I'm happy. Despite the fatigue, the yappy dog, and the swamp-moss mold dripping from the shelves in my fetid fridge filled with bacterially exploded salmon (nice treat to come back to), I really love being in BC. I cannot state sharply enough how much my chest fills when I see the sea as a part of everyday life.
I'm having a kayak lesson in the morning with some dude from the internet, and I took great joy in being all Organized and Competent and putting my racks on the car myself. If I can load the boat on my own... well, that will be a whole new level.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I'll let Billy Collins speak for me
Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Billy Collins
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Billy Collins
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Maybe it's the weather
But I'm finding that my little way-up-high perch in Toronto is giving me the same kind of fresh aspect and sense of possibilities that I had in my borrowed space in pdx 3 years ago. No hills on the edges, but discovering a new neighbourhood is feeling good. I do miss the scruffy uncertainty of the market -- the guy chasing another guy down the street yelling "he's a peeping tom!", the unexpected interpretive dance in the street behind Kat as she sang On the Highwire at Graffiti's, the bird lady with her odd little tiny-wheeled bicycle and careful costumes, the flakes of coffee beans settling in your hair when Moonbean was roasting. Here it's a little sterile, a lot yuppie, very full of couples. But being this high above gives me a sense of breathing space I didn't have from the 4th floor.
Very conscious that doing the things that are hard *always* gives me energy in the end -- so really not understanding why I handle the stress of doing it so very very badly. Renee commented that I was as tense about going to Africa as I was about this move, and that turned out to be magnificent. Now to somehow be heedful of that.
Off to a family wedding, feeling a little bereft to be dressing up without someone to twirl for. Beginning to think about the concept of going on a date again. Not as hopeful about that as I might have been three years ago -- but edging into it.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The horse you're on
We had the third session of our course today, and just like last time, a participant said something to me I had such a hard time processing. I couldn't even remember this woman's name, and she came up to me at the break and said, "I enjoy you so much -- and I wanted to tell you, you remind me of -- or rather, my daughter reminds me of you." Then she proceeded to tell me about her 10 year old daughter, and how unusual and bright and connected and *energetic* she was, how she drew the best energy from what was around her. Her name is Rachel, this daughter, and L said that she recently said to her, "mom, you have to ride the horse you're riding. Fight the duel you're dueling."
I found this delightful... and it also smacked me like a paradox. Several participants in this course have given me this kind of feedback, this "you make everything seem possible" kind of feedback. In really amazing, astonishing terms. And yet, I feel like my way of collaborating with my colleagues has been strangled at times, I feel tired so often and not particularly energized or insightful, and I feel like I've wandered through my weeks feeling bleak and bereft. So often on the verge of tears, or beyond frustrated, unable to find the rhythm with the people I'm supposed to be close to.
It's such a weird paradox, and echoes so much in my life -- that I have these full, loving, rich, powerful relationships with people who are at arms' length, but that people in my intimate space get my full, prickly, scratchy, tiresome, tiring self. Especially right now, when I'm playing out the complaints and pains of this move that would normally be inside the partner space on so many people. When I played out the devaluing I was feeling with F, the knotted dissatisfaction in being angry when I wasn't getting what I needed with "safer" people. I don't know how to bring these things together.
I am trying to hear the wisdom offered by this 10 year old. To ride the horse I'm riding. To remind myself of the joy of this move, not the fatigue and endless, ENDLESS difficulty of logistics, not to feel exasperated and angry when people don't see the rawness of it. To be grateful for those who do, and to surpass it. To revel in the opportunity of a year of shivasana, instead of feeling resentful and angry that this is so different than my pdx sojourn three years ago, when I left two casual lovers behind in TO, was full of anticipation about my phd work, and had the opening up of the connection with F flickering at me. I have somehow absorbed a story that there isn't much ahead of me... and I need to look at the horse that's moving and really grab this for the adventure that it is.
I found this delightful... and it also smacked me like a paradox. Several participants in this course have given me this kind of feedback, this "you make everything seem possible" kind of feedback. In really amazing, astonishing terms. And yet, I feel like my way of collaborating with my colleagues has been strangled at times, I feel tired so often and not particularly energized or insightful, and I feel like I've wandered through my weeks feeling bleak and bereft. So often on the verge of tears, or beyond frustrated, unable to find the rhythm with the people I'm supposed to be close to.
