Words dry and riderless

News, news, news....

2010-12-04T16:37:00.004-07:00

Four months since my last post -- where in heck have I gone?

Well, I'm still here, still in Edmonton, wrapping up my LAST semester of classes ever, about to embark on the scary world of external practicum experiences. I'm sitting by the window of my apartment, facing the dusky glow to the west. Today, I started studying for finals. This poor blog, despite my thoughts and intentions, has fallen by the wayside. In this world of Facebook and Twitter, it's no wonder so many blogs have faded and vanished. It's a miracle that some have managed to survive.

It's December, the time to reflect upon yet another year, yet another step toward realizing myself more fully. This past summer, I had my first experiences being a "real" speech-language pathologist by providing one-on-one treatment to several children. I miss them. In what will hopefully be a long and fulfilling career, I'll always remember these first few clients. I'll remember the last day of throwing water balloons out behind the clinic, of trying to escape the mosquitoes, of playing Twister, of making our magic witches' brew that foamed and overflowed all over the place.... In the fall, I worked with clients who were recovering from strokes. Instead of playing hopscotch and fishing, it was a time of encouraging breath support and using letter-boards. It was working with families and being there to listen as they blinked back their tears when describing the difficulties their loved ones had been having post-stroke. It was pulling myself together and not falling apart in front of them, when all I wanted to do was mourn their loss with them. But, as the weeks progressed, the glimmers of the client's former selves - their "true" selves - shone through in spite of their communication and mobility challenges. In those crisp evenings of first frost, we took comfort in the ability to laugh at ourselves. Through our discontent and sorrow, there is hope still. When asked how many grandchildren he had, my client held out five fingers, but said, "Three." Then, catching himself, he said, "Five," while manipulating his fingers to show three. Puzzled, he looked down at his hand, and laughter erupted from deep within his being. His dear wife, who had stopped knowing how to talk with him after his stroke, who knew only to ask him to label objects as one might a two-year-old child -- even she started laughing. And, in that room, in the long-term care facility that would become his home from then on, there was a sense that things would be all right after all. They might find a way to have a sense of family yet.

As for my little family here in Edmonton, there has been a new addition since the end of July. Chelsea joined us from the Humane Society. We were in the middle of a move to our new apartment, and weren't sure that it would be the best time to have a new pet. However, through a string of circumstances, we had found our perfect dog, and although we had much trouble getting her home (that story's for another post!), we persisted and here she is:

Hair

2010-08-12T00:45:00.003-06:00

This afternoon, I had my hair dyed black. It's been a long time since I've had black hair, too long to really remember. When I was little, when my hair was baby-fine and wispy, it was brown. People are often surprised when they see my baby pictures. After all, aren't Asians supposed to have jet-black hair? In Grade 2, the girls who sat behind me made it a game to find all the blonde hair that was scattered throughout my head of dark brown. They would reach forward and pluck the strands out and then show me. In Grade 3, when my class played our version of "twenty questions," where the questioner waited outside and the rest of us picked a student for that person to guess, I was chosen as the "guessee" during one round. When the questioner returned and asked if the person had brown hair, one girl in my class replied, "Yes, reddish brown."

It's funny how something like hair colour could cloud a child's self-perception. I cannot tell you what I learned in school in Grade 3, but I sure remember when someone said my hair was reddish brown. I was embarrassed; even at that young age, I was sorely aware that I was not supposed to have reddish brown hair. I was afraid that people wouldn't believe me if I told them that it was natural, that I didn't have it dyed. Then again, now that I think about it, no one ever did ask me. I guess kids were actually a lot more accepting by nature than I had ever expected because society had not yet ingrained its rules and norms on them.

Then, as I got older, my hair deepened into a more stereotypical shade, and I was glad. Fast forward a few years, to when I was in high school. I went to a school where dreadlocks, eyebrow rings, and hemp clothing were mainstream. We would sit outside and hold hands and meditate in our spare time, I kid you not. I loved going to school there, but I also felt a bizarre sense of inadequacy from being so normal. I started putting red highlights in my hair as one small way of asserting my identity. Since then, I've not had natural black hair. It's been burgundy, light brown, golden brown, and all shades in between.

Two summers ago, while I was waiting for the bus in downtown Vancouver, a young woman came up to me, pointed at my hair, and shook her head. I took off my headphones, and she remarked boldly, "I don't understand why you would dye your hair blonde. Black hair is so beautiful." I smiled, but before I could reply, she went on, "I don't get why all you Asians want to look white." I was shocked into speechlessness. As I later sat on the bus, I wanted to go up to her and say, "You know, you really don't understand. I don't want to be white. I just want to be me, and the me right now happens to have lighter hair. I would never accuse you of wanting to be Asian if you decided to dye your hair black. That's the same as thinking that someone wanted to be a troll if she dyed her hair green." But, I never did say that. Instead, I merely replayed her comments in my mind.

Over the past year or so, I had attempted to darken my hair. I had gone to all the drug-stores by my apartment, bought three different kinds of permanent hair colour, and tried to deepen the hue into something more natural-looking. However, try as I might, my hair would turn light again after two weeks, particularly under the summer sun.

In today's final desperate attempt, I have finally succeeded. Now, as I look at the new me in the mirror, I can't help but think that I have cruelly shoved aside my former self, that golden-brown-haired girl, in favour of someone I don't even know and might not even like. How could something as superficial and trivial as a box of hair dye cast me into such self-doubt? Am I still the little eight-year-old girl who, in her naivete, feared that people would call her vain if they thought she dyed her hair? Didn't that girl know -- how could she not -- that her vanity lived in that fear itself?

Lessons from Karsh

2010-06-19T08:45:00.003-06:00

Where has the time gone? My semester break at the end of April whisked by without fanfare, with just a quiet, relaxed gentleness. Then, it was back to lectures and seminars, research and more research. I also started the first of my practica at the university clinic, with two little boys as my first clients. I've been assessing and treating them twice a week since the beginning of May, and am having a blast. Meanwhile, the paperwork continues to pile up, and I swear to myself that I will not let it bury me. I shall strive, and I shall conquer.

I'm still managing to live a balanced life, which in itself is a minor miracle. I'm only in front of the computer when I have to be, when there are assessment reports to write, important e-mails to send, research data to code. Unfortunately, this blog has fallen victim to my general aversion to the computer lately. Springtime has come and gone, and in the revitalizing rays of summer, it's time to resurrect this blog of mine.

A few weeks ago, I went to the Edmonton Art Gallery for the last day of the Karsh exhibit. Yousuf Karsh was a Canadian photographer who was famous for his portraits, particularly of politicians and celebrities. He captured on film the people that made up the zeitgeist, the world's visionaries, shakers and movers. In the documentary shown at the art gallery, Karsh dispensed his wisdom on how one might pursue the dream of being a photographer. He said that being a photographer is about seeing the world differently, purely. It's about appreciating the fine arts, the most beautiful pieces of music, the quiet, unsung spirit of simple things all around us.

In the past month and a half, I've learned that any passion, any calling, needs that same way of seeing the world. Working with the two little boys at the university clinic, I've come to realize that the heart trumps the brain any day. Yes, it helps to have all the tricks on how to elicit a "k" sound if the child doesn't know how; it helps inifinitely more to greet that child every time you see him with a sincere smile and tell him how glad you are he's there. And, when a child has a meltdown and clings onto his mother's leg, it's okay to just stand and wait. The heart tells you that, even as your brain churns and churns and worries that you won't get through the rest of the planned activities. It's almost always in the unplanned moments where true learning occurs. One day, unexpectedly, the child who substitutes every "k" sound with a "t" says, clear as day, "Can I have a magic key?" when you play a treasure hunt game with him. You were going to direct him to just make that "k" sound without any word attached. But, here it is, a whole sentence, with two "k" sounds no less! Then, the child falls back into calling it a "tey" the rest of the session. But, you have experienced that elation, that "a-ha!" moment, and you've seen his eyes light up. You know it's only a matter of time before "Carl is a cool calico cat" rolls off his tongue with ease. And, the more important thing is, he knows it too. You hope that you get to see it when he does it, that it will happen before the summer is out and your sessions are done. You hope, and yet, as long as you keep saying "I'm so glad to see you" and mean it; as long as you praise him for all of his attempts; as long as you see him for the delightful child that he is, you have captured what really matters. He shall strive, and he shall conquer.

Almost done

2010-04-23T08:53:00.002-06:00

This has been a tough term at school. On top of a full-load of classes (five courses), I had my research project to start, plus being a research assistant and helping out with a few studies. This has been a term when I waffled between caring too much and too little, when I was on top of the world one moment, and melting down into a self-pitying puddle the next.

The school-work itself hasn't been too overwhelming. In fact, the courses have been more practical than last term's. However, just being here, sitting in the same classroom day after day, has felt like a menial office job where nothing changes. I tried to envision the end, when my classmates and I would be released from academia to take on our lives' passion, but on most days, I had trouble seeing it in my mind's eye. On most days, I found myself beaten down by the time the afternoon rolled around, and struggled to stay interested in my classes. Luckily, the professors I had this term had mostly been brilliant, humourous, lovely people, but that just somehow made me feel worse, as though my fatigue proved my unworthiness.

I'm once again in the computer lab at the university, as per my final exam studying ritual. I need the few hours before my exams to compose myself. Just being here prepares my mind, even if I sit here browsing the internet instead of cramming more information into my little brain. This afternoon, I will write my last final this term. I have a take-home paper to whip up this weekend, and then I'll be done. I'll have almost two weeks of relaxation until starting up again in May.

I plan on updating this blog regularly over these couple of weeks. I have much to write about that is unrelated to school.

Arctic sun and northern lights

2010-03-05T14:36:00.006-07:00

Lately, I've been missing the north. It's like a phantom pain that throbs every so often. Edmonton is welcoming an early spring this year, and a friend and I took to the trails and had a nice walk today after classes, revelling in the golden rays and the horses along one section of the trail.

And yet, I keep dreaming of the North. Last night, I dreamt that I had returned to Inuvik. My friends from up there and I were seated at a huge wooden table, sipping coffee and enjoying each other's company and humorous stories. I could see the colourful rowhouses of Inuvik outside the window. Smoke was billowing out of the chimneys of the houses and into the deep blue arctic night sky. "Oooh, the northern lights!" I had exclaimed, but was quickly corrected to the fact that it was just smoke I had seen. I felt the urge to leap outside, to run along the snow-packed streets and alleys until I was out of breath, until my heart pounded so hard as though it would burst out of my chest. Then, I woke up....

Here's a Tropicana commercial that had just been released during the Olympics. It was filmed up in Inuvik two months ago. The light that they had used was manufactured in France, and had cost $100 a minute in electricity to operate. The whole production had cost about $1 million. I'm not sure I believe in the magic of an artificial sun; however, the magic of the arctic winter nights definitely comes through in the commercial. I miss the igloo church, the school, the fur-trimmed parkas, the "sunbursts" that surround children's faces.

Yesterday, I had gone to see one of my professors about my midterm exam, but had sat in her office and talked to her about the North instead. As I was relating my experiences, I must have said "I loved it" about ten times. Something deep inside of me tells me that I'll return one day, perhaps not for a five-year stint again, but that I'll definitely walk through those familiar streets again. In the meantime, I remember the magic, and I shall continue to dream.

Goldfish crackers

2010-01-30T00:57:00.004-07:00

I ran into a classmate at the bus-stop this morning on my way to school. We live only half a block from each other, yet in the time since school started in September, we had never caught the same bus in the mornings. We have been taking all of the same classes together since the fall, have some of the same substance that pulses through our bodies that makes us aspire to be speech pathologists. We've both returned to school after years of working at another job, after years of fumbling around, trying to figure out how best to spend the time we have in this world.

Today, I ran into her at the bus stop. I almost didn't catch that bus, but the stop-lights at the crosswalk cooperated and I sprinted across the street just in time to make it. I was meant to make it today. I was meant to be there, to ask my classmate -- my friend -- how her night had gone. I was meant to sit beside her while she told me that her friend had died the day before. I was meant to just be there and listen as she related how her friend had had a clean bill of health just six months ago, how he was just fifty years old, how he left behind three children, the youngest of which was still in high school.

She was meant to infuse in me the sense that life is so fragile, so beautiful yet unpredictable. She was meant to remind me that as we forge on ahead in our bustle and grind, that moments -- trivial though they are -- still count. She was meant to force me to step back from the big picture and see the little things. Really see them and breathe them in and live them.

We rode to school mostly in silence, walked down the hall in silence, and tried to engage ourselves in the day's lecture. Sometimes, after the initial "I'm so sorry," and other words have failed, the gesture of handing over a bag of goldfish crackers during break might be exactly what is needed. We munched, and savoured, and was all right in that moment. And that made the next moment more bearable, and the subsequent one more enjoyable, and the one after that even beautiful perhaps. If fleetingness is the only sure thing there is, at least there is gentleness and beauty, even in shared sorrow.

Dazzled and frazzled

2010-01-19T21:59:00.005-07:00

A new school term has begun. I just started my research assistantship in earnest today, and will be starting the ethics review process for my own research project next week. Both of my studies are supervised by the most brilliant, caring professor. I've discovered that it's not uncommon for professors at the graduate level to have it all: passion, brilliance, infinite wisdom and knowledge, matched with motherly nurturing instincts regardless of the gender of the professor.

I love the lab that I'm working in. I love the gleaming floor, the shelves of stuffed animals, the cupboards full of audio and video tapes and CD's -- important data from various studies -- and the bank of computers. I'll be researching the effects of a particular voice treatment program on the voice quality and speech intelligibility of children with Down's Syndrome and cerebral palsy. It's all way beyond my current scope of expertise, but I'm loving the potential impact of the research. I can't wait to dive deeper into it.

In the midst of all this, this building of new dreams and the welcome productivity, I'm frazzled. I don't feel lost any more, but am overwhelmed by a new type of worry. I just put in a scholarship application yesterday, but was informed that due to university cut-backs, my certainty of receiving funding was no longer a sure thing. I had never counted on receiving scholarships when I initially applied for grad school, but now that I'm living without a job and with all the expenses of being in school and being in a new city, the security I had felt in the savings I had accrued as a teacher has now crumbled.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm here for the right reasons. Then, when I'm reading my textbooks or working in the research lab, and my mind's eye can see me working with children with speech or language issues, my heart skips a beat. If that feeling is not the indication of the right reasons, then I don't know what is. But, I'm scared. I'm terrified that I'll never know enough, that school will wear me down, that jumping through these hoops will make me jaded.

In times like these, I cast my books aside and decide to just live. Over the weekend, I went down to the Ice on Whyte Festival, an annual ice-sculpture competition. The artists were frantically putting the finishing touches on their creations, getting ready for next morning's judging. If they could put their hearts and souls into something so transitory, so ephemeral as ice, I can surely plug away at my studies and research. Because, ultimately, it all matters -- all of it, the dreaming, the imagining, the chipping away, the stepping back, the re-evaluating, the worrying, the creating.... All of it, whether it's for the few days when an ice-sculpture stands glistening under the winter skies before the sun melts it away, or for the graduate degree and the potential decades of a satisfying career, it starts with the dreaming. And if the worrying is part of the process, I guess I'll just have to live with it.

The eve of something good

2009-12-24T12:18:00.004-07:00

December 24th, the day before Christmas Day. I'm settled into a comfy couch in a warm house in the suburbs of Edmonton. The sky outside is radiant, and the ground is glistening with snow. It's the perfect holiday card setting. The cat is sitting on the headrest of the sofa, surveying the blue and white world outside with intensity. Her head follows the occasional car that passes by and manoeuvres the turn in front of the house.

My last school grades were reported yesterday. This past term had treated me well, and I'm pleased with my grades, particularly when they put me in good position to receive more funding next year. Balance that with the potential of a 60% tuition increase next fall, and I might come out even.

My boyfriend and I are house-sitting for his niece this holiday season. It's a strange glimpse into what Christmas might be like if I were to have a house, if I were to spend the holiday with the person I love most.

You know the saying: "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it is yours. If it doesn't, it never was." After a few of years of wandering the world feeling more than a little lost, I had re-united with an ex-boyfriend. I'd like to think that somehow, after letting each other go two Christmases ago, we were fated to find each other again. We had met up in the Arctic, and had gone our separate ways after. He was drawn to Edmonton because of his family ties. It's where he grew up, his old stompin' ground, his little piece in this vast world. I was drawn here because of different reasons, but not entirely. I came because I didn't have my own little piece in this vast world, because I needed something new, a change in direction. What I discovered was that I could belong here, in this cold cold city, in a possible new career, in a new circle of friends, in this suburban house this Christmas Eve.

Happy Holidays to my friends near and far! May you find what you want and need, or may it find you....

Let the holidays begin!

2009-12-17T09:08:00.008-07:00

The setting: A deserted university computer lab. Four days after the last class of the term. One day before the first final.

The city had its first real dump of snow. Cars all over the city wouldn't start; those that did inched their way along on unplowed streets. The temperature dropped drastically one night, to an astounding -46 degrees Celsius. It was a record-breaking sort of day.

I was there, from eight in the morning till after five in the evening. My nose was buried in articles, ones I should have read since my midterms two months ago, but somehow had never gotten around to. Life had happened, and schoolwork had taken a backseat.

One or two other lonely and desperate souls wandered in and out, ghosts lacking in holiday cheer. But none was as desperate as I, the one who lingered steadily on, pausing only occasionally to look out the windows and marvel that the world outside hadn't vanished completely.

Fast forward to a week and a half later, and I'm done! For better or for worse, my finals are all over. All five exams, the children of my newly-gathered knowledge, have been sent off to fend for themselves, imperfect though they might be. After the soul-crushing first, the rest just seemed to have whisked by all too soon.

Happy Holidays! May cookie-baking, joyful carolling, merry-making begin now!

When drinking water becomes a bad idea...

2009-11-09T18:23:00.004-07:00

In my years since starting this blog, I had never gone one calendar month without posting something new. That is, until now....

October just flew by at tornado speed. By the time I had stopped spinning, it was November already and my first term at school was halfway over. Midterms came and midterms went, and with each mark that I received back, I was surprised -- pleasantly or otherwise. My self-concept has diminished, and I'm sure my IQ has dropped twenty points since beginning grad school.

Today, I decided to bring a water bottle to school. It would be nice to stay hydrated throughout the day, since Mondays are unbearably long, with almost eight hours of classes non-stop.

I walked into my first class with a lilt in my step, seeing that my friends had already arrived. I plunked my bag down, opened it up, and fished out my folder of class-notes.

Things didn't feel right. As I laid the folder on my lap, I noticed that my jeans were getting rather wet. I placed a tentative hand into my shoulder bag, and to my dismay, discovered what I already knew by that point: I had accidentally left the cap of my water bottle open, and almost all of the 600mL of liquid had ended up out of the bottle, forming a pool for my notes, pens, and crackers.

First reaction: I laughed. It was good to have a sense of humour about things since there was nothing I could do about it any more.

The first uh-oh: I realized the book I had borrowed from my audiology professor was in there.

Then came the scramble. I quickly snatched all I could out of my bag. My friend to the left ran to grab me paper towels from the bathroom, and my friend to the right proceeded to lay out some of my papers on the front table to air-dry.

As I surveyed the damage, I thought how lucky I was that I had printed everything on a laser printer instead of inkjet. I would have curly crunchy pages after everything dried, but at least I would still be able to make out the text. And it was luckier still that I had left my laptop at home today instead of bringing it to class in my shoulder-bag.

I just spent thirty minutes blow-drying my papers. Now comes the part where I go to buy my professor a gigantic box of chocolates in anticipation of the profuse apologies I will have to give when I return his book.

Week five as a grad student

2009-09-28T16:56:00.002-06:00

It's officially Week Five. Here are the various tidbits of wisdom gathered from these past few weeks:

1. It is okay to have a life outside of school. That feeling of guilt while you acknowledge there are classmates who study for six hours each night does eventually melt away.

2. Readings are important, but seem to work best when you use them to confirm what you've learned in lectures, or to look up information you aren't sure of. Trying to do the required 150 pages per night is impossible, so you might just as well resign yourself to never ever accomplishing that feat.

3. Dissecting a sheep brain is very much aided by a stuffy nose. You'd never think a cold could work to your advantage, but there you have it.

4. Speaking of sheep brains: They're incredibly small -- just barely larger than a golf ball. You might marvel that it's so much smaller than a human brain, until you actually see a human brain. Then, you realize the human brain is also smaller than you had imagined.

5. Having a labcoat during a dissection lab is a good idea. I learned it the hard way.

6. A studio apartment is not conducive to any type of schoolwork. Sitting in Starbucks with a chai latte does help.

7. Getting up early enough to pack yourself a decent lunch really is too much of a hassle. Doing it the night before always seems like such a great idea, until you find yourself barely able to crawl into bed.

8. Tell your family you're studying when they call, even if you're not. All that time you confess to spending at the mall or watching movies will worry them more than the image of you burning out from the exhaustion of scholarly pursuits.

9. Bubble baths are wonderful; everything else can wait.

10. You wake up every morning feeling like a bit of an imposter. You go to your lectures, talk about thesis ideas, traipse through the medical sciences labs and university hospital donning your labcoat.... It's the most fantastic feeling in the world.

Out with the mopey

2009-09-04T23:22:00.004-06:00

I've been in Edmonton for approximately three weeks now. My apartment has come to feel like home, and I'm starting to get into the routine of school, which began on Tuesday. In these first weeks, I've had two out-of-town visitors, and had run around setting up my apartment and getting ready for school. I had mostly kept myself out of the doldrums that I sometimes fall into -- that is, until today.

This is a long weekend, and used to be one of my favourite weekends of the year. I'm hoping it will be one of my favourites again, but it's a challenge. This weekend marks the second anniversary of the loss of a friend under some tragic circumstances. I can't help but think of my friend today, and remember the last time I saw him, just a few days before his death. It seems like a lifetime ago, or feels as though my memories are merely figments of my imagination.

I still remember his voice. I think about all the people who have passed from my life, and thinking about their voices somehow reassures me. If I close my eyes, I can hear them echo, and know with a strange certainty that I would still recognize them if I were to hear them now. I have an irrational fear that one day, I will forget what they sounded like. With that act of forgetting, it would complete their transformation into characters out of a dream, rather than flesh and blood people who had once touched me and influenced me.

This is also my birthday weekend. I have never cared for birthdays much, and wouldn't care if no one celebrated it with me, but being alone in a new city has made me feel a bit sorry for myself. A good friend from Inuvik had sent me a wonderful shoulder-bag made in Fort McPherson, and I've used it these few days. I feel less lost when I can glance down and see the little polar bear patch marking it as made in the Canadian Arctic. Perhaps being reminded of where I have come from assuages the fear of not knowing where I'm going.

