Platitudes in boxes crowd my Facebook feed. What do these do, these inspirational messages? Do they really cause anyone to have instant, life-altering revelations? Right now, for example, there is a message on my page that reads: "Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart." The words appear over an image of footprints made out of pebbles, and the quote is attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt. The words strike me as meaningless drivel - cloying, cliche and worst of all, SO boring (no offence, Mrs, Roosevelt). I wonder, did the person who posted this meme think: "If I post this people will think I'm super deep"? Or does s/he think we "friends" will stumble across this pearl of wisdom, give our heads a shake and say: "My God! How have I been living this long without this profound knowledge?"
So, I was ruminating on this idea of one single piece of wisdom making a difference, and I asked myself this question: have I ever come across an idea that actually changed my life instantly? And surprisingly, yes. Yes, I have. And for the life of me I cannot remember where I intersected with this thought/idea/concept. It definitely wasn't on Facebook, because it dates back to pre-Facebook life (I can't even imagine how I got through the day back then, without my fixes). Did I read it somewhere? Did somebody say it to me?
...nope...gone. Can't recall.
What I can remember is this: I used to feel torn up with bitter jealously when good stuff happened to other people. This was especially true in my professional life. I chose to be an artist, which is an awesome but truly brutal career choice. The good side - you can be an artist even if no-one chooses you to be. The bad side - it's much nicer if someone does actually choose you, and if that someone agrees to pay you some money to be an artist. So I was most jealous when friends and acquaintances got great roles in professional shows, or were invited to show their art at galleries, or got writing contracts or articles published. Grrrrrrr. Drove me nuts. And the reason it drove me so crazy was because of my mindset. I had a very specific and very entrenched reaction to the success of my friends, and it was something like this: "How come they are getting what I want, and I don't get to be the one getting what they have?" This way of thinking is toxic. Self toxic*. This way of thinking made me defensive, dishonest and hard. And then, at some point (why can I NOT remember where I picked up this idea?) I stumbled across a little concept. I somehow learned to flip that mindset with a small shift in perception. I read (or did I hear it?) somewhere that, when I feel envious, I should just change the way I think. If I heard that a friend had just got a great review, or an awesome gig, instead of "Why not me?" I changed it to "Why not me?" Instead of feeling like everything good happens to other people I began to say to myself: "Hey, if she can get that to happen, then I can too." I started to see the successes of my friends as proof positive that the same successes were available to me. Instead of seeing the world as a place that rewarded others and shunned me, I made a decision to see the great things that happen to others as case studies of what is possible.
So, that is how I now try to approach life. If someone else has great stuff happen, I say to myself: "There. There is the proof of what is possible for me."
So yes, yep, I have, indeed, had a revelation based on one little idea that I saw somewhere. Not on Facebook, but somewhere....
Maybe I'll get someone who knows how to do graphics to put that in a box with a picture of a kitty. Nah. That would just make it ordinary. I just like having this idea in the news feed in my head.
* I just had an awful impulse to type "my self talk was self toxic". Ick, ick, ick. Stopped myself. Ick.
The street where I live...
Monday 30 April 2012
Wednesday 25 April 2012
I am a Sandwich
So here is a subject I am reticent to write about:
My intention with this blog to help me as a writer. I can write about anything I choose. I can reveal or not reveal. It's up to me. Except...
... I do find I have this little voice in my head that nags me to include posts dealing with a few of the hard things in my life and not just the mildly entertaining. So I think I should write about my mother-in-law. But here is where it gets tricky. Some people who kindly read this blog have no idea who I am, but some of you do know who I am, and therefore know who my mom-in-law is. And it's not altogether fair for me to write about her, and to risk a compromise to her dignity or her privacy. But she is a huge factor in my life right now, and not writing about her seems oddly dishonest. So let's see how fairly I can do this.
About a year and a half ago J. and I were on the road when we got a panicked call from his mom. She had recently been through a horrid break-up, and the ugliness had just gone to a new level of horrible. She was hysterical. We were on our way to an important conference, so we told her to stay calm and when we were done with our obligations she and her little dog should come stay with us for a while. "For a while" has now turned into a little over a year and a half.
To say that MiL and I are very different people is the under-est of understatements. Where I am private and guarded she is as boundary-less as a human can get. I loathe a messy house, she is an awesome pack rat. I can't stand people in my business, she thinks going into my private papers and re-organizing and categorizing them will make me happy. I think dogs should poo outside. I'm not even going to finish that one.
Very long story made very short: once she had come to stay with us we quickly realized that this woman - this amazing woman who had pulled herself up by the bootstraps from a high school drop out to a celebrated university professor, this woman who refused to crumble under the weight of tragedy after tragedy in her life, this woman who could once move mountains with the sheer force of her can-do attitude - was now a very old for her age lady embarking on one of life's most unfair rides - the journey into (albeit mild) early on-set dementia.
J. and I could see that the first years of our twins' lives, the beautiful, awe-filled childhood phase, would also be spent as elder-carers. We are the Sandwich Generation, as pop-culture has cutely named us. We are raising small children at the same time as we are caring for a failing parent.
Raising toddlers and caring for elderly relatives have some interesting, if ultimately sad, similarities. Those parenting moments of which I am not proud, when I lose patience and swear or yell or both ... well those moments happen with my MiL as well. I take my MiL to a seniors meeting and try to gently nudge her to join in, just as I do with my toddlers at playgroup. When my MiL goes off on a walk I worry that she will get lost or hurt, just as I will when my kids are old enough to venture out on their own. I feel furious when my MIL makes a horrid mess, just like I do when the kids make a mess, and I know that none of them quite have the ability to stop themselves.
There is a huge difference, of course, in dealing with my MIL and dealing with my own children. My kids are a part of me, they have my DNA, I am emotionally and spiritually tied to them in a way that is primal and all consuming. My MiL is more like a stranger who has wandered into my realm - semi-helpless, confused, and in need of some guidance. I care for her, but unlike my husband, her son, I have no cherished memories of her when she was magnificent. I have a fat folder of newspaper clipping of her glory days as a massive contributor to her field, but by the time our paths crossed she was already starting to demonstrate eccentric behavior.
I get short with MiL much more often than I care to, and feel horrible afterward. But, it seems that she only takes me seriously if I am very, very clear that I am unhappy with something. Her apartment, which is downstairs in our house, is a constant mess, yet when I ask her to straighten it up she looks around, holds her arms up in dismay and says: "What on earth are you talking about? What mess!?" This is as we stand in a space that would make the average person gasp.
