Small town summer feels nostalgic and safe. In my version of small town summer, there are bees working, firepits smoking, and the sound of birds and grass and bugs. Small town summer also has chunks of history - little fragments, like old fences and sheds in yards of houses that have been remodelled, which are still linked to the summers of the fifties and forties and thirties, when your grandparents were young, and they had one summer dress and two pair of trousers. Small town summer is going barefoot on the prickly grass, and slow stillness in the afternoons.

Summer Doze.

Hello & tid-bits.

Summer is here, or so it seems, green buds opening up, fruit trees blooming, scent of lilac, barbeque, cut grass, ozone, and the neighbour's pot, huge bumblebees blundering around - I catch these colours and smells and am intoxicated by a summer mood. I feel my little heart dancing with a new kind of joy - a joy that is "cancer free!!!" and so very grateful for living.

I've been away. I did a 14 hour drive to Vancouver and back with my sis-in-law to find an apartment, which we did, it's all lovely with blue, yellow, purple, and red paint, lots of windows, and most importantly allows us to keep our dog, Ares.

Life lately has been a bundle of joy, excitement, anxiety, hopefulness, fear, and anticipation. Our little house just went up for sale yesterday, and our fingers are crossed. I found out I got into grad school. We will be moving, sometime. So many things.

But anyway, I haven't stopped writing, or forgotten about this blog. I hope to get back to it now.

Threads.

Wow, it is one of those mornings where the sky is gloomy, but the birds are still singing. I have the upstairs window open a crack and a fresh breeze is filtering in. Life is like weather. It's unpredictable, really. You can make a forecast, but in the end you have to wait and see what the day actually brings. That's where I'm at in life right now. I still have symptoms of bladder cancer, and have been to the doctor and it is not an infection, so I fear the worst, but in reality I know my odds are actually low that it will recur. And I just can't know - not until my next test.

So, one thing I have been doing to remain in the moment is practicing meditation. It's amazing how a few minutes of it can really clear the mind. I love to visualize, even just visualizing the breath. And the other thing is music. I have been happily working on some super strange (for me) songs and feel excited. When I came from the doctor yesterday, all I wanted to do was be upstairs working on my songs.

What a thread of beauty and solace music has been for me throughout my entire life. I am so grateful for it! Can you relate? What are the threads in your life that seem to have kept things strung together for you over the years?

breathing life.

There is a whirling that you do in life sometimes, when you have to work hard to get through it. This whirling brings up a restless jumble of your desires and steadiness that unforeseen circumstances can cause to teeter, and you get the quick sensation that this moment truly is all that you have. You don't know about tomorrow, really you don't. You can plan and predict but there is no life there, there is only life right now in each short breath.

April Snow

It's a regular winter storm out there, with blowing snow and whiteness. I must be so used to it, because it doesn't bother me. It's forgivable for the way it temporarily covers all the spring drabness in a blanket of purity. It does kind of suck knowing that my dad has to be out plowing the roads when it hits where they live, though. As for me, I'm super-spoiled lately and don't ever have to go far if I don't want, so today it'll just be a quick grocery store jaunt and over to the arts centre where I volunteer on Thursdays. And right now, I get to enjoy the beautiful swirling from the upstairs window, in my cozy sweater and my mom's old knitted slipper socks.

I don't even know why I'm posting this right now. Maybe I just want connection to the outside world, and I like the feel of my fingers on the keyboard. I guess those are reasons enough. Alas, I will listen to Ani's song "Soft Shoulder" and finish my coffee.

Still Moments.

Today there is sunshine on brown streets and my anxiety is back. Life is a million things at once: anticipating my next screening in a month, preparing the big move to Vancouver, and the seemingly endless tasks, uncertainty, fear, and excitement that goes with all of it.

Right now, I am reminded of why I began this blog. It's about living and engaging in the moment, it's here for me to sink myself into my writing and let that be enough because it usually is. It's about enjoying life and it's wildness, even when things are scary and unsure, it's about feeling all the feelings, instead of numbing them. And when I can do that, I get stronger, I realize that I can get through whatever life brings. I realize that I can plan, but that life is unexpected - that's what makes life painful, but it's also what makes it so precious and endearing. Writing helps ease the anxiety - it brings me back to the feeling workshop I used to give at my old job - it's a healthy way of coping with an emotion.