I have three days to organize myself and get into the mode of reading my course materials. Graduate studies are about as gruelling as I had imagined, and although I know I should be able to handle all the stress, I need to banish self-despair and embrace confidence and inner peace.

I have a list of thirteen things to do for my classes. I plan to break them up with walks around the neighbourhood, a trip to the mall to window-shop, and cooking up some new dishes. Tonight, I made buckwheat noodles with a peanut and spinach sauce. It was delicious and satisfying.

A birthday meal alone in a new city might not be so bad after all, if it could be organic, healthy, and delicious to boot. Solitude has its own poetic quality....

* I'll save my thoughts about my grad school program for another post.

Heart-attack in a pie shell

2009-08-25T20:08:00.007-06:00

Who am I kidding -- I am NOT a cook. I like to tell the oh-so-true story of having a dinner party in Inuvik, calling up my friend K, and having her respond, "Oh, do we have to bring the dinner? You don't cook!" But now, I'm going to be a student in less than a week, and one of my resolutions is to cook more, pack my lunches, and eat out much less.

This has never been a blog where one might go for recipes. However, this is something that I made today and have made on several occasions for various people, and it's always a hit. And that's enough for me to boast about publicly in the blogosphere.

I love eggs. I love cheese. Hence, this is my "no fail" quiche recipe:

Mix together with a fork/spoon/knife in a large mixing bowl: 3-4 eggs, half a block of cream cheese, some spinach (half a block of frozen, one can, or some freshly chopped -- whatever you've got), four handfuls of grated cheese (any kind -- I like a mix of romano, mozza, and parmesan), some minced garlic, half a cup of milk, a bit of salt, and pepper. (If you're a meat-eater, sprinkle in a handful of bacon bits!)

Pour the mixture into a 9-inch deep-dish frozen pie shell. Sprinkle the top with some more cheese if you so desire to ensure a thorough clog of the arteries.

Put it into the oven and bake at 375 F for 40-45 mins. Voila!

By the way, can't you tell that I'm not the most precise cook? I never measure anything. My measuring cup has been rendered an implement for scooping clean kitty-litter....

I just ate a quarter of that quiche all by myself, and am about to go raid the fridge for some more. But, I used light cream cheese, skim milk, and only three eggs. That makes it all right then, doesn't it?

The first six days, in brief

2009-08-22T15:47:00.007-06:00

The view from my apartment

Day 1, Monday: Hopped on a plane from Vancouver to Edmonton. My worries about my cat making a run for it at the airport while I took her out of her carrier to go through security proved completely unfounded. Instead, Duncan flatly refused to be taken out of her carrier, so sure was she that I was going to fling her to sudden death. I held up the security line for minutes, trying to wrangle the poor creature out. By the time I had her shivering in my arms, with her back claws digging into me, I felt as though I was the most incompetent pet owner ever. The rest of the trip was quite uneventful. Picked up my rental car (a Dodge Calibre), and had my move-in inspection. Greyhound delivered the boxes I had sent two days earlier, and I went to my auntie’s house for supper. (She’s my mother’s best friend from high school.) Came home, and spent the rest of the evening debating inside my head whether my walls were indeed light pink. (They aren’t, but during certain times of the day, when the sun reflects off the red brick building across the way, my walls have a pinkish sheen.)

Day 2, Tuesday: Woke up with a sore back from sleeping in just my sleeping bag on the bare wood floor. Called Sears delivery services to attempt to confirm that the sofa and bed that I had ordered a week ago were indeed going to be delivered to my apartment that morning. No siree, things were not going to go that smoothly.... I was informed that my order had been cancelled for some strange reason. Another call to Sears customer service and fifteen minutes of not-so-gentle explanation and argument later, I figured my furniture was not coming, might never be coming. Oh, the customer service guy said on the other end, you should have called in your order instead of using the online order form. Well, then, why was online ordering even an option if they weren’t going to follow through with the order?! With that, I resolved never to order or buy anything from Sears ever again. (Yesterday, I read an article in The Globe and Mail commenting on Sears’s unexpected losses the second quarter of this year. Could it have something to do with poor communication with customers and even poorer service? Hmm, something to ponder....) Called up my friend R who had arrived in town the night before, on his way back to Inuvik to start the school year. Went to IKEA and bought all the furniture that I needed, hauling half of it in the Calibre and arranging to have the rest delivered the next day. R was his usual helpful, cheerful self, lugging everything for me, while I was my usual cranky, impatient, and humourless self. Went to West Edmonton Mall and bought some kitchen supplies. Slept better that night, with my new mattress on the floor.

The disarray at the end of Day 2

Day 3, Wednesday: Puttered around the apartment all morning. R came over with groceries for my fridge in the afternoon, and we walked around the neighbourhood, popping into the stores to pick up a few last supplies, including my favourite cheese, a requisite for my fridge. IKEA came through with my furniture delivery (yay!), and R helped me assemble my bed (yay again!). Third night’s sleep was even better, with a proper bed, mattress, and bedding.

Sweet Dreams

Day 4, Thursday: Went to West Edmonton Mall in the morning with R, then back to IKEA in the afternoon to buy a desk. Went home and, after many whines and complaints (from me, while R brandished the tools good-humouredly), managed to put together the rest of the furniture. R took me out for the most scrumptious meal, and then we saw District 9 in the downtown theatre.

Day 5, Friday: Drove R to the airport to catch his plane up to Inuvik. Returned the Calibre, and took the shuttle to a hotel about ten blocks from my apartment. Walked home, following a guy in a car who was stopping at every street corner to empty the change out of the Edmonton Sun newspaper box. After the meeting up with him on the third street corner in a row, we chit-chatted, after he joked that I was his stalker. Attempted to make an omelette à la Julia Child. Walked downtown, picked up knick-knacks from the dollar store, and came home. Cleaned the apartment and relaxed into the evening, thoroughly bored during my first night after the apartment was fully-furnished and cleaned. Tried to take a walk by the river, but hesitated taking the set of creaky wooden steps I found that might or might not have led down to the trails. Strolled along the street overlooking the valley instead.

Day 6, Saturday: Three loads of laundry. Went to the drugstore two blocks from my house to buy more cleaning supplies. Tried hard to get my cat to sit in her new cat-bed instead of my new white couch. No such luck. Trying even harder to steal someone’s unsecured internet signal. If this post gets published today, August 22nd, then it would prove my success, and the day would not be a complete waste.

She stayed like this for a brief minute, at least.

Ha, take that, Sears!

Having faith

2009-08-15T23:03:00.009-06:00

Two boys lie in fetal positions on the concrete. The sun is fierce, forcing one of the boys to find shade between a garbage can and a wall. Both have toques on, perhaps because arctic summers can still be cold, or because it's their way of shutting the world out.

The Globe and Mail ran an article about the reactions that cropped up upon the release of a photo of two young boys sleeping outside the local grocery store in Iqaluit. "Outrage" seems to be the universal reaction. Some northerners are outraged that their communities have been depicted in such a negative light, outraged that the photo and the ensuing controversy highlight already ubiquitous and harmful stereotypes. Others are outraged that the government hasn't and isn't doing enough to address the social problems in the North.

The question seems to be whether such bleak depictions merely perpetuate historical prejudices and stereotypes of aboriginal peoples and communities, particularly northern ones, or whether these serve as wake up calls for everyone to take notice and do something. What that something is, no one seems to know.

Cathleen With, a dear writer friend of mine who taught up in Inuvik with me, has written a novel in which the narrator is a troubled northern youth. It is a story of one young girl's struggles, of her challenges and hopes, of her journey to find a self that she can accept and love. That her story is set in the north is not merely extraneous. Readers may ask why someone would choose to write about the north from such a bleak perspective; however, as a teacher who had taught for five years in Inuvik, I must say that even though not all of my students were troubled youth, I had encountered enough heartbreak in my interactions with my students, and theirs were the stories that kept me up at night, that tore me apart, that made me feel helpless. While I shed tears and tossed and turned in vain, Cathleen did something about it: She was compelled to write a fictional account of one girl's shattered life. In no way is young Trista representative of all northern youth, but it is someone's story, someone's truth. And, sadly, there are more someones than there ever should be in the North. (And yes, I realize that there are troubled urban youth living in southern cities as well, and that everything just seems magnified in the North because of its close-knit communities; however, to say that does nothing to assuage the problems.)

So, is the story sad? Definitely so. But is it "too sad to read"? Decidedly not. If reading the book makes you cry, then great. If it draws you into a world of harsh juxtaposition, where the beauty of land and culture clashes with despair and helplessness, then you've learned a bit of what it feels like to live in the north, to be confronted by such a mesh of emotions. Having Faith is a journey, and perhaps it's a start of that something. Faith is about believing in something that cannot be proven. The resilience of youth, of culture, and of traditions is absolutely worth having faith about.

* Visit Cathleen's website, read a review of her book, or buy Having Faith in the Polar Girls' Prison. Cathleen is donating part of the proceeds to the Inuvik Youth Centre.

Conversations

2009-08-12T23:27:00.004-06:00

Conversation 1, heard as I was riding the train to see a friend:

Boy: Ask me!

Mother: Ask you what?

Boy: Ask me! Ask me how old are me?

Mother: How old are you?

Boy: Five, but.... six soon!

Mother: Six soon? When?

Boy: December 2nd. You know what's December 2nd?

Mother: It's your --

Boy: B-day!

* He literally said "b-day"!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Conversation 2, at the hairdresser's:

Me: Hi!

T: Hi! I remember you! You came during Christmas last time!

Me: Actually, it was February....

T: And it looks like you haven't done anything to your hair since.

Me: Well....

T: Your hair doesn't grow much, does it?!

Me: Well... I guess not....

T: Oh, and your mother came two or three times, but she hasn't been here in a while.

Me: Oh really?!

* My mother had failed to tell me that she had come to this hairdresser after liking what he did to my hair in February. I am mortified that I share a hairdresser with my mother, and I don't know why.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Conversation 3, in my head:

V1: Why is it dark at night?

V2: Because the sun gets tired and goes to sleep.

V1: But why is it dark at night?

V2: Because the Earth rotates on its axis, and the sun, our source of light, dips below the horizon and sets.

V1: But what about other stars? Isn't the sun just a star? So why is it dark at night?

V2: Yes, but the other stars are very far away.

V1: But if the universe is infinite, and there are an infinite number of stars in our universe, then every inch of the night sky has the potential to be as bright as the sun's light as these infinite number of stars overlap each other. Then why is it so dark?

V2: Because the universe is expanding, and the stars are getting farther and farther apart, moving away from us all this time. In effect, every night sky that you witness is darker than the previous night's, and every subsequent night sky is darker still. The universe is literally exploding, in front of us, and around us, and there's nothing we can do about it.

V1: Oh. How oddly and fascinatingly comforting.

* Inspired by a late-night radio show I heard about a week ago and that has been on my mind since.

Träumerei

2009-08-08T00:25:00.006-06:00

Träumerei is the seventh of thirteen pieces in Robert Schumann's piano collection Kinderszenen ("Scenes from Childhood"). I had once performed the whole collection. I was already an "advanced" player, but somehow, these short and supposedly easy pieces eluded me. I could hit all the notes precisely, but failed at conveying the gentleness of Schumann's scenes. Träumerei is perhaps the best-known, and was the most difficult for me on account of a non-musical technicality. Träumerei means "dreaming," but the linguist in me kept staring at the title of the piece and seeing it associated with "trauma."

Today, I dug out my violin and found the piece transcribed for the string instrument. I shoved aside the linguist in me and harkened the dreamer. To me, Schumann's collection is like Renoir's paintings, and I tried to draw my bow across the strings as Renoir would have swept his brush across the canvas, with lively flourish wrapped around a core of calm reflection.

In the end, I must admit that my violinist's fingers and arms have not grown up enough to play the piece satisfactorily. Music requires maturity of the heart as well as of the requisite muscles. I dare to think that my heart has grown enough; however, my muscles required for violin still need some time and experience, some gruelling and battering.

Tomorrow, I will try my hand at the piano. Perhaps my piano fingers can channel enough experience and wisdom to paint a picture of gentle innocence.

* Please visit the Wikipedia entry for Kinderszenen and listen to the thirteen different scenes played beautifully by Donald Betts.

What do you do?

2009-08-04T17:54:00.004-06:00

Why is it that one of the first questions that pops up upon meeting a new acquaintance is "What do you do?" Yes, a person's occupation is undoubtedly an important part of his/her life; however, since when does it tell you what that person is really all about?

What do you do?

The expected response: I was a teacher; I am soon-to-be a student; I hope to be a speech pathologist.

The real response: I read fiction voraciously, and dabble in poetry. I play and occasionally write music. I love my friends and family, but regret that I don't tell them enough. I like to watch people and the world. I worry a lot, but hopefully dream even more. I cry easily, but also laugh at unexpected things. I love to eat, but rarely cook. I dance when no one is watching. I am afraid of the dark, except when camping out under the stars. I blog and journal, and was flattered when a stranger once commented that s/he had read every single post on my blog. I am learning to need external validation less, and to cherish myself more. I struggle with many insecurities, but am an optimist despite everything. I do what I do partly because I have to, but mostly because I want to. And I'll always question everything: It's not just something I do, but something I am.

Last teacherly act

2009-08-04T01:29:00.003-06:00

I've officially moved out of the teaching profession (for now anyway). A couple of days ago, I performed my last teacherly act by logging on to check my Grade 12 students' Social Studies exam scores. In Alberta, all students need to pass Social Studies in order to graduate, and their final marks hinge on a standardized provincial exam worth 50% of their course grade. I've always been against such standardized tests; they seem counter-intuitive to me, and teach students mostly to regurgitate rather than analyze, particularly when it comes to Social Studies. But, I do understand the need for standardized tests as a way of "objectively" gauging students' skill levels, especially for post-secondary entrance. Still, that provincial exam is brutal in its heftiness, and can make or break a student's chance of graduating or going on to pursue studies at college or university.

I was pleased to see that all but one of my students had passed. The one student who didn't pass had gone into the exam with a rather low grade to begin with, and the provincial exam was mostly a practice-test for her. She'll have to return to school in the fall to upgrade. Part of me wishes I could have done more for her; she's actually quite a bright young woman, and the semester had started well for her. In the last month before the end, however, I saw her giving up. Her personal life had spiralled and overwhelmed her, and school had fallen by the wayside. Still, any failure on a student's part haunts the teacher, no matter how seasoned and otherwise successful the teacher is.

It is bittersweet to think that in the fall, I will not be embarking on another school year at the front of the classroom. It's a strange feeling not to set up my classroom, not to look up curriculum documents, not to prepare to meet students old and new.

My first-day jitters will be from behind a student's desk this time....

Amidst the throng

2009-08-02T21:09:00.006-06:00

Summertime in Vancouver means fireworks. Several hundred thousand people swarmed to the beaches to take in the Celebration of Lights, an annual international pyrotechnic competition. That's several hundred thousand each night of the competition. Estimates were that over the four nights of the event, approximately 1.4 million people went to root for the pyrotechnic teams from Canada, the UK, South Africa, and China this year.

My father is of the ilk that says a fireworks competition is a waste of money, akin to burning paper bills. I, however, am a believer in the transitory magic, the beauty that passes in the blink of an eye. Through the years, I have become more familiar with the jargon used to describe the various kinds of rockets and bombs. I've been told that red and green fireworks are common, but that blue displays are rare.

Part of me has lost that naive wonderment. I wait and watch for the blue stars and fountains. When I see them spin and whirl, I tell myself that I'm witnessing a "girandole." I have to work to suppress that part of my brain that analyzes the colour schemes and arrangements in order to just ooooh and aaaah whole-heartedly.

But, when the shells and rockets and mines and roman candles all explode together in their grand symphonic finale, my brain effectively shuts off and my heart takes over. I gaze up over the tops of heads, not wanting to blink for fear of missing something. The small child in me surfaces, straining to catch the fairy pyrotechnic dust that falls from above. And when it's over, a trace of that small child remains, pulsates, walks along the sidewalk with a lilt in her step, amidst the throng of several thousand people on a warm summer night.

The music, the rain, and the fly with the prettiest eyes

2009-07-29T16:44:00.012-06:00

I spent this last weekend with a couple of good friends (from Inuvik!). We were at the Islands Folk Festival in Duncan, BC, and took in three days of folksy, bluesy, funky, eclectic music.

On Saturday, the day started off scorching and blue, but in the late afternoon, the clouds loomed in. While the optimistic audience sat unmoving in their lawn-chairs and blankets, the skies opened up and the steady drip-dripping grew more intense. Then, the raindrops eased as dusk fell, and our faces were lit in a surreal orange glow.

We turned our eyes and camera lenses skyward, marvelling at the rainbow that seemed to have sprouted from the treetops. And we swayed along with the masses to the beat from the main stage, the rain and the dusk and the rainbow turning us all into innocent little children once more.

As darkness covered us, the lights on the stage grew brighter, casting their own technicolor rainbow upon the performers. The sky above echoed once again, in lightning flashes against the deepening burgundy. As the audience stood and cheered and waved their arms high into the air, the torrents began. And the rain turned the dancing and the waving into electricity, into a youthful, ceaseless energy. Not only did the storm not dampen spirits, it left a magical sheen on everyone's skin. Toe-tapping became more frantic; cheers grew louder; the gyrating, buzzing bodies radiated an un-self-conscious abandonment.

On Sunday, blue skies and sunshine returned, along with the heatwave. My friend and I took cover as the last performer graced the main stage. We sat along a long wooden table in the shade, and allowed refreshingly cool beer to trickle down our throats. A fly carefully alighted on my friend's arm. With a cocked head and an intensity normally reserved for the hours after more drinks than we had had, my friend stared at the speck on her upper arm. "This fly has the prettiest eyes," she remarked. I stared at the blue-green iridescent insect eyes for only a second before the creature took off. I laughed as I realized how funny and how true it was.

This past weekend was the blue of the sky, the orange of the dusk, the wispy swirl of a rainbow, the greens and yellows and pinks of spotlights, the burgundy of the night sky, the white-gold flashes of lightning, and the silvery blue-green of one itinerant fly's eyes. It was that, and the beat of the drums, the strum of guitars, the babble of sun-kissed children, the rising of voices in song and in cheer. And in praise of a collective experience. In praise of feeling something, of our pulses beating in time, of our bodies moving in sync and out of sync, but moving, moving, our hearts growing stronger and our souls freer.

Yoga, attempt #358

2009-07-24T00:09:00.003-06:00

I blame the weather. Since my arrival back in Vancouver over two weeks ago, it had been nothing but sunny and brilliant until today. Actually, everybody I met today commented on how nice and welcoming the clouds were, how the cooler weather was more comfortable. Well, I disagree.

I was in a bit of a slump today. I tried getting rid of some of my books and DVD's, to simplify my life via minimizing my possessions. That was a complete failure. I had merely shifted items from one box to another, trying to categorize them into "things I definitely won't miss," "things I could probably toss but might later regret," and "things I can't live without." At the end, I decided that even the "things I definitely won't miss" held some sentimental value, and simply boxed them all up and left them in the basement yet again, till further notice. Or until my parents move and decide to unceremoniously dump my boxes, which might happen sooner than I'd like to think.

In the midst of my attempt to cull my possessions, I came across a couple of yoga books I had bought a few years ago and somehow never managed to read or follow. I took an introductory hatha yoga course about eight or nine years ago, and had always looked forward to my weekly class. However, in the last few years, every attempt to do yoga has met with excuses, better-things-to-do, sheer laziness, and general wilful forgetfulness.

This evening, I practised my ujjayi breathing, and indeed felt washed over by stillness and awareness. I have a yoga mat in storage at my friend's place in Edmonton, and intend to make good use of it when I head back that way. Perhaps this latest attempt at yoga will be exactly what I need to feel centered again.

Culling

2009-07-21T14:51:00.006-06:00

I'm slowly culling through the boxes in the basement, boxes that I had shipped back from Inuvik a year ago. Instead of having them take up precious storage space at my parents', I've decided to dig through everything, and slate the items either for shipment to Edmonton, or else for donation.

So far, I've created more of a mess than anything else. I've kept less than half of the clothing items. Next come the books; that'll be the tough part. I hate parting with any books, but I know that aside from my few favourites, most of the others really should have been gone long ago.

The one good thing about rummaging around in the basement is the reprieve from the midday heat. Not a drop of rain has fallen since my arrival back in Vancouver, and the forecast predicts at least five more days of the same sunny, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky weather.

The evenings are the only times I feel comfortable venturing outside. Last night, we took a nice stroll in Queen Elizabeth Park, and I took numerous photos of the blossoms and the panoramic views of the city and the mountains.

And it's back to the basement I go....

Beach days

2009-07-17T17:04:00.005-06:00

The temperature has soared to 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit). The general masses gather on the beaches around the city, hoping to catch a breeze off the ocean. Joggers take to the trails in their shades, tanks, and shorts, impervious to the heat. Parents chase after their toddlers, who instinctively make a mad dash toward the waves. The sand surface is abuzz with chatter, the rise and lull of human voices -- excited voices, in-love voices, the end-of-another-workday voices....

An amateur musician performs a rap for all passersby. Some stop to listen; others move on squintingly toward the evening sun far in the horizon. Couples swing-dance to an imaginary tune, barefoot on the grass, spinning each other self-absorbedly. The world of sand and water -- of youth playing volleyball, and of the lone man gently propelling himself on a surfboard on the soft-lapping waves -- spins by, till the sun sets and night falls and the crowd disperses. And all that remains are the lights of the high-rises reflecting off the water, and the north shore mountains looming like silent giants guarding our slumber.

From Tao Lin

2009-07-15T17:24:00.003-06:00

From "i will learn how to love a person and then i will teach you and then we will know":

... the effect of small children
is that they use declarative sentences and then look at your face
with an expression that says, 'you will never do enough
for the people you love'; i can feel the universe expanding
and it feels like no one is trying hard enough

It's true: Young children look up to those they love and trust with such an innocent sense of entitlement. They have the belief that if you love them, you would do everything possible to make them happy. They have such faith even before knowing what faith is. And it's not that they're spoiled; it's just a purity they possess, coupled with infinite adoration.

I'm in the process of backing up files and photos from a soon-to-be defunct website; it contains many photos of my travels, and it's always the ones of the children that I find the most beautiful.

Ode to summer

2009-07-13T17:30:00.004-06:00

Oh, the lazy days of summer are finally here! Time for sand scorching, toe-dipping, twirling, whirling, laid-back lounging days.... Squinting, sunshiney, watermelon seed-spitting days.... Evening strolling, magazine-flipping, lemonade-sipping days.... Piano-tinkering, cat-napping, shadow-catching days....