Friends see our situation and say: "You are so good to do this." I suppose we are good to some extent, but the fact is, this is my husband's mother. This is the woman who raised J. into the stellar human being that I married. She is our responsibility, and if living with her (and to some degree, caring for her) seems like an obligation much of the time I try to remember that one day this will be me. One day I will be in need of care. And when that day comes I am sure I will not manage the kind of optimism MiL seems to be able to muster in between her heart breaking moments of: "how did my life come to this?" And when I am a mean old lady yelling out the window at kids in my yard, I hope someone can be patient with me. Much more patient that I often am with MiL.
This sandwich time in our lives is as challenging a time as we've known in our 10 year marriage, but J. and I lean into one another and when one of us starts to fall the other braces and supports. There will come a day in the not so distant future when we will have to face the next grown-up hurdle - we will have to decide what comes next for MiL when we can no longer handle all her needs. And when that day comes I will try to be better than myself. I will try to help MiL and J. through that brutal if loving transition with some grace and an eye to the dignity of a woman who has lived a life that anyone would be proud to have lived.
My intention with this blog to help me as a writer. I can write about anything I choose. I can reveal or not reveal. It's up to me. Except...
... I do find I have this little voice in my head that nags me to include posts dealing with a few of the hard things in my life and not just the mildly entertaining. So I think I should write about my mother-in-law. But here is where it gets tricky. Some people who kindly read this blog have no idea who I am, but some of you do know who I am, and therefore know who my mom-in-law is. And it's not altogether fair for me to write about her, and to risk a compromise to her dignity or her privacy. But she is a huge factor in my life right now, and not writing about her seems oddly dishonest. So let's see how fairly I can do this.
About a year and a half ago J. and I were on the road when we got a panicked call from his mom. She had recently been through a horrid break-up, and the ugliness had just gone to a new level of horrible. She was hysterical. We were on our way to an important conference, so we told her to stay calm and when we were done with our obligations she and her little dog should come stay with us for a while. "For a while" has now turned into a little over a year and a half.
To say that MiL and I are very different people is the under-est of understatements. Where I am private and guarded she is as boundary-less as a human can get. I loathe a messy house, she is an awesome pack rat. I can't stand people in my business, she thinks going into my private papers and re-organizing and categorizing them will make me happy. I think dogs should poo outside. I'm not even going to finish that one.
Very long story made very short: once she had come to stay with us we quickly realized that this woman - this amazing woman who had pulled herself up by the bootstraps from a high school drop out to a celebrated university professor, this woman who refused to crumble under the weight of tragedy after tragedy in her life, this woman who could once move mountains with the sheer force of her can-do attitude - was now a very old for her age lady embarking on one of life's most unfair rides - the journey into (albeit mild) early on-set dementia.
J. and I could see that the first years of our twins' lives, the beautiful, awe-filled childhood phase, would also be spent as elder-carers. We are the Sandwich Generation, as pop-culture has cutely named us. We are raising small children at the same time as we are caring for a failing parent.
Raising toddlers and caring for elderly relatives have some interesting, if ultimately sad, similarities. Those parenting moments of which I am not proud, when I lose patience and swear or yell or both ... well those moments happen with my MiL as well. I take my MiL to a seniors meeting and try to gently nudge her to join in, just as I do with my toddlers at playgroup. When my MiL goes off on a walk I worry that she will get lost or hurt, just as I will when my kids are old enough to venture out on their own. I feel furious when my MIL makes a horrid mess, just like I do when the kids make a mess, and I know that none of them quite have the ability to stop themselves.
There is a huge difference, of course, in dealing with my MIL and dealing with my own children. My kids are a part of me, they have my DNA, I am emotionally and spiritually tied to them in a way that is primal and all consuming. My MiL is more like a stranger who has wandered into my realm - semi-helpless, confused, and in need of some guidance. I care for her, but unlike my husband, her son, I have no cherished memories of her when she was magnificent. I have a fat folder of newspaper clipping of her glory days as a massive contributor to her field, but by the time our paths crossed she was already starting to demonstrate eccentric behavior.
I get short with MiL much more often than I care to, and feel horrible afterward. But, it seems that she only takes me seriously if I am very, very clear that I am unhappy with something. Her apartment, which is downstairs in our house, is a constant mess, yet when I ask her to straighten it up she looks around, holds her arms up in dismay and says: "What on earth are you talking about? What mess!?" This is as we stand in a space that would make the average person gasp.
Friends see our situation and say: "You are so good to do this." I suppose we are good to some extent, but the fact is, this is my husband's mother. This is the woman who raised J. into the stellar human being that I married. She is our responsibility, and if living with her (and to some degree, caring for her) seems like an obligation much of the time I try to remember that one day this will be me. One day I will be in need of care. And when that day comes I am sure I will not manage the kind of optimism MiL seems to be able to muster in between her heart breaking moments of: "how did my life come to this?" And when I am a mean old lady yelling out the window at kids in my yard, I hope someone can be patient with me. Much more patient that I often am with MiL.
This sandwich time in our lives is as challenging a time as we've known in our 10 year marriage, but J. and I lean into one another and when one of us starts to fall the other braces and supports. There will come a day in the not so distant future when we will have to face the next grown-up hurdle - we will have to decide what comes next for MiL when we can no longer handle all her needs. And when that day comes I will try to be better than myself. I will try to help MiL and J. through that brutal if loving transition with some grace and an eye to the dignity of a woman who has lived a life that anyone would be proud to have lived.
Sunday 22 April 2012
10 Things No-one Really Needs to Know
When I first joined Facebook there was this thing everyone was doing where they posted 25 things about themselves. I was thinking of doing something like that but 25 seems like way too many to think up. So, just for fun (and because I have nothing profound to say today), here are the first 10 things that are batting around in my head on this dreary, drizzly, melty Sunday afternoon:
1. My Guilty pleasure movie is: "You've Got Mail." It is location porn - apartments, shops, restaurants. It is the outsider fantasy of Manhattan. And it's on right now at our house.
2. I kind of know sign language. I learned it as a kid. But I forget more than I remember. Whenever anyone says: "Tell me something about yourself" I usually say: "I know sign language." It's my go-to random fact.
3. I really, really want new furniture, but I can't decide if I should just get some cheap stop-gap stuff that the girls can wreck, or if I should try to find something I really love.
4. I could pretty much do without social life. If I think about going shopping a little party breaks out in my soul. If I think about going to a social event I immediately imagine myself to be coming down with something that might get me out of going out. So, I really like having things to wear in case I go out, but I don't like going out enough to wear those things when I go out because I don't go (exceptions include going to see a film, theatre or a museum, and going out to eat - all of which I am perfectly happy to do alone.)