So now I'm looking out at the sun on the street and how it is drying up the dirty snowbanks in the fronts of the neighbours' yards. Crinkly brown, bud-less shrubs and trees loom around three white houses. A bald man in jeans walks by, sun gleaming on his head. I hear the deep breathing of my dog in the room. And for this moment there is only stillness.

old song.

here's the lyrics to an old song of mine:

if i was a fire

i'd be burning down

right about now

raging flame through the night

glowing embers in the morning

if i was on time

and knew all my lines

maybe i'd find

new peace of mind

if i was a fire

right about now

i'd be letting go of my glory

warm now, fading down

to the moral of the story

watch me now

as i burn down

leaving behind this chaff

watch me now

as i burn down

leaving behind this chaff

The Laugh. Part Five.

She is still up in her apartment on this warm, saturated summer evening, lazily rocking in her creaky thrift store chair. It's too hot to sleep and so she sips on iced tea and directs her eyes toward an old TV that is quietly murmuring in the corner of the living room. The windows are all open, the sun has not completely set, and air is weighted heavy with memories of earlier summer nights spent out in the streets. She can't shake her teenage feelings tonight, when she would sneak away with friends to drink in the park and wander main. Life felt so much more purposeful then, when she at least had goals, even if the goals were to simply get a few thrills. She wants to crawl out onto her balcony and whisper to someone below that she will meet them in the parking lot in two minutes. She wants to pace the floors of this heat charged room. But instead she rocks slowly and runs her fingers over the velvety arm of the rocker. It's this unsettled feeling, even though all around her the evening breathes contentment.

Ingalls' Influence

I was reading Laura Ingalls Wilder's "The Long Winter" last night. It seemed fitting, given the weather my province has been experiencing - apparently we have not had this much snow in one winter since the mid '70's. Anyway, as I was reading, I was brought fully back into the wonder that I felt when I read the Little House series as a child. I also realized how much of an influence they have had on me.

Reading about life when it was simpler is somehow grounding. In the spanse of human life on earth, I know we haven't been living with technology for that long. I feel more connected to my human-ness when I am closer to the earth, and doing little things in life that connect me to my ancestors, things like growing my own food, making bean soup last a few days, and taking time to sit and make things with my hands. Last week I made two large pots of borscht, and was surprised at how the simple, small list of ingredients made such a flavourful, filling soup. I thought about my Ukranian and Hungarian great grandparents and wondered what their borscht tasted like.

I don't begrudge technology though. In fact, I owe my life to modern medical science in a way. But I just think, to feel full and connected to life, it's important to feel dirt on my hands every once in a while.

31.

Today, I am 31.

I think about sitting on the shore of an ocean, looking out at the drizzly atmosphere, the warm grey sky gripping my body. I can feel the water in my bones, that ancient connection to the waves, pulling me. And I can hear the birds in the distance, driftwood washed and floating at my feet. I flip off my shoes and roll up my jeans, ready to feel the coldness on my skin - this is life.

Spring Cleaning.

Life never stops moving. I have often felt like a gyspy without any roots, because I have moved so many times in my life. If we move this fall, I think that brings it up to number 30. And it's going to be a big one. We have been in this house for four and a half years, and transformed it from an almost unlivable, neglected rental, with an overrun mound of weeds and junk for a yard and broken everything, into a quaint little family home. In fact, we'll be leaving it almost exactly the way I always wanted it.

So the other night I was home alone sorting some of my junk, sort of feeling sad about letting go of "stuff". I was listening to Fleetwood Mac and the song "Gypsy" kind of brought me back to earth. Change and movement is the nature of life. I will always be going "back to the gypsy that I was". I had thought for a time that we may live permanently in our little house, but was is permanence, anyways? There's no such thing. As hard as it is to uproot again, I know that the move is necessary and will bring so much growth to both of our lives.

passing through paris.

