I have a love/hate relationship with paint. I usually begin any renovation project with gusto, pouring over paint samples and design magazines, only to find my enthusiasm flagging by the time I am finished the first coat on the first wall. I love choosing paint colours, and if I may say so myself, I am really good at it. I can match undertones well - that is the secret. For example, the first time I painted my living room I choose the colour 'Egyptian' which is a deep earthy brown colour. You would think that it would be too dark and somber, but it isn't at all. The room gets a lot of light and the carpet is a light beige, so it works. I painted the ceiling mauve to compliment the brown because there is a mauve undertone in 'Egyptian'. The effect is cool in that you really cannot tell that my ceiling is purple - it looks white. I chose 'Americana' for my bathroom because it was such a vibrant shade of blue and then paired it with a massive gold gilt framed mirror over the sink and brushed nickel faucets. For the TV room, I was inspired by a Manhattan pied-a-terre concept: exposed brick, clean lines, modern furniture with a more masculine feel to it. I chose a deep chocolate brown for the end walls and a slate grey for the sides and paired it with rich chocolate leather couches. I felt a tiny burst of pride when I heard the cable guy's impressed whistle as Rob showed him the room. Ok ok, he was most likely whistling about the audio-visual equipment, but in my mind it was over my awesome paint job.
'Haze' is my favorite colour for paint that you want to be able to ignore. My bedroom is painted in this colour and so is my office. The colour resembles coffee with too much milk in it. But it's really soothing and matches well with almost any decor.
I gave my sister Kate deep red walls in her bedroom (that we immediately began calling her 'boudoir') which really set off the mahogany fireplace and dark wood mouldings of the room. We chose a crushed velvet bedspread and about a million throw pillows with heavy wine coloured curtains to finish off the room. The red walls were tough - anyone who has attempted this colour knows it is a faux amis. I burst into tears after the first coat dried because it resembled strongly the colour of Campbell's Tomato Soup. Grey primer was the secret to that room - or any room where you want to make the colour deep and bold. I have done textured walls also. The only thing I will say about that is that you better love love love that wall, because there is no way that you are getting that shit off. Plus it is super difficult to work with and you have to be so precise.
So here I am painting my living room again. This time, I am dropping the ceiling by painting the crown moulding and the ceiling the same shade. I chose an off-white with dove grey undertones to it to give an 'antiqued' feel to the room. I am painting the walls a moss green colour called 'Promenade.' Rob blanched at this colour choice, but is remaining cautiously optimistic. Granted, I had to recite the litany of paint jobs I have done in my life to remind him that really I am very good at this and he should just trust me; in the end he has agreed to leave me to it. Sure, I have made mistakes in the past. I painted the guest room downstairs yellow thinking it would open up a dreary basement room. This was before I knew that yellow is the colour of repressed rage. It looked like an asylum. I picked the lightest shade of blush pink for the kitchen which was really a rookie mistake. Unless you are painting a nursery, pink should never be used inside your home. It looked like the walls were hosed down with Pepto Bismol.
Vis-a-vis the living room, I am at the point where I am tired of painting which is bad because there is a lot more to do. I am sick of paint pans, and tape, and washing brushes. I am systematically dislocating my rotater cuff with all this repetitive motion and my hands are chapped from too much washing. My neck hurts from looking up all the time.
But I am still excited about the colour choices, I think I have picked a real winner this time. I will keep you posted...
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Oh Canada...
The topic of conversation around our backyard fire pit this Canada Day was "You know you are Canadian when..." Here are some of the answers:
You Know You Are Canadian When...
1) You have de-iced your car door locks using a lighter.
2) You have opened a beer bottle with that same lighter.
3) You know how to light a fire pretty much anywhere, with limited supplies.
4) You know how to paddle a canoe.
5) You have thrown at least one curling rock in your life.
6) You have caught at least one fish.
7) You have visited "The Largest ____" Fill in: Pasanka Egg, UFO, Lobster, etc... http://www.bigthings.ca/
8) You know the bird call from the Hinterland Who's Who.
http://www.hww.ca/index_e.asp
9) You can sing, or at least hum, the entire Log Driver's Waltz.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ekqsHP9Sck
10) The Hockey Night in Canada theme song still gives you a thrill, even if you don't watch hockey.
11) You know at least one person who has held the Stanley Cup.
12) You know what a Double Double is, and you would like one please...
13) You have watched at least one episode of the following, usually due to a lack of cable TV: The Tommy Hunter Show, Rita McNeil & Friends, Hee-Haw, The Beachcombers, or Stompin Tom Connors. The Littlest Hobo was also mentioned, but many felt they watched that voluntarily.
14) You can sing along to the Irish Rovers because somehow all of the words of 'Wasn't That a Party' have crept into the recesses of your subconscious and refuse to leave.
15) Ditto for 'The Rodeo Song"...
16) That no matter where you go in this great land of ours, there are always strong opinions about the weather and the state of the roads.
17) You understand that beavers are mighty creatures.
18) You have shoveled twice in the same day.
19) No matter the flavor of your politics, everyone thinks Louis Riel kicked ass.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Riel
20) You have uttered the phrase "I hate white rabbits" to keep away the smoke.
As we neared the end of our list, we were forced to admit how regional ours was. We wondered what Lincoln's friend James' list would look like. His parents are from Vietnam, he was born in Canada. Or my sister Gayle's list, and her family in Québec. Or Shivani's. Or Ayala's. While there are moments where one can feel with strong conviction one's own 'Canadianness,' it is elusive as to what actually makes up this identity. I'm not sure why, but I like this. I like that there can be so many definitions to one single word: Canadian. I feel an immeasurable amount of pride in my country, and to be Canadian.
Happy Canada Day everyone.
You Know You Are Canadian When...
1) You have de-iced your car door locks using a lighter.
