a long line-up of cars waiting.  Oh well, I thought, can’t go now, too many cars.  Oh well.  Later in the evening, I gathered my courage and drove to the carwash, bought my ticket, and proceeded to the carwash entrance.  Deep breath.  The entrance is designed that you drive up then turn right, drive behind the gas station & then to the carwash door.   So I drive up, then turn right, I see there are maybe six cars ahead of me.  

In the next ten seconds, I felt the panic ringing in my ears, I felt my chest tighten….I was hyperventilating and I wasn’t even  NEAR the carwash door!  My thoughts were exploding inside in rapid succession:  There’re too many cars ahead….I’m already panicking…..If I don’t back out now, someone will come up behind me and then I’ll be REALLY stuck, so I better back out now. 

So I tried to slowly back out, remembering that I had to turn as I was backing out……I can do an ok job of backing up in a straight line (sort of), but throw in a sharp turn plus a panic attack is more than I can handle because I’m really not a multi-tasker.  I DID back out slowly……so slowly I felt my right back wheel climb the curb of the entrance.  I thought, ok just take it slow, what goes up must come down, turn your steering a little and the back wheel will descend the curb….

Which it did, very slowly, except at the same time I was too close to the Carwash Entrance sign that sits ON the curb, which means I s-l-o-w-l-y scraped the side of my car with the edge of the metal sign.  Deep breath. 

I look at the people gassing up at the pumps….no one is looking at me and I can’t tell if they’re REALLY not looking at me or if they’re embarrassed to have witnessed such a sad display of carwash-phobia and DON’T want to look at me.  Either way, I’m grateful for this small mercy.  I take another deep breath, and feeling like a complete loser, I drive home to inspect a foot-&-a-half long curvy gash on the passenger side of my little Hyundai.    A reminder of my terrible inability to drive in reverse (which I’m sure I can master with practice) and of my continuing deathly fear of being in closed spaces in general, carwashes in particular.  That, I think, is one thing I don’t care to master with practice.  So I have a dirty car……oh well.   Soon the local armory or some other organization will be holding a car wash to raise funds.  I’ll wait til then I think….

Story of A Dress

She bought me at a Winners in her hometown.  It was about three years ago, in the fall.  In the company of her daughter, she was browsing the sales racks of summer dresses.

- We’re just looking, G…..we’re not buying anything. 

Her daughter was around eight or nine, just developing her sense of fashion.  She was actually walking on clouds because her mother was treating her like a grown-up, taking her fashion suggestions seriously.  Her little hands skimmed across the fabrics until she came upon me.  She grabbed my bottom half and pulled it out, then searched for the price tag. 

- Look, Maman!  This is a nice one, and it’s only twenty bucks!

She, the Maman, the recently separated Maman, took me off of the rack and held me against her.  Unknown to most people, dresses can read women’s thoughts, and this woman was thinking: What a great dress to wear on a special date one day, if ever someone should ask me out….or to wear to a summer wedding, if ever someone should ask me to be his date….I won’t be able to wear this dress now, but maybe next summer….and it’s only twenty bucks…..

With her daughter smiling at her while the cashier rang the purchase through, she handed over her money in exchange for the possibilities that I came to represent, for hope that maybe someday, she would be worthy of sharing her life with someone again…..

She hung me in her closet, along with her other summer dresses, which were equally pretty, but I knew I was special.  How did I know this, you ask?   I knew I was special, because she would feel my fabric and smile while thinking “My date dress….”   I knew I was special because I hung in her closet for three years before she actually wore me.  Oh, she took me out once in a while, and tried me on, swirling around in front of her mirror, wistful that none of the love interests in her life had asked her to go anywhere more special than the coffee shop  (Ok, there was Spaghetti Sauce Guy who DID take her to a nice restaurant once, but that was in winter….).   And I did come close to being worn one summer,  had Firefighter Guy not been such a disappointment by sending her a Dear Jane email, the morning of the evening that they were to go out to somewhere perfect for me to be shown off at.   She had even told him “I have the perfect date dress to wear….”  