5. I love shopping. See above.
6. Sometimes playing with my kids is unspeakably, spirit crushingly boring. And sometimes it's pretty fun.
7. Seeing my husband play with our kids makes me fall for him all over again. Mostly because it is a beautiful thing to behold. Partly because it's him and not me.
8. I feel really tired all the time and I don't know if it's because I am a mom of two toddlers, or because I am getting old, or both. This is a definite drawback to late in life parenthood - how do I know what to chalk up to age and what to blame the kids for? I blame the kids for this dilemma.
9. I dislike house plants.
10. My biggest fear is being eaten by a shark. When I was a kid I begged my dad to take me to see "Jaws." Huge mistake. I peed standing up for weeks afterward. If I close my eyes in a swimming pool and pretend I am in the ocean I can imagine myself into a state of cold panic.
There, 10 things you didn't need to know. If you are still reading, bless your kind heart.
1. My Guilty pleasure movie is: "You've Got Mail." It is location porn - apartments, shops, restaurants. It is the outsider fantasy of Manhattan. And it's on right now at our house.
2. I kind of know sign language. I learned it as a kid. But I forget more than I remember. Whenever anyone says: "Tell me something about yourself" I usually say: "I know sign language." It's my go-to random fact.
3. I really, really want new furniture, but I can't decide if I should just get some cheap stop-gap stuff that the girls can wreck, or if I should try to find something I really love.
4. I could pretty much do without social life. If I think about going shopping a little party breaks out in my soul. If I think about going to a social event I immediately imagine myself to be coming down with something that might get me out of going out. So, I really like having things to wear in case I go out, but I don't like going out enough to wear those things when I go out because I don't go (exceptions include going to see a film, theatre or a museum, and going out to eat - all of which I am perfectly happy to do alone.)
5. I love shopping. See above.
6. Sometimes playing with my kids is unspeakably, spirit crushingly boring. And sometimes it's pretty fun.
7. Seeing my husband play with our kids makes me fall for him all over again. Mostly because it is a beautiful thing to behold. Partly because it's him and not me.
8. I feel really tired all the time and I don't know if it's because I am a mom of two toddlers, or because I am getting old, or both. This is a definite drawback to late in life parenthood - how do I know what to chalk up to age and what to blame the kids for? I blame the kids for this dilemma.
9. I dislike house plants.
10. My biggest fear is being eaten by a shark. When I was a kid I begged my dad to take me to see "Jaws." Huge mistake. I peed standing up for weeks afterward. If I close my eyes in a swimming pool and pretend I am in the ocean I can imagine myself into a state of cold panic.
There, 10 things you didn't need to know. If you are still reading, bless your kind heart.
Wednesday 18 April 2012
Blog Check-in
So, time for a little blog check-in.
How is this experiment progressing for me?
Hmmmmm...pretty good, I think.
Observations:
I find writing in what is essentially a mini-essay format to be just challenging enough, but not so daunting that it feels more like an obligation than a creative outlet.
Sharing bits of my life is less terrifying as I go along, although a part of me fears that, as with all social networking, I will start out with a strong mind to protect my own privacy and then eventually that protective instinct will start to fade like the camera people in embedded documentary situations (does that reference make sense?)
I enjoy reading other blogs. I use the "next blog" button to surf away. I have noticed that many bloggers seem to be devout Christians, devout crafters, devout decorators, devout farmers, devout horse-y folk, and/or devout narcissists. Most blogs are pleasant enough. Some offend me with their politics, some bore me, some inspire. And sometimes I happen upon a blog that blows my mind with its creativity and insight, honesty and unique voice. Many bloggers are astonishing writers, and others drive me to distraction with bad grammar, passive voice, and most egregious of all: misused words and phrases: "momento" "intents and purposed" "worldwind" "I COULD care less" etc. etc.
Blogging makes me really think about my life, and especially about the people who populate my days. I've been on a Mike Leigh film kick lately. He is such a pure artist. His observation of the minutiae of human interaction is staggering in its scope. Painful beauty. And, although perhaps it sounds a bit lofty, taking a moment to think about the people in my life makes me see them in a kind of Mike Leigh-ish way - like I am a camera capturing their little moments and understanding that human behaviour is mundane, crazy and fascinating.
Even though my blog seems to be emerging as a little window on my life as a mom of twins, every time I sit down to write I feel guilty about spending even more time staring at a computer screen when I should be doing stuff with them. Like right now.
Thank you to anyone who is taking the time to read this blog. A special shout out to the readers in Saudi Arabia and Latvia (how does THAT happen?) Thanks for tuning in.
How is this experiment progressing for me?
Hmmmmm...pretty good, I think.
Observations:
I find writing in what is essentially a mini-essay format to be just challenging enough, but not so daunting that it feels more like an obligation than a creative outlet.
Sharing bits of my life is less terrifying as I go along, although a part of me fears that, as with all social networking, I will start out with a strong mind to protect my own privacy and then eventually that protective instinct will start to fade like the camera people in embedded documentary situations (does that reference make sense?)
I enjoy reading other blogs. I use the "next blog" button to surf away. I have noticed that many bloggers seem to be devout Christians, devout crafters, devout decorators, devout farmers, devout horse-y folk, and/or devout narcissists. Most blogs are pleasant enough. Some offend me with their politics, some bore me, some inspire. And sometimes I happen upon a blog that blows my mind with its creativity and insight, honesty and unique voice. Many bloggers are astonishing writers, and others drive me to distraction with bad grammar, passive voice, and most egregious of all: misused words and phrases: "momento" "intents and purposed" "worldwind" "I COULD care less" etc. etc.
Blogging makes me really think about my life, and especially about the people who populate my days. I've been on a Mike Leigh film kick lately. He is such a pure artist. His observation of the minutiae of human interaction is staggering in its scope. Painful beauty. And, although perhaps it sounds a bit lofty, taking a moment to think about the people in my life makes me see them in a kind of Mike Leigh-ish way - like I am a camera capturing their little moments and understanding that human behaviour is mundane, crazy and fascinating.
Even though my blog seems to be emerging as a little window on my life as a mom of twins, every time I sit down to write I feel guilty about spending even more time staring at a computer screen when I should be doing stuff with them. Like right now.
Thank you to anyone who is taking the time to read this blog. A special shout out to the readers in Saudi Arabia and Latvia (how does THAT happen?) Thanks for tuning in.
Monday 16 April 2012
Hiding from Zombies
The Town we live in is very small. Unimaginably small, by most peoples' standards. No-one is quite sure of the actual population, but when asked we usually say: "About 200 people in the winter, double in the summer when the Site is in full swing."