Chasing, stretching, grasping

2009-07-08T17:45:00.002-06:00

I’m sitting in the airport waiting lounge, with an hour to go before my flight back to Vancouver. I’ll be coming back to Edmonton in August to move into my apartment, get settled, and prepare for school in September. M’s flight took off toward the east coast about an hour ago. Who knows when I’ll see my dear friend again?

As I move from place to place, taking on new adventures in various towns and cities, the overwhelming feeling I have is that I cannot gather all those things and people that are important to me and keep them close. It’s as though I’m collecting flowers by the roadside, and with a gust of wind, the petals disperse, and run as I might, I’ll never gather that armful again. I’m left chasing after something that will never be whole again.

Edmonton will grow into a home of sorts in a few months, and I’ll go about my days scuttling back and forth, to and from classes, spending my evenings and weekends with new friends. And then, in two years’ time, when I graduate from the program and set out to find work once more, I’ll be in the same position of whirling around in the winds of change, feeling lost and helpless.

What does it take to not feel this sense of loss?

I do feel blessed to have had the past five months in Fox Creek, with M there to vent to, to travel with, to bounce ideas off of. I was in the privileged position of having a good friend pick me up at the airport, drive me to that new small town, show me the school and the town. M had forged her way there first, and my adjustment to my new surroundings was made infinitely easier because she was there. I now have more experience under my belt, more varied subjects and students that I’ve taught, more challenges overcome, frustrations conquered.

I received news from Inuvik that a young boy had drowned in the east channel of the Mackenzie River over the weekend. It happens without fail every year or so, a bright future extinguished because of a moment of poor judgment. Although I had never taught him, he was one of the lively characters in town, and he and his mischievous grin were impossible to miss when I sauntered out on the main road. I remember how he was following me around one day after school with his incessant questions. He was a child who, despite his apparent peskiness, would have grown up to be someone wise, a person whom others could trust. There was a kindness and a goodness that shone through, something that maturity would have brought out clear and bright had he been allowed to stay on this earth and flourish.

Part of my heart is still in the North; other parts of me call Vancouver, Edmonton, and even Fox Creek home. I’m stretched over a vast landscape, grasping at wisps in the wind.

In limbo

2009-07-03T15:16:00.003-06:00

I've begun my summer vacation! So, has it been days of relaxation, tanning, and shopping? Not exactly....

We've moved out of Fox Creek without a glitch. Cleaned the apartment, had the dream out-inspection (where the apartment was deemed to be pristine and spotless), and drove down to Edmonton. We've been here three full days now, and we're stuck in a rut.

I've looked at an apartment, and put a deposit on it. It should be available any day now, and I'm just waiting for the phone to ring to tell me that it's ready. Of course, I'm the only one in a hurry. The property manager is probably taking her sweet time calling my previous landlords and doing the credit check.

I'm torn: I could either fly home now and come back to move into the apartment later, possibly in August, or I could stay put and wait. There are also other factors involved: M has been here to help me view apartments and shop around for furniture, but she may hit the road soon because these days in hotels cannot possibly stretch on forever. She needs a place to go, which we would have if I could move into my apartment now.

These are some of our bags, hauled all the way from Fox Creek to Edmonton. We have nowhere to haul them to now....

Oh, and my new apartment has light pink walls, which I really do not like. They were going to repaint it another hue, but I said I'd take the suite as-is because it would mean an earlier move-in date. I wonder if I should have just taken the August move-in date and gotten the new paint colour....

Ring, phone, ring!!!!!!!!!!

Who's going to assemble my furniture?

2009-06-28T00:27:00.003-06:00

It's my last weekend in Fox Creek. The two suitcases I came with are now getting close to full as I'm packing away my stuff, and the cleaning begins tomorrow. On Tuesday, right after work, the property manager will be coming in to do the out-inspection, and then we'll be driving to Edmonton.

There are a few photos of the town that I'd like to post, but that'll have to wait. The memory card I have the pictures on has been packed away already, and I'm not about to fish anything out of my suitcase. The rule right now is, "In good, out bad."

So far, I've booked an appointment to view an apartment on July 1st. I'll book more once I'm in Edmonton. Although I'm guaranteed a spot in residence on campus, I'd really like to steer clear of student-housing if I can help it. The unit I've applied for in residence is less than 300 square-feet, and it does not accept cats. Although my parents have definitely grown fond of my dear Duncan these months (my current apartment here does not take pets either), five months of abandonment is enough to drive me into feeling immense pet-owner guilt. Plus, it doesn't help to get a call telling me that Duncan has managed to dye one of her legs purple while in my parents' care in Vancouver.... (That's for another post altogether!)

On July 2nd, we'll be going to the opening night of The Lion King in Edmonton. After that, who knows.... I may extend my stay in Edmonton to continue the hunt for an apartment, or I might trek across the Rockies to my parents' house to relax a bit before resuming my frantic search.

I'm also debating whether to ship my furniture from Vancouver to Edmonton once I find a place. I had sold most of my stuff when I moved from Inuvik. The only two things I would love to have in Edmonton are my bed and my digital piano. The thought of buying yet another bed or of not having my piano for two years is painful to me at this moment. However, the thought of paying hundreds of dollars to transport two items might prove even more unbearable.

Regardless, I'll have to buy a couch, a table, a desk, a dresser, and other knick-knacks in order to create a new home. (My Fox Creek apartment is furnished and comes with everything I need other than my suitcases of clothes.) The most gnawing question at present -- Who is going to assemble my new furniture? In Inuvik, I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to put anything together. The instructions on how to assemble the futon were cryptic to me, and I literally attempted for weeks before my friend K came to the rescue. My double-dresser wasn't any easier. M and E pitched in and figured it out for me. My "Inuvik Dad" helped with my table and chair set, as well as the digital piano.

I don't have an "Edmonton family" that would swoop in to help me out of sticky situations. I'll be on my own, with only Duncan and her purple paw....

The final countdown

2009-06-17T23:23:00.003-06:00

The past week and a half has been a bit disquieting. I've been sick with something like the flu -- started with a sore throat that prevented me from getting any sleep, to feeling stuffed up and sneezy, to coughing up a lung. I'm mostly better, and cannot believe that the school year has come to an end. Senior high classes ended yesterday, and I have just one more junior high class to teach tomorrow. Then comes supervising final exams, cleaning up classrooms, doing the year-end inventory, and finishing up the last report cards.

My summer plans have yet to materialize. I'm not trying very hard to come up with something this year. I've decided to let spontaneity lead me to something amazing, something potentially life-changing.

Here are a few things that have happened this past week-and-a-half:

1. I was asked by the principal to sit on a panel of interviewers for a new teacher. The person we had interviewed was hired, and I honestly think that he'll do incredible things next school year here. There is a deep sincerity about him. I have no doubt that he'll be frustrated with the students and with the school at various points, but his heart will guide him through it all. He's someone the kids will like and respect.

2. Last Thursday, in the midst of my worst flu symptoms, I volunteered to serve at a community dinner to benefit the school's breakfast program. The drama club performed after dinner, and that made it all worth it. One of the little girls came to give me a hug after her performance, and beamed when I told her she was just fantastically awesome on stage, and that she looked beautiful.

3. On Friday, a video that I had made of the school's activities throughout the year "premiered" at the school assembly. Unfortunately, I could not make it, as I was supervising my Grade 12 students in their Social Studies final exam. The principal came to me afterward and said that the video had made her cry, that I had captured the spirit that she wanted the school to have. I've since had numerous requests for copies of my video. I'm flattered, and would spend all those nights and hours tinkering away at video- and sound-editing again in a heartbeat. (The principal has also asked if that was why I looked so tired all last week. Hmmm.... I didn't know that I wasn't my usual happy self. I blamed it on my flu.)

4. I received an e-mail from a second-year student in the Speech Pathology program in Edmonton. She advised that I should prepare myself for Anatomy class in the fall. Part of it involves working in a cadaver lab. I think I just about fainted when I read that. I'm the girl who could not dissect a frog in Biology class in high school. I avoided Grade 12 Biology like the plague because I knew that dissecting a fetal pig was part of the curriculum. I'm going to get some chicken thighs and debone them this weekend for practice....

This weekend, I'm going to go around town and take some photos (seriously this time!). Although Fox Creek has been my home for only five short little months, I don't want to forget it.

Theirs is the banner

2009-06-07T01:17:00.004-06:00

"Theirs is the banner in my hand. And I wish I had the power to tell them that the despair of their hearts was not to be final, and their night was not without hope. For the battle they lost can never be lost. For that which they died to save can never perish. Through all the darkness, through all the shame of which men are capable, the spirit of man will remain alive on this earth. It may sleep, but it will awaken. It may wear chains, but it will break through."

~ Ayn Rand

A few days ago marked an important anniversary. I remember watching the news with my parents in the living-room, a young eight-year-old child trying to understand what was going on. I knew something frighteningly shameful was happening. Now, twenty years later, I still fear the idea of going to China to explore my roots. Could I love a country that did such horrific things to its people? But, I realize that it's not the country that did anything; it's government, it's people inflicting such pain on others, on their neighbours, on their visionaries, on their young, on the hopeful, on the dreamers.

A good friend of mine teaches adult literacy to new immigrants, some of whom came from China. One is an older man who was a professor in Beijing twenty years ago. He is a respected member of the class, and he has been telling his classmates the horrors he had witnessed in 1989. His classmates, those who were living in other parts of China at the time, had no clue what had happened. Theirs is an awakening, a call to spread the truth, to remember, to hope, and to act.

Visit the Boston Globe's picture blog for a moving photo-essay that says it all better than I ever can.

In this age of the "great firewall of China," people are finding ways to tunnel through. Where there are walls, people shall find ways to find a crack, to get over, around, or through somehow.

A bridge

2009-05-31T17:19:00.005-06:00

This is a trestled railroad bridge that runs over the highway between Whitecourt and Edmonton. I've come to know it well. We drive under it every time we go down to Edmonton for a weekend getaway / shopping trip.

However, the picture was taken three summers ago, when I was driving from the North toward Saskatchewan during a strange roadtrip, an opportunity to have an extended farewell to a friend who was moving there from Inuvik. Little did I know then that I would become familiar with this stretch of highway just a few years later, and that I would no longer be in the North.

In another month, I'll pass under this bridge once more, toward another phase in my life, toward growing more fully into myself and who I will become.

When you have nothing to do

2009-05-31T00:30:00.003-06:00

What to do if you live in a small town, with nowhere to go over the weekend and nothing much to do:

1. Plan to catch up on some sleep. End up staying up late into the night doing practically nothing.

2. Remind yourself how great it feels to be engrossed in a book.

3. Forge on ahead with the French course you've started a while back. Tell yourself to be persistent enough to make it through this time.

4. Gather up the mountain of recycling that's on the floor in the dining room, a mound that has metastasized into a monster that's threatening to take over the whole apartment.

5. Take the recycling to the bottle depot. Have the cans and bottles be blown around in the wind so you can run to retrieve them and get in your weekly exercise to boot. Remind yourself to never ever take the recycling to the depot on a windy day.

6. Read the flyers. Plan out what to buy on your "Saturday outing."

7. Walk up and down the aisles of the grocery store multiple times, pausing particularly long in the pet food section to examine all the pictures of cats and kittens on the packages.

8. Cook up a mish-mash of found items from the fridge and call it a "stirfry."

9. Figure out how to post larger photos on your blog. Feel accomplished that you manage to do this on your own when your technology IQ is on the low side.

10. Go to the school to play "scoops" and marvel at how this little kids' game could be so difficult.

Makeover

2009-05-29T21:21:00.009-06:00

I've decided it's time this blog got a makeover. I was beginning to be annoyed that the column for blog posts was too narrow for most widescreen computer monitors, so I tinkered with the template a bit this evening. The photos on previous posts now look out of proportion (too small). I think I'll start posting bigger pics from now on.

No special trip for me this weekend, so I will post more Jasper photos from some weeks ago to test this out:

Cherries

2009-05-28T15:19:00.003-06:00

When you've lived in the North, you learn to hoard food and other household products as though there will be an impending disaster. Each trip out, you would bring an empty suitcase, and fill it with assorted snack foods, juice-boxes, boxes of Kleenex, all tucked around precious fresh fruits and veggies. Once that mindset has entered your consciousness, it never fully leaves. Even as you move on in your life, you will still eye the aisles of a large supermarket with a frenzied, crazed look, pulling box after box of sale-priced cereal off the shelves and into your cart. Even when you now live in a town that has road access year-round. Even if you realize that you've thrown out huge amounts of food from the fridge because you somehow never manage to eat everything you buy, not even remotely close.

One day, you see a small package of cherries at your local grocery store for $12. You grab it without even batting an eyelash. You fork out that exorbitant amount of cash for those measly not-yet-ripe fruits, just because something in you compelled you to. There's a small part of you that would not live if you didn't buy those cherries. You get them home, and you tuck them into the crisper in the fridge ever so gingerly. You sleep well that night, knowing that there are cherries in your fridge.

Come morning, you contemplate having those cherries, but in your mad rush to get ready for work, you hold off. There's always tonight, you tell yourself.

Work is done, night falls. You're parked in front of the television, and your mind wanders to those cherries in the fridge. You take them out; you rinse them under the tap. You hold the stem of your first cherry this season between your thumb and index finger, feeling as though you're royalty. You tilt your head back, and with an exaggerated grand gesture, slowly lower the fruit into your mouth. As your lips gather around the small sphere, you pull the stem away. The first tastes settles over you. You think to yourself, Boy am I glad to have these tonight. What would I do without cherries?

Something, a flicker, a glimmer, a speck in the back of your mind taints this experience. They're $12 cherries, it says. Count the pits you've spit out: Twenty-four. That means each cherry is 50 cents. 50 cents per cherry! You muster up your Northern mindset, bat aside that speck of rationality, and take a deep breath. But oh, they're worth it!

Transitory

2009-05-25T20:32:00.001-06:00

One evening last week, M and I drove to Whitecourt for supper. It had been a particularly frustrating day at work, and felt like a Friday even though it was the middle of the week. We perused the fast-food joints lined up along the highway, and shook our heads at the McDonald's, Dairy Queen, Mary Brown's, KFC, and A&W. We scrunched up our noses at Boston Pizza, having frequented it too often, and finally turned into town and took a shot at a brand new Korean-Japanese restaurant. We had miso soup, juicy fried dumplings, fresh sushi, and bibimbab (a Korean rice dish with veggies and egg). Then, as if that wasn't enough, we went for raspberry-truffle blizzards at Dairy Queen before driving back to Fox Creek, with the evening sun streaming in through the front windshield and blinding our full satiated selves.

This past weekend, the plan was to stay home. No Edmonton, no Jasper for us. Our savings had dwindled because of the multitudes of hotel stays we'd racked up since moving here. However, by late morning on Saturday, both of us were going stir-crazy. It was hard to glance out at the open blue sky with nary a cloud in sight and to realize that we had nowhere to go. We ended up driving to Grande Prairie to get an oil-change for the car, to roam around the shopping mall, and to eat Japanese food once more.

There are just three more weeks of classes with the senior high students, and then they will have their final exams. The junior high classes run till the end of June. Regardless, time is running out, charging ahead, speeding up from its lazy saunter through the winter and early spring. I've begun asking myself if I'll miss Fox Creek once I'm gone. I don't think I've gotten to know the town and its quirks yet; I have yet to have a favourite haunt here. I don't know the little trails through the woods. In fact, I could still get lost when I'm on foot, since the streets seem circular in this town. I have yet to sort out the "avenues" from the "streets." Whoever designed the street names here was probably set on confusing visitors and temporary residents such as me. There's "3rd Street," "3rd Avenue," "3A Street," and "3rd Avenue NW." I may be exaggerating, but I am seriously confounded.

One thing that I do notice here, more than anywhere else, is the trills of the birds. There are species that I've never heard before, and I absolutely love trying to distinguish them from each other. In the evenings, when my day's work is done and the balcony door is wide open, the sounds of the feathered creatures meld together into the most fascinating symphony. Some places harken visual memories; for other places, it might be scents. For Fox Creek, perhaps what will stay with me years down the line is the auditory feast.

Old school days

2009-05-21T16:52:00.007-06:00

Something about being a teacher makes me look back on my own school days with ever-increasing fondness. Although I had lived in a large metropolitan city where high schools generally had more than a thousand students, I was lucky enough to be at a school that was small, with only about ninety students total, spread across grades eight to twelve. No one had forced me to attend that school. I had to get up early and take two buses in order to get there, but I knew that was where I wanted to be. I still wonder how I would have turned out had I gone to the high school in my neighbourhood.

My school was a liberal arts school, one that emphasized citizenship, political and social awareness, and personal responsibility. We had five teachers, all of whom went by their first names. I remember loving my teachers, not having any of the jadedness that I see in the eyes of my students nowadays. We devoured our teachers' stories, and felt a part of their lives. Our Social Studies teacher invited the entire school to his wedding when I was in Grade 8. My class went for dim-sum with our Art teacher. Every Tuesday, the entire school would gather in the Drama room for our weekly school meeting, where we would discuss pertinent issues such as school trips, plans for our annual school bazaar, ways to spend the money raised, and donating to our favourite charities.

The activities we participated in would be nothing short of scandalous in this day and in this town. For our English class, we took an end of the year "literature trip" to our teacher's cottage on beautiful Saturna Island. We had to take three ferries to get there, and on the last leg, we were the only passengers on board. For three gorgeous days, we sunbathed on the lawn, traipsed through the woods, climbed the rocks by the beach, scooped up purple starfish, and breathed in all the beauty that surrounded us. In the evenings, we would venture to the meadow where the blind horse was, and we would cling to each other, so dark was the night and so unused to the darkness were our city-eyes. We would walk down by the pier, reciting poetry the entire way, seeing how much of "The Lady Of Shalott" rolled off our tongues with ease.

In Drama class, our favourite game was "murder in the dark." We would fumble around that classroom with the lights off, all of us blindfolded. The teacher would select a "murderer" by tapping that student on the shoulder, and the "murderer" would "kill" his/her victim by a little squeeze on the neck with icy fingers. The victim would then give the most blood-curdling scream and fall to the ground. The game was at its most intense if there were two murderers in our midst. The two would often bump into each other and reach out to touch each other's necks, only to realize with slight annoyance that they were accomplices with the same goal of wiping out the rest of the class. After a few encounters, the two would come to recognize each other's footsteps, and would no longer target each other, but somehow psychically join forces against the others.

One of the older students was an aspiring film-maker, and would recruit the entire school, students and teachers alike, to star in his movies. We even used a teacher's house for the set. Another student created a community haunted house every Hallowe'en, and the school would show up in support.

We watched Disney movies en francais. We borrowed the school guitars from our Science teacher and picked at them in the hallways. We packed picnic lunches and walked the two blocks to the empty lot by the old abandoned house to have our meals.

I miss my high school days, but never as much as now, when I've become a high school teacher. I wonder what kind of memories my students will have of their time here. I hope that they will find those special moments to look upon fondly. There's so much more to school than the things we're supposed to learn in classes. And it's always the seemingly trivial that become so important later upon reflection.

One of those days

2009-05-14T18:06:00.009-06:00

Today was just one of those days, when laziness settled over everyone like a fog, and the hours stretched out. It was one of those days when we all found ourselves glancing at the clock too often, counting the minutes until the school bell would ring to signal the end of the day. About half of the high school was missing, off to Valleyview for a track-meet. The half that remained either stayed in bed, knowing full-well the futility of trying to do schoolwork, or else showed up at school with droopy eyes, with heavy feet that dragged along the empty hallways.

I ended up sitting in my classes and chatting with the few students who had come. In between our disjointed conversations, I managed to read a novel from cover to cover. It had been recommended to me by my Grade 10 English student, a boy who did not like reading much. When I see him next week, after he's back from his track-meet, I'll discuss Tex with him, and tell him what my favourite parts of the book are. And, perhaps, I'll recommend a book for him to read.

I'll leave you with some photos of two weekends ago, of beautiful, glorious Jasper. As we drove down the Icefield Parkway, I could feel a sense of wonderment welling up from inside of me. I'd love to live with those snowy mountains surrounding me, enveloping me with their majestic peaks.

Both Sides Now

2009-05-05T20:33:00.001-06:00

This song says it all -- everything I feel, everything I need to know. My absolute favourite song of all-time:

Homesick

2009-04-28T23:06:00.006-06:00

I've been back from spring break for a week and a half, and already, I'm homesick. This is a strange sensation for me, as I have a hard time defining where "home" is anymore. Am I missing the North, the days that stretch increasingly longer, into the snow-blinding golden world that soon melts and bursts into lushness? Or am I missing the cherry blossoms of Vancouver, the crisp, fragrant, silky air? Mostly, I think I miss the feeling of home, the feeling that emanates from the core, from my heart, stomach, liver, and lungs. I miss the feeling that tells me the air I breathe smells of belonging, that my blood pumps vigorously of a "comfortableness."

Here are some pictures from my spring break in Vancouver. How I yearn to walk along the Fraser River now....

Daddy-O

2009-04-28T17:17:00.005-06:00

My father is graduating in a month and a half. I can't remember there being a time when Dad wasn't taking some course, trying to earn certification in something or other. When I was in high school, I would be typing up my English or History assignments on the computer in the den, while he would work at another computer on the desk beside mine. At that time, he was making his way through the material for certification as a computer technician. It was just "normal" for the two of us to be in the den, each tinkering away at our own assignments. But oh the drama that erupted when I would find that Dad had made some mistake while trying to install something on my computer, and the sixteen-page essay that I had worked so hard on had disappeared. Tears and pouts and hissy-fits did nothing to bring my essay back. And Dad, ever non-chalant, would merely ask, "Why didn't you back up your files?" I would love to say that it was a hard lesson to learn, and that I learned it quickly; however, the same scenario replayed itself at least three times during my last two years of high school.

Sometime after being certified as a computer technician, Dad went back to college again. This time, it was to become a real-estate agent. He toiled away at daytime courses. The evenings, he spent at his regular full-time job. I went to his graduation at the college those years ago, held at a large church. I remember the sun streaming through the glass that day. As Dad's name was called and he walked across the stage to receive his diploma, something akin to parental pride welled up inside of me. Except I was not the parent here; I was the daughter.

A few years ago, Dad decided he wanted a Bachelor's degree in Business. On June 4th, he'll finally be receiving his degree. I'm sad that I won't be there to take in the pomp and circumstance, to fish my dinky digital camera out of my purse and mozy up by the stage to take photos. Part of me wants to buy that plane ticket home, take a few days off work, and be there. But, it's just not realistic. I've looked it up on the collective agreement, and I'm only allowed to take one day's leave to attend a graduation, my own. There's absolutely no stipulation about attending a parent's graduation ceremony.