So in the closet I stayed, patient and pretty.   In the meantime, she was busy working on being worthy of someone, of finding her worth, mistakenly thinking that she had control of this.   In her mind, she wouldn’t wear me until she found someone who she would be worthy of.   I wish dresses could talk instead of read women’s thoughts, because if I could talk, I would’ve told her that she was missing the point.  It wasn’t HER that needed to be worthy of someone, she was already there.  She didn’t know it, but she was waiting for someone to be worthy of her.  She wasn’t clueing in to the fact that so far, no one was worthy of her, not yet. 

Then one day, she began to glow.  I could see it even with the closet door closed.  She was having frequent long conversations on the telephone, sometimes they lasted late into the night (she who hates talking on the phone and doesn’t usually have much to say, heck she doesn’t even own a cell)….I’d see her sitting on her bed, reading countless letters written on parchment paper, laughing and smiling as she read, sighing like a silly schoolgirl.   She’d fold the letters carefully, replace them in their envelopes, and tuck them back in the flowered box she kept by her bedside.  I could hear her in the kitchen, typing away at her laptop while music played, her creativity being fed by some muse…..she was writing constantly, on her computer, in her journals.  I knew from experience that when she wrote, she was usually anxious.  Yet there was not much anxiety lately.  Just alot of glowing woman goin’ on……

I must’ve had my zipper caught in fabric not to have realized this sooner….how did I miss those signs?  She had met him.  The one she could feel secure with.  The one who would love her with all of his being.  The one who would make sure she knew she was loved and cared for.   The one who walks the talk. 

The one who was worthy of her.

In the most remarkable of circumstances, he had come to her with his heart on his sleeve, without him even realizing that he was doing it.  No pretensions, no ego-puffing, no demands or expectations.  She recognized herself in him, in his sensitivity, in his passion, in his generosity.  All that she could ever hope for in a true companion, he filled it in spades.  And he did it with humility and sincerity.   Neither had set out to find the other, yet here they were, perfect in their imperfections, knowing that what they shared was sacred and true.  To explain this to others was futile and unnecessary…..I wanted to dance on my hanger, and shout it at the top of my spaghetti straps, but this was something you had to see to believe.   Quietly, slowly, they are making believers out of skeptics.

One day, she quietly packed a suitcase, quietly left her frozen Canadian winter and took a plane to the Sunshine State, to where her true companion lives, for a few days of quality time.  On a beach, away from the crowds, with a minister in attendance, she quietly stood beside the man she loves more than life itself.   The sun was setting in front of them, behind them the full moon was rising.   She turned to him, quietly she took his hand, and looking into his eyes, she vowed her undying love and fidelity.   As she spoke those words, she thought: I feel like a light is going through me, I’m smiling and I want to smile even more, I can’t smile enough, I can feel His Spirit inhabiting me, like a glorious affirmation….I can actually feel myself glowing…..

You might be wondering how I knew what she was thinking at that moment.  I knew because I was there…..

 

 Love,

The Mind-Reading Dress xoxo

 

To Zen & Back

Yesterday, I think WWIII was pre-empted in our household (at least temporarily).  I relegated P to his room to read for 10 minutes, while G sat at the dining room table doing her math homework.  P has been in a mood, where he takes extreme pleasure in teasing his big sister til she screams (which takes about 4 seconds).  It’s like he becomes this little whirling dervish of silliness and he can’t decide if he wants to make you laugh or make you lose it.   Dividing and conquering seemed to be the best option if I wanted to remain the adult here.   Cause I could quickly feel the overwhelming urge to lock myself in the bathroom until they turn 18 (nine more years…nine more years…..).    

So I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, marvelling at how rarely I take a moment for myself when I have the kids and wondering why the heck don’t I do this more often.  I breathe deeply to music from my yoga CD (I could do actual yoga, but I figure this is close enough), trying to pay attention to my posture, and to not letting my mind drift.   The music is asian-like, with instruments I can’t name but there are sounds of drums, something that sounds like a shakey-shake kind of instrument, like sand in a tube, there’s the sound of a flute, another one is like a sithar maybe, I’m not sure.