I have passed my life so far living in a medium-sized town, a large town, a big city and here. So I know the pros and cons of the different sized city/town/village experiences.
This tiny Town is unique in that it is home to a big industry, and it is also full of artists. So it is a tiny town that often has a large city-ish sophistication. At one time, for example, our town CAO was from Boston and our mayor was from New York City. The Town is teeming with people who have had lives full of interesting experiences, and you'd be hard pressed to find an actual "hick" here. In the summers our Town plays host to a sizable arts festival. We are the nearest town to a world class heritage site, we have two professional theatres (here and at the Site) that run summer seasons, and artists and galleries a plenty. But this is still a tiny town, so we also get the tiny town traits that are both awesome and awful.
The Town does have a spectacular rumour mill. That's a tiny town given. But, to counter that we have a community that genuinely cares for one another (except for the people who are feuding, but then, they still care, they just aren't speaking to one another). People here in this tiny town run to help if anyone is in distress. Our direct neighbours are the kind of folks who do little acts of kindness for us without ever expecting a thank you or expecting us to make a big deal out of it. If we need to leave town and my mother in law will be here all alone I pop over and ask my sweet neighbour to keep an eye on her, and she does, willingly and kindly. When I am getting ready for my kids' birthday party my neighbour quietly asks her son in law to plow out the snow in front of the venue so I don't have to shovel. One day I went out to check the oil in my car. I'd barely had time to pop the hood before three different guys came over to see if I needed any help. If your car gets stuck in the snow, neighbours materialize with shovels to help dig you out. But we do have a long, long winter here and by April we are all getting sick to death of snow. And just when we are longing to see a few new faces all the seasonal workers start flowing back into town, and although we are thrilled and relieved to see them, we all feel a little pang of sadness that our tight winter community is about to fade away until October.
An interesting small town phenomenon is that once you move here many friends and relations from the city will lose all memory of you ever having been a city person. When we were recently in the biggest city in the province I asked my husband if he would do the drive back to our hotel from our relatives' house because I don't like to drive at night. Our cousin said (in a patronizing tone): "Oh, driving in the city isn't so bad... you get used to it." She completely forgot that I lived and drove in that same big city for almost 10 years.
I also find it fascinating how many people will hear about our lifestyle and say: "I could NEVER live like that." I gotta say three things to those people:
1. Don't knock it until you've tried it. The first time I came to this town was for a summer gig and I also thought I would never be able to make it here full time. But, then, as the summer gig became an annual thing for me I noticed that it took me weeks to readjust to the complexities of city life after leaving here, and mere minutes to readjust to this life after leaving the city. You don't even realize how many rules and regulations there are in a city until you've done without them for a while. Consider this: in my Town I park wherever the hell I want, for free, and my car faces whichever direction I choose.
2. Everyone in the western world seems to be on a sustainability, green, learn how to survive in time for the great economic crash/zombie apocalypse, grow and hunt your own food kick. People in our Town have been living this way for years. We don't even have to hold workshops or anything. I know someone in the city who has started a blog tracing her quest to learn basic skills that have become lost in this post-industrial age - things like making bread, sewing, chopping wood, starting a fire, hunting, fishing, etc. All you really have to do is live in a remote community for a while and sooner or later you will learn much of this by necessity, or because someone who knows how to do these things is doing them and you pick it up.
AND...
3. I'm sorry, but that is just kind of a rude. I have had people say to me: Oh my GAWD, I could NEVER live like that! What if I talked about your town and your life that way? What if I opened my mouth and made a big gasp-y face and said: YOUR LIFESTYLE HORRIFIES ME! Would you expect to NOT want to give me a bit of a verbal smack down? Because that's how I feel when you say it.
Don't get me wrong, I really like talking about the idiosyncrasies of this life (clearly, here I am, writing about it.) Having studied many angles of the living experience when it comes to populations I kind of like to think of myself as a bit of an expert on the subject. So let me say what I say whenever anyone asks nicely what the differences are between life here and life in a city: everything that sucks about living here is everything that rules about city life (movie theaters, take out food, restaurants, shopping, shopping, shopping and shopping), and everything that sucks about city life is everything that rules about here (safety, kids walking places by themselves, children who still understand the phrase: "come home when you see the streetlights go on", community, 100% nature 100% of the time, clean earth and air, slower pace and a kick ass hiding place from zombies).
I love my tiny Town. Some days I hate some things about our Town (same as the city); but let me ask you this: where will you be when the zombies come for you? Because I'll be right here.
I have passed my life so far living in a medium-sized town, a large town, a big city and here. So I know the pros and cons of the different sized city/town/village experiences.
This tiny Town is unique in that it is home to a big industry, and it is also full of artists. So it is a tiny town that often has a large city-ish sophistication. At one time, for example, our town CAO was from Boston and our mayor was from New York City. The Town is teeming with people who have had lives full of interesting experiences, and you'd be hard pressed to find an actual "hick" here. In the summers our Town plays host to a sizable arts festival. We are the nearest town to a world class heritage site, we have two professional theatres (here and at the Site) that run summer seasons, and artists and galleries a plenty. But this is still a tiny town, so we also get the tiny town traits that are both awesome and awful.
The Town does have a spectacular rumour mill. That's a tiny town given. But, to counter that we have a community that genuinely cares for one another (except for the people who are feuding, but then, they still care, they just aren't speaking to one another). People here in this tiny town run to help if anyone is in distress. Our direct neighbours are the kind of folks who do little acts of kindness for us without ever expecting a thank you or expecting us to make a big deal out of it. If we need to leave town and my mother in law will be here all alone I pop over and ask my sweet neighbour to keep an eye on her, and she does, willingly and kindly. When I am getting ready for my kids' birthday party my neighbour quietly asks her son in law to plow out the snow in front of the venue so I don't have to shovel. One day I went out to check the oil in my car. I'd barely had time to pop the hood before three different guys came over to see if I needed any help. If your car gets stuck in the snow, neighbours materialize with shovels to help dig you out. But we do have a long, long winter here and by April we are all getting sick to death of snow. And just when we are longing to see a few new faces all the seasonal workers start flowing back into town, and although we are thrilled and relieved to see them, we all feel a little pang of sadness that our tight winter community is about to fade away until October.
An interesting small town phenomenon is that once you move here many friends and relations from the city will lose all memory of you ever having been a city person. When we were recently in the biggest city in the province I asked my husband if he would do the drive back to our hotel from our relatives' house because I don't like to drive at night. Our cousin said (in a patronizing tone): "Oh, driving in the city isn't so bad... you get used to it." She completely forgot that I lived and drove in that same big city for almost 10 years.
