At the writing retreat, Randi and I stumbled upon a website for travel writers. Mike Richard of Vagabondish, has this advice…
"Nobody Cares What You Did
This is especially important for budding travel writers seeking publication (and all the inevitable fortune and fame attendant to all published travel writers). It’s not about your own experience, but whether or not you can convey that experience in a way that’s interesting and engaging. A writer like Bill Bryson routinely takes the most mundane happenings and crafts narratives around them that will amuse even the most hardened humorless reader. Remember that it’s about the story, not the actually event."
And so it was that on Monday morning a sequence of events happened, and I decided to experiment with telling a story and an event.
The Story
Green smoothies may be the healthiest food on the planet. At least, the way, Victoria Boutenko, prepares them. I have been drinking them for the past few years. What green smoothies consist of are fruit, raw greens and water. That’s it. Apparently, we don’t get enough greens. Lately, I have been thinking that I need to increase the amount of greens in my green smoothies.
On Monday morning, this was what I was thinking. So, I increased my cup of spinach to more than 2 cups, added it to the banana, strawberry and pineapple that I had pre-blended. I was pleased with the colour; strawberries have the effect of turning the mixture to a brown colour, not very appetizing. Today I had the perfect amount of strawberries. I was ready to pour it into the jar to take to work. When I removed the blender lid, a few drops of green landed on the buttons at the front of the blender. Though I am not positive, I think I heard myself scream. I imagined the green liquid seeping into the middle where all the electrical wires are bundled together, and with a snap, crackle, and pop, my friend’s blender would have been toast. The blender I borrowed. I felt the urge to move quickly.
I reached for the clean (white, I would like to add) dishcloth, ignored the drops on the side of the blender jar, focused on the spots where it looked like the liquid could trickle inside. I turned the edge of the cloth to fit in the narrow space between the buttons.
I heard the roar first, and realized somehow I had pushed down on a button. By the time I touched the off switch it was all over. A wave of green had flung itself out of the glass jar (lidless) and sprayed on the counter, floor, cupboard, that white dishcloth and me. Everywhere I looked, there was green. When I looked at the jar, I realized I hadn’t really lost that much volume, but what had escaped had spread itself quite stunningly. Where was the undo button?
My green smoothie escapade got me thinking about life in general….
- Sometimes when you try to clean a small mess, it gets worse.
- Just when you think you are having an ordinary moment, something comes along and changes it all.
- What happens in one short span of time, can take 100 times longer to fix.
- It is much easier seeing something in retrospect, than when you are in the moment. Like how you could have done it different.
The Event
Monday morning, I decided to make a green smoothie. Business as usual. All was going well, with the fruit and water blended together. I was adding the spinach, an extra cup for good measure, and removed the lid to pour it into another glass container to go to work. As I took off the blender lid, a drop fell on the buttons at the front of the blender. I grabbed the dishcloth, and started cleaning up the mess. I must have pushed on one of the buttons because the motor started turning, and a splash of green leaped out of the blender and went everywhere. All over the counter, floor, cupboard doors, other dishes, and all over my white shirt. It was one big mess. I was hoping that this wasn’t a premonition for the rest of my day.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Creating Space
Interesting that when I saw the last posting by you Katherine (in August!) and our recent conversation about creating space for our writing.
I have been reading How I Write: The Secret Lives of Authors edited by Dan Crowe. One of the delights of this book is its visual appeal. It is a larger size book so when the book opens to a two-page spread, it is draws me inside. Whether it is the program or other tool (typewriters are still used) or a gigantic desk, what appealed to me was how authors create their spaces. The deliberateness. Matt Thorne tells a story of a comment from a woman at a party who told him that he had writer's shoes. She went on to explain that they were worn down. I have heard this before, the idea of walking as a way of overcoming writer's block.
To be honest, I don't use walking as a way to get me writing, and it is a shame, really, since I live in such a picturesque place. But perhaps it is too inspiring, all that beauty.
What does help is going away, especially to a new place. There is much to stir my imagination. Can this be done at home?
I remember years ago talking to Ruth Moir shortly after my moving to the Kootenays. She suggested that I observe and write everything around me while it was still fresh. This is good advice, I figure. And the challenge. Keeping it fresh.
I have been reading How I Write: The Secret Lives of Authors edited by Dan Crowe. One of the delights of this book is its visual appeal. It is a larger size book so when the book opens to a two-page spread, it is draws me inside. Whether it is the program or other tool (typewriters are still used) or a gigantic desk, what appealed to me was how authors create their spaces. The deliberateness. Matt Thorne tells a story of a comment from a woman at a party who told him that he had writer's shoes. She went on to explain that they were worn down. I have heard this before, the idea of walking as a way of overcoming writer's block.
To be honest, I don't use walking as a way to get me writing, and it is a shame, really, since I live in such a picturesque place. But perhaps it is too inspiring, all that beauty.
