in which i talk about fidelity and trust and fear and david letterman, but mostly about fear and trust

So yesterday I logged onto my home page, which is Sympatico.ca, which is how I get my news (such as it is)... and I saw an item about David Letterman and blackmail. It linked to a news clip on the subject. I proceeded to YouTube (where I hoped to find better information, including the clip of the show (above) where Dave talked about the issue in his own words). I watched a few videos, and after marvelling at the over-hyped insanity which is American network news, I moved on to other things.

I don't actually have much to say about Dave and his affairs with coworkers. I like him. He makes me laugh. He's human, and fallible, and apparently not afraid to take responsibility for what he's done. I wish him well, and hope he sticks around for many more years on late night television, entertaining me.

What's really got me disturbed, however, is the reminder that good guys can cheat on their partners. And possibly hide it. And I don't want to be the one that's cheated on. Ever. But I'm not sure how to ensure that outcome, except by possibly never having another committed monogamous relationship.

I don't need to know why men cheat. I accept that some men do. I also accept that it's possible to get past an infidelity and re-establish trust and forge an even stronger relationship if one is cheated on by one's partner. What I'd really like to say to any potential mates, however, is this:

Look. I don't expect or need you to be perfect. I will never ask you to make a vow of fidelity and monogamy. But you need to know that, if you want to have sex with other women (or men) while you are still having sex with me, then you are putting my health at risk. And if you have sex with other women (or men) and hide it from me, I am going to consider that a sign of extreme disrespect. Not because I need you to be faithful, or want to make you into something you're not. But because if you don't care enough about my health to let me make informed decisions about my own sexual behavior with you in the future, you are disrespecting me.

And I won't put up with that.

I can't promise to stay with you if you cheat. I may... or I may not. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. But I guarantee you this: If you have sex with another woman (or man) and hide it from me, we are through. Because I choose to be with people who value my health and my life - and my ability to choose - as much as I do.

until they do things like rip open their food bags

This morning when I fed the cats, I discovered that someone had figured out how to climb up onto the shelf where I was keeping the food, and had clawed into one of the bags. Awesome. If you're a cat.

in which i turn from singing to other things

The above photo illustration is a snapshot I just took of some stuff on my fridge. Included is a picture of me from 1999, singing a duet with my father at my church's 125th anniversary dinner. I was also a waitress that night - hence the black pants, white shirt and tie. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, BTW. (Defensive explanation for why I seem to have so little hair.)

This morning I heard Toronto Mass Choir perform at another church in London. A friend of mine from Toronto sings in the choir, and I billeted her - along with two other women - last night. TMC is phenomenal, and gospel music always touches me more deeply than most other genres of music, but this morning I actually started weeping during one of their pieces. It featured an amazing female soloist, who can also be seen in this video, below.




The thing is... I like to sing, myself. And for many, many years I studied classical voice and wished I had one iota of the talent that this woman has in her pinky finger. I sang solos, duets, trios and quartets, all the while participating in various choirs over the years, singing everything from first tenor (only once or twice!) to first soprano.

I burned to perform. I yearned to touch people's hearts, and impress them with my skill. Deep down, however, I knew I didn't measure up. My voice cracked on the high notes. I sang flat. My solos were like all those nightmare auditions on American Idol. I loved to sing, but singing didn't love me.

It didn't help that I had crippling performance anxiety most of the time. It made my voice shake, and left me breathless and squeaking. In the end, soloing became a nightmare. I still liked singing in ensembles, but my trained ear began obsessing on the sounds I was hearing around me, and if I couldn't perfectly blend my straight voice with someone else's vibrato, I felt a physical sensation akin to nausea.

Then I started watching YouTube. And being able to see all the amazing talent out there - including this favorite recent audition for The X Factor, below - reminded me of just how mediocre I really was.




Is there a place in this world for okay singers? I'm sure there is. And I'm equally sure that, even in some small way, my singing has touched at least one or two people over the years.

But honestly? There are things that I'm much, much better at.

Seeing TMC this morning reminded me that we're all given gifts to share with the world. Not all of those gifts are soul-searing voices. Sometimes they are the ability to speak a kind word, or comfort a crying child, or raise the consciousness of a community. Sometimes they're talents like cooking, or praying, or administrating, or farming.

I have abundant talent as a writer and as a visual artist. Plus the nice thing about both is, if I don't get it right the first time, I can always edit or start over before sharing with the public. Not so easy to do with live performance.

I don't want to live with regret that I never tried hard enough to succeed as a singer. I tried very hard. I have no regrets. But it's time to move on to something else, while I still have the time and energy.

I'm not singing in any choirs now. And while I'll never say never, it's likely I'll never solo again. But my life is full, and I have other gifts to share. Besides - Dad still likes singing the occasional duet with me. If I sing again, I can always say he made me do it...

500 days of summer

I saw this movie this afternoon with my BFF. Her choice, her treat.

The Verdict: Thumbs up. Even though I don't necessarily agree with the resolution of the film. In real life, that is. In the movie, it made perfect sense. I also don't want to be a spoiler or anything, so let's just say that the movie has a satisfying ending, if you believe in love.

The thing is, I'm not sure I do.

I mean, I know I've felt it. For other people. I know what it's like to feel that weak-in-the-knees, can't-stop-thinking-about-him, seriously-contemplating-becoming-a-stalker feeling. I've obsessed, I've been unconditional, and I've done the grown-up thing and moved on after it's obvious that drunk dialing him at 3:00 a.m. isn't going to change his mind about dumping me. Okay, that last part was a joke. To the best of my recollection.

Yesterday a familiar stranger slipped me his phone number along with my change for a twenty whilst I was attempting to buy peaches from him. I've included his note - with the incriminating bits like his name and his full phone number carefully left out of the shot - below.



He sells good peaches, BTW. So keep in mind that, whatever happens, I am loathe to lose my access to the best damn peaches in Middlesex County.

