Tin Cans and Rattle Snakes

I used to think that I had bad luck when it came to cars.

When I was sixteen, newly licensed and free to access the world at large, I made the mistake of backing my dad's (newish) '95 Ford Escort wagon into a lovely little red sports car while exiting a parking spot.  The incident, as it was referred to at the time, was something that I was sure spelled the end of my driving career.  Cars, being very expensive, and also potentially dangerous if not handled with the appropriate respect, were a very important thing in my family; my abuse of the new car was something that, at least in my addled sixteen year-old mind, was  going to be epic.  I imagined the return home, telling my father that not only had I driven IN to a parking spot, but I had backed IN to another car.  Somehow my brain had taken me to a point where I would be banished from the family, only to live in unlicensed hell for all eternity.

Of course, it didn't turn out that way.  My dad was very levelheaded with the conversation, as we detailed what happened, and the gentleman I drove into even came calling to speak with him.  The exchange was very calm, very quite and almost supremely civilized.

The suspense was killing me. Surely there would be an epic outburst before my exile?  Surely someone would flail and strip me of my little blue card that otherwise entitled me to roam?

No such conversation ever happened.  I paid for the repairs to our car, and my father paid for the repairs to the other.  He did say, in none-too-clear terms, that if ever he caught me driving into another parking spot, I would no longer be allowed to drive his cars.

That resonated.

Many years later, while visiting friends in Texas, I borrowed a car to go roaming with my friend Cheryl.  It was late, and I was in foreign terrain, not to mention supremely sleep deprived.  At the time, the drive seemed like a great idea, and we set off with such zeal that I had even joked with my friends that were the police to call them, they were to kindly post our bail.

I had been joking at the time.

The drive was really very short and only leading us from our friends' home by two streets, though, the second was a long, isolated road upon which there were few other cars.  The further along the road I drove, my friend Cheryl and I noted how desolate it seemed - only a few cars were passing us now in the opposite direction, and none seemed to be headed our way.

Clear skies were visible - there were no longer street lamps or traffic lights, but merely the glow of the September Texas skies.  It felt like heaven, even though the temperatures hovered near the hundred point, and our poor Canadian systems were nowhere near prepared for it.

Eventually, hoping to procure a street sign in a fit of mid-twenties mid-mid-life crisis, I drove the car up beside our selected sign and crept out of the car only to marvel in the emptiness.  There was no one for miles, and the only thing within sight was a silent dairy farm.

Our robbery would go unnoticed.

Still, too short to reach the sign, I needed to bring the car in closer.  Whatever happened next is really a question for the Gods, because one moment we were on terra firma, slowly moving closer to our goal, and the next, two tires were only perilously resting on the ground, while the other two barely touched.

It took moments before we exited the car, assessed the situation by cellphone light and then promptly decided that perhaps, with a little luck and sheer brute strength, maybe we could *drive* the car out of the ditch, while the other was lifting.  2000 pounds of metal does not move easily - we know that now most certainly.

While sitting in the car, with cellphones that had no reception, and our windows rolled down to try and cool off, we realized there was distinctive shifting in the grass, and a rattle emanating from the area.  We'd heard there were rattle snakes in the area - but did that mean we had company?

Panic struck and we rolled up the windows, sitting in horror waiting for some ax-wielding maniac to come and finish us off - wasn't that what happened in situations like this?

911, being such a reliable service as it is, was thankfully a number we could dial, even in our tin-can death trap, perched in a ditch dangling over a snake pit.  That must have been, at least for that operator, the funniest 911 call ever...

You see, when you tell a panicking girl that help is hours away, things tend to get wrangy.

"Listen, it can NOT take three hours - we're two Canadian girls, lost in the middle of nowhere, we've borrowed our friend's car, and she does NOT know where we are.  We have no cellphone reception, and we have BOTH seen Texas Chainsaw Masacre..."

The tow truck took less then 50 minutes.

