Because...because...because...I love her: the story of two sisters

Today was my sister’s birthday. We enjoyed a small dinner together, complete with flowers and prosecco and a small cake sporting a tealight smushed on top (as I couldn’t locate the legitimate birthday candles). It was a lovely evening, and on my bike ride home, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for living so close to her now, after a decade of being separated by a big fat ocean. She is, in many respects, the most significant person in my life. She has provided constancy and peace to my sometimes fluttery and frenetic self, and she has been involved in most of my important life decisions, as a sounding board and objective, nonjudgmental advice giver. She is the one I call when I feel confused, disappointed, heartbroken, panicky, overwhelmed, afraid, excited, lonely, proud. She listens well, offers me perspective, and frequently reminds me of who I am on the days when I forget. She gives me hugs even though she herself is not a hugger simply because she knows I need them, and she often holds onto truth I need to hear until I am ready to hear it, always cushioning it patiently and lovingly in Larissa language. She understands, appreciates and respects how I view my world, how I live my life, how I make my decisions, even though my way is often vastly different from her way. I trust my sister probably more than anyone else in the world, and I feel genuinely blessed to have such a solid and safe relationship with her. There have been a few sticky spots over the years- obviously- but generally, for the majority of our teenage and adult life, we have been the best of friends.

Now, as for our childhood years, that is somewhat of a different story. There is photographic evidence of us playing together nicely- dressing up and acting out stories, building snow forts, playing with Barbies, making dances, colouring- but there are many many many memories of us playing together not so nicely. We fought constantly, so much so that our grandparents didn’t want both of us coming for our extended summer visits at the same time, so we took turns, alternating years. We fought, of course, about the most menial and ridiculous things. Once, in Florida, when we had received identical erasers in the shape of a slice of an orange, we fought about who owned which one, because one eraser had a millimeter more smudging than the other, and both of us had claimed that the minimally more used one was not ours. Simply ridiculous.

Our fighting was partially due to the fact that we were very different kids. I was a sensitive child- not wimpy or whiny, just soft and sensitive and incredibly transparent. My feelings were hurt easily, though I was quick to forgive. I was a people pleaser, a perfectionist, and a rule follower. My sister, on the other hand, exited the womb stone-faced, strong and stubborn. She was fiercely independent and much more introverted, an experimental thinker who wanted to know why she had to do things a certain way and often didn’t give two shits about doing something the same way as everyone else. She was also an excellent little liar and could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. Many of our childhood fights involved me bossing her around or telling her she wasn’t doing things the right way (in other words, my way) and her telling me that I wasn’t her mother and she didn’t have to listen to me.

One of the best stories of our childhood sisterly interactions took place on a family summer vacation many many moons ago when I was nearly 12 and she was nearly 10, and our baby brother was a charming little 5-year old fella. We had recently moved to western Canada, and my parents decided that we were going to go on a family camping adventure through the western states and provinces. We had an old AMC Eagle station wagon, beige with wood paneling, and we loaded up that beast of a car with enough gear to last us six weeks- two tents for sleeping, as well as a kitchen tent, water jugs, air mattresses, Coleman stove, flashlights, tarps, ropes, buckets, the works. The station wagon was an oldie but a goodie- second-hand but solid, and surprisingly roomy. The trunk hatch had to be held up with a broomstick, and the five of us and all our gear fit only if everything and everyone was positioned in their rightful place.

We became an incredibly efficient team at setting up camp. Each of us had our assigned tasks. Sarah and I would set up one of the tents while my father set up the other, and my mom would organize all the kitchen gear. Ben would stand there with his hands on his hips filling up the air mattresses with steady stomping on a foot pump. Then water would need to be fetched, clothes lines hung up, tarps spread out, sleeping bags positioned. And we would stay at each site for a few days- in the Mesa Verde National Park, in the Redwoods, in the Rockies- hiking, exploring, chasing squirrels, making friends, building fires. We kept ourselves busy and made many fun memories.

The traveling between these fantastic destinations is where things got a little tricky. This was before the time of iPhones and Discmans and PSPs, so we had to find creative ways of amusing ourselves on the long stretches of driving. Our little brother kept himself busy mainly by coming up with approximately 5762 different verses to “She’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes” and us girls counted wildlife, or kept track of how many different state license plates we saw, or played one of those games where you have to list off things you find in the fridge or names of cities, working our way from A-Z; you know- apples, butter, cabbage, dinner….

But sometimes we got bored, and boredom led to irritability, which led to poking and face-pulling and button-pushing and eventually the classic

  “Mom, she touched me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. You’re such a liar.”

  “But you were on my side.”
  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were.”

Sound familiar? This type of back and forth bickering obviously occurred several times throughout our six-week adventure, despite my brother often being placed as a buffer in the middle, or bribery from my parents who occasionally offered a quarter to whoever could be the quietest the longest. On one particular occasion, however, our fighting got to the point of ridiculousness. And if I remember correctly, what happened is this:

We were driving through the mountains on a difficult stretch of twisty, turny road that required my father to concentrate more than usual on his driving. We, of course, were incredibly distracting with our “She touched me” and “Stop it! Stop it!” My father asked my mother to deal with it, and she turned to scold us with a stern face, raised voice and wagging finger. Our ridiculousness continued. Then there was the famous and familiar blind back seat hand swat. You know what I am talking about- dad is driving and can’t turn to look at us, so he reaches his right hand back, flapping and slapping with a loud and firm “Enough!”

We didn’t stop.

So he did. He yanked the car over to the side of the road, threw on the emergency lights and told the two of us to get out of the car. Now. We scrambled out of the car, obedient but scared to death. Our father was a very creative disciplinarian so we had no clue what awaited us- garbage-picking, essay-writing, acorn-collecting, forced foster care? Who knew! We stood there at the side of the road with cars whizzing by, Sarah most likely with a stoic or defiant face, me- I am guessing- with a quivering lip, trying not to cry.

My father, red-faced, pacing, furious, grabbed two sticks and placed one in each of our hands.

  “There you go,” he said. “Do it. If you hate each other so much, kill each other. Get it over with.”

We stood there, frozen and confused, each limply holding the stick in our hand.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Go. Do it.”

I think I was the first to speak (I am usually the first to speak). “But I don’t want to kill her.”

  “Why not? You obviously hate her. You can’t stop fighting. Why not?”

  “Becau-au-ause,” I stuttered through hysterical sobbing.

  “Because why?”

  “Because...because....because….I LOVE HER.”

  “And you, Sarah?”

  “I love her too,” she mumbled.

  “If you both love each other, why are you fighting ALL the time?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Shrugged shoulders and shaking heads. More hiccups and sniffles and sobs.

  “Then that’s it. Enough. No more fighting. In fact, I don’t want to hear a word out of either of you for the next half hour. Silence. Now, get in the car.”

We remained dazed and confused, sticks still in hand.

  “I said, get in the car. Go, go, go.”

We stumbled our way back into the car, aided by a little shove from our father. Once in the car, Sarah sheepishly spoke up. 

  “Dad?”

  “I said, no talking.”
  “But Dad….”

  “No. Quiet.”

  “Please. It’s important.”

  “It can wait. Half an hour. Complete silence.”

Once a half hour had passed and our sobbing had stopped and the tension had lifted, Sarah dared to speak up once again.

  “Dad,” she tried, “Can I talk now?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Well, you know when we got back into the car back there?”