"Don't let your love slide", he is in earnest, this dusty man, singing on the subway. I can't understand French much, but this is in English. I reach for a few coins to put in his hat. His sad melody continues, and I stare out at the city as we sway by. I can hear the creaking shifting weight of the old train, and the overwhelming sense of nostalgia fills me up. I feel a connection to the ghosts of musicians, artists and writers who haunt these tracks.

Of course, I don't feel at home in Paris in the ancestral kind of way at all, because I'm not French. But being among such beautiful buildings, where people travel to appreciate the many great works of art that the city houses, there is a feeling that who I am is valued here. As long as I keep my mouth shut, I can blend in.

Back at home, tho, I am a part of the open prairies and the gravel roads. I am a part of the ugly, dumb rolling box store parking lots, and I am a person who appreciates being able to pop into the gas station in my sweats and a hoodie, late at night. I am a part of small town history, where you drive two hours to the city on a weekend to shop at the big malls. I have lived in neighbourhoods where you just don't wear pretty dresses to walk the dog. I am a part of the culture that travels to Paris assuming her high school French classes will suffice.

As I pull my tired feet along the streets, passing the patisseries, cheese shops, and every beautiful old building, I know what it means to not let your love slide. It's a kind of digging your heels into the parts of life that make up who you are, and at the same time being willing to expand, to open up to possibilities that you have not thought of before. It's knowing that Paris may not be your home, but you can find a piece of yourself in the beauty of it.

Shell.

I am stone, they tell me. I am weather washed, beaten by harsh waters, eyes shut tight at the crash coming down. Flinching permanently, closed like a tomb, my soul shows no outside signs of life. No wisps of joy escape my sealed countenance, my eyes harden unintentionally. What I experience as fearful non-stepping on toes, they only know as my winter silence. I am ice carved, non-melting, living at the poles. Could I but carry a conversation I would surely melt and soak into the carpet, or find I am only crumbling river-slate, soft and nervous.

Not a mask.

How can you say what you're feeling when they're pouring through you so quickly, when you are a sieve? And when the sieve has a hole, and the soft solid fandangled feelings that you were supposed to save are washing down the panel that is your face - slow strawberry sludge settling between the lines of your eye creases, and around the corners of your nose. So obvious, like a grease stain on your clean white shirt, so glaring, so messy, so apparent. How can you say what you're feeling when you're wearing them.

The Laugh. Part Four.

She remembers how it fizzled out slowly, like a can of pop left open in the sun. It was simultaneous with her quitting smoking, the time she quit for good, when she stopped wanting it. After thirteen years. At the very beginning, he had been an exciting shot to the head, but soon became an expensive habit, and what was she paying for this habit? She had the sense of life being dulled, things had become tasteless, numbed. Could she blame it all on a person? Was it all his fault? No. But, at the same time, she knew asking him to leave would be one of the bravest, most important things she could do.

So, it had been four years now, and she felt like a huge goldfish loose in a tiny, backyard pond. There was no one to meet in this little city, in this corner she had chosen. Some afternoons at the restaurant, she would stand by the window and take a big breath, like a smoker, but without the cough to follow. She'd look out across sleepy main street, at the cars parked on angles in front of shops, at the two lone teenagers on the street, skipping school, hand in hand.

The laughing young man had disappeared. She remembered him in a romantic way, but it wasn't that she had been attracted to him. It was more the kind of romance in a children's fairytale, the unreal, glittery kind. Maybe she had dreamed it. Still, she was affected by him - it seemed like yesterday when they met, but she knew it had been months. Three months. Canadian summer was in full bloom now, the huge trees on the streets were green and full. And she couldn't keep down the buzzing in her mind.

Plaster Memories.

I want to write about the light in the room today, how it is a dusty, soft, white light coming through the faded, paper-thin 1960's curtains. My gramma made these curtains, and they used to hang in my mom's room when she was a teenager. We had them in our house growing up, too. In one place we lived, they were hanging in the spare bedroom where my sister slept when she was delirious with pneumonia. She always remembers seeing dad's face in the floral pattern of the curtains, and can't stand to look at the curtains now because they remind her of being so sick. That brain memory happens sometimes, like the way I would see the little worm wearing a hat on the paneled ceilings of different trailers we lived in. Always, I could lay down, look up, and see that friendly little worm.