As I look forward to pursuing my Master's, I must admit that I've never had the same persistence and dedication as Dad, and probably never will. Dad hoards education and soaks in as much as he can possibly get. He never graduated from high school, but entered the workforce at age fifteen to help his single stepmother raise his younger siblings. He was the second oldest boy in the family, the middle child of five, and the two youngest ones were to stay in school and pursue their dreams while the eldest kids willingly sacrificed their own educations. After working as a carpenter's apprentice for a few years, Dad took his high school equivalency and was accepted into university. Although he graduated with a Bachelor's degree in Comparative Literature, I think that a part of him always felt that he had missed out.

Dad worked for the same newspaper company from the time he finished university to his retirement just last year. He started off as a reporter and photographer, and slowly worked his way up, eventually becoming the managing editor. All the while, he would take his courses in the daytime. So, did he ever work as a computer technician after earning his certification? No. Or as a realtor? No. Yet he carried on, getting up early in the morning to go to school, studying for exams, and working full-time in the evening. I bet his professors never understood why he seemed so tired at times, to the point of dozing off for minutes at a time; or why he might have had to leave his exams early even if he hadn't quite finished, in order to make it to work on time.

Growing up as my father's daughter, I had gone through the stages of being "Daddy's girl," idolizing his every move, to seeing him as human, with his ambitions and imperfections, strengths and weaknesses. But, I'll always value what he has shown me through the years -- the importance of learning. As summer sweeps through Fox Creek that early June day a month and a half from now, my thoughts will be in Vancouver, with Dad, as he marches up onto the stage and grins out into the audience, grasping that piece of paper that marks the years of hard work, the achievement of a once-lofty goal, the next piece of his big dream-plan.

And no, that's not the end. Dad is already registering for another set of courses, to work toward being a Certified General Accountant. There's nothing like a father to make a daughter feel lazy -- lazy, but oh-so-proud.

Reading and bawling

2009-04-23T19:25:00.005-06:00

Over spring break, my friend gave me Lawrence Hill's The Book of Negroes. It's been a while since I've read something great, something brilliant. Most of the time, once I've found a great book, I'd inhale it in a couple of sittings. However, with this one, I'm savouring it slowly. It's the only way I can.

I've been reading the novel in thirty-page spurts. And, every time, I've found tears streaming down my face. I can't remember the last book I've read that made me cry so much. Perhaps I'm emotionally-frazzled, a bit stressed from the daily grind. But, this novel is absolutely brilliant. Go and get it now. Just be sure to keep a box of tissues by you as you progress through.

Fox Creek does not have an extensive collection in its municipal library, but I've decided that books are going to get me through the next two months....

Breathing in the spring

2009-04-15T21:02:00.004-06:00

I love Hallmark's Smilebox application, which allows me to create photo slideshows and send them to friends easily. This evening, I went out into the garden to snap some photos of the flowers, and then sauntered to the nearby lake for a leisurely after-supper stroll. The light-pink cherry blossoms are already out; now, if only the darker pink ones will show their stuff....

Spring Break (Part 2)

2009-04-15T16:48:00.012-06:00

I'm testing the e-mail blogging feature of Blogger....

So, I'm smack-dab in the middle of my spring break. In four days, I'll be heading back up to Fox Creek. There are still a few things I need to do in town here, mostly paperwork that I had kept putting off while I was busy working.

Some of you might have noticed that I had finally changed my profile a while back and declared myself an Albertan. It took a good many months before I felt all right about not being a Northerner any more. If only I had an apartment or a house in Edmonton that I know I'd be moving into over the summer, then I'd be set.

As much as I'm beginning to feel okay about acclimatizing to the "south" again, there are still some loose ends to wrap up. I have yet to receive my full reimbursement for my move last summer. The Government of NWT was supposed to reimburse me for all of my moving expenses when I decided to move back to Vancouver after my teaching contract ended. It took almost eight months for me to see less than half of what I was entitled to. Now I have to dig out my claim forms and receipts once again and try to harass someone into hearing me out.

Other paperwork includes confirming with Graduate Studies at the University of Alberta regarding my scholarship, contacting the department about my registration, etc.. According to the online system, my registration date is today, but I was previously told to hold off until I receive further instructions from my department.

Then, there's filling out an application for student housing. It's my back-up plan in case I can't find a suitable apartment for me and my cat.

The daffodils and hyacinths are out en masse in the backyard. I'm still waiting for the cherry blossoms on the boulevard out front. Hopefully, they'll bloom before I leave to go back to Fox Creek.

Posting via e-mail works perfectly, except I had to delete the little ad at the bottom that comes with any Yahoo e-mail.

Spring break ramblings -- Part one (of maybe just one)

2009-04-11T23:32:00.009-06:00

In the last year, I've moved twice, and am now anticipating my third move. Although it is exciting to contemplate new adventures, I'm also sick of this incessant restlessness. The last time somewhere felt like "home" was when I was still in Inuvik. Yesterday, while I was waiting for my flight from Edmonton to Vancouver, I saw a Canadian North plane on the tarmac. In that moment, I wished I could return up north, to "my town."

I'm in Vancouver now, staying at my parents' for spring break. I need this break, these days of movies at the theatre, good books from the library, sushi and desserts with friends and family. I had been in an off mood all week before break. If it weren't for work, I might have stayed in bed for five days straight. Part of it was just being burnt out from the job; part of it was ennui from being in Fox Creek; but mostly, it was from all the time I had to overthink things. Yes, things....

Over the past eight months or so, I had consciously cut ties with two people who had, at some point, mattered very much to me. These were two people who had made my heart ache whenever I was with them, but who made that ache ever stronger when I was without them. These were two people who had forced me to let go of them through their actions, but who had the immense power to hold me captive through our shared history. These were two people whom time and experience had refused to let me forget.

During the most unexpected of moments, these two people would creep into my mind, and I would sink under the weight of the distance we had let build between us. I might be watching TV, or showering, or trying to fall asleep. I would become morose at the irreparable relationships; I would question whether I should have done something; I would come to the conclusion that nothing could or should be done, which would just drag me lower into the depths of my melancholy. But, just as surely, that same realization would comfort me. After all, I'd reason, letting go is a two-way manoeuvre.

Whenever I feel that emptiness, that hollow echo and that dull ache, something ordinary would jolt me back to reality, to seeing just how nothing is black and white. There are never just downs, or just ups. Life is this magnificent mish-mash of colours, from violent reds, through calm blues, to joyous yellows. Things are and aren't what they seem. There's usually something deeper, something unanticipated, something that gives way to something else.

Case in point: On Thursday, the school held "King and Queen of the Creek" festivities for the students. The students competed against each other and some teachers in scooter-races, arm-wrestling, and pillow-fights. The students were just so excited. Some kids who regularly skipped school came in just to vie for the title of being "king" or "queen." Part of me found the whole event rather sad. Eighteen-year-olds had nothing better to do than to shove each other out of the way as they did their laps around that tiny gym. But, there was also an innocence in their ability to be so fully absorbed, to find such joy in something so simple.

In the Home Ec. classroom, the fridges were cleaned out for break. One seventh-grade student managed to take home bags of groceries that included an almost-full jug of milk, some peppers, garlic, and mushrooms, half a jar of salsa, and half a jar of pasta sauce. His eyes lit up as those items were put into plastic bags for him to take. Meanwhile, his classmates danced around, singing along to the tunes blaring from an expensive iPod. How disparate the worlds of those twelve-year-olds seemed -- from one who cherished leftovers from the classroom fridge to those who danced as though nothing mattered in the world.

Later that evening, as M and I drove down to the store, we saw that same boy -- the one who had taken the groceries home -- on a side street by himself, throwing rocks into the woods. Part of me wanted to scoop that little boy up and whisk him away from Fox Creek, from his apparent loneliness. However, watching him launch those rocks with a beautiful rhythm all his own, I saw that perhaps there was some secret joy in his solitude. Perhaps those were moments that he hoarded as he would some cherished treasure.

As for me, perhaps I hoard those moments of melancholy. Those moments make me appreciate what I have, and the people I do have in my life. I may have some secret joy too. It just may not be in a scooter-race, a bag of groceries, or a pile of rocks. But I do have it. It's here, in having a home at my parents' no matter how old I am, in the eyes of a cat, in the clickety-clack of computer keys. It's here, and I have it, and it's all that matters.

Time's a-marchin' on

2009-04-04T19:08:00.004-06:00

Springtime has kissed Fox Creek at last, and I can imagine lush green lawns beneath the slush and the mud puddles. Although I had vowed to walk around town more when I first moved here, I have yet to point my new pink hightops toward the trails that skirt the town. The only time I've walked anywhere since moving here was the day the car wouldn't start in minus-thirty weather. I had walked home from work, and sorely regretted not taking an offered ride along the way. Those twenty minutes were worse than anything I had experienced in the Canadian Arctic. I felt so sorry for myself and thought that my toes were going to fall off.

Report card time has come and gone, and I was pleased that all of my students passed. Parent-teacher night will be this coming Wednesday, and then my spring break will start on Friday. I'll be taking the Greyhound to Edmonton before catching a flight back to Vancouver. By the time I get back to Fox Creek on April 19th, I'll have only a little more than two months before my summer holidays -- possibly the last summer vacation I will have as a teacher.

A few days ago, the principal came to my room to speak with me about a few of my students. She stared at me intently for a while with a strange expression before declaring that I had staples all over my hair. I ran my fingers through my hair, and indeed, staples fell out. She had imagined some of the "bad" kids throwing things around in class, but I assured her that it was my own doing, from my continuous attempts to unjam the stapler on my desk, that had sent staples flying through the air. We both had a good laugh, and it felt so good at the end of a frustrating, flurried afternoon.

At work, I've learned to pick my battles and fight for what really matters, but let the rest go. I've stuck to my motto that somtimes, all we can do is laugh, especially at the things that frustrate us the most. I'd still like to stick by my view that every student matters, but on days when particular students just would not cooperate, I've learned to take it easy and try again the next day. More than anything, I've found that what those difficult and challenging students need the most is understanding, not harsh discipline. When a student who has butted heads with all other teachers and who has refused to attend most classes still comes to my class, I see his willingness to focus and work every other day as a good place to start. Although I tell those students that what matters is not whether or not they like their teachers when they complain about all of their teachers, I make sure I let them know that I do indeed like them, despite their antics. When they complain about fellow classmates, I make sure that I say that all of them, complainers and complainees alike, are still good kids at the core. Already, I'm wondering how I could or why I would leave this profession come June....

This past week, I received news that I'd been selected for the major graduate recruitment scholarship. It will pay for my tuition and fees for the first year of my two-year program, and will provide a stipend that should cover my rent for the year. On top of that, the department has guaranteed me a research grant. I feel so utterly fortunate and blessed. Now there is no reason for me not to go to grad school. All that questioning that started in earnest last year, when I decided to leave the North, all those uncertainties have been laid to rest. Often, the universe has a way of telling us that everything will be fine, particularly during the times when we doubt ourselves the most.

Time is indeed marching steadily onward, in its own regular rhythm that is in syncopation with my own heartbeat and my own pace. The next phase of life comes all too quickly, and not soon enough....

Sad is...

2009-03-20T20:53:00.003-06:00

You know what's sad? It's lingering at work on a Friday afternoon after all the students had been dismissed because I had nothing better to do. It's driving for forty-five minutes on Friday evening to get some Mary Brown's chicken and taters although I had just finished supper at home. It's eating the afore-mentioned chicken and taters in the car, parked outside Walmart. It's walking aimlessly through the Walmart and emerging with five packages of mini-eggs.

Sad is thinking that this is as good as it gets here on a Friday night....

But, we might head to Grande Prairie again tomorrow! If the roads aren't too bad and there's no blowing snow.... Where are my crocuses and daffodils? Isn't it the first day of spring?

Movie meme

2009-03-15T19:45:00.008-06:00

I've been watching quite a few movies in the past couple of weeks. My good friend in Inuvik sent me a flash-drive with scanned pages of a Social Studies textbook that I needed for my students. He also managed to fill up the remaining memory on the flash-drive with assorted movies, which I've been enjoying during the dull evenings here in Fox Creek.

I must say that my life here is too humdrum to blog about, so I'm resorting to a meme about movies that my friend A had tagged me for:

1. Name a movie that you have seen more than 10 times. Bridget Jones's Diary, The Hours -- two movies that I always dig up when I have the blues.

2. Name a movie that you've seen multiple times in the theater. Contact

3. Name an actor/actress that would make you more inclined to see a movie. Cate Blanchett, Johnny Depp, Kate Winslet, Sean Penn

4. Name an actor/actress that would make you less likely to see a movie. Adam Sandler, Will Farrell

5. Name a movie that you can quote from. Little Women

6. Name a movie musical that you know all of the lyrics to all of the songs. Moulin Rouge

7. Name a movie that you have been known to sing along with. The Sound of Music

8. Name a movie that you would recommend everyone see. Me and You and Everyone We Know (It's not a movie for kids though.)

9. Name a movie that you own. I own waaaaay too many to name just one!

10. Name an actor that launched his/her entertainment career in another medium but who has surprised you with his/her acting chops. Queen Latifah

11. Have you ever seen a movie in a drive-in? If so, what? No, I've never been to a drive-in....

12. Name a movie that you keep meaning to see but just haven't yet gotten around to it. The Reader -- but this will soon be remedied.

13. Ever walked out of a movie? Almost walked out of The Butterfly Effect, and was so glad I didn't.

14. Name a movie that made you cry in the theater. The Secret Lives of Bees -- I sobbed pretty nearly all the way through.

15. Popcorn? No, I'm not fond of the way it sticks to my teeth.

16. How often do you go to the movies (as opposed to renting them or watching them at home)? I used to go at least once a week, but living in small towns without movie theatres has made it immeasurably more difficult.

17. What's the last movie you saw in the theater? New In Town -- despite what the critics said, I found it sweet and charming, albeit fluffy and predictable.

18. What's your favorite/preferred genre of movie? Drama for sure

19. What's the first movie you remember seeing in the theater? Snow White

20. What movie do you wish you had never seen? My Winnipeg

21. What is the weirdest movie you enjoyed? I love all of Charlie Kaufman's movies, and they're pretty weird.

22. What is the scariest movie you've seen? Silence of the Lambs -- saw it when I was ten and it traumatized me.

23. What is the funniest movie you've seen? Bridget Jones's Diary -- both the movie (the first one) and the book were hilarious.

We just came back from another weekend in Edmonton. Here are a couple of photos, one of the wide prairie skies along the highway, and one of the provincial legislative building at night, courtesy of my dinky cellphone camera:

The first paycheque, the first mishap

2009-03-08T14:35:00.004-06:00

One thing about living in Fox Creek is that the majority of my paycheque goes to a combination of rent and trips out. I've been here a month and a day, and have made two trips to Edmonton, one to Grande Prairie, and numerous to Whitecourt. We'll be off to Edmonton again next weekend.

I had always thought that I loved small towns, and I think I still do. Unfortunately, Fox Creek does not present itself like a small town; rather, there are a few motels, restaurants, and stores along a small strip on the highway, and then there are a clump of houses in a wooded area beyond the highway. I miss being able to walk in a town, hopping from place to place, meeting people on the main street along the way. Hence the trips out....

The thing about moving to a place for five months is that all the effort put into packing, moving, applying for the new provincial certification, getting my past education and experience assessed, etc., might not be worth it in the end. By the time I feel comfortable with my classes, with the feel of the school and town, it'll be time to pack up and leave.

I received my first Fox Creek paycheque over a week ago, and have yet to comprehend how teachers who do so much could be paid so little. Of course, I have yet to be placed on the right salary scale because my certification has yet to come through in Alberta, and my NWT experience has yet to be considered. Still.... It makes me wonder if the joys of the classroom really do make up for this dismal pay.

Friday afternoon, a student in my Communication Technology class (i.e. photography, A/V production, and animation) had an accident. Every classroom teacher is bound to have a student get into some memorable mishap. I had a few in Inuvik, and Friday was the day for the first in Fox Creek. Said student became upset at something another student had said, and rolled up some scrap paper to bonk this other student over the head. Unfortunately, poor aim got the better of him, and his hand landed on a pair of scissors that the second student was using to cut up some construction paper. I was not witness to this whole interlude except for the bloody aftermath. A puncture in the palm, a trip to the hospital, and some lost pride resulted. At the end, the wounded student admitted he was the only one to blame for the accident, that he had been goofing off. The second student -- the one holding the scissors -- felt horrible. Why must my afternoon classes be filled with boys, boys, more boys, and only boys? It's true -- there is not a single girl in any of my afternoon classes.

I've been here one month now, and there are a little less than four to go....

Yippee!!!!!

2009-02-24T23:22:00.003-07:00

Just a short post.... I heard from the graduate program coordinator from the University of Alberta, my first choice. I'm getting a recruitment scholarship!!!!!!!!! I'll be nominated by the department for one of two university-wide graduate entrance scholarships, and if I don't get that one, the department is guaranteeing me another scholarship in its place. The professor that I spoke with tonight will be writing a letter to put my name forward ASAP, since the deadline for the big scholarship is Monday. I guess that means I'll be admitted into the program, and that I don't have to wait till April to find out!

I've been utterly useless and unproductive since getting that phone call.... This grin on my face better fade soon because it's occupying too many of my brain-cells. Tomorrow, I'll have to make up for the work that I had planned to do tonight. But for now, yippee!!!!!!!!!

To sum it up

2009-02-22T22:39:00.009-07:00

Low energy at home, no energy to blog, conserving it all for my day-job....

I'm slowly getting my Media classes into the swing of things. I'm still trying to balance what to do with senior high students for eighty minutes every day, versus forty minutes with junior high students every other day.... Too much time to fill with one group, not enough time to get stuff done with the other.

I had forgotten how much of "teaching" actually involves other things, such as phone calls home, paperwork, late-night research, etc.. Being in the classroom with students is the breezy part, and the part I enjoy most. Wish I could hire someone else to do all the other stuff.

Last weekend, we went to Edmonton, and this weekend, we went to Whitecourt. Here are the windswept, crystalline trees along the highway. There is a slight possibility that it was me in the car, toting my cellphone-camera, that was slanted, and not the trees themselves. Yes, slight possibility.

I finally put together the table that we had bought in Edmonton. We had a corner in the condo that just seemed like a waste of space, so we decided to turn it into a sewing corner. Twelve little washers remained after I had put the table together with the nuts and bolts and screws. How crucial could twelve little washers be? (And by the way, I don't sew.... The sewing machine terrifies me, actually.)

And, last but not least, here's a photo of my Duncan. She's at my parents' in Vancouver these few months while I'm here in Fox Creek, and I miss her fuzzy little face nuzzled next to my not-so-fuzzy one at night. Here she is in her Vancouver home, catching some rays on the window sill.

Weekend in the city

2009-02-13T19:45:00.006-07:00

I've taught for a week now, and it seems like a lot longer. I can't believe that a week ago, I was just arriving in Edmonton from Vancouver, and had yet to see Fox Creek.

Classes are going fairly smoothly, and I am enjoying being in the classroom with students again. Of course, there are the usual frustrations that come with being a teacher, but for the most part, it's nice to be a teacher officially again. The most frustrating part of this past week has nothing to do with managing students or course preparation/delivery at all, but has to do with not having my own permanent classroom where I could leave my teaching materials, where I would have my own desk and computer to work on. As such, I've been floating around a fair bit, monopolizing computer time on the one machine in the staffroom.

The town has a completely different feel than Inuvik. It is not as walking-friendly, and I never see kids "hanging out" on the streets. I miss being able to walk down to the store that is only a few minutes away, and see lots of acquaintances, young and old, milling about and socializing with one another.

This is a long weekend because of Family Day on Monday. M and I have booked ourselves into a hotel for two nights in Edmonton, and will drive down there on Saturday morning, and be back on Monday. I know we were just there last weekend, but it honestly feels like eons ago. Although the apartment we have here is gorgeous and comfortable, I have come to associate it with my late nights of lesson-planning, so it would be wonderful to get away from it all, however briefly. (I will be bringing my laptop though, so I can't completely escape from my work.)

Here are a couple of pictures of my new apartment. I love it, but in some ways, I can't wait to leave this place, to find another place that feels more like "home."

First day frenzy

2009-02-09T21:22:00.004-07:00

The first day is over. I've gone into the school, met staff and students, snooped in the various corners, looked over what to do for my courses, etc..... But, there's still so much more to be done, and my head feels as though it'll explode, or else hibernate and just stop working until springtime.

More detailed update of the town and the job will have to wait until the weekend. Hurray for Family Day in Alberta next Monday! It's gonna be a long weekend!

* Oh, and pics are to come too! I've not really walked around town at all, but there will be pics of my new digs anyhow.

You say "raring," I say "rearing"

2009-02-06T11:48:00.005-07:00

In any case, I'm rearing/raring to go....

Made it out to the airport an hour and a half before my flight was scheduled to leave. Had a deja-vu moment when the agent at the WestJet counter told me my flight was cancelled. (This happened in December too, as I was trying to make it out to Edmonton before going to the Dominican Republic.) They blamed it on ice-fog in Edmonton; however, I noted that my flight was the only one cancelled to/from Edmonton this morning. Just my luck.... What is it about the universe not wanting me to be in Edmonton? I hope this doesn't apply to my grad school application as well....

The past few days went by in the blink of an eye. I needed to get a current criminal record check done in order to be in the classroom, but the Vancouver Police Department told me that the check would take two to three weeks to complete. I most definitely do not have two to three weeks. I am supposed to start teaching on Monday. Although the attempt to get the criminal record check ended in utter failure, I had an educational morning walking around Vancouver's infamous downtown eastside, as the police station was there. One man pulled out two packages of chicken from a garbage bag, placed them on the sidewalk, and proceeded to try to sell them for four dollars to passersby. A woman had old clothes and shoes laid out on the ground, and several people examined the items with interest, with hands in their pockets and slightly embarrassed expressions on their faces. A man who walked beside me dropped a bottle cap, and three people in front turned around in a frenzied state, eyes darting to the ground, searching. This is my city, my home. This is the city that is welcoming the world in 2010 for the Winter Olympics. I was ashamed to have to walk down its streets with such discomfort, with my eyes cast downward, hand clutching my cell phone in my pocket, just in case.

I was supposed to be landing in Edmonton right around this time; instead, I'm sitting here, hoping that the flight they've put me on will indeed take off six hours from now.

Some days, there's nothing much to say except "oh well."

* What do you say -- "rearing" or "raring" to go? I just searched an online forum on word usage, and it seems as though I'm the only one to whom "rearing" sounds correct. Yet, the online Oxford dictionary lists "raring" as a dialect variant of "rearing." Hmmm....