I also find it fascinating how many people will hear about our lifestyle and say: "I could NEVER live like that." I gotta say three things to those people:
1. Don't knock it until you've tried it. The first time I came to this town was for a summer gig and I also thought I would never be able to make it here full time. But, then, as the summer gig became an annual thing for me I noticed that it took me weeks to readjust to the complexities of city life after leaving here, and mere minutes to readjust to this life after leaving the city. You don't even realize how many rules and regulations there are in a city until you've done without them for a while. Consider this: in my Town I park wherever the hell I want, for free, and my car faces whichever direction I choose.
2. Everyone in the western world seems to be on a sustainability, green, learn how to survive in time for the great economic crash/zombie apocalypse, grow and hunt your own food kick. People in our Town have been living this way for years. We don't even have to hold workshops or anything. I know someone in the city who has started a blog tracing her quest to learn basic skills that have become lost in this post-industrial age - things like making bread, sewing, chopping wood, starting a fire, hunting, fishing, etc. All you really have to do is live in a remote community for a while and sooner or later you will learn much of this by necessity, or because someone who knows how to do these things is doing them and you pick it up.
AND...
3. I'm sorry, but that is just kind of a rude. I have had people say to me: Oh my GAWD, I could NEVER live like that! What if I talked about your town and your life that way? What if I opened my mouth and made a big gasp-y face and said: YOUR LIFESTYLE HORRIFIES ME! Would you expect to NOT want to give me a bit of a verbal smack down? Because that's how I feel when you say it.
Don't get me wrong, I really like talking about the idiosyncrasies of this life (clearly, here I am, writing about it.) Having studied many angles of the living experience when it comes to populations I kind of like to think of myself as a bit of an expert on the subject. So let me say what I say whenever anyone asks nicely what the differences are between life here and life in a city: everything that sucks about living here is everything that rules about city life (movie theaters, take out food, restaurants, shopping, shopping, shopping and shopping), and everything that sucks about city life is everything that rules about here (safety, kids walking places by themselves, children who still understand the phrase: "come home when you see the streetlights go on", community, 100% nature 100% of the time, clean earth and air, slower pace and a kick ass hiding place from zombies).
I love my tiny Town. Some days I hate some things about our Town (same as the city); but let me ask you this: where will you be when the zombies come for you? Because I'll be right here.
Saturday 14 April 2012
Six Months on the Titanic, as the Unsinkable Mrs. Brown
First of all, she was never called "Molly." She was Margaret, sometimes Maggie, and usually Mrs. Brown.
The whole "Molly" business started long after the death of Margaret Tobin Brown when a musical based on her life was produced (a musical that played VERY loosely with the actual facts of her life.) The people who made that musical decided that Molly was a more, well, musical name than Margaret or Maggie and so they called their show: The Unsinkable Molly Brown. But she was never Molly in her real life. She was Margaret. And she was as fascinating as a person can be.
In 2007 I answered an audition call seeking actors to play characters at a Titanic Artifact Exhibit at our Provincial Museum. This exhibit was going to be a blockbuster, and I wanted in. The audition notice asked for a head shot and resume - the usual - so I sent in my stuff. I eventually received a call offering me an audition time, but when I asked: "What role will I be up for?" I was told the museum and director hadn't decided on the characters yet, so all prospective actors should do a little research and write a piece about any person associated with the Titanic - passenger, crew member, whomever - and come on in and perform as that person.
I began my audition prep by googling and youtubing anything I could find about the disaster. There is a massive amount of information out there. Titanic is a huge obsession for many people. I discovered elaborate websites tracing the pre, during and post lives of every person associated with the ship and the event. And the cast of female Titanic characters is fantastic - from the poorest immigrant women to nannies travelling with rich families to stewardesses to some of the richest and most famous women of their era. Why James Cameron decided to make up characters is beyond me. Over 2200 true stories and he makes up Jack and Rose?
As I read about Titanic's women I found myself wanting to write a voice for all of them, but that wasn't really an option. So I did what I do before any audition: I thought about who the director might see me as (always audition for what you are auditioning for - don't do your fabulous King Lear piece if you are auditioning for a farce), and I thought about what everyone else auditioning might do so I could find my own spin, make myself stand out from the pack. And when I am auditioning for a museum theatre role my absolute rule is: make it a real, honest portrayal and not a "character." When you do museum theatre work you are representing real people, real events, real circumstances, and it is the museum performers job to do this with respect. Big respect.
I knew The Unsinkable Mrs. Brown was sure to be the persona 90% of the female auditioners would show up with, so my first instinct was to find a more obscure character, but then I reconsidered. I knew I could credibly play Mrs. Brown. My age and my presence as a performer are right, and she was certainly one of the most famous personalities to emerge from the epic story so museum visitors would expect to see her at the exhibit. I decided to plunge in and audition for what I was auditioning for. I wrote a piece for Mrs. Brown.
When I arrived at the audition location I was, of course, met with a room teeming with would be Molly Browns. And, as I suspected, most were going for the big, blousy caricature portrayal. There was even one woman there, in the waiting area, who was insisting on being "in character" before her audition. *shudder* . Is there anything worse than someone in character at inappropriate moments? Makes me crazy with fontrum (look it up).
When my name was called I entered the audition room and began my piece with this line:
"Titanic has come to define my life."
I went on, as Margaret Brown, to discuss the contradiction of loving the fame that Titanic brought me, but hating the horror that made me so famous. I suspect my attempt at playing Mrs. Brown as a real person might have given me the edge that day, as I was offered the role - six months, a well paid contract at one of the best museums in the world, playing Margaret Tobin Brown. It was a great six months. Interpreting an event this big and world changing was awesome and humbling.
I could go on and on here about the different aspects of the job, the deep respect I developed for Margaret Brown, the amazing actors I worked with, the closeness we all still feel to the story, five years later. I could go on about the line ups so long they snaked down two escalators, through two lobbies and out on to the streets every single day of the exhibit. I could go on about how it felt to stand before a huge crowd of people and recount the story of that night, to see so many eyes tear up, to hear so many audible gasps as I talked about my lifeboat, not even half full, rowing away from screaming, freezing, drowning people. But that might be a story for another time.
