Ho-Hum

Lately I've been knee-deep in a blue sort of feeling and it's so strange. So encompassing. So heavy. So unwanted, truthfully. Thick as mud and just as hard to get out of. Damn wheels are stuck and we all know I'm rear-wheel drive.

Usually, October is my jam. Pumpkins and horror movies, sweaters and new seasonal colour palette - that riot of orange, yellow, red and brown, what's not to love? What's not to celebrate? Every other year, I've looked forward to saying goodbye to summer (good riddance, summer, with your tiresome heat that causes my meaty thighs to chafe) and hello to Autumn (Hello, warm blankets and big mugs of hot tea (well, actually, lukewarm tea. If you know me at all, you know I don't drink my tea while it is hot. It's a quirk, I suppose).

Except, this year is different. (You know how I am not equipped to handle different)

At first, I thought it was because of the baby boy's first birthday. Yes, he turned one. (Certainly I deserve some sort of praise and cake for this?) And yes, I was unusually emotional. Like the weepiest of all the weepers. I couldn't believe how often I welled up at the thought of him turning a year old. It was, to say the least, headache inducing and annoying. (You know how I am when it comes to feeling the feels.) I thought, for sure, I was being ridiculous, but word on the street is that being a mother is a very emotional business. In truth, I am not cut out for all these feelings. They are exhausting. So, I was sad. Very sad. But also hugely happy and excited about the baby boy turning one. After all, we made it a whole year together. It was both a blink of an eye and the longest period of time simultaneously. 

That was back in August. In September, I chalked it up to the change of seasons and the lack of warmth. Rainy days are great for reading a book but not so wonderful for adventuring with the wee one. We try to get out and explore for a couple hours a day. Hard to do that when the heavens are throwing a temper-tantrum of epic proportions.

Still, I thought for sure once October hit, I would be back to my joyous self. Actually, no one has ever used the word 'joyous' to describe me. So, let's not get too hyperbolic. Exaggeration is fine in moderation. Lo and behold, I did not feel excited about October. In fact, it turns out, I became even more morose. Confounding, I know. 

Now, it's ten days in, and I've yet to shake this melancholic mood. It's Thanksgiving today and I have many things to be thankful for. I try to focus on that, but you know how sadness creeps in until it has coated everything with its weepy residue and no matter where you sit or stand you get it all over you. The truth is, I don't foresee a turn around in mood any time soon because, and I know this is going to come as a shock, I am moving again (YES, AGAIN). And I started thinking, maybe this is why I wasn't enjoying October in my typical Halloween obsessed fashion. 

Even though we have a crazy landlady and an ant problem, I actually like living here. I have good memories. Like the most important recent  life-changing memory ... baby boy's arrival home. This was his first home and, for some weird reason that I'm sure other mothers can understand, I am sad to say goodbye to it. I know in my heart our next home will be just that, our home, but this one is special because we spent so much time together here. We grew so much here. I became a completely different person here. And that's the most truth I have written in a very long time. 

I learned to love another human unconditionally here. This is where my universe shifted. In this house, where I write this, I became a mom. I figured out how to be a mother. And I brought my son here. He learned to crawl here. He learned to say 'mom' here. He learned to eat food here. He learned to walk here. His first smile was here. My life was given new meaning here. 

If that won't trip you up and make you feel a bit sombre, I don't know what will. 

Also, the house we are moving into at  the end of the month is much smaller (cozier). 

Do you know what a smaller home means? Less space. 

So, I have been purging. And by purging, I mean throwing out my life. You wouldn't believe the things I've gotten rid of. There is still so much more to go through. It's daunting, really. I have donated, consigned, sold and thrown out so much of my life. So many things I was holding on to. At first, when I found myself knee deep in sentimentality, this was hard. Really hard. I felt as if I couldn't let anything go because I'd be hurting someone, or myself. That I would be letting go of who I was. The girl I used to be. 

And you know what ... sometimes you need to do just that. 

When I seriously started to get down to business, when I stopped moping and getting all boo-hoo over this junk, when I finally pulled my purge pants on and actually started giving things away, selling them, throwing them out - it got easier. With each thing I donated, it was easier to toss something else. Until, I looked around and thought, Well, shit, this is all just stuff. 

Now when I look through a box labelled 'my past', I don't see the people I used to love or memories we shared. I see things. Things that have been sitting and collecting dust. And some of these things I have moved around with me since I was seventeen years old! Do you know how many moves that is? Let me think ... Surrey, New West, Main, 14th, back to Surrey, another place in Surrey, to the Island, and to here ... that's eight damn moves! And do you think I even opened those boxes? Or went through that stuff? 

Big. Fat. Nope. 

So goodbye pirate shirt, I might fit you again but I will never wear you. Goodbye ex-boyfriend boxes full of twenty page love letters and mixed tapes. Goodbye scrap books of ticket stubs and weird advertisements. Goodbye jewellery I've had since I was sixteen, no one needs three dog chain choker necklaces. Goodbye wedding dress with the wine stain from Leppy. Goodbye random tooth I had pulled when I was eighteen. Goodbye first tattoo design which I seriously regret having now. Goodbye all this crap. 

Because these things may serve as memories, but you know what else does. My memories. In my brain. I still have them. They are all stored up there in meticulous order. And if one day I no longer have my memories, then these items will be useless anyhow! 

Okay, so maybe I know why I'm in a funk. Birthday. Moving. All this change. And I know I am terrible with change. There's been so much of it in the last couple years - the business, the baby, the job. It's basically been a complete overhaul. And now all this purging - it's hard work, you know. I suppose even the brightest beam of sunshine might be disenchanted by this act. All these items, they fill up our lives, don't they? It's almost as though this stuff defines us in some weird way. It is nice to have a few trinkets to hold onto to remind us of who we once were and how we got to this point. But we are not the same people we used to be and, you know what, it is okay to let that person go. I think letting go of who you once were is freeing because you no longer have to compare yourself to her. 