It's such a weird paradox, and echoes so much in my life -- that I have these full, loving, rich, powerful relationships with people who are at arms' length, but that people in my intimate space get my full, prickly, scratchy, tiresome, tiring self. Especially right now, when I'm playing out the complaints and pains of this move that would normally be inside the partner space on so many people. When I played out the devaluing I was feeling with F, the knotted dissatisfaction in being angry when I wasn't getting what I needed with "safer" people. I don't know how to bring these things together.
I am trying to hear the wisdom offered by this 10 year old. To ride the horse I'm riding. To remind myself of the joy of this move, not the fatigue and endless, ENDLESS difficulty of logistics, not to feel exasperated and angry when people don't see the rawness of it. To be grateful for those who do, and to surpass it. To revel in the opportunity of a year of shivasana, instead of feeling resentful and angry that this is so different than my pdx sojourn three years ago, when I left two casual lovers behind in TO, was full of anticipation about my phd work, and had the opening up of the connection with F flickering at me. I have somehow absorbed a story that there isn't much ahead of me... and I need to look at the horse that's moving and really grab this for the adventure that it is.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
I think it just hit me
that locals will expect me to be, well, local. I'm on my way back to TO, and I had a set-to with the shuttle woman. The phone woman told me 6:15, and she came at 6:00 and was grumpy about it, then she didn't take credit cards, or an out of province cheque. All of my stress over the last couple of moving/not sleeping days bubbled out.
Yesterday was hard. Receiving furniture, trying to unpack as much as possible, F delivering my kayak and other stuff, such tension and sadness between us, not knowing how to say anything that wouldn't just lead to mis-steps. Work, travels, family and a strangled goodbye. Then D&F visiting, warmth and casual presence. Then more unpacking, and calling F to try to have the conversation I'd hoped for. And being able to have it, shifting the sadness from wound to the seaweed at the edge of the tidezone, liminal and forlorn.
Before bed, finishing unpacking the kitchen, hanging one picture in the bedroom, trying to do another above the fireplace, but realizing it was really time to stop when I hit concrete with my drill and was just making a mess. Staggered into bed.
Today, stressed, time-zoned, no energy for going back to TO and all of its work gabble. Need a day of sleep. Tuesday?
Planes. A path that will become familiar, I think. I don't even know yet if I am supposed to transfer my car reg to BC, but if so, I think I'll get a vanity plate. YVR*YYZ. And a local chequing account.
Yesterday was hard. Receiving furniture, trying to unpack as much as possible, F delivering my kayak and other stuff, such tension and sadness between us, not knowing how to say anything that wouldn't just lead to mis-steps. Work, travels, family and a strangled goodbye. Then D&F visiting, warmth and casual presence. Then more unpacking, and calling F to try to have the conversation I'd hoped for. And being able to have it, shifting the sadness from wound to the seaweed at the edge of the tidezone, liminal and forlorn.
Before bed, finishing unpacking the kitchen, hanging one picture in the bedroom, trying to do another above the fireplace, but realizing it was really time to stop when I hit concrete with my drill and was just making a mess. Staggered into bed.
Today, stressed, time-zoned, no energy for going back to TO and all of its work gabble. Need a day of sleep. Tuesday?
Planes. A path that will become familiar, I think. I don't even know yet if I am supposed to transfer my car reg to BC, but if so, I think I'll get a vanity plate. YVR*YYZ. And a local chequing account.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Saltwater Random
I'm here, heading into my third night. I'm simultaneously grounded and floaty since I got here, noticing things in an unlinked way, not feeling very shape-ful of writing. So, random.
1. The first thing I did when I got here was to unload my car. The second was to walk down to the water and take a picture of my feet on the edge. And yet, it only occurred to me this afternoon that this water I'm looking at when I wake up, when I go to sleep, is saltwater. Inland girl indeed.
2. The most delightful present F ever gave me was a swiss watch he picked up on impulse in the Geneva airport. It suited me, he was thinking of me, it's made me happy for more than 2 years. Today, just before he comes to do the dreaded exchange-of-stuff ritual, it stopped.
