The Ring is the Thing

Stephen and I have been together for 3 years + 3 months. We moved in together 7-8 months ago (thereabouts) and that is going pretty great. We talk about getting married and having kids, and are having those conversations more frequently. We generally agree on the timeline on which we’d like this to happen. According to the script (you know the one), we get engaged next and then start wedding planning.

That is well and good, but if we’ve already agreed that we’d like to marry each other, then aren’t we kind of already engaged? That is the primary functional purpose of a proposal, right? To agree to get married? I feel like we’ve basically agreed on that already, but I don’t feel engaged. There was no getting down on one knee. No call to my parents to let them know the big news. And there is no ring.

My pondering about this recently intensified when I learned that Stephen has looked at rings for me. He declined to share how recently and how often, but I was thunderstruck. No one has ever looked at rings for me before! (To the best of my knowledge). Heck, I haven’t even looked at engagement rings for me before. I had some notions about “probably vintage” or “maybe custom” or “there’s a jeweller I like that I saw at a craft fair in Edmonton” but I never seriously looked at rings with an eye to actually picking one for myself. Naturally I have now looked. But the more I look, the less sure I am of the point of the whole thing.

We agree we want to get married, so why not just start planning the wedding? I can think of lots of reasons to skip the engagement ring and the proposal altogether: the cost, the patriarchal nonsense, the capitalistic manipulation, the environmental impact, the human rights violations. On the other hand, the reasons for doing the proposal complete with ring are…everybody does it? This is not compelling to me.

If I take off my cynical hat, I’ll admit that I’m a person who likes traditions and ritual. Participating in one that is ostensibly about love and commitment naturally appeals to me. And if Stephen proposes and busts out a ring he picked out just for me, you can bet your own engagement ring that I won’t be able to help being moved to sobbing (I go off) and respond with a joyful yes.

Still, putting my practical pants on, I have to say that I can’t really see how a proposal would change anything about the current state of our relationship in a meaningful way. Maybe this is just because I haven’t experienced it yet. Maybe the proposal really does represent a meaningful new stage in our relationship. But if that’s true, then I absolutely reject that it’s his sole decision on when we move to that next stage. And that I’m supposed to wait and wonder when it’s going to happen.

Now I’m actually a bit fired up, if I’m honest. Going back to the patriarchal nonsense point – doesn’t this whole process seem designed to make the woman feel insecure and uncertain? Will he or won’t he? Yes, I could propose to him but this also doesn’t achieve what I really want, which is that we make mutual decisions about where to take our relationship.

I’m also aware that by dwelling on this, I risk portraying myself as the stereotype lady who’s dying to get a ring on it. Which, ok sexist. Still, I don’t care about a ring, and I don’t care about a proposal, and I don’t care about being engaged. I just want to be married to the person I love. And actually if I’m really really honest. I don’t really care about being married either. I just want to start a family with the person I love in the next 2 years or so, and the script says go on and get yourself married first. AHHHH!

I feel brainwashed. Imagine me looking at rings and wedding dresses and then looking at Stephen to ask “real or not real?” like Peeta Mellark.

Peeta Mellark. That’s where this stream of consciousness ended. Definitely wouldn’t have predicted that. I can’t tell what’s real anymore, and what’s made up.

2018 is dead. Long live 2019.

Before diving into some 2019 resolutions, let’s check back on those 2018 moonshots.

1. Read 52 books together with my boyfriend. He is a slightly more voracious reader than I so we agreed on a distribution of 31 to him, 21 to me. Inspired by a friend who writes down everything she reads, I propose we both keep a list. I read 16 books, I kept track. Stephen didn’t keep track of his but almost certainly didn’t read 31 because he had one of the busiest years of his life and sacrificed a lot of leisure time to other pursuits. I’d be shocked if he made it through 10. Poor Stephen.

2. Read the same book as my boyfriend for at least two books so we can have a few evenings of couple’s book club. We did not read any of the same books but recommitted to this for 2019.

3. Make sure several books on the list are set in Cuba, which we have tentatively selected for a travel destination for either Christmas 2018 or February 2019. No books were set in Cuba.

4. Save up for a trip to Cuba together. We did not save up for a trip to Cuba. We are no longer planning a trip to Cuba. For awhile it was Colombia instead and then my sister announced they are moving to Finland for a year starting this July so now we need to save up for a trip to Finland to visit them sometime in 2019. Which will be a lot more flipping expensive than Cuba or Colombia, sheesh.