  “Yes.”
  “Um, one of my shoes fell off when I was getting in. I lost my shoe. I only have one shoe now.”

Next stop: a slight detour to get One Shoe Sarah a new pair.

The Last Sigh of Summer

I am an eternal optimist, or perhaps just a master of denial, which is why it has taken me until mid-October to realize the now undeniable truth.

Summer is over.

Even though “fall” started several weeks ago, with the beginning of the school year and its accompanying early mornings and daily routines, the spirit of summer lingered deep into the late September air. The transition to shorter days and cooler nights was made a touch easier by several gloriously sunny weekends that invited us to play outside, and a few evenings still fair enough to sit on a riverside terrace sipping a white beer. And each time we enjoyed one of these bursts of unexpected warmth, it was a gift intensely enjoyed, a moment that could not be passed up, as if there was this urgency that time was running out, that soon enough all this summerness would dry up and disappear.

While yesterday was another one of these unexpectedly warm days, the truth is that a few days ago, I caught a glimpse of frost on my bathroom window, and last week, I saw my breath on my early morning ride to school. I felt that all too familiar shiver up my spine brought on by a cold that I am certain is here to stay, and I realized I had no choice but to stop layering sweaters and scarves and raincoat shells and start wearing my official autumn jacket.

I will admit that, as I pulled that coat off of its hanger, and wrapped myself in a scarf, I stomped my feet a little and threw a tiny, private tantrum. With flailed arms and furrowed eyebrows, I declared for all the world to hear,  “But I don’t want summer to end. I’m not ready.”

And I didn’t want it to end because it was probably the most perfect summer I can remember. Truly, the best summer ever! I unintentionally adopted the role these last few months of a “hedonist in training”. My summers of the past have always been full and often fantastic, but they have usually been marked by an intentional flavour- things to do, people to see, places to go. Go go go. This, however, was the summer of la dolce far niente, of waking up whenever and doing whatever, just wondering and wandering. Even though I did a little bit of work, tutoring students a few hours a week, the rest of my time was filled to overflowing with afternoon naps in the sun, picnics in the park, barbeques, day trips, late late late nights, tipsy giggling, dancing and dancing and more dancing, moonlit skinny dipping, beautiful new friendships, strengthened relationships with faithful friends and family, interesting conversation with strangers, parties, sleepovers, spontaneity, epiphanies, adventures, pleasure, pleasure, and more pleasure.

Pure bliss.

Pursuing happiness and enjoying life are newly adopted values of mine. For most of my life, my decisions about how to spend my time have been largely rooted in very purposeful values such as being productive, making a difference, contributing to society, bettering myself, being good, seeking balance. While these values have merit and remain important to me, they can be awfully weighty when implemented on a full-time basis. Living deliberately always, with these values as the guide, can sometimes be overwhelming, even exhausting. It was nice to step away from all that for a little while and instead practice the art of simply enjoying life. Limburg is a good place to do that- genieten van het leven, or enjoying life, is a strong cultural value here.

All that to say that while I think I may have aged a little from this summer, and I doubt I will ever fully recover from the sleep deprivation I experienced, it was all well worth it!

The interesting thing is that in spite of not being intentionally in pursuit of becoming a better me, of learning important lessons, of growing, I still exit these summer months with a beautiful collection of truths. I enter the fall changed, healthier, happier, ready-er. 

So now, for a short little reflection on the summer: my realizations, lessons learned, epiphanies, and general observations….

1. I consistently overpack. Whether it’s a weekend getaway or a two-week camping trip, I inevitably bring twice as much as I need. What can I say? I dress according to mood, I like to keep my options open, and I want to be ready for any occasion- the possibility (however unlikely) of wanting to go for an early morning run, the chance of meeting a charming new gentleman friend desperate to take me to dinner, tea with the queen, a wedding, a funeral. I mean, you never know, right? I used to feel a bit of holiday shame about my tendencies towards overpacking, as real travelers know how to keep it simple, but now I figure that as long as I’m strong enough to carry my own suitcase, then, well, whatever.

2. Good friends tell you when you have a mile-long chin hair that is only visible in the bright afternoon sun. Really good friends grab a pair of tweezers and yank it out for you.

3. I fall in love easily and frequently. While in Naxos, I pretty much fell in love with someone new each and every day. I fell in love with the boys at the Waffle House who provided me with unparalleled ice cream pleasure almost each night after dinner. I fell in love with Petros, the short, stocky, bald jewellery maker, partially because he gave me a “discount” on earrings simply because they looked so fabulous on me (yes, I am choosing to believe he doesn’t say that to all the girls), but mainly because he was so proud of his family’s work and passionate about his craft. I fell in love with the man who sold me peaches at the market. And I almost fell in love with the waiter who said, “Let me order for you. Trust me.” Then, in Norway, I experienced a brief but significant crush on the adorable young baker who sold me freshly baked sourdough bread. 

And while there are a number of gentlemen here who give me a flutter in my belly simply because of their charming smile or way with words or hearty laugh, the truth is that if I am to look for a theme among my crushes, it seems that what pulls me in is often committed and passionate artistry. Now, I have long sworn off- by order of close friends and family- artists and musicians, as I seem to be a sucker for wanting to nurture their potential, and coax their misunderstood souls to a place of productivity. But there is something very different between an artist and an artisan. I suppose I am just impressed and inspired by someone who devotes so much time and energy into perfecting their craft. Also, it is quite possible that I am a hybrid between a man and a magpie- the way to my heart appears to be by feeding me delicious food or offering me things that are shiny and pretty.

4. Norwegian men seem to have exceptionally large heads (except, of course, for that adorable baker). An odd observation, I realize, but I am not the only one who noticed!!

5. One possible explanation for the Greek economic crisis could be the fact that a trip to the emergency room, which involved a doctor consult, a full battery of blood tests, at least three throwaway puke trays, and several bags of various IV fluids, cost only a whopping 39 euros and 70 cents.

6. Dinnertime discussions in Greece led us to the proposal that one potential means of rectifying the country’s economic crisis could involve bringing a lawsuit against all those who falsely advertise their yogourt as “Greek-style.” Absolutely nothing, after all, compares with the real deal.

7. One of the most significant lessons of the summer was learning how to externally attribute the behaviour of others. For most of my life, I have made other people’s behaviour about me, believing that if they didn’t like me, it must be because there is something wrong with me, something I need to adjust, and if they were moody or angry or distant or rude, then- obviously- it must have been provoked by something I had done. I finally figured out this summer that the actions and reactions of the people around me have surprisingly little to do with me. I am not that important. Go figure! This, of course, proved to be most significant in terms of how I interact with men. Being able to not take rejection or a lack of interest or mixed messages personally, realizing that a guy’s response to me is a combination of a whole host of factors- his own patterns, history, issues, values, boundaries- helped put things into perspective, and allowed me to feel significantly better about myself. I suppose what this really means is that one of the final pieces in my healing puzzle- a healthy and solid sense of self, defined by ME, and nurtured by those who know me and love me- has at long last securely fit into place.