Right now, as I type, what I am thinking about is the fact that exactly 100 years ago Titanic had just struck an ice berg. Every person aboard was about to learn that they were more or less doomed. Over the course of my six months at the museum I learned the stories of most of the passengers, and they feel like friends now. And I feel like I am a tiny part of the story for having interpreted those stories to thousands upon thousands of visitors. And right now I am thinking of Mrs. Margaret Tobin Brown, who, a century ago, was minutes away from climbing into Lifeboat Number Six and being lowered into the freezing North Atlantic.
I know it's already history, but good luck tonight, Mrs Brown. It was my honour to be you.
The whole "Molly" business started long after the death of Margaret Tobin Brown when a musical based on her life was produced (a musical that played VERY loosely with the actual facts of her life.) The people who made that musical decided that Molly was a more, well, musical name than Margaret or Maggie and so they called their show: The Unsinkable Molly Brown. But she was never Molly in her real life. She was Margaret. And she was as fascinating as a person can be.
In 2007 I answered an audition call seeking actors to play characters at a Titanic Artifact Exhibit at our Provincial Museum. This exhibit was going to be a blockbuster, and I wanted in. The audition notice asked for a head shot and resume - the usual - so I sent in my stuff. I eventually received a call offering me an audition time, but when I asked: "What role will I be up for?" I was told the museum and director hadn't decided on the characters yet, so all prospective actors should do a little research and write a piece about any person associated with the Titanic - passenger, crew member, whomever - and come on in and perform as that person.
I began my audition prep by googling and youtubing anything I could find about the disaster. There is a massive amount of information out there. Titanic is a huge obsession for many people. I discovered elaborate websites tracing the pre, during and post lives of every person associated with the ship and the event. And the cast of female Titanic characters is fantastic - from the poorest immigrant women to nannies travelling with rich families to stewardesses to some of the richest and most famous women of their era. Why James Cameron decided to make up characters is beyond me. Over 2200 true stories and he makes up Jack and Rose?
As I read about Titanic's women I found myself wanting to write a voice for all of them, but that wasn't really an option. So I did what I do before any audition: I thought about who the director might see me as (always audition for what you are auditioning for - don't do your fabulous King Lear piece if you are auditioning for a farce), and I thought about what everyone else auditioning might do so I could find my own spin, make myself stand out from the pack. And when I am auditioning for a museum theatre role my absolute rule is: make it a real, honest portrayal and not a "character." When you do museum theatre work you are representing real people, real events, real circumstances, and it is the museum performers job to do this with respect. Big respect.
I knew The Unsinkable Mrs. Brown was sure to be the persona 90% of the female auditioners would show up with, so my first instinct was to find a more obscure character, but then I reconsidered. I knew I could credibly play Mrs. Brown. My age and my presence as a performer are right, and she was certainly one of the most famous personalities to emerge from the epic story so museum visitors would expect to see her at the exhibit. I decided to plunge in and audition for what I was auditioning for. I wrote a piece for Mrs. Brown.
When I arrived at the audition location I was, of course, met with a room teeming with would be Molly Browns. And, as I suspected, most were going for the big, blousy caricature portrayal. There was even one woman there, in the waiting area, who was insisting on being "in character" before her audition. *shudder* . Is there anything worse than someone in character at inappropriate moments? Makes me crazy with fontrum (look it up).
When my name was called I entered the audition room and began my piece with this line:
"Titanic has come to define my life."
I went on, as Margaret Brown, to discuss the contradiction of loving the fame that Titanic brought me, but hating the horror that made me so famous. I suspect my attempt at playing Mrs. Brown as a real person might have given me the edge that day, as I was offered the role - six months, a well paid contract at one of the best museums in the world, playing Margaret Tobin Brown. It was a great six months. Interpreting an event this big and world changing was awesome and humbling.
I could go on and on here about the different aspects of the job, the deep respect I developed for Margaret Brown, the amazing actors I worked with, the closeness we all still feel to the story, five years later. I could go on about the line ups so long they snaked down two escalators, through two lobbies and out on to the streets every single day of the exhibit. I could go on about how it felt to stand before a huge crowd of people and recount the story of that night, to see so many eyes tear up, to hear so many audible gasps as I talked about my lifeboat, not even half full, rowing away from screaming, freezing, drowning people. But that might be a story for another time.
Right now, as I type, what I am thinking about is the fact that exactly 100 years ago Titanic had just struck an ice berg. Every person aboard was about to learn that they were more or less doomed. Over the course of my six months at the museum I learned the stories of most of the passengers, and they feel like friends now. And I feel like I am a tiny part of the story for having interpreted those stories to thousands upon thousands of visitors. And right now I am thinking of Mrs. Margaret Tobin Brown, who, a century ago, was minutes away from climbing into Lifeboat Number Six and being lowered into the freezing North Atlantic.
I know it's already history, but good luck tonight, Mrs Brown. It was my honour to be you.
Thursday 12 April 2012
Cheerios in a Bottle
As someone who suffered through years of infertility before having my twins, I spent some amount of pre- parenting time fantasizing about what having babies and toddlers would be like. I imagined the best parts of my own childhood - fun with siblings, camping trips, holidays, etc - mixed with the idiosyncracies of my own crazy artist life (kids in the rehearsal hall, at heritage sites in tiny Victorian costume, painting along side me, and so on). I thought about laughing with my kids, travelling with them, showing them the world as I see it and reveling in the world as they see it. And all of this has come true.
I also spent some of my pre-parenting days wondering what the stresses and pressures must be like. I understood that guilt and worry are part of the deal. What I didn't FULLY grasp is just how much society would try so damn hard to tilt the equation in favour of fear and panic.
Since the girls were born I have picked up very few parenthood books, and those I have skimmed through have been tossed aside pretty quickly. For one thing, most parenting books are fully involved with the idea of raising one kid at a time, or at least with raising kids of staggered ages. When I read oh so helpful tips about how to do this or that with your child my automatic query is: "and what should I do with the other one at that moment when I am awesomely following your awesome advice clearly meant for one awesome mom dealing with ONE SINGLE kid?" Also, I find the parenting books stressful. I never imagined parenthood to be like buying a new dishwasher and having to follow the manual to ensure optimal results. I expected to experience the joy and thrill of discovering the world through my children. I expected to rejoice at their achievements. But that is not, it seems, how parenthood is set up these days. These days we are expected to know which milestones should be reached at what ages, and should our children not meet certain goals by a certain time we are expected to intervene, intervene, intervene.
