Driving while dreaming ...

I have, throughout my dreaming life, dreamt of me driving a car. The vehicles once were cars that I owned. A blue Plymouth Skylark I eventually gave the nick name “the beast” I had in my twenties is the vehicle that often presents itself in my dreams. In my dreams, I sometimes go down terrifying steep roads or up impossible inclines fearful the car will flip or roll back. Or I am unable to see properly. But a few, nights ago was my first crash. I was driving up a ramp, with a turn in the bend and was headed for the guard rail. I gasped and woke up with a start.

At night is when I feel my anxiety, my fear. It’s when I panic, wondering how am I going to change my life. It’s when I realize how much time has passed me by, and everything seems daunting. There does not seem to be one clear choice but rather a myriad of choices each posing their own less than ideal circumstance.  As I type this, it seems silly and rather conceited in a way to feel this way. The fact that I have the option to choose in itself should be celebrated. I think when you are depressed or unhappy but you are still able to function life feels more like a grind and it is more difficult to focus on what you do have.

Feeling muddled, unsure, indecisive is no stranger. It feels I have spent a good part of my life beginning in my thirties and onward wondering what my calling, my purpose is. Constantly seeking. An artist friend of mine painted a very colourful folk art picture of someone in a car and he wrote on it, “wherever you go, there you are.”

There’s the rub: here you are., wherever you are.

 I am overwhelmed and don’t know where to begin or how to break the patterns, the ongoing repetition, the same feelings the same thoughts and actions.

A neighbour who I sometimes go to coffee with says she puts all her faith in god. She trusts he will guide and look after her. Throwing my hands up in surrender - what relief! Here god, you take over.
It sounds too easy and I realize I am oversimplifying and that her surrender is deeply rooted in her faith. But maybe it is something I can try. What do I have to lose? I can dump it all on god. Or is it the simple act of letting go, not worrying and having faith all will unfold. Perhaps it is the “incessant thinking, analyzing” that is the culprit or part there of. Still, I can’t help but feel there is also significant healing I need to experience. So how does one dive deep?

I am no longer Lady Toronto. A decision I’ve come to regret, deeply regret. Now, with the insane rental market in Toronto, not to mention the expense of aftercare, I have been unceremoniously, like so many, exiled from a city I love. A little dramatic? Perhaps. Impossible to move back? Of course not. But with a wee one in toe it does make it more complicated.

Some decisions you make do have a ripple affect and consequently, can make you question your judgement and ultimately make you doubt yourself to your very core. That’s the position I find myself in. To be honest, indecision has been an unwanted companion in my life. That friend who makes you wonder why they want to spend time with you when they clearly sometimes seem to not even like you.

Periodically throughout the week, I will have flash backs to my previous life in Toronto. Some mundane. Just last week, I had a memory of me being in Longo’s somewhere close to the Harbourfront. A place I never went to. Just browsing. Maybe I was recalling the ease of movement I once had, the freedom to aimlessly wander a fancy grocery store. A silly reminder of my hubris. Other times the memories are more profound. The city humming, alive and somehow that vitality seeping its way into my bones.

Right now I am Lady Purgatory, or Lady Living-in-my-parents basement. It has taken its tole on my confidence, and consequently for the last 3 or 4 years (my god, it HAS been that long). I have been on hold. I have been unhappy and I am really stuck. Afraid to budge, afraid to make the wrong decision or and consequently I have made no decisions at all.

I have applied to school in Halifax were the cost of living is more reasonable while I still peruse Toronto apartments sent to me automatically right to my inbox. The thing is, I don’t really know anyone in Halifax. I would be starting over. I am not so much afraid of going at it alone. I just fear my son and I being alone. Starting again with trying to build friendships, play dates is daunting. How would it affect him? Thrust away from everything familiar? That is my real concern. Finances being the other. But I know I need to make a change. I have known for awhile but yet, here I am.

Happy

Through a mutual friend, I met someone a few months ago, who since then, has become a good friend. We could be sitting in my living room chatting, walking somewhere and he'll turn to me smile and say he's happy. I'll look at him, smile and say I'm glad he's happy and at the same time marvel at his ability to be in the moment, to feel happiness. And it's not that, I don't feel happiness, I do. I think it's more of a matter of recognizing and acknowledging happiness when it's felt and I don't do it as much as I should and perhaps, deep down, it might be something I'm hesitant to proclaim.