3. I think that bump of land I see through the haze across from me is Saturna. Or Mayne. Not sure. I think I can see the south tip of Galiano, my old friend, as well.
4. I will never, ever want for fish and chips. I went for a walk along Marine drive today, and there were at least 20 shops.
5. I've been reading this book, called A Year by the Sea: Thoughts of an Unfinished Woman. She's not really my type, and she's of a much different life-shaped-by-the-needs-of-marriage-and-kids-never-felt-passion genre, but it's a good book to signal my own year by the sea. Kind of creates the possibility that being pretty much solo for four full seasons can be rich.
6. That vanished, blown up plane is haunting my dreams.
7. I was feeling ebullient until I had 3 hours of work phone calls today. And my furniture came but couldn't make it up the street so has to be parceled out. Then I felt all flattened. Not sure if it's because now I'm *here* and not traveling, or because of the prospect of seeing F tomorrow and all that stirs up, or not having my own shampoo, or the weird dissonance of being in two places at once and not having a rhythm yet. Just noticing.
8. Not sure why I thought I live a life where an organic snow white cotton duvet cover makes any sense at all, but I truly love the way it looks in my wee, multi-windowed sage and white bedroom.
9. I can see the sunset from my bed. Note to self: add box spring to bed order so bed is high enough.
10. Yes, White Rock is full of septuagenarians and older. I have never seen so many "Veteran" license plates in one place. Clearly the saratoga of the north, divided between young women on marine drive in bikinis and flip flops and white haired ladies with narrow shoulders valiantly pushing their rolling walkers.
1. The first thing I did when I got here was to unload my car. The second was to walk down to the water and take a picture of my feet on the edge. And yet, it only occurred to me this afternoon that this water I'm looking at when I wake up, when I go to sleep, is saltwater. Inland girl indeed.
2. The most delightful present F ever gave me was a swiss watch he picked up on impulse in the Geneva airport. It suited me, he was thinking of me, it's made me happy for more than 2 years. Today, just before he comes to do the dreaded exchange-of-stuff ritual, it stopped.
3. I think that bump of land I see through the haze across from me is Saturna. Or Mayne. Not sure. I think I can see the south tip of Galiano, my old friend, as well.
4. I will never, ever want for fish and chips. I went for a walk along Marine drive today, and there were at least 20 shops.
5. I've been reading this book, called A Year by the Sea: Thoughts of an Unfinished Woman. She's not really my type, and she's of a much different life-shaped-by-the-needs-of-marriage-and-kids-never-felt-passion genre, but it's a good book to signal my own year by the sea. Kind of creates the possibility that being pretty much solo for four full seasons can be rich.
6. That vanished, blown up plane is haunting my dreams.
7. I was feeling ebullient until I had 3 hours of work phone calls today. And my furniture came but couldn't make it up the street so has to be parceled out. Then I felt all flattened. Not sure if it's because now I'm *here* and not traveling, or because of the prospect of seeing F tomorrow and all that stirs up, or not having my own shampoo, or the weird dissonance of being in two places at once and not having a rhythm yet. Just noticing.
8. Not sure why I thought I live a life where an organic snow white cotton duvet cover makes any sense at all, but I truly love the way it looks in my wee, multi-windowed sage and white bedroom.
9. I can see the sunset from my bed. Note to self: add box spring to bed order so bed is high enough.
10. Yes, White Rock is full of septuagenarians and older. I have never seen so many "Veteran" license plates in one place. Clearly the saratoga of the north, divided between young women on marine drive in bikinis and flip flops and white haired ladies with narrow shoulders valiantly pushing their rolling walkers.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
There's a feeling you get
When Linda and I did a little road trip down the california coast from the bay area to santa barbara a couple of years ago, she had this amazing ability to slow time down. "Tell me all the fun things we did," she'd ask, as we drove along. And we'd replay: first we stopped at that place with the bridge and took pictures, then we stopped at Andrew Molera beach and walked along..." Etc. It was cementing and gratifying, reliving the moments in recursive waves as we were creating more.
That's what yesterday felt like for me -- just about every moment memorable, and the in-between moments sweet savoring of what went just before.