You can simply be who you are now. And maybe that's something I can look forward to. 

Then I can start working towards the girl I want to be.*

*a girl who isn't in a funk

And now a picture to sum up the chaotic beauty of my life: 

My Water Is Boiling Over

It feels like improper etiquette to disappear from blogging for ages only to pop up with a moan. I most likely could have come up with some fluff to post before the ho-hum of this post. Perhaps some marshmallow fluffiness to make you smile. Then again, if you can't be starkly honest on your blog, then where the hell can you? Fluffiness be damned.

For a long time, I used this space as a safe place to sound off and order my thoughts, to mend the rough mental path I was on. At one point, I totally found my way through the darkness and, I think, with some work, I'll get there again. When I reread those posts, I stumble through all those life changing realizations, only to come to the understanding that I am not happy. Not now. Not today.

Well, that's depressing to see in this Georgia font so plain and out there. 

Allow me to follow up with an amendment to that unpleasant factoid, I do have happy moments - sometimes often, sometimes many, but at the core of my everyday life, I am not happy. I am exhausted and worried, frustrated and lost. And honestly, I think this is how a lot of people feel. I do not think I am exceptional in my uncertainty or unique in my weariness. Quite the opposite, really. I think I am like most people. I am bumbling along, not sure what I am doing, trying to make a better situation for myself, holding out hope it will change, and I am making the right decisions. I don't know, though, not for sure. 

The funny think about happy moments? Those glimmering moments of happiness and freedom, the shiny spots in an otherwise scuffed and worn out life, are enough ... for now. Eventually, they will stop being enough, and I am hoping I can find my way back to peacefulness before they cease helping me out of bed and putting me to sleep. 

This is not a red flag. One does not need to send the cavalry to help, or post me care packages, nor do you have to fret over whether I will be okay. Because isn't that what we do? We push and pull through, we figure it out and solve the puzzle, we work through it. 

It's like boiling water. How you set a pot on the stove, turn on the heat and think to yourself how much time you have before it boils. You go off to fold the laundry, sweep the house, or open a small business, and when you come back those miniature bubbles are forming, and you think, "Boy, it takes a long time for water to boil, I'll go finish up a few other things." So, you set to it, trying to get as much done as you can, even though you know there is a pot on the stove, and it is going to boil. I mean, it's a certainty, barring the electric being shut off, or you running out of gas, if you have one of those types of ranges - you know that water is going to boil. Except, somewhere between driving a thousand kilometres a week, working six of the last seven days, and trying to prepare for the unpreparable (not a real word), you've forgotten about the pot and, low and behold, it's boiling over, the water spilling down the sides and hissing out its anger on the unforgiving element. You run for it, to take it off the heat, salvage the water inside, but sometimes it boils dry and you ruin a perfectly good pot. 

Well, my water is boiling over. And this post is me running to shut off the heat and save a perfectly good pot. As I sit here in my truck, parked at the side of the road, watching the sun and smelling the ocean, I know life isn't terrible, but that doesn't stop it from feeling terrible at times. Sometimes I simply hate self reflection. 

Should Have, But Didn't

It can be a struggle to let things go - from friendships to fights, writing ideas to unobtainable goals, and especially the choices we've made. When I find myself with a free moment for some radical thinking, I entertain thoughts of what life might have been like if I'd did things differently. I imagine the domino effect changing one facet of my life might lead to. What if I didn't move out of my family home when I was seventeen, if I went to school instead and ended my first serious relationship three years earlier. For the most part, this is harmless pondering, just a bundle of 'what-ifs' that have no real bearing on the happiness of right now. I know, in my heart of hearts, those choices brought me to this point, and for the most part 'this point' is quite good.

Sure, I have bad days where I am unsure of how I got here and feel unfulfilled and lost, but I'm positive these thoughts are essentially human and pretty common. From what I gather, we all feel unsure, afraid, and confused at times. It's life, after all, and it's pretty baffling. In a lot of ways, it's therapeutic to have these moments, so when you're back on track you can recognize progress and enjoy the forward motion. It's the 'should haves' that really get under my skin, though. It's one thing to ponder what life would be like if you'd made a different choice, it's another to constantly tell yourself you 'should (or should not) have' done something.

Should (or should not) have = regret.

And regrets are not welcome here. 

Don't get me wrong, I 'should have' myself from time-to-time, but I work hard to eradicate the words from my vernacular. I know I've made mistakes, but I can't change them. Regrets are such a waste of time and energy. The struggle is real, but I like to think I am making progress, which is why it's most frustrating when someone else comes along and 'shoulds' all over me. It makes me want to throw up a hand and say, "Stop."

Stop bringing up things I can't change. Stop reminding me of my mistakes. If you think I've forgotten, I haven't. My memory is a steel trap and nothing slips through, even when I say it has. Stop digging up the poor choices I've made. And stop harping about a past I cannot change. Last time I checked, Doc Brown's DeLorean didn't make it off the assembly line, so time travelling back in time to fix what I broke is off the table.

Yes, maybe I should have, but guess what? I didn't.

 

You Can't Start A Fire Without A Spark

Bruce Springsteen clearly has a lot to teach us. Okay, he might have been talking about love when he sung that line from Dancing In The Dark, but it's a pretty apt observation. You certainly can't start a fire without a spark. Not only is it applicable to love and life and adventures and happiness and new starts, but it coincides with writing.

At this very moment, I've sat down to write a short story, just to get into the habit of writing again, and I need the spark. I can't start without it. If I do, I will remain uninspired and the words will dry up, dwindle, and fade away, then I will have another beginning without a middle and end. The creative juices shall not floweth until I get a flicker. A bit of heat. Some sort of combustion would be nice. Something that will turn into an all out inferno.

It's hard to know when it will come. What will feed the fire. If the spark will fizzle due to lack of oxygen, much like every spark I've had in the last couple months. The best is when you do get the spark and a decent flame going, you're putting kindling on it, stoking it, blowing, and it catches! Oh, it's a glorious feeling to watch the fire build, then you need to put something bigger on it, so it can heat the whole house and not just the living room. This is where it turns into a real challenge. What if the bones aren't dry enough? What if it starts raining doubt and uncertainty? Sometimes a huge gust of negative wind will sweep through and threaten to extinguish the fire of creativity.