8. This also means that my desperate desire to be the favourite and the best, liked by everyone, hated by none, has largely dissipated. Before, if someone didn’t like me, I struggled to adjust myself and my behaviour in order to accommodate them, in order to make them like me. What do I need to do, I would wonder, to make you want to be my friend- sing, dance, juggle, tell jokes, cook you dinner, give you a back rub, ask more questions, laugh more, laugh less, talk more, talk less, dye my hair, speak Pig Latin, invent a secret handshake? I realize that this concern with others liking me is more than a bit ridiculous and seems to be the struggle of a fourteen year old girl, not a 34 year old woman. This is something I should have overcome long long long ago, but this delayed development can be attributed, I think, to the struggle of solidifying a scattered sense of self, one of the most significant and enduring leftovers of heartache and broken relationship. What a giant relief it is to know that I no longer need to allow every opinion of every person I encounter to impact my value judgments about my choices and my character. I am strong enough now to determine whose opinions to consider and whose to toss aside.

9. Part of my often baffled reaction to someone being lukewarm towards me is connected to the interesting truth that I do actually generally like most people. For some reason, it is relatively easy for me to see the good in others, to recognize their potential, and to understand the human disconnect between intention and reality. I make great efforts to give others the benefit of the doubt, and I tend to offer many chances for people to make another first impression. I feel uncomfortable with the idea of disliking someone. This is just how I am built, I suppose, but it might also have to do with being the daughter of a pastor, as it was often my task in church to befriend the new kid, whether or not we felt an instant click. And when I encounter someone and don’t feel that click, I am desperate to give it another go, desperate to overcome the guilt I feel for not wanting to get to know them better. Sometimes, in this very counterintuitive way, I often even try harder to make it work, overcompensating with invitations and attention, all in the spirit of a second chance at finding the elusive click, which really is unnecessary and kind of ridiculous.

While I can’t say I have become significantly better at being okay with disliking people, I did learn something very very important this summer, which is that it actually isn’t necessary to evaluate every person I meet and place them in the category of “like” or “dislike.” Apparently, what many people do- and I am giving this a try- is simply have a neutral reaction to a new acquaintance. It is possible to meet someone and leave it at that, without the need to determine if they are good or bad, whether I like them or I don’t like them, whether they will be my new BFF or the enemy I gossip about. They can just float around in this neutral category, free of opinion or judgment. What a concept! Again, what a relief to be free from not only trying to like everyone, but of even having to go through the evaluative process. This makes things significantly simpler.

10. The best way to build relationship, to make memories, to heal hearts, to learn the truth, to have a laugh, is to leisurely share a meal together. Food connects people. Food and wine solidifies the connection. Food and wine and music bonds people for life.

And finally….

11. I am simply a better human being when the sun is shining and there is a glass of wine in my hand.

8 )

If you want to get from Mars to Venus, you've got to lay off the brakes!

So, these summery nights, spent sipping white wine and cold beer on a patio with an evergrowing cluster of friends, seem to lend themselves to intimate and important conversations. The warm air melts away inhibitions, hours of slow but steady sipping create comfort, and all this togetherness builds trust, which means that several times during these last few weeks of summery goodness, I’ve found myself engaged in conversations that have brought up issues and questions and insights that continue to hang in my headspace long after we have all headed to our respective homes. These recurring ideas floating around up there have sometimes made me reevaluate my opinions, other times have helped me solidify my opinions, and always have allowed me to appreciate the opinions of friends- ideas that have been shaped by varying cultures, values, age and experience.

It is currently sexy summertime, when love and lust abound, and everyone seems to be a little bit bolder in their pursuits, perhaps because of a general awareness that summer flings are often as fleeting as the months that host them, or perhaps because the freedom provided by all this tipsy togetherness lifts off some of the fear that otherwise stifles our decision-making about life and love. This means that much of our conversation has surrounded the topics of love and romance and sex and dating and relationships, and the different ways in which men and women approach and interpret these.

Through all this talking, I’ve found myself coming back repeatedly to one idea in particular, and it is this: I am tired of the bullshit. 

Let me explain.

As many of you know, I am relatively new to all this dating business. I am not, though, new to developing and maintaining relationships, to connecting with people, to having a keen interest in what motivates behaviour. And I’ll tell you what I think motivates most of us single folk who are kinda sorta in search of someone to love or just someone to enjoy: fear. And it’s bullshit.

If you are in your thirties (and beyond) and single, chances are that you have been deeply heartbroken at least once in your life, and chances are that through your thirty something years of struggle, growth and relationships of the romantic, familial or professional variety, you have probably amassed a little bit of baggage. It’s inevitable.

And so, according to my observations, what seems to happen is that a 30 something boy meets a 30 something girl, (or a girl meets a girl, or a boy meets a boy) and there is unmistakable chemistry, a good little click, intrigue, interest. They like each other, but….

The what ifs and the yeah buts and the I don’t knows and the not yets quickly sneak in and stink up the natural unfolding process of two people getting to know each other, so we end up with this complicated, exhausting (and in my opinion, completely unnecessary) dance of pretense and feigned apathy. Self-protection pushes; intrigue and attraction pulls; with all sorts of swirls and dips and attempts to impress, everyone trying to oh so nonchalantly express interest while still coming off calm, cool and collected.

Like, not really sure what I want, only if you want to, I don’t really care, whatever.

We’re such a bunch of little scaredy cats.

I mean, what are you afraid of?

Are you afraid of being too enthusiastic because you might be perceived as “desperate”? Is it possible that enthusiasm just might indicate a grown-up sense of self-awareness that allows you to recognize something good when you see it?

Are you afraid of your freedom being stolen, of compromise and expectation and obligation being forced on you? Come on. You must know by now from the good people already in your life that a healthy relationship (of any variety) with clear expectations and balanced give & take can create an enviable safeness and comfort that promotes freedom in its fullest form.

Are you afraid of being your true self and getting rejected, so instead you try your best to hide all your little quirks and weaknesses? Honey, your true self is going to be revealed sooner or later. You might as well just get it over with and get your real self out there. And if this cute little someone doesn’t appreciate your real self, they probably don’t deserve you.

Are you afraid of once again finding yourself in a situation where you give more than you receive? Grow a back bone, trust your intuition, set boundaries, and practice using them.

Are you afraid of being trapped in something you’re not ready for, of starting something you don’t know you can finish? Nobody’s going to ask you to sign a marriage contract at your first date of coffee and cigarettes. Chill, my dear. But, can I just say, that no great thing can start with your fatalistic view of the end already in sight. No awesomeness can blossom if you start something- whatever it is- with the brakes engaged.

The biggest one, I think, the fear that underlies all the others, is the desperate desire to avoid heartache, the fear of investing into someone…again, and then being hurt…again, betrayed again, taken advantage of, rejected, heartbroken.

I know fear well, in many of its little shades and nuances. Fear has long been my default emotion. In my ongoing personal project, affectionately termed Operation F*ck Fear, I try to daily deliberately reject fear, and this frequently involves giving myself little talk-downs, which generally consists of imagining the worst case scenario and then determining if I can handle that worst case scenario.

So let’s take a minute and do that here.

Realistically, what is the worst case scenario of making room for someone in your life, of letting them in, of investing time and energy and attention into getting to know them? As far as I can tell, the most plausible worst case scenario involves boredom, disappointment, betrayal, rejection, humiliation, and/or heartache, a whole host of unpleasant emotions that hurt like a bitch and take time to heal. But seriously, you can handle it. Really. If you have a little wisdom gained through experience, some self-awareness, a good support network, a solid intuition, a little intelligence, then you, my friend, and your hard-working heart, are strong and resilient.

What’s the best case scenario? You gain a friend, a lover, potentially even a partner. You meet new people, and get exposed to new adventures and experiences. You learn about yourself and the world. You have fun, and share wine and food and laughter and pleasure.

