Below is the short story I wrote from the words of our New Year’s Eve Scrabble game. It’s the first mystery I’ve ever written, and I’ll admit I’m rather pleased with the end result!

Here were the words I had to use:

[Dreary, buds, brink, dug, Mister, we, man, meer, bee, money, scar, apace, foe, gents, teal, or, xi, sass, hood, hi, rug, tow, jet, red, quiz, bail, coal, flog, nude, pi, zone, qi]

New Year's Eve's Scrabble Game

The scene: a dreary April day, just before the darling buds had burst with colour, and the sky hung like a wet blanket above the countryside skirting London.

Our reluctant detective, Ambrose Grey, a rather surly aristocratic man on the brink of middle-age, had just dug his spade into wet soil when his bumbling butler came rushing from the cottage.

“Mister Grey,” he sputtered at his employer’s bent back. “We are needed in London. There’s been a letter; a man from Meer in the Netherlands has, among other things, had his prized bee collection stolen and he’s offering you an extravagant amount of money to have it recovered.”

“Tell him I’ve retired, Simms” Grey muttered, wiping his mud-caked hands on his knees. “Our last case gave me this, and I don’t intend to take on any more cases whilst enjoying my retirement in the country.”

He lifted up his damp pant leg to reveal an ugly scar crisscrossing the flesh of his left ankle.

Although Simms was well acquainted with the procurement of the scar and could recall the events of the case as though it had happened yesterday—running apace with highwaymen on horseback, the nobleman’s beautiful wife held captive, the brilliant scuffle with the foe in which both wit and physical bravado were adequately demonstrated, the infinitesimal turn of the head at the lady’s cry, the wicked glint of the brandished pocketknife—he knew his employer would never turn down a good case, especially if there was a handsome reward for its successful resolution.

“As you wish, sir.”

Simms bowed and left Grey jabbing vicious holes into the soil, all the while knowing the words that would come out of the gentleman’s mouth before they were spoken:

“Get the gents to bring the carriage round the front, Simms. We’ll leave for London in the morning.”

–

Next morning, as Grey’s carriage jostled from bucolic pastures to the dank fog that snaked through London’s narrow streets, the dapper curmudgeon pressed his butler for the details of the case whilst fussily refolding his teal kerchief.

“Johannes Van der Splaat, who is distantly related to William the Orange, has especially requested your services upon hearing of your deftness in handling Lord Winterfield’s case. He’s an eccentric collector of unusual things; his taxidermic bees being just one of the many oddities. It seems as though the bees are the straw that broke the camel’s back, as it were, amongst Van der Splaat’s stolen goods.”

A pause, in which Simms took a moment to adjust his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Do go on,” Grey urged gruffly. “Or shall I provide my own context with which to solve this case?”

Unperturbed, Simms continued.

“It would benefit my good sir to know that it was not in fact Van der Splaat himself who wrote us the letter, but rather; a lady, or so I shall deduce from the feminine hand …”

From the inside of his suit jacket Simms pulled a letter bearing a rather peculiar seal—that of a Ξ.

“It’s Xi, the fourteenth letter of the Greek alphabet,” Simms explained lamely as Grey glowered at him.

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

With no small degree of sass, Grey took the letter and noticed the fine hand in which it was painstakingly written, the swooping penmanship that flourished and twirled on the paper.

In language that favoured an early-Romantic style bordering on melodramatic, the letter’s author outlined the crimes recently committed against Van der Splaat: stolen family jewels, injured henchmen, butlers suddenly fallen ill, missing bee collections and other small items around his household misplaced.

The letter concluded abruptly without a signature. Even stranger, Grey’s sensitive nose prickled with familiarity at a scent that emanated from the paper. His memory reeled back to a time long ago, to a fledgling lawyer, a bookish girl, a promising romance.

The scent of secrets spun over decades.

“Tell me, does Van der Splaat have a wife?” Grey asked, brow furrowed.

Simms twisted his moustachioed lips into a smile.

“As of six months ago. They’ve just returned from their European honeymoon tour. He’s quite advanced in years, Van der Splaat, and from my research, a rather thick-headed and tight-fisted old bachelor with an extensive and prestigious educational background and an exorbitant fortune.”

“Is his new bride a society woman?”

“Her past appears to be grand, yet somewhat tragic. Her parents were aristocrats from an old Russian family with close ties to the czar. They passed away in a train accident when she was a girl and she’s been living in London with a great-aunt ever since.”

Turning up his hood and looking out the window, Grey’s finger absentmindedly traced the seal on the mysterious letter, his mind turning over all things frugal Dutch bachelor and Russian aristocracy.

–

“Hi. Mister Van der Splaat is not in. Perhaps you should call Thursday.”

Her heavily accented voice was low and her eyes remained fixed on the ornate rug beneath her slippered feet as the detective and his sidekick were escorted into the lavish drawing room.

Mrs. Darya Trotsky Van der Splaat, the Dutchman’s young bride, was clearly not acquainted with the social conventions befitting polite English society, a point Grey noted with an eyebrow raised to Simms.