ANYWAYS…..  I have my eyes closed, but I can sense that P has come into the room.  I crack open an eye and watch as he jumps around, arms akimbo, moving in rhythm to the staccato of the drums.  He’s making his eyes all frowny while grinning like a Cheshire cat (do this in the mirror and see if you don’t start laughing at how ridiculous you look).  He’s bare-chested, so I have this skinny little guy in his jeans, dancing a most inspired dance.  It’s the Dance-of-the-Boy-who-wants-to-make-his-mother-laugh-so-she-forgets-her-children’s-shenanigans. 

He jumps up on the bed beside me, and as my Zen-moment has passed, I ruffle his mop and ask him what this music makes him think of, what does he see in his mind as he listens.  I was expecting an answer like something Japanese, or a relaxing massage,  or even Pokemon.  P stops his dancing movements and very seriously, says:

Insects.  You know, when they’re dry?  They’re not dead, but they’re dry.  

It’s the earnestness of children that gets me every time.   Yoga will never be the same again.  I wonder if there’s a Dry But Not Dead Insect pose……..

(This welcome little interlude was a six-minute reprieve in a challenging evening of bickering, foot-stomping, door-slamming, under-breath-muttering, shouting, and all-around general button-pushing behaviour.  We have survived.)

 Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

 

  

Never Met A Chicken Salad I Didn’t Like

I’m at the airport in Toronto on Easter Sunday.  I have nearly six hours to wait for my flight home.  What to do, what to do?  I browse the bookstore and come away with 3 new books.   Having worked up an appetite, I stroll to Tim Horton’s and order myself an egg salad sandwich and a large black coffee.  The cashier repeats my order, takes my money.  The sandwich girl hands me a bag with my egg salad sandwich.  She even repeats what my order was.  Thank you very much, off I go to find a quiet place to eat & read. 

After walking for about five minutes, I head downstairs to my gate, my backpack,  too heavy with too many books,  digging into my shoulder.  I find a seat behind an older couple who were chatting on the phone to their grandkids.   I clip on my iPod Shuffle, turn on the tunes, and write a little in my journal.  I’m  getting hungry.   Eyeing  my egg salad sandwich wrapped in the brown paper bag, I think if I eat it now, I should be good til I get home.  At which time I’ll probably be too tired to eat and go straight to bed.  So I should eat it now….

Just a few moments more….I finish writing about my trip, put my journal away and unwrap my egg salad sandwich…..which has mysteriously metamorphosed into a chicken salad sandwich.  I hear myself go “uh” over the din of my music in my ears.   This would be no biggie, normally I would eat the sandwich, egg or chicken…….. except I’m a vegetarian. 

I replay the scene of the crime at Tim Horton’s over in my mind….I had distinctly ordered an egg salad sandwich.  The cashier repeated my order.  The sandwich girl had said ”Here’s your egg salad sandwich”.  To which I smiled and said thank you very much. 

Then I think, “Maybe egg salad sandwiches at Tim Horton’s in airports are different from regular Tim Horton’s egg salad sandwiches.  Maybe it just looks like a chicken salad sandwich, but it’s really an egg salad sandwich.”   Ok, who am I kidding?  If it looks like chicken salad, and smells like chicken salad, it’s probably chicken salad. 

I think of marching right back up there and demanding that they get my order right and give me my egg salad sandwich on whole wheat!   But I don’t feel like marching anywhere after hanging around a bookstore for a few hours with an overloaded backpack.  And I’m not much of a demander, really.  More of an oh-well-er.   I’m sure if my 11-year-old daughter had been with me, she would’ve marched me back up there herself and poked me in the back, whispering the words to say to the cashier…..bless her little heart for being so different from her mom….

Feeling like a deflated balloon, I wrap up the egg-disguised-as-chicken-salad sandwich back into its wax paper, then back into its paper bag,  like a cocoon.  I set it aside, drink some coffee, grateful that they hadn’t given me a double double.   So what am I to do with this perfectly good sandwich?  I can’t give it to someone……Hey, sir, would you like my sandwich?  I didn’t touch it, honest……no I can’t eat it because I’m vegetarian…..why am I vegetarian?  (did you have to ask?)…..well, a little over a year ago, I read that the U.S. was approving cloned beef as safe for human consumption……that kind of made me a little afraid and got me thinking about what I put in my body…..that’s why I’m a vegetarian…..but the sandwich is good, sir, honest……you’re sure, you don’t want it?…….ooookaaayyyyy fine, then……

As IF I would do something like that…..as if.