But here's the thing: I hadn't been thinking of him in that way. The romantic way, that is. I've been buying peaches from him for years, not counting the two most recent summers - penultimate to this one - when I was living in Toronto.

And I don't know how to say this without sounding prejudiced, but I'm having some difficulty imagining that me and Mr. Peach Seller would have much to talk about. After we'd discussed the relative merits of freestone versus clingstone varietals, I guess.

Both the phone number and today's movie have got me thinking about what the hell I'm really looking for in a relationship, though. I hadn't really planned on this kind of soul searching this weekend, but I'm figuring I'd better come up with something pretty good before I call this guy and possibly break his heart, so here goes...

I'm not looking for a lover. Which is not to say that I don't enjoy knocking boots, and wouldn't welcome some "vitamin P" with someone who could stand to be with me after the main event had concluded. But I'm not looking for that kind of thing first and foremost. (Second and hindmost, perhaps...)

No, what I'm looking for - after years of not exactly find it - is someone I actually enjoy spending time with when we're clothed. And vice versa, of course. And for me, "spending time with" probably involves conversations that don't always (unlike my last few relationships, for instance - not that I'm bitter or anything) revolve around him, and don't usually ignore most of my favorite things. Like art, and Renaissance music, and my writing. And more-than-cursory investigations of sticky issues like faith and higher calling and social justice. Perhaps you can see why I'm still single.

I'll be straight with you. My life (apart from some nagging consumer debt) is just about perfect right now. I have a beautiful home filled with all the things I love (including two beasts who pour all sorts of furry, cuddly attention on me); I have family and friends and a job that satisfies me deeply. A little more time to write and make art might be nice, and I sure do miss the yoga practice that my recurrent insomnia forces me to sleep in and miss, but all in all, I can't complain.

If I'm going to make room for someone in my life, I don't want it to be a shallow, casual affair. I'm playing for keeps. I want to go the distance with someone who actually has values that align with mine, plus a generous soul, a ready sense of humour, and some staying power. No, not that kind. Wait - yes, that kind, too. Both kinds. What?

The hardest thing for me to do right now, however, is call up Peaches and tell him the truth. My first reaction, believe it or not, was to contemplate telling him I'm a lesbian. Because, you know - it's no insult to him if I like girls. Then I thought about telling him I'm just not interested in a relationship right now. Which is mostly true, except that if the love of my life showed up tomorrow, I would be a liar.

Basically, I guess I just want to be the kind of person who can set boundaries that honour everyone involved. Which is kind of hard, because I'm still not really clear about the whole concept of "boundaries"... but anyhow...

All I know is, I'd better call him before next weekend. When I expect to have run out of peaches.

[Added later: Almost forgot. One of my favorite parts of the movie was after Tom and Summer have sex for the first time, and he line dances with people in the street. Everyone was dressed in blue. Wow, I said to my BFF. It's like "Michelle World."]

[For all of you who don't actually know me: I always wear blue.]

instrument of peace

A few months ago, when I had a difference of opinion with someone and I wanted to be reminded that the most important thing was not for me to be right, but for me to express love and contribute to life, not death (because death is bad... no, wait - maybe it's killing that's bad... and maybe I kind of felt like killing somebody at the time), I posted the words to the Prayer of St. Francis in my cubicle at work to remind me of the values I wanted to live by. Because I need a lot of reminding, sometimes.

A friend recently lent me a recording by Olivia Newton John, and what should I find on the album but a version of the Prayer of St. Francis that I'd never heard before. It's beautiful. I hope you like it.

blessings in a salad

I took the above photo this morning when I went into my fridge to get some almond butter to eat with my Extra Strength Advil. I noticed that the pea shoots that I bought yesterday at the farmer's market were all backing away from the top of my fridge, as if repelled by the cold or something. Made me laugh. I know food that's stored right beneath the freezer tends to freeze, for sure.

This morning at church the guest preacher (a member of our congregation who is also a member of parliament) talked about a mission and service trip that some of the congregation took to a First Nations tribe in northern Ontario this past week. We had raised money to buy nets to allow the tribe to feed itself according to its traditional ways, and Glen's story of that visit was very moving and also heart-wrenching. Among other challenges, these First Nations people can't afford the healthier food that can be shipped into their community (a carton of eggs or a bag of potatoes can cost $20), and therefore their diets are often poor, and diabetes runs rampant through the community.



When I got home and started making my lunch, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the abundance of affordable, healthy food here in southwestern Ontario. The above salad (my lunch) is made with fresh organic spinach and pea pods from organic farms, as well as Ontario carrots and apples. The only thing that was shipped from somewhere else was the celery, and even then it was really inexpensive (although don't remind me how many pesticides were used to create it - I might lose my lunch).

Seriously, though - that is some miracle sitting in my bowl. Awesome.

Really quick, here's how I make homemade dressing for my salads: drizzle olive oil over everything (don't ask me how much), and then splash red wine vinegar on top of that, and sprinkle liberally with salt or Herbamare. I toss salads with my bare hands. True. I usually wash my hands first, if that helps. Besides, I'm usually the only one eating my salads. Anyhow - when everything's all tossed, I test the flavour by popping a leaf or two in my mouth. If the salad tastes like something you'd buy in a nice restaurant, you probably drizzled, splashed and sprinkled right. Otherwise - lather, rinse, repeat. Wait - that's for shampooing. Nevermind.

how i spent my morning

I've been waking up nastily early, lately. Like 4AM. And subsequently going to bed at ridiculously early hours like 9 or 10PM. Sigh.

Anyhow, this morning when I crawled out of bed around 5 (after lying awake for an hour pretending I was a guest on David Letterman (which is one of my favorite passtimes)), I honestly meant to do some yoga. I did my morning incense ritual (which I'll probably write about sometime), made myself my morning ginger tea (in an awesome new/used mug, above, that I got from Value Village the day I got the trench coat), and turned on my computer "just to check" what was going on online.

10 movie trailers later, I ended up on Facebook and then Twitter and now I'm on my blog and honestly, I don't know where two hours have gone. I just tweeted that I'm going to try to spin online surfing into some kind of spiritual practice. True.