When I was 13 my family moved out west from suburban Pickering Ontario to Brandon, Manitoba. It was summer. The landscape harsh, desolate; both the land and the sky seemed never ending, and with it, it brought a feeling of isolation. We moved into a beautiful old character home on the corner of Victoria avenue and 4th street which still stands to this day. It had stained glass in the entranceway and original dark wood railings and trim. I credit this house for my love of architecture and character homes. Still, with an old house there's a lot of up-keep, repairs. There had been a leak onto some wiring, dangerous. My mom and I were standing in the kitchen. My mom upset turned to me and exclaimed, "You don't think anything bad can ever happen to this family?" I didn't respond. I just gazed up at her and in my mind wondered, can anything bad happen to us? Should it?  That moment popped into my head this week. Am I hesitant to express happiness out of suspicion, am I waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Undoubtedly, the move was difficult for my mother too and I can also blame catholicism but let's not go there, not quite yet.

I started a new teaching position last week. And of course, I've had friends ask me how it's going. Frankly, it's going quite well: the people are great, the children wonderful and the school set-up, classroom management style seem to jive with me. But why am I hesitant to say, yes, things are going well, I'm quite happy with the change? I am hesitant because somehow I don't want to jinx it. That, I've come to understand, is a silly notion. Could something stressful arise at work? Yes. Could things change? Yes. But everything changes, feeling arise, come and leave, things shift but a shift or change isn't a punishment, nothing is being taken away, it's simply the constant flux we live in.

At this moment, I know I'm lucky and dare I say, happy.

Time creeps ...

There is a line from a short story, The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman that reminds me of the passage of time: But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.
 

A couple of years ago, I took a course in Contemplative End of Life and much like the course name we contemplated death, our own deaths, the deaths of loved ones and how we could help others cope with dying and death. I found it an intense experience, not simply because of what it required of you, the cold hard truth: everything has its beginning and ultimately, its end but the realities of death: how to prepare a body, how to use essential oils to rid the body of odour and if called upon to,  I can remove a pace maker from the chest in preparation for burial.

We were expected to do a practicum, work with the dying but I wasn't ready. I needed some distance, some time.

Time crawls on its hands and knees

This past May I received an email asking if I would be willing to be a part of a team with two women who had taken the same course, and work with a family whose Father/Husband was dying of cancer. Something inside of me said I was ready. I was a little fearful. But I held on to the feeling the timing was right.

And speaking of time, I'm going to start at the inevitable end: Nic, musician, lover, husband, friend and Father passed away last Thursday at Kensington Hospice. His Wake was this past Monday. Yesterday morning, I was walking down bloor street on my way to the house to clean - an act I did many a time since May, an act that gained me entry, allowed me to be quietly present for this family to build trust and familiarity. 

Inga, a close family friend of Banuta, Nic's wife, who would clean with me, asked me about mourning and grief. I thought about it for a moment: throughout this entire experience, besides the support of the other volunteers,  I fumbled my way through, only my intuition guiding my way. 

I thought of my grandfather who passed away when I was 28 and how the grief creeps up, takes me unawares, a deep sorrow, as raw as if it was yesterday. 

I told her time. There is no statutory limit on mourning. You carry it with you. 

Time creeps, grief creeps

New York

New York. Why did I let a year turn into two than three, than four since my last visit? There's really no excuse. I was starting to feel like stuck so I emailed a friend to see if his futon was free and booked my ticket on Amtrack. (Please note: I suffered a specific gut wrenching Canadian guilt for not purchasing my ticket via VIA rail right from the moment the first VIA rail agent said, “You purchased your ticket through AMtrack?” A total of three exclaimed that very sentiment. A railway, that once was the backbone of this country, VIA and its wonderful, cheerful staff – I let you down).

 Yes, I took the train and yes, it was an all day trip. Why? I had the time and there is something about train travel, the history and yes, the time that is the antithesis of our speedy and immediate culture that begs us to read a book, think, write, daydream as we look out the window and when the train chugs across the Niagara gorge, fields or through small American towns, when the weather is sunny and four hours later white flurries brush the landscape, there is a visual, scenic reminder that you are indeed moving. I am crossing over.