The tow-headed lady was dressed in delicate silks of the deepest red that enhanced bright the flush that had spread on her fair skin.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Grey bowed once he had recovered from Mrs. Van der Splaat’s brusque manner. “Mister Ambrose Grey and Mister Elliot Simms at your service.”

Her head lifted just slightly in acknowledgment.

“We received a letter written on behalf of Mister Van der Splaat regarding some recent … events.”

He held out the letter for the lady to examine and noticed the brief look of recognition that passed over her face with inner triumph. The case was as good as solved and he would be back to puttering aimlessly in his country garden as soon as one could say secret society.

“Mister Van der Splaat is not in,” she repeated. “Perhaps you should call …”

“Thursday, yes, you mentioned that,” Grey interrupted impatiently. “But perhaps you would like to answer some preliminary questions I have that need not be answered by the victim himself but rather, someone on the inside … someone who would know the whereabouts of personal items belonging to the victim and the daily goings-on of a household.”

Simms could barely hide his surprise at his employer’s forthright manner. He could discern the suggestive tone that had crept into Grey’s voice, a tone that usually preluded a solved case. Yet the gentleman hadn’t even met the victim nor interviewed any suspects. This was highly unusual indeed.

“If you are going to quiz me, I’ll simply ask my staff to remove you from my household.”

The lady’s mouth quivered, belying her cold composure.

As if he hadn’t heard her, Grey busied himself by stuffing tobacco into his pipe and taking a stroll around the drawing room.

“You see, I have some questions for you, Darya Trotsky—” The lady bristled at the omission of her married name, “—questions ranging from the obvious, such as: why should a pretty young Russian woman care to marry an eccentric Dutch bachelor for any other reason but his reputed fortune and resources … and the imperceptible, such as: why should said Dutch bachelor’s new wife semi-anonymously post a letter to a famous detective to solve the mystery of a series of seemingly random crimes and then act most unwelcoming at his timely arrival?”

Her mouth opened and closed, then opened and closed again. She gazed imploringly at the stolid figure of Simms, as if by intuiting her confusion he would somehow bail her out, but he remained impassive.

Grey was up to something and did not appear to be bothered in the least when a young maid, clearly schooled in cheap seat theatrics, burst into the drawing room, announcing in an exaggerated Russian accent that all the coal from the household had somehow disappeared over the course of a day.

“Really, Darya Trotsky, you ought to flog your help for such a dreadful performance,” Grey sighed, lifting his pipe to his lips and sucking noisily.

“Ow!” the maid cried as she attempted to escape what would become the scene of unveiling and tripped over a decorative ottoman instead.

“Just as I suspected!”

Grey rushed over to the prone maid and pointed his pipe at her nude ankle, where a jet-black irregular marking could be seen. As Simms joined him, he saw what it was, a π.

Pi,” he whispered, and Grey nodded enthusiastically.

“Your cover is blown!” he proclaimed and approached the indignant lady of the house, whose chin was now lifted as she stared him directly in the eyes.

“To repeat what I said to Simms just this morning … I wasn’t born yesterday, and if you wanted to fabricate an amusing little detective story, you should have contacted my much less competent and completely less attractive contemporary, Sherlock Holmes.”

“He wasn’t available,” the maid offered, and the lady shot her a reproachful look.

“Of course not!” Grey resumed his leisurely pipe smoking and began to pace the length of the room. “Poor chap has probably fallen captive to the opiates once again.”

He paused, shifting his eyes from Simms, the lady, and the maid, aware that he had everyone’s rapt attention.

“But I must commend you for the lengths you’ve gone to infiltrate the Western Europe zone, marrying that crusty old Dutch bachelor like that.”

Now Simms was utterly bewildered and could bear to be kept in the dark no longer.

“Please, sir!” he pleaded, and Grey stopped him with a dismissive wave of the hand and commenced his soliloquy.

“Allow me to illuminate you, dear Simms. You see, a number of years ago, when I was a young and dashing fellow with a promising career in law, there was someone whose company I enjoyed more than yours: a young lady by the name of ‘Alice Grave.’ A serious, bluestocking kind of girl who I dreamed of one day marrying … that is, until my sheer sense of intuition caused me to believe that everything was not as it would seem.

She claimed to be an earl’s daughter from Yorkshire but I was not so easily convinced. If I had been a cheery, trusting fellow I would have married her and living in Yorkshire right now instead of biding my time in London, but alas, I had to follow my suspicious nature and it directed me to a highly peculiar secret society …”

Simms mouth dropped open and he began sputtering, as he was wont to do when Grey so deftly unveiled a mystery. A glance at the two silent ladies confirmed that his employer was speaking the truth.

“A secret society, dear Simms, comprised of remarkable young ladies who’d put the boys at Oxford to shame should they ever be allowed admission. I stalked Alice for months without her knowledge and soon found out what went on when she met other ladies for tea or bridge. An intricate web of London’s finest minds: mathematics enthusiasts, fluent speakers of Greek and Latin, young women who could breezily discuss the Chinese philosophy of Qi with their tea.