What does help is going away, especially to a new place. There is much to stir my imagination. Can this be done at home?
I remember years ago talking to Ruth Moir shortly after my moving to the Kootenays. She suggested that I observe and write everything around me while it was still fresh. This is good advice, I figure. And the challenge. Keeping it fresh.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Space
This week I've been listening to Pema Chodron's CDs on 'Getting Unstuck', in which she talks about the technique of observing thoughts, identifying the 'sticky' emotions at the heart of thoughts and then coming back to the breath or the now, in order to process that emotion.
I can see that the whirling of thoughts or day-dreaming in itself is a form of numbing-out. Yet as a writer this type of numbing-out is actually the source book. However Pema's teachings are equally useful to the writer because instead of staying in thought, we re called back to the now through meditation and at this point there is the opportunity to pick up the pen and process the drama of day-dreaming into a physical active form, ie. writing.
It's a 3 act play if you like. 1. Think. 2. Bring the essence of it down to the present. 3. Process. Then the writer must add the fourth step - Write. It is then the foremost priority to create Step1. by making sufficient space for thinking and meditation. This is the aspect so misunderstood by non-writers, who say, "Why don't you just write?" and they watch expectantly as you struggle to move your pen. But of course the pen doesn't move because the pen has nothing to say by itself. First there must be the space, and it is the space that is so difficult to create in the average working day.
Professional writers then have an advantage. They do one of two things. 1. They are so well practised at thinking, finding the emotion and processing that they are within a few minutes able to go straight to writing. 2. Because the professional writer has no other job to do in any given day then when they are not writing they can be quietly thinking so that when they return to their desk they are ready to start writing again.
It is not then solely that the amateur writer (who also works in another field) fails to interrupt their thought and bring it down to the now to process but also that often they never even start thinking, so taken up as they are, with the demands of other people and of the world in general.
This then is why the yearning for space and silence, a constant theme in modern living, is also at the heart of yearning for creativity.
I can see that the whirling of thoughts or day-dreaming in itself is a form of numbing-out. Yet as a writer this type of numbing-out is actually the source book. However Pema's teachings are equally useful to the writer because instead of staying in thought, we re called back to the now through meditation and at this point there is the opportunity to pick up the pen and process the drama of day-dreaming into a physical active form, ie. writing.
It's a 3 act play if you like. 1. Think. 2. Bring the essence of it down to the present. 3. Process. Then the writer must add the fourth step - Write. It is then the foremost priority to create Step1. by making sufficient space for thinking and meditation. This is the aspect so misunderstood by non-writers, who say, "Why don't you just write?" and they watch expectantly as you struggle to move your pen. But of course the pen doesn't move because the pen has nothing to say by itself. First there must be the space, and it is the space that is so difficult to create in the average working day.
Professional writers then have an advantage. They do one of two things. 1. They are so well practised at thinking, finding the emotion and processing that they are within a few minutes able to go straight to writing. 2. Because the professional writer has no other job to do in any given day then when they are not writing they can be quietly thinking so that when they return to their desk they are ready to start writing again.
It is not then solely that the amateur writer (who also works in another field) fails to interrupt their thought and bring it down to the now to process but also that often they never even start thinking, so taken up as they are, with the demands of other people and of the world in general.
This then is why the yearning for space and silence, a constant theme in modern living, is also at the heart of yearning for creativity.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Rejection File
I read Patricia's last post and want to say Congratulations. Not because of the rejection letter because it`s just shitty to receive that response but because its a courageous act to send out your writing for someone else to "accept" or "reject." It's the act of someone who has decided to move beyond fear.
About ten years ago I was in my first flush of trying to establish myself as a writer. I sent out several articles and a fiction novel synopsis with the first three chapters. I soon received through the mail a collection of about a dozen rejection letters. I decided to be brave about it and stuck the letters in a rejection file.
I kept the file for many years, I hung onto it a lot longer than I spent working on new projects. And as it turned out I didn't send out any more queries. Even after I had the good sense to burn the rejection file the words of one letter are still ingrained in my memory.
"We really like your idea but the quality of your writing does not meet the standard of one of our authors."
I still worry about the quality of my writing. I ask people who read my work, "Does my writing lack quality?" I turn over what "quality" might mean in literary terms. It turns out to be quite an elusive concept, too vague to be corrected and too specific to be ignored. And still today something of an Achilles heel. All this despite a growing sense of objectivity which is shouting "They really liked your idea! Why didn't you re-write and re-submit?"
Surely the best way to deal with rejection is to read carefully what people have said, without dramatic interpretation, and then, as Patricia says, keep sending out the queries. Perhaps the truest mark of quality is honest endeavour and persistence.
Keeping the champagne on ice for when Patricia finds the right home for her article. Giving myself a kick up the arse for spending 10 years sulking over one rejection letter!