Alberta-bound

2009-02-02T15:02:00.003-07:00

I got the call this morning! I'm moving to Fox Creek! It's a town of about 2200, so it's even smaller than Inuvik. However, it's within driving distance to some larger towns, and is only three hours away from Edmonton.

I'll be leaving on Friday, most likely. Tomorrow, the packing will begin. For now, I'm just trying to absorb the news and mentally prepare myself.

My dear kitty will have to stay at my parents' these five months. I'll be moving in with my friend M, and she's not really a pet person, and the condo is not supposed to have pets anyway.

I had to take Duncan to the vet this morning, and am still riddled with bad-pet-owner guilt. I've always prided myself on taking excellent care of my cat, buying her the premium food at the specialty shop, ordering her a fancy litter box all the way from Winnipeg, making sure her shots are up to date, buying her new toys all the time, coddling her (mostly against her will), etc....

However, her dew claw on her left paw had grown into her paw pad, and I just noticed it last night. I had always trimmed her claws every two to three weeks, but that dew claw had been giving me trouble for a while now. It was hard to get at, and every time I examined it, I would note that it was curved but still really dull, and would just leave it. Little did I know that it could grow into her pad like that....

So, I had to cab it to the vet at noon because the car was in the shop. Several hundred dollars later, Duncan came back wide-eyed and even less trustful of me than before. She had always been a skittish, quiet cat, but she is now really really quiet -- giving me the silent treatment no doubt. I have to administer antibiotics orally every twelve hours starting tomorrow. My dad will have to finish off the rest of the doses once I leave for Fox Creek on Friday.

I'm excited about this new job, this new adventure, but I'm also feeling very very quiet.

* For those of you who don't know the story, my female cat's name is Duncan, yes. She was a newborn kitten when she was found on the street in Inuvik in July 2005 by someone, and I had adopted her in September of that year. The person who rescued her had sworn that she was a boy-cat, and her kids had named her "Dunkin," as in "Dunkin' Donuts." I took her to the vet about a month after I had her, and was shocked that my baby boy-cat was actually a girl. I had tried to change her name to Morley (after a character on a CBC radio show, "The Vinyl Cafe"), but by then, she had already grown into "Duncan." Three and a half years later, "Duncan" sounds to me like a girl's name, and I will never look at boys or men named "Duncan" the same again.

A possible opportunity

2009-01-30T23:10:00.003-07:00

I've been parked in front of my computer all day, awaiting some news that never came.

Last night, on the urging of my friend, I had sent in my resume and teaching evaluation to a principal in a small town in northern Alberta. My friend M had just moved there, and the principal had told her that there was still one teaching position open. It is something that is right up my alley, teaching high school English and Social Studies, plus a few elective courses. The bonus would be that it would save me from sitting at home for hours browsing the dismal tutoring positions that are available in Vancouver while I wait to hear about grad school.

Since the school in this small town needed someone urgently, I was interviewed first thing this morning. It was a strange interview, if I could even call it that. Instead of asking me about my experience, the principal reeled on and on about the classes that made up the teaching assignment. She ended her spiel with a simple question, "Do you think you are a suitable candidate for this?" I was actually a bit nervous about it, since she had wanted the selected candidate to offer electives in computer animation or wildlife education, something that I really had limited knowledge about. But, in typical trouper fashion, I asserted that I could do this.

In my rambling honesty, I told the principal that I wasn't looking at staying in that small community past the end of the school year because I wanted to go back to school. That might have been a stupid thing to say, and I won't know until I find out whether I get the job or not.

She had other candidates to interview, and has yet to get back to me. My friend M called up the principal tonight, and found out that it's all in the hands of the central office now, which means I probably won't hear back until Monday. I guess I can breathe this weekend and start holding my breath again Monday morning.

I have this gut feeling that if I do get this position, it'll be a whirlwind of an adventure. I would be piloting several elective courses, and would have my hands full. If I do get this position, I would fly by the seat of my pants and make my way there as soon as possible. How refreshing.

And if I don't get this position, it's just not meant to be. I've been looking into taking some intensive French language classes here in Vancouver. Maybe I'm meant to finally gain fluency in French during my months before grad school, or before whatever it is that comes after this period of career limbo.

I believe in karma, and in old frog princes

2009-01-28T21:32:00.011-07:00

I'm a firm believer in the Golden Rule, and in karma. This morning, everything just seemed to work out beautifully, as though the universe was rewarding me for the little things I'd been doing, but rewarding me all in one go at that.

A couple of days ago, I received a call from a third-year English student at UBC. She was fundraising for the university, and we had fallen into an extended conversation about my favourite professor, Dr. B. It turned out that this student had Dr. B for two of her courses. There I was, waxing poetic about how brilliant Dr. B was, how I loved her class, her insight, her willingness to debate and to flesh out every detail of a character or a text. After talking to the young student for about fifteen minutes, I just had to make a donation. Although I have next to no income right now, I just had to. When I hung up, part of me felt that I had been suckered into something that I hadn't prepared for. Yet, another part of me was glad that my donation perhaps made the evening a little brighter for the young student. I could hear my former self in her. She was struggling with what to pursue after finishing up her English degree, and was contemplating going into Education and becoming a teacher. She was exactly where I was eight years ago, full of enthusiasm, not yet jaded by experience, with the world seemingly at her feet.

This morning, I opened up my e-mail inbox to discover that WestJet had awarded me a travel credit toward a future plane ticket because they had cancelled my flight over Christmas, leading me to have to wait for five hours in the Vancouver airport. This unexpected surprise more than compensated me for that donation that I thought I couldn't really afford. I hadn't even complained at the airline counter that day when I arrived to the news that my flight had been cancelled. I took it all in stride, when other customers were fuming and screaming at the ticket agent. I received a meal voucher that day, and managed to have a marvellous breakfast while I waited and started my new vacation novel. This proves that sometimes, it's not the dog that barks the loudest that gets the most treats. Kindness and positivity go a long way.

What's more, I received confirmation from both grad schools this morning that my applications were complete. This meant that Dr. S had managed to save me by writing another letter in Brazil and sending it to Edmonton; this meant that the documents that I had feared would never make it to Halifax had somehow managed to make it after all.

I found a gift today too. I was searching for some important documents that I needed, and was slightly disgruntled at having to move boxes around and dig for the papers (I have yet to unpack my boxes from Inuvik). In the same box as the one where my important files were was a poetry book that my friend E had sent me last May. She had serendipitously found the book during a foray in an antique shop, and had thought of me. While perusing the volume in a small coffee shop, she had written me a letter, detailing her thoughts, her humdrum happenings, and what was restless and at ease in her heart. This was the perfect day to have found this most cherished gift once more, to sit and contemplate, to savour some poetry, the words of a stranger and their connection with my own soul, and the words of a friend and their gentle influence.

A quote from E, from that beautiful letter: You will find your prince charming some day V. You know the old saying -- you just have to kiss a few frogs along the way. Last May, I was still reeling from heartbreak, and was not truly believing those words, not truly believing that there's such a thing as healing. Now, I can smile and appreciate that wise advice with a different sentiment. As I had mentioned in my last post, I'm not searching frantically anymore, and am not waiting desperately to be found anymore.

And E's words were in turn inspired by a poem, from page seventy-three of the volume by Marnie Duff that she had sent me. I love this enough to type it all below:

That Old Subtle Affair

I've forgotten the code words
we used to kiss into the receiver,
to catch that one moment, or this other,
for our later touch to recall.

Let's tuck this one away, too,
with the others, 'til some soft future
night, when forgotten words will recollect
our memories. New again.

Someday, my old Frog-Prince, I'll roll
this gold ball over the mossy lip
of your well. Our old game.
And you, my love, will dive for it.

There's snow on the ground still, after the gigantic snowfall over the holidays. And there was a small sprinkling of fresh crystals from yesterday. It is, indeed, a most perfect day. After the initial excitement from those e-mails this morning, I settled into a quiet, deep, peaceful calm. It is where I am now. I am grateful for this state, and for this day, and for not just believing, but knowing that the universe is in balance after all.

The photo below is of the snow that had accumulated earlier in the month, that had turned the world into a sepia wonderland:

Ten truest things

2009-01-27T23:40:00.006-07:00

This evening, I listened to Miranda July's performance at UC Berkeley, which was available for download for free from iTunes. It was entitled "Ten True Things." I had wanted it to be about ten things that we feel to our cores, ten truths that make us who we are, in this moment. It wasn't about that, but I love Miranda July all the same. I love her lists, her quirkiness, her way with people, her stories. But, I do want to take this time to list my "ten true things" in this very moment. Some of these items are inspired by July's questioning of her audience in her performance:

1) I have done all that I can to try to get into my grad school of choice. I used to be famous for my self-sabotaging tendencies, but this time, I can honestly say that I've tried my best. And the waiting game officially begins....

2) I have more self-respect and self-confidence than I think I had before taking the leap, before leaving my job to embark on this new journey. I have amazed myself these past few months. I feel as though I have really "grown up." I can sit in my professor's office and talk to him almost like a peer. I can approach tasks and people that months ago I would have been nervous about. Yet, part of me misses the non-grown-up version of me.

3) Exercise does make me feel more balanced. I'm proud to be a regular frequenter of the pool and gym again.

4) I can finally say that I'm not frantically searching for that elusive something or someone, but can feel that I am essentially all right. I still believe in a calling and a soulmate, but I've decided that frantic searches do not suit me.

5) I talk out loud to my cat on a daily basis. She has taught me that my heart always has enough room, enough love.

6) I have never hit someone in anger, and know with certainty that I will never do so.

7) I did not experience physical pain at anytime today. It's time to count my blessings.

8) I am afraid of the Big One. When I was young, the "Big One" used to be the earthquake that I had been told was due to hit the west coast. Now, the "Big One" is more amorphous, less definable. Perhaps it's the milestone that comes with my thirtieth birthday in a couple of years. Perhaps it's the eventuality of losing someone so important to me that I would not know how to continue on. Perhaps the "Big One" is not so big or momentous, but is the soft descent into complacency. But, I'm afraid of it just the same.

9) I miss my students. I miss starting the day and setting up my classroom. But, I am glad I am here.

10) I'm ready for what comes next.

Check, check, and check

2009-01-19T22:25:00.005-07:00

I had run out of books to read again, and had started to catch myself having negative thoughts again. But today, I did something about it.

Took a long walk, enjoyed the crisp air, the slippery frost on the sidewalk, and some excellent tuneage on my iPod. I smiled at passersby, and was warmed to discover that people do indeed smile back in this cold cold city. (I'm talking mostly about an emotional coldness.) Went to the library and read newspapers and magazines, caught up on all the latest world events and felt in some way a part of the wide world again. Browsed all the classics on the shelves, and decided it was time I read some of them -- well, more of them. Borrowed Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano to start, something I was ashamed to have never read before.

Then, I did the unthinkable.... I went and bought myself a pool and gym pass. I've paid for a month's membership so far, and vow to start tomorrow. I want to get into shape before ultimate frisbee season begins in the spring. Theoretically, there's still one day left before registration for the winter league closes, but I won't push it.

I've basically given up on one of my grad school applications due to multiple complications, but the application for the school in Edmonton, the one I'm putting all my hopes on, will probably work out fine. The only thing left is a reference letter that seems to have gotten lost somewhere between Burnaby and Edmonton. It might now have to be written up again and sent from Brazil, since that's where my professor is currently. Let me live in hope that optimism and positive thinking are not overrated....

Checklist for the day:

1) Dispel negative thinking by consciously seeing the good around me -- check!

2) Take the first step toward having a regular exercise regimen -- check!

3) Find some new brain food (i.e. reading material) -- check!

4) Learn a few new tricks on PhotoShop -- check check!

5) Vow to take care of myself better -- a big check!

Yesterday, I wanted to go to the beach for a walk; however, as I drove west, the clear sunny day became shrouded in fog, so I detoured to Granville Island instead. Here's a picture of the kite store -- oh the marvellous kite store, I sing praises to thee! For because of you, I can envision bright gentle days on wide open fields, my face turned upward, my spirits soaring.

Outside of myself

2009-01-19T01:57:00.003-07:00

Something important is happening in the world today. For today, I can step outside of myself and gain some perspective. I can't wallow in self-pity today. The world is me, yet infinitely bigger than me today. I will stretch, breathe deeply and contentedly today. My steps cannot be heavy today. I am going to dance upon the earth today. I am going to smile sincerely today. Whatever I feel tomorrow or in the days after, I will look back and remember the brightness of today, of this moment, of this hope.

People say let us not forget the tragedies and the sacrifices, but let's not forget this hope. In our remembering come words that could transform into action, into change, into right. A new path is being forged, so let's choose to dance upon it, together, like dizzy-spinning children, giddy and drunk with mirth. And when the spinning stops, let's go forth into the next day, and the next, and remember.

Happy?!

2009-01-17T16:20:00.002-07:00

Sometimes, the world seems so small. I could go to the grocery store and encounter an old school friend, someone I had lost touch with years ago. I could type up a long-lost friend's name on Google and find enough information to connect with her after years of drifting apart. I could use my cell phone, internet, instant-messaging and stay on top of the lives of those who matter to me.

Alternately, the world seems so big, so immense. If I were to stop the phone calls and e-mails, I could go for months, quite possibly years, and live in complete isolation. I could wander the streets, the malls, the cities, and not see anyone I know.

The bridge between the simultaneous perceptions of the world's minuteness and immensity is our personal choices and actions. I am the one to decide who continues to matter in my life, who can I not stand losing. Our self-worth depends not upon how many people care for us deeply, but upon how we love others, and how we show them that we care. Other people's trust and confidence are gifts that we must not squander. By extension, we must let go of people who have not cherished our trust, who have not been honest with us, even if it hurts to lose them.

I guess this is my circular way of resolving, in this new year, to walk away from certain people who have never been a true friend to me, to accept that my caring cannot force them to reciprocate the feelings I have for them. It may feel lonely for a while, but I know who will stay by my side, and those are the people who truly matter. I hope that I can show them just how much they matter.

Am I happy? Yes, because I finally realize that it sometimes takes losing something to gain something infinitely more precious. No, because it still hurts. But mostly yes, as hope and self-respect trump all hurt.

Ailing

2009-01-16T19:25:00.004-07:00

I think I've made myself sick. When I was doing my first undergrad degree all those years ago, I would routinely get the flu during exam period. This past semester, the bug managed to steer clear of me; however, it has found me now, and in the time it has taken to search me out, it has grown into a giant that is capable of knocking me out.

I swear that it's psychosomatic. I'm sick now because I'm stressing myself out over every little thing. And I'm helpless because I've done all I can, botched things up along the way, and cannot do anything to fix them. (I'm talking about my grad school applications here -- yes, still -- but I won't go into great detail other than saying that there is one further complication that I've brought on myself that might delay my going to grad school for a year.)

My mother took this week off, and had a "staycation," where she stayed at home and relaxed. I used to love staying up in Inuvik for spring break, to read and write and walk the town without any apparent purpose. Today, Mom and I went out for lunch at a Korean restaurant that I had never been to. That seafood pancake and the chicken stew were to die for! My favourite part of any Korean meal is the little plates of complimentary appetizers, and this restaurant certainly did not disappoint.

After lunch, I went shopping, although I needed absolutely nothing. Bought an expensive sweater, and I could imagine the wrath of my conscience, the little voice in my head telling me that I didn't need it and couldn't really afford it. But, the rational part of me was napping and trying to recover from the flu bug, so the beautiful sweater is hanging in my closet now, awaiting a special occasion.

And I hear that it might actually be warmer up in Inuvik than here in Vancouver right now. That's just not right! On the bright side, the mounds of snow along the roads are almost gone. I can imagine myself going on walks to and from the library, to and from the pool, to and from the nearby lake, and to and from nowhere in particular....

But first, let me battle with this giant of a flu bug and kick its nasty butt. And let the applications work out, or else let me accept that I have to wait another year. Maybe I'm meant to do and learn something amazing in the meantime.

* Here's another photo of my kitty, Duncan. I was going to go out to take some potentially amazing pictures, but both the weather and my own constitution did not allow it.

So much hinges on...

2009-01-12T21:58:00.005-07:00

So much hinges on something out of my control.

It has been a strange week and a half, since coming back from my winter holidays. Things are happening in slow motion. I have much time to sit and think, when the months prior to that had all been go go go, with nary a second where I hadn't had some task that required attending to.

It's been a peaceful, serene time. However, underneath the apparent calm, a restlessness stirs.

This afternoon, I sent off the last of the documents to the two grad schools. However, I still need to check that the supporting documents sent in by others make it there on time. Therein lies my problem -- Dr. S is now in Brazil, and was supposed to have mailed in reference letters for me prior to leaving, but he has not. The schools have yet to receive them, and I have no way of contacting Dr. S right now. E-mail as a method of communication had never worked with Dr. S even while he was in town, and is not likely to start working now that he's in South America.

So much hinges on something out of my control. A piece of my future lies in Dr. S's hands, in his words, actions, or inactions.

Dr. D thinks that I'll get into my school of choice. He said so today. I went to see him in his office, and his dog was sitting there, staring up at me with her beautiful eyes. So Dr. D has a dog, a gorgeous white husky mix. Somehow, his dog being there lent him more credibility, more than his role as a knowledgeable professor, if that makes any sense. Anyone whose dog holds him with such trusting, loving eyes must have deeper intuitive powers than the ordinary person.

So much hinges on something out of my control. So much, but since I can only do what I can, I'll simply wait. And I'll hold the image of the quiet dog in the middle of the cluttered office in my mind. That dog knows something I don't.

The Plan

2009-01-08T22:22:00.004-07:00

The Plan, with a capital P:

1) Send off the last of my documents to the two grad schools by next Tuesday. This also includes picking up a reference letter from Dr. D at SFU on Monday, and tweaking my statement of interests and my CV, among other things.

2) Hunt for a job while I wait for grad school acceptance/rejection. A menial job will do.

3) Maybe throw in a trip if the job hunt does not pan out. And if I don't freak out over my finances.

4) Get a pool pass and actually go to the pool at least several times a week.

5) Go out and take copious amounts of photographs with my dinky camera. Learn Photoshop. Decide if I should indeed upgrade to a digital SLR.

6) Once the grad school acceptance/rejection comes, kick the Subsequent Plan into high gear.

Details of Subsequent Plan to follow, once I am forced to formulate it.

7) In the meantime, breathe.

8) Read books.

9) Play the piano.

10) Don't think too much.

11) Enjoy this extended holiday of sorts. I may never have this opportunity again.

(Un)inspired

2009-01-08T17:38:00.007-07:00

Today, a parcel came in the mail -- my three new books. I had never ordered three new books by someone I had never heard of, never read before. Before a few days ago, that is. Instead of going to the store a few days ago, I had put in an order online. I had based my decision entirely on the online customer reviews, again something that I had never done before.

This morning, I heard the mailman trudge up the front walk, up the steps, and slip the mail through the mail-slot. The mail had been ragged and soaked from rain and melting snow these past few days, and it was no different today. As I stood there clutching the soppy envelopes and brochures behind the front door, I had an inkling that my parcel had arrived, that the mailman had wedged it between the screen-door and the front door. But I didn't check. Instead, I peeked out the window, followed the mailman with my eyes as he crossed the street.

When I finally went outside some hours later, to go out for lunch, I found the parcel with my three books. The novel has a green cover. I want to say lime green, but it isn't quite. It's more institution green, like the green you'd imagine hospital walls to be, at least in the movies. The poetry volume has a pink cover. That's straightforward enough, Peptobismol pink. The short story collection has a blue cover. It's a sky blue, but the pale version when the sun is high in the sky and you see the gold mixed in with the blue. Except that in the sky, the colour has depth, and on the cover of the book, there isn't any depth, just flat pale blue.

I wanted to bring my books to lunch, but I didn't. I didn't bring my cell phone either -- I forgot. It's just that kind of day. Before coming home, I stopped to buy a jug of milk, only to find, in my kitchen, that the jug had leaked. There was a trail of milk droplets from the car, up the front walkway, on the porch, in the living room, through the hall, all the way to the fridge. My cat was ecstatic. I stood there and contemplated what to do for the longest time. Finally, I took out the old milk jug from inside the fridge and dumped what was left in it into the sink. I'm sure I'm not the only one who hates drinking the last little bit of milk in a jug, and leaves it there for a week, before finally, nose scrunched and breath held, pouring it down the drain. Rinsed out the old milk jug and poured the new milk into it. Made mental note of the expiry date of the new milk in the old jug. Then decided it was best to write that on the old jug with a Sharpie.

Hunkered down to read the novel, the one with the green cover. I'm halfway done. It's a quick read, but I don't want it to end.

This post is inspired by the novel. I don't normally write posts that are so full of nothing. Or maybe I do. You tell me.

* The books that arrived today are all by Tao Lin: 1) Novel -- Eeeee Eee Eeee; 2) Poetry -- Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy; 3) Stories -- Bed

Steve

2009-01-07T17:19:00.006-07:00

Meet Steve. He's lovingly made by the Monster Factory Studio in Toronto, and came to me for Christmas. According to his bio, he doesn't like to spend time in front of the mirror, hence the wild hair. My kind of guy....

* I've been experimenting with my camera, and am trying to learn a few new things. Also want to teach myself Photoshop.

Paradise

2009-01-05T15:23:00.011-07:00

I should be typing up my "Statement of Interests" for my grad school applications, but instead, I'd like to recap my lovely winter vacation.

We landed in Puerto Plata about nine hours after taking off from Edmonton. We had to deplane in Punta Cana, and were herded through security before we were allowed to continue to our destination. It seemed like a rather pointless exercise, since most of us set off the metal detector, but were neither scanned with a wand nor patted down, and were allowed to just walk on ahead.

Our resort was about ten minutes away from the airport in Puerto Plata, in the town of Sosua. It was nighttime when we landed, and the bus wound through the narrow streets lined with bars and souvenir shops. The resort, although facing a busy main street, was remarkably quiet and serene. There had been a storm brewing for most of the day, and the waves were thunderous and enormous, crashing against the coral rock cliffs and sending white sprays skyward.

On the Saturday after we arrived, we took a day-trip to Paradise Island. First, we had to take a tour bus to the boat-dock. Halfway there, the paved highways turned into narrower gravel roads, and at one point, downed trees blocked our passage. Hennie, the tour-guide, nonchalantly remarked that we were nearing the Dominican/Haitian border, and that we did not have to worry unless there were fires set along and in the middle of the road. My travel companions eyed each other, did not say a word, each of us thinking that it was probably not what we had thought when we signed up for this trip.