2) You have opened a beer bottle with that same lighter.
3) You know how to light a fire pretty much anywhere, with limited supplies.
4) You know how to paddle a canoe.
5) You have thrown at least one curling rock in your life.
6) You have caught at least one fish.
7) You have visited "The Largest ____" Fill in: Pasanka Egg, UFO, Lobster, etc... http://www.bigthings.ca/
8) You know the bird call from the Hinterland Who's Who.
http://www.hww.ca/index_e.asp
9) You can sing, or at least hum, the entire Log Driver's Waltz.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ekqsHP9Sck
10) The Hockey Night in Canada theme song still gives you a thrill, even if you don't watch hockey.
11) You know at least one person who has held the Stanley Cup.
12) You know what a Double Double is, and you would like one please...
13) You have watched at least one episode of the following, usually due to a lack of cable TV: The Tommy Hunter Show, Rita McNeil & Friends, Hee-Haw, The Beachcombers, or Stompin Tom Connors. The Littlest Hobo was also mentioned, but many felt they watched that voluntarily.
14) You can sing along to the Irish Rovers because somehow all of the words of 'Wasn't That a Party' have crept into the recesses of your subconscious and refuse to leave.
15) Ditto for 'The Rodeo Song"...
16) That no matter where you go in this great land of ours, there are always strong opinions about the weather and the state of the roads.
17) You understand that beavers are mighty creatures.
18) You have shoveled twice in the same day.
19) No matter the flavor of your politics, everyone thinks Louis Riel kicked ass.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Riel
20) You have uttered the phrase "I hate white rabbits" to keep away the smoke.
As we neared the end of our list, we were forced to admit how regional ours was. We wondered what Lincoln's friend James' list would look like. His parents are from Vietnam, he was born in Canada. Or my sister Gayle's list, and her family in Québec. Or Shivani's. Or Ayala's. While there are moments where one can feel with strong conviction one's own 'Canadianness,' it is elusive as to what actually makes up this identity. I'm not sure why, but I like this. I like that there can be so many definitions to one single word: Canadian. I feel an immeasurable amount of pride in my country, and to be Canadian.
Happy Canada Day everyone.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
On the jar...
I am addicted to a TV show. Most of you know that I am not a big television watcher, but lately I have been watching the show "Til Debt do us Part" and, I must say, I am a little obsessed. For those of you who do not know the show, it is about people who are in a financial crisis and appeal to a debt counselor (host Gail Vaz-Oxlade) to show them the error of their ways. First, she assesses 6 months of the family's financial history and shows them where they are spending their money, how much they are in debt, and where they will be in 5 years if they continue overspending. Then, she puts the family on a strict cash-only budget where they must plan their expenses for the week based on the amount of money coming in, and then place the allotted cash in mason jars according to the following categories: food, entertainment, clothing and gifts, and transportation. Usually this involves making a major cut to the family's variable expenses - sometimes up to 70%. It is what people spend their money on that I find fascinating. You would think that in order for people to get into such trouble that they require the help of a financial analyst, they would have to have uncontrollable shopping habits, or gambling issues, or are simply wasting their money on unneeded luxury items. Some of them do, but the majority of them don't. What most people overspend on is food. This never fails to shock me. Food is what is sinking most families into financial ruin.
Now let me be clear about this - this is not food purchased from the grocery store, this is mostly take-out, fast food, and restaurants. It is not that these people are going out 3 times a week for 7 course meals at the Unheardof either; mostly their eating decisions are centred around hectic lifestyles where mom has worked all day and has only twenty minutes to get food into her children before taking them to some type of practice or lesson. One hockey mom that was on the show last week was spending an average of 400$ on food above and beyond her grocery expenses. When Gail (I feel the intimacy of a first name basis with this woman, I'm not sure why) cut off her fast-food spending, she had to learn how to balance the demands of a busy lifestyle with the nutritional needs of her family.
As a woman who has 2 sons in competitive soccer, I can really relate with this expense. There are so many days when I just want to say 'screw it, let's get take-out' - and I do. Gail says that if you do no other planning in your finances but how you spend money in regards to food, you will be so much better off. Because no matter how often you swear that you will not spend money on take-out, if you haven't a meal planned and ingredients at hand, you will spend the money. The demands of the hungry body must be met. This seems like such simple rationale, but try telling that to a mother with kids in lessons, or a professional who is working a 45 hour work week, or a widower who can't seem to find the gumption to prepare a meal for only one person. At the end of the day, it just kind of sneaks up on you - 'oh yeah, I have to eat.'
So the first 'challenge' she makes the family do, is to plan all their meals for the week and shop only one time per week. I have decided to try this. Rob and I are fairly European in our shopping habits, and really like to see how we feel that day before deciding on what we are eating, so this is a real challenge. First, I wrote out a calendar of where each person needed to be on any given day and then determined how many breakfasts, lunches, dinners and snacks I would need for 5 days. No more Flamingo Pizza, or Quan's, or take-out of any kind. I let the boys participate in the making of the grocery list and they can choose whatever they want. I keep a couple of frozen pizzas on-hand for emergencies. I have started making single serving chili, hamburger casseroles, and beef stews for nights where the kids need to feed themselves. Today I went to the grocery store with a list and actually stuck to it. And you know what? My bill was only 120$. If I could spend only 500$ a month on food, I would be overjoyed.
So what does the minister of finance (my pet-name for Rob) think of all of this? He seems to be treating me with a sort of bemused patience. I know he is happy the I am taking an interest in the household expenses because, let's be frank, I never even considered them before. Rob once hid all of the plans for a secret trip to Maui under "banking info" feeling certain that I would never look there. He was right, I didn't. I still don't know what bank carries our mortgage and it was news to me that power and water came on the same bill, but dammit I'm going to try. When I said that I wanted a new diamond ring for our anniversary, Rob asked which jar that was going to come from. Now he makes all kind of 'jar' jokes: 'We'll have to get bigger jars,' 'I'm going to hit the transportation jar pretty hard this month' (he bought a new car), 'which jar does the spa treatments come out of?' and so on. Yeah, he's having fun with this - but that's okay. I nixed his Tim Hortons allowance but I am pretty sure that he just transfered that expense to his business and is going there on the sly...