In recent years I have had a few more car adventures - though none quite as colourful as that.  My darling Estella, the car I bought what seems like ages ago, has now begun to creek with old age.  When shifting, she sounds as if there are dozens of tin cans trailing behind, and though I've already been in to see a mechanic, major surgery is required.

Still, I won't tempt the fates; already I've had a series of unusual events, and I know now what it's like to be scared and waiting for a fate worse than the ones you've already imagined.  I don't soon wish to repeat that experience.

That's why I still only back into parking spots.

In Memoriam...

I hate anniversaries – of any variety.  It seems a funny thing to say, considering they are typically joyous occasions, however through the years I have found it harder and harder to acknowledge these events without sadness enveloping me.  The thing is, every year older is another year further from those memories I hold dear. 

This isn’t to sound melodramatic – there are so many new memories that are also very dear to my heart, but each year at this time, I’m reminded of another anniversary that reminds me of the way things have changed. 

On August 8^th, 1990, my grandfather died in an accident.  He was 58 years old.  My entire life changed, in ways that I’m still trying to comprehend, and yet, in many ways, I’m sure I never will. 

Every year since Papa’s death has been somewhat of a milestone for me, because, even at 8 years old, I never quite understood how there could be a minute more of my life than my time with him.  There was no conscious acceptance of a life of my own because in I felt as though life was forever the one that he had built for us. 

It sounds crazy and perhaps a bit deluded, but as a child, you have such a strange grasp on reality that the little things that change in your daily life (such as a new car, a new toy or a new home) seem like a huge deal.  Something as massive as death is far too complex to really grasp in any context, aside from the invariable clarity that life will never be the same. 

That notion, as simple as it might seem from an adult perspective, was unfathomable to the 8 year old me who watched the world screech to a halt, all in the course of one day. 

The thing about loss is that it’s so confusing – there’s the strange reality of it that you never quite come to terms with.

When you have someone or something in your life, it becomes so much a part of you that it can so easily be taken for granted; it’s not that you value it less, but you never quite think about those times when it may no longer be there.  Those moments that you have, every day, seem so average and consistent that the reality of the fragility of life can be lost on you. 

But when someone leaves – they die, move away, or move on – those moments suddenly become memories that you now have to re-categorize and reassess.  Moments that were simple points of fact now become elusive and hard to grasp. 

From my own experience, I can say that the loss you feel from that person’s departure seems insurmountable.  It feels as if there’s no way to fill that void without losing them, or losing yourself in the process.  What you used to accept as your world suddenly becomes your world without them. 

And you can’t prepare for the inevitable, no matter how hard you try.  The thing is, there is no imagining a world without someone until they are gone; there is no way to prepare for that absence because you’ll never know what thing you’ll miss most: the way the smell or sound, the bristle of their voice, or the company over coffee first thing in the morning. 

When someone is there, it is just an inevitable fact; when they’re gone, there is no going back. 

Loss is something I’ve struggled with, not because it has been consistent but because it has been overwhelming for me.  Never learning what was ok, I always felt as if there would be no more ‘normal’ left; that with the passing of a loved one, you too began to pass. 

Twenty years ago, I could not imagine a moment even five minutes in the future because those minutes, however near, were minutes without that constant that I had always had.  Every minute, every hour and every day were challenges that I felt completely unprepared to face because if for no other reason than his absence, I was no longer a whole. 

As those minutes moved forward, whether I liked it or not, I began to create new ‘normals’ and I began to appreciate the new days as ones that hurt a little less, and felt a littler fresher.  There was no longer the overwhelming sadness that came in those first few days after he’d gone, and suddenly it became a dull ache that I thought about often, but that I knew was inconsolable. 

Twenty years later, I look back on the years between then and now, and wonder what it would have all been like had the hydraulic lift not failed, had he not been working on the truck that day, or had any other series of events prevented the tragedy from occurring. 