We made it to the boat-dock without further incident, and were ushered into a small open speedboat. The ride was choppy, and those of us seated near the front were tossed up and down, smacking our butts against the hard wooden seats with each jolt. My white-knuckled hands gripped the side of the boat as I seemed to be flung about like a ragdoll and I was afraid of being tossed overboard. After what seemed like an eternity, Hennie gestured to our right, and the boat slowed down. "You may take your cameras out for some pictures," he said.

Looking over to the right, I saw what appeared to be a pile of sand in the middle of the ocean, with seven little shacks built on it. I took a few photos, and thought that the boat would speed up again to bring us to Paradise Island. Little did I know that that was Paradise Island! I had envisioned an expansive white beach, with palm trees and lush greenery further inland. As we got out of of the boat and surveyed our surroundings, I was a bit crushed that I had paid over a hundred dollars to stand on a few square-feet of imported sand. (I have no proof that the fine sugary sand was indeed imported, but the entire island screamed cheesy tourist trap to me.)

We were treated to a meal of Spam sandwiches (It was either that or neon-orange cheese sandwiches.), and had a couple of hours to snorkel and wade around in the water. There were schools of silvery blue fish that swam right to the shore, as well as several yellow and black ones. All in all, after I looked beyond my first impressions, I had a wonderful time.

On Boxing Day, two of my friends and I went into Puerto Plata. After the twenty-minute cab ride, we found ourselves standing in the town square. Not a second after we set foot outside the taxi, a young man appeared out of nowhere, flashing his wares of pirated CD's. My friend ended up buying three CD's, after Antonio grabbed my friend T to show her how to merengue and do the bachata. Meanwhile, I hid behind my friend P to avoid the dance lesson. Antonio then showed us the inside of the church, which had been restored after being destroyed by an earthquake some years back. After that, we decided to venture on our own. The town of Puerto Plata has a population of about 300,000, and was colourful and vibrant. However, because it was obvious that we were foreigners, we could not really wander on our own without being pressured to either buy something or to have an impromptu local guide wanting to show us around.

The taxi ride back to the resort was what clinched the experience as something unforgettable. Pablo, the man who designated himself as our guide when he found us perusing a vendor's watercolours, hailed us a cab. T, P, and I were jammed into a taxi that already had a mother and two children in the back, and the driver and another man in the front. P was squeezed in the front between the driver and the other man, while I sat on T's lap in the back, next to the woman and her two children. The kids were eating popcorn, and one would occasionally tinker with an electronic toy that made screeching noises reminiscent of a car alarm. The man in the front next to P had a gun sticking out of his pocket, and was dozing for the twenty-minute ride back to Sosua.

The rest of the vacation was spent on the beach, swimming in the wide open Atlantic or reading in a lounge-chair. There were also countless rounds of dominoes, along with what seemed like endless indulgence in food and drinks. In other words, it was the perfect vacation.

And now, the photos:

Holiday reading journey

2009-01-03T12:17:00.006-07:00

I'm back from the most fantastic vacation in the Dominican Republic, with some genuine freezing to the core of my body in Edmonton before and after. I'll write about my time in the DR in another post and will put up some photos; however, I'd like to start the new year with a post on something I love, something that I've not written about for months and months because of my schoolwork. That something, of course, is fiction.

During my time on the beach, I had managed to read five books:

1) Raymond and Hannah, by Stephen Marche -- This book is a modern romance, a rendition of a long-distance relationship, something that I know a bit about. Hannah is a Jew from New York who embarks on a journey in hopes of finding herself by (re)connecting with Judaism. She meets Raymond, an agnostic intellect, a week before she flies off to Israel for nine months at a yeshiva. Given the current political climate in Gaza, this novel provided me a bit of perspective from the Israeli point of view regarding the Jewish diaspora and the search for a spiritual homeland. While I had always been sympathetic mostly with the Palestinian cause, I understand the deep desire to belong somewhere, to have roots. I could write on and on about my views of the conflict in Gaza, but the feeling that overwhelms me is that after six decades since the "founding" of Israel, time has erased what had initially seemed black and white. Must the roots of one people uproot those of another?

2) No One Belongs Here More Than You, by Miranda July -- A great short story collection by a brilliant writer/artist. If you've never seen her film, you should run out and get it. And check out her web project, "Learning To Love You More," by clicking on the link on the sidebar of this blog under "Worth Visiting." I can't say much about the book because my words are inadequate.

3) The Flanders Panel, by Arturo Perez-Reverte -- I had received this book as a birthday gift years and years ago, when I was still in high school, and never got around to reading it for several reasons: 1) It's a mystery; 2) it's a mystery about chess; 3) it's a mystery about chess translated from the original Spanish. But I didn't get a chance to stock up on more books before my vacation, so I lugged this one along. I'm glad I did, although mysteries, including this one, always leave me dissatisfied at the end, with their neat, tie-it-all-up conclusions. I enjoyed the twists along the way though.

4) Consumption, by Kevin Patterson -- I had bought this book because it was about the Canadian Arctic, and had hesitated reading it for the same reason. I was worried that it would either be condescending or idealized. However, I ended up thoroughly admiring Patterson for what he had accomplished. He described the clash of cultures, the tug between looking forward and looking back, without resorting to blame or despair. For anyone who wants to get an understanding of the North, this is a good place to start. It was hard to wrap my head around the fact that the novel is not an epic tale spanning multiple time periods; rather, it shows the immense changes within one character's lifetime. The communities in the Arctic have probably undergone the most rapid change within just a generation or two when compared to any southern city.

5) The Birth House, by Ami McKay -- This is a gentle, humorous book, about one girl growing up in rural Nova Scotia, bound by her gender and time, but transcending both in her own small ways, breaking conventions, gathering traditional wisdom and finding personal strength.

Happy New Year to everyone! I'm not going to panic about what I'm going to do now that I have no more courses to take, and while I wait to hear about grad school, and wait to decide if that's indeed what I want to do. I'm not going to panic, yet....

Sepia

2008-12-14T01:30:00.006-07:00

What does it mean when you look outside at night, and the world is reminiscent of an old faded sepia photograph? It means it's going to snow! You can always tell by the sky in Vancouver when it's going to snow at night. The sky is brighter than it should be, and has a dull orange glow. Once the snow starts, it's the type that sticks, that coats tree-branches and rooftops. Soon, the ground mirrors the sky, glowing its sepia magic.

The snow that prevented me from writing my Friday exam did not deter me from my Saturday -- my final! -- exam. It's all done now, and even my last term paper was electronically-submitted at a reasonable hour. Oh, and Dr. S has exempted me from making up the cancelled Friday exam. My pleas worked, and I'll be receiving an average of my coursework thus far as my final grade.

I want to wish you all a happy holiday season! I'm going to bed now, and my dreams shall be sweet, by virtue of the sepia world outside. May your dreams be sweet too, and may you find magic, whatever colour it takes its form in, and may it touch you gently upon your eyelids as you allow yourself to drift off, showing you that all is good and well.

* And I'd like to recant my "stupid snow" comments in the previous post....

The white stuff

2008-12-12T15:30:00.005-07:00

Woke up this morning to gigantic chunks of the white stuff drifting down. "Oh no," I thought, "Bus service will be disrupted and I won't be able to make it up the hill for my exam." I turned on the computer, and by some miracle, buses and trains were running as usual. The university was open, and exams were proceeding as scheduled.

Trudged to the train station, made my bus connection, and slowly but surely, forged my way up the mountain. Left myself a couple of hours to go over my notes at the library, to memorize the gazillion distinctive features of phonological systems. My friend P called me just as I was beginning to feel confident about what I knew: "Did you hear? Buses have stopped running. The exam is cancelled!"

And indeed, the exam was cancelled. Went to see my professor, who told me that it would be rescheduled for Tuesday, December 16th. That would normally be hunky-dory, but I am flying out on the 15th!!!

What are my options? Well, since Dr. S is going off to Brazil for four months on the 17th, sitting for a make-up exam in January is out of the question. That leaves us to consult the Chair of the Linguistics department as to how to proceed. The Chair, of course, was conveniently elsewhere, not to be found.

Dr. S thinks that I'll be given the option of being graded based on my average thus far in the course, or getting credit for the course without a final grade. But I need a final grade! The grad school I want to get into needs this course as a prerequisite, and will look specifically at prerequisite courses when making admission decisions.

Now, I wait.... The moral of the story: Do not take classes at a hill-top university in a West Coast city that does not know how to deal with snow. Or, alternately, when something is beyond your control, stop thinking about it.

Stupid snow, stupid snow, STUPID SNOW!!!!!

* Let's see what happens tomorrow. I have another exam scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

Courage and wishes

2008-12-11T20:42:00.001-07:00

There comes a time in everyone's life when she has to muster up all the courage she has -- no, more than she knows she has -- and do or say something because she cannot possible imagine continuing on otherwise. Well, I've done one such thing a few days ago. And now? I don't exactly wish to undo what I've done, or to take back what I've said, but I came away no wiser, and ended up more than a little embarrassed. Isn't courage supposed to make me fly high, give me clarity, free me from fear and regret?

The year is drawing quickly to a close. I marvel at the changes that have taken place in these past twelve months. The girl sitting at her computer typing up the last blog-post of last year was not the same person as the one typing here now. That girl twelve months ago was so full of hurt, and this girl here now has found a peace, albeit a restless peace. I always like using the end of the year as a time to plant my feet firmly on the ground, to reflect upon my growth, and to look forward to the future -- hence forcing myself to be brave.

Furthermore, I've begun reaching out to people I had previously left contentedly as casual acquaintances to call up or write to every year or two. I was looking at photographs on my old laptop computer, seeing if there were any more remnants I should transfer over to my new computer. There, I found photos of a fishing trip in late spring up in Inuvik, on a brilliant day three and a half years ago. I was with a few dear friends, one of whom is no longer with us. It was sweet to remember his laughter, his boldness, his caring, his love. Those photos made me see the importance of reaching out in spite of our self-absorption, all the more because of it.

I tried hunting for a friend I had made up in Inuvik. She had moved away over two years ago, and for some unbeknownst reason, we had lost touch. I tried e-mailing her, but the e-mail bounced back, indicating that she had moved elsewhere. I Googled her last night, and discovered that she was doing research in the wilds of Eastern Canada, living the dream she had once described to me. The pang inside my heart at not having been in contact with her as she forged her way these past few years was unbearable. I was able to find a new e-mail address for her, and hope that my note found its way to her, two years too late. My heart wishes that it's true what people say, that it's better late than never.

This afternoon, the university issued a warning that exams this weekend might have to be rescheduled due to impending snowfall. The Simon Fraser campus is particularly susceptible to wintry conditions because of the winding, steep roads that lead to the mountain-top site. I don't want the exams to be rescheduled. I want everything done, so I can fly off to my vacation and not have thoughts of exams hanging over me -- because if my last two exams need to be rescheduled, chances are I won't be able to complete them before I leave on Monday. I would have to make them up in the new year.

I'll be in Edmonton en route to the Dominican Republic. I want to go skating on a frozen pond. I've never done that before. I want to feel myself glide under a velvety, starry night sky, to feel the crisp air on my cheeks. That's what I want for Christmas.

I'm going to leave you with a photograph of the downtown library, my "home" this past week and a half, where most of my studying, thinking, and self-reflection has taken place.

Pain and beauty

2008-12-06T00:40:00.004-07:00

Here I am, sitting at my cluttered desk, and my mind is all aflutter because I don't think I'm prepared for my big exam first thing in the morning. However, there's also a part of my brain that is completely peaceful, that knows and feels that everything will be fine. I'm not aiming high this time. I'm just aiming to finish and not feel crushed. I have another exam on Sunday morning, and then I'll have to pound out two major term papers before conquering the next slew of exams. I want to take a good friend to my favourite noodle-house before I take off to the Dominican Republic and slurp those thick, mouth-watering handmade noodles and eat the scrumptious dumplings. I've talked about this little hole-in-the-wall place forever. It'll be a pre-Christmas treat. (Get back to those flashcards, V! Stop drooling over the thought of noodles and dumplings!)

Today, I finally went and got a new library card. The car wouldn't start, although I had driven it to the supermarket just a few days ago. The city had sent one of those big street-sweeping trucks to our neighbourhood to clear the roads of the rotting leaves that had clumped and stuck along both sides. I knew that I had to move the car, so I thought maybe I should drive to the library instead of taking transit. It was embarrassing to sit there turning the key in the ignition while the little car coughed and whined, all the while with the street-sweeping truck waiting, making that whirring sound as though to hurry me along. But no, the car (lovingly named Bob by me just a couple of weeks ago) would not be hurried. Finally, I popped out and went back into the house, defeated. And the truck went on its merry way, zig-zagging around Bob. An hour later, I decided to give it another go, and Bob finally gave in to my persistence, and off we went to the library.

I was just so distracted though.... I did everything but study. I read the magazines, looked over the French books, flipped through recipes, and even started going through a self-help book on how to be more assertive.

My blog has descended into a tool for procrastinating rather than an outlet for discussing my opinions, thoughts, or feelings. I'm not going to blog again until I've finished two exams and at least one paper. That will mark the half-way point of what I need to get done.

* Oh, and in case you're wondering why the post is titled "Pain and beauty" -- I was reading Nick Bantock's Griffin and Sabine at the library this afternoon. It's something I had read before, but felt compelled to re-read. It's a line out of that book, and I had intended to write something profound about it, but somehow, it has turned into this. I'll try to articulate what my point was regarding that line in my next post, after that half-way point. Until then, happy holiday-planning, everyone!

The blogger's list of 100

2008-12-04T18:32:00.006-07:00

This meme is making the rounds. It's a list of 100 things, and the point is to bold the ones you've done. Here goes....

1. Started your own blog -- yep, this is my third and longest-lasting blog

2. Slept under the stars

3. Played in a band

4. Visited Hawaii

5. Watched a meteor shower -- had the chance, but didn't go!

6. Given more than you can afford to charity

7. Been to Disneyland

8. Climbed a mountain

9. Held a praying mantis

10. Sang a solo

11. Bungee jumped

12. Visited Paris

13. Watched a lightning storm at sea -- I've seen a lightning storm from on board a plane; it was frightening

14. Taught yourself an art from scratch -- if carpet-hooking using a kit bought at Wal-mart is an art

15. Adopted a child

16. Had food poisoning -- probably, but not entirely sure

17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty -- I was there, but didn't walk all the way up :(

18. Grown your own vegetables -- I've tended to other people's vegetable gardens, but never had my own

19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France

20. Slept on an overnight train

21. Had a pillow fight

22. Hitch hiked

23. Taken a sick day when you're not ill

24. Built a snow fort

25. Held a lamb

26. Gone skinny dipping

27. Run a Marathon

28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice

29. Seen a total eclipse -- again, I had the chance, but was too lazy to get up

30. Watched a sunrise or sunset

31. Hit a home run

32. Been on a cruise

33. Seen Niagara Falls in person

34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors

35. Seen an Amish community

36. Taught yourself a new language

37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied -- yeah, I think I was six, and had five bucks....

38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person

39. Gone rock climbing

40. Seen Michelangelo’s David

41. Sung karaoke

42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt

43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant

44. Visited Africa

45. Walked on a beach by moonlight

46. Been transported in an ambulance

47. Had your portrait painted

48. Gone deep sea fishing

49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person

50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris

51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling

52. Kissed in the rain

53. Played in the mud

54. Gone to a drive-in theater

55. Been in a movie

56. Visited the Great Wall of China

57. Started a business

58. Taken a martial arts class

59. Visited Russia

60. Served at a soup kitchen

61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies

62. Gone whale watching

63. Got flowers for no reason

64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma

65. Gone sky diving

66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp

67. Bounced a check

68. Flown in a helicopter

69. Saved a favorite childhood toy

70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial

71. Eaten Caviar

72. Pieced a quilt

73. Stood in Times Square

74. Toured the Everglades

75. Been fired from a job

76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London

77. Broken a bone

78. Been on a speeding motorcycle

79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person

80. Published a book

81. Visited the Vatican

82. Bought a brand new car

83. Walked in Jerusalem

84. Had your picture in the newspaper

85. Read the entire Bible

86. Visited the White House

87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating

88. Had chickenpox

89. Saved someone's life

90. Sat on a jury

91. Met someone famous

92. Joined a book club

93. Lost a loved one

94. Had a baby

95. Seen the Alamo in person

96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake

97. Been involved in a law suit

98. Owned a cell phone

99. Been stung by a bee

100. Read an entire book in one day

This list includes a few things I really want to do, such as kissing in the rain, visiting Africa, and adopting a child. But I think the first thing I could feasibly do and should definitely go accomplish is donating blood. I've always been squeamish whenever there needed to be bloodwork done for routine medical exams, but honestly, I'm old enough to get over this phobia, am I not?

I wonder who came up with this to begin with? Why these 100 items, and not others??

Filling the void

2008-12-03T20:07:00.002-07:00

Today, I ventured downtown to the central library to sit and study, and, more importantly, to be with people, albeit strangers. I went to the circulation desk to inquire about getting a library card again. As it turned out, I was no longer in the system because I had been away for so long. Sadly, without proof of my current address on me, I could not acquire a new library card right away. But it still felt comforting to walk along the aisles of books, to see what a happening place the library was. I could almost envision the gears turning within the minds of all the patrons who sat with their laptops plugged in at the desks, writing their papers. It was wonderful to feel as though I belonged.

After a couple of hours of reading over my Psychology notes, I grew restless and burst out into the late afternoon toward the busy shopping district. I stopped by Cafe Artigiano again and ordered myself a mocha and a turkey panino. Crammed into that cozy space, there was a table of Japanese students to my left, while the young couple to my right switched back and forth between French and English. I could have sat there forever, taking it all in, breathing in the aroma of the baked goods and the coffee, feeling myself being wrapped up by the city, by the simultaneous anonymity and warmth amongst strangers.

As dusk fell, I walked out again, joining the throng that hurried either toward home after the workday, or toward the stores for holiday shopping. The bookstore beckoned, and I could not resist. I came away with three beautiful hardcover volumes, and suddenly felt richer, fuller, more complete. It's been a while since I've read a novel. I used to devour fiction, so insatiable was my hunger. But since starting life as a student again, I've been inundated with scholarly articles and textbooks, which, as fascinating as they have been, could never fill the void and satisfy the yearning of that other part of my mind, the part that ached to be swept away, to be challenged, to be taken both deeper within myself and toward the outer reaches of experience.

Sadly, the books will have to sit and wait to be read. I can't touch them for another two weeks, not until I have my two major papers written and my four final exams done. I'll bring them along for my Christmas vacation, for the two weeks when I'll be lounging on the beach with three dear friends in the Dominican Republic.

But, right now, it's back to the books... the textbooks, that is....

The fog is lifting

2008-12-02T17:07:00.006-07:00

First, let me say that this is my 200th post on this blog. It's been almost three years since I started this. (I'm doing the math -- it means about 70 posts per year, which isn't too bad -- for me....) I had a previous blog before this, but that has been defunct long ago. But this one, I kept up, despite times when I thought I was too self-indulgent here. My readership is small, and I want to keep it that way. It's enough that the handful of you out there take the time to read my little rants and leave the occasional comment.

My classes at SFU are officially over. Yesterday was my last day. Now comes time to finish up (oh, who am I kidding -- to start) two major papers and to study for my four final exams. I did make the trek up Burnaby Mountain to campus this afternoon though, to pop by Dr. S's office with a box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts. I had a huge favour to ask of him: to have him provide a reference to get me into grad school. He gladly obliged, and promised to send the reference letters off before going away for four months to Brazil for his research and vacation. We ended up chit-chatting a little bit, and he said that academia had a way of swallowing people up. Those weren't his exact words, but that was what he meant. He alluded to colleagues who slaved away at their research, but who were just so utterly alone in the world, who did not have families to touch them or hug them. I almost asked him which professors he was talking about, so I could just go by their offices and sit and talk to them for a while. But, of course, I didn't. Instead, I was glad to know that my life would never be like that. As alone as I had felt up North or in Vancouver, I always had friends who would stay on the phone with me for hours on end, who would be there even if I was inarticulate and said nothing. I'm a little scared to move to Edmonton for grad school, to a place where I know virtually no one. I've never been one to make friends easily, although the friends that I do make are usually ones that I will have forever.

The fog was thick up at the top of the mountain. It was as though I was walking in a dream. Gone are the crisp autumn days. Next week, when I go up to hand in my Linguistics paper, I'll be asking Dr. D to be a referee as well. I remember three months ago, when all this began, how I was so afraid that I wouldn't be able to get the academic references required for my applications. But time propels us forward, forces us to do what we need to do, to hope, to dream, to live.

Oh happy happy day

2008-11-29T22:03:00.007-07:00

A good friend came to Vancouver from the Island for a conference, and fortunately, we were able to squeeze in a brief visit. We hadn't seen each other for over two years (really?!), but it did not seem that way at all. As I walked in the midst of the end-of-November drizzle on this Saturday morning, there was a lilt in my step. I was traipsing through the downtown streets with purpose. We went to Cafe Artigiano, the place with the fancy foam-art on our lattes. On our way there, outside the art gallery, there was a small crowd of eclectic people holding signs. "What are they protesting?" I wondered to myself. As we got closer, we saw that their signs read, "Happy happy day!" They were giving everyone who passed by high-fives. Even I couldn't help but slap that hot-pink mitt with a silly grin on my face. How utterly refreshing.

At the cafe, we enjoyed our lattes, remembering the times we had spent together, those days that seemed so long ago and yet were so vivid still. E is the friend with whom I had nibbled my stoned wheat thins at the kitchen table late into the night, commiserating for hours on end as the darkness closed in outside. Later today, during a late lunch, she dug out a sheet of paper from her little purse. It was a list she and I and a bunch of friends had scribbled out during a particular night of drunken lucidity almost five years ago, when we brainstormed the advantages of having a band of diverse and interesting women in a lonely northern town. That group of women had disbanded long ago, and I'm only really in touch with E now.

Oh happy happy day indeed, when certain people remain in our lives even as others drift away. With those certain few, all it takes is a phone call, an e-mail, a short visit to reel in that thread that has stretched over time and space, in order to reconnect, reminisce, laugh, and be glad.

The GRE: a guide for dummies (Part Deux... or Epilogue)

2008-11-21T19:41:00.006-07:00

Well, it's over.... And now, I wait....

Because the GRE was a computerized exam, I could see the results for the multiple-choice sections once I had completed the test in its entirety. Before the scores came up on the monitor, a pop-up announced that I had the choice to throw out my scores before seeing them. Now why would anyone want to do that? I didn't even have to specify which grad schools to send the results to until after seeing the scores. So, if I had done poorly, I would simply not have the results sent anywhere. My hand trembled on the mouse as I hesitated at this "screen of death." What if I accidentally clicked on the wrong button, and discarded my scores, after spending over three hours doing some of the most intense thinking I had ever done? Luckily, my nerves calmed down enough to navigate to the right choice.