And although I am not living on cash from mason jars, I am doing so metaphorically. So far, it hasn't been too bad. Tonight is Taco night and the boys are going to help cook. By September, when my schedule gets really crazy, I might actually have my shit together...
Now let me be clear about this - this is not food purchased from the grocery store, this is mostly take-out, fast food, and restaurants. It is not that these people are going out 3 times a week for 7 course meals at the Unheardof either; mostly their eating decisions are centred around hectic lifestyles where mom has worked all day and has only twenty minutes to get food into her children before taking them to some type of practice or lesson. One hockey mom that was on the show last week was spending an average of 400$ on food above and beyond her grocery expenses. When Gail (I feel the intimacy of a first name basis with this woman, I'm not sure why) cut off her fast-food spending, she had to learn how to balance the demands of a busy lifestyle with the nutritional needs of her family.
As a woman who has 2 sons in competitive soccer, I can really relate with this expense. There are so many days when I just want to say 'screw it, let's get take-out' - and I do. Gail says that if you do no other planning in your finances but how you spend money in regards to food, you will be so much better off. Because no matter how often you swear that you will not spend money on take-out, if you haven't a meal planned and ingredients at hand, you will spend the money. The demands of the hungry body must be met. This seems like such simple rationale, but try telling that to a mother with kids in lessons, or a professional who is working a 45 hour work week, or a widower who can't seem to find the gumption to prepare a meal for only one person. At the end of the day, it just kind of sneaks up on you - 'oh yeah, I have to eat.'
So the first 'challenge' she makes the family do, is to plan all their meals for the week and shop only one time per week. I have decided to try this. Rob and I are fairly European in our shopping habits, and really like to see how we feel that day before deciding on what we are eating, so this is a real challenge. First, I wrote out a calendar of where each person needed to be on any given day and then determined how many breakfasts, lunches, dinners and snacks I would need for 5 days. No more Flamingo Pizza, or Quan's, or take-out of any kind. I let the boys participate in the making of the grocery list and they can choose whatever they want. I keep a couple of frozen pizzas on-hand for emergencies. I have started making single serving chili, hamburger casseroles, and beef stews for nights where the kids need to feed themselves. Today I went to the grocery store with a list and actually stuck to it. And you know what? My bill was only 120$. If I could spend only 500$ a month on food, I would be overjoyed.
So what does the minister of finance (my pet-name for Rob) think of all of this? He seems to be treating me with a sort of bemused patience. I know he is happy the I am taking an interest in the household expenses because, let's be frank, I never even considered them before. Rob once hid all of the plans for a secret trip to Maui under "banking info" feeling certain that I would never look there. He was right, I didn't. I still don't know what bank carries our mortgage and it was news to me that power and water came on the same bill, but dammit I'm going to try. When I said that I wanted a new diamond ring for our anniversary, Rob asked which jar that was going to come from. Now he makes all kind of 'jar' jokes: 'We'll have to get bigger jars,' 'I'm going to hit the transportation jar pretty hard this month' (he bought a new car), 'which jar does the spa treatments come out of?' and so on. Yeah, he's having fun with this - but that's okay. I nixed his Tim Hortons allowance but I am pretty sure that he just transfered that expense to his business and is going there on the sly...
And although I am not living on cash from mason jars, I am doing so metaphorically. So far, it hasn't been too bad. Tonight is Taco night and the boys are going to help cook. By September, when my schedule gets really crazy, I might actually have my shit together...
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wonderful life (?)
Warning: the contents of this message will contain no answers, only difficult questions...
On Friday night, Cassandra Williams ended her life. I don't think this was an accident. She was at Rock and Ride, where both Ryley and Lincoln were, and she took 6 ecstasy pills. Each pill was triple the normal dosage. She collapsed in a crowd of people on a sticky concrete floor - the music blaring as she went down. I wonder how many people didn't even notice. By the time they got her to the hospital, she was in full cardiac arrest. Twenty hours later her mother made the decision to remove her life support when it was clear that there was no way that Cassie was coming back. There are no words for this kind of agony so I will stop here.
I want to clarify my meaning when I say that this was no accident. That is not to say that I believe that Cassie deliberately ended her life - far from it - I imagine that what she was going for was more life, not less. What I think is no accident, is how she got into the situation in the first place. This is far more complicated because it forces us as women to ask ourselves some difficult questions and raises some accountability issues. When it comes to smoking, drinking and drug use, girls are far outstripping the boys. Their abuse of prescription drugs is also on the rise. The reasons for this, of course, are familiar: to be cool, to be emo, to be daring, to be skinny, to be popular, peer pressure, and on and on and on. One blog I was reading had a comment from a 12 year old girl who said that the thrill of hiding something, of doing something she knew was 'bad', thrilled her. She liked the idea of 'getting away with it.'
On Friday night, Cassandra Williams ended her life. I don't think this was an accident. She was at Rock and Ride, where both Ryley and Lincoln were, and she took 6 ecstasy pills. Each pill was triple the normal dosage. She collapsed in a crowd of people on a sticky concrete floor - the music blaring as she went down. I wonder how many people didn't even notice. By the time they got her to the hospital, she was in full cardiac arrest. Twenty hours later her mother made the decision to remove her life support when it was clear that there was no way that Cassie was coming back. There are no words for this kind of agony so I will stop here.