About ten years ago I was in my first flush of trying to establish myself as a writer. I sent out several articles and a fiction novel synopsis with the first three chapters. I soon received through the mail a collection of about a dozen rejection letters. I decided to be brave about it and stuck the letters in a rejection file.
I kept the file for many years, I hung onto it a lot longer than I spent working on new projects. And as it turned out I didn't send out any more queries. Even after I had the good sense to burn the rejection file the words of one letter are still ingrained in my memory.
"We really like your idea but the quality of your writing does not meet the standard of one of our authors."
I still worry about the quality of my writing. I ask people who read my work, "Does my writing lack quality?" I turn over what "quality" might mean in literary terms. It turns out to be quite an elusive concept, too vague to be corrected and too specific to be ignored. And still today something of an Achilles heel. All this despite a growing sense of objectivity which is shouting "They really liked your idea! Why didn't you re-write and re-submit?"
Surely the best way to deal with rejection is to read carefully what people have said, without dramatic interpretation, and then, as Patricia says, keep sending out the queries. Perhaps the truest mark of quality is honest endeavour and persistence.
Keeping the champagne on ice for when Patricia finds the right home for her article. Giving myself a kick up the arse for spending 10 years sulking over one rejection letter!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Sending Out the Query
Well, it is official. I have had my first writing rejection notice. I sent out my query, and I was told that the thesis was done already. On the one hand, it is a disappointment. On the other, I feel like I have had a major accomplishment. Apparently, one average I heard was that out of 6 queries, one will accept your work. So I am on my way to the success.
Finding your spot is like solving a puzzle. Your spot being the place where this piece of writing will work. I think it might be a cross between having a talent for it and practice, practice, practice.
And so, I am on to the next plan....
Finding your spot is like solving a puzzle. Your spot being the place where this piece of writing will work. I think it might be a cross between having a talent for it and practice, practice, practice.
And so, I am on to the next plan....
Friday, August 7, 2009
If you are not writing...
I am thinking of all the ways I can amuse myself when it comes to a writing project. My task this week is to write a query letter, a simple job really, except it doesn't feel that way. So here's what I do:
- laundry
- empty the cat's litter
- do the dishes
- call a friend
- pick up a magazine
- mow the lawn
- weed the garden
- sweep the steps
and my all-time favourite - read a book about writing.
- laundry
- empty the cat's litter
- do the dishes
- call a friend
- pick up a magazine
- mow the lawn
- weed the garden
- sweep the steps
and my all-time favourite - read a book about writing.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Immersion
A couple of weeks ago I decided that I wanted to write a novel set in the seventeenth century. I wrote one scene and with each word I found that I needed to learn more. So I borrowed a couple of books from the library and then discovered that I was fascinated to learn about what had gone before, in the previous century. So I took out a few more books and some fictional novels of the Tudor and Stuart period. Then I ordered all the series of The Tudors and now there seems to be no limit to the books I want to read and films to watch.For a long time I have not been able to settle to anything and now suddenly I find myself happily immersed in Tudor and Stuart England. It feels a bit like time-travelling crossed with obsession. It makes me want to return to University and start all over again.
My husband often talks about an inspirational welcome lecture he attended on his first day at Bournemouth University. The lecturer told the new students that University was all about reading and here was a once in a lifetime opportunity, three whole years devoted purely to reading for your degree. How I wish I had my three years over again I wouldn`t bother reading dry old law reports!
This love of reading often brings to mind a colleague from my office who reads as he's walking to and from work. I used to think that was crazy, that he must be desperate for reading time to risk getting run over by a bus because he has his nose in a book. But I'm really starting to feel the same way. There just aren't enough hours in the day to read and absorb everything that I want to learn.
I feel as if I am embarking on an unofficial University course of my own in which I choose the topics and the reading material and decide what essays to write. Part of me is insisting that I can't possible study without learned lecturers and tutors, and so imagine my relief when I visited the website of Alison Weir (a popular and prolific writer of historical non-fiction) and discovered that she hasn't attended a single history course in her life, instead she followed her enthusiasm.
I am in the first flush of enthusiasm myself and realise it`s early days yet but I can`t help but think even if I spent the rest of my life reading about this period of history it wouldn`t be any hardship. Lets hope the gremlins don`t try and distract me with oughts and shoulds. Immersion should be about the joy of diving in, not the fear of drowning!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Musing on Roses
Patricia has been busy in her garden and so have our neighbours in beautiful James Bay. Everywhere flowers are in early bloom and the scent of honeysuckle and roses is divine. On my walk to and from work this week I have been taking time to stop and smell the roses, literally and metaphorically.