It was one of my favourite days ever. I packed up in banff, went for french toast, had a little chat with the waiter about the best place to stop for a short hike. Took back the pants I'd bought the day before because a snap had pulled out and they promised to repair and mail. Drove off with the sunroof open, intending to go back to Louise and do the around-the-lake hike. Instead, on impulse, I pulled off the transcanada onto the Bow Valley parkway, which also said "to lake louise," and found myself in a gorgeous canyon. Paused for a wapiti on the side of the road, rolled along more slowly, savoring the peaks and the trees. Loved my car some more. Then again, on impulse, pulled off at what I thought was a lookout -- Castleview Lookout I think it was called -- and then realized it was a short, perfect hike. 3.7 km up, through the perfect blend of forest and openness, rocky snowy ranges off to the west, a soaring "castle" of rock above. Glorious sun.
I paused for a bit at the top, ate a nutty bar thingy, and laid in the sun. When I'd arrived, a couple of other hikers had just climbed down to a lower ledge. I was taken with the idea of scrambling down a bit, though I had a moment of trepidation about doing it on my own. I was itching to get my feet into the rocks, to feel the hand grip. I looked over the edge, saw that there were two ledges, and realized that if I fell the worst that would happen would be some scrapes and bruises. So I lowered myself over, scrambled down about 15 feet, admired the different view, then pulled myself back up. Short taste of bliss, promise to self that the mountain hiking I love isn't dependent on anyone else.
Down skipping, sweaty and off to Louise for lunch. Pause to try to assist a rueful cyclist with a shredded tire -- not a speck of space in my car, alas, and no service on the i-phone. Louise, bookstore, lunch, car keys left in bookstore and returned by frantic bookseller before I noticed they were gone.
Then, onto the pass. Truly the most breathtaking driving I've ever done. Car perfect, nimble, responsive, awe at the blend of engineering and the stunning, stunning mountains. Curves hugged, all passes perfect, fast enough to feel the road but always in control. Going across a bridge (Kicking Horse River, maybe?) I literally welled up with a moment of awe -- and giggled out loud simultaneously.
There's a lot of construction on the transcanada between Lake Louise and Salmon Arm, and there was a fair bit of stopping. But I drove with the sunroof and windows open most of the way, music, sometimes Kat's amazing cd, construction dust coming in with the warm air, perfectly happy.
The last bit of the drive to kamloops was tiring -- sore from the hike, weary -- but it was joyful to discover how glorious the interior is. There's an untouched vocabulary for me -- what exactly is each region? where does the okanagan start? what are the names of those mountains? what's that river? is that a salmon cannery? Realizing that "belvedere castle" is just french for "castle lookout."
Last night, a crappy but sufficient Howard Johnson's in Kamloops. Today, my new home.
That's what yesterday felt like for me -- just about every moment memorable, and the in-between moments sweet savoring of what went just before.
It was one of my favourite days ever. I packed up in banff, went for french toast, had a little chat with the waiter about the best place to stop for a short hike. Took back the pants I'd bought the day before because a snap had pulled out and they promised to repair and mail. Drove off with the sunroof open, intending to go back to Louise and do the around-the-lake hike. Instead, on impulse, I pulled off the transcanada onto the Bow Valley parkway, which also said "to lake louise," and found myself in a gorgeous canyon. Paused for a wapiti on the side of the road, rolled along more slowly, savoring the peaks and the trees. Loved my car some more. Then again, on impulse, pulled off at what I thought was a lookout -- Castleview Lookout I think it was called -- and then realized it was a short, perfect hike. 3.7 km up, through the perfect blend of forest and openness, rocky snowy ranges off to the west, a soaring "castle" of rock above. Glorious sun.
I paused for a bit at the top, ate a nutty bar thingy, and laid in the sun. When I'd arrived, a couple of other hikers had just climbed down to a lower ledge. I was taken with the idea of scrambling down a bit, though I had a moment of trepidation about doing it on my own. I was itching to get my feet into the rocks, to feel the hand grip. I looked over the edge, saw that there were two ledges, and realized that if I fell the worst that would happen would be some scrapes and bruises. So I lowered myself over, scrambled down about 15 feet, admired the different view, then pulled myself back up. Short taste of bliss, promise to self that the mountain hiking I love isn't dependent on anyone else.