The house my husband and I are in now has old lath and plaster walls, covered in a texture, too much texture. When we were using the bedroom off the kitchen, my husband slept next to the wall and once found the shape of a boot, right in his line of vision. From then on, his eyes always fell on the boot. He would sometimes mutter about how he couldn't stop staring at the boot.

Our ceilings and a wall are being re-done right now, because of water damage due to ice-dams this winter. As I type, there is a contractor taping and mudding in my kitchen below me. When they took down the ceilings, they found tons of old empty players cigarette packages. Who put those there, and why? I often wonder about the other people who spent the past eighty years in this house. Who were they? I always felt like we kind of rescued this house, as it was in disrepair when we first got it. So many layers of paint cover everything. I get curious when the paint chips to reveal dark, hardwood original baseboards or five panel doors.

For some reason I like to keep as many traces of the original house around as possible. It's like with the curtains, I wish they wouldn't fade, I wish the sun wouldn't do what it always does. I wonder if whoever lived in this house in 1942 could walk through now, and still find their way around, still recognize pieces of the house that their brain has committed to memory. In reality, without continued work, houses fall apart, and when we move on, who knows what will come of this one. The curtains are pretty much useless at keeping light out now, and they don't match my bedding, so I am planning on sewing some new ones soon. These material things come and go. Rust and moths. I can't latch onto them.

On Beekeeping...

Beekeeping takes up all of the senses. It starts on the drive out to the hives - windows rolled down, the sweet scent of beeswax filling up the car. At the hives, your ears are filled with the simultaneous quiet and buzz. Your nose is alert to all the smells – sometimes the scent of the wax is really strong, and you’re always smelling to make sure things are right. There’s also the burning of twigs and burlap in the smoker, which sometimes you accidentally inhale and it chokes you up like you took a big drag of your first cigarette. Then there’s the rush of having thousands of bees humming and buzzing in the hive, flying up and out, and crawling on you.

There’s always lifting involved, too, and honey’s heavy. If it’s hot, lifting a box off the hive can put me into a terrible sweat, and I’m standing there, bees getting louder, and time shortening. My dad, who has been known to wear a veil but forget to close it and therefore get stung on the neck or the face, has taught me to work through the panic I feel sometimes, and basically trust the bees. Last season I was only stung once, at the very beginning of the spring. It’s a wonderful feeling to get through a hive check, or having to do a bunch of cleaning and pulling apart the hives in the spring or something, when the bees are all around you, and to feel calm.

Today's Playlist.

I love to listen to music when I write.

Here's my current playlist:

Anyone's Ghost - The National

This Loneliness - El Perro del Mar

Valerie - Amy Winehouse

Soft Shoulder - Ani Difranco

4th Time Around - Bob Dylan

Let's Break Up - Hayden

Reckoner - Radiohead

Not Fade Away - Buddy Holly

Wild World - Cat Stevens

Sorrow - David Bowie

Bloodbuzz Ohio - The National

Trust in Me - Etta James

Barely Friends - Hayden

Reseraction Fern - Iron & Wine

I Don't Know What I Can Save You From - Kings of Convenience

Twistin Postman - The Marvelettes

Ramblin' on My Mind - Robert Johnson

Travellin' Shoes - Ruth Moody

Come Pick Me Up - Ryan Adams

Size Too Small - Sufjan Stevens

Food.

The fog has been clearing, colours are brightening, and I've been getting back to my creative work. I'm sliding comfortably into some of my previous habits, but I've been opening up new realms in the process, too. After having a brush with cancer, along with other health issues, and making a career decision to pursue further education, it has become clear: music and writing are my lifelines, I must be immersed in them. And not only in the creating part, actually, more in the enjoyment and soaking up part. For, the music and words of others are my food, and only when I am full do I have enough material to spill over into my creating process.