Living in our tiny Town means that our twins are often meeting up with experiences in a different way than the vast majority of kids who are raised in bigger towns and in cities. When we were in our other, bigger hometown recently, wherever we went, people leaned over into the girls' space and cooed: "And how old are YOU?" The girls just looked at them. Most kids, by the age of three, have practiced holding up three fingers, or reciting "I'm fwee" because they know they are supposed to say or do something when this question is asked again. In our Town, no-one EVER asks my girls how old they are because everyone knows how old they are. So they were completely oblivious that this constant "how old are you" sentence expected some sort of response. My kids have trouble understanding that there are people who don't know them. In this Town everyone knows them. When we were in the other town they said: "hi" to every person they encountered. When we passed a lovely same-sex couple out on a walk O. said: "Oh, hi man. Hi man. I love you, I'll miss you..." I find their small town habits so delightful, yet someone recently grew concerned that the girls are not as verbal and appropriately responsive as they should be by this age, and consequently I shame spiraled out of control, called in the experts, and now I have to take them to a speech therapy consult. I don't want to. I don't want to even think about whether or not they are where they should be. I want to delight in where they ARE. I don't want the pure pleasure I get out of listening to them have beautiful twin conversations to turn into me hovering around corners with a clipboard and a checklist and an are-they-or-aren't-they mindset.
A while ago, when we took the girls for their 15 month old shots, J. and I had to fill out forms that were meant to assess where they are in their development. In other words, are they where they should be and do they need intervention? One of the questions was something like: "If you put Cheerios in a bottle, does your child turn the bottle and shake it to try to get the Cheerios out?" W. T. F.????? How the hell would I know? I have spent zero amount of time putting Cheerios in bottles. When I asked another mom about this she was all: "Oh yes, well, I knew to do that, so I did it." How did she know??? Do people just know these things? Sounds like some kind of bizarre marketing on the part of the Cheerios people to me. But of course, I shame spiraled. I am a bad mom as I somehow missed the bottle of Cheerios milestone.*
Today I was sorting through mail that came while I was away and I had another damn checklist sent by the local health authority: "Does your toddler know how to put together a simple puzzle?" Every puzzle they've ever had has seen its bits and pieces morph into part of the mess in the toy box within seconds of being released from its packaging. But now I feel guilty and feel like I need to run into town to buy a damn puzzle and then sit there and evaluate their puzzle progress. Ugh.
In BC we have something called "Strong Start". I had always just thought of it as a nice playgroup type thing (we don't have it in our Town, so I've never been to a session). While I was away I took the girls to a drop in Strong Start and was handed literature explaining: this is a program designed to "prepare your child for success in kindergarten." My kid is expected to succeed in kindergarten? I was just hoping for them to go to kindergarten. Boy, I hope they don't choke on the kindergarten final exams. I hope they come home from kindergarten each day with a clear sense that they have met lofty goals and set themselves up for a lifetime of stress and striving.
So here is what I have decided. I am going to enjoy my children. I am going to love them, and hug and kiss them, and tell them I love them 75 times a day. Minimum. I am going to stop myself from comparing them to any other kids. And when I see other kids, kids who are not my own, I am going to notice all the really cool stuff about those other kids and NONE of that cool stuff will be listed on any checklist of milestones. I will notice the lilt of their laughter, the way they look at their parents with pure adoration, the love in their voices, the music in their souls. And as far as my own kids are concerned, unless I really, really feel there is an issue, I am going to shut off the inner critic that judges them and judges me and just LOVE being their mom.
And I will never put Cheerios in a bottle. Because that's just weird.
*I am not meaning to thwart the work of therapists, because I know how very dedicated and awesome and important these clinicians can be. My sister practiced Speech pathology for years and I know she was a miracle worker to many families.
I also spent some of my pre-parenting days wondering what the stresses and pressures must be like. I understood that guilt and worry are part of the deal. What I didn't FULLY grasp is just how much society would try so damn hard to tilt the equation in favour of fear and panic.
Since the girls were born I have picked up very few parenthood books, and those I have skimmed through have been tossed aside pretty quickly. For one thing, most parenting books are fully involved with the idea of raising one kid at a time, or at least with raising kids of staggered ages. When I read oh so helpful tips about how to do this or that with your child my automatic query is: "and what should I do with the other one at that moment when I am awesomely following your awesome advice clearly meant for one awesome mom dealing with ONE SINGLE kid?" Also, I find the parenting books stressful. I never imagined parenthood to be like buying a new dishwasher and having to follow the manual to ensure optimal results. I expected to experience the joy and thrill of discovering the world through my children. I expected to rejoice at their achievements. But that is not, it seems, how parenthood is set up these days. These days we are expected to know which milestones should be reached at what ages, and should our children not meet certain goals by a certain time we are expected to intervene, intervene, intervene.
Living in our tiny Town means that our twins are often meeting up with experiences in a different way than the vast majority of kids who are raised in bigger towns and in cities. When we were in our other, bigger hometown recently, wherever we went, people leaned over into the girls' space and cooed: "And how old are YOU?" The girls just looked at them. Most kids, by the age of three, have practiced holding up three fingers, or reciting "I'm fwee" because they know they are supposed to say or do something when this question is asked again. In our Town, no-one EVER asks my girls how old they are because everyone knows how old they are. So they were completely oblivious that this constant "how old are you" sentence expected some sort of response. My kids have trouble understanding that there are people who don't know them. In this Town everyone knows them. When we were in the other town they said: "hi" to every person they encountered. When we passed a lovely same-sex couple out on a walk O. said: "Oh, hi man. Hi man. I love you, I'll miss you..." I find their small town habits so delightful, yet someone recently grew concerned that the girls are not as verbal and appropriately responsive as they should be by this age, and consequently I shame spiraled out of control, called in the experts, and now I have to take them to a speech therapy consult. I don't want to. I don't want to even think about whether or not they are where they should be. I want to delight in where they ARE. I don't want the pure pleasure I get out of listening to them have beautiful twin conversations to turn into me hovering around corners with a clipboard and a checklist and an are-they-or-aren't-they mindset.
A while ago, when we took the girls for their 15 month old shots, J. and I had to fill out forms that were meant to assess where they are in their development. In other words, are they where they should be and do they need intervention? One of the questions was something like: "If you put Cheerios in a bottle, does your child turn the bottle and shake it to try to get the Cheerios out?" W. T. F.????? How the hell would I know? I have spent zero amount of time putting Cheerios in bottles. When I asked another mom about this she was all: "Oh yes, well, I knew to do that, so I did it." How did she know??? Do people just know these things? Sounds like some kind of bizarre marketing on the part of the Cheerios people to me. But of course, I shame spiraled. I am a bad mom as I somehow missed the bottle of Cheerios milestone.*
Today I was sorting through mail that came while I was away and I had another damn checklist sent by the local health authority: "Does your toddler know how to put together a simple puzzle?" Every puzzle they've ever had has seen its bits and pieces morph into part of the mess in the toy box within seconds of being released from its packaging. But now I feel guilty and feel like I need to run into town to buy a damn puzzle and then sit there and evaluate their puzzle progress. Ugh.