I love this mug. It's currently second-favorite to the one that Mac gave me, that says "Do what you like, like what you do" on one side, and "Life is good" on the other.

Added later: I also ate some almond butter out of the jar again, so I could take some more Advil. Didn't want to eat much, so I could still do my yoga. So now I'm also yoga-deprived AND starving...

tumblr and whrrl

Apparently the new social media are not allowed access to sufficient vowels when choosing their names. Not quite sure why old people like me should put up with this this should be. Anyhow, I saw a blog on Tumblr a couple of weeks ago and got the bright idea to start my own Tumblog. Or whatever they call it. The time-wasting black hole endeavor kind of engaged me for a few days, but basically the only thing that's on my Tumblog now is a bunch of my imported Twitter tweets. Which begs the question: Why not just use Twitter?

I thought the Tumblr blog looked cool, for sure. Very minimalist, very clean. Plus I liked the fact that I could upload photos from my mobile device, which I HAVEN'T QUITE FIGURED OUT HOW TO DO YET ON BLOGGER. Not that I'm bitter bitter, or anything.

Then I saw a photo story on Whrrl. Which also seemed very cool. Except after I created a Whrrl account, I could not FOR THE LIFE OF ME figure out how to create an actual photo story. It was one of those "just kill me now" scenarios. Kept clicking on the various hyperlinks on my "home" page, and kept NOT FINDING THE INFORMATION I WANTED. And their "help" page was no help at all. You can't even delete your account all by yourself - you have to WRITE THEM AN E-MAIL and ask if they'll be so good as to delete your account for you. Whatever.

Hence I am blogging a lot more on Blogger again. Which is as it should be. Except for the f*cking nagging mobile uploads issue.

My Tumblr feed
My Twitter feed

A few hours after I posted the above rant, a lovely (I'm extrapolating here) woman named Heather Meeker - the Director of Corporate and Marketing Communications at Pelago (the makes of Whrrl) - sent me a very helpful e-mail:

Hi Michelle,

I just read your blog post about frustrations with Tumblr and our service, Whrrl. I found you via your tweet (@emelgy Aimless kvetching about Tumblr and Whrrl: http://tinyurl.com/dd3gw6) and hope you don’t mind me reaching out to you.

I wanted to apologize that your experience with Whrrl has been less than fantastic. You are right - at this time, you are not able to start a story from the Whrrl.com website. However, you can start a story through our iPhone application or via any phone with SMS text capabilities. If you’re interested to learn how, I’d be happy to walk you through it.

Here’s the good news - we are working to enable anyone to start a story from the Web. That feature is coming soon, and we’ll be sure to tweet and blog about it, once it’s completed.

Please let me know if you have any questions. Again, sorry to hear your about your experience with Whrrl.

Best,

Heather

OMG! I don't know why I am continually surprised to discover that people actually READ my blog posts. In this case, I felt compelled to send Ms. Meeker an even lovelier response:

Heather,

Thanks for your e-mail. Good to know that there are real people out there to take care of your Whrrlers. Too bad the same can't be said about Twitter - I have submitted help tickets to them several times, and have never once heard back from a real person. Whrrl wins the service game this time around.

I appreciate your offer to help me learn to use Whrrl from my mobile device, but (being that I am living in Canada, with a dubious mobile service provider) I suspect that the whole mobile uploading thing would be a bit of a challenge for me, and possibly beyond Whrrl's technical support skills. Once you begin to offer the web service thingy, I may revisit the whole Whrrl thingy.

Until then, cheers and good luck with your other customers. I'll be posting your offer of aid as an addendum to my blog post, so that people will know what nice guys you are over there at Whrrl. Er, Pelago.

Best,

MLG

So there you have it. My work here is done.

on death and dying (and maybe resurrection)

Warning: This post is mostly serious, and not really very funny at all. Sorry.

Late yesterday afternoon I fell into a bit of a funk, reflecting on the fragility of life, and the loss we feel when we someone we love dies. Yeah, I could have picked a better topic to think about. Win some, lose some.

Easter week is always bittersweet for me. Having grown up in a faithful Christian family, Easter was one of the high points of each year, with the added bonus of the ever-popular Easter Bunny-induced chocolate-feasting sugar rush.

Then my brother had to go and kill himself during Easter week about 12 years ago. At the time I found his subconscious timing very significant: I mean, if you hate your life and want a new one, what better time to make a change, right? Re-awakening, re-birth, resurrection... they all seem particularly possible during the first few weeks of spring.

I'm sure he didn't realize how much he would f*ck up Easter for the rest of us, though - that year, and in the years to follow. I remember that one of the funeral home visitations fell on Good Friday, and we had to postpone his actual funeral until Easter Monday.

He left this existence on a Wednesday afternoon, probably sometime between 4:30 and 5:30PM, when my parents found him. I'm not big on anniversaries (even missed my best friend's birthday this year - doh!), so I never notice when the actual anniversary of his death has gone by. But I vividly remember the events of that Easter week, and last night around 5PM I found myself thinking, It was on a day like today, on this particular day of the week, at this time of day, that my brother made the decision to finally give up, and take his own life.

And I felt sad.

My feelings were heightened by the knowledge that a little girl that one of my Twitter followers knew has died in the last day or two. TheBloggess normally writes bitingly funny stuff that makes me laugh out loud, but not yesterday.

Death puts the people who are left behind in a kind of weird limbo. That's what I remember the most about my brother's death. For about a week, I was shocked that life could go on - that other people out there were working and playing and laughing and swearing and generally just living their lives as if nothing of significance had happened. Mourning his death separated me from the rest of the world - sealed me in an insulated bubble where the only things that existed were pain, memories and (thankfully) semi-regular infusions of grace and caring from the people who loved me and my family.