In my opinion, the possibility of the best case scenario makes risking the worst case scenario totally worth it! It’s all about the hope, excitement, and delicious anticipation of possibility, possibility that is sparked in the full-on appreciation of, and surrender to, the Now.

So here’s what I think: let’s cut through the bullshit, let’s lay off the brakes, lift off pretense, loosen up, let go and let someone in, dammit. Stop acting in fear, a fear often guised in noncommittal apathy or rejection of possibility. And instead, let’s agree to approach each other with integrity, honesty and grace. Let’s be straight up, put the cards on the table, tell our stories. Save everyone the time and mental energy required to make sense of mixed signals and to read between the lines. I’ll tell you my issues and patterns and baggage, and make my interest and intention clear. You decide if you can handle it. You tell me yours; I’ll do the same. And then, let’s just give it a go and see what happens. Let's just agree to be open to possibility.

I am not suggesting you confess your porn addiction on the first date, introduce your bedroom alter-ego on the second, or suggest names for your someday babies on the third, but we all need to recognize that there is an immense strength in vulnerability, a quiet confidence that comes from having enough humility and self-awareness to shamelessly share your story. Be your whole true real self. Because if and when whatever it is you’re allowing yourself to be open to eventually ends, you will at least know you were all you could be in that moment, and you did all you could do.

Love and fear don’t go together. If you want the former (in any of its many shapes, sizes and intensities), you absolutely need to reject the latter.

Just sayin’.

To finish things off, let me leave you with this little video. The song is one of my favourites. The movie too. Both have the same message: it's time, my dear, to choose love over fear. 

Ode On A Grecian Urn of Grecian Goodness

I am in Greece, hanging out on one of those tiny little specks on the map of the Aegean Sea. This place makes me woozy with sighs of wonderment and smiles of gratitude. I smile when surrounded by the beauty of all the red and pink blossoms of bougainvillea & oleander & hibiscus spilling out over the tipsy, white-washed walls and bright blue doors. I smile when wandering through the twisty ancient streets of the old town, distracted by the ridiculously beautiful handmade wares of local silversmiths and ceramicists. I smile when standing on top of the big ole hunks of marble that line the shore and look out on the blue sea and the even bluer sky. I smile when the warm nighttime breeze blows the soft smell of jasmine through the air, inviting me to keep wandering, to keep walking, to get lost in search of another dose of its subtle perfume. I smile when sampling yet another culinary delight- flowery honey, thick yogourt, flaky cheese pie, or one of the fresh, local tomatoes or cucumbers that garnish every plate of something or other stuffed with cheese, cheese, cheese, and more cheese. I smile when sipping my second, no, third, could it be the fourth, glass of wine, my head tipped back in laughter, my hands flailing in explanation, my body leaned into another comfortable conversation. I smile when reading in the potent late afternoon sun, my Audrey-inspired floppy hat frequently threatening to fly off in a wind that tempers the hot hot heat.

All I do here, it seems, aside from eating and drinking and napping and laughing and daydreaming and exploring and enjoying (and maybe oh so occasionally hanging out at the hospital to get rehydrated after puking out my internal organs), is smile, smile, and smile some more.

This trip to Greece is good- certainly- but it is actually more than good. It is significant.

This trip is significant because I have come here to meet some of my favourite people in the world. I am hanging out here with my dear friends, Sarah and Jeff, and their dear family, all of whom I can’t help but love. These people are some of the easiest people to hang out with that I know. When I am with them, I never worry about laughing too loud or talking too much or repeating my stories or being in the way or taking up too much space or being too light or being too heavy or getting too excited or drinking too much or eating too fast or sleeping too late or stepping on toes or crossing boundaries or bringing up taboo topics. Being with them is comfortable, simple, good. It just works! We calculated the other day that we have been friends for fourteen years, more than ten of which have been spent living in separate, far away cities. We can go for months at a time without talking, years without a face to face visit, and it still just always works.

But, really, they are more than good friends. They are, in many ways, my second family. They are people I can count on always, ready to support, listen, advise, accept, give, and, most importantly, to just be present, whenever necessary. In fact, a few years ago, when I left my husband, and I had to head back to Canada from the United States because my visa was attached to his, and I just didn’t know where to go or what to do, they invited me to come live with them…pretty much indefinitely. They housed me and fed me and entertained me and listened to me, and they asked for absolutely nothing in return. They seemed to be satisfied with just my being there. Just me was enough. What a wonderful, safe feeling. I love them and their kids and their parents and their brothers and sisters and grandparents, as well as all the good food and drink and laughter that always accompany our visits. So here we are in Greece, nine people spread across four rooms in a wonderful little hotel run by our gracious hostess Antonia, who continually fills the fridge with homemade rice pudding, and warm cake, and cucumbers picked from her farm.

This trip is significant because it has been in the works for a good long while. That summer three years ago when I lived with Sarah and Jeff, they disappeared for a few weeks to this very island, and when they came back, they said, “Next time, you’re coming with us,” and I said, “Yeah, cool. Good idea. Let’s do it.” And, well, we’re doing it! It’s nice to have a vision, and then to see it effortlessly unfold. It instills hope and encourages dreaming when a faraway long ago plan becomes today’s reality.

This trip is significant because it’s really the first trip that I am taking alone. Yes, I know that I am not really “alone” because I have company just a few steps away, but I have my own room, my own space, and I can come and go as I please. I can get up earlier to wander the streets by myself, without worrying about waking anyone or leaving someone out. I can stay at the beach later to finish up a chapter in my book, without concerns about inconveniencing anyone. How I spend my time and my money is really only for me to decide. How crazy is that, huh, that a girl in her mid-thirties has never taken a trip by herself? But it’s the truth. Pretty much all the traveling I have done has been with friends or family, which, of course, is great, but requires an awareness of shared space and coordinating plans. I must admit that it is refreshing and freeing to have this level of independence. I appreciate it.

This trip is significant because it forced me to be a little bit more assertive than I usually am, to announce what I wanted and set some boundaries. When I was hired for the recent job I just completed, I told my soon-to-be boss in our interview that, while I was most definitely interested in the position, June 15^th had to be my last day. No ifs, ands, or buts. My trip was booked and I wasn’t willing to change it. In the past, I would have given up my trip to accommodate my employer. This time, I didn’t. And the most interesting part is that nobody seemed to mind one bit!

This trip is significant because I actually, for the first time, have a budget. In the past, I have generally gone into debt for travel and not paid much concern to how much I spent, largely taking an attitude of “Oh well. I’ll just deal with it later.” While oblivious spending might be freeing for some people, my experience is that every purchase I made, every treat that was not really essential, was accompanied by a giant scoop of guilt. This time, because I’ve budgeted how much I have available for food and drink and gifts, I feel justified in stuffing my face, ordering two scoops of ice cream, and splurging on a beach chair, because it all fits quite comfortably within my pre-set budget. How wonderful to enjoy all this pleasure without the teensiest drop of guilt or anxiety.

This trip is significant because I came without expectation or urgency. I have been lucky enough to see many interesting places in this great big world, but my approach to travel has changed over time. I remember visiting Barcelona and Paris a decade ago, and every single day was completely stuffed full with activity. My Lonely Planet guidebook was spilling over with highlighter and post-it notes and scribbles in the margin. The itinerary was intense, each hour of the day (and night) accounted for, visiting every noteworthy church, museum, and monument. I couldn’t miss a thing, just in case we never came back. Even when visiting my family in the Caribbean, I have had a history of being a bit uptight about maximizing my vacation. I want to be productive in my resting, I want to be the best rester ever, so I have actually calculated in my head how many hours I need to spend on the beach, in order to ensure sufficient time for napping and reading and journaling and swimming. Otherwise, it just feels like I’m squandering my time and money if, God forbid, I am not fitting in enough restful, vacationy activities into my vacation. Absurd, I know.