I was reading on this blog that a good rule for writers is to read four times as much as they write. That seems like a lot, but not when I remember my childhood and teen years: I had a book with me wherever I went, and read in the in-between moments, and read myself to sleep every night. It's kind of exciting to think of all the books and authors I haven't read yet, that I will discover. So, I've been getting back into that, and with music, too, getting into new-to-me artists like Robert Johnson, El Perro del Mar, and Edith Piaf, and learning old blues riffs and chord progressions on the guitar.

So, for anyone reading, what are your favourite authors, musicians, films/directors who feed your life, your imagination, and your art?

Face lines.

After the test on Monday, the doctor said I was all clear. I can't explain the feeling - it was relief and hopefulness, yes, but other emotions, too. I go for tests every three months for the first year, so I'm still anxious, but the doctor said there is a very low probability that the cancer will come back. All this is good.

I guess I feel lucky. And just....changed.

The next day I was sitting in my hair salon, and there was a man getting a haircut a couple of chairs over. I heard him talking about his experience with cancer. He was explaining how he recently had a piece of cake, but still couldn't really taste it. Yet, he was so positive, his voice was full of sincerity, happiness. He was saying that the cancer had been a blessing, that it had improved his relationships, his life. I silently felt a connection with him, even though I can't truly imagine what he must have went through, it sounded like he had experienced a long and difficult battle. I looked at his face and could see that he knows how precious life is. I could just see that in the lines on his face in the mirror. And then I felt a peace, and continued to eavesdrop.

Power trip.

I can't find that place anymore. Because you are here now. I no longer own my nights, to be frolicking and not trying hard, to be kept awake by my racing heartbeat. There was a time when I could leaf through ten magazines, when I could settle into hours of gluing, cable tv on. But now, I do not own those times.

You have assured me you want no part in dictating which side of the light I play on.

But I still stand here with my hands out, making a cup shape, holding something invisible.

It's up to me how long I will stay. Only I can extend this offering and keep myself, for so long, from getting back to me.

The Laugh. Part Three.

If circumstances were different, she might have been a cowgirl, crashing up over brown dusty hills, giant blue sky behind her, the scent of leather and straw rope on her hands. But, instead, she had been born here in this little city, to Sam and Judy Carter. Nights after school were spent stocking shelves at the local grocery store, slicing open boxes, and whistling to songs like the irritatingly catchy "Hotel California". It wasn't that working in the store was all bad, but there was no thrill there. Her father had not instilled in her a pleasure for thrills, yet she possessed one.

Sometimes while she was working, she'd let herself imagine about different kinds of adventures - a summer traveling in South America, or becoming a sort of outdoor activity enthusiast. But her dreaming was always tentative. There was no realness to it, nothing tangible. The truth is, she never had a good, clear idea about what she wanted to do or "be". Maybe it never crossed her mind, maybe she didn't measure life in those terms.

She first started shop-lifting at work, because it was so easy. She had a good reputation at her job, and had been there several years before she ever took anything. And she wasn't stupid about it. She didn't take typical things like junk-food or stuff from the sections she worked in. And she didn't steal while she was working, either. It was always on an off-shift, when she was picking up groceries for her mom, or stopping in to get something quick.

Because she knew the layout of the store so well, and where the security cameras were placed, she always planned her route beforehand. She knew who would be working in what section when, and could easily stuff a package of dryer sheets into her jacket as he was reaching for laundry soap, or a package of lunch meat - one for the basket, one for her pocket. There was simply no feeling comparable to standing at the checkout, having a casual conversation with the cashier, and then walking out with something she had not worked for, something that no one may even realize was missing.

Predictably, however, she began seeking bigger thrills, riskier situations. Life was dull unless she was plotting. Soon, she had no more time for vague dreaming, all was taken up with her next score. She liked to "case a joint" now, and skipped ridiculously obvious chances in pursuit of a challenge.

Small.

I have these memories of being outside as a kid. I wonder what it would look like to have it all on film, to look back. I'm sure it wouldn't capture the fullness of what I was feeling. It was not the feeling of being lost, but of being small. And kind of the feeling of being held.