I’ll never know what could have been, and I’ll never have the peace of mind of knowing that I appreciated those moments together before that day enough when they were happening.  My only consolation in it all has been that in the twenty years that have passed, not only have I lost people, but I’ve gained wonderful loved ones in the process; people who I could not have fathomed in my life at that time have now become staples of a reality created in the wake of that accident. 

I might always hate anniversaries and other ‘special’ occasions that I should love; I still see a lot of these moments as reminders of sadness and awkwardness borne of fearfulness.  But, on the other hand, I do try to remember that even as a child, I looked forward as far as I could – a few minutes at a time – and braved what felt like a whole new world ever-changing before my eyes.  And there has been so much good and kindness since. 

Twenty years is a long time – and at the same time it can feel like a minute; life is the culmination of the duality of everything we are able and unable to comprehend, and the way we forge onward.  Try as we might to move on, it is only moving forward. 

Our consolation is, for however long it lasts, we are loved and love others – and we are forever growing into the people we should be. 

A smart man taught me that – and even though all these years have passed, I won’t ever forget the impact he had on my life.  Our time together may have been brief, but it was significant none-the-less. 

Much love and adoration, Papa.  I hope you’re enjoying the view.  X 

When You Don't Like What You See Around You...

Look within you.

Sometimes when I get really stressed, my knee-jerk reaction is to, well, be a jerk.  It's easy; I can say something mean, which, for the moment is a relief, and then when aforementioned relief wears off, I can then wallow in self-pity.  Somehow this cycle of frustration and angst feeds ever so nicely into my perception of things, and then, well... watch out world!

As I get older, I am slowly learning that the idea of perpetuating this cycle of juvenile self-absorbed angst is only so helpful.  Although there is that momentary relief that comes from the comfort and familiarity of this twelve-year old reaction to a situation, there is then the later regret - the hesitation when you realize that just maybe someone saw your actions as reprehensible as you now find them.

I'm learning to appreciate the view around me.

In an attempt to stop chasing a life outside someone else's window, I've had to look at the view I have and try to figure out where the pieces fit together.  There are things I've seen I do not like, and with the help of some guidance from a very zen friend, I've learned that much of that comes from the way I project into the world.  If you don't like what you're experiencing, look at what you're doing to contribute to that experience - odds are, your actions have more to do with the result than you'd think.

Some people say things that are hurtful, and whether they mean it or not, they don't quite realize that in letting that kind of energy out into the world, it perpetuates and feeds, changing the way others experience the world in which they live.  I have, for many years, thought that if the view sucked, I could quite simply walk away.

That old adage - the one we all love to hate - says the grass is always greener on the other side.  Too bad we don't realize that until, after having crossed to the 'other side', we look back and realize that once again, we've pitted ourselves directly across from what we want.  There is no perfect nor is there a reasonable facsimile of it, but there is a way to see more of what you want in the world at large.

My current goal, instead of planning a great escape from these four walls and windows, is to look out, and appreciate my view, and then realize how good it is to see yourself reflected in the world.  Not to say I don't want to move on, forward, away... but for now I want to be that person who, in some way or another, manages to kiss the universe goodnight and hug the stars.

Cloudy Perception and Inherent Goodness

Fridays are, by all counts, my favourite day of the week.  Not only do I begin my weekend, where inevitably I will do very little but enjoy it greatly, but there's a nice sense of finality to the week that allows me to feel accomplished.  Whether that sense of accomplishment stems from a job well done, or as in the case of this week, merely surviving the five days since my last reprieve, it's always lovely to look back and realize that, like it or not, there's a new week coming.  I enjoy that sense of rebirth that happens very late on Sunday night, as I crawl into bed and start to plan the week ahead.

My day started out quite regularly, and nice as it was to be predictable, it felt somewhat mundane.