5. Learn lots about Cuba. I read somewhere awhile back that anticipating and planning a trip in advance actually makes you enjoy it more. I like the idea of integrating that anticipation and planning into activities like the books I read, the media I consume, etc. Really made way too many resolutions about Cuba. Obvi did not do this. Watched some travel videos about Colombia though. So that’s…something?

6. Snowshoe and hike a bunch. I don’t think we snowshoed a single time in 2018. Maybe once in January? But I think we actually just hiked with micro-spikes. I cross-country skied once. We hiked very few times. Not zero but less than 10 for sure.

7. Climb a bunch. I was making a semi-decent effort to get back into bouldering in early 2018 and then I whacked my ankle on a hold really effing hard. It caused me to fall and twist said ankle. It was swollen for many weeks and I kind of lost my climbing mojo after that (but then got really into spin classes – so…?). Also my neck and shoulders and back in general are a mess and just, UGH. I’m not ready to throw in the towel on climbing but you know, maybe it just doesn’t fit into my life right now. And that’s ok.

8. Wear hats A BUNCH. I definitely wore a lot of hats in 2018. At least, more than I have in any other year of my life. Carrying this into 2019. I love hats.

9. Floss at least 200 times. (Don’t lie – you don’t floss every day either). Possibly place a calendar in the bathroom and place a sticker on each day you floss. Inspired by a friend who did this every time she went for a run. Ya I did this!! I floss all the damn time now. It only took 2 months of keeping track on a calendar before it was a firmly entrenched habit. Now I love flossing. Your teeth just feel so much more delightfully clean and fresh if you floss before you brush.

10. Get to know which hotel bars and lounges in Vancouver have the best cocktails, bartenders, wine list, gluten-free desserts, most comfortable seating, cosiest fireplaces, are most conveniently located next to other downtown locations I frequent (art galleries, various movie theatres, all kinds of theatres), etc. We visited two hotel bars last night on NYE so I’m calling that an in-under-the-wire success. Still going to carry into 2019 though.

11. Forge deeper relationships with some awesome people I’ve met in the past year. Not really. My social life was pretty pfft this year, but to be fair, I invested only a medium amount of effort. Maybe one of my coworkers counts? We have no relationship outside of work, nor do we desire one. But our professional relationship got so tight yo! We work really well together now and I’m so proud of the effort I put in to getting there. Also – my relationship with my sister and brother-in-law got stronger this year, I think. And my relationships with several friends who don’t live in Vancouver got stronger and deeper and more special this past year. (Spoiler – being vulnerable and supportive when others are feeling vulnerable is friendship glue). And Stephen and I are going strong and better than ever. So that is also very good.

12. Host a breakfast party and serve a variety of breakfast foods eaten around the world. Definitely did not happen but my kitchen is SO close to being “done” so maybe I can knock this one out in 2019 as a celebratory event.

13. Host at least one night of an articles club. Came so close to this and then it didn’t happen. There is still enthusiasm for it among a small number of friends so let’s try again for this in 2019.

14. Play Taboo more than once with a fun group of people. I can’t recall if Taboo got broken out more than once but I did play cards and other board games with folks more than once so SUCCESS. Including a “conversation game” I “invented.”

15. Stop making to-do lists. SUCCESS. I totally stopped! (See last year’s post on why resolutions do not count as to-do lists). On the other hand, my rationale for this goal was that it was robbing me of joy. And all the things I needed to get done each week definitely still weighed on me and robbed me of joy. So turns out, whether you write it down or not, stress can rob you of joy. Working on strategies to not let it is just the business of life I GUESS. So, working on this in 2019.

Without getting too verbose, here’s what’s on deck for 2019. (Starting with the carry-overs from 2018):
1. Read a book together with Stephen and talk about it.
2. Hike a bunch.
3. Keep flossing and wearing lots o’ hats.
4. Explore those hotel bars/lounges and other downtown haunts.
5. Host breakfast party with some round-the-world breakfast dishes.
6. Host articles club.