So Easter week is bittersweet for me. I still love Easter Sunday, and singing Alleluias. But I'm also wary of the pain traps that may be lying in wait around the corner of each day once Palm Sunday (the Sunday before Easter) is past. And sometimes I feel like I'm being dragged reluctantly through the entire Easter experience - desperately wanting the assurance of renewed life, but unwilling to suffer through the accompanying reflections on death that it requires. And I feel for the young couple that has just lost their baby girl: They, too, will experience the special sadness of Easter every year, as my family does.

I've been listening to some recorded lectures by Clarissa Pinkola Estes - the well-known Jungian psychoanalyst and author of Women Who Run with the Wolves - this week. In one lecture Estes says that the wound is the only thing that brings light. She asks, "What good can come from allowing what is good and ready to die?" The wounds are doors, she insists - doors to the new life.

Open the door, I tell myself. Step through. David died; Madeline died. But the rest of us are still here, with more living to do...

the process of being funny

I have always envied comedians - especially improv specialists. I would watch them perform onstage, and marvel at how they could be so funny without any (apparent) effort or preparation.

One of the qualities I have always loved about my best friend is that she seems to live with one foot squarely in the realm of the sublimely ridiculous at all times. I have occasionally thought of funny things to say, myself... but usually about 13.75 hours after the comment would have had the most comedic impact.

When I began writing for my blogs, I was delighted to discover a latent funniness creeping into some of my posts. I didn't know where the humour came from, but celebrated its presence nonetheless.

Since joining Twitter, however, I have begun a grossly unscientific study of how words become funny. (And in the process have laid a lot of rotten eggs. I might humbly add.)

My first observation is that funny stuff can indeed bubble up spontaneously from the netherworld. I don't know exactly where ideas come from (although I have always been fond of Stephen King's explanation: His muse comes along and shits on his head), but I have learned that - sometimes - funny ideas are just there for the taking.

I have also observed that funny can't be forced. Many's the time I have been setting up what seems like a really awesome joke... only to choke at the punchline. Which never comes.

Other times, I can't seem to stop the flood: One funny idea will lead to another one, and then another one, and then suddenly EVERYTHING within my puny reach seems ripe for ridicule.

Which leads me to yet another observation (that I first made years ago while watching that episode of ST-TNG where Data tries to figure out what makes things funny): usually "funny" also involves "laughing at somebody's pain or hardship."

Which in turn has made me kind of ambivalent about humour, and even more determined to stay on the "Force" side of the laughter fence (as opposed to going over to the Dark Side). (Not to be confused with the DarkTime, Laurie.) (Laurie is my aforementioned best friend (who may very well be the only person ever to read this post), and she owns a canary who calls night-time "The DarkTime." Nevermind.)

I recently blocked a Twitter follower who was upset that I had made a joke out of one of her tweets. I'm not proud of what I did (although it was funny). I am determined to use my powers for good. Which in the end (I find) is leading me to what I like to call the "Lucille Ball" school of humour... i.e. Making Fun of Oneself First and Above All Else.

(I have a spectacularly huge amount of material to work with there. Thankfully. Although it does seem to entail injecting an astonishing number of menstrual references into my tweets. Sorry about that part.)

Another observation I've had is that sometimes (most of the time, perhaps) I can't think of any funny thoughts at all. And I've had to come to terms with the fact that I can't be making myself giggle every moment of the day. (Heaven knows I'll save a lot of money on Depends if I don't.)

My most recent observation is that humour is like a muscle: The more I use it, the stronger and more reliable it becomes. And what I love most about my new-found comedic sense is that it's making me see the world in a different way. I'm always looking for the snort-milk-out-my-nose underbelly of every situation, now. And suddenly, the world is much more interesting. Without the addition of recreational drugs, I might add.

Which reminds me of a true story: Last night I was on the phone talking to a friend with whom I've recently been reconnected, and at one point in the conversation he said, "Do you mind if I roll?"

And I, in my total obliviousness, though he said "row." As in row on his rowing machine, or something. Which would have been fine with me, although a little bizarre. I didn't realize he was that much of a work-out nut.

Just to be safe, I asked, "What???"

"Do you mind if I roll?"

"R-O-L-L?" I stubbornly spelled out, picturing him now physically rolling back and forth on his living room floor. Just for fun. Which would also have been bizarre, but hey - to each his own.

Then the penny dropped, and I realized he was talking about weed. Which he then explained he used to unwind at night and make his subsequent working hours the next day more bearable. To which I responded, "I think I use Twitter that way."

So if nothing else (and it's not chopped liver), my Twitter activities are preventing me from taking up a much more expensive habit. And avoiding the subsequent loss of brain cells.

Nevermind.

Follow me on Twitter: www.twitter.com/emelgy

twitter

So, I've jumped on the bandwagon. Not that I had any real purpose in mind when I did so - mostly I was just curious about what happened on Twitter, and wanted to check it out for myself.

I have contacts who are really into the social media marketing scene, and they'd been recommending Twitter for a year or two. I've got a bit of time on my hands right now, and was looking for some online entertainment... so...

What I'm finding is that Twitter is like one of those crazy midway rides that spin you around in every direction after you've foolishly eaten way too much cotton candy and elephant ears. Not that I'm knocking that feeling. Just sharing some words of wisdom, for what they're worth. (Note to Mom: You don't want to join Twitter.)

On a deeper level, I'm really enjoying it. Once you get past all the scammers trying to peddle their get-rich-quick schemes, there are some fascinating things to be found in 140-characters-or-less sound bites. A Twitter contact of mine recently posted the question: What do you want people to know about you? What kind of people would you most like to meet on Twitter?

My responses:

"I would like others to know that I'm pretending to be here for the networking while secretly enjoying the random tweets the most."

"I would most like to meet people who can make me laugh milk out my nose, or make my eyes widen in amazement."