In BC we have something called "Strong Start". I had always just thought of it as a nice playgroup type thing (we don't have it in our Town, so I've never been to a session). While I was away I took the girls to a drop in Strong Start and was handed literature explaining: this is a program designed to "prepare your child for success in kindergarten." My kid is expected to succeed in kindergarten? I was just hoping for them to go to kindergarten. Boy, I hope they don't choke on the kindergarten final exams. I hope they come home from kindergarten each day with a clear sense that they have met lofty goals and set themselves up for a lifetime of stress and striving.
So here is what I have decided. I am going to enjoy my children. I am going to love them, and hug and kiss them, and tell them I love them 75 times a day. Minimum. I am going to stop myself from comparing them to any other kids. And when I see other kids, kids who are not my own, I am going to notice all the really cool stuff about those other kids and NONE of that cool stuff will be listed on any checklist of milestones. I will notice the lilt of their laughter, the way they look at their parents with pure adoration, the love in their voices, the music in their souls. And as far as my own kids are concerned, unless I really, really feel there is an issue, I am going to shut off the inner critic that judges them and judges me and just LOVE being their mom.
And I will never put Cheerios in a bottle. Because that's just weird.
*I am not meaning to thwart the work of therapists, because I know how very dedicated and awesome and important these clinicians can be. My sister practiced Speech pathology for years and I know she was a miracle worker to many families.
Wednesday 11 April 2012
Wallowing in the Dog Poo
So today I am home. Home.
After a wonderful three weeks away in blossomy, ocean-y paradise, I am back in my snowy, tiny Town.
This is the worst time to come back here. This Town is beautiful in almost every season except this one. In most of the western world this season is called spring. In our Town this is dog sh*t season. Over the course of the winter dogs poo, and that poo gets snowed upon, and then they poo again, and then that poo gets snowed upon, etc., and then all that poo gets preserved between strata layers of snow, and as the warmer weather arrives and the feet of accumulated white stuff melts, the dog poo emerges from its frozen state of suspended animation and takes on the form of mushy, floating turds in a disgusting slush soup.
Winter here is pristine snow sparkling like diamonds, potlucks, fairy lights, crackling wood fires, winter sports and coziness. Spring is filthy snowbanks, dirty cracked roads, ugly puddles, mucky cars, and patches of dead grass. Summer here is alpine wonder, bears, moose, caribou, wildflowers, spectacular storms, lush meadows and bustling activity. Spring is dog poo. Autumn here is dazzling yellow leaves, crisp air, the return of winter birds, the excitement of waiting on the first snow, tearful goodbyes to summer friends. Spring is mud and poo.
So, it is a little bit hard to come home right at THIS moment. My visit to my other home - the town we used to live in - was magical, sunny, with daily walks on the beach and amazing food cooked for me by my mom. It was constant help with the kids. It was revisiting the academic institution that feeds my soul. It was my sister and my brother-in-law being awesome with the kids. I missed the hell out of my husband. So, of course, I am happy to be back with him. But, as usual, his crazy job forced him to cancel the plan we had to spend a family night in a hotel tonight in the nearby bigger Town. He just never gets a break.
Also, and I have hesitated to write about this, so I will write around it: the situation with my mom-in-law, who lives downstairs in our place, is... challenging. Extremely challenging. And I'll admit, the break from that was a little bit needed.
I know in a few days I will settle back in to being home. I need to turn my mind to the work to be done in preparation for the upcoming season at the Site. I need to get some paperwork done, and to tackle the biggest task that keeps smacking me in the face - clearing out the girls' room (which is still full of unpacked boxes) and getting it set up for them. And in three weeks I go back to the ocean-y town to direct some fabulous young actors and get them all ready for a fabulous summer gig. So I better not head to Dollarama to get supplies for my pity party just yet. For now I will allow myself one day to wallow, gaze out the window, and watch the dog turds float gracefully down the muddy rivers of gloom.
After a wonderful three weeks away in blossomy, ocean-y paradise, I am back in my snowy, tiny Town.
This is the worst time to come back here. This Town is beautiful in almost every season except this one. In most of the western world this season is called spring. In our Town this is dog sh*t season. Over the course of the winter dogs poo, and that poo gets snowed upon, and then they poo again, and then that poo gets snowed upon, etc., and then all that poo gets preserved between strata layers of snow, and as the warmer weather arrives and the feet of accumulated white stuff melts, the dog poo emerges from its frozen state of suspended animation and takes on the form of mushy, floating turds in a disgusting slush soup.
Winter here is pristine snow sparkling like diamonds, potlucks, fairy lights, crackling wood fires, winter sports and coziness. Spring is filthy snowbanks, dirty cracked roads, ugly puddles, mucky cars, and patches of dead grass. Summer here is alpine wonder, bears, moose, caribou, wildflowers, spectacular storms, lush meadows and bustling activity. Spring is dog poo. Autumn here is dazzling yellow leaves, crisp air, the return of winter birds, the excitement of waiting on the first snow, tearful goodbyes to summer friends. Spring is mud and poo.
So, it is a little bit hard to come home right at THIS moment. My visit to my other home - the town we used to live in - was magical, sunny, with daily walks on the beach and amazing food cooked for me by my mom. It was constant help with the kids. It was revisiting the academic institution that feeds my soul. It was my sister and my brother-in-law being awesome with the kids. I missed the hell out of my husband. So, of course, I am happy to be back with him. But, as usual, his crazy job forced him to cancel the plan we had to spend a family night in a hotel tonight in the nearby bigger Town. He just never gets a break.
Also, and I have hesitated to write about this, so I will write around it: the situation with my mom-in-law, who lives downstairs in our place, is... challenging. Extremely challenging. And I'll admit, the break from that was a little bit needed.
I know in a few days I will settle back in to being home. I need to turn my mind to the work to be done in preparation for the upcoming season at the Site. I need to get some paperwork done, and to tackle the biggest task that keeps smacking me in the face - clearing out the girls' room (which is still full of unpacked boxes) and getting it set up for them. And in three weeks I go back to the ocean-y town to direct some fabulous young actors and get them all ready for a fabulous summer gig. So I better not head to Dollarama to get supplies for my pity party just yet. For now I will allow myself one day to wallow, gaze out the window, and watch the dog turds float gracefully down the muddy rivers of gloom.
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