Sometimes it does, and you feel so angry that you spent all that time trying to build the fire. You're frustrated because you didn't get to put it out yourself. There are times you kick at the depressing ashes. Other times, you crouch back down and blow on the coals, hoping against all odds you can revive it. The joy that comes when you succeed is exhilarating, nothing compares, but so many times it simply burns out. You promise to come back to it later in the day. Days turn to months. Months to years. Every now and then, you revisit it.

All of this glorious work and frustration and excitement doesn't happen if not for one little thing.

A spark.

So, we wait.

Oatmeal Vonnegut

Two of my favourite people collaborating. The Oatmeal and Kurt Vonnegut.

Same Old

It feels as if every time I sit down to write to you all I can think about is how tired I am. Those kinds of posts are getting tedious. Promise this will be the last one to mention how incredibly exhausted I am for at least a month or two. This is a tall promise, but I anticipate doing nothing for the next quarter of the year. If anyone asks, I am taking the Fall off from any form of physical labour, asides working (because I've gots ta pay the bills, y'all).

So, we have officially moved. Goodbye, small blue house in cute little village. Hello, retro home in the heart of a sweet hamlet. I am nearly ocean front with a mountain view and, after only five nights sleeping here, am in love. Not everything is perfect, but there are perfect parts, and that's really all I can ask for.

There are things I want to tell you. Thoughts I have been pondering. Blogs I have been mulling over as I drive, walk, pack, unpack, lift, clean, bake and create. There is a wealth of information share, like moments and events and, most importantly, recipes. And I have deep revelations I want to talk out, mostly great expectations and being beautiful. The problem has been time management, which mostly has come down to me not having any extra time to manage. Between work, moving, and trying to help out with my boss' surprise birthday party, I haven't had a moment to sit down and chat.

This is why I am happy to report the craziness is drawing to a close.

Almost all the things are done.

Tomorrow I will hit you with something with a little more length, a bit deeper and, perhaps, some sort of moral or life lesson I have learned. Until then, here is a selfie I took in my car today. Sometimes I get bored and make faces.

With Glittering Eyes

Some choice advice. 

Soundtrack To My Life

If my life were a movie right now, these songs would be on the soundtrack. 

1. Matt & Kim - Overexposed - Because it picks me up. Makes me happy. And I dance around to it without any cares. 

2. Queen (Featuring David Bowie) - Under Pressure  - I am sure I will be a diamond after all this pressure is over. 

3. Buck 65 - Indestructible Sam - Perseverance will prevail. Be determined.

4. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Opium Tea - Well, I'm a prisoner here, yes, but I'm also free. Cause I am what I am and what will be will be. Some opium tea might be nice, actually. 

5. Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers - Time To Move On - Time to move on. Time to get going. What lies ahead, I have no way of knowing. 

6. Ani DiFranco - 32 Flavours - A poster girl with no poster. 

7. Violent Femmes - Kiss Off - There's always a precious moment where this song applies to one or many people. 

8. Joe Strummer - Silver & Gold - Gonna kiss all the pretty girls. 

9. Chris Isaak - Somebody's Crying - Every soundtrack needs the emotional song that is essential to hit home the most touching of scenes. 

10. The Submarines - You, Me and Bourgeoisie - Choose love. Choose life. 

Just making it through, one day at a time. 

Emotional Wardrobe

This evening let us gather around the (virtual) fire and discuss emotional baggage. This two worded expression just happens to irk the crap out of me. Not  just because of the insensitive way it is used but because people are ashamed by it. This phrase gets tossed around in such a negative way, as if the people hurling it at others don't have any issues of their own, as if they themselves have no residual emotions left behind from their childhood or the traumatic episode we call our teenage years, as if they have escaped relationships without acquiring any issues or sentimental scars.

People talk about emotional baggage as if it is a hindrance, an embarrassment, something to be ashamed of. Everyone talks about how we have to let go and overcome the past or else we will be held back by it. This is a preposterous notion to me. Take it from me, no matter how well you let go of something, it always comes back to you. Usually when you least expect it, like at work when you're cleaning the lint out of the dryer trap. Nothing is gone forever. Not even when you spend a sexless year working through your issues. The feelings and memories are always under the surface, just existing there.

And it makes me think, is not our emotional baggage something we should be proud of? To say, "This is what I've been through, and I'm still here, surviving. Look at all I have overcome. It's all packed into these metaphorical bags."

Like the good times in our lives, we carry the bad as well, from this relationship to the next, from one part of our lives to another. Why should we let either of them go? These are our memories, our experiences, the things that have moulded and shaped us, turned us into the creatures we are. We act as if the sad times, the hurtful moments are a pain to keep with us, but I cherish them just the same as the lovely ones. I have learned from them. Grown from them. And I keep them with me, not because I can't let them go, but because they aren't holding me back. They are a part of me.

Anyone who whispers the term 'emotional baggage' behind their hand as if it is a dirty thing is misunderstanding what exactly comprises the baggage. Some people don't understand what it means to be proud of the struggles you've been through. Once you embrace the baggage it can become your shield. It can protect you from future hurts. And it will teach you to wear your scars like armour. To hold your head up high and understand that where you came from and what you've gone through doesn't have to dictate where you are going or who you will become.

We call it baggage because it supposedly weighs us down, but the past doesn't have to be so heavy. Instead of lugging it around, why don't we unpack it instead? We can fill up our hearts with it and, when need be, we can open the doors to the emotional wardrobe and pull out a moment to examine, to remember what we leaned from it, to reflect on the life we have lived, then hang it back up. We can close the door and go about our lives, no longer pulling the baggage behind us, but carrying it inside us, where it can be reflected on as a lesson, instead of dragged around like dead weight we want to cut away.  