When we lived in Edson, it was my tomboy phase and I had more boys as friends. Sometimes on a summer night, we would play till almost dark. I had this skateboard that my parents bought me for getting on the honour roll list in grade four. So, we would be out in front of the house trying to do fancy stops and turns on the skateboard. Or riding bikes and kicking the soccer ball around. And at the end of the day I would bring my browned and grungy self in reluctantly to have a bath.

I was quite a fearful child, fearful of someone breaking in and robbing the house, or of evil witches from my imagination coming to life. I also had a strong hatred for baths, and the thought of soap getting in my eyes was a real distress. But I didn't fear growing up, or what would happen later in life. I always had great dreams for my life, and assumed that I could be or do whatever I wanted. But honestly, like most children, I'm sure, I didn't give adulthood too much thought.

Now I realize I am craving for that familiar feeling of being held, held by a long summer day spent outside. The feeling of being wild, running around in bare feet with dirty fingernails, innocent and energized, that's what it means to be childlike. Even being afraid of unlikely or imagined events gives the sensation of being small. Small and held.

So I look around myself, and I wonder how to satisfy that craving. I know that, ultimately, people can't do that. Spirituality is a whole other topic for me right now, too. And, when I question the deepest of deep in me, I know that I get that wild, small feeling when I'm doing my work, as in writing, singing, using my hands. So for today, that's my choice. I choose to engage in my tasks, and to even embrace the fear that comes with that, just to let myself feel small again.

Shake.

I go for my test in two days, to find out if the cancer is still gone, or if it has come back. Either way, I'm getting cupcakes. I must admit, I have totally bought into the cupcake craze, and am still loving them. I have been told of a place on Whyte that sounds good. So, after I'm done at the hospital, I am going straight for a cupcake.

After finding out about the cancer this fall, I had this strange visual of myself. I pictured myself as a tree, a Christmas tree, that was given a good shake. All the ornaments and dead needles fell off, and I was left with only what mattered. I had clarity.

It's funny, because I don't know what I could have done to give me this clarity, if not for the circumstances that happened in my life this fall. Actually, I don't think I would have gained this clarity if it weren't for the cancer. I kind of see now why people say cancer can sometimes be a gift, because it has certainly given me much: a completely new way of looking at and experiencing life. And I am also extremely lucky, as it was discovered so early that I only needed minor surgery, no radiation or chemo.

But in addition to giving, it has also taken away my sense of stability, safety, and invincibility. I know that's probably a good thing, but it has also been painful. It's painful to be woken up when it was easier living in an illusion. It's painful to question the very roots of your life and previous beliefs. It's painful to be unsure of your future. It's painful to be afraid.

I don't have any grand conclusions to state, or any eloquent way to end this post. I read in my psych text that courage means having fear and continuing to act. That's kind of the theme of this blog, it's about not letting the fear eat me up. Instead, I will stand on these two quivering legs and keep walking today. Maybe this is a message for my future-self to read, I don't know. But here it is.

The Laugh. Part Two.

It was days later when she remembered that small moment again, and realized how so much had happened within her since that moment of clarity in the street when she and the young man had laughed together. At the thought of it, she held her breath in expectation. She looked around as she walked across the grassy high-school field, crunched frozen puddles down main for three blocks, and up the alley to the back door of the restaurant. Where had he come from? Would she meet him by chance like that again?

Reaching to the hook for her apron, she ties it mindlessly, smoothing down her hair, glancing in the greasy mirror, spying the streak of grey in her bangs. Yet, she feels she looks very fresh this morning. A smile creeps over her face and stays there as she turns on the lights, and sets out Tuesday's lunch menus on each table. Alone, she works quietly to open the restaurant. She is sitting with a coffee when John arrives for the day with some fresh ingredients. She goes to help him chop herbs, something she's only recently been volunteering to do. She takes a deep breath of the earthy, spicy smells as she wields the knife against the greenery, feeling glad to be alive.