From the day I discovered this society to the present, I’ve been tracking their progress, and they’ve gone from merely meeting to taking action: spreading themselves throughout Britain and Europe, making ties with foreign men and committing all sorts of petty crimes on themselves to create diversions, diversions that would enable them to raid their husbands’ libraries, study their subject of choice, and receive the sort of education they were never allowed to obtain, because of their sex.”

At this conclusion the lady “Darya Trotsky” appeared as lifeless as a rag doll.

“Consider it a novice mistake that one of your help mailed me with your secret society’s stationary, I who have known of your ilk for awhile, in an attempt to create more diversions and make inroads in the Netherlands’ educational system.”

With uncharacteristic good humour he bade the ladies adieu, summoning Simms and singing, “One for me and none for Holmes! One for me and none for Holmes”

When the gentleman had gone, the lady turned to her fellow conspirator and wordlessly they went to the bookshelf. Pushing it open, they stepped into a hidden room.

The eyes of twenty young women were on them.

“They know,” the lady said. “Now the real work can begin.”

2012: Year of the Dragon

We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year’s Day   — Edith Lovejoy Pierce

Happy New Year, friends from real life and the blogosphere!

Although we’re already well into the New Year, I’m still excited about the fresh start and anticipating the wonderful things to come. There’s nothing quite like a new year to remind you it’s never too late to reinvent yourself, to try new things, to make new goals.

I’m big into naming the year and then watching how it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: 2011 was named REINVENTION and reflecting back, it definitely was a year of reinvention on levels both physical and spiritual. A long-awaited for surgery reinvented my physical body and was literally transformed, resulting in a brand-new confidence and lack of shame I never had before. I also embarked on a lovely journey overseas, and learned that it’s true … travel changes you.

I read Sarah Ban Breathnach and Marianne Williamson and let their wise words transform how I looked at myself as a woman and someone of value. I got myself into the best shape I’ve ever been in my life (with a little help from the surgery, of course). I read so many books that changed my life. For months I wandered like a ship without a rudder, purposeless and directionless, feeling neither peaceful nor excited about my chosen career path. I had to hole up in the coffee shop and do some intense thinking, praying, and decision-making until I landed on a new choice, a new path, a new adventure. Schooling begins next week and I couldn’t be more excited!

I had to, like Ray Lamontagne sings, “look my demons in the eye, said do your best, destroy me.“

Rest assured there will be more of that this year.

beautiful lioness

It’s funny how this year I haven’t settled on one specific word to name my year; rather, two images that keep appearing that resonate with me, for perhaps similar reasons.

Firstly, the dragon. It is the Year of the Dragon in the Chinese Zodiac, after all. Dragons are a complex mythological image depending on one’s background, but I’ve chosen to adapt them to a personal symbol for the damaging, unhealthy things in life that don’t need to be there (insecurity, negativity, catastrophizing situations) and the act of overcoming them.

This year, let’s slay those dragons, whether we’ve created them ourselves or if they’ve appeared on their own. Let’s be valiant, victorious, let’s rise up from out of the ashes and not let another year go by without conquering our fears and letting go of our baggage. Let’s be strong, shining, and joyful no matter the circumstance.

I’m particularly drawn to this verse:

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord!

I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!

The Sovereign Lord is my strength!

He makes me as surefooted as a deer,

able to tread upon the heights

–Habakkuk 3:17-19

The second image that resonates with me is the lioness, the fierce protector, the powerful female, the queen, the deafening roar of one awake to her calling. Wild, free, purposeful.

I’ll save elaboration for when I’ve fully grasped the meaning of the image, but in the meantime, I’m excited for what this new year will bring: for the adventures, the victories, the tales of bravery and boldness, the ways in which we all may slay our personal dragons and roar in the face of adversity.

It’s going to be one wild ride! Will you adventure with me?

I’ve always been a big fan of music videos but they can make or break a song, especially if you begin to associate the song with the video. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say video killed the radio star? 

Anyway, what the heck is with all these videos featuring disturbing elements of childhood? Is it because childhood gaiety and innocence, when combined with the darker aspects of human existence, are an artistic goldmine (see Alice Through the Looking-Glass, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for milder examples)? Or perhaps it’s because it’s so unexpected, and this is why horror movies with and about children are particularly disturbing, why evil clowns and ice cream truck jingles and broken music boxes send a shiver down one’s spine …

Here are some of the videos I’ve noticed with children being creepy. If you’re particularly sensitive to disturbing images, as I am, then I wouldn’t recommend watching all of these. Just use your own discretion. They’re not that bad, and there are certainly worse, but the warning stands.

• “Helena Beat” by Foster the People

Sick beat. Foster the People’s one of the best indie pop bands to come out this year riding on the coattails of MGMT and all of their songs are infectiously catchy.

So here we have a dude, driving along in his beat-up van along some rural-ish road, minding his own business, and has to stop when he sees an old-fashioned pram in the middle of the road. He’s then ambushed by a ragtag group of very angry children who proceed to kidnap him, trash his van, kick the crap out of him, and then tie him to some sort of torture device that turns him into a menacing child.