I firmly believe you can't let your past dictate your future, but I also don't think you can move forward without confronting your past. Packing your bad memories up and trying to hide them will only cause you to stumble. It's hard dragging something so cumbersome behind you, it's a strain on the heart and the head, not to mention the legs. Eventually, we have to realize we are who we are because of what we have been through. To deny the past, to try to forget it, or ignore it will only cause it to be harder to deal with. Maybe it's time to unpack those bags and put those experiences away in the emotional wardrobe, where they can change from a burden to a blessing. 

Why I Don't Smoke The Weed

If I have said it once, I have said it a thousand times - I have never partaken in the drugs, any of them, not even the marijuana, which British Columbia (if not the whole of Canada) is known for. BC Bud? Yeah, that's a real noteworthy thing over here, apparently. Colour me surprised! Although it does kind of make sense because everyone and their grandmother loves to indulge in the green around these parts.

Now, the reason for my abstaining isn't because I am a stuck up bitch who thinks she's better than everyone else and doesn't want to stoop to the level of those people who are so clearly beneath me. Actually, yes, someone did once accuse me of that, even though I don't think I am better than anyone else, except those I am obviously better than. Just kidding. I am the Queen of ill-timed jokes. I wish there was a jokey font. I guess comic sans might be.

Anyhow, the truth is, I was afraid to try drugs. When I was eleven, my older brother got into some bad stuff. I won't share details, because it isn't really anyone's business but his own. The details don't matter, anyway, what did matter is that I loved him. I saw the way his life was heading and, while there were more bad decisions than buying ciggies, getting drunk, and smoking a spliff, that's where it seemed to begin, at least that's how I saw it in my preteen mind. So, I decided I didn't want to go down the path he went, I didn't want to be removed from my home, or put into foster care, or go to juvenile detention.

Sure, as I grew older, I realized his was the worst case scenario. Well, at least one of them, there was always death, which scared me more. People find it surprising I didn't succumb to peer pressure in high school. Yes, it was offered, and yeah, I spent many a night with drunk and stoned kids. From alcohol swiped from parents liquor cabinets to marijuana and from LSD to cocaine and ecstasy, I was around it all. It wasn't as if I wasn't subjected to it. I was, but it never interested me, and honestly I didn't WANT to do it. There was plenty of remarks, a copious amount of assumptions, and a fair amount of peer pressure, never really from my good friends, but I was a determined little girl.

And then I reached my twenties and, despite the rough times and sad times and trying to find myself times, I always figured it was a silly time to start. It was as if I missed the getting high boat. It seemed weird for me to suddenly give it a try after over two decades of living.

So why do I not indulge now?

Because I don't need it. I am weird enough on my own. This world constantly wows me. And to be perfectly honest, I have an odd tendency to sound like I'm stoned without actually being under the influence. "Look at the sky, it's amaaaaaaazing. Can you believe it? It's just breath taking." Insert far out smile here. No, really. Do you remember the double rainbow video? How that guy lost his mind over the double rainbow? Well, that's pretty much me whenever I see something semi-amazing in nature.

For example, tonight I cut open a tomato, which seems like a fairly uninspiring task. Except, I was in awe, because the seeds inside had sprouted. This literally had me grinning from ear-to-ear. I actually sought out the Sidekick to show him. He wasn't as amazed by it, though. Still, it made my night. And that is why I don't smoke the weed now. Because my world is pretty magnificent without it.

And don't go thinking I am one of those people who tell others not to burn one down. Heavens no, partake, indulge, light one up. It just isn't for me, it never has been and, here's the thing, it never will be. Never. Oh, also, please don't call me straight-edge, while that is an accurate label for what I am, I have always hated the term. Mostly because it makes me sound like a scenester kid, which isn't the case. I am too old to be a scenester or hipster, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. Now, where'd I put my cardigan and glasses?

The Issue With Makeup

As a lot of you know, I hate wearing makeup. Actually, it goes beyond hate. We have a deep-seated animosity for one another. Makeup loathes me because I don't appreciate the magic it can work on a plain face, and I despise makeup because it only perpetuates feelings of not being good enough in our own skin. Makeup to me generates unrealistic expectations and only exacerbates the idea that women need to be beautiful all the time, or that they aren't beautiful when they don't make themselves up.

People can argue with me all they like, but the only reason women wear makeup is to look better. They want their eyes bigger, brighter, bolder, cheeks more pronounced, contouring to accent their features, acne and dark circles gone, eyebrows more defined. They want less shine and more evenness. The simple act of going out and buying makeup says to the world, "I need to be more beautiful." There's this whole 'I'm not good enough' vibe behind it.

A couple months ago a bunch of women were posting pictures of themselves not wearing makeup all over the social medias. This was a huge deal! Because it's odd for a lot of women to leave the house without being done up. Girls at a very young age start wearing makeup, they get in the habit of wearing it every day, and eventually it gets to the point where they don't want to leave the house unless they've at LEAST got some mascara, blush, and lipstick on. As the years go by, teenagers turn into women, and their dependency on makeup only gets stronger.

Don't get me wrong. I know there are a ton of women who LOVE makeup and all it stands for. I know there will be a lot of people who don't understand my annoyance or thoughts on the subject. But part of me thinks it's because they have been buying into this multi-billion dollar industry for so long they can't fathom not being a part of it.

Personally, I love it when girls don't wear makeup, but the rest of society doesn't seem to be the same way. It's why magazines with makeup-less celebrities are so popular. People love seeing others at their worst. I just find it a shame that our natural state is our 'worst'. And this doesn't just go for the rich and famous. I know girls who, if they go to work or out to party without makeup, people will ask them if they are sick, not feeling well. It's because your friends and family get used to seeing you with makeup on. Take that away and you're sickly.

What's even more frustrating is when you see makeup tips for a more 'natural' look. Yeah, natural to me means without, right? Like the gorgeous content of your soul shines through your eyes.