I look at my sandwich.  I could toss it in the trash.  As soon as that thought crosses my brain, however,  this voice comes  out of my earphones on my iPod, the kind of voice that shakes you by the shoulders and looks you in the eye without flinching….The Voice is serious.  It means business.  Here’s what it says:

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?  You can’t throw that sandwich away!  You are part of that 6% of the world’s population who consumes 75% of the food that’s produced, leaving the remaining human beings to fight and die for whatever morsels and contaminated water that they can get their weakened hands on…..and you want to throw this sandwich away because it will…..what?  Compromise your vegetarian principles? (the preceding was said in a singsongy whiny tone at the top of the Voice’s voice).    The only principle you should have is that wasting ANYTHING is akin to strangling your neighbour!   You throw that sandwich out, and it’s the same as taking it out of the hands of someone who’s hungry (you don’t know the meaning of being hungry, Miss-I’ve-never-missed-a-meal-in-my-life).  And I know, you’re thinking I sound just like your mother who would tell you to finish your plate because there are poor kids starving out there.   And when she said that, you used to think, well how the heck are they going to feel less hungry if me, the over-fed child, eats all the food on her plate, here in this part of the world?  Wouldn’t it make more sense to eat less and give more?  Yes…..wouldn’t it make more sense?  Try this one on for size:  Eat less, buy less, waste less, need less, then watch how your heart will go from indifference to caring, not to mention an improvement in your health, your finances, your altruistic endeavours and your lifestyle overall.  And wait til you see the ripple effect on those around you who really need your compassion…..  (By the way, those 3 new books that you didn’t need, that are adding weight to your backpack…..are you gonna be marching back up there to return them? Ha! Didn’t think so…..) You can go ahead and throw that sandwich out.   Go ahead; but how will you feel, knowing that a perfectly edible meal is lying in the trash, something you paid for?  Something that you’re not eating, not because you have an aversion to it, or an allergy to it, but because as a matter of principle, you don’t eat meat.  Which is really good, healthy, etc. etc. etc (blablabla…..Voice’s eyes are rolling here…..)  But in this case, if you were to throw that sandwich away, it would be a greater sin than if you were to eat it. 

After a while of debating with the Voice, I unwrap the sandwich for the second time…..it looks like chicken salad…..it smells like chicken salad…..it tastes like chicken salad.    I give thanks as I eat, half-expecting to be struck with freak lightning by the gods of Vegetaria.  But nothing happens.   I swallow my last bite, knowing in my heart that I chose the better deal,  consoling myself that this was a one-time meat-eating thing, and to get over it already!  Then I think of  how this might shock some people.  Oh well.   

They ain’t seen nothing yet :) 

A Book For Your Thoughts…..

I don’t know why it is, but when I travel, I seem to carry way more books than I’ll ever read during my flights.  On my latest trip down to Florida, I brought three novels, three books of poetry, and my writing journal.  That’s seven books.  On my way back, I left one of my novels with my true companion, because I had finished it and thought he would enjoy that particular book, but I added to my carry-on three more books I purchased at the airport.  So I was carrying five novels, three poetry books, plus my writing journal.  That’s nine.    I am a bookaholic, with the sore shoulder from carrying these books around in her backpack all over Terminal 1 for five hours to prove it.

The novel I finished as my plane touched down in Florida was Pelle the Conqueror: Boyhood, by Martin Andersen Nexo, a Danish writer .   I had bought this book in 1990 (that’s 18 years ago….holy mack), on a trip to Sweden.  It was a nice book that I would begin to read, then I would put down.   Several months would go by and I would pick it up again, then find I’d forgotten what I had previously read and had to start from the beginning.   I did this several times, until it just sat on my shelf for years.  I’d pick it up, flip through the pages, reminisce about the Land of the Midnight Sun, then set it back without reading it.  I guess during that time I wasn’t able to appreciate the writing style of the author (the book was written in the early 1900s), or the messages of life being lived through the eyes of a child and through the eyes of an aging man.   Maybe now that I’m sort of middle-aged, I’m at a part of my life where I’m more cognizant of wanting to hold on to my child-spirit, while at the same time being aware of my own mellowing self.  