So -- I'm both pleased and disappointed at the same time. I had thought that I would excel at the Verbal section and do poorly on the Quantitative. After all, don't I have a degree in English Literature? When all was said and done, I kicked some serious butt at the Quantitative section, but the Verbal left something to be desired. I earned 690 for the Verbal, 770 for the Quantitative. And I do know that 690 for Verbal is still a good mark, but I was aiming for higher. Until I receive the results by mail with the corresponding percentiles, I guess I don't really know what it all means. According to the official GRE website, people usually score about 80 points lower in the Verbal section than they do on the Quantitative, so I guess I'm ok.

My initial feeling on the Analytical Writing section is that I did pretty well. I'm going to stop overthinking, as I'm prone to do. In two or three weeks, I'll find out one way or another.

Onward I go.... Time to plow on ahead....

The GRE: a guide for dummies (Part One)

2008-11-20T02:11:00.004-07:00

I'll be taking the GRE on Friday, and still feel much less than prepared. I had printed out the pool of possible essay topics about two months ago, but have not looked at the list since. My excuse is that there are over 300 topics, so I could not feasibly prepare for each adequately anyway.

For a gal who loves words and literature, I also have a strange liking for Math. Back in my high school days, I had won Math contests, beating out senior high students when I was in 8th grade. But it's been years and years since I've cracked open a Math textbook. In the practice GRE tests that I've taken, I'm lucky to get 75% of the questions correct. What scares me about the new computerized method of testing is that I won't be able to skip a difficult question and go back to it later. I must give a response before carrying on, and the question that I get subsequently depends on whether I get that first one right or not. I haven't quite figured out whether it's worth it to spend a lot of time on a question just so I would respond correctly, or if I should give myself a time limit for each question and just carry on come hell or high water.

Other than shuffling through a box of vocabulary flashcards, I started my preparation for the test in earnest only this past week. One of my classmates glared at me as though I was a lunatic when I told her. "People prep for months and months!" she reprimanded. I was trying to act nonchalant, but I was not hiding my panic well at all.

Oh, and another thing -- not all test prep books are created equal. My suggestion for anyone reading this who also might take the GRE sometime in the future: Get the Barron's book, and nothing else. I have bought the Kaplan's, and have borrowed the Pearson and the Princeton Review versions as well, and they seriously do not come close to the Barron's for helpfulness. The Barron's book instilled fear in me, certainly, and I've done horribly on the practice tests presented in the volume, but I think I'm better for it. The other books do not reflect the level of difficulty of the GRE, and would give all test-takers a false sense of their abilities. For instance, when I said that I was lucky to get 75% of the questions right, I was talking about the Barron's. When I did a practice test from the Pearson book, I scored top marks because the questions were ridiculously simple. And trust me, the GRE is many things, but simple it is not. Plus, the Barron's book is the only one that gives sample essay topics that remotely resemble ones that could actually be drawn from the pool.

This is beginning to sound like a product review.... Here are some other pieces of advice to those contemplating taking the GRE: 1) Contact the schools you're applying to in order to inquire which sections they care about and to gauge how much time you need to devote to prepare for each section. 2) Start studying early. 3) At the last minute (like the day before the test), the worst thing to do would be to procrastinate, so don't!

I've sadly not followed any one of the three pieces of advice. And this blog-post is evidence of my procrastination. I'm dumber than the dummy who needs such a guide to the GRE. I need some common sense.

* Part two of this "guide for dummies" will follow after I've taken the exam.... Wish me luck because that's all I'm counting on at this point....

It's time (almost)

2008-11-13T00:12:00.008-07:00

I moved from the North back to Vancouver almost four months ago, and yet, I've still not updated my Blogger profile. I'm beginning to feel settled here again, although there are still many factors to consider soon, after my semester is done.

On the list of things to think about:
1) Should I go to grad school?
2) Do I really want to become a speech-language pathologist?
3) Am I sure I want to abandon teaching?
4) Where should I live? Should I move to Edmonton?
5) Should I return to Inuvik?
6) Should I even think about returning up north?

A couple of days ago, a friend from Inuvik came here for a little visit. We went to the aquarium for the afternoon. It's normally so easy to be immersed in the daily grind and forget what wonders there are on the planet. The aquarium certainly put me back in touch with a magical side of life. However, I have conflicting views on aquariums and zoos. I must admit, I could watch the pulsating jellyfish for hours and marvel at how such a simple creature could fascinate me so much. I could stare unblinkingly at the giant turtle, who looked as though he was flying, gliding, so free and so beautiful. The irony that he was in captivity did not elude me though. And, there were the belugas, with the grey baby in the tank with her mama and grandma. There was something both soothing and disturbing in their movements. The large white bodies swirled by, just mere feet from where we were standing. Their sheer mass and their brilliant white were startling. I've always found a fetal, unfinished quality to these whales, as though they were mounds of clay still waiting to be moulded. I watched in awe as the three whales spun round and round. The silence was finally broken when my friend let out a chortle and said, "We must remember not to harpoon these whales!" I laughed heartily. Those coddled majestic whales were indeed the same as those up north who represent something quite different. Up north, whaling is still a way of life. I had muktuk, squares of beluga, in my freezer just months ago. In that moment, I knew then that I had indeed completed my transition back to being a city-folk once more, when I could watch those belugas with city-eyes.

So yes, it's almost time to change my Blogger profile....

More on Dr. D and others

2008-11-07T00:26:00.005-07:00

It seemed inevitable that I would develop a crush on my professors. Not all of them, just some of them. Not necessarily the good-looking ones, or even the brilliant ones, just the ones that let me see beyond their "professorly" personas. In my first year of university, I found Dr. W irresistibly charming. Mind you, he was old enough to be my father, yet there was something about his manner. He was filled not only with wit, but also with great gentleness. I discovered some wonderful works of literature in his class, including one of my favourite plays of all time, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. I never thought of Dr. W as a particularly effective teacher, but he was patient. I would end up following him, taking his Medieval Studies class the next year. I did superbly in the class, but I found it incredibly dull. People could tell me that I could treat history as stories, as literature, only more fascinating because the events actually happened. I've heard that plenty of times, but give me a novel, a play, a poem any day over anything non-fiction. I love telling people that Dr. W's name means "devil." He never actually told me that, but I found that out from reading The Master and Margarita. The name seemed oddly fitting, and I absolutely loved it because it was just the perfect irony.

In my second year, I was head-over-heels in love with Dr. B. It was the kind of love that a kindergartener might develop for her teacher, the all-knowing and all-wonderful being. Dr. B taught the most challenging literature course I had ever taken. The thoughts and ideas she would fling at us were lightning-quick and just plain brilliant. She was a young professor, someone whom I admired so much. I hung onto her every word. Her course remains the class upon which I look most fondly to this day. Dr. B had a mystery about her, even though she was so open about discussing anything, literature-related or otherwise. She always dressed in black, and ran all the fundraising events around town despite her asthma fits. If I were going to be a scholar, I would want to be someone like Dr. B.

My final years at UBC were rather uninteresting. There was Dr. P, yes, who told such fanciful tales, the only things worth going to his classes for. But no, I didn't find anyone to compare to Dr. W or Dr. B. Until now....

I had mentioned Dr. D in my last post, he of the orange shoes. Well, I went to see him today in his office. There were mounds and mounds of papers everywhere. His ancient computer was propped up by some ancient books. When I walked in to talk to him about my term paper, I scanned the room, and in that moment, it was my favourite room in the whole wide world. I loved the big wooden table, the journals and books and papers strewn across it and every surface, the post-its stuck by the computer monitor. It was a room reflecting a mind at work, a mind in the process of delving into some mystery, some passion, something that might seem trivial, but that means the world to someone. I can complain about his class just as much as the rest of my classmates, but I just have to love Dr. D for his shoes and his office. I have no choice in the matter.

A stroll in the AQ

2008-11-05T19:38:00.005-07:00

The AQ (Academic Quadrangle) is one of the main buildings at Simon Fraser University. Some of my classes are held there, and some of my professors have offices there. Downstairs, there are study areas and a cafeteria. It's easy to get lost in the AQ; every corridor, every corner looks the same. And because it's shaped like a square frame, you could walk and walk and turn and turn and end up right where you started.

Here are some things that I've found as I try to make AQ my place of belonging on campus: Dr. C loves cats. She teaches British History, but it seems as though her chief passion is cats. Her office door is covered with articles about cats, pictures of cats, cartoon-strips of cats, everything feline-related. I don't actually have Dr. C as a professor, yet I like her already. Dr. D, whom I do have, hails from Saskatchewan. I love the wide open prairie skies of Saskatchewan, and I really like prairie-folk, even as I tend to disagree with their politics. Dr. D loves orange shoes. His shoes are either predominantly orange, or else they have an orange trim. He loves to hum, and probably doesn't realize that other people can actually hear him. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, and is an idiosyncratic, endearing man from whom I'm learning Linguistics. I'm not sure I like the class -- in fact, I'm quite sure that I don't like it -- but I certainly like Dr. D. The way he absent-mindedly twists open the cap of his Coke bottle and then twists it back on without taking a sip, his tendency to stare at the ceiling while he talks, his excited gestures, his bike helmet that he carries to class without fail -- these are things that amuse me and remind me that academia is made up of people who are quite normal and accessible and interesting to observe.

Along one of the corridors, there are framed prints from Cape Dorset lining the wall. I discovered them just today during one of my aimless strolls, to kill time after my Stats final (which went well, I think), before my next class. Here was a corridor that seemed different to me, that spoke to me, unlike the countless others in the AQ. I found myself marvelling at the prints, and marvelling at myself for recognizing the work of some of the Northern artists, recognizing the style. Since returning from Inuvik, it was the first time I had seen northern art displayed. To come upon it so unexpectedly dispelled the gloom of the November day. People were staring at me as though I was a lunatic when I took out my cell phone and snapped photos of the prints along the wall. But I didn't care.

Darker days, but better things

2008-11-04T14:03:00.009-07:00

After turning the clock back an hour over the weekend, I've been shocked by how dark it's been by the time I'm done on campus. Just last week, I was able to see the pink glow on the horizon as I walked home from the Skytrain station, but this week, the sky is already a dusky blue by the time I step out of the classroom. On the train, it's lights against a velvety black that I see now.

I've reached a plateau of sorts, after several weeks of emotional nadir. It's been my friends who have helped me through this tough time. Yes, they're always there for me, always supportive, but they're also not enabling my self-sabotaging, self-pitying behaviour. Last night, I touched base with my friend K who had been on vacation for a few weeks, several long weeks it seemed to me. She knew me so well that she made me cry.... It was a good cry, one that was cathartic, that made me see that I was quickly becoming a person that I didn't like at all. I was too hung up on the past, and allowed myself to be haunted by past ghosts that I missed the important things of the here-and-now. I had allowed my schoolwork to lapse, when it should have been one of my priorities, something that I had aimed for and had wanted badly for myself.

Another friend, J, made a pact with me last night. We would not see each other or talk to each other any more if I were to continue on this self-destructive path. We're going by the honour system, and I know I must honour this pact because she has honoured me by being so brave as to suggest it in the first place.

Oh, and there's nothing like a good movie to vicariously resolve some emotional turmoil. I saw The Secret Life of Bees the other day, and was weepy throughout. I had to try very hard not to sob out loud, and there were such enormous lumps in my throat that I was visibly shaking at times. But it felt wonderful.

Tomorrow, I'll be taking an important exam for my statistics course. I feel prepared for it, as my focus is back now. I'm ready to kick some stats butt! I think it's my best course so far, when ironically, it's the class I had been most afraid of at the beginning. If I do as well as I hope to do tomorrow, I'll come away with a final mark of 100% in the course, or very close to it anyway. It's something I've not been able to do since my high school days, when it wasn't so hard to get "perfect" on tests, assignments, and exams.

Thanks to everyone who has been there for me. Not all of those people read this blog, but I thank them all the same. And to those of you who do read my blog, thank you too. You've helped me by letting me have this forum to vent.

Here are some pics of the beach in West Vancouver, on one of the last beach days of the season:

'Twas the day before Halloween...

2008-10-30T22:03:00.003-06:00

I know, I know -- In my previous post, I had said that I was going to take a break from the blog in order to get my stuff together... and here I am again, posting more frequently than ever before. But, this blog has been able to let me hash out my thoughts and feelings. I used to write in my journal every day, often filling ten pages daily. Since earlier this year, perhaps in February or March, I had stopped cold turkey because I felt as though it was doing nothing to help get me out of the funk I was in. Although I censor myself a bit on this blog, and don't provide names, I like having this outlet. It might even be a bit healthier than the nonsensical scrawls that used to fill up my journals. When I wrote in my journal, I could feel myself imploding, perhaps falling apart even more, getting caught up in my circular negativity. When I write here, even when I don't have many readers, I feel as though I'm sending my thoughts off somewhere out into the world, where they might disperse or be resolved. I guess I'm tricking my mind into thinking this way, but it does help.

It's the day before Halloween, and my friend and I went downtown to shop for some things for our costumes. Here's the conversation between my friend C and the cashier (let's call him K) at the store. I was laughing too hard to join in:

K: I can't find the barcode on these overalls.

C: It's the last one. I'm getting this cheap kind because it's just for Halloween.

K: Oh yeah?

C: (pointing at me) Yeah. See, we were gonna be Smurfs, and we got our blue body paint and everything, but we just can't seem to pull it all together. So now V is gonna be this Minerva kind of character with a 'fro and weird tattoo-like markings all over her face. You know the Dresden Dolls? The band? V's going to be like that, with the markings on a white painted face.

K: No, I don't know the Dresden Dolls.

C: (starts singing) I'm a coin-operated boy, coin-operated boy.....

By now, the people standing in line behind us were laughing....

K: I don't know the Dresden Dolls. But hey, (talking to me), you should do the markings with liquid eyeliner. That would look good on you.

C: Yeah! Liquid eyeliner! And I'm gonna be "Punky Bluester" with rainbow dreads.

K: I'm going to be Ken-Barbie.

C: Ken-Barbie? Like half-Ken and half-Barbie?

K: Well, no, just Ken.

C: Then you should say, "I'm gonna be a Ken doll...."

K: I just wanted to mention that it's the Ken like Ken and Barbie.

C: We'd all know that! There's only one Ken!

K: But hey, Barbie has Drake now too!

C: Drake?

K: Yeah, Drake's this brown guy. Barbie and Ken are separated....

C: Good on them for the diversity. Oh, what you learn nowadays....

K: Oh! Let's see about this barcode....

Yes, I'm going to a Halloween party tomorrow, dressed up as something I'm not sure how to describe.... I'll tell you about it afterward, and maybe I'll e-mail you some pics since posting them on the internet is not going to happen!

What I learn on Skytrains and buses

2008-10-30T00:41:00.004-06:00

Today, a young woman sat beside me on the train. After a couple of stations, she started giggling uncontrollably, covering her face with her hands, bending over the backpack she had placed on her lap. Many of the passengers, at least those not absorbed in their iPods or their cell-phones, turned to stare with disapproval. Meanwhile, I looked out the window, embarrassed to have her next to me. It was as though I wanted everyone to know that I was not with the giggling lunatic sitting beside me. The woman continued laughing for what seemed like minutes, and then finally stood up and got off the train, one station before my stop. I didn't feel relief over her departure; instead, the empty space beside me for that last little stretch before I got off seemed infinitely more embarrassing. I realized it would have done us all good to be able to laugh with such spontaneity and abandon once in a while. Maybe one of these days, when I feel braver, I'll laugh at nothing on the train and ignore all the dirty looks. It might be therapeutic.

On the crowded bus, a student stood holding onto a pole by the exit door. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder. On the outside pockets, the name "Kristen" was scribbled in blue ink over and over again. I just had to smile. It was something I would have done to a boy's backpack years ago, scrawling my name all over and daring him to appear in public with it. The boy's nonchalance was endearing and it just made my day.

* I'm going to disappear from the blogosphere for a short while, just until I get back into the swing of things with school. I know what I need to do....

If only it were about lollipops

2008-10-28T22:09:00.008-06:00

The past two weeks or so have seen my schoolwork grind to almost a complete stop. Those of you who read this blog regularly would know that as I've chronicled my ups and downs these past few years, there had been times when I was so disillusioned and heartbroken that I wouldn't know how to pick myself up. Although I'm not currently in that state exactly, lately I've been visited by my old friend, Insomnia, accompanied by Overthinking and their little friend What-If.

I've spent a lot of time sitting and being self-absorbed. Lying in bed at night, I would churn the events of the past few years of my life over and over again in my mind, and wonder if I would be in my current confusion if I had chosen a different path. I know that what-ifs are futile, but I can't help but wonder. I wasn't ready to settle down, wasn't ready to commit to a relationship, wasn't ready to be content in what I had. Due to my own immaturity, or perhaps my sense of adventure, or my sense of simultaneous greatness and insignificance at the time, I had hurt someone who loved me, who wanted to give me the world in the way he knew how. Not only did I not accept his world, I tossed it and his heart away, and fled to search for "something," which, after five years, I still haven't found yet. It all comes to timing. If I were offered the same things again right now, I would wrap them up and cherish them and never let them go.

My dear friend, my "sister from another mister," dispensed her wisdom this past week when I went to her with my disillusionment. She said, "You can't choose who you love." I suppose there are different stages of love. There's the love that is great enough for you to offer the world to another, the love that is not yet great enough to accept the offer, the love that hurts, the love that regrets, the love that wishes for another chance. The problem with not being able to choose the person you love is that it goes both ways. What goes around comes around.... The heart that tosses others in turn gets tossed itself.

To him, somewhere: I'm sorry to have hurt you all those years ago. I know how you must have felt, as I'm still reeling from my own heartbreak. People tell me that time heals all wounds. I haven't found it to be true yet, but I hope it's been true for you. I hope you have retained the love that lets you offer the world, and have found the person who has the love great enough to accept it. I'm sorry I wasn't the one. My heart knows who to offer the world to, but neither heart nor world has been accepted or cherished at this point.

We're supposed to see the world more clearly as we grow up, but I seem to see only the past with any lucidity so that I'm now sorely aware of what I have missed. I don't regret having ventured up North for five years, not one bit, but I wonder at what expense have I gained my adventures and experience. Why is life such a riddle? When we were little, it was possible to have both the red and green lollipops, and if not, we could always have one now and save one for later. But now, if we chose one, we could never go back and have the other as well.

I am aware that to most of you, my rant merely demonstrates how much more I have to learn about love and life. The knowledge that I will look back upon this moment at some later time and see how over-dramatic I am being does nothing to diminish my sense of aloneness and melancholy right now. I am, however, also aware that there are still things to marvel at in the world. Today, I took the long route home, and walked through the wide boulevard with all the fall leaves overhead and at my feet. It felt good to kick up a storm of golden leaves and see them whirl in the dusky glow.

Ode to today

2008-10-25T22:12:00.007-06:00

This is an ode to today,
To the day that followed a sleepless night,
To an awakening to unexpected joy,
To the clouds that were burned away by the heat of the sun,
To revisiting an old haunt,
To walking the old campus,
To admiring the changes,
To things that stayed the same,
To taking tests in a hushed room,
To Betty, the invigilator who so clearly loved people,
To having more people who smile and love,
To a $2.75 slice of pizza after all these years,
To the boy who gave up his seat on the bus,
To the two hockey fans (one Oilers, one Canucks) who stopped to talk to me,
To a beloved cat at my feet,
To seeing someone from a new perspective,
To seeing myself with fresh eyes,
To today,
To my day.

Today, I went back to UBC to take my tests for the Public Service Commission, for several positions that I had applied for (as a back-up plan). Arrived there at 7:20 in the morning, and had a gruelling 6 hours of tests. I thought it would ruin my Saturday, but Betty, a woman who supervised the exams, made them a pleasure to take. No, she didn't give away any responses, but she helped in a way infinitely better: She had a radiance about her that calmed all the nervous test-takers down. This was a woman who loved her job, who loved people, who believed in kindness. When a few stragglers came in late, one of the other administrators was ready to toss them out in a huff, but Betty, in her gentle, soft-spoken ways, made it all better. And no one was annoyed or embarrassed in the process. And she supplied us all with sharpened pencils with such flourish that I felt like a kid receiving a magic wand. From then on, the day just got better. Can't beat a giant cookie out of the vending machine, or the best $2.75 slice of pizza, still the same as how I remember it from years ago. I passed by the beautiful library again, walked old paths but saw new sights. Reconnected with important people, who allow my flights of fancy, but who ground me, and make it so easy for me to love them. I feel different today. I feel more myself, more alive, just more....

7 weird things

2008-10-23T18:59:00.005-06:00

Monica has tagged me for this meme, where I have to describe seven weird things about myself. I've done a similar meme before, but have hardly exhausted the list. So here goes -- seven weird things that I'll admit to about myself:

1) I hate clowns. Hate them with a vengeance, and yes, "hate" is a very strong word. I do not like their red noses, their rainbow-coloured costumes, their antics, and, last but definitely not least, their balloon animals. I also hate balloons (with the exception of foil ones filled with helium -- those are cute). Don't even tell me that Cirque du Soleil is cool. I find the troupe freaky. And I realize that the problem lies in me, not them.

2) My favourite thing to photograph is the sky. I love clouds and their crazy patterns. I love the way treetops scrape against the infinite blue.

3) The dresser in my room is full of books, not clothes.

4) Sometimes, I would write myself notes in secret code. The problem is, I sometimes forget how to decode the messages when I stumble upon them later.

5) Occasionally, I would get the childish obsessive-compulsive desire to avoid all cracks on the sidewalk. Alternately, I would desire to step on every crack instead. I also sometimes race strangers up and down flights of stairs in public places. (Of course, they have no idea that I'm racing them at all!)

6) I tend to laugh at the most inappropriate moments, and I can't help it. Once, I started laughing when a friend told me his dog had to be put down. Good thing he knew me well enough not to take offence. I know, how awful....

7) I like to ride backwards on trains and see the world receding.

I'm supposed to tag seven people now, but I don't have enough readers with blogs. So, I'll leave it to whoever happens to stumble upon this post and wants to participate to do it. Also, my friends who read the blog (yes, all four of you!) can participate by leaving something in the comment section if they so choose.

I'll leave you with a cloud pic:

Ceremony

2008-10-11T12:08:00.012-06:00

SFU held its convocation ceremonies this past week for students who finished their courses in the summer term. As I wound my way from the library to the bus-stop, I was caught in the post-ceremony bustle. The pipe band snaked its way amongst the graduands, their loved ones, and other casual observers like me. It was all so regal, so collegial, so touching. I didn't know any of the grads, but I could feel a swelling of emotion inside of me.