Hey, I don't make up these rules. Also, I don't like them. Even more, I am agitated that I am being affected by it. Because I have to do my hair, dress nice and put on makeup for my job, when I get a day off and don't put on eyeliner, I actually think I look worse now. How is this possible when I existed in a makeup free world for the majority of my life? That's what's getting to me. I have to retrain my brain to remember that I like the way I look without makeup.

Guess I am just feeling a little disgruntled tonight.

Take A Bath

Today hasn't been easy.

This week hasn't been easy.

Last couple months? Also not easy.

This last year, actually kind of tough.

When in doubt, take a bath. A nice hot one. With bubbles. Or, a fancy bath bomb a coworker bought you for your one year anniversary. Then, just soak. Soak until you are relaxed. Or at least until you are shrivelled like a prune. After, get out and into bed. And don't wake up at five in the morning thinking about nachos.

The headache will go away.

No clothes are being worn in this picture.

Five Random Things

My brain isn't working properly. Too much on it. Last night it started thinking right when I was going to bed. Just clicked in and the wheels were turning. Now, my eyes are tired. Not enough sleep, I think.

So, I'm coping out on a thoughtful post and just going to write five truths about life as I see it today.

1. Money is the biggest stress ever. The amount of people brooding over their finances is staggering. This world is so consumer driven and designed to keep us in debt and unhappy. We all hope to win the lottery, but the chances of that are so slim. It's sad, isn't it? Being so preoccupied with money, letting it control our lives, when we really can't take it with us. All these things, our homes, our cars, televisions, clothes, toys, none of it is coming with us when we leave this place. So, why not let it go in advance?

I am thinking about doing some spring cleaning this weekend. It's going to be like the movie The Purge, but instead of committing crimes and getting rid of people who annoy me, I'm going to be downsizing my book collection and donating clothes I don't wear.

2. Life isn't easy. It's hard and defeating. Things are constantly up in the air. Even if you are happy enough and working your hardest, there are bumps in the road. Trials. Pains. Heartaches. And sometimes it feels like it's just too much to handle, you know? Like you're just waiting for the good parts and they never really come. Everyone I know has gone through it. The what is this all about feeling is a hard one to shake. Sometimes I'd love to say we are all here for a purpose, but that's just wishful thinking. Maybe this is all a mistake.

I think I'm taking things too seriously.

3. Pets make things easier. Oliver is sitting on my right side here. He's sleeping. But even in the toughest of times, he can pull a smile from me. I'm glad I have these boys. They remind me there are great things, even when it seems like there aren't. Wet noses, soft ears, and cuddles when you need them the most. It's nice to be needed. Wanted. Sometimes I think this is what people with children feel like about their kids. Like they are a reason to keep on keeping on.

My dogs are my children. Thank God they don't speak English. Oliver is already mouthy enough as it is.

4. The best way to stay healthy and happy is to maintain a positive outlook on life. This is easier said than done. It's hard to constantly keep your chin up, especially when you feel as though you are floundering. Everything will be okay is a lovely way to think, but believing it is another matter altogether. We know other people have it worse. We know life isn't all that bad. But when you're down, you're down. And sometimes it's hard pulling yourself up the mountain again when it feels like you just trudged up the bloody thing not that long ago.

Don't worry, I am not thinking about becoming a motivational speaker.

5. Writing distracts me from life. This is probably why I love it so much.

We all need distractions sometimes. Or to stay focused. I'm not too sure which right now.

Take Me Home

One of my most lovely friends posted an interesting blog about home. How he longs for home, even when he is in the house he is living. In all my wisdom, I replied with my own thoughts on home. How it's more a feeling than a place. They, whoever 'they' are, have two different sayings.

Home is where you hang your hat.

This isn't the case. We can have an apartment, house, or basement suite and still not feel at home in our space. Because our hearts long for something more. If you are alone in your dwelling, or if there are toxic vibes or ill will from those you live with, well that space can be very un-home-like.

Home is where your heart is.

This is more apt, I think. I remember growing up and well into my twenties, my home was where my parents were. In the beginning, it was because that's all I knew. When I got older, it was because they offered me a space where I could simply be and not be judged or have anyone expect anything from me. I loved them. They loved me. Being in their presence was my home because they gave me peace and safety and a comfort zone. Nothing was ever going to happen to me while I was with my parents.

You can find this peace, safety and comfort in the presence of other people. Like your Sidekick. Or, for instance, friends and family. My sister is most definitely home for me. When I'm with my sister, there is this overwhelming home feeling. There are other people too, like my ex-boyfriend, which seems kind of weird. Still, when I am around him, in his space, at his house, in his truck, I am comfortable and at peace and loved. So I am home. Friends like Rebs and Bots and Leppy all extended themselves to me for such a long time that I will never be uncomfortable around them. They have offered me their homes and made it my own.

So, I truly feel home is where your heart is.

Even more, though. Home is where you are. I think you carry your home within you. I am at home in the woods and at the beach. I am at home in my truck driving down island. I am at home in my bed with my boys. I am at home wherever I am.

Maybe that's because I love myself. Accept myself. Enjoy my time alone. Because my heart is inside me and it doesn't want to be anywhere else.

Regardless, home isn't a structure in my opinion. It isn't made of wood or brick. The amount of rooms or type of flooring do not matter. Sure, you can build a house and raise a family in it, you can fill it full of the most wonderful memories and that house can feel like a home. But those memories will still exist if the house doesn't. Don't get me wrong. I want that sort of home too. A safe haven where everyone I love can come when they are broken and I will heal them with baked goods and magical forest walks.

But isn't that wherever I am. Wherever I go. Which is why I say home is a feeling. You should be carrying it inside you every day. Whatever place you live in. There is this world. Our world. And everyone you love lives here, or has lived here. Isn't that comforting? Space and time are inconsequential when love is involved.
You are home because you are here. Because you exist and the word is yours. As it is mine.

Social Rules? Fuck them.