Down skipping, sweaty and off to Louise for lunch. Pause to try to assist a rueful cyclist with a shredded tire -- not a speck of space in my car, alas, and no service on the i-phone. Louise, bookstore, lunch, car keys left in bookstore and returned by frantic bookseller before I noticed they were gone.
Then, onto the pass. Truly the most breathtaking driving I've ever done. Car perfect, nimble, responsive, awe at the blend of engineering and the stunning, stunning mountains. Curves hugged, all passes perfect, fast enough to feel the road but always in control. Going across a bridge (Kicking Horse River, maybe?) I literally welled up with a moment of awe -- and giggled out loud simultaneously.
There's a lot of construction on the transcanada between Lake Louise and Salmon Arm, and there was a fair bit of stopping. But I drove with the sunroof and windows open most of the way, music, sometimes Kat's amazing cd, construction dust coming in with the warm air, perfectly happy.
The last bit of the drive to kamloops was tiring -- sore from the hike, weary -- but it was joyful to discover how glorious the interior is. There's an untouched vocabulary for me -- what exactly is each region? where does the okanagan start? what are the names of those mountains? what's that river? is that a salmon cannery? Realizing that "belvedere castle" is just french for "castle lookout."
Last night, a crappy but sufficient Howard Johnson's in Kamloops. Today, my new home.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Grace
I've been kind of obsessed with the idea of grace lately. I have this very high consciousness that I am not very graceful. Not physically -- I trip, spill, break wineglasses, I'm always finding mysterious bruises on my body -- and not emotionally. I feel things strongly and I squall, I overflow my sides, I confront, I agitate. I never just quietly muse on why I'm feeling something so strongly, it bursts out in a big Ruth Fisher-type blurt, and then I get more insight into it and am able to calm down. Because of this, I've become a good repairer -- and I need to be in relationships with people who are willing to withstand the moments of agitation and then to repair.
I hate this in myself. I don't use this word lightly. I put a lot of energy into wanting to be more graceful, to have more poise, to not show reaction in every line. In some ways, I've learned this in work -- but maybe I'm just much more familiar with the things that come up in most of my work situations, can tuck them into meaningful contexts more readily. I have a fair bit of poise when I'm in front of a group, and I have a certain kind of amused self-deprecation for the moments when it's not smooth. But I've certainly been triggered a lot in the early part of this year in some work situations, some places where the detachment I usually practice has been shifted.
This all feels particularly poignant right now, because my own personal avatar of grace -- my mentor and guide, bp -- is ill. He's like a constellation of grace, a complex, familiar, trustworthy enabler of presence and poise. I was talking about this with Pamela the other day -- we talk about grace a lot, and she said something that gave me pause. She thinks that I am graceful, in that I keep "showing up" to what's there. It's an interesting reframing -- grace as presence and openness, not perfect poise. The conversation really entwined for me with the work I've been doing with the nurses in one of the toronto hospitals -- where one of the things they surfaced is that the best of nursing is "staying when you want to go."
I haven't always stayed when I wanted to go -- not even last week when I got so upset with my not-listening friends for reasons that I can't even really explain now. But it's really resonating for me as a frame, as a way to hold grace as a possibility for myself.
I was meditating on this while I was hiking yesterday. I had been warned that the trail that I was going to do might have snow on it, but I'd decided to try it anyway, to just be careful. I've hiked mountain trails that had lurking snow before, and mostly it's just wet.
Yesterday was a bit different -- it was a pretty short trail -- about 3.5 km each way, switchbacks up a short mountain -- but it started out very steep, and the snow became deep quickly. For the most part I could hover on top without sinking in, so I kept going.
I was really conscious of my thought process as I slogged along. First, the usual resentment when a trail starts so steeply -- remembering the much more gradual long entries to the Cuillin on Skye, where your body adjusts to the pack and the movement before there's real climbing. And a bit of a nagging question about whether it really was safe to hike alone in the snow, especially in grumpy bear late spring time. And then a big tension about whether turning around would be because it truly wasn't safe, and should I waste this opportunity, or was I being stupid and eastern and ignoring genuine danger, or was I being stupid and eastern to even think it was real danger, or would I be turning around just because it was unpleasant?