There are certainly plenty of people who can do the latter. Like my friend Teresa Tarasewicz, owner of City Lights Bookshop in London, ON (aka @CityLightsLondn):

"Glorious burst of sunshine just made things better... no, don't go... wait... stay a bit longer, I have beer. (reaching hand towards fading beams)"

Or @TheBloggess, who writes:

"The Ultimate Argument For Legalizing Weed - Undeniable benefits that...OH MY GOD MY HANDS ARE HUGE! http://tinyurl.com/dfgo95 (via @cracked)"

"Also, I just want to point out that I have more followers than @cracked. It's awesome. And by "awesome" I mean "kind of a travesty"."

Ultimately what I'm enjoying about Twitter is the enforced restriction of having to communicate in 140-character chunks. It's not as easy at you might think. But it engages my mind in ways that I can't quite explain. Some recent tweets:

"My downstairs neighbours must hate me - I'm always dropping heavy stuff on my bedroom floor at midnight-ish." sent 11:30PM, Friday, March 13 2009

"Really??? The person in an apartment below me who showers ev wkday @ 515 showers @ 445 on Sat? That's some cruel sched." sent 4:46AM, Saturday, March 14 2009

"Wht's rlly cruel is waking up ur insomniac-tendencied nghbor @ 445 whn she went 2 bed @ midnght-ish. Aftr dropping smthg." sent 5:15AM, Saturday, March 14 2009

As you can see from the last tweet, running out of characters can lead to some desperate txt abbrevs. I have a friend who posts 100-word blog entries - as in, EXACTLY 100 words - no more, no less. I'm toying with the idea of 140-character blog posts, myself. Wait, isn't that what Twitter...? Nevermind.

Footnote: Follow me on Twitter @emelgy

Photo credit: ©2009 Michelle Lynne Goodfellow ~ Taken at some ungodly hour of the morning after I couldn't sleep because my neighbour was taking a shower at 4:45AM.

what have i done?

File this under "S" for stupid things that women do to try and improve their looks. A couple of friends have recently coloured their hair, and their locks look gorgeously shiny. I coveted their glossy manes, and wanted to acquire some of that glimmer for myself. I found an over-the-counter product today at the drugstore - Clairol's Shine Happy - which promised a clear shine treatment in only 10 minutes! How could I resist?

I don't colour my hair. I'm not interested in colouring my hair. I love my natural colour - which some people refer to as "mousy" - with its God-given highlights and blonde streaks. There are now some healthy grey streaks mixed in there, too. Bring it on, I say.

My hair does look kind of dull, however - at least compared to my salon-treated friends'. I just finished with my box of instant head-bling, and am wondering what could have possessed me to do this to myself.


Notice that I am drenched. That's from the showerhead in my tub - but I'm getting ahead of myself.

First, I read the instructions found inside the box. Dire warnings about not getting the solution in my eyes nearly deterred me before I even got started. How to explain that one to the grandchildren? Yes dearie, I blinded myself trying to get shiny hair...

Armed with a makeshift eyebath should things go awry, I suddenly realized I wasn't going to be able to see during the 10+ minutes my hair was getting glossied, since the solution wasn't supposed to come into contact with metal (my eyeglasses' frames), and, due the abovementioned potential for blinding, the wearing of contact lenses was not recommended.

I memorized the instructions and pulled on the gloves supplied with the kit. Double-checking to make sure I was adding the correct solutions to the appropriate containers, I mixed everything together, and quickly applied it to my damp hair. Got some solution on my forearm, which was immediately bleached white. Decided now was a good time to dampen a towel as recommended in the instructions, and wipe all excess solution from any exposed skin (including my forehead, ears and neck).

Also decided that if I ever do this again, I'm going to leave it in the hands of trained professionals at a salon. Hard to tell if one is giving oneself chemically-induced vitiligo when one can't see two inches in front of one's face.

After the longest ten minutes of my life (which were really only eight-and-a-half minutes, because my scalp was burning and I was tired of waiting), I bent over my tub and rinsed out my hair with the new adjustable showerhead that my parents gave me for Christmas. Proceeded to get water (and possibly some of the solution, I worried) everywhere within a three-foot radius, including the inside of my right ear. Was wearing gloves as the instructions suggested, so I couldn't tell when my hair was clean. Couldn't check to see if the water was rinsing clear (also as the instructions suggested), because I was keeping my eyes fiercely shut in order to avoid blindness. Couldn't have seen anything with my eyes open anyhow, because I wasn't wearing my corrective lenses.

After rinsing for what I hoped was a sufficient amount of time, I removed my gloves to apply the conditioner included with the kit. Squirted the recommended dime-sized amount halfway across the bathtub. Scooped up as much as I could (by feel - still couldn't see) and rubbed it into my slippery locks. Wasn't convinced I'd rinsed out all the previous solution, so after some back-and-forth debate with my inner hypochondriac, who was convinced she was starting to feel a burning sensation in the corner of one of her eyes, I rinsed out the conditioner a minute early and stood up, damp, sweating and swearing with my outside voice.

I just checked my nearly-dry hair in the bathroom mirror; am disappointed to report that said hair does not seem noticeably shinier. My neck, on the other hand, feels itchy and irritated, and the skin on my hands is dry and tight. Maybe this stuff has some potential as a mild skin peel...

how i spent my christmas eve

I was lying in bed late last night, trying to remember the last time I didn't go to church on Christmas Eve. And to be honest, I think last night was the first time ever. I've gone to church on every other Christmas Eve of my life.

As I approach the new year, I've been reflecting on the year past. Normally New Year's doesn't mean that much to me, since I measure my life by my birthdays, and not by the calendar year. But at this time last year there were many new things just about to happen in my life, including a job that I began in the second week of January, 2008. How strange, one year later, to be leaving that job and searching for another.

It's about balance. I loved the work, but it had taken over my existence. I was doing noble things, but had set aside many of the activities that I loved most, including my creative writing and visual art. In the end I realized I was waking up unhappy more days than not. Life had lost its juice. I yearned to be in a place - live in a place - that would feed my inner callings. Less and less did it seem like that place was Toronto.

As a result, I have upended my life and moved away. Or should I say towards?