Yesterday, I stumbled across a post in my feed from a girl I absolutely adore. The gist of her update was that due to 'social rules' she was withholding her feelings and instead posting a video of moose noises. The social rule in this instance was not burdening others with negativity or unhappiness. Apparently, if you put too many downtrodden posts out into the cyber world people get annoyed.

Of course, in my true fashion, I replied with, "Social rules? Fuck them."

And it wasn't just a passing comment, nor something witty or humorous said to garner chuckles. It wasn't a flippant remark. It wasn't said without feeling or thought. 

I genuinely think most social rules should be ignored. Not because I'm a rebel. Not because I like to stir the pot. But because I don't like the idea of people censoring themselves. I don't think it is healthy to slap a hand over your mouth and swallow your emotions, especially if it is only not to piss off the wrong people. I say wrong people because the right ones will never be annoyed by you. The right ones will always care. They will always love and protect and give you a safe place to fall apart and pull yourself together.

It is counterproductive to one's health and well being to stifle thoughts, cares, concerns and feelings. This world is tough. People are hard. The badness can weigh you down, make it seem as if it is impossible to stand and walk and exist. Life is difficult. It isn't easy. And sometimes we get lost. We can't find our way. We stumble through the darkness, waiting for the light, just a flicker to pull us through. Realistically, most of us can't do it alone. We need other people in order to make it out okay. To survive the blackness.

I am grateful for those who have shone their light on me. And I only hope there are others who are grateful that I have held up a flame for them. 

Why have they done this for me? Why will I do it for you?

Because we are all connected. We are one. Me and you. We exist here. Together.

And if we can't turn to our friends and family, if we can't speak our minds, in person or on the intersnacks to the ones we care about, the ones who are supposed to give a damn, then what good is socializing anyhow? Not being honest with our feelings, not being truthful to the ones we let into our hearts is utter bologna. This isn't a tea party. We aren't ladies. And we don't lift our pinkies when we drink tea. Well, some of us don't. Some of us have to because it's ingrained in us and an impossible habit to break. But what I am saying is we aren't debutantes. We aren't playing bridge and talking about the weather, eating cucumber sandwiches and wearing floral hats. The days of hiding our secrets and inconvenient emotions in a box under our beds are over because it never made anything better. (This is the comedic relief)

Here is where there is no humour.

Depression is a real thing. More people are affected by it every day. Mental health issues. Suicide. These are things that exist in our lives, that we brush shoulders with, that some of us know far too well. Chances are, someone we love is suffering. Hurting. In pain. Struggling. It boggles my mind and befuddles my heart to consider the fact someone I adore could need help but is not speaking up, not asking for help, not venting because of some stupid social rule.

Fuck the weak of heart and uncaring. Fuck the ones who get annoyed by expression of emotion. Fuck anyone who doesn't want to hear it. Fuck those who are scared of the truth.

Because the alternative to speaking up and writing posts and talking about the pain and negativity and doubt and hurt and despair and uncertainty is bottling it up. Shoving it down. Ignoring it. Hiding. Running away. Recoiling. Shutting everyone out. Turning away. Leaving them to 'deal' with it on their own. For them to try to find their way through the darkness without a hand to hold or someone to talk to.

That's why I say fuck social rules. Let it out. Because keeping it in isn't helping anyone. And if anyone is truly bothered by how you are feeling or what you are thinking, then they can fuck right off too. They aren't worth the time or energy and clearly need to cultivate their empathy and understanding. Maybe a lesson in love will set them straight.

Perhaps it's because I've experienced the darkness that I understand if you don't let it out, you will never let it go.

A Waste

There's this beautiful little girl on the bus with me. She's staring out the window. Her name is Hazel, to match her eyes. In her dainty earlobes, she wears elephant earrings. A pink gem glitters in the belly. Sometimes she looks so sad. And others simply contemplative.

She's sniffling. I guess she has a cold.

Her hair is long and brown. There is a Boston Terrier on her shirt. It has a blue moustache. In this very short ride she has offered water to someone and her seat to others. She's with a group. It's Spring Break - something us adults can't comprehend. A week off without responsability.

And I'm remember why I'm on the bus. On the mainland. On route to my sister. A death. A suicide. A person from our past has punched his own time card. More her past than mine. This little girl and the grim reason for my sudden trip collide and all I am thinking is how does it go so wrong.

All these children, vibrant and full of life, when does life mess them up? I'm sure some of them are already experiencing the cruel nature of life, how bitter she can be, how utterly depressing it can seem. Since this is an honest space, I can say we have all been messed up by life. Tested, optimists the world over say. We have all been tested. Sometimes I think we spend the first thirty years of our lives being messed up and the next thirty trying to clean it up, fix it and find ourselves.

Sometimes we can't find out way back. Sometimes we can't see what there is out beyond the forest of our doubts and fears. Sometimes we miss the truth of life. That it truly is what you make it and happiness comes to those who can see. But there are those who can't see past the cobwebs of their own thoughts. The ghosts in their own minds.

Even in my darkest days I've always wanted to be. To exist. To breathe that crips mountain air and sink my feet into the mud of life. I have always wanted to conqour my own demons and not let them win. Leaving is not an option, not by my own hand, because there is too much love to give. I know this sets me apart. And I know I will never understand. That it will always seem like such a waste.

And I am terrible in these moments. There are tears and laughter, painful honesty and regrets. I suppose I am grateful that I don't feel nothing.  That I care. And always will.

Life is a gift but not everyone gets the memo.

Just Passing Time

They say you only live once and to live life to the fullest. To cram it with the things you love, what makes you happy, to enjoy every moment and embrace every minute. In theory, it makes a lot of sense, but who has the energy to make every second of every minute of every hour of every day count? While I truly do believe life is far too short for hate and anger and ill will towards others and that you should make the most of what you are given, it is inconceivable to never have a sad or angry or disenchanted moment, to never curl up and say, "Not today."