And the new ones:
7. Save up for and take a trip to Finland to visit my sister’s fam.
8. Keep getting better at not letting stress steal my joy. Helloooo therapy! (Sidenote: Therapy is awesome. I had so many great “AHA!” moments this year thanks to my counsellor that greatly improved my life. If you have means to access a counsellor and are not doing so, then you are, unequivocally, a damn fool).
9. SHINY HAIR. I have a fancy hairdryer and a hair cut SCHEDULE. I have pretty much hated my hair ever since I started growing out a super short hair cut nearly 3 years ago. I just want to love it and I don’t care if that’s silly and frivolous. I am resolved.
10. Possibly a sub-point to not letting stress steal my joy – but a major resolution is to maintain my workout schedule. Lately that has been Wednesdays yoga, Thursdays hot yoga, Sundays spin. Add for 2019 – minimum once a month hike? And also the exercise videos the chiro sent me to strengthen my core and shoulders so maybe I can stop hunching over my computer a la Quasimodo. Exercise-induced endorphins are a feel joy life hack but this has always been an elusive habit because my instinct when I’m stressed is to turtle/work furiously on the thing that is stressing me out until I crash. Perhaps I will employ a stamp on calendar method for this one.
11. VL and I started a monthly Skype book club. Keep that going.
12. Eat less meat. Partway through 2018, Stephen and I resolved to eat vegetarian Monday to Friday but pretty quickly fell off that wagon. Inspired by VL to try again.
13. Keep hosting fun stuff at my house, including a return of the “conversation game” I “invented.”
14. Spend more time with Ce and Yas and KS. They’re great people and I like ’em.
15. Most importantly: get my P.Eng. because if it drags on into another year I should probably just fire myself to save my boss the trouble.

Lord. Wish me luck. Also Happy New Year, everyone.

Quiet Kitsch

I’m at least 90 Bunz trades deep now – I don’t keep track but the app gives some imperfect indication. For the most part, I have maintained my mission to declutter and not merely replace unwanted worldly possessions with future clutter. As much as I enjoy moving towards minimalism, I can say with confidence that I will never be of the empty room but for a single chair aesthetic. Exhibit A and B – some kitsch recently acquired via Bunz.

Exhibit A – a wind-up lobster that scuttles across the floor. It was being given away for free and I moved on it faster than you can say “what on earth do you need that for?”

Exhibit B – a hand-cranked music box that plays a short refrain from “Here Comes the Sun.” I gave up some dried black beans in return.

Further, Exhibit C, which comes not from Bunz but from a cafe behind my old flat in Wageningen. A light-up bunny rabbit. I went to this cafe for coffee and lunch breaks from my thesis a half dozen times before giving into my irrational lust for this tchotchke and then it flew home to Canada with me.

These are just plucked from my immediate surroundings. The lifetime history of my possessions would reveal several more. Why am I drawn to this kitsch? We can look to some similar elements for clues.

Animals – bunny and lobster
Mechanical – wind-up lobster and hand-cranked music box
Miniature – all of the above

This analysis leaves my inquiry unanswered. But I am reminded of some small cherished companions from one childhood summer. They were four animal figurines. I can’t recall the stories of where they were each discovered, though I presume a mix of yard sales and friends’ of parents junk drawers. I can’t even recall what animals they were save for one white and pink tiger figurine. I am reasonably confident they are still in a box somewhere in a closet in my parents’ house. What I do remember are countless contented hours behind the furniture and plants of my grandparents’ home. The animals were on a quest and I would arrange them in tableaus amongst the potted cacti, under the couch, on a stairway, in the woodpile, and atop a rock. I don’t remember what they talked about as they journeyed or where they were journeying to.

Where were my cousins and my sister, who were usually my constant companions of those summers? Why was I playing alone when my days usually consisted of running wild with a foursome of human children?

This quiet memory reinforces a piece of my identity that I retain today. The need for time with myself to contemplate stories alone. The animal figurines were vessels for thoughts I didn’t share with anyone else. I think I’m drawn to select small tchotchkes today for a similar reason. They’re talismans for contemplation.

The importance of their kitsch should not be overlooked. For me, a tasteful grey bud vase does not successfully disarm and elicit unguarded reflection.

Azar Nafisi references a Persian term, “the patient stone” in her book “Reading Lolita in Tehran.” She writes, “Supposedly, a person pours out all his troubles and woes into the stone. It will listen and absorb his pains and secrets, and this way he will be cured” (p.317). She likens a dear friend who listens but never shares his own troubles to a patient stone, though notes that she did not see him this way. Nonetheless she reveals that he spent sleepless nights absorbing others’ troubles and woes. She further writes, “Sometimes the stone can no longer endure its burden and then it bursts.”