My first patient changed everything.  You see, sometimes I get so stuck in the appearances of the things I see that I forget that my perception can be skewed.  The woman who presented herself to me - bright and early, I might add - was in earlier this week to place her order.  I diligently did the job quickly because it was easy and I had nothing better to do at the time.  Now, this woman is not indicative of our typical clientele (which, more often are upper-middle class or affluent citizens of the world; numerous addresses in our database are international) and I made the first-glance (mis)judgement that she would be a handful, or so over-the-top as to be unbearable.

Not only was she fabulously kind and sweet, she was also very appreciative of what we'd done for her - more so than I've ever seen a patient be.  The gratitude she expressed was incredible, and she was so genuinely kind and warm that for a while, I almost hoped she'd stick around longer.

The thing is, my judgement of her - my very skewed perception of this variation in our clientele - was to assume that she was (excuse me for saying this) ghetto-trash.

I have a keen ghetto-radar because, as I am quite proud to admit, I am a former ghetto-dweller.  Ok, fine, I have no snazzy sense of street talk, nor do I particularly enjoy things like road hockey, however after years of living in those sorts of neighborhoods (the ones you don't actually tell people you live in for fear of being blacklisted) I do have a pretty good eye for these things.

All too often, I can spot the telltale signs of poverty (the ones that those who have nothing are equally well-trained in hiding) from a mile away, and though it makes me terribly sad, I also think about what sorts of obstacles they have to overcome.  The horrendous lack of viable social programming, affordable education, and of course lack of money are all further hardening their struggle.

The fact of the matter is, this woman who had very few material possessions to speak of (as she didn't hesitate to discuss with me) had a radiating kindness within her that overshadowed her somewhat slanted view of reality.  In her eyes, there was something about us that made us 'better' than her - she'd said as much while we were chatting away - and for a moment I wanted to kick myself because, when she'd approached me earlier, I had a fleeting momentary thought that I was somehow better than her.

At the end of our fitting, she smiled kindly, thanked me emphatically, and then stopped to tell me a bit more about her goings-on.  It was refreshing to have such an exuberant explanation of how she perceived the world around her, and in a way to be reminded that the circumstances in which one lives is not defining of a person's worth, nor is it indicative of their value in the community.

I left my ghetto quite a while ago, and for a long time I was trying to change it for something better - to learn to see a different view of what I always hated - but maybe what I should have been doing all along was trying to focus my perception on the inherent goodness that lives in all sorts of communities, in various economic standings, and across socio-economic terms.

I'm grateful for that woman for starting my day in such a way as to make me question the notions I otherwise took for 'solid' and for letting me see a little of the world from her view - try as I may to be a good person, it takes someone like her to remind me that there's no such thing as better, just worse.

A Little Bit of Alcohol, a Lot of Introspection

I had a business dinner tonight: the kind where you go out, talk a little bit of shop, and then imbibe multiple bottles of wine and gossip while pretending it's business related?  (I'm sure you know those dinners; they're really all the rage these days - with ample alcohol and a little of necessary business-related propaganda?)  These dinners are entirely justifiable because a) they're on the tab of a multi-billion dollar international distributor and b) we so rarely get them normally that even though they've become 'monthly' events, we still find them to be novel and exciting.  

Dinner was one of those things where, because the view was so different from where I've spent most of my life, I spent equal parts awkwardly grasping for things to say, and otherwise trying to figure out the acceptable way to behave.  Reasonably upscale restaurants, with 90$ bottles of wine flowing freely, are not the kind of places I've spent much time in as of late.  Or ever, for that matter.  

My knee-jerk reaction is to be introverted, and to allow the world to happen around me.  I find this inherently sad, but very much the way I tend to deal with things.  If I force myself to participate, the reaction then becomes something different - a mix of an alcohol-induced bravery and a boisterous extroversion that makes no sense to my logical mind.  I do try to avoid that sort of out-going behavior, all too familiar with the knowledge that I tend to regret it fairly soon thereafter, if not immediately.  

Tonight, as we sat hunched around the table, our fancy wine and several cocktails spread over the table, I realized several things.  