NYC Serenade. I arrive at Times Square subway station and jump off to hear the Ragtime music. The trumpet player moves around the platform, unconcerned he’s left his trumpet case on the other end of the platform overflowing with crumpled bills. I’m headed to the periphery of Harlem – 110th street and the northern edge of Central Park.

Union Square is bustling. The Hari Krishnas are chanting and drumming. I’m asked if I’m a New Yorker, I’m told by someone else I’m an International all within a span of 5 minutes. The energy is frenetic. Down the street on Broadway, I meet a man in Grace Church after attending a free lunchtime Bach concert. He ushers me to a plaque, a memorial to Edith Corse Evans who died in 1912 on the Titanic and was a parishioner of Grace church. He goes on to say, she saw a psychic when she was in London who told her she would die by water. When they were dropping the lifeboats, she refused hoping to avoid a watery grave. Trust me, you won't find this version in Wikipedia.

Ah, New York.

Oh, 501

There is something about waiting for the 501 Queen streetcar in the wee hours of the morning that compels complete strangers to let down their guard and talk. It could be the futility of waiting for a streetcar that is always late as billions of taxis zip by or the lonely 3 in the morning experience made even more lonely if you are anywheres near sober. I met a man in his early 20's who sat down and next to me with the opening line … "How long have you been waiting for the streetcar" a bonding Toronto moment if there was any. I learned he was from Calgary and the first of his siblings to leave the nest and settle in a different province and strange city. His mother scolded him saying he'll be a bad influence and his younger brother will most likely fly the coop next. Oh, wayward sons. The conversation stopped once the streetcar arrived. He joined his friend. The streetcar was packed. A chap was playing Neil Young on his guitar as we were all ushered homewards.

The other night I arrived at the queen street stop and was quickly informed by a woman in her early 30's she had been waiting 25 minutes already. I can't remember what inspired her to confide in me but she told me (within a span of seconds) how a gentleman had complimented her on her dress, said it was very nice and then out of the blue proceeded to pat her long hair, like you would a dog. She was absolutely bewildered by his behaviour and as she said that I looked at her; her dress was feminine, light flowing fabric and there was something oddly old fashioned about her. I dunno, maybe it was because she was wearing white and her locks tumbled into loose curls over her shoulders, oddly childlike. She could have easily been an Emily Bronte character. She was vulnerable. Admittedly, I think we all are. We got on the crowded streetcar and some guy behind me was arguing with the streetcar driver, a german woman who works the late shift often enough that I recognize her. I looked over at her, Emily Bronte in white. She seemed uncomfortable. The streetcar driver told him to be quiet , that he didn't even pay for his fare and I wished I had told her, the girl in white, her dress was beautiful.

Perhaps, I need to lighten up but I can't help but feel the late night boozing, bars, the hook-ups is simply longing, longing for love, acceptance or whatever our heart seeks.

Summer in the City

One of my favourite times in summer is from 6pm to 8pm when the sun begins to dip in the west and the light is low. The traffic lights are a brighter red, green and yellow. White shirts glow and the red of the street car is the perfect punch of colour against the backdrop of the summer sky - fuchsias and blues bleeding into the clouds.

Walking past the Thursday night art openings of queen west, past the Gladstone Hotel (a group of twenty-somthings strumming instruments in the window) into the heart of Parkdale, you can literally see the heart of the city beating, pulsating ... I don't care how I am feeling, what state of mind I'm in, I can't help but smile as a head west on queen, a cool breeze nudging me through this Technicolour city.

Another new italian restaurant wafting garlic in the air as I stroll by and I think, I should have stopped, totally crashed that art opening and I want to check out that new restaurant. These days I find myself living like a chaste nun or better yet, a 70 year old stick-in-the-mud shakin' her cane at you. What I hope to do is change this and attempt a re-birth into the city's night life a la solo. Maybe start snorting cocaine like Michael J. Fox in Bright Lights, Big City, start hanging out with a big party crew and go off the deep end. Could happen. Maybe?

The experiment begins friday august 19th. Will keep you posted. Wish me luck. ;)