All those years ago, I had missed my own convocation for my B.Ed. degree. By the time the ceremony came around, I was already up North, two months into my teaching job. It didn't matter to me then, and only now do I get a tangible sense of what I had missed.

I have been whining to my friends that being a student again feels as though I am regressing. But, there's something different about it this time. As children, we looked upon all the little things as immensely important because we knew nothing outside of our small insular worlds; now, we see the significance in them because we know so much, and can imbue each small ritual or ceremony with meaning from our past, hope for our future, an entanglement of memories, dreams, and desires.

It was a bright blue day, and the mountain air was cool. We could see our breaths in the fall air, breaths that signalled a changing of seasons, a passing of time, a new phase. It was the perfect day for people to come together for a ceremony, a fall "harvest" of sorts, to reap what we have sown, before we all disperse our own separate ways, as leaves in the autumn breeze.

* This does NOT count as a school post. (I had vowed a couple of posts previous to this that I would refrain from writing about school.) Note that I have not mentioned how I have done on my midterms, or my stress over the imminent major projects -- or IF I'm indeed stressed out over them at all.

Wishing

2008-10-08T23:10:00.007-06:00

It all seems trivial -- tests, essays, school, the agony of career choices, life choices, all of it -- when one little girl is in the operating room right now getting her third liver transplant. So much to endure for such a young, innocent little one.

I'm wishing a million times to the outer reaches of the universe and back that this little girl will get to worry about tests and school and careers one day. She deserves to have these trivial worries someday. She deserves bus-rides to and from campus, lattes in hand. She deserves to explore the world.

Please let her eyes smile again, let her run and wrestle and frolic and play again. Let her family breathe easy -- let them snuggle her close and know that she's safe.

Please. I don't really know this little girl, but I know that she's curious, she's creative, she's bold, she's brave. Most importantly, she's loved, and surely, this love must mean something. Please let this mean that she has a place in the world, that she has a whole life ahead of her. A whole, happy, loving, blessed life. Please.

Update -- October 9: She's through her surgery, this strong-willed little girl. Still sending good wishes in the days ahead....

* Further update -- Annika is back in the operating room due to complications that are (hopefully) fairly normal after a major transplant. But, it absolutely baffles my mind that any of this could be "normal" for anyone, much less a little girl and her family. Check out the updates from Anni's mother, and please think good thoughts and send them out into the world.

Our own little bubbles

2008-09-30T23:18:00.003-06:00

October is just around the corner. The maples are turning red. I noticed a woman stopping by the side of the road to admire the hues and to stoop down -- despite carrying a hefty load in her arms -- to pick up a delicate little leaf. And there I was, admiring the same autumnal colours, and admiring the woman for taking the time to notice, and admiring the world for creating such a perfect moment.

In my myriad of trips on the buses and Skytrain these past few weeks, I've had the pleasure of people-watching. Something about the anonymity of the city makes it easy but not quite acceptable to look long and hard at strangers. It seems as though everyone is so preoccupied by his/her own internal dialogue that no one actually notices others. It is as though we all exist in separate bubbles, all floating through the daily city bustle, and only occasionally, when our bubbles bump against each other and burst, do we realize that we aren't alone. And then, when we make eye contact, we just end up shocked, or embarrassed, or both.

There are several strangers that I see time and time again. We haven't ever talked or acknowledged each other, yet I feel as though I know something about them. There is a young woman who is always so smartly dressed, exuding New York chic. Yet nothing about her is pretentious, as though elegance is an inborn trait. When everyone else is eager to get onto the next available Skytrain, tired after a day's work, steps heavy and shoulders slightly hunched, this young woman stands cool and composed, never rushing ahead with the masses. Today, I saw her with two heavy volumes tucked under one arm: On one spine, it read, "Conditioning for Dancers." My mind went, Aha! It was like the confirmation of something I had known all along. There are numerous others whom I encounter on my daily journeys: An old man whose eyes twinkle at the sight of young children with their mothers, the wheelchair-bound man with beautiful wizened white hair who smiles freely at others, and the transit staff who helps him find space in the packed train-cars every afternoon.

All those little glimpses into the lives of others allow me to feel all right about being in the city, to float among strangers. I live for the moments when our bubbles collide and burst.

Anything but school

2008-09-28T21:20:00.006-06:00

I'm sick of thinking about school. I am repulsed by the checklists that I make each weekend, where all the items say "study," "research," or "assignment." I am hating myself for having abandoned journalling, for not having played the piano or violin for more than a few minutes total since moving back to Vancouver, for not jumping at every opportunity to go to a movie, a concert, or anywhere but school.

Lately, all my dreams have involved me taking an exam; most of the time, I would fail miserably, but in one instance, I dreamt that my professor had returned my test along with a bouquet of helium balloons to congratulate me on my success. How utterly sad and pathetic am I....

Tomorrow, I should be getting an in-class essay back in one of my Linguistics classes. Since handing it in last Monday, I've been living in a shroud of self-doubt, thinking and rethinking that essay, and finally realizing that I had repeatedly made an error that everybody else in class would never ever have made. And of course, that just made me kick myself even more.

That's it.... I'm orchestrating an intervention. I resolve to stop talking about school in my next five posts.

Here's a photo from this evening, this glorious golden evening, during a leisurely stroll around the lake.

And here are a couple from last weekend, at the beach by the sailing club. See, I do have a little bit of a life outside of school, although you wouldn't know it from talking to me.

A rainbow to call my own

2008-09-20T15:48:00.007-06:00

Last week, I returned to UBC, where I had pursued my first two university degrees. Since I was there last, the main library had been renovated. The only part that had been kept was a portion of the old stone facade in the front and the vaulted entryway. It was a strange feeling, entering that library again after all these years. My mind was busy searching for the image of the low-ceilinged floors, the shelves jammed with ancient volumes that had probably not touched scholarly hands in decades, the occasional lonely soul sitting by the window, reminiscent of a captive in a medieval prison tower. I used to be one of those people who would frequently self-inflict this exile, escape into the dark library, navigate the labyrinthine stairwells and emerge onto one of the upper floors, all in order to find a small piece of quiet to call my own.

So, there I was, bursting through those wooden doors, to be confronted by wide open spaces, beautiful art adorning the walls, huge floor-to-ceiling windows along the back wall. It was a completely different universe. My mind had the utmost trouble reconciling the inner image with the image newly created by the visual feast.

Mind you, I love the new library. I could envision myself stretched out on a comfy lounge-chair, with a book in hand. I could envision myself walking along the bookshelves, gently brushing my fingers along the spines of the books. I could envision myself sitting in a corner and doing absolutely nothing, just sitting quietly for hours.

As I exited the main UBC library last weekend, I noticed a rainbow at my feet. I had actually not intended to revisit my old alma mater that day at all. I had driven to the beach, to take in the glorious day, but could not find parking. I kept driving along the shore, and somehow, I ended up by UBC. It was as though something subconscious within me knew that I was supposed to see the new library, to find that rainbow by my feet.

Everything considered, I still miss my old library -- my dark corridors, my low ceilings, my musty volumes -- if for no other reason than the feeling that it was mine. It's too bad that I had decided not to return to UBC this semester to take my new courses. I would never be able to claim those prisms of light, those rainbows, as mine. Instead, I'm up the mountain at Simon Fraser. I have yet to find a space there to call my own, my little escape, my sitting, breathing space. Maybe I'll start my search on Monday.

Birthdays come and birthdays go

2008-09-14T01:01:00.005-06:00

I had a birthday last week. It was the first one in six years that I'd been able to spend with family. The last five birthdays had been spent up in the arctic, with the "revolving-door" circle of friends that I had at that particular time, with strangers that grew to resemble family even more than actual blood relatives because in a transient small town such as Inuvik, people clung onto each other and intimacies flourished in a matter of months upon first meeting.

My first birthday up in Inuvik was within weeks of arriving there, within days of starting my brand-new teaching gig. One roommate baked me a big chocolate cake, and she and my other roommate chipped in to buy me a wall tile depicting drum-dancers against a night sky aglow with northern lights -- my first piece of northern art. Those wall tiles would later become an obssession; by the end of that school year, we had fourteen of them scattered around the living room wall. Those tiles moved with me to my second apartment in Inuvik, and when I finally took them down two months ago, wrapped them up in sweaters and stuffed them tightly in amongst my towels and linens, I felt sad and nostalgic. It was the wrapping up of my northern experience, of the most important chapter in my life to-date.

On a very different birthday, my last one up north -- a year and a week ago -- I was grieving the sudden loss of a friend. I hadn't felt like celebrating, but sorely needed someone to wish me a happy birthday all the same. It was the one year my parents had forgotten to send me a card or to call me, and I was steeping in a pool of shock and sorrow, mixed with an infinite dose of "aloneness." My boyfriend at the time was at work in another town, and he didn't even know it was my birthday. When he called, I tearfully begged him to wish me a happy birthday, which he dutifully obliged, but I felt unconsoled. Later that night, two friends in town took me out for a wonderful supper; I even had a slice of gooey chocolatey goodness adorned with a sparkler -- I was so embarrassed, but also comforted. My birthday had been salvaged after all.

This year, my birthday was low-key, with lunch at one of my favourite restaurants, a light, airy, heavenly sponge cake, and photos with the family around the table. One day, this birthday will meld into the other Vancouver birthdays I've had and will have. I'll flip open the family photo album, and may not even recognize the photo as marking the turning of a new page in my life, the return to Vancouver, home, after five years. And I absolutely love that: the lack of drama, the lack of fanfare, the quiet contentment. I don't feel older or wiser, but I have a feeling that this is going to be a wonderful year.

Summer memories

2008-09-09T23:54:00.007-06:00

Here are some photos of my recent trip to California. I'm completely swamped with piles of schoolwork, and I can't believe the roadtrip ended only a week and a half ago. That was the end of my carefree, golden, suntanning summer. And now, it's fall. It's back-to-the-grind, reading, thinking time. It's leaves whirling, waiting for first frost, cozy dusky time. These photos seem worlds away and ages ago.

Church by Washington Square in San Francisco. I remember the truly divine breakfast we had at a little roadside cafe in the vicinity.

The "crookedest street" as seen from above

View from the Hoover Tower at Stanford

How I wish I could study here, if only I had that kind of money!

Carmel Mission

At Pebble Beach

By the highway in Big Sur

Pfeiffer Beach, a secluded, windy, gorgeous piece of heaven on earth

View from Nepenthe, where we saw pods of whales migrating

The boardwalk by Moonstone Beach

The Neptune Pool at Heart Castle

Cayucos, with its pelicans galore

A beautiful Arabian, two-time national champion She Be Jammin

A fairy-tale stallion

The Old Mission in Santa Barbara

County courthouse

Young surfers

The pier on Manhattan Beach

Is it Christmas yet?

2008-09-06T02:15:00.002-06:00

I've been back to school for a week now, and I'm overwhelmed and anxious. I had always loved school. Ten years ago, I was just starting my first undergrad degree, and was so wide-eyed and keen. Never did I skip a single class that first year, so eager was I to soak up everything, from the professors' knowledge and antics, to the sprawl of the campus, the cafeteria food, all of it. I always took at least five courses per semester, and toward the end, I had seven on the go because I wanted to make sure I had all the requirements to get into an Education program after my BA. Meanwhile, I worked several evenings a week teaching music theory lessons, and volunteered at my local Boys' and Girls' Club in their after school program. And, other than the period of my education practicum when I almost had a complete meltdown, I took it all in stride. I managed to juggle everything and felt as though I had a healthy, balanced life, comprising of school, work, family, and friends.

Not so any more. Yes, it's true that I have five years of teaching under my belt, and I've travelled and seen more of the world, experienced more and learned so much from my five years in the arctic. However, I find myself doubting, for the first time ever, that I can do well in my classes. Shouldn't it be easy to revert to being a student after being a teacher for so many years? Shouldn't I have a better understanding of what my professors want from me? Perhaps, but for the most part, I've been a quivering blob of jello this past week, sitting there hoping that the professor would not call on me. I didn't want to seem foolish if I made a mistake demonstrating what a glottal stop was. And, for the life of me, I didn't know how to make a uvular trill.

I have five courses that I intend to finish this semester: two Linguistics, two Psychology, and one Statistics. They are all so different from what I had pursued in my first degrees. I remember finding a shady spot under a tree on campus and getting completely absorbed in my textbooks all those years ago. Of course, I was reading mostly novels, poetry, and the like, since I was majoring in English Literature. Sitting under a tree with a hefty Biological Psychology text just does not have the same romance and feel.

On top of it all, I'm supposed to be studying for my GRE, which is required for entrance to the grad school I want. I have bought myself a prep book and a box of vocabulary flashcards. I haven't really started on any of it yet, but I felt a great sense of accomplishment when I was able to eliminate at least half of the words in the box of flashcards because I already knew them. I may not know much about synapses and neurons, or about affricates and plosives, but words I do have a pretty good handle on.

I am sorely aware of my problem -- I spend more time worrying than I do actually doing my work. I'm blaming my apparent maladjustment on being a "mature" student, on having lived in a small town for too long, on the novelty of the course subjects, on everything but the simple truth of my being a worry-wart. Honestly, I find the Linguistics courses absolutely fascinating. I find the different ways of explaining the act of speech in all its minutiae incredibly stimulating. And, although I dread having to memorize and regurgitate in my Biological Psychology course, I am intrigued by how far science has come in understanding the human body and the workings of the mind, and by how far there is still to go. I haven't touched the Stats course yet, and am more than a bit afraid to crack open that textbook, but I've always liked graphs and solving math-puzzles, so I should just launch myself into it.

Maybe next week I'll find a grassy patch to sit on while my mind fills itself with all those new snippets of knowledge. There might be something romantic about sitting there with my Statistics text and my graphing calculator, as I look up at the clouds and imagine numbers and t-charts and such floating in the air. After all, doesn't "bell curve" sound august and grand, something upon which I can build a future?

I'm going to revise my first sentence of the post: I've been back to school for a week now, and I'm overwhelmed and anxious and incredibly grateful.

To quiet the mind and open the heart

2008-09-01T21:59:00.004-06:00

It would appear that I have disappeared since returning to Vancouver. But, the fact of the matter is, I picked up and left for sunny California in search of a last carefree summer. I should have been working on my correspondance courses which started in July; I should have been preparing for the on-campus courses that are to start tomorrow (What!?); I should have stayed and reconnected with old friends and old haunts.... But, I was on a quest. I needed to quiet the mind and open the heart, to feel the pulse of life around me and inside of me, to be excited and silenced by the everyday.

I think I found that, to a certain extent, in California. When facing the wide open ocean off the beaten path in Guadeloupe, I felt as though I was the only person in the wide, wild world. I felt free, unburdened by anything, yet not lonely. I was simply alive.

The journey from San Francisco to Los Angeles, through coastal villages and mountain passes, was exhilarating, overwhelming, soothing. The little moments of connecting with others and with nature are ones that I'll never forget. I'll remember the little girl who skipped over to me, proudly displaying a tiny baby crab cradled in her tiny palm. I'll remember the two boys chasing after seagulls and brown pelicans in that small brown patch of sand overlooking the ocean. I'll remember the older boy, all but three years old perhaps, running alongside the younger one, pointing to him and delightedly proclaiming, "Baby!!!" Oh, my dear boy-child, if I could bottle up that innocence, that sparkle in your eyes, the big scary grown-up world would just recede and give way to a magic land. I'll remember the father walking along the pier with his young daughter, holding hands, her sundress iridescent in the sunlight, flowing in the seabreeze. I'll remember the old man sitting at a roadside cafe, who greeted me as though we were friends from long ago, who, with his booming voice and bright smile, instantaneously made my task of dragging my suitcase ten blocks not so daunting. I'll remember the sad sealion hiding in the rocks in the restless sea, alone and mournful, weathered by time and living.

And now, I'm gearing up for the next phase in my life. Part of me feels as though I'm regressing by being a student again. Shouldn't I have figured out what I want to do with my life by now? But, I've realized that figuring out what to do is an ongoing goal, a plan that I'll undertake for as long as I live. And the important thing is that I journey on, plan for what I can, and accept the unknown with a quiet mind and an open heart.

* As usual, I promise to post pictures in a later post... and I might actually follow through this time!

In the city

2008-08-02T01:29:00.001-06:00

In the city, on clear nights, the sky is the deepest blue imaginable, and you look up and see a smattering of stars. You’ve forgotten that they ever existed, and you feel an immense gladness for having turned your face upward and seen them. In the city, on rainy nights, the sky glows a burgundy-orange-red. You’re never sure why this artificial dusk appears, if it’s the reflection of the streetlamps on the water droplets, or the sun’s remnants from below the horizon, or something more wondrous, defying explanation. In the city, you can go and watch a movie in a darkened theatre, and feel anonymously cozy amongst strangers. And, you can find yourself laughing at a line that no one else finds funny – or almost no one. There’s that one other person in that darkened room, that other anonymous person many rows below you, who guffaws, and then quickly stifles that laughter, embarrassed, just as you are. In the city, that single moment could be the most connected you’ve felt to someone in that entire day. And that makes you sad. And quiet. And blessed. All at the same time.

A week later

2008-07-31T17:51:00.003-06:00

A week ago, I arrived back in Vancouver, with kitty-cat in tow. So far, I’ve managed to eat out every single day, and have found my comfort food in various ramen noodles and pho. I’m still waiting for the majority of my possessions to arrive from Inuvik, but have received a couple of parcels already through the mail from the cheerful Canada Post man in the mail-van. One thing I absolutely will not miss is carrying cumbersome packages to and from the post office in minus-twenty weather.

Hit Commercial Drive last weekend, and tried to feel like a part of the city in those hours of browsing, lounging, and taking in the various city folk. I imagined myself reliving my high school days of shopping at the funky ethnic shops for clothes for school, trying on beanies and tie-dyed overalls and testing all the strange and different musical instruments from Asia or Africa. I wondered if my appearance and mannerisms betrayed my sense of alienation from that world. Was my Gore-Tex coat no longer standard Westcoast wear? I tried not to look around too much, tried to appear as though I knew where I was going, as though I had been walking that stretch of sidewalk every day. Sometime between the consumption of sushi and gelato, I began to feel fine about this decision to come back.

I’ve found my tree. It’s by a lake that’s in my neighbourhood, smack dab in the middle of the bustling city. This tree looks oddly familiar, like something out of a recurring dream, or out of the cover of a beloved, tattered book. This little birch seemed to have an aura about it, seemed to glow under the fish-belly overcast sky. Standing in front of it, I was struck by a deep sense of peace, of wholeness, of – dare I say it – home.

I’m in the process of planning out the rest of this summer, with visits from various friends, and a couple of roadtrips. I’ve also started attacking my first online course, and just took my first online quiz. Now that the first has been conquered, the rest will be easy. I’m also starting to read something other than textbooks again, starting with a gift from a good friend. It’s a slapstick comedy of a novel, and I’m loving it, and loving myself as I read it.

Here are some more pictures by the lake. Maybe my “Vancouver sniffles” are worth all this greenery, this serenity in the midst of crowds, of city-folk that seem so separate. Maybe we should all just stand by this lake and breathe together.

This perfect town

2008-07-23T23:32:00.002-06:00

I’m sitting in my hotel room in Whitehorse. Five years ago, this northern capital was the perfect transition from the big West Coast city of Vancouver to the remote northern town of Inuvik. I remember walking the trails that summer, marvelling at the mountains on either side. To me, Whitehorse was the perfect town. It was artsy, funky, quaint, magnificently natural, and just so comfortable.

And now, it serves as the perfect transition from Inuvik, my home for the past five years, back to cosmopolitan Vancouver. This afternoon, I was holding my breath as the plane taxied for take-off. Once in the air, I saw myself as officially gone from Inuvik, lifting away from the land and the soul of the town that had held my heart all these years.

I walked the downtown of Whitehorse once more, revisiting some of the haunts I had come to know from my multiple trips through year after year. I visited Fireweed Books, and stopped in to see the albino moose at Murdoch’s. There’s now a Starbucks on the corner, and the Bonanza Hotel is gone. I had supper at the Vietnamese noodle house, and had the most wonderful salad rolls and pho. I can’t remember the last time I had used chopsticks before this. Whitehorse remains the perfect town in my eyes, even through the changes I’ve noticed. I dream of perhaps settling here someday, of letting the beauty of the river and mountains become my landscape.

Early this morning, my friend K called me from Yellowknife. She was there these few days for work, and missed the chance to bid me farewell. She understood what leaving Inuvik meant for me, how my world would turn topsy-turvy. She understood how Vancouver was no longer “home” to me, how Inuvik had grown to be part of my very being. She noted that my cat would be the only constant to remain in my life. In a sense, she’s right: My adorable three-year-old cat is born and raised in Inuvik. She has known no other home. Her home is in me; wherever I go, she will go as well. I’m glad that I have her. She signifies the link that I still have with the North, a representation of the thread that no time or distance could sever. She has seen the changes in me in the three years since I’ve adopted her, and she’ll be witness to the changes that await me. Those beautiful green-gold eyes are my home for now, on this king-sized bed, in this hotel room in this perfect town.

Last northern post

2008-07-23T01:10:00.006-06:00

After almost a week of grey skies and drizzle, it has cleared up for my final night in Inuvik. In less than twelve hours, I'll be on the flight bound for Whitehorse to overnight before travelling onward to Vancouver the next morning.

On Monday, my co-workers and students held a party for me and showered me with gifts, cards, and farewell wishes. I was touched, but part of me had already been drained of all emotion before then. After moving out of my house last week, I've been living out of my suitcase at my friend's house, in essence already detaching from Inuvik, already just an interloper.

On this last night, I had one last meal at one of the two restaurants in town. Then, it was on to two of my dear friends' house to have tea and fresh fruit for dessert. Shortly before midnight, I was again alone with my thoughts, as my eyes fixated on the calm of the river and the pinkish horizon. Even the blazing gold of the midnight sun is no more. In another month or so, the northern landscape will transform into its vibrant autumnal wonder, and I won't be here to witness it.

I really needed someone's reassurance on this last night, someone to just be here, to sit across from me, to wrap me and my emptiness up. I reached out to one of the "ghosts" of my past, someone whom I've been unable to let go of. He told me that everything would be all right, but in my own inadequate, inarticulate, blankness of soul, I sensed the same in him reflected back to me. In our strange disconnect, I ended up more lonely, alienated from myself even.

I don't want to be told that everything will be all right. I don't want to be told what excitement awaits me. I need time to grieve, to go through the welling of emotion, the ensuing numbness. In time, I'll embrace the city again, mold myself to fit the city once more. Until then, allow me space to feel the immensity of this loss, to feel lost and to fear that I will not be all right.