I want to clarify my meaning when I say that this was no accident. That is not to say that I believe that Cassie deliberately ended her life - far from it - I imagine that what she was going for was more life, not less. What I think is no accident, is how she got into the situation in the first place. This is far more complicated because it forces us as women to ask ourselves some difficult questions and raises some accountability issues. When it comes to smoking, drinking and drug use, girls are far outstripping the boys. Their abuse of prescription drugs is also on the rise. The reasons for this, of course, are familiar: to be cool, to be emo, to be daring, to be skinny, to be popular, peer pressure, and on and on and on. One blog I was reading had a comment from a 12 year old girl who said that the thrill of hiding something, of doing something she knew was 'bad', thrilled her. She liked the idea of 'getting away with it.'
That is when it clicked with me that this is about control, or more specifically, the lack thereof. In a world where young women have so very little control, the one thing that they can control is their bodies and what they do with them. It's primal. It says "I have dominion over this body, how it feels, how it looks, how it is perceived, how it moves, its pleasure, its pain, because dammit, it is mine and somehow, somewhere, something is going to begin and end with me. I can even place my body in situations where it loses control, because that is how in control I am." So, my question, the first of many, is: how do we give our girls more control? And, perhaps more importantly, what are doing or not doing that is taking this control away?
When I was a teenager I read The Great Gatsby for the first time. There was something so beautiful and tragic about Daisy. I loved the part where she said to Nick that if she was to ever have a daughter, she hoped that she would be a beautiful fool. Something about that line really resonated with me at age 14. Although I could not have articulated it at the time, I intimately understood the truth of that logic. Beauty was to be wished for because obviously it is currency, and foolishness so that you never had to understand that beauty was the only currency available to you as a woman. Something in me glimpsed at our lack of control and made foolishness seem so much more preferable than the Herculian task of changing it. I look at the young women of today and feel a similar deep despair. The media that indoctrinates them, their continued inequality of representation in government, religion, and commerce, the legal fights that continue to surround their bodies (abortion, rape), the 76 cents they will earn to every male dollar, the marketing departments targeting them, the entertainment industry targeting them, the drug dealers targeting them - they are, quite literally, being hunted. Today, being a beautiful fool will get you killed...
I apologize for the emotional rant. I just can't imagine what was going through the mind of a 14 year old girl who thought it would be a good idea to take 6 of anything - much less a drug with a rising death toll. There is something achingly familiar about her; it's as if at one time I was her.
One thing is clear to me: I know who I am fighting for. What is less clear, is what needs to be done...
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Lateral Drift...
Deconstruction is a bitch. Just ask anyone that has gone through the process. To take something apart - be it your home, your career, or even your own assumptions and beliefs takes a tremendous amount of mental effort, and no small amount of courage either.
I have friends that are working through this process right now. Some are leaving careers either by choice or by cutbacks, others are leaving marriages that have ceased to function, others are leaving home, some are finishing school. All of them are looking for their path. I have taken apart my life brick by brick once before so I know there are a lot of misnomers out there about the process of deconstruction. The biggest one would be the amount of time it takes. If only life could be a series of well researched decisions, perfectly executed, with appropriate feelings and reactions in check - but it is never like that. It takes way longer than you imagine.
For me, deconstruction began with a profound feeling of 'stuckness' - a kind of paralysis. A feeling like I had to move, but had no idea where, or how, or why - just that what I was doing wasn't fitting any more. I felt like I was wearing a coat that was too small for me, pinching my shoulders, restricting my movement. And the feeling didn't go away. In fact, it just got worse. I remember saying to a friend of mine that I felt like my mind and my body were in a wheel chair, paralyzed totally, but I knew that my house was on fire. Profound feelings of need, or perhaps more accurately lack, combined with complete and total inability to imagine how or what to do. Being a type A personality, I naturally addressed this with a mamoth 'TO DO' list. No sir, I wasn't going down without a fight. I agressively renovated my house. I learned to cook exotic foreign meals. I monitored homework completion with military precision. I had a strict 'no television' policy. I had done the courageous thing, hadn't I? I had left a good job, comfortable wage, and years of service to rediscover what I wanted from life. At the time, I fancied myself as somewhat of a maverick, allowing myself to be open to where the universe was going to direct me next. Proactively having my midlife crisis at thirty. And do you know what? The universe was totally silent. It gave no clues as to what to "be" next. Who was I without my job title? It was astonishing to discover how much that title had constructed my belief system.
In face of the inevitable dinner party question "what do you do?" I blanched. I talked around it, projects I was planning, books I was reading, traveling, and so on. "Being" a wife and mother didn't seem like an occupation to me because I always had other ways of identifying myself. It is funny to always be on the wrong side of things. When I worked, I felt like I was being torn in two directions where the boys were concerned and what I wanted to accomplish for myself. 'Could I?' was rapidly becoming 'should I?' When I left work, I felt like I didn't have any ambition. I saw staying at home as losing myself. I think many women feel like that though. The innumerable amount of hats we're supposed to wear comfortably, without question.
At any rate, my answers to the "what do you do?" question got cheekier and more defiant. I was sick to death of answering, and asking, that question. "What do you do?" "Whatever I want, whenever I want" was my imagined response. Said coyly, betraying no insecurity. Eventually, my answer was a simple "nothing." My sisters hated this. They didn't like that I would say that I was nothing. They would put on a fashion show of all of my hats, pushing me to choose one. I tried to explain that I really wanted to try being nothing for a change. That I wanted to see who I was without the definition. Without the box to check off in efficient red pen. On the way back from being something, sometimes you have to be nothing. Otherwise, it's not deconstruction.
You would think that being nothing would leave me wide open for self discovery. Like a tabula rasa, just waiting for the universe to make its mark. Hey universe, I'm open now. Undistracted. Ready for guidance... but still nothing. So, I started to panic. I voraciously read self-help books. I consulted the oracle. Several oracles, actually. I did Meyers Briggs tests that told me I was well suited to the field I just left. I worried and fraught. I examined the problem of 'being' from every logical perspective; I thought of little else. Slowly, I sank into despair. This question of what to be and what to do became larger than life. God forbid I didn't reach my potential (hi mom). Did I just totally fuck up my career? Did I, (gasp) fail?