Then a few years ago, I took a two-week trip with my friend, Michelle, wandering through the Netherlands, and we developed this beautiful routine of waking up whenever we woke up, eating a leisurely breakfast, heading to the train station and then picking a city that looked like an interesting place to head to for the day. The agreement was that, in each city, we would visit one important historical or cultural place, and then spend the rest of the day aimlessly wandering in search of cute little shops and bakeries and cafes. This was a new way of traveling for me, and even though I occasionally had pangs of anxiety about having been to a city without maximizing my stay, I knew that the chances of returning to the Netherlands were pretty high, so I could always come back and see the things I missed. I tried to apply this newfound, more casual approach to travel in my next few trips to the Caribbean, doing my darndest to resist the familiar sense of urgency, changing the objective of my vacation from forcibly “relaxing” to just being and taking it all as it comes.

So, that’s what’s happening here. I didn’t really read up about Naxos’ history or important sights to see. I just checked the weather. I have been to only one beach the whole time I’ve been here, and I usually only get there around one in the afternoon, and aside from some wanderings here and there, I haven’t really ventured too far out. And I’m totally okay with that. I’ve even spent more than a few days sick in bed, and I’m totally okay with that too. My plan in coming here was just to spend time with good people, to eat well, to laugh a lot, and to simply be open to anything else. I know I have judged people like me before, who show up at their vacation destination without knowing anything about the place where they’re visiting, without the urge to head off and adventurize, but I don’t really care. Different vacations have different objectives. This one is just about being in the moment and taking it as it comes. And I am loving the freedom that flows when the urgency is lifted off.

Well, friends, off I go to squeeze in a few more sighs and smiles before I head back home tomorrow.

Yammas!

My Dear Bright Shining Stars

So, one of the tasks on my to-do list this week is filling out these teacher reference forms for each of the Year 12 students I've been teaching, all in order to help them with the process of applying to fancy schools with fancy scholarships next year, and one of the questions on this reference form asks me to predict what each student's final mark will be when they finish this long, intensive two-year course at the end of the next academic year. As I was sitting there, yesterday evening, struggling to figure out how I could possibly predict the grade of a kid who is still figuring out life and school and what it all means, I couldn't help but write (in typical L fashion) a letter to this fabulous group of students who have managed to wriggle their way right into my heart. Many of these students are bumbling, busy activists in the making, who, in spite of their brilliant minds and fiery opinions, are almost always drowning in deadlines, neglecting assignments, taking on too much, and forgetting that not everything can be a priority (sound familiar?).

Here it is. I hope, both for them and for you, that the intent of this letter, and the heart behind it, is clear.

**************

Hello everyone.

Many of you have been asking me about your predicted grades. It’s tricky trying to predict what your grade will be at the end of not this academic year but next year. I am filling out the sheets as we speak, but wanted to give a general comment to the group about the predicted grades (and maybe life in general).

Here’s the deal: while I can sit here and predict your grade based on your "potential", the truth is that, for many of you, your actual grade, at the end of next year, will be very much determined by your work ethic, by your willingness to do whatever’s necessary to fully live up to that potential. I am sure many of you, if you do just a teensy weensy bit of reflection, will realize that maybe you haven’t always put your best effort into each and every assignment (in this class and, I’m guessing, probably in others). For fear of giving you a message you have already heard before, let me say this: that success, ladies and gentlemen, is much much much more about hard work than it is about natural charm, wit, beauty, people skills or above average intelligence. If you want to make it in this world, like, really make it, and be successful in whatever it is you choose to do in your life, hard work will make ALL the difference.

I realize that you often feel crushed by commitments on all sides- obligations with school and family and friends and volunteering and hobbies, but good time management, good organization, an awareness of your values, and a commitment to hard work make up the key difference between where you’re at now and where you want to be. Some of you are already discipline superstars- you hand everything in without your teachers needing to chase you, you ask for extra help when you need it, you do all the reading that’s suggested, but let’s admit it folks, most of us could take it up a notch, right? Remember that the kind of work you hand in, and your general attitude towards life and school, is a reflection of how you view yourself. Some people might say, “Oh, I didn’t do my best because it wasn’t important” or “It wasn’t worth a lot of marks,” but the truth is that if you have any self-respect, if you value excellence and integrity, and if you really want to be the kind of student, person, global citizen that this school is all about (and, more importantly, the type of person who makes a difference to this world), your “best” needs to be evident in everything you do.

I know that’s hard to do. Believe me, I know. But the quest for that, the path towards success, a path that is long and complicated, starts now. The sooner you figure out how to balance everything, how to “bring it” each and every day, how to live and work and study deliberately, making choices about how you invest your time and energy with your values and goals always in mind, the better. Learn it now, rather than two years from now when you just realized you have to read 500 pages for your final exam in Neuropsychology or Lingustics and the Mind or whatever crazy courses you’ll be taking in university. Because then, life is going to be more complicated academically, socially, financially, philosophically, (romantically). Get a headstart now.

I speak from experience. I, too, like many of you, was a naturally good student. My average was often other people’s best, and I rarely pushed myself to really work hard. My marks were good enough so why bother, right? The truth is that it isn’t really about the marks, or even what the marks mean. It’s about getting to know yourself and where you fit in this world, and what you want out of life, and what you need in order to get what you want, and it seems that this predicted grade could be your ticket to all that. But really, when it comes down to it, it’s about recognizing that there is very little difference in the attitude towards being the best student you can be, the best basketball player you can be, the best musician you can be, the best friend you can be. It all comes back to the same things: respect for yourself, respect for (and awareness of) the people around you and how your actions and words impact them and reflect you, and respect for the process, for the gift of learning, for the gift of being here now in this cool school with these cool people. And the truth is that you get so much more out of your classes, out of your relationships, out of everything, when you give your everything.

So, why am I saying all this? Because most of you, in my short time here, have given me these beautiful glimpses of what you’re capable of, either in your written assignments or in class discussions or in conversations we’ve had one on one, so I KNOW what you’re capable of. I know what brilliance is lurking there right beneath the surface begging to be coaxed out. I know what special people each and every one of you are. For some of you, you bring it every single time- that brilliance is constantly shining; you’re on fire- but with many of you, now, at this point, they remain glimpses. And here I am, with my predicted grade sheet, trying to decide if you are a student who is committed to the glimpse, who wants to show more, who wants to shine bright always, but still sometimes struggles to figure out how to balance everything, or how to be consistent, or how to give your best to everything you produce even when so many people are asking so much of you, OR I’m wondering if you’re someone who is today (and may still be next year) satisfied with just squeaking by, with giving just enough to keep the teachers off your back, someone who lets a decent mediocrity get in the way of achieving your best (and maybe that’s not about laziness at all but because you’re confused or dissatisfied or distracted or homesick or tired…who knows). And then, of course, there are also some of you who don’t even realize yet what you’re capable of, who underestimate your potential.