I find myself facing new beginnings once more. I am in the waiting place yet again. Exhausted from my move a month ago - all that painting and unpacking! - part of me just wants to hibernate for the rest of the winter. December has been a blur, compounded by frequent commutes back to Toronto for my work with the Chorale.

I've observed a few of my favorite Advent rituals - the Wesley-Knox Christmas concert with Denise Pelley, the RCCO Carol Service - but last night I wasn't ready for Christmas to happen. How did the days go so quickly?

I enjoyed the Chorale's Indigo concerts within the last week, and I've even made it to Sunday services at various churches this month. The music is running through my head. The scriptures have been read in my presence. I wasn't feeling the magic, though.

Yesterday I woke up intending to do some cleaning in my apartment and maybe (hopefully! finally!) unpack my library and set up my meditation/yoga room. My best friend and I had tentative plans to hang out in the afternoon, and then I was likely going to go to my new/old church for Christmas Eve.

When I tried to go online first thing in the morning, however, I realized my phone line was dead. That one event threw a spanner in the works. I couldn't pick up Laurie when she got off work early, since I had to wait around for the Bell technician to show up. When he finally finished, it was nearly suppertime. Laurie wasn't picking up her phone, and her voice mailbox was full.

I packed my bags for my trip to my sister's this morning, and ate some supper. Laurie finally called me back, and that's when I made the decision that I wanted to do nothing more than spend Christmas Eve with my best (and Jewish) friend, working on my apartment.

I fed her some of my supper and put her to work folding boxes and flattening packing paper. Sometime after nine we finished for the night, all my books unpacked and safely in my bookshelves. Both exhausted, I drove her home, and I'm sure she hit her bed as quickly as I did.

The evening couldn't have been more perfect. I got to spend time with one of my favorite people, who sometimes feels left out at this time of year; we laughed a lot; I now have a meditation room; did I mention I got to spend time with one of my favorite people?

Christmas in the past has been about catching that warm fuzzy feeling, for me. I think I'm there...

the return of my smile

Driving home yesterday from a visit to my hometown, I couldn't stop smiling - not because I was going home, but simply because I was happy. Happy is a good thing. (So are vacations.)

I'm still trying to sort out in my mind what the difference is. Is it just the vacation, or is it something else? (Like the end of my period, and several blissfully migraine-free days?)

Part of it, I'm sure, is from hanging out with my parents, friends, niece and nephew for several days. Being surrounded by people who love you is certainly a balm for the soul.

Another part of it is taking a break from worry - and in my case, much of my worry over the past several months has revolved around my job.

I'm trying to prepare myself for the eventual return to work next week. How can I carry "vacation brain" back into my regular life?

A work in progress...

the retreat - in retrospect

Day One: Monday, July 28, 2008, 2:00 a.m.

“Are you happy?”

That question, asked me by my cousin Lorraine moments before I left her parents’ 50th wedding anniversary celebration two nights night ago, caught me off-guard and has haunted me in the 30 hours since.

First of all – why wouldn’t I be happy? Do I seem unhappy?

Oh, who am I kidding? I have been tremendously unhappy for months. I’m so conscious of it, I’m afraid unhappiness hovers around me like bad breath or b.o., subtly repelling everyone unlucky enough to converse with me during the course of my days.

I have a rewarding job that I love (although I often find it incredibly stressful). I am surrounded daily by amazing people who cherish me, and whom I love.

Why should I be unhappy?

I blame a vitamin B12 deficiency. Which I am afraid I now have. I didn’t realize this until Saturday morning, when I was talking on the phone with my sister, and telling her I was a little freaked-out by what I believed to be a retina (one of mine) in the process of detaching.

Our mother had a detached retina several years ago, and I have since had laser surgery to “staple” the dubious retina in my own right eye. (Those are two words – eye and staple – that should never be used in the same sentence, eh?)

I was in the middle of using the computer when I noticed that I couldn’t read the screen. There were flashing lights in one of my eyes (never did figure out which one), and a blotch like a floater that wouldn’t move out of my centre of vision. When the effects didn’t disappear after a minute or two, I started Googling “detached retina symptoms,” and had scared myself into an almost-certain trip to the emergency department of the local hospital when my sister called.

Turns out she occasionally experiences the same thing whenever her B12 is low. She described my experience exactly, and told me it goes away as soon as she takes some sublingual vitamin B12. I was already scrambling through the kitchen cabinet where I keep my supplements before she finished her last sentence.

The visual disturbance disappeared almost immediately. But I was left with the frustrating realization: my B12 is low. The fact that I even keep B12 in my kitchen cupboard should be an indication that this is not an unfamiliar occurrence. I mean, I’m a vegetarian who has often dabbled in strict veganism. Vitamin B12 is only found in animal products. But I’ve been very solidly lacto-ovo for a few years now – I love eggs and cheese – and it’s frustrating to think that even this has not saved me. (Then again my sister, who has never been vegetarian, is also occasionally deficient. Genetic pernicious anemia, anyone?)

So I’m now taking two B12 pills per day. (Hadn’t taken any for months.) Had another visual disturbance yesterday (again at the computer). Googled “B12 deficiency symptoms.” Depression, brain fog and insomnia jumped out from the list. So there you go. My unhappiness is really my body crying for cobalamin.

Then again, maybe I really am unhappy. I am certainly very much awake in the middle of the night, and that’s not a good thing.

Why am I doing this?

(The retreat, that is.)

I’m not sure. During my regular, workday existence I often find myself craving unlimited amounts of unprogrammed time, in which I imagine I might do any number of restful, relaxing and restorative activities. I crave sleep. I wish I could meditate without the screaming voices inside my head reminding me of all the things I should be doing while I’m wasting time meditating.

I feel a vague sense of unease – maybe even terror – however, as I anticipate the next few days. At the heart of this discomfort is the knowledge – which I tend to avoid voicing whenever possible – that I am lonely. Have I just given myself the ultimate dare? Can I be alone on purpose?

I haven’t figured out all the rules for my retreat yet, although I have a good working list. No internet. No telephone. I was going to try no computer, but then I got this burning desire to write, and the thoughts don’t come out as quickly when I have to transcribe them longhand.