All day as she serves customers by the big windows with the light, she talks to them less than usual, and listens more. It's this change that has come over her, and she knows she has less time, less words, less of her... but knowing this somehow offers the sense of more. At the end of the day, her hands are dry and rough against her jacket as she reaches for it from the hook. The wind blows her home, and she can smell spring on its heels.

Faded Florals

She found herself longing for a hazy summer afternoon- a kind of ethereal, sweet, warm couple of hours that don't actually happen in real life. She would spend it lazing on a checked blanket under a tree, with a good book, and some cold lemonade. She would be wearing old blue jeans with bare feet, and a navy-blue vintage blouse, with tiny white polka-dots on it. Wait - strike that, not navy-blue, that's not summery enough. How about a light pink blouse, with a faded floral print, tucked in. No, untucked is more casual. And now for her hair...it would be her perfect, yet ever unachievable hairstyle - glossy, healthy, and let's go with a warm, honey blonde. With every turn of her head, the mottled sun streaming through the leaves would shine perfectly off of her hair and skin.

She would be reading a book, but would soon find it uninteresting - those obscure authors can get so wordy. She would look around, there would have to be other people there, not too close, but just enough to notice her under the tree in her peace, and admire the relaxing, casual moment this beautiful young woman was enjoying. And of course she would pull out her ipod and self-portrait the moment, so that she would never forget it, never forget how she was able to truly enjoy this ideal afternoon, lounging fashionably under a tree. But soon she would realize that no one was actually noticing her, and that the breeze was picking up, and she would shiver as the sun would go behind a cloud. A slight ache in her back would soon get so annoying that it would force her to stand. Glancing down at her untanned, white arms, the empty plastic cup of over-priced, sugary lemonade, she would then check the time. Damn. She should have gotten out of here before rush hour. Now it's gonna take her 40 minutes to get home.

The Laugh. Part One.

She wanted desperately to tell him a story. It would be a story so worth telling, it would be captivating and colourful, it would compel him to her. But when she opened her mouth, the words fell flat against his face. His honest gaze seemed to hone into her mind, reading the story faster than she could create it. She stumbled. His brow creased, his eyes looked beyond her. She could feel herself shrinking away. And then there was silence. Words simply failed to materialize in her mind. She lifted a hand to her mouth as if to hide the absence of chatter, averting her eyes from his at the same time. Then, like the sound of horses galloping in an old western movie, he began to laugh. His laugh came nearer to her heart than any other laugh had been before; she could hear kindess and deepness, calmness and clarity. She began laughing, too.

Hearing her own laugh echo in the street reminded her that she was alive. And she felt as if the laugh was familiar, yet not fully her own. Almost deja vu, but the kind of deja vu where you are experiencing yourself in a way you always knew was inside you, but you have never actually lived out until that moment. It was a sun rising quickly within, streaming through into her laugh. It was a pulling back of heavy drapes to let daylight permeate the room. It was blinding, and it took her off-guard.

Tides.

One of my resolutions this year is to be less anxious. It's so easy to take for granted each moment of being alive by filling it up with anxiety. Anxiety robs the little moments of life, and so I am learning to let it wash back out when it rises, instead of standing at the shore with a bucket trying to scoop it up and save it. Strange how I've done this, strange how I've savoured it. But what a sour thing to savour.

Currently, I am discovering the joy of relishing more palatable things - winter sun, the movement of my hands as they prepare food, the softness of my dog's coat. The quietness of my day today is lovely. These are the moments I choose to gather up and save.

Awake.

It's a winter morning. There is no light coming in through the window, the world is still sleeping. You lay there listening to the quiet muffle of your radio alarm. Your mind is conscious of the day's beckon, yet you are still caught up in this dream world, so real and heavy. In your dreams you are crawling on the floor, in an old, empty church. You would rather not be crawling, you would rather be stretching in the warmth of the bed, feeling your limbs begin to move with life again for another day. Even when your morning muscles feebly hold you up in the shower, there is a crawling-like quality to your movements. Your hand crawls to reach the shampoo, slowly. And you let the water wash you in silence for several minutes, mechanical movements warming you slowly. Surprisingly, the dream-trance has lifted by the time you turn off the squeaky taps, and flick back the shower curtain in search of a towel. You have awakened; step into the sanctuary of your day.