As I stepped into the wet snow, the phrase "staying when you want to go" clicked in for me. And I realized that it IS in the doing of the difficult that I find the grace in myself. One thing that F recognized and valued in me -- that I do things that I find hard -- and thinking about how this frame had created "affordances," to use the annoying theoretical term. That because he did witness this about me, it freed me to imagine things like moving west without a real plan, and learning to fix my bike so I can ride alone through iceland. For a few minutes, as I felt this, I experienced deep grief. Panting with the effort of moving upward through the snow, suffused with sadness about losing someone who saw this and fostered this in me. And then, for a moment, watching myself stumbling, falling, post-holing and getting wet, sliding on my butt to get my stuck leg out, I saw this as grace. This sprawling kitten-on-the-ice upward hike *was* grace, it was finding in myself the meaning and drive for it. Upward because I wanted to be above the trees, wanted to see a peak, wanted to feel the air. Upward for that moment that made the drive across the plains, the agita of leaving behind community, the misshapen fear worth it. Where I am going, the sense that there is always something more ahead.
This is another thing P and I talked about -- the mid-life waves of deflation when you think you might have had your bursts of creativity, of new love, of creating possibilities, when you worry that there might not be more. I have had a lot of... deflated anxiety about this, particularly around Romance. Thinking that it might be "too late" to co-create life with someone. Not exactly because of age, but because of an awareness of the fullness of what's been lived, and not being sure how this can mesh with someone else's fullness. The smaller pool of available people when the ones ahead are sliding into assured old age together and the ones behind are still really looking for that "this is it" relationship.
As I stumbled up the hill, I felt real exhilaration. Rhythm in the arrhythmia, trust that my feet would hold me. And, I knew the moment where I needed to turn around, an open swell with snow at least 4 feet deep, where I post-holed up to my thighs 4 steps in a row. The moment where I knew, yeah, even enthusiasm isn't going to carry me forward here, and I really could end up with a broken leg and become bear bait.
So I went down, noted what I'm sure was a bear print in the snow, skipped and tripped down the part where the snow thinned. Went up the little extra trail to the gorgeous view, where I had 15 minutes alone on a platform looking at the lake. Grace.
I hate this in myself. I don't use this word lightly. I put a lot of energy into wanting to be more graceful, to have more poise, to not show reaction in every line. In some ways, I've learned this in work -- but maybe I'm just much more familiar with the things that come up in most of my work situations, can tuck them into meaningful contexts more readily. I have a fair bit of poise when I'm in front of a group, and I have a certain kind of amused self-deprecation for the moments when it's not smooth. But I've certainly been triggered a lot in the early part of this year in some work situations, some places where the detachment I usually practice has been shifted.
This all feels particularly poignant right now, because my own personal avatar of grace -- my mentor and guide, bp -- is ill. He's like a constellation of grace, a complex, familiar, trustworthy enabler of presence and poise. I was talking about this with Pamela the other day -- we talk about grace a lot, and she said something that gave me pause. She thinks that I am graceful, in that I keep "showing up" to what's there. It's an interesting reframing -- grace as presence and openness, not perfect poise. The conversation really entwined for me with the work I've been doing with the nurses in one of the toronto hospitals -- where one of the things they surfaced is that the best of nursing is "staying when you want to go."
I haven't always stayed when I wanted to go -- not even last week when I got so upset with my not-listening friends for reasons that I can't even really explain now. But it's really resonating for me as a frame, as a way to hold grace as a possibility for myself.
I was meditating on this while I was hiking yesterday. I had been warned that the trail that I was going to do might have snow on it, but I'd decided to try it anyway, to just be careful. I've hiked mountain trails that had lurking snow before, and mostly it's just wet.
Yesterday was a bit different -- it was a pretty short trail -- about 3.5 km each way, switchbacks up a short mountain -- but it started out very steep, and the snow became deep quickly. For the most part I could hover on top without sinking in, so I kept going.
I was really conscious of my thought process as I slogged along. First, the usual resentment when a trail starts so steeply -- remembering the much more gradual long entries to the Cuillin on Skye, where your body adjusts to the pack and the movement before there's real climbing. And a bit of a nagging question about whether it really was safe to hike alone in the snow, especially in grumpy bear late spring time. And then a big tension about whether turning around would be because it truly wasn't safe, and should I waste this opportunity, or was I being stupid and eastern and ignoring genuine danger, or was I being stupid and eastern to even think it was real danger, or would I be turning around just because it was unpleasant?