Happiness.

• “Phantom Limb” by The Shins

Man, I love this melody! Okay, so this is nice. A bunch of kids putting on some sort of pageant play. Vaguely Pilgrims and Native Americans. An Aryan angel gives a little dark-skinned girl a sword and she becomes a Crusader! Blonde Imperialists trade goods with an Aztec tribe. War ensues. Inevitably. Pilgrims (including some adults) burn the little dark-skinned girl at the stake! The creepy Aryan angel returns, backlit and singing. And they all take a bow. I guess the video is supposed to be depicting a child’s pageant play but I am not really sure how it fits the song …

• “First of the Year (Equinox)” by Skrillex

This one is actually pretty neat. A creepy pedophile follows a cute little girl down a set of stairs, gets his chloroform all ready while the girl is using the phone, and then the little girl turns around … and begins pummeling his creepy butt with her telekinetic/demonic skills. The “victim” exacts revenge on a lurking predator. The last shot shows the girl making a mark on a wall, perhaps representing how many pedophiles she’s killed? Interesting switch.

• “Midnight City” by M83

More kids with telekinetic powers and freakish eyes. This one is less disturbing and more slightly unsettling.

• “Bigger Than Us” by White Lies

I always find it disturbing when they get kids to mouth the voice of a lead singer. Here a little boy lies singing in a hospital bed while a medical team works desperately to resuscitate a chocolate bar called “Bigger Than Us.” Okay. The lead singer (who sounds a lot like Robert Smith) walks his way past the yellow tape and resurrects a … little girl … from the chocolate bar …

The little girl then walks towards herself, on a billboard, the little boy runs after her, and they kiss. Ah, puppy love. If only it didn’t feel so weird.

• “Dark on Fire” by Turin Brakes

Yes, Gossip Girl got me into Turin Brakes, but it’s not my fault they feature killer bands on their show! Anyway, here’s a bunch of kids playing Cowboys and Indians in the forest. The fact that the song is haunting in and of itself only adds a dark element to the depiction of children and the violent games they play. All the children lie dead on the leaves except for the survivor, who is the cutest little thing who just hid behind a log with her stuffed animal.

Hunger Games, anyone?

–

Does anyone else have any thoughts about the creepy child trope in music videos, or disturbing music videos featuring children? Are there any videos I’ve missed?

Allison Baggio’s coming-of-age tale, Girl in Shades, is a fresh and innovative story about a young girl growing up in Saskatoon in the 1980s. Perceptive, sensitive Maya Devine is just an ordinary girl who loves Corey Hart … and can also see auras and read minds. The story spans ten years of Maya’s life in a tough and tender bildungsroman, taking Maya from Saskatoon to Toronto to India as well as back and forth in the events of her fascinating life.

At times, Girl in Shades feels like Miriam Toews’ A Complicated Kindness in that the impressionable protagonist is sharply observant (or some degree of psychic, in Maya’s case) and is shaped by, and ultimately must break from, their dysfunctional families. The novel begins with the death of Maya’s mother Marigold and proceeds to relate the events leading up to and following that moment, from Marigold’s cancer diagnosis, to her refusal to receive treatment and decision to live in a teepee in the backyard and the media circus and disintegration of the family unit that ensues.

Dealing with her mother’s death, her mother’s secrets, and her distant father are heavy subjects but Baggio adds a lighthearted touch in the form of a colourful cast of secondary characters whom Maya observes with humourous candor.

Maya is truly an unforgettable heroine and Girl in Shades a quick and touching read.

What struck me most about the cave song was how closely it resembled the song of my heart. As my fingers sought the cool, damp stone of the cave’s walls and the song ribboned around me, I was gripped with creeping recollection. There had been times when the pain of betrayal, the sting of rejection, or the abrupt brush of dismissal had forced me under blankets or flinging arms wide to the sea, to draw in and out of myself and let salt air or quilted comfort rock me with the steady thrumming of my very own dear soul.

And now this song, a crescendoing lure that began at the roots of my heart and its memories of oneness, brought me down deeper and darker into the cave’s serpentine throat.

My body responded to them before my head could comprehend that I wasn’t alone. Goosebumps prickled my skin and the hair on my arms rose as if blown on by cold air. I knew then, as my hand met flesh instead of stone wall that there were others like me, groping in darkness for something other than our own existence, our minuscule perceptions. As we walked in silence, I wondered if they could hear the same song, if the beating drum mimicked their hearts, if the chords struck and otherworldly undulations mirrored their hidden souls.

Crackling light spilled suddenly covering black with gold and the twisting tunnels broke open to reveal a hive of rooms electric, pulsing, living. There were all manner of people and creatures glimmering like stars, winged, glowing, dipped in fluorescent light. Once my eyes adjusted to this new brilliance, I explored room after room, feet advancing as if possessed. These people, this species of cave dwellers, roamed and danced and played instruments individually, but moved as if one to a cacophony of sounds.

golden cave man

I was approached then, by a man so beautiful I nearly doubled over with the sudden sharp acknowledgment of loneliness. His eyes burnt with fire and promise and his bare, burnished torso gleamed like the future. Before all logic and consideration we were interlocked, dancing to private unheard symphonies and there was gold dust in my hair, between my fingers, on my eyelashes and resting on my tongue. It tasted like stolen sweetness and my heart song quickened its tempo into a crashing riot of thunder and lightning.