Most impressively, I realized that palm reading is alive and well in upper-middle class society, and based on a novice reading of my palm, not only will I live a long time (too bad!) but I will also have at least one great romance (that fizzles in senior-citizenship) and no children (I could have told you that).  I also learned that apparently (according to my palm) I'm more level-headed than creative, and that I am destined to own property (either purchased or inherited).  These realizations are sort of what I would have called no-brainers.  Being not particularly well-behaved, I have long subscribed to 'only the good die young' - and as such, I have determined a long life to be my punishment for past indiscretions - and the reality of 'relationships' have long been lost on me.  It amuses me that this 'palm reading' could be taken seriously at all, considering how completely open to interpretation it is, though I suppose that is what makes it fun.  

I also realized that when placed around a table together, women of all ages let loose and have little to no fear as to what they say.  Menopause, PMS, breast size, breast texture, and various degrees of mutual admiration all featured as topics of conversation, and it was normal.  It really was - we didn't seem to think twice about saying these incredibly personal, incredibly intense things.  

And this was, in some small way, a business dinner.  

Sometimes I forget that the view I have now - the life I have now - is so vastly different than the life I've lived, that it becomes a crazy, intangible reality.  700$ dinners and posh bottles of wine that I will never again be able to order (without immense anxiety at the expense) are things that are so distant from my view that I don't quite know how to justify them even now, when they're 'free'.  

But nothing's free, and somehow even though tonight was fun, I do still feel like there is a little piece of my soul bartered for one more flirtini and a heavenly slice of flourless chocolate cake.  Every day that I get further from the girl I used to be, I wonder if I'll be able to go back - if $12 bottles of wine will ever seem acceptable again or if I'm permanently corrupted and destined to yearn for those things well beyond my means. 

Tonight felt like a little bit of faking, and a healthy dose of alcohol...  I lost count somewhere around seven drinks, and though I'm not drunk, I've had enough to wonder just what I was thinking when I thought I belonged there.  

Crazy Things that Happen...

My current home city isn't always the most exciting place on earth; it's often referred to as 'the city that fun forgot' and though I wish it were untrue, it tends to be really quite the opposite.  And, even when fun manages to sneak through, my locals are withdrawn and boring.

So today, when a 5.5 magnitude earthquake struck, these boring people took to the street in a moment, and took in the sunlight of an otherwise fabulous day.

It started small, as these things do, with a little rumble that felt more like construction than a real notable event, but only a few seconds later the earth began to sway, the power went out, and started screams rang throughout the office.  It felt like minutes - as if there were time to logically try to work things out - however apparently it was a mere 30 seconds.  The lights didn't come back on, and the sirens began to blare throughout the city as emergency crews attended to the numerous alarms.

Not long after the earthquake, we were given permission to leave and head home.  The city streets were full of people, all milling about, many of whom were holding their cellphones to the sky; the network was so inundated that they crashed.  No news to be googled, no twitter updates, and certainly no phone calls.

The lack of technological accessibility was at first incredibly disconcerting - I'm not accustomed to being 'out of touch' for any length of time, but especially not when there's something worth talking about!  Alas, as Chantal's big black Benz worked it's way up Bank Street, it was incredible to see the people in the streets, milling about, and the impromptu picnics that suddenly lined the lawns of the big buildings.

Only here is an earthquake cause for a picnic.

Traffic was crazy, as were the torrents of people rushing along the sidewalks, but in the end of it all, I got home in a reasonably good time, and with minimal damage sustained.  There's a few things damaged, including a stand that needs repair due to the vibration, some pictures that fell, and some dishes that tumbled, but I figure a few small things are relatively acceptable when considering how much worse these things can be.

Sometimes this city surprises me, while other times it just amazes me.

No Worries...