This book made me cry, and it made me hopeful.  I was particulary moved by the character of  Kalle’s mother-in-law and the death-bed scene, by the parts describing Lasse’s inner struggles with growing old, and with Pelle’s optimism in the face of much hardship.    All of the characters are written with great care, and you can vividly see them in your mind as your eyes read of their escapades, of their losses, and of their triumphs.

An Oscar-winning movie starring Max von Sydow came out in 1987, based on the book;  I plan to rent it the next time out to the video store.   As I read Pelle the Conqueror, I was reminded of a few movies that had the same kind of feel to it…..Kolya,   Les choristes, and The Italian.  All of these have small boys as central characters who overcome incredible challenges and hardships.   A little depressing, but the veil of oppressiveness is lifted by optimism and faith.   That’s what great films are about.   

It took eighteen years for me to sink my teeth into Pelle the Conqueror, which just goes to show that if you’re patient and wait for your soul to ripen, there are many graces to be savoured when you finally do.  (This applies as much to relationships as it does to books, I’m happy to report…..) 

Love, Chantal xoxoxo           

Spring Cleaning, Anyone?

Sleeping dreams are very strange, and I’m sure you can give them any meaning that you want if you think about it long enough.   But I think dreams are necessary to help us sort out our waking lives.  If we pay attention, it’s interesting what we dream about….. 

 A little over a month ago, I had this dream:

I was in my old house, the one I shared with my ex.   It was a two-storey semi-detached house that we had built, with the bedrooms upstairs.  In my dream,  I was sleeping in the back room, which was G’s room in reality, but in my dream it was just a bedroom.  The bedroom next to it was P’s room, and in my dream he was a baby, although the dream was actually taking place in the present.  P was in a playpen in his room.  He fell out and hugged the floor, saying “maison”, which is French for house.  My father (who died 4 years ago) was in the master bedroom, and he was at the age he was when he passed away, around 73.   In the dream, my dad was lying in the bed, but the bedframe was not as it had been in real life.  In real life, it was a maple sleigh bed (I miss that bed).  In the dream it was just an ordinary bedframe, nothing special.  I was still in the back room, but I could see my father in the master bedroom down the hall, sort of like if I was floating around, yet remaining in one place.  I remember thinking in my dream “They must have taken the sleigh bed to the new house.”  The “they” who must’ve taken my the sleigh bed away was my ex-husband and his soon-to-be-wife (or the movers).   This helped me to put my dream in a time sequence:  I was in the house, which was no longer mine, at the time that my ex-husband and his soon-to-be-wife were moving into their newly-built home, an event which happened over a year ago now.   Back to the dream:  I’m still upstairs in the back bedroom, I can hear my ex-husband downstairs.  The children were very young in my dream, P was a baby, and G was about 2 or 3 years old.  I don’t recall seeing G in my dream, just hearing her chattering away.   In my dream, I can “see” my son, P, and my father, I can only hear my ex-husband and my daughter, G. 

This is not a recurring dream, I’ve only dreamt it once, on February 3rd of this year (I write my dreams down in my journal sometimes, that’s how I know when I dreamt it…..it’s not because I have this incredible memory).  Personally, I think this dream is LOADED with metaphors and significance about my divorce, and about the guilt I will probably always feel at leaving.  It’s also about loss, loss of special people, loss of heart (because home is where your heart is), loss of special objects.   I’m sure you can add your own analysis of my dream……

I do often dream of my old house, of my old life transposed over my present life, but I think this is my psyche helping me to let go of situations and events that no longer exist.  It’s my soul’s way of preparing me for a new life, which not by chance, happens to coincide with Spring and rebirth, during the season of Passion….(ok I just reread that and it sounds like I’m telling you I’m pregnant, but I’m not.  Just so you know. )  The new life that I’ve embarked on involves taking the hand of my true companion, and keeping what I need from the past as I let go of an old life that no longer sustains. 