I wish I could give my friends a map of how to find their answers. Or at least how to be nothing comfortably, patiently. One thing that I will say is that when conventional linear logic fails, allow your mind to drift laterally. Do something else unrelated. Think of other things. Give 'nothing' time to gel. And yes, being nothing and doing nothing is a viable option. Sometimes, when you have worried a problem to death, it's the only thing left to do.
Below is an excerpt from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Prisig. It was in deceased friend's book collection; Dave sending us his wisdom from beyond the grave. I have always said that the right book always finds me at the right time - at the moment when I most need it.
"Yes and no...this or that...one or zero. On the basis of this elementary two term discrimination, all human knowledge is built up. The demonstration of this is the computer memory which stores all of its knowledge in the form of binary information. It contains ones and zeros and that’s all.
Because we are unaccustomed to it we don’t usually see that there’s a third possible logical term equal to yes and no which is capable of expanding our understanding in an unrecognized direction. We don’t even have a term for it, so I use the Japanese mu. Mu means “no thing”. It points outside the process of dualistic discrimination. Mu simply says “No class; not one, not zero, not yes, not no.” It states that the context of the question is such that a yes or no answer is in error and should not be given. “Un-ask the question” is what it says. Mu becomes appropriate when the context of the question becomes too small for the truth of the answer” (288).
I love that last part: "Mu becomes appropriate when the context of the question becomes too small for the answer." It is one thing to wrap your head around it theoretically, it is quite another to actually apply it to your life. All of this meditation on 'destiny' and 'paths' and 'being' was getting me nowhere. It wasn't until I 'un-asked' the question, that I started to drift. It wasn't until I started to drift, that I found what I was looking for. Not total illumination, more just a glimmer. Slowly, things started to take shape. That isn't to say that I didn't hit roadblocks. I had to start later than I wanted. There were hoops to jump through. Questions of deservedness that needed to be answered on my part and theirs. But because I wasn't asking the question and wasn't paying attention for the 'signs,' I didn't get weighed down by them.
And whaddya know? Here I am, standing on a path. No list of pros and cons, no Failure Modes and Effects analysis, no Ishikawa diagram, no stakeholder analysis gave me the answer. I just wandered into it. Mu, totally.
I have friends that are working through this process right now. Some are leaving careers either by choice or by cutbacks, others are leaving marriages that have ceased to function, others are leaving home, some are finishing school. All of them are looking for their path. I have taken apart my life brick by brick once before so I know there are a lot of misnomers out there about the process of deconstruction. The biggest one would be the amount of time it takes. If only life could be a series of well researched decisions, perfectly executed, with appropriate feelings and reactions in check - but it is never like that. It takes way longer than you imagine.
For me, deconstruction began with a profound feeling of 'stuckness' - a kind of paralysis. A feeling like I had to move, but had no idea where, or how, or why - just that what I was doing wasn't fitting any more. I felt like I was wearing a coat that was too small for me, pinching my shoulders, restricting my movement. And the feeling didn't go away. In fact, it just got worse. I remember saying to a friend of mine that I felt like my mind and my body were in a wheel chair, paralyzed totally, but I knew that my house was on fire. Profound feelings of need, or perhaps more accurately lack, combined with complete and total inability to imagine how or what to do. Being a type A personality, I naturally addressed this with a mamoth 'TO DO' list. No sir, I wasn't going down without a fight. I agressively renovated my house. I learned to cook exotic foreign meals. I monitored homework completion with military precision. I had a strict 'no television' policy. I had done the courageous thing, hadn't I? I had left a good job, comfortable wage, and years of service to rediscover what I wanted from life. At the time, I fancied myself as somewhat of a maverick, allowing myself to be open to where the universe was going to direct me next. Proactively having my midlife crisis at thirty. And do you know what? The universe was totally silent. It gave no clues as to what to "be" next. Who was I without my job title? It was astonishing to discover how much that title had constructed my belief system.
In face of the inevitable dinner party question "what do you do?" I blanched. I talked around it, projects I was planning, books I was reading, traveling, and so on. "Being" a wife and mother didn't seem like an occupation to me because I always had other ways of identifying myself. It is funny to always be on the wrong side of things. When I worked, I felt like I was being torn in two directions where the boys were concerned and what I wanted to accomplish for myself. 'Could I?' was rapidly becoming 'should I?' When I left work, I felt like I didn't have any ambition. I saw staying at home as losing myself. I think many women feel like that though. The innumerable amount of hats we're supposed to wear comfortably, without question.
At any rate, my answers to the "what do you do?" question got cheekier and more defiant. I was sick to death of answering, and asking, that question. "What do you do?" "Whatever I want, whenever I want" was my imagined response. Said coyly, betraying no insecurity. Eventually, my answer was a simple "nothing." My sisters hated this. They didn't like that I would say that I was nothing. They would put on a fashion show of all of my hats, pushing me to choose one. I tried to explain that I really wanted to try being nothing for a change. That I wanted to see who I was without the definition. Without the box to check off in efficient red pen. On the way back from being something, sometimes you have to be nothing. Otherwise, it's not deconstruction.
You would think that being nothing would leave me wide open for self discovery. Like a tabula rasa, just waiting for the universe to make its mark. Hey universe, I'm open now. Undistracted. Ready for guidance... but still nothing. So, I started to panic. I voraciously read self-help books. I consulted the oracle. Several oracles, actually. I did Meyers Briggs tests that told me I was well suited to the field I just left. I worried and fraught. I examined the problem of 'being' from every logical perspective; I thought of little else. Slowly, I sank into despair. This question of what to be and what to do became larger than life. God forbid I didn't reach my potential (hi mom). Did I just totally fuck up my career? Did I, (gasp) fail?