Life is a beautiful thing. This world is an amazing place. There are gentle, kind people around us every day, ones we know, others we don't. Strangers who are waiting for us to notice them, ready to impress upon us understanding, compassion and empathy if only given the chance. Good things happen, ones worthy of taking notice of, and there is much to learn. We have so much growing to do.  And I am ever so grateful for what I have, where I am, and all the things I can do.

Sometimes I think about all the books I will never read. All the stories I will never write. The trails I will never hike. Sights I will never see. Songs I will never know. Majestic places I will never visit. And when  I think about all the things I will miss out on, I feel this fire to get out and do, to see, feel, hear, smell, learn and experience. To conquer and thrive, to draw deep breaths, and free fall into wonderment. At my most passionate, I don't want to settle down. I refuse to stop. I go, go, go until I've walked through the deserts, danced in the stars and swam to the unexplored depths of our oceans. I want to soak up everything the Earth has to teach me, the lessons of soil and air, of fire and water. I want to burn with the sun and kiss the man on the moon.

But some days, I am not at my most passionate. Some days, I am tired. Some days I am just passing time.

It's so very easy to get distracted and lose sight of what's important. Not food, clothes, and a roof over your head, but what stokes the passion inside you. What turns the cogs in your head and sets your heart beating rampantly. Passing time isn't necessarily a bad thing. It happens organically. We set patterns in our lives, so easy to follow, and focus so intently on getting from point A to point B. Still, I feel it is important to stop the wheels of routine. To check in with our souls and make sure they are getting what they need, that we aren't overlooking them. Life is a hustler, trying to hustle us into forgetting to check in. It's always tell us what to do, when it needs to be done and how to do it. Our lives end up revolving around a clock. What time is it? When do I have be at work? What time do I get up? When is dinner? Do I have enough time to get this done? We go to bed in order to get up and do it all again.

Don't get me wrong, routine isn't all bad. It's comfortable and safe, except when it controls every facet of your life. Then it is uncomfortable and unsafe. We must be willing and ready to step out of our routines at a moment's notice and witness the wonders the world offers us. For it's when we pass time for too long that it becomes normal to just pass time, and we forget what we used to do before we were just passing time. This is what I worry over the most. That I am not living. That I am missing out.

I want to be with the ocean. In the forest. Playing outside. Going to the movie theatre. Learning things I don't have to learn. Growing strong and smart. Gazing at the stars. Reading words, fictional and not. Baking bread and cookies and cupcakes. Eating cake. Holding hands. Being kissed. Kissing beings. Making and maintaining friends. Snuggling with my fur babies. Drinking tea. Knitting gifts. Solving puzzles. And taking on a challenge.

Above all, I want to write. Words are my life. They always have been. I feel so distracted and out of sorts when I am not creating. And I know I haven't been creative enough lately, which is why I am feeling so off and worrying so much and turning my thoughts inwardly instead of outwardly. It is strange when you know something is so fundamental in your own happiness and still you cannot find the time to do it. Excuses, right? We are full of them. These daily posts do help. Despite how it may seem, I put a fair amount of thought into most of these and I take care in writing them. But they aren't fiction and that's what I truly love to create.

Perhaps this is me simply saying, "No" to just passing time.

I'm off to go kill someone. Fictionally, of course.

What's Your Damage?

Collectives never used to be my thing. They came down to being a big fat headache riddled with whiners and excuse makers.

I don't want to know why you couldn't make a deadline. How life inexplicably fell apart for you. Or that your muse packed up and left you the day before you started your story.

None of that's for me.

But apparently, with the right crew and captain, the boat called Collective can actually win.

I am winning at collectives now.

As some of you may know, I wrote a long short story, almost a novella, for a little know book called Cars & Girls for a writerly group called Pankhearst.

Well, now the second installment by this fantastic mob is out.

It's called Heathers.

And it is authentically young adulty. Meaning, it is rough, gritty, and true. The emotions behind it. The subject matter.

It comes with a warning, but don't let that sway you.

Square your shoulders, take a deep breath and click this link.

Then buy the book.

You won't be disappointed. My story is last because . . . well, it's good to finish with a bang, right?

This Is Our Last Dance

You don't exist any more. At least that's what the internet wants me to believe. Funny how you can delete and remove and erase, but nothing is ever truly gone. The intersnacks is a fickle creature. As is the heart. Even after we delete ourselves, we still exist. In each other. In the world. In cache.

You exist in me. As long as I exist, so do you. Take that! There's a smug reality to that, isn't there? In my past life, I would have been sad when someone disappeared, or tried to disappear, but there simply is no room for goodbyes in my life. They don't exist. It's funny how the heart knows, but the brain still tries.

Motherboard meltdown. Cerebral silliness. Malfunction in the mainframe.

Before I was a sarcastic teenager, before I was a bitter twenty-something-year old, before the mess of over thinking and under feeling began, before I was a mass of raw nerves and doubt, before I was a lost kid wanting nothing but the approval of my parents, I was a music nerd.

When you disappeared, a song came to mind. Perhaps the song isn't important. Maybe it is. But the lyrics reminded me of you. Past you. Present you. Future you. Past me. Present me. Future me.

Ghosts that we knew. That's the song.

The thing about music, we can all find something different in it. We can find ourselves and other people. And we can love or hate it for different reasons.

My obsession started long before I got Snoop Doggy Dogg's Doggystyle album. Long before I fell in love with the Lady & the Tramp song that Peggy Lee sung. In truth, it started with my mother's voice. She used to sing a lot. Maybe she still does, I must ask her.

My father sang too.

And I remember the soundtrack to Good Morning Vietnam. Sitting in the back of his Toyota Tercel, I remember reciting that soundtrack word for word. My father couldn't believe I memorized it all, dialogue from the movie as well. I have always been very good at remembering things.

Even now. I remember well.

That's a funny thing to say.

My ex once told me that I have revisionist history. He said while other people remember the good things from the past and paint over the bad, I work in reverse. That was then, though. I highly doubt he'd say that about me now. In fact, I sometimes wonder if he recognizes me as the person he dated at all. Or my ex-ex, for that matter, the ex before this last ex. What the hell does he think about me?