And even then, I suspect I will make a few phone calls (I’ve been a bit negligent in telling my family about my plans, although hopefully my mom and my sister will read the item I posted on Facebook and not be too surprised or concerned).

No shopping (unless I decide to walk to the local health food store for some iron supplements, which I suspect I may also need in addition to the B12). No banking (except when I go pay my quarterly GST remittance).

Should I just give up now?

No. I want to do this. But what, exactly, I want to do is still to be determined. Am I seeking a crucible experience, where I come out the other side transformed and a little shell-shocked? Or do I want a warm-fuzzy experience where I feel at one with the universe?

To be honest, I just want to shut up the voice inside my head that never stops its high, thin whine of anxiety. I want to figure out where the off switch is. And exercise my ability to use it.

I also – and I didn’t realize it until I sat down to write this – want to write. I miss writing. I write for work – grants, reports, PR material – but it’s not the same.

So I’ve turned off my modem and wireless router (in case I can’t control the urge to open Internet Explorer), and have turned on my computer. Like it or not, I have the feeling this experience is going to be documented electronically.

Day Four: Thursday, July 31, 2008, 3:00 a.m.

It has been a good three days. Insomnia obviously hasn’t gone away, even though I’ve tried giving up ginger tea (the only recent change I could think of that might be causing the sleeplessness). But on the other hand, I’m learning to embrace middle-of-the-night wakefulness.

The retreat hasn’t been what I expected, but I have found happiness, regardless. I journaled about my experience for the first couple of days, but in retrospect it is only so much drama and meaningless chatter. I struggled with menstrual cramps and migraines. I couldn’t decide what to do, and bounced from activity to activity (within the boundaries of my apartment, and the constraints of my “retreat rules”). In the end, I spent several hours on Day One reading back issues of my favorite magazines, and that quiet pursuit was finally enough to still my screaming mind.

Day Two, I threw my healthy eating regimen out the window and bought a bunch of treats (ice cream, strawberries, cake) to take my mind off my ongoing physical discomfort (more cramps, more migraines). Paid my GST remittance, bought some stamps. Got in the habit of going for a walk in the late afternoon or evening. Was a little distressed by the fact that I didn’t seem to be doing much spiritual work, but I told myself if I was happy, it was all good.

And strangely enough, I was happy.

Day Three (yesterday) I spent a lot of time working with my hands: cleaning, cooking, trying to pull staples out of a chair I’m refinishing, knitting. For months now I’ve been listening to the Eckart Tolle CDs that Brainerd gave me for my birthday, but not until now have I really started to understand what it means to be present. Or rather, before now I haven’t spent much time actually BEING present. Present is good.

It has been a good three days. I could continue the retreat today, but no longer feel the need. Ultimately, I guess I had to disengage from my regular life in order to find a way to return to it in a new way. I could go back to work today and it would be all different.

I’m going to enjoy the rest of my vacation, though. And I highly recommend Tolle's A New Earth. It would not be overstating the case to say that it has saved my life.

the retreat - preparations

I'm on vacation.

Other than the obligatory week I usually take off between Christmas and New Year's, I don't remember the last time I actually had a holiday. Oh wait - yes I do. I went to England the spring my nephew turned one. Missed his birthday. He's nine now. 'Bout time I had another vacation, eh?

I am writing this with a splitting migraine, so it's going to be much shorter than I'd anticipated. But I'm doing something that some people might consider very strange: I'm having my own little silent retreat, starting tomorrow, for four days.

I haven't figured out all the details, yet. It's going to be here in my own apartment, and I'm going to try (try!) to avoid the computer and the telephone. I have no television. (Did I say I was going to try to avoid the computer?)

I want the retreat to include yoga, and meditation, and prayer, and chanting, and reading, and maybe some art making.

I just went grocery shopping (not my favorite activity with a splitting migraine) to stock up on food. Other than paying my quarterly GST remittance sometime this week, I'm going to try to avoid stores and businesses. And spending money. And driving. And talking. I'll probably do about half an hour of e-mailing every day, if I need to. No Facebook. (Did I really say no Facebook?)

See ya when it's done.

have you been celebrated today?

I was talking to my best friend the other day, and mentioned an encounter I'd recently had with the employee of a client.

"She adores me," I told my best friend, basking in the remembrance of this woman's affection. "It's nice to be around people who absolutely adore you."

("And if I haven't mentioned it lately, I adore you," I hastily added. (My friend's going through a bit of a rough patch right now.))

It is nice to be around people who absolutely adore you. It's a balm for the soul. Then my friend surprised me by listing all my wonderful qualities before we said good-bye.

(She's a very good friend.)

I now find myself wishing I could return the favour - not only to her, but everyone else in my life who affirms me - and not only them, but also everyone in my life whom I adore.

Like my mom, and my dad, and my sister and her family... and my friends, and my employer, and all the amazing members of the Chorale who've been so supportive of me. And my clients, past and present, who are brave and trusting and willing to be vulnerable...

Have you been celebrated today? I'm giving away adoration for free...

the annihilation of suffering

I just spent half an hour in a virtuous, self-satisfied (but possibly ill-advised, from an emotional point of view) attempt to send blessings upon the lives of all the men whom I love, but who do not love me back. You know, all the guys I'm still carrying a torch for - or who, for various reasons, cannot choose to be with me in the way that I want (because of significant others or, in at least a couple of cases, sexual orientation).

(What can I say? I have really bad "gay-dar"...)

It is nearly spring (despite piles of snow outside my window), and my heart wants to quicken along with the birds and the bees. The natural world is on the brink of waking up after months of cold hibernation, and I long to be awakened, too...

My ex-boyfriend's grandmother called me a couple of days ago to chat, and after we hung up I found myself in a funk of melancholy - reminded (after weeks and weeks of being blissfully forgetful) of how much I had loved this man, and how much it still pains me that he has apparently chosen a whole new life without me in it.