Those eyes, his hands knotted with mine, held me for eternities. In those arms I imagined a warrior and myself a hero’s beauty, my body’s pleasure and relief of handing the sword to someone who would fight for me. He swept me into inner rooms and hidden chambers and showed me secret things and I could see it so clearly: life’s companion threshing wheat and overgrown weeds, making me beautiful and bold and wonderfully, exquisitely held. Held when blankets wore too thin and held when teetering too close to the cliff’s edge. Songs sung in harmony.

Eve’s kingdom for Adam’s kiss.

Lower and lower into the cave’s depths, my hand in his. So deep was I, so drunk on this feeling I rode like a wave, that I didn’t realize until seconds later that he was gone with as little logic and consideration as he had approached me.

His absence left me hollowed and hasty to leave the cave; in that moment of sharp desperation I saw there was no escape. I trudged like a wounded animal seeking my golden man. Flashes and glimpses danced on the walls, and I flung myself at them, only to crash headlong into stone and choke on gold dust lodged in my throat. It was then I heard the sliver of a new song, thin as violin strings and delicate as moth’s wing from the bowels of this new wretchedness. But I was like a lost child, a kitten, easily diverted by baubles and tricks of light.

I followed the shadow dancers and joined the mass of people and creatures like me transfixed by the cave’s seductive song. It was a party like none I had ever seen, a celebration of ourselves and our enjoyment of each other. All around me, those with severed limbs and giant gaping holes like mine flirted, fanned flames, posed in beguiling shapes. I saw then that it was a feast and we were feasting on each other’s souls. And the hole inside me gaped open, vulnerable, grotesque, and demanded instant filling. The cave people found solace in other arms, found ecstasy and delight in mutual mastication.

I saw how easily it was to replace one golden man for another, how with each dance and touch of hand the connection was more shallow, each split less severe. Bees to flowers, all of us were bees and flowers both, the honey and the beast.

All the while we caroused in perfect entrancement, a new song spun itself around me softly, approaching and retreating like a rolling tide. It was just sweet and pure enough, small teaspoons of honey, to give me pause. For brief moments I’d see myself as if from afar and perceive that we were a hurting lot with holes too big and ugly to fill. But the cave song was louder, it was catchy and quick and we were all singing it raucously. And the cave people, the golden men, were easier to see and touch than intangible threads of solitary songs.

How intoxicated I was then, high on the fraternity of cave people, blinded by light so fantastic, by a sense of belonging so exquisite I could scarcely recall what it was like as a lone heroine in a world beyond the cave. How powerful, how cozy, the labyrinthine walls of the cave! How simple it was to join in the song that everyone sings, to pretend I was nothing before singeing moments, incendiary connections with other cave dwellers.

oh to be an illuminated one

The new song told me other things, whispered to me secrets whilst I reeled from one golden man to another. It persisted. I hid and it found me. In a particularly dark moment of gasping recklessness it blasted my eardrums until I could hear nothing else, and the cave dwellers moved as if through water. My eyes were opened and I saw:

The glittering cave world for what it was. Emptiness inhabited by empty people. Chains shackling even the most graceful dancers. A place of shadows and illusions and artificial light. A deep and dark sadness masked in grand robes of idle celebration.

And I fought it, as the dancers coaxed and pleaded for me to return, as hands clasped mine and my heart responded, as I remembered how cold, how gut-punching and lonely it could be outside the cave. But the new song now sung my name like an urgent mantra and my eyes could not help but see the fear and falsity driving every gesture and embrace. I saw a tiny pinprick of light, dimmer but more honest than the cave’s bulbs and flares and my soul leapt before I did and I followed it, the hollow cave song growing less and less enticing.

…

I emerged from the cave and morning broke, tumbling over me like rain, like rebirth.

… And if the light you think you have is actually darkness, how deep that darkness is! –Matthew 6: 23b

So come out of your cave walking on your hands

And see the world hanging upside down

You can understand dependence

When you know the maker’s hand.

So make your siren’s call

And sing all you want

I will not hear what you have to say.

Because I need freedom now

And I need to know how

To live my life as it’s meant to be

…

And I’ll find strength in pain

And I will change my ways

I’ll know my name as it’s called again.

– “The Cave” by Mumford & Sons

photo courtesy of www.weheartit.com

There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them. Whenever I’m sad I’m going to die, or so nervous I can’t sleep, or in love with somebody I won’t be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say, “I’m going to take a hot bath.”

I meditate in the bath. The water needs to be very hot, so hot you can barely stand putting your foot in it. Then you lower yourself, inch by inch, till the water’s up to your neck.

[...]

I never feel so much myself as when I’m in a hot bath.

I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near on to an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don’t believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.