I sometimes wonder where to draw the line when pouring my troubles into loved ones who listen and absorb them. I feel that generous vulnerability is a cornerstone of close relationships but I have worried that mine is unevenly distributed. Omnipotent statistics may find that I pour out woes more often than I absorb them. I hate to think that anyone I love might burst because they can no longer endure the burden. Not only that, but recollection suggests that contemplative solitude is a key ingredient (and sometimes more successful) in curing woes than evoking patient stones in loving friends.

An early New Year’s resolution then. To take more time to sit cross-legged on the floor and let go of a wind-up lobster. To pause at my desk and turn the handle on a tiny music box. To lean back in my chair and observe a lit-up bunny on the windowsill.

Salad

Stephen tosses salad greens in dressing before adding the tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumber slices, etc., and finishes with a brief last toss.

Never having witnessed this order of operations before, I stare in confusion.

“What’s the point in being a tomato if you just get treated like a salad?” he asks me, when I express incredulousness.

I stick to my greens-extras-dressing-toss status quo for several months, partly because I am stubborn, but mainly because I like the way Stephen lovingly teases me about making salad wrong when he catches me in the act.

A few salads ago, I tried Stephen’s steps and was pleasantly surprised to find that his is indeed the superior method. For me, the crux of salad making has always been the toss. Even distribution of dressing amongst the greens and comparatively heavy extras consistently eludes me. Both greens and extras cheekily fly to the counter, unless the salad is prepared in a disproportionately large bowl. But working with greens alone makes child’s play of dressing dispersal. And the goal of the post-extras toss becomes merely to work some salad greens to the top again. I’ve whole-heartedly adopted this as my preferred technique and my life is all the better for it.

While preparing salad this evening, I reflected that this anecdote beautifully illustrates the fact that other people can contribute brilliant solutions for completing the task at hand. Even when, and perhaps particularly when, you have been doing that task the same way your whole life.

This lesson is one I wish would dawn on certain project managers who have been editing the same Scope of Work for over two weeks. But perhaps certain project managers just enjoy the way I lovingly tease them by staring at them with a ruthlessly expressionless face before responding to questions about said Scope of Work that were resolved in meetings two weeks ago.

Mounting tension would suggest otherwise, and one senses that a difficult conversation may be in order.

Wish me luck. And try adding salad dressing to just your greens. It really works!

Red Deer

Most likely it’s because of an impromptu conversation at lunch with Andrew who spoke passionately about re-villaging, though never really got into what that means, but did request that I tell him everything I would want in my dream community.

In an impromptu yoga class tonight, it dawned on me with sparkling clarity. Red Deer is the answer. Red Deer can set me free.

I have never set foot in Red Deer outside of Gasoline Alley. But the stack of tabs on my internet window confirm a climbing gym, several yoga studies, one museum/art gallery, a handful of thrift stores, bike lanes downtown, bike trails in green spaces around the city, green bin collection, and a median price for a three bedroom home of just $314,000. That isn’t my dream community list by any means, but it ticks the shallow boxes one can tick with nothing more than a search engine to guide them.

Halfway between Calgary and Edmonton, I wouldn’t have to choose between the Alberta city that contains all the people I imagine I’d like to spend time with and the Alberta city that feels like home.

My baboo and I can sell everything except the things we like best, get a bit of space, and drink lemonade on a porch every evening. Lemonade we squeezed ourselves. We’d have time for that, I imagine, if we lived in Red Deer.

All the people I know (and it’s really all the people I know), who seem better equipped to handle everything (and it really seems to be everything), can just keep on being well-equipped and handling everything and never seeming to feel like anything less than totally deserving and competent. I can go to Red Deer. With or without my baboo. With or without the things I like best. Whether or not there’s a porch, or lemonade.

I will, of course, hate it when I get there. Just like I hate everything new. But the terrible newness will distract me from the terrible sameness of my usual worries. My mother has always advised that a change is as good as a rest. Perhaps she will find it refreshing to hear why I’m miserable in Red Deer.

I am, of course, completely fine and ok. Just restless. And anxious as usual. And I’d rather move to Sweden than Red Deer. The thing is, I really can’t move to Red Deer or Sweden or anywhere else. I like my job. I like my home, most of the time. I know some nice people.