A day earlier, at choir rehearsal, Brainerd read a passage from Pema Chödrön's book, When Things Fall Apart. A phrase jumped out at me - something along the lines of "desire is the root of all suffering," a well-known Buddhist teaching.

I looked up the reference online, and found this from the scriptures of the Buddha:

"What, however, O brethren, is suffering?...the loss of that which we love and the failure in attaining that which is longed for are suffering..."

And what is the annihilation of suffering?

"The radical and total annihilation of this thirst and the abandonment, the liberation, the deliverance from passion, that, O brethren, is the annihilation of suffering."

Umm, maybe I'll take suffering... LOL

(Read the entire passage, here.)

Seriously, though - while it is agonizing, this longing I feel for the men I cannot be with - would I really wish it away? There is a deliciousness to the peculiar dances of the heart that I cannot abandon.

And then today I found myself reading an article about Rumi in the latest issue of Spirituality and Health, and I discovered that the great Sufi poet had an intense (non-sexual, apparently) attachment to his mentor and teacher, Shams.

I am in love with You.
What's the use of giving me advice?
I have already drunk the passion.
What's the use of candy?
They say, "Bind his feet in chains,"
but they can't bind up my crazy heart.

Shams eventually disappeared, likely fallen victim to assassins. "With Shams gone, the final veil was removed, and the sun (Shams) of Rumi's own heart could be revealed. The love that had been awakened could now be realized as an attribute of Rumi's own self. Rumi would later be able to teach with conviction:"

There is no Love greater than Love with no object.
For then you, yourself, have become love itself.

And so I found myself sending blessings to all the men I love: the ones with wives, the ones with ex-wives and new partners, the ones who swore they never wanted kids and have now become fathers with other women, the ones who are still single but apparently never wanted to change that status with me, and of course Mac, who seems to believe that a career as a singer and happiness with me are mutually exclusive.

I sent them love, and I sent them good wishes for the lives they are now living. I blessed their families and their well-being.

They may not have chosen me... but they may allow me to be revealed to myself...

to cut or not to cut

Hello beautiful person! This post, with 100% of its scintillating original content, has been moved to my new personal blog, emelgy. Thanks for visiting!

for the love of listening

I was driving down Mount Pleasant Avenue in uptown Toronto this afternoon when I passed by a small chocolatier’s called LeFeuvre’s. I have vivid memories of visiting this shop just over a year ago with my ex-boyfriend, MacKenzie.

Mac was an actor who did historical re-enactments; he went into schools and recreated characters from Canadian history. His repertoire included a French seigneur and the RCMP officer Sam Steele. His most popular character by far, however, was a First World War infantry soldier based on the real-life reminiscences of Fred LeFeuvre, a Canadian who served with the 2nd Division, 4th Brigade, 19th Battalion.

After the war, Fred returned to Canada and eventually opened his eponymous chocolate shop. Of the many staff which must have passed through his employ over the years, one – a young man named David Morris – took the time to listen to Fred’s stories, and later crafted them into an hour-long monologue that would give Canadian school-children first-hand experience of war.

Dave is founder of the educational acting company, History Comes Alive – and Mac was one of the company’s actors.

I think Fred LeFeuvre (Mac always pronounced his name “Le Fever”) got under Mac’s skin in a way that many of his other characters never did. Dave told Mac about his time spent working in the chocolate shop with Fred, and Mac wanted to walk through that door and see the sights – smell the smells – that were part of Fred LeFeuvre’s daily existence after his life-altering war experiences.

All Mac knew was that LeFeuvre’s – the shop – was located somewhere along Mount Pleasant. I was so new to Toronto at the time that I had no idea where to tell Mac to look. We traveled downtown on an errand, and on our way back we finally spotted the tiny storefront in the main commercial area along Mount Pleasant, south of Eglinton.

Mac was like a little kid – he could hardly contain his excitement. It was early evening, and the impenetrable December darkness had already descended. We weren’t sure if the shop would even be open, but hadn’t counted on the popularity of chocolate in the last-minute rush towards Christmas.

I remember how the aroma of the store embraced us in a heady, hot bath of bittersweet. There was no staff in the front of the store, but a door was open to the workshop in back where the chocolates were made, and a tired woman got up from her creations to step behind the counter, waiting to serve us.

Mac is a naturally gregarious guy, and he quickly sought to engage the proprietors – whom he knew were no longer connected to the LeFeuvre family – in conversation. But they were busy filling last-minute orders, and weren’t interested in indulging Mac’s curiosity, or listening to his story.

In the end, Mac simply bought several boxes of chocolates for family and friends, and we were pushed back out into the cold night.

There’s a quote that I came across a few days ago, from a woman named Barbara Ueland. She says: “Unless you listen, you can’t know anybody. Oh, you will know facts and what is in the newspapers and all of history, perhaps, but you will not know one single person. You know, I have come to think listening is love, that’s what it really is.”

I never saw Mac perform “The Soldier”, as he called it. He stopped doing the character several months ago; the raw emotion of the role tore strips off his beautiful tenor singing voice, and he didn’t want to risk permanent vocal damage.

But I think about the boy who saw things that no human being should ever have to see… and I think about the man who chose to make chocolate – a modern symbol of love – for a living.

I think about the love of a listening ear, lavished by a hired shop boy upon his elderly employer… and the love that hundreds of schoolchildren have spent upon this same man’s memory, via Mac’s proxy.

If love is the currency of exchange for storytelling, it seems to me that stories must be very valuable, indeed. Yet I have spent countless hours listening – to family, friends, lovers and strangers – and never once asked myself what I was receiving in return for my love.

One of the active ingredients in chocolate is theobromine, whose name comes from the Greek roots theo and bromis, literally, “food of the gods.” Among its many side-effects, theobromine is considered to be a vasodilator – that is, it opens the blood vessels – and a heart stimulant.

Call it poetic fancy, but I wonder if stories don’t act in exactly the same way. If stories, themselves, are nothing less than the food of the gods.

Come share in the listening with me…