[...]

The longer I lay there in the clear hot water the purer I felt, and when I stepped out at last and wrapped myself in one of the big, soft, white, hotel bath towels I felt pure and sweet as a new baby.

–from The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

I’m rereading The Bell Jar for Book Club and once again, Sylvia Plath’s poetic brilliance floors me. I sincerely wish she had stuck around to write more novels as darkly enchanting as this one. It really is a shame that so many creative geniuses have to cut their lives short (Plath was 31 when she killed herself), when they could have been so prolific; it’s a shame that brilliance and mental illness have to be so inexorably linked.

When you think about how many talented artists, musicians, authors, poets, and actors who have killed themselves or died at a young age, the list is staggering. What would the artistic world look like if Van Gogh had painted well into old age, if Virginia Woolf hadn’t walked into the River Ouse, if Kurt Cobain had the career longevity of Mick Jagger (not to compare apples to oranges, but you get the point)? Would they have eventually faded into irrelevance and obscurity, or would they continue to produce work that is original and fresh?

In any event, whether these tortured souls would have been prolific into their old age or if they had become recluses, perhaps it is as Don McLean sings, that this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you …  

Sylvia Plath -- poet, tortured soul

Gracias = grace. Grace–to thank; to show favour; God’s favour or help; pardon, divine grace, mercy, elegance, virtue; enjoying favour; to show gratitude.

We say grace before meals to thank God for the blessing of food and the community of others gathered around the dinner table. On Thanksgiving (which is this weekend in Canada), we pause and reflect on all of the ways in which we have been blessed. We feast, we break bread, we gift loved ones with our time and share a meal or two. We feast on the extravagant beauty of nature set on fire by autumn’s Midas touch, we commune with nature and ourselves and the God who blessed our eyes with changing seasons, our faces with sunshine, and our bodies with fresh air.

The view from my Niagara Escarpment. I am incredibly blessed to live in such a beautiful area

This Thanksgiving, we here in Southern Ontario are enjoying an autumn weekend that feels like summer, only the leaves are painted in a riot of colour–a beauty which nearly escapes language or depiction. As I’m sitting here on the back porch with my laptop, enjoying my third cup of tea of the day and listening to the wind delicately rustle the leaves on the trees, I’m thinking about all the things for which I have to be thankful, the things that demand my saying grace.

I’m thankful for the BIG:

For my parents and my highly functional, solid upbringing and happy childhood. For the morals instilled in me at a young age, Biblical principles, and leftist political tendencies. For the country drives and airport pickups, Kinder Surprises, and Starbucks runs. I would not be who I am today if it wasn’t for my incredible parents.

For my three siblings without whom life would be a lot less funny and a lot less bearable. For the similar, kooky sense of humour and the fact that we can communicate with mere looks. For the phone calls from Alberta, sharing of music, and automatic support system. I’ve always loved that there are four of us and am happy we’ve all grown up to remain good friends.

For my wonderful sister-in-law who couldn’t be a better fit to our weird and wonderful family and my adorable nephew, who has made my life so much more expansive and laughter-filled in the two years he’s been on earth.

For my cousins, who are few and far between but absolutely amazing–all of them. For cousin D. who is more like a friend who just so happens to be related to me and the way we’ve gotten even closer in the past few years.

For my dog that likes to sleep on my bed by my feet whenever I’m working on my laptop.

For my friend L. and her daughter (my niece), and for all of the fun and wisdom she’s shared with me all of these years–my sister from another mister.

For my friend B., the soothing haven that is her home (wherever it happens to be), and for the tea and sympathy that has been a balm to my soul.

For my friend M. with whom every slight occurrence is, was, or will be an inside joke and the esoteric language we speak that only we can understand.

For my coworkers–the guys who are like big brothers to me and the girls with whom I always laugh my butt off, and the customers who have turned into friends.

For my small church community that is more of a second family than it is an institution.

For the means and the opportunity to travel this summer to the UK, for R. and L. who were the perfect travel companions, and for all of the adventures we had on that trip of a lifetime.

For blog friends from across the continent who seem to be going through the same things I am and the encouragement and inspiration we give each other.

I'm thankful for cuddles with my furry boyfriend!

And I’m thankful for the seemingly LITTLE:

For that first sip of the first cup of tea of the day.

For my financial course.

For good books bought for $2.00 each at Value Village.

For incredible songs by The Cave Singers, Isbells, Foy Vance, Golden Kanine, The Shins, Rae Morris, Lucy Rose, etc. that I currently have been playing on rotation.

For the ability to walk up the escarpment several times a week.

For my book club.

For poetry written at 4:45 a.m.

For smiles from strangers.

For my new laptop.

For hugs.

For graffiti written in the fitting room at Winners: Above all else, remember you are beautiful.

–

Whether you are celebrating Thanksgiving this weekend or in November, what are some of the things (big or little) for which you are thankful?

stay awhile ...