Maybe it’s not so much about the losses themselves, maybe it’s more about how much room you have in your house to store them.    

Love,

Chantal xoxo

Weekend Ramble

Allow me to introduce you to Sorrow, in case you haven’t had a chance to visit her site yet.  She’s an ingenuous, creative, talented and generous person with  a heart of gold.   And if you need more convincing, she puts her talent where her heart is, actually doing something tangible to make the world a better place.    

For those of you who reside in the US, here is something that might interest you.   The National Fatherhood Initiative is putting on a “Fatherhood Means….” challenge, giving you the opportunity to share your memories about your father, or about what it means to be a father.   This was brought to my attention, and I found it worthy that an organization such as this one exists, and so I’m passing it on.   

Update on Gardasil:  I’m not sure what has struck a chord with me about this whole thing, but I was pleased to see in a national American women’s magazine a two-page leaflet summary of the vaccine, based on information found on Gardasil.com.   In this summary, Merck & Co Inc. seem to be as intent on providing safety information as they are on promoting the vaccine: they stress the importance of receiving regular cervical cancer screenings,  they mention that Gardasil will not treat cervical cancer or genital warts, that Gardasil MAY help guard you from certain types of HPV.   The possible side-effects are listed, (but they don’t mention death).   This “summary” inserted in popular magazines, comes nearly a year AFTER the vaccine hit the markets in Canada (it’s been given since 2006 in the States and the UK), but better late than never, I guess…….except maybe for the 11 deaths so far that have been attributed to the vaccine,  it’s too late for them (I won’t bother linking, you can Google Gardasil deaths……).   Am I trying to scare you?  Yes.

I try to be as green as I can.  I even put forth a few suggestions to my supervisor the other day, on how we can reduce our usage of paper in the workplace.  It felt good to be a productive employee who was looking to improve things.   So later on that day, after I had emailed my supervisor with my ideas, I was searching for information in our local manual, which is set up on a Word Document; this is different from our national manual, which is online.    We use our local manual  for instructions that apply to our particular office, kind of like an addendum to the national manual.  ANYWAYS……

Because it’s online, when you print from the national manual, you only print that one page that you’re viewing.  For the local manual however, if you hit print instead of cutting and pasting the section you want to print to a blank page, you will print the ENTIRE manual, all 70-some pages of it……So guess what I did that wonderful day where I was feeling a little too good about myself for being such a green employee?  I forgot to cut & paste the section of the local manual that I needed, and instead I clicked the print icon.  After taking in a few sharp breaths, and wanting to cancel the printing operation (but forgetting where I needed to click) in my “énervement” to stop the presses, I clicked the same print button AGAIN!!!!   I quickly got up, went to the printer and stood there as casually as possible, wondering who was going to stand up and say “Who’s the tree-killer?”  Thankfully, no one paid any mind, and I slunk back to my desk, a wasteful stack of papers in my hands.   I sat there, dumbfounded at my own dumbness……I still have those papers on my desk, as a reminder NOT TO DO THAT AGAIN.    One-third of a tree is needed to make 3,000 sheets of paper.   (Dear Supervisor, if you read this, I apologize.).

Books I’ve recently enjoyed:  Meditations from Conversations with God, by Neale Donald Walsch.   I’ll have to buy a copy of this booklet, the one I have I borrowed from the library, and it must go back soon.  It’s been by my side for a few weeks and I refer to it constantly. 

Parent As Mystic, Mystic As Parent, by David Spangler.  A different approach to parenting, one that’s a little more in line with my soul.   As with all parenting books, take from it what you need.  This book was easy to read in a busy day, it’s not necessary to read it cover to cover, you can jump around.   It gives many hands-on things to do as a parent, but it also speaks to your parent-soul, it allows you to meditate what you’re reading so that it becomes a part of you, you’re not just reading a how-to manual.