Although I've been home for a couple of weeks now, I was entirely reluctant to post an update of my final days in Sydney.  Originally, my concern was too sombre a post and really nothing much to say aside from how much I missed Australia.  Though that is somewhat true - there is less to say from here, and I miss our travels desperately - I've realized that being back is as much of an opportunity to 'reset' my life as any.

My final 24 hours in Sydney were filled with sadness as I debated what coming home would mean.  I had grown so fond of the lifestyle we were living in Australia, that I knew coming back would be tough.

On the Friday afternoon, I made my way to Patty's Market, bought a few souvenirs, and then wandered to the Powerhouse Museum that was highly recommended to me by numerous people I met along the way.  The weather was good, but there were still spots of rain throughout the day, and the thing I wanted most was to absorb some of the Australian culture.

My adventures on my last day were incredible; the city that I had come to know quite well after only a week started to feel more like 'home' than any place else we'd visited along the way.  Being stationary for more than a day or two at a time I suppose facilitated the closeness I was feeling with the harbour, the bridge, and the people themselves.

Friday evening there were fireworks in the harbour, and though I rationally knew that they were for the Jazz festival that was kicking off, a part of me liked to think they were for us, and for all we achieved during our travels.  Certainly two women, one four year old and a car for 30 + hours deserved a little bit of fanfare even if only in our minds.

On the Saturday morning that I left, I watched the sunrise from the balcony of our hotel, packed my bags and said goodbye to Australia.  It was harder than I would have thought and for a few minutes I stood out on Liverpool Street wondering if I could stay behind, living under the bridge if the need be.  The sobering reality of it all was that I am not blessed with saleable skills, and as such, my potential as a busker would be somewhat limited.

The sadness loomed over me for ages - through checking in and waiting at the airport, boarding, and even while in flight.  The distance between Ottawa and Australia is so great (and the expense comparably gargantuan) that I didn't know when I'd be able to return - which I so desperately wanted.

Thankfully, as we flew into the evening - a strange enough thing having taken off just after sunrise - there was a peacefulness to seeing the sunset only hours after watching its birth.  Cliche as it might be, the reality that the sun was setting on my vacation was both saddening and encouraging.

Coming home meant I would once again have access to a few things that I did miss while away.  My cats, who clearly would at least yearn for attention, were back home in Ottawa, and my family (though whether they were yearning for attention is possibly less predictable) were all 'back home' too.  The possibility of waking in the same bed for more than three mornings in a row also struck me as comforting and desirable, though the reality of having to make my own bed was hardly as pleasing.

Several hours later, as the plane neared LA, I watched the sunrise again - this time the sadness of leaving Sydney was lessened by the reality of being on my way home, and on my way to see the people I love.

Two sunrises in one day, and what would eventually be two sunsets somehow seemed to be the nearly perfect way to leave a wonderful, magical time abroad.  Things that are impossible in daily realities become possible while away and though the wonder of these events never cease to amaze me, they give me comfort that daily reality also has such awe-inspiring potential.

Coming home to affordable (though significantly less palatable) coffee, and my own home that remained as it was left while I was away was comforting - just as reliving the memories of our adventures in Australia remind me of the beauty of travel.

Now that I'm home, I'm searching out a different reality than the one I knew previously.  I'm accepting that beauty and awe can be found close to home, and for significantly less money.  The little things are more important and the time I've spent debating where home is reminds me that it's where I choose to wake up every day.

Travel will be back-burnered for a while, which is a hard thing for me to say.  I've lived the last 9 years searching for adventure anywhere but here, but I might be getting a little too old to be quite so obsessive in my compulsion to get away.  I do hope that the adventure here in town, and in the surrounding areas, will give me an opportunity to see the world in which I live a little differently.

In the interim, I plan on providing a little distraction therapy for myself in the form of hebrew studies and planning for what I hope will be a trip to Israel in 2012.

For now, though, I'm going to enjoy the view outside MY window, and learn how to love where I am right now because, sadly, reality is that you can't wake up in a new room every day - eventually you have to make your own bed.