It seems as though I need to revisit some of the important lessons I learned on my summer trip. I’ve become increasingly aware of the frantic pace of our lives here in Southern Ontario and it agrees with me less than it ever has before. Everyone’s always hurrying somewhere and multitasking and stressed out and cramming so many activities into their day that they wonder why they always feel agitated and confused and snappish and bleary-eyed and kinda sorta dead …

I thrive in serenity; chaos makes me a zombie.

I’ve heard others say that when flying or driving into Ontario from other provinces, you can feel the stress and tension and  sense of go-go-go in the atmosphere. Whether or not you are spiritually sensitive or in tune with emotional climates, you can’t help but admit that we’re a stressed out bunch and it’s robbing us of our happiness, our liveliness, our peace, and ourselves.

We work, and we work, and we work, and we become mindless drones … For what? For more money? If money is the price we pay for our health, our sanity, and our wholeness, then clearly we must be doing something wrong.

I could slow down for a little while ...

I resent being part of a (capitalist) society that values my productivity and profit over my person, that is more interested in company loyalty than my company, that seeks capital over community, that would rather I become an exhausted, overwhelmed, eye-twitching, rash-skinned robot for the Almighty Dollar than an enthusiastic, peaceful, thriving, and alive individual with opinions and a pulse.

Something’s gotta give.

Surely we are more than our job descriptions, surely there’s more to our lives than what’s in our wallets and surely we’re valuable beyond how well we perpetuate the system.

We’re human beings, not commodities.

Yet this is not what I see. When I was traveling, I saw a different way of living that appealed to me. Even though these places were by no means third world or impoverished, they were still a lot less affluent than what I’m used to here. Wee villages in Scotland and Northern Ireland, somewhat remote, far from booming metropolises and the excitement of cities … there was something so laid-back and peaceful about those communities that made me feel like I belonged, like my heart was at rest and my soul at ease.

Now I’m back to the “real world,” and I have to tell you, I’ve lost a lot of what I learned there and I’m desperate to get it back. Life is so busy, so frantic with its false urgency and immediacy that I’m wondering if it’s all worth it. If our running around and doing is costing us our humanity.

words to live by

The other day I was outside of my work when an older woman tripped over a bike rack by Shoppers Drug Mart and fell. I went to help her up and make sure she was okay because I thought, you know, it’s a human instinct to help someone. Not so. What struck me is that there were a lot of people going in and out of Shoppers and no one stopped to help her, and if anyone working at Shoppers had seen her fall, no one came outside. When I told someone about this later, they replied, “Well of course not. No one wants to be liable and no one can afford to get sued.”

How sad is it that our jobs and our money mean more to us than someone’s health and wellness? But that is the selfish axis upon which the first world turns …

I’ve been noticing how much I can get sucked into the vacuum of personal prosperity and the self-absorption that can overcome me when preoccupied with my own busyness and bustling. I have less time to sit and enjoy an individual’s presence; when I’m at work I don’t make eye contact and am too focussed on getting things done as fast as possible to be more productive and procure more profit for the company (even though the company for which I work prides itself on genuine human interactions, it is still a massive corporation existing in a capitalist world which is a flaw within the system and not in the company itself); manners fall by the wayside; the smallest things annoy me; hurriedness breeds exhaustion which results in a perma-grumpy zombie.

And so I’ve resolved to slow down:

to make eye contact, to listen, to give someone the time of day, to get there when I get there, to relish small pleasures, to enjoy my food and beverages the way they were meant to be enjoyed instead of wolfing them down, to be a courteous and patient driver, to allow for silences, to study the clouds and the sky in the morning and in the evening, to listen to birdsong, to make time for myself, to say no, to not take on too many commitments just because I should but not because I really want to, to use my manners, to read the whole paper, to use proper grammar, to lessen my distractions, to give my full attention to one thing at a time, to not be overbooked, to take the scenic route, to smell the flowers, to sit quietly in stillness, to trust God’s timing in everything and strive just a little less each day.

And I also commit to frequently come undone:

to abandon all fear and stress and worry and distraction and to lose myself in poetry, in lines of verse that jump out and grab me, in absorbing novels, in cloud formations, in bodies of water, in the sound of wind, in perfectly orchestrated moments … and most of all, in sweet music that embalms the soul.

Last night I listened to Ray Lamontagne, eyes closed on my bed with the lights out and my arms outstretched. It was the most healing thing I could have done on a Friday night after a work week that kicked the crap out of me, and it made me feel a little more connected to myself and things that matter more than money.

let's do this ...

At the crossroads between adolescence and adulthood, education and career … you’ve found yourself lost, marooned, rudderless, shipwrecked, aimlessly wandering and wondering …

But–not all who wander are lost,

and

not all who wonder are lost either.

I recently read a great open letter (via my friend Aly) addressed to older generations frustrated at under-achieving twentysomethings. Stop worrying and lighten up, Penelope Trunk says, because

[...] Personal growth looks a lot like being lost. Lost is okay. Who wouldn’t be with twenty years of schooling and no preparation for adult life? People grow more when they are lost then when they are on a straight path with a clear view of where they are going.

Whew!

Breathe in, breathe out and repeat this with me: We’re going to be okay.