I recycled all my moving boxes.

I live in Vancouver now.

Happy Now

I am so wise.
So grown.
I have everything figured out and I exude happiness and bliss.

Of course, it’s easy to feel this way on days when the sun is shining and the man I love brings out the best in me and my friends like me just the way I am.

But four days ago I loudly rolled my eyes at a woman who passed me in exceptionally loud shoes after gaining on me for two blocks at a pace approximately one eighth of a step faster than mine. I stepped out of her way in an exaggerated fashion that, if it could talk, would have said a la Carrie Bradshaw “Oh you’re SO busy!”

So yeah, there are still up and downs in this paradise of contentment and maturity.

What is encouraging to notice is that after the sidewalk sass, I quietly said to myself, “So it looks like I can’t deal with people this evening” and swiftly went home to (1) feed myself a real dinner, (2) clean up the kitchen promptly like an adult, and (3) put myself to bed hella early with the knowledge that I was going to feel better after a good sleep.

The next morning I listened to a podcast where a woman who makes digital art described her work and how it forged a community. As I poured my coffee and laid out my clothes, I caught a glimpse of the me that followed another path and lives in a cheap room with lots of space in a city where no one would ever describe their hunt for an apartment thusly: there’s not a lot of product out there right now. Product.

This other Andrea painted the floor white with the remnants from another project. 7 desks that don’t look anything like one another are spaced around the room and there’s a different idea in progress on each one.

One is covered entirely in cut-outs of illustrated women from condensed Reader’s Digest books. Another has pieces of vintage kimonos that will variably be framed, made into silk blouses, or used to belt other kimonos.

The third desk has a piece of drift wood with thick macrame thread tied into 5 kinds of knots. On the fourth resides a rescued piece of mustard gold velvet and a sketch for a footstool.

Number five has a stack of different grits of sandpaper and a teak pepper grinder partly disassembled. A laptop is on the sixth desk where she types up all her favourite metaphors as they come to mind.

And on the seventh desk are smooth, lovingly polished pieces of wood cut into the shape of fish scales and half moons and painted white. They are suspended from thin pieces of wire and every so often, the artist studies their shadows and adjusts the angles at which they hang in relation to one another. The mobile is a gift for a most beloved friend.

On the roof of the building is a workshop filled with wood working tools that the artist is slowly learning the names of. The love of her life is often up there, making his own art. Otherwise he’s in a dark room just on the other side of a happy kitchen connecting the dark room to the room with 7 desks.

Every now and again, the artist and I step into the same time and space. We share all the same projects, but she doesn’t own black pleated pants and a stack of blazers that get tried on once a week and taken off again minutes later.

She listens to Frazey Ford or Ludovico Einaudi or Taylor Swift as the mood strikes her. Same as me. Every so often, her partner, who is my partner, brings a cup of tea. Or she wanders to where he is just to find out what he is doing.

And she’s just as happy as I am.

P.s. Most beloved friend – just a quick head’s up that the project on the seventh desk still resides only in my mind, so your wedding gift is still en retard. Maybe it will end up being a mobile for the baby’s crib?

Free of Burden

I asked a friend if she makes new year’s resolutions. She said no – she likes to start each year free of burden. I like that. I would like to shake off some burdens. But I also like making resolutions as a way to reflect on what is important to me, and how that changes over time. Sometimes I don’t physically write them down and sometimes I don’t write them down until February. But earlier this fall, I composed a cocktail-fuelled list of resolutions with my boyfriend, and VL and I have been intermittently discussing our resolutions throughout December. Since they are more or less prepared in my mind at the calendar-appropriate time this year, here are some 2018 resolutions.