Only good things, I'm sure. (Can you hear my wry smirk? I am wearing one, you know.)

They both have songs. Different songs. Unusual songs. Songs they might be surprised that are theirs. But exs deserve songs because they got to experience so many of your moments and emotions. Sometimes they stay your friends, so they have more than one song. Sometimes they have a hundred songs.

For being this young, my history is quite long. Not as messy as some may assume, yet far messier than most think. And the truth is, I have always felt older than I am. Like when I was fourteen and listening to golden oldies in my basement and wishing with all my heart that I existed with poodle skirts and drive-ins. I wanted to be a teenager in the fifties or sixties. My love for the cars, music and clothes drove me to want to go back in time, a la Marty McFly, because I thought I belonged there.

Of course, I didn't belong there. Just as I don't belong here. I was far too mouthy to exist happily in a word where I would always be second. Granted, I am far too mouth for this place as well.

There have been so many stages in my life and it isn't even half over. (Actually, I can't possibly know that, but if we go based off the average life span of a woman, then I have more than half to go.)

Through all these stages, I remember the music.

These moments of my life have always been so clearly defined by song. Each and every person in and out of my life, the ones who have come and gone or come and stayed have a song. They might not understand their song. They might not like their song. They might not even care to know they have a song. It doesn't change the fact that they do in fact have one. Hand selected. By moi.

You have a song. Yes, you - the person reading this. Well, at least you do if we have exchanged a fleeting moment in history. Hell, even if we haven't, you have a song. Just one to be determined, which it will be when our paths cross. You will know your song when you ask. Until then, assume it is something by Matt & Kim and dance around your living room in your underwear for a change. Have some fun. We all need fun as we walk our path. Without fun, what's the point?

Dourness no more!

I find it incredibly interesting how paths cross. The other day, I was thinking about exactly this, about how and why paths cross. Sometimes it takes years to figure it out. Months. Days. If you're lucky - hours. And some paths uncross, only to cross again down the line. Maybe in another lifetime. Maybe on a different plane of existence. I always try to learn from the people I encounter. Even if we are only crossing into each others lives for a second or two. I try to be observant.

But when I look around, people look so distracted. Preoccupied. They certainly don't notice me. Not most of them. Because they are in their lives. Participating in their own worlds. The starring role in a movie I have never seen and might possibly never seen.

Examples are always a must.

The other day, I watched a woman at a red light smoking. She was sitting in her blue Passat with a cigarette between her fingers and a furrow between her brow. Technically our paths crossed. Because I noticed her. Isn't that all it takes for two paths to come together for a moment, acknowledgement? She didn't notice me, though. Not that I know of. She simply stared straight ahead. Her eyes fixated on the set of lights, waiting for it to change to green, waiting to go, to get her day under way. Mine was already in full swing. But we both sat there at that light, her looking so sad and preoccupied, and me watching like a creep. I like to imagine I wore a mask of concern with a gentle smile and a subtle non-bragging peace in my eyes. Of course, it was a Wednesday, so I was actually looking a little bedraggled because it was early in the morning and I'm sure I looked a mess. For some reason, I was tempted to honk my horn and wave at her, but then she flicked her cigarette onto the ground and sped away.

She didn't look left or right to make sure the way was clear, which probably seems so insignificant. But it isn't. Not really.

She kept looking straight forward. Concentrating on herself. And probably her discontentment. We like to look straight ahead. Pretend there isn't people all around us. Because we are what is important. Our little lives. Our little insignificant lives. Our little, fleeting, insignificant lives that we are so preoccupied with. So fixated on ourselves.

It's funny how your path can cross with someone you don't even know it crossed with. It happens all the time. And I think about that, you know. I think about that a lot. Not about how I have affected the people who I love and who have loved me, or who love me, but also the ones who don't know me. The ones who take a glimpse at my silly vlogs, who stumble across a random picture, or blog, or story, or comment. I think about all the paths that I have crossed unknowingly, and I wonder what sort of impression I left behind.

This random woman in her car smoking left an impression on me. She taught me to always look left and right. And not just when driving. But when walking. When in line at the grocery store. Stepping out of the house. Walking the dog.

There is something beautiful about being aware.

Making eye contact. Smiling. Acknowledging that there are people around you every minute of every day, even if you are agoraphobic and can't leave your house. Someone is close by. Unless you're that man who lived on his own personal island with his gigantic turtles. In that case, something was close by. Turtles. And it is important to recognize that as well. Not just turtles, but other creatures. And trees too.

And that woman smoking in her car has a song. The turtles have a song. You have a song. I have a song.

The world has a song.

There are so many songs for the world, though. But this one kind of has always been the main theme song, hasn't it? And with the music stripped out of it and the bare bones vocals left behind, it becomes haunting. It reminded me of you. Of me. Of us. Collectively.

The world.



But what I'm simply trying to say is, I'm just a music nerd. No more. No less.

I Can See My Feet

Perspective.

One of those words people toss around to make others feel poorly when they want to cocoon themselves in a blanket of self-pity and moan about how cruel life is. There are a hundred examples to give someone to drive home the fact they shouldn't be complaining, because it could be worse. How many times have we all heard that?

It could be worse.

And that's the truth. The fact is, my day-to-day life isn't bad. So, I try to stay positive.

I have both my parents. Shoulders to cry on. A job. My body isn't overgrown with hair. People love me. Some of them, at least. I have Oliver. And Dixon. There are mountains and forests all around me.

And I can see my feet when I look down.

I have it pretty good.

I may be stuck under a mountain of debt, feeling as though I'm being suffocated by my inability to pay bills. There are feelings of inadequacy, worrying about letting my friends and family down, and wondering if I've made the right decisions in life.

Still, my day-to-day life isn't bad.

Sometimes it's hard remembering this.

Then a customer comes in and comments on how her daughter is going through chemo.

"How old is your daughter?" I asked.

And her reply?

Four.

Perspective.

It's a son of a bitch.