I wish I could give my friends a map of how to find their answers. Or at least how to be nothing comfortably, patiently. One thing that I will say is that when conventional linear logic fails, allow your mind to drift laterally. Do something else unrelated. Think of other things. Give 'nothing' time to gel. And yes, being nothing and doing nothing is a viable option. Sometimes, when you have worried a problem to death, it's the only thing left to do.
Below is an excerpt from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Prisig. It was in deceased friend's book collection; Dave sending us his wisdom from beyond the grave. I have always said that the right book always finds me at the right time - at the moment when I most need it.
"Yes and no...this or that...one or zero. On the basis of this elementary two term discrimination, all human knowledge is built up. The demonstration of this is the computer memory which stores all of its knowledge in the form of binary information. It contains ones and zeros and that’s all.
Because we are unaccustomed to it we don’t usually see that there’s a third possible logical term equal to yes and no which is capable of expanding our understanding in an unrecognized direction. We don’t even have a term for it, so I use the Japanese mu. Mu means “no thing”. It points outside the process of dualistic discrimination. Mu simply says “No class; not one, not zero, not yes, not no.” It states that the context of the question is such that a yes or no answer is in error and should not be given. “Un-ask the question” is what it says. Mu becomes appropriate when the context of the question becomes too small for the truth of the answer” (288).
I love that last part: "Mu becomes appropriate when the context of the question becomes too small for the answer." It is one thing to wrap your head around it theoretically, it is quite another to actually apply it to your life. All of this meditation on 'destiny' and 'paths' and 'being' was getting me nowhere. It wasn't until I 'un-asked' the question, that I started to drift. It wasn't until I started to drift, that I found what I was looking for. Not total illumination, more just a glimmer. Slowly, things started to take shape. That isn't to say that I didn't hit roadblocks. I had to start later than I wanted. There were hoops to jump through. Questions of deservedness that needed to be answered on my part and theirs. But because I wasn't asking the question and wasn't paying attention for the 'signs,' I didn't get weighed down by them.
And whaddya know? Here I am, standing on a path. No list of pros and cons, no Failure Modes and Effects analysis, no Ishikawa diagram, no stakeholder analysis gave me the answer. I just wandered into it. Mu, totally.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Oh no honey, I'm just fixin' to smoke and drink...
This was once said to me by a brash blousey southern woman when asked if there was anything that we could get her to eat...no no honey, I'm just fixin' to smoke and drink. Although 'drink' sounded more like 'drank.' She was powdering her cleavage with a kit from Chanel, specifically designed for the purpose, while inhaling a Whiskey sour. I love the south for this...so unapologetic for their vices. It's a glorious place. And the women there are so major - all hair, tits and nails. Every recipe they make starts with a cup of mayonaise and 2 sticks of butter...brunch dates are sure to take place with a fully stocked bloody mary bar. There were a few moments when I wondered if my Irish heritage would be sufficient to pull me through.
"Good thing I don't live here" is what I think. Then there is the other woman who declines a martini because she 'switched to pills exclusively sometime back.' "Care for a oxycontin?" she asks. I demure. I have always had a suspicion of OTC's and have been known to rail against the drug industry for targeting women with their euphemetically named little pink pills: saraphim (seriously? God's highest angel...and the republicans let them get away with that?), ativan, valium, and the like. 'Benzos' as they are more commonly known. And what is wild is that there doesn't seem to be any regulatory body in the States in regards to pills. Perhaps there isn't in Canada either and I just don't know, but down there they order whatever they want off the internet. Pills to make you happy. Pills to make you happier if the original pills start to crap out. Pills so you don't ingest carbs. Pills so you can have sex. Green tea now comes in pill format, for christ sake. The war on drugs has really just became the war on pain - emotional or otherwise. But it is the designer jewelled pill cases that really blew me away. Dolce and Gabanna, Tiffany's, Louis Vuitton, Swarovski crystals - you name it, they are putting their logo all over pill cases. They want to brand your drug addiction.
Anyway, I have been thinking about pills lately mostly because I have managed in 35 years to keep my life relatively pill free. I don't take the birth control pill - I don't like the idea of ingesting hormones. I rarely take aspirin. I had my second child completely drug free (Disclaimer: the labour was only 2 hours long and for my first child, I could have made out with the anaesthesiologist out of sheer gratitude when he arrived for my epidural). I am not trying to make myself out like some saint. I drink wine. I eat fatty foods. I smoked for years. But pills were always something that I stayed away from. And always planned to, until lately. However, I have killer insomnia that rears its ugly head every now and then. I know some things can make it worse: stress, alcohol, lack of exercise, anxiety... check, check, check and check. Yes to all four - so natch, my insomnia is off the rails. Have you ever been made crazy from lack of sleep? It is quite an interesting high. And by interesting, I mean please make it stop. I want to get off this ride now.
I guess there are some perks. I write better in this state (talk about suffering for art). I roam the house, randomly cleaning. I write long letters to people and then don't mail them. My oven is pristinely clean. But mostly, I just worry and stare at the ceiling. Sometimes I think there is a humming bird that lives in my heart. I feel his tiny wings fluttering just below the surface. Somehow, after all those years at GE, I have internalized 'better, faster, cheaper' - words that are the hallmark of a ruminating mind. So I am considering sleeping pills...
I have taken one once before - although I think it was an ativan. I remember saying to my sister that they ought to be called 'calm the fuck down' because that is what it accomplished. I felt no stress. I wasn't high though, just calm. And I slept like a baby - flat on my back, arms splayed above my head. I also remember thinking that I couldn't believe I hadn't taken one years ago, all of the suffering I could have spared myself. Yet - strangely, I never followed up on it and asked my doctor for a prescription.