So, that’s where I’m at- looking at you and your work and trying to figure out how badly you want it- success (at least in a quantitative form- we could debate the whole idea and meaning of success some other time), a future, change, experience, life, learning, fullness. And really, in the end, what I hope is that you are motivated by your own best, by an intrinsic desire to be all you can be and learn all you can learn, more than by a silly little number on a page, but for now, all I get to give you (aside from this bit of a “You can do it, so please do” speech) is a silly little number on a page.

Basically, I just desperately want you to realize how awesome and special and bright you are, and then I would love for you to humbly and boldly step out into that awesomeness, to embrace your full potential, with open minds and a willingness to work hard, so that you can be your best whenever it counts, which is each and every day.

Okay, that’s it, my lovelies. It has been a pleasure working with all of you. I give you a great big group hug, thank you for teaching me, and I look forward to seeing what extraordinary things you guys accomplish in this big ole crazy world of ours.

All the best!

LKS

Beck sang it best: Soy un perdador

So I’m supposed to be running a 10 km race today, like, right about now. Obviously, the fact that I am sitting here writing these words on this page is a pretty good indication that I am not running this race, a race that I not only registered and paid for, but that I also invited friends and colleagues to join me in. I am not running the race because this seems to be one of the things that I do- sign up for something, anything, everything, with sincere enthusiasm, without taking a moment or two to properly weigh the circumstances surrounding the event, other commitments, and the reality of my ability and availability, and then- after hours, days, weeks, months of denial- I finally, at the last possible second, realize that perhaps there just might be a few too many things on my plate, and that my far too optimistic schedule largely underestimates the time required for each engagement, and does not allow for such crucial activities as sleeping and eating.

In fact, this week has been stuffed to the brim with examples of me doing these things that I do, things I know I shouldn’t do, things that I wish I didn’t do, things that I try not to do, but things that I still somehow do over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Monday was a beautiful example.

Picture this please. Monday morning, I’m all decked out in my teacher outfit. I’ve got on my ready-to-start-my-week heels, a quasi-spring dress/legging combo, and my hair pulled back into an I’m-trying-to-hide-how-desperately-I-need-a-haircut coiffure- headband, bangs swept to the side, tucked under headband and sprayed in place, and an elastic band wrapped probably a dozen times around a pathetic little tuft of hair so tiny that it can’t really even be called a ponytail. I head downstairs, and then upstairs again (because, of course, I forgot something), and then downstairs, and then upstairs again, and then- finally- downstairs to gather up my stuff and head out the door. This is always quite the process, because, as you may have noticed from my purse clean-out post, I like to haul a lot of stuff around with me, lots of “just in case” stuff, and I have to fit all this stuff into the two relatively roomy but not infinitely roomy saddle bags hanging off the back of my bicycle. So, while this morning routine is always quite the process, it is even more so on Mondays because, on top of the usual daily essentials I bring with me to work, I also have to haul back the untouched bag full of marking that I insist on taking home with me every Friday evening, even though I never ever even open the zipper, but I bring it home every Friday with the intention of actually doing the work this time, which, of course, I never do. And then this particular Monday, I had even more stuff to pack up than I usually do on a Monday because it was the Queen’s Jubilee, and all the staff members belonging to the Commonwealth had been asked if they could please bake a wee little something, and I, of course, naturally said “Yes,” and baked a couple dozen scones. And then, not only did I have scones and my untouched work and my lunch and my rain jacket (just in case the heavens open en route), but I also had cupcakes for the Year 12s who had recently completed a very big important assignment, and my coworker had suggested we do something for them, and I, naturally, volunteered to bake cupcakes, because, after all, everyone knows that if you’re going to be baking on a Sunday night anyhow, then you might as well just keep on baking.

The reminders kept coming this week of these quirky and persistent little habits and patterns I have, these things that I do that I really really wish I didn’t do but just keep doing, probably because the pressure’s on, and these kinds of things always reveal themselves when the pressure’s on. This next week is the last week of my contract at the school where I’m working, and a few hours after I finish my last day, I am stepping onto a plane and heading on a little trip, which means that during this next week I have a lot I need to do. Like, a lot. I need to pack, and shop for the usual last minute things, and print off confirmations, but then I also have to make sure all my report card comments and marks are completed, and that all my stuff is out of the classroom I’ve been using, and that the classroom is left as orderly as when I found it, and I have to finish marking my embarrassingly large pile of assignments before I can even do all the comments and marks (which I should actually be doing now instead of writing this). And I need to make sure my bedroom is all cleaned up because my parents are arriving moments after I leave and will be staying in my room. And I have to send my brother a list of things to bring with him when he comes to visit in a few weeks. And I need to….oh, you get the picture. There’s a lot that needs to be done in a short period of time, and it appears that at these moments, when efficiency and expediency and focus are the most necessary, this is when all my quirks come out in full force.

So, below, for all the world to see, a list of the things that I do that I know I shouldn’t do, that I wish I didn’t do, that I try not to do, but that I still somehow do over and over and over and over and over and over again.

1. not making hair appointments

Each time I go to the hair stylist, I am offered the opportunity to book my next appointment in advance. I never do. I don’t know what it is- fear of commitment, concern that I might forget, the feeling of being tied down. God forbid I make an appointment and then call and cancel or reschedule if, for some reason, the timing doesn’t work. Instead, what happens is this: I look in the mirror one morning and realize that it might be time for a cut, but it’s busy or I forget or I’m trying to save money, and I start putting my hair in pig tails or flipping it out, until one day, I just can’t bear it anymore- an inch of roots is showing and my hair is just too long and too short and too heavy and too mulletty. So finally I make an appointment, but then, because they work on Dutch hours, which means they’re closed, like, 3 days of the week, and only open until 6 pm on the days that they are open, I have to wait until they can squeeze me in, and essentially, I’m walking around for upwards of three weeks with hair that I hate, coming up with all these bizarre hairstyles that involve multiple barrettes and bobby pins and elastic bands and hair bands, as well as big earrings or bright lipstick to distract people from the ridiculous situation happening on my head.

2. slouching

I am a “chin poker,” I have tendencies towards the rounded back that I see in my father and grandfather, and my shoulders are always trying to get ahead of the rest of me, curling forward. I see pictures of myself and wish I could digitally straighten my spine and pull those shoulders back. Yoga has certainly helped but unless I am continuously conscious of my posture, I am a hard-core sloucher. I could teach slouching, I could earn a PhD in slouching. I need to hire someone whose sole task is pulling my shoulders back and yelling at me to stand up straight.

3. taking work home with me

Taking work home is wrong on so many levels. First of all, in order to achieve a healthy balance between work life and home life, work should stay at work. I have a good friend who is also a teacher who refuses to work past 6:00 pm on anything school-related. I thought that was crazy when he first told me that, but it makes sense. Teachers often get a lot of comments from non-teachers about how long our vacations are and how short our hours are. It’s true- we have a sweet summer break and a decent work day, but the thing about teaching is that our brains are always buzzing with teaching-related stuff. If I read an article, I think, “Oh, that would be a good one to discuss in class.” If I see a cool video clip, I think “Oh, I have to show this to the kids.” In the shower or on the bike ride to work, I am struck with new ways of delivering information or planning out a unit. I know this work-staying-in-the-headspace situation isn’t unique to teaching, but I guess what I’m saying is that a good teacher could theoretically be working, in some capacity, all the time, the mind a-buzzing non-stop with schoolschoolschool. Plus, working with kids, while invigorating and fun, is also exhausting. I’m in character all day, singing, dancing, talking, juggling, laughing, questioning, performing, encouraging, disciplining, deciphering, putting on the “Learning is Fun” show five days a week. So, weekends and evenings are important- to recharge and rest up. For everyone, teacher or not, weekends and evenings are important. A valuable lesson I learned last year, when I lost my job, a job to which I had given so much time and energy, was that, at the end of the day, no matter how much you love your work, a job has to be a job. It can’t be your life. Life needs to be about more than work. So weekends and evenings need to be about relationships and hobbies and learning and being outside and enjoying life, not so you can be better at your job, so you can be about more than your job, just so you can be.