About Writing.

It's one of those nights I feel like I could write forever. Words are on the tips of my fingers, playfully sputtering about on the page. The thing is, I don't want to try too hard, at least in the beginning. If writing is a craft, it must be perfected through practice, not guardedness. Actually, that's the way I look at all creativity, and all of life. I can walk around things, I can wonder, and plan, and prepare, but over-planning takes the joy and spontaneity out of living, and of art. Expectations are so different than reality. Please don't think I'm talking about art as spewing, without editing. I believe in editing, in the choosing of words, and the learning of a craft, but I also believe the greatest learning comes from participation, from engaging in a task - whether playful or serious.

With me, you see, and I suspect with you as well, there are things that come naturally. I don't mean they come naturally in the sense that I can do those things easily, perfectly, or with skill, I just mean I am drawn to them. And writing is one of them. Words and print have been my comfort and coping throughout so much of life - both other people's words and my own. Sometimes I share my love of words with people, sometimes I don't. But now, so much of my perspective on life has changed. I had cancer this fall, and it has given me the strange gifts of motivation, clarity, and gratefulness. I go for a test in less than a month to see if it has come back or not. I feel old and young at the same time. I want to hug all of my family, and hide in fear. And along with my loved ones, writing has been at my side, something to absorb anxiety and confusion. And even if I throw out the jumble of pages I've scribbled on, and delete the various documents with random journal entries, there will always be more words.

Lucinda Williams says it so well:

Deep down within me words move in phrases
Frozen and still ‘til they decide
To melt and drip over the pages
Until that moment they live inside

My words enjoy the feel of the paper
Better than mingling with your consonants
Once they get going they never waver
And they slip in between your if, ands, and buts

When my words are hiding between the lines
Then I’m afraid they won’t hear me call
What if they fail me without a sign
What if they hardly surface at all

Screaming and throwing your weight around
My words choose knowledge over politics
You can’t kill my words, they know no bounds
My words are strong and they don’t make me sick

They still remain my only companion
Loyal and true to the very end
They’ll never ever completely abandon
Ever give up the paper and the pen

Air & Altitude

Imagine you're knitting. If you don't know how, just imagine your fingers have become wise with muscle memory, and they take the needles, flinging the yarn back and forth, stitching together something you love. And the joy is that you don't have to look at it, or even think about it. Also, imagine you are sitting cross-legged, on a very high, grassy mountain, kind of like where Heidi, Girl of the Alps lived. The atmosphere is cool and comfortable. You look down below, through a clearing, towards the town. The people are like ants, their faces too small to see, only the general direction of their travels can be made out. Now take in a breath of fresh, fresh air, the kind that cools your tubes as it goes in. Now let out the breath. Notice how everything around you is quiet. Your hair lightly brushes against your arm in the breeze, and you realize it is very long, it has grown back, it has grown fuller, softer, like a wizard's.

All at once, you know you are now old. Although your hands move quickly back and forth with each stitch of yarn, they also feel thick and heavy and dry. The colour has gone out of them, and their skin is covered with age spots. You think of the years your hands have seen and felt. You think of the work, and all of the things they have touched. And you take another deep breath of that sweetness called air, and you gulp down tears of thankfulness for the moments in time that were yours all along, realizing you were there for every bit of it. You have been left changed, etched.

Here.

There is a quality I admire in certain people, people who can sit by a window sipping hot tea in the morning, people who can be quiet. An expatriate bundled up in a small apartment, in a cold, always-winter country. A mother who thinks deeply as she rides the bus on her way to pick up her kids from school, ipodless. A grandfather who sits on a bench, waiting for nothing, just watching. A friend who quietly crafts at her kitchen table, content with the rhythm of her hands. This is engagement - this ability to seep into a moment and soak in the light of a room, the tick of the clock. There is no rushing, no racing towards the future, no frantic mind-games of anxiety, only now; that's what I'm here to write about.