So here I am again. Day 5 of no sleep. I want to cry, but have no reason. I worry, but have nothing real to worry about. I could work, but have no work to do. My legs feel like I have been on a 16 hour flight, they can scarcely support my weight. My head is swimming. I am exhausting those around me because of the sheer energy that is radiating out of my pores. I am a jack russel terrier on coke.
White flag. I surrender. I am taking the damn pill.
"Good thing I don't live here" is what I think. Then there is the other woman who declines a martini because she 'switched to pills exclusively sometime back.' "Care for a oxycontin?" she asks. I demure. I have always had a suspicion of OTC's and have been known to rail against the drug industry for targeting women with their euphemetically named little pink pills: saraphim (seriously? God's highest angel...and the republicans let them get away with that?), ativan, valium, and the like. 'Benzos' as they are more commonly known. And what is wild is that there doesn't seem to be any regulatory body in the States in regards to pills. Perhaps there isn't in Canada either and I just don't know, but down there they order whatever they want off the internet. Pills to make you happy. Pills to make you happier if the original pills start to crap out. Pills so you don't ingest carbs. Pills so you can have sex. Green tea now comes in pill format, for christ sake. The war on drugs has really just became the war on pain - emotional or otherwise. But it is the designer jewelled pill cases that really blew me away. Dolce and Gabanna, Tiffany's, Louis Vuitton, Swarovski crystals - you name it, they are putting their logo all over pill cases. They want to brand your drug addiction.
Anyway, I have been thinking about pills lately mostly because I have managed in 35 years to keep my life relatively pill free. I don't take the birth control pill - I don't like the idea of ingesting hormones. I rarely take aspirin. I had my second child completely drug free (Disclaimer: the labour was only 2 hours long and for my first child, I could have made out with the anaesthesiologist out of sheer gratitude when he arrived for my epidural). I am not trying to make myself out like some saint. I drink wine. I eat fatty foods. I smoked for years. But pills were always something that I stayed away from. And always planned to, until lately. However, I have killer insomnia that rears its ugly head every now and then. I know some things can make it worse: stress, alcohol, lack of exercise, anxiety... check, check, check and check. Yes to all four - so natch, my insomnia is off the rails. Have you ever been made crazy from lack of sleep? It is quite an interesting high. And by interesting, I mean please make it stop. I want to get off this ride now.
I guess there are some perks. I write better in this state (talk about suffering for art). I roam the house, randomly cleaning. I write long letters to people and then don't mail them. My oven is pristinely clean. But mostly, I just worry and stare at the ceiling. Sometimes I think there is a humming bird that lives in my heart. I feel his tiny wings fluttering just below the surface. Somehow, after all those years at GE, I have internalized 'better, faster, cheaper' - words that are the hallmark of a ruminating mind. So I am considering sleeping pills...
I have taken one once before - although I think it was an ativan. I remember saying to my sister that they ought to be called 'calm the fuck down' because that is what it accomplished. I felt no stress. I wasn't high though, just calm. And I slept like a baby - flat on my back, arms splayed above my head. I also remember thinking that I couldn't believe I hadn't taken one years ago, all of the suffering I could have spared myself. Yet - strangely, I never followed up on it and asked my doctor for a prescription.
So here I am again. Day 5 of no sleep. I want to cry, but have no reason. I worry, but have nothing real to worry about. I could work, but have no work to do. My legs feel like I have been on a 16 hour flight, they can scarcely support my weight. My head is swimming. I am exhausting those around me because of the sheer energy that is radiating out of my pores. I am a jack russel terrier on coke.
White flag. I surrender. I am taking the damn pill.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
A woman's legacy...
I am at my mother's cooking dinner. It is a quick throw-together meal that we often do while the boys are swimming. Her kitchen is tiny, as condo kitchens often are, so we are cramped for space. As I am chopping garlic and onions, I am meditating on the fact that we are moving about in symbiotic fashion. I open the fridge, narrowly missing her with the door while she is hunched over searching for ingredients in the cupboard. She peels garlic and places it on the cutting board while I chop. Onions are frying away in butter, the garlic is sizzling - wordlessly my mother tips a small measure from her wine glass into the sauce. I acknowledge this with a quick nod. One for the sauce, two for the cook...
The kitchen, and consequently the whole apartment, smells positively divine - when the boys come in from the pool, I watch them pause at the door and take in the aroma. You can almost see them relax - the tension leaving their shoulders. The boys change and gravitate toward the kitchen, the most social room in any house. They snatch bits of ingredients from the various piles; they are too fast when I try and slap their hands away. Buns are cooling on the counter, fresh from the oven. Ryley and Lincoln love these buns. They are my grandmother's recipe and their taste and smell has been around my whole life, as well as my mother's. There is nothing better than when they are warm, smothered in butter (or peanut butter). I have to limit the boys to 3 each. My mother scolds me for this: "Let them have what they want Lisa - food is love." I roll my eyes - she was never this permissive with her own daughters.
Not only is food love, it is also a legacy. It is a way of remembering. The smells and tastes of these recipes transport me back to my childhood - to hot Saskatchewan summers sitting at a formica table, my legs sticking to the chairs, to grandmother's crystal dishes loaded with pickled vegetables, sweet jams, and finely carved ham. My grandfather loved her potted beef. She would cook it slowly for hours until it would literally fall off of the bone. Grandpa would fish it out of the stew and pile it on a fresh baked bun with a little bit of gravy. To die for.