1. Read 52 books together with my boyfriend. He is a slightly more voracious reader than I so we agreed on a distribution of 31 to him, 21 to me. Inspired by a friend who writes down everything she reads, I propose we both keep a list.
2. Read the same book as my boyfriend for at least two books so we can have a few evenings of couple’s book club.
3. Make sure several books on the list are set in Cuba, which we have tentatively selected for a travel destination for either Christmas 2018 or February 2019.
4. Save up for a trip to Cuba together.
5. Learn lots about Cuba. I read somewhere awhile back that anticipating and planning a trip in advance actually makes you enjoy it more. I like the idea of integrating that anticipation and planning into activities like the books I read, the media I consume, etc.
6. Snowshoe and hike a bunch.
7. Climb a bunch.
8. Wear hats A BUNCH.
9. Floss at least 200 times. (Don’t lie – you don’t floss every day either). Possibly place a calendar in the bathroom and place a sticker on each day you floss. Inspired by a friend who did this every time she went for a run.
10. Get to know which hotel bars and lounges in Vancouver have the best cocktails, bartenders, wine list, gluten-free desserts, most comfortable seating, cosiest fireplaces, are most conveniently located next to other downtown locations I frequent (art galleries, various movie theatres, all kinds of theatres), etc.
11. Forge deeper relationships with some awesome people I’ve met in the past year.
12. Host a breakfast party and serve a variety of breakfast foods eaten around the world.
13. Host at least one night of an articles club.
14. Play Taboo more than once with a fun group of people.
15. Stop making to-do lists. This may read as ironic because it’s literally at the end of what might be perceived as a to-do list, but let me explain.

I am a to-do list addict. I got into the habit of carrying a small notebook with me everywhere I go, so I usually write the to-do list there instead of on my phone or a scrap piece of paper, etc. Usually when I look back at a completed notebook, it contains several to-do lists, but also random musings while traveling solo, hostel addresses, lists of restaurants I want to try in new cities, lists of people to invite to events that I’m hosting, and miscellaneous sketches. All of those things are in the notebook I just finished, but 95% of it is to-do lists. That’s a dangerous ratio.

In the last half of 2017, I’ve noticed myself defaulting to the to-do list as an unholy dictator of my time and energy. Many weekends go by where I check off a whole list of items with the theory that getting those things done will make me feel calm and organized, and free up my mental energy for other things. But my brain is fuzzy and uncooperative Monday morning. I never feel rested. I blame renting an apartment that needed renovations, but in the process of tackling that endless project, I believe my thinking accidentally got rewired. In any case, the to-do list is robbing me of joy.

When I re-read the original list of resolutions I made with my boyfriend, I did an emotional litmus test with each item. If it felt like a burden, I left it off the “official” list here. That doesn’t mean I won’t still do those things, but I don’t want to call them resolutions. If I feel any resistance to them, including them here would make it too much like a to-do list. In future years, I will probably make resolutions with more brain-expanding, nose-to grindstone, builds-character, and goal-oriented items. Not that some of these are not some of those. But these are the right items for the coming year.

Thus completes a list of 2018 resolutions free from burden. Yes, even the flossing one. I mean, there’s gonna be stickers!!

Small yellow birds

I’m so grateful for friendships because they are some evidence that I’m living right after all, at least some of the time, at least a little bit.
If you still want to be my friend, then I can’t be all bad, right?
If I was as terrible as I sometimes think I am then probably you would stop loving me, writing me back, inviting me to things.
You’re my still-a-good-person canary.

If it turns sour, are the canaries meant to cry out first?
I wouldn’t like to cage anyone.
Better to take flight than die if finding it hard to breathe.
But why not a warning song?

Some canaries have flown away.
Canaries that stopped inviting me to things, or now that I think on it, never really invited me to things in the first place.
Canaries that stopped writing me back though. Those exist.
Canaries that stopped loving me? Hard to say. Who am I to know what lies in the hearts of small yellow birds?

Fears of flown coops have me senselessly searching for early signs of distress.
I really do wish canaries would sing out in warning of toxic environments,
though if I too am a small yellow bird then I admit I’ve sometimes winged away.

Maybe canaries think it is kinder to take wing than risk startling with a cry.
Maybe canaries sang songs that I failed to hear.
Maybe canaries couldn’t get enough air to cry out.
Maybe canaries are flying just out of sight for a time.

Canary literature reveals that it is rare for female canaries to sing.
Most only chirp.

And here ends metaphor because we should resist biological determinism of human gender roles.
And canaries are small yellow birds about which I am ambivalent.
And friends are more than indicators of whether I am a good and worthy person.

I admire and cherish you, dear friend.
I am grateful for the joy you bring to my life.
I am invested in nurturing an ongoing relationship with you.

But I do implore you to sing out or at the very least, chirp at me, if ever our air becomes toxic.

Be conspicuous

Infrequently, I purchase children’s picture books.