Our diplomas and our degrees were not a waste, our years of cramming knowledge into our brains and then bleeding ourselves dry was not in vain. We may be bagging groceries, slinging lattes, and serving cold beers now, but it doesn’t mean we failed. So long as our passions haven’t been shelved, so long as we’re trying and experimenting and growing and searching and finding meaning and purpose and following our convictions, we’re doing alright.

Better to explore and figure things out now than years down the road when too many people depend on us to be stable, immobile. Better to have laughed in the face of howling winds, flung wildly into unpredictability and the mad dervishes of possibility now while our brains are impressionable, our limbs young and supple, and our worldview expandable …

I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die discover that I had not lived — Henry David Thoreau

and do it with your whole soul

Pursue your passions, because your passion is your purpose.

Without them, you’re an empty shell of a person.

Don’t settle for just okay or good enough or what’s-expected-of-you because then you’ll always resent yourself for settling. You were meant to live for so, so much more … Don’t lose yourself.

So take heart, fellow wanderers. I’m in the same rudderless boat. Let’s continue pursuing our passions, holing up in coffee shops until we figure out what direction we should take, sidestepping the beaten path and mapping our own journey. Let’s find our souls on country roads, suck out all the marrow of life, dance away the demons, paint the sunset, hug tightly, drink deep the precious beauty of the world and do it all with the knowledge that we’ll get there when we get there and everything’s going to be fine.

I have my books and my poetry to protect me; I am shielded in my armor

I am a rock, I am an island.

I’ve built walls,

A fortress deep and mighty,

That none may penetrate.

I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain

[...]

I have my books and my poetry to protect me;

I am shielded in my armor,

Hiding in my room, safe within my womb

I touch no one and no one touches me.

I am a rock, I am an island

–from “I Am A Rock” by Simon and Garfunkel

One year when I was in high school, I taped the words I AM A ROCK, I AM AN ISLAND to the inside of my locker door. Rest assured I was teased for that, but I was making a statement in that turbulent time, both to myself every time I got something from my locker and whomever happened to pass by and see the sign:

I am impenetrable. No one can get to me. I don’t need anyone and as long as I keep these walls up around myself, I’ll be safe and I’ll never get hurt. You can’t get to me!

Over the years I saw the futility of this message. Unless you’re a hermit and living in seclusion, you can’t help but have relationships with other people. And being human, we hurt each other. It just happens. We fail each other and hurt each other and no amount of self-protection is going to stop that.

And yet I would still build and rebuild the walls. I’d let someone in–sometimes even before trust was established–and inevitably get hurt or disappointed in some way or the other because that’s just what happens. Each time I’d look at all the broken pieces of the relationship and make a vow that I’d never let that happen to me again. It’s my fault for letting someone get that close to me, for being vulnerable, for being intimate with someone and letting them see the real me.

Up and up the walls would go. Up went the defences that signalled danger at the slightest sign of rejection, real or imagined; up went the false strength and self-preservation … and I’d wonder why people didn’t know how to approach me or why some brave souls would tell me I was a closed book and hard to get to know …

I was a sensitive little crab that would retreat to the safety of my shell anytime things got tough or personal.

But the truth is that hiding behind your walls for fear of getting hurt can be just as hurtful, if not more so, than putting yourself out there.

No (wo)man is an island.

Better when we're together

Yes, it’s important to tap into the wells of your own being in solitude and find peace in being alone. Trust me, as an introvert (albeit a highly social one), I know this all too well (and have blogged about it often). But like most things in life, it’s all about balance, and something I’ve been learning lately (especially whilst in Ireland) is that we need each other.

We were created for community.

It’s why Adam needed Eve. Why dynamic duos tend to get more done (and have more fun) than soloists. Why even the Lone Ranger needed his Tonto. We are social animals and we need to have community with other human beings if we want to survive.

This is not to say that we shouldn’t be careful and establish healthy boundaries in our relationships. There’s a fine line between cowering behind our walls and being wise about whom you trust and decide to let in. Let God guide you, and be as wise as a serpent and as gentle as a dove. Also realize that your time is valuable and a gift to whomever is truly deserving of it.

I’m learning this and it’s a work in progress. I can’t be friends with everyone and that’s okay. I’m blessed to have many anam cara friendships, a small and intimate church family, and a tight-knit blood family. I’m learning that the premium our culture places on independence and individualism is somewhat flawed.

I’m so blessed to have spent that time
With my family and the friends
I love with my short life I have met
So many people I deeply care for

–from “Red Cave” by Yeasayer

"However rare true love may be, it is less so than true friendship" -- La Rouchefoucauld

To my kindred spirit friends, my family, and those in my community:

I need you. I’m sorry if I have, in the past, pushed you away or let my fears of getting hurt impede our relationship. I’m sorry if I’ve shut you out and withdrawn when things have gotten difficult. I’m telling you now that I need you. I need your friendship as you need mine. I need your stories, your laughter, your tears, your triumphs, your sorrows, and your time. You are so highly valuable and precious to me and have helped shape who I am today and who I am yet becoming.

I love you.