As I stepped into the wet snow, the phrase "staying when you want to go" clicked in for me. And I realized that it IS in the doing of the difficult that I find the grace in myself. One thing that F recognized and valued in me -- that I do things that I find hard -- and thinking about how this frame had created "affordances," to use the annoying theoretical term. That because he did witness this about me, it freed me to imagine things like moving west without a real plan, and learning to fix my bike so I can ride alone through iceland. For a few minutes, as I felt this, I experienced deep grief. Panting with the effort of moving upward through the snow, suffused with sadness about losing someone who saw this and fostered this in me. And then, for a moment, watching myself stumbling, falling, post-holing and getting wet, sliding on my butt to get my stuck leg out, I saw this as grace. This sprawling kitten-on-the-ice upward hike *was* grace, it was finding in myself the meaning and drive for it. Upward because I wanted to be above the trees, wanted to see a peak, wanted to feel the air. Upward for that moment that made the drive across the plains, the agita of leaving behind community, the misshapen fear worth it. Where I am going, the sense that there is always something more ahead.
This is another thing P and I talked about -- the mid-life waves of deflation when you think you might have had your bursts of creativity, of new love, of creating possibilities, when you worry that there might not be more. I have had a lot of... deflated anxiety about this, particularly around Romance. Thinking that it might be "too late" to co-create life with someone. Not exactly because of age, but because of an awareness of the fullness of what's been lived, and not being sure how this can mesh with someone else's fullness. The smaller pool of available people when the ones ahead are sliding into assured old age together and the ones behind are still really looking for that "this is it" relationship.
As I stumbled up the hill, I felt real exhilaration. Rhythm in the arrhythmia, trust that my feet would hold me. And, I knew the moment where I needed to turn around, an open swell with snow at least 4 feet deep, where I post-holed up to my thighs 4 steps in a row. The moment where I knew, yeah, even enthusiasm isn't going to carry me forward here, and I really could end up with a broken leg and become bear bait.
So I went down, noted what I'm sure was a bear print in the snow, skipped and tripped down the part where the snow thinned. Went up the little extra trail to the gorgeous view, where I had 15 minutes alone on a platform looking at the lake. Grace.
Monday, June 01, 2009
When my people came west
they didn't come any further than this, and they only stayed for a couple of summers. My mom was a chambermaid at the Banff Springs Hotel for two summers when she was in college; my sister has a fantastic picture of her and her friend Rosemary (they called each other "Sis") in very early 60s trenchcoats and careful curls, hitchhiking their way to Banff.
I had dinner at the hotel tonight, in pilgrimage. It was mediocre and expensive, as I expected, though the duck confit appetizer was good, and I was surrounded by seniors on coach trips. (Of course, I'm still kinda on eastern time, so I was eating mighty early). But I enjoyed every minute of it.
It was a good day. After spending a really nice evening with my remarkable cousin in Calgary, I kind of took the day off, drove just 90 minutes, wandered banff picking up things like a much-needed new wallet and a pair of hiking pants, then went for a snowy hike in Lake Louise. Will write separately of the hike -- but realized, when I had a chance to slow down, that this trip has been amazingly restorative. I'm loving my country, and my car, and the sense of driving too fast toward the mountains, my friend Kat's voice serenading me and out the open sunroof.
I had dinner at the hotel tonight, in pilgrimage. It was mediocre and expensive, as I expected, though the duck confit appetizer was good, and I was surrounded by seniors on coach trips. (Of course, I'm still kinda on eastern time, so I was eating mighty early). But I enjoyed every minute of it.
It was a good day. After spending a really nice evening with my remarkable cousin in Calgary, I kind of took the day off, drove just 90 minutes, wandered banff picking up things like a much-needed new wallet and a pair of hiking pants, then went for a snowy hike in Lake Louise. Will write separately of the hike -- but realized, when I had a chance to slow down, that this trip has been amazingly restorative. I'm loving my country, and my car, and the sense of driving too fast toward the mountains, my friend Kat's voice serenading me and out the open sunroof.
Also
according to my cousin, those oil thingies are called "pump jacks," and they're used for extracting whatever can be got from an aging well. I see a metaphor in this.
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