After getting rather overwhelmed by a huge selection of vintage postcards, photos and other discarded paper ephemera in a used bookstore in Victoria last weekend, I retreated to the children’s section. I found Veronica.

Veronica is a hippo whose literary birth in 1961 acquainted young readers with a heroine who leaves a muddy riverbank where she is overheard to sigh, “No one notices me here. I don’t even know myself.” She decides to begin walking, and keeps going until she finds a place where she can be different.

When she reaches the city, she immediately feels “gloriously conspicuous.”

When I become excited about something I am reading, I lose the ability to read it at all. The words begin to fly past my eyes until they are blurred together on the page and it’s all I can do to pick out a handful of vocabulary until I hit the end and catch my breath. This phenomena is equally likely to occur with job postings, letters from friends, research articles, poetry, long form text messages…

So now I’m racing through the pages and picking up speed: “wrong way,” “in the way,” “tired,” “you can’t,” “so conspicuous,” “helped herself,” “hide quickly,” “I want to go home,” “happy.”

I appreciated this reminder to seek out environments that will make you feel different, even if it’s hard. Probably especially if it’s hard. And that it’s ok to go home again when you’re ready. My interest was also piqued by the idea that you can’t know yourself until you are situated in a context in which you are unique, different, conspicuous.

There is depth to these concepts worth dwelling on, but I confess my immediate inspiration was to fulfill a secret ambition to follow a proud family tradition of hat-wearing (no one bedecks a noggin like my grandparents, or my parents circa 1999). I had spotted a hat shop en route to the book store, and soon after purchasing Veronica’s story, led my love to its door wherein a black wool fedora was acquired in good order.

I feel gloriously conspicuous in my smart chapeau, especially when paired with a recently acquired red and green vintage Pendleton swing coat. It may sound shallow, and perhaps no one is looking at all, but these comparatively bold outerwear choices are doing more than you know for my weary spirit, which lately has felt too small, too tired, too overwhelmed to dare draw attention to me. Especially en route to and from work each day.

If you’re interested to read about Veronica for yourself, I recommend you look up a copy of the book, titled simply “Veronica.” Roger Duvoisin, the back flap tells me, wrote this book and 40 others, and illustrated it (the pictures are delightful), as well as the covers of several New Yorker magazines, and 100 more stories by other authors. He passed away in 1980.

And should you find yourself in Victoria, I can also recommend Sorensen’s at Fort Street for used books (and discarded paper objets of all kinds); and Roberta’s Hats on Government Street.

Something substantial

I missed my September posting goal. Doubling down in October, and as penance, the first one is a stream of consciousness style entry from my journal earlier this month. Here goes.

Write something of substance! You started this particular journal in May 2009, and without creating an Excel spreadsheet, I can say with confidence that more than 90% of the entries are about boys and relationships.

I imagine a love of my life with whom to share my life (and yes, right now I have the right man for the job – but the record shows I’m not good at these predictions so I’ll try harder to one-day-at-a-time now).

That being said, at the end of my life, I feel there should be a hundred things I would better have them say in my eulogy than just “she loved and was loved by this man.” Though please say that too, if such a man proved to exist in the end, and was worthy, and if there’s time. But use the first lines to recount a story about me. Make it specific. Good story-telling is specific before it is broad and widely applicable. And then it returns to specificity.

Tell a story about a time I was stubborn or kind, or better still if you can think of a time I was both. Please let the eulogy be given by someone who knew me well that I respected and loved. But not by a parent or anyone else that would wish I’d outlive them (by which I mean, please let me outlive my parents because I couldn’t bear to cause them that much sadness).

Let the eulogist do a good job of public speaking. Let the crowd (if there is a crowd) be on their side. Maybe it’s a daughter, or VL if she lives longer (She very likely will. Despite her claim that in the event of a fire, she would throw herself on the flames. She was joking).

Nobody lie or embellish to make me sound anything more or less than I am. I prefer stories that are honest.

Use your lapse into generality to give some advice. If you’d like advice from me, just tell everyone to be accountable, leave room for doubt, and be kind. Or something better if I happen to say it between now and then.

Then be specific again. Tell another story about me. Or about me and you together. Try to give everyone something to laugh about.

Nothing religious please. It’s poppycock to me, and often dangerous nonsense.

Have good snacks for everyone. No woody carrots and ranch dip.

Was this of substance?