I am working at mastering this dish because I believe it is the only thing really worth handing down to my children. Possessions gather dust, or get broken, or get lost - but food is for the living. It is a living reminder of the women that came before me. Great grandma Harris' bread recipe carries with it a story - a multitude of stories. She brought it with her from England to Saskatchewan as a young widow with 3 children in 1915 where she was to marry a homesteader named Charles Mackenzie, a man she had never met. My favorite story of great-grandmother Stewart (the author of the bun recipe) pertains to her vanity at having her picture taken for the first time with her six children. She had spent all morning pressing the children's clothes until they were starched to high heaven so that they would look smart for the photo. At the last moment, to her horror, she realized that she had not done anything with her hair. In a pinch, with prairie ingenuity, she removed the gloves she was wearing and tied them together. She then wound her hair around them, piling her massive curls into a bun. She looks formidable and proud in the photo.
My grandmother Colter would bake apples for us, as her mother had done for her, coring the centre and filling it with butter, cinnamon and brown sugar. But that is not what she is remembered for. She is remembered to this day as a hostess that we all aspire to be. It didn't matter what time we arrived at her home, we never saw her cook. I cannot recall a time, nor can my sisters, where we saw her harried running around the kitchen with pots boiling over. The notion of being seen preparing food offended her British sensibilities. We would arrive and she would be seated calmly in her high-back chair, the table was brilliantly set with china and crystal no matter what time of day. We would visit, and then almost as if by magic a meal was placed before us on the table. No effort, no fuss. The food was always perfectly cooked. We still marvel how she did it. Now, if we come into one another's homes for dinner and see the table set and the meal already prepared, we say: "Look at you go, Lois."
The meals are changing with this generation of women. Now my sisters and I share time-saving recipes, or meals that are easy on the budget. My sister Gayle has been invaluable to me in this regard, because as much was we think boys are huge eaters, three teenage daughters practically inhale everything before them. Wendy's sons do the cooking in her house - she raves at their abilities. We talk calories, contents, carbohydrates to protein ratios, yet the experience of cooking remains much the same as it always was. It is a gift we give our families. Good food, lovingly prepared.
I like to cook with my mother. She is free and spontaneous with her food and is never limited by a recipe. She cooks from the heart. As we all sit down to dinner, I wonder what, if anything, my boys will take from these moments in the kitchen. Will they remember the tastes and smells or the hotly debated politics and laughter? I wonder what my dish will be that continues on after me, and what stories they will tell...
The kitchen, and consequently the whole apartment, smells positively divine - when the boys come in from the pool, I watch them pause at the door and take in the aroma. You can almost see them relax - the tension leaving their shoulders. The boys change and gravitate toward the kitchen, the most social room in any house. They snatch bits of ingredients from the various piles; they are too fast when I try and slap their hands away. Buns are cooling on the counter, fresh from the oven. Ryley and Lincoln love these buns. They are my grandmother's recipe and their taste and smell has been around my whole life, as well as my mother's. There is nothing better than when they are warm, smothered in butter (or peanut butter). I have to limit the boys to 3 each. My mother scolds me for this: "Let them have what they want Lisa - food is love." I roll my eyes - she was never this permissive with her own daughters.
Not only is food love, it is also a legacy. It is a way of remembering. The smells and tastes of these recipes transport me back to my childhood - to hot Saskatchewan summers sitting at a formica table, my legs sticking to the chairs, to grandmother's crystal dishes loaded with pickled vegetables, sweet jams, and finely carved ham. My grandfather loved her potted beef. She would cook it slowly for hours until it would literally fall off of the bone. Grandpa would fish it out of the stew and pile it on a fresh baked bun with a little bit of gravy. To die for.
I am working at mastering this dish because I believe it is the only thing really worth handing down to my children. Possessions gather dust, or get broken, or get lost - but food is for the living. It is a living reminder of the women that came before me. Great grandma Harris' bread recipe carries with it a story - a multitude of stories. She brought it with her from England to Saskatchewan as a young widow with 3 children in 1915 where she was to marry a homesteader named Charles Mackenzie, a man she had never met. My favorite story of great-grandmother Stewart (the author of the bun recipe) pertains to her vanity at having her picture taken for the first time with her six children. She had spent all morning pressing the children's clothes until they were starched to high heaven so that they would look smart for the photo. At the last moment, to her horror, she realized that she had not done anything with her hair. In a pinch, with prairie ingenuity, she removed the gloves she was wearing and tied them together. She then wound her hair around them, piling her massive curls into a bun. She looks formidable and proud in the photo.
My grandmother Colter would bake apples for us, as her mother had done for her, coring the centre and filling it with butter, cinnamon and brown sugar. But that is not what she is remembered for. She is remembered to this day as a hostess that we all aspire to be. It didn't matter what time we arrived at her home, we never saw her cook. I cannot recall a time, nor can my sisters, where we saw her harried running around the kitchen with pots boiling over. The notion of being seen preparing food offended her British sensibilities. We would arrive and she would be seated calmly in her high-back chair, the table was brilliantly set with china and crystal no matter what time of day. We would visit, and then almost as if by magic a meal was placed before us on the table. No effort, no fuss. The food was always perfectly cooked. We still marvel how she did it. Now, if we come into one another's homes for dinner and see the table set and the meal already prepared, we say: "Look at you go, Lois."
The meals are changing with this generation of women. Now my sisters and I share time-saving recipes, or meals that are easy on the budget. My sister Gayle has been invaluable to me in this regard, because as much was we think boys are huge eaters, three teenage daughters practically inhale everything before them. Wendy's sons do the cooking in her house - she raves at their abilities. We talk calories, contents, carbohydrates to protein ratios, yet the experience of cooking remains much the same as it always was. It is a gift we give our families. Good food, lovingly prepared.
I like to cook with my mother. She is free and spontaneous with her food and is never limited by a recipe. She cooks from the heart. As we all sit down to dinner, I wonder what, if anything, my boys will take from these moments in the kitchen. Will they remember the tastes and smells or the hotly debated politics and laughter? I wonder what my dish will be that continues on after me, and what stories they will tell...
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