Also, taking work home is bad because then it’s this ever-looming reminder in the corner of what is still left to be done. For someone like me, far too motivated by guilt and obligation, with unhealthy tendencies towards anxiety, that kind of reminder is the last thing I need. So taking work home with me means, in the end, that my weekend, which should be about relationships and rejuvenating and resting and enjoying, gets defiled by this black cloud of a leftover to do list.   

4. forgetting/losing/misplacing/leaving rain gear

While I have gotten much better at having a rain coat and umbrella on me at all times, the problem now is that I keep leaving these places, so, in my 9 months here, I have lost one rain coat, left another at a friend’s and I keep forgetting to ask for it back, and then, if I wear the one that I still have in my possession, I have to hang it up wherever I am to dry, and that’s when I often end up forgetting it. Plus, a rain coat is good, but on multiple occasions, I have been caught in a rainstorm wearing beautiful shoes that I then need to try and salvage, which is incredibly stressful, so really, I need to have a pair of flip flops in my saddle bag at all times, in case the rain comes down when I’m all dolled up.

5. creating mess

I have been nicknamed “The Hurricane,” not because of my sweet moves in the boxing ring, but because I literally leave a trail of mess wherever I go. At a school where I worked, I had one student in my class who was my “key keeper.” It was her job to know, at all times, where my keys were, because they were perpetually lost under piles of paper or stuffed in a corner somewhere or hidden in some kid’s desk.  My classroom is a disaster. Some coworkers are nice and say things like, “You can tell learning happens here” or “Those with brilliant minds have no need to organize their physical space,” but most look at my work space with bugged out eyes (that, let’s admit, have the teensiest bit of judgement in their gaze, especially from those organized, colour-coded, everything in its place elementary school teachers).

My bedroom is an even greater disaster, because barely anyone sees it. I will admit that I am highly motivated by public shame and ridicule, motivated to maintain some type of order so that others won’t judge me (even the people I live with), so I generally keep the door shut to hide my mess. I am not dirty- there isn’t rotten food or dirty Kleenexes strewn everywhere- but it is always untidy. I don’t really know why I have drawers or a closet because I don’t really use them, at least not in the way that normal people do. I tidy everything up about once a week, but quite literally, the next day, after trying on a few outfits and shoes, it’s in the same state of disarray. Those trying to be helpful ask, “Why don’t you just tidy up before you go to sleep?” And to that I respond “Because I’m tired and don’t feel like it, because I am more motivated by people than by tasks on my to do list.” The funny thing, though, is that I function better in a tidy environment. I’m not one of those messy and proud of it types. In a very weird way, I appreciate and enjoy creating order. I like organizing my stuff, and if you open the closet, the clothes that are actually on hangers, are in a very visible order- jeans together, dresses together, short sleeve shirts, long sleeve shirts. The problem is that I can never seem to maintain the order. I create these organizational systems at work and at home that I simply can’t sustain.

Yesterday at dinner, the women at the table were telling stories about their own struggles with mess, and it just made me feel sooooo much better, like I’m not the only deeply flawed girl on the planet. Still, it’s a sucky feeling to not invite someone in because you’re embarrassed by how you live. Something’s gotta give, especially if, like I said, I know that I think better and feel better when there isn’t any mess.

6. putting things in “safe” places

Because I am messy and have organizational systems that don’t really work, I have to find safe places for important things. Sometimes, these important things are lost in a black hole of safeness for eons at a timeand I eventually stumble upon them after a huge wave of panic, and then sometimes I actually smile at how surprised I am that I was smart enough to think about putting it somewhere safe.

7. avoiding paperwork

If I added up the amount of money I have lost from late fees or from failing to submit receipts for which I could be reimbursed, I could take you all out for dinner.

8. overcommitting

I have a fairly hefty enthusiasm for novel ideas, for great initiatives, for life, in general. If I could, I’d like to clone myself so that I could be involved in more cool activities. Sometimes I forget that there is only one me and that I do not yet have a clone, and I say “Yes” to everything that comes into my path. I love the new people I meet and new lessons I learn from saying “Yes” but I often forget that you can’t say “Yes” to everything. Usually, I agree to take part in something because I am truly excited, sometimes I just don’t want to disappoint someone. In the end, though, because I agree to so much, eventually I risk the chance that I’ll disappoint multiple people because of my often overlapping commitments.

9. horrid time management

I don’t really use an agenda. I’ve tried different styles. I never seem to be able to make it work. I rely on my memory, which is pretty good, but not good enough. I scribble to do lists in a variety of locations. They overlap and also have massive gaps. I forget things, I put them off, I do them twice. The biggest problem, however, is that generally I have an unrealistic understanding of how long something will take. I am always trying to squeeze as much into every day, which is obviously a bit of a problem. It causes anxiety, rushing, pressure, none of which are good. I think that after all the bullshit of the last few years, I sometimes feel allergic to obligation, and in this weird way, to do lists cause this pressure of someone wanting something from me, so I avoid making them, and treat them as suggestions, rather than obligations.

Connected to all of this is my gigantic problem of procrastination. I put things off until the point where it is just painful, where the thing that I need to do is just crushing me from all sides. I need to learn how to do things before they become urgent. I know all about that little matrix you’re supposed to make of your tasks so that you divide them up into urgent and important. I am in that urgent quadrant all the time. Whatever is most pressing is what gets done, which means that important things get forgotten and that, of course, is a shame. Urgency is stressful.

                                                        --------------------------------------------

In a perfect world, I would be rich enough to hire a maid, a personal assistant and a posture aide. This, alas, is not a perfect world. So, what to do? What to do?

Here’s the deal: doing these things is one thing, doing them knowing full well that I don’t want to do them is another, but the biggest problem, really, is my own reaction to the situation. I waste so much time hating myself for doing the things I don’t want to do but keep doing. And in these moments when I throw my hands up in the air and cry out to the universe, “Why do I keeping doing this?”, my sister always says, “Either accept it or change it.” And she’s right.

I think that one of the natural yet not particularly helpful consequences of my eternal optimism is the fact that I always think it‘s going to be different this time, that this will be the weekend that I open up my school bag, this will be the report card where I have everything entered into the system in advance, this will be the month when I pay the bills on time.

There is this fine line between denial and faith in one’s ability to change. The people around me see it. My sister advised me two weeks ago that maybe, given my health as of late and the fullness of my day planner, just maybe I should think about giving up this race, but I so desperately wanted to prove that I could squeeze it all in. I don’t like the idea of there being limitations, of needing to make choices. But in the end, the unfortunate thing is in committing to everyone, I sometimes also end up disappointing everyone, including myself.

In this whole ‘accept it or change it’ approach, there are a few things to consider. For one, I think there’s kind of the need to do both, to take steps towards changing while still accepting the imperfect me in the middle of the changes. What I mean is that sometimes I am not patient enough with myself. I want it to be fixed now, and I get irritated when I make mistakes, when I fall off the wagon, when I can’t figure it out as quickly as I’d like.