Spirit Games: 300 Fun Activities That Bring Children Comfort and Joy, by Barbara Sher.  Another book I need to buy (sigh).   I have all these bookmarks in it and am trying to write down the activities I feel could benefit the kids & I, before I bring it back to the library.  I know, I could photocopy some of it, but I’ve already been less-than-green lately….. Anyhow, I’ve already brought one of the activities into our lives, and you probably already do this without thinking, but at snack time before bed, I make it a point to SIT DOWN with the kids at the table instead of being busy in the kitchen while they eat; and while I’m sitting there, we talk, and I ask them “What made you smile today?”  We all get a chance to say one thing, then the dialogue is open to talk (or not) about the smiley thing.   It’s just a small way to reinforce the positive.  My son P is a very enthusiastic participant in everything, but my daughter, who’s 11, liked to make it seem that talking about what makes you smile is silly, and the first few times, she would roll her eyes and sigh and say something just for the sake of saying something.  She’s coming around, though.  I think she just likes me sitting there listening to her talk.  And that makes me smile. 

This week, at work, our Employee Assistance Program buddied up with our Employment Equity Committee at work and presented a Lunch and Learn session, where you could sign up for a presentation on Self-Care Strategies for Single Parents.   I thought it would be good to see what was offered and so I signed up to spend my lunch on Thursday gaining some new insights.  There were about 15-20 people in attendance, all women except for one young guy (which I thought was very progressive of him to sign up).   The presenter was a very empathetic woman (whom I knew already as she worked with my ex-husband in counselling), and in the 45 minutes that we had, we received good information on the importance of taking care of yourself when you’re a single parent, and all the resources available in the community.   We were going through an extensive list of self-care strategies (hobbies, friendships, relaxing), when the presenter came upon the following:  Learn about visualization and meditation.  Except that she read it out loud as Learn about visualization and MEDICATION.    Well, we all just roared at her Freudian slip! 

“Curiosity is, in great and generous minds, the first passion and the last.”  Samuel Johnson

   

For Those Who Don’t Like Poetry

Maybe this won’t be the most balanced critique given of this book, because I love Margaret Atwood and I love poetry.  Nevertheless, this is a great poetry book for those who aren’t fans of rhyme.  

I loved everything about this slim book, cover to cover.   Atwood for me represents the quintessential woman/author, who is in possession of herself.  Her tone of voice when I hear her in interviews (which is a little like a drone), her demeanor (which is a cross between the cat that swallowed the canary and Mona Lisa…..it’s like she knows something you don’t and she’s waiting so patiently for you to discover it), and of course her writing style,  they all convey someone who is very sure of herself, someone who’s always been comfortable being who she is.   I could be wrong, I don’t know her personally, but this is what I get from reading her books and seeing her in interviews. 

The cover photograph on this latest book of poetry is of herself, at an age when most girls are carefree and confident in themselves, right before society moves in to plant all those seeds of doubt that they’ll battle against for most of their lives.  The back inside cover photograph is of Atwood today, her trademark crazy auburn hair now all white.   She’s THE doyenne of writers, with a mind like a diamond.   If I could choose to spend a few hours with a renowned author, she would be it.   Intelligent, witty, creative, she  has that aloofness about her that keeps me coming back to her books year after year.  Seriously, if I saw her in Toronto, I would duck and hide.   Or curtsy, or something foolish like that.  To which she would probably fix me with her steely eyes and smile bemusedly (not amusedly) and say something witty like I don’t know what, because she is wittier than me and I can’t come up with anything wittier than what she would say.      

This book of poems, ”The Door”, is outstanding (http://www.mcclelland.com/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780771008801).   Witty, sarcastic, sad, sometimes cutting.   The inside jacket of the book gives these details: 

“These fifty, lucid urgent poems range in tone from lyric to ironic to meditative to prophetic, and in subject from the personal to the political, viewed in its broadest sense.  They investigate the mysterious writing of poetry itself, as well as the passage of time and our shared sense of mortality.  Brave and compassionate, the Door interrogates the certainties that we build our lives on, and reminds us once again of Margaret Atwood’s unique accomplishments as one of the finest and most celebrated writers of our time.”