Another dimension of this decision to change or accept is perhaps to look at what motivates my desire to change. Do I want to be less messy so that others don’t judge me or because it legitimately adds to my quality of life?

And perhaps, rather than evaluate behaviour as good or bad, in need of change or not, I can recognize the complex layers involved in certain character traits and behaviours, to cherish the consequences of imperfection rather than dwell on the quest to achieve perfection.

So much to think about. But that’s all for now. After all, my weekend pile of marking awaits. Time to zip open the bag and just get it done…..or I could take a nap in the sun.

ManFreeMay: The Report Card

So, it’s June now, which means that May is over, which means that ManFreeMay has come and gone.

A little recap: for an entire month, I tried my best to avoid winking at men, coyly smiling at men, touching the arms and chests of hunky men while talking with them. I tried to avoid hunky men, in general, actually, not just avoiding talking to them, but also doing my darndest to avoid noticing their tight asses and broad shoulders and charming smiles and snappy styles. I also tried to avoid walking into the room like I’m a tasty dish on display- no swaying of hips or biting of my lip or cocking my head to the side while I talk and giggle and take interest in the inner workings of the mysterious male mind.

There was, I admit, an itsy bitsy little ManFreeMay “infraction,” shall we say, in the first weekend of the month, an infraction that involved industrial strength Cosmopolitans, the impulsivity and diminished inhibition brought on by industrial strength Cosmopolitans, and a young little thing whose name I didn’t know until he texted me a week later. This incidence of an alcohol-induced loose interpretation of the rules of ManFreeMay provided perfect evidence for the Me&Men Truth # 7: “Decisions made about men while under the influence of a mind-altering substance are generally not the best decisions.” True, indeed.

Well, what can I say? I hit the Reset button. What else could I do?? 

And since that early May morn, and my sleepy, tussled recommitment to the principles and practices of ManFreeMay, I’d say it was a relative success- success at least in terms of my actual actions, in terms of my conscious choice to resist acting on impulses and temptations, my active efforts to be more disciplined, selective, pro-active rather than reactive, efforts to be more aware of my behaviour, in general, and my behaviour around men specifically, and efforts to catch myself when distracted or daydreaming or obsessing or overanalyzing or preening or feigning or drooling about anything remotely related to some dude who’s just not worth it.

Was I successful in permanently booting out of my headspace all the boys (and beliefs about boys) that unlawfully reside there? No. Not exactly. Not always. Remember that rope coiling back to the shape it knows best? That seems to be the case here- old habits die hard. And it seems that, sometimes, the almost desperate decision to NOT think about someone or something brings it to an even more heightened awareness, and it seems that some of these people and ideas are so potent that they even crept their way deep into my subconscious, showing up in dreams or under layers and layers of daytime thoughts, popping up at random moments when least expected. An important lesson learned, though, is this: it’s all well and good to try and remove an idea, but it’s much more powerful and effective to replace it. I think that’s actually a scientific principle or a biblical principle, or maybe it’s just common sense. If you dig an energy-sucking, life-killing plant out of the ground, and you leave the hole where it resided empty, eventually that empty hole will get filled up with dirt, rot, weeds, whatever’s floating around, whatever’s closest and most recent, and it will happen in an almost passive yet inevitable way. How much better to decisively fill that hole up with something that brings beauty, sustenance and longevity to everything around it?

So that’s the new approach, or should I say the renewed approach. Replace old, energy-sucking, mind-wasting thoughts, ideas, beliefs with new thoughts and ideas and beliefs that are soul-nurturing and inspiring. I will consciously keep myself- my mind, my body, my lived out day to day schedule- busy and filled up with all that is true and good, with people and ideas that make me a happier, healthier, better version of myself. That way, there is simply and absolutely no room left for the passive yet unhealthy thought patterns of the past. Nope. Nope. Nope. No room at all.

And, if anything, a little distance from the dating game helped solidify the need to really really remember some important truths about me and men, truths that are smack-yourself-on-the-head-for-forgetting obvious. I had big hopes of exploring all those truths during ManFreeMay, of inviting everyone into my mind and giving a little glimpse of my experience, but, alas, I guess Life gets in the way sometimes.

Oh well. We’ll just have to explore those truths later on, now won’t we. After all, truth is truth is truth, no matter what month it is, right?

Farewell to a Faithful Friend

My Dear Black Dex Shrug Tunic Top, I’m going to miss you.

Let’s admit it- when I first saw you, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight. You were squished in among all the last bits and leftovers of last year’s Spring Sale at The Bay, and you’d been marked down again and again and again. You were hanging out with lilac-coloured, elasticized old lady pants and a leopard print lycra & lace bustier. Not exactly a best first impression, wouldn’t you agree? Still, I pulled you out and gave you a once over. You were interesting- I’ll give you that- but let’s be honest, I was hesitant to add you to my try-on pile. You were an XS, and it’s no secret that my days of XS are long gone; you were viscose and we all know how I feel about viscose- so luscious at first, but soon, after a wash or two, it gets moody and wrinkles and balls; and the biggest turn-off was the intimidating truth that I was so so confused by all your scrunches and ruches and ties. I didn’t know what to make of you.

But I gave you a try, and you, my faithful friend, were a winner. You fit so nicely- snug but not too snug. You showed off my back (my self-professed best feature). You were a wonderful length, covering my bum just enough so I could wear skinny pants without looking like a wanna-be teenager or one of those red-derriered baboons. You were a black somewhere between opaque and translucent- not too heavy but not too see-through. You were, in many respects, perfect. You became my go-to, a regular in the wardrobe circulation, dressed up, dressed down, layered or all alone, and oh so comfortable.

Remember, dear friend, that you were my choice for the plane ride across the pond, for that first date with some boy, and for an important interview. I believed in your ability to make any mediocre outfit dynamite. So yesterday, when it came time to get ready for the latest art event, I naturally turned to you.

But, all done up from head to toe, I stood for a moment in the natural morning light and took a look at myself in the full length mirror, and then I saw the truth- a truth, I fear, that has been there a while now but that I have been so selfishly denying.

You didn’t look good.

You were all pilled, little balls of viscose lint dotting your surface, collecting in the areas where you’d too often rubbed up against purses and jackets, threads were poking out, and bits of this and that stuck into your roughened surface.

I was embarrassed. I couldn’t leave the house like that.

But I had a vision, and you were part of it, and I thought to myself, there must be a way to save this, a way to make this right. I brought out the sweater shaver, hoping its tiny little blades would restore you to all your garment glory, but those blades didn’t know the difference between the good and the bad and the rough and the smooth, and they punctured your fine viscose skin, tearing open one, two, three holes. “Oh no. Oh no,” I cried. I put you back on and smoothed you and creased you and scrunched you, trying to hide those holes so nobody could see the damage I’d done.

It was no use.

I had to admit it was over. In my desperation for you to remain a wardrobe regular, in my eager attempt to keep you with me, I brought about your demise.

This was a long time coming. I’d ignored your wish to be hand-washed far too many times. I’d dropped you in the corner of the room and left you there for days on end. I knew at some point it would come to this, but I didn’t think it would be so soon. Not now. Not like this. I wasn’t ready.

Still, I say good-bye to you, my dear Black Dex Shrug Tunic Top. I wish you a long and content after-life as a rag folded neatly in a drawer somewhere. Thanks for the good times. You will be missed.