I read the Steve Job`s speech recommended by Patricia and also found it inspiring, although the section about living each day as if it`s the last, sent me into a small panic. As those close to me already know, I dread every day of my present job and the endeavour to find a more fulfilling vocation is proving challenging . However there was a silver lining this week when a colleague brought in roses from her garden and now a vase full of flouncy orange blooms is filling the office reception with an intoxicating scent.
Roses have been an abiding theme of late. A couple of weeks ago a friend from England, Sue, sent me a book in memory of my Mum, who was also a lover of gardens and roses. The book is titled For Love of a Rose and it tells the story of the French/Italian family who were responsible for the cultivation of a rose with shades of ivory, gold and pink. In the days before the 2nd world war they parcelled up their newly budded rose and sent it to growers in Italy, Germany and America. It wasn`t until the war was over that they discovered that not only had all of the rose bushes arrived and survived but also they had created a prizewinner. That rose was called the Peace rose. After 6 years of violence and destruction the people of the world were ready for a universal symbol of love and peace, and the Peace rose became the most popular rose of all time. Within nine years of the end of war, over thirty million Peace roses bushes were flowering all over the world.
I wonder if the Peace rose made it`s way to Victoria, Canada. Perhaps there is a Peace rose still flowering in James Bay? I decide there is no better way to spend a summer evening than in search of an elusive rose.
"The hours when the soul is absorbed by beauty are the only hours when we truly live." Richard Jefferies - An English Naturalist
I read the Steve Job`s speech recommended by Patricia and also found it inspiring, although the section about living each day as if it`s the last, sent me into a small panic. As those close to me already know, I dread every day of my present job and the endeavour to find a more fulfilling vocation is proving challenging . However there was a silver lining this week when a colleague brought in roses from her garden and now a vase full of flouncy orange blooms is filling the office reception with an intoxicating scent.
Roses have been an abiding theme of late. A couple of weeks ago a friend from England, Sue, sent me a book in memory of my Mum, who was also a lover of gardens and roses. The book is titled For Love of a Rose and it tells the story of the French/Italian family who were responsible for the cultivation of a rose with shades of ivory, gold and pink. In the days before the 2nd world war they parcelled up their newly budded rose and sent it to growers in Italy, Germany and America. It wasn`t until the war was over that they discovered that not only had all of the rose bushes arrived and survived but also they had created a prizewinner. That rose was called the Peace rose. After 6 years of violence and destruction the people of the world were ready for a universal symbol of love and peace, and the Peace rose became the most popular rose of all time. Within nine years of the end of war, over thirty million Peace roses bushes were flowering all over the world.
I wonder if the Peace rose made it`s way to Victoria, Canada. Perhaps there is a Peace rose still flowering in James Bay? I decide there is no better way to spend a summer evening than in search of an elusive rose.
"The hours when the soul is absorbed by beauty are the only hours when we truly live." Richard Jefferies - An English Naturalist
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Seeds Planted
A couple of weeks ago, a friend sent me an e-mail with a link to a commencement speech for Stanford University graduates. The presenter is Steve Jobs, a founder of Apple. Snippets of his words have floated through my days since then. In conversations with friends, in discussions with people wondering what they are going to do with their lives, and as I am planting my garden.
Gardens hold strong metaphors. As I watch the tiny birds land on the earth, I wonder how many of those seeds I had covered were actually being transported to another place. The fact is we don't know where the plants will grow, with birds involvement or not. We try to create the best space for it all to happen. This year, I spent a long time getting the earth ready, more than the time it took to plant. But that is the best investment.
And so now, I think of Steve Jobs, how he has planted seeds in his words.
Many people I mentioned this to had already read or saw the video of the commencement. It was presented in 2005. Four years later, it still calls out to people.
Here it is: Steve Jobs' Commencement Address.
Gardens hold strong metaphors. As I watch the tiny birds land on the earth, I wonder how many of those seeds I had covered were actually being transported to another place. The fact is we don't know where the plants will grow, with birds involvement or not. We try to create the best space for it all to happen. This year, I spent a long time getting the earth ready, more than the time it took to plant. But that is the best investment.
And so now, I think of Steve Jobs, how he has planted seeds in his words.
Many people I mentioned this to had already read or saw the video of the commencement. It was presented in 2005. Four years later, it still calls out to people.
Here it is: Steve Jobs' Commencement Address.
Monday, May 4, 2009
My House
When Katherine and I wrote together this week, we decided to do a practice from The One-Minute Writer's blog. Her writing prompt on Sunday was:
What responsibility do you have that you'd like a break from? I thought of my house..
This house has an attitude problem. During the summer when friends and family come over, they are impressed by the beauty, light and spaciousness. The house truly shows off. But those who visit in the winter get to see the house in the downside of its mood disorder. It likes sunshine and that's it. Nothing else will do.
In the rain, it gets all moody and definitely doesn't keep to itself. Drip! Drip! It announces itself on the heads of all visitors who follow the walkway to my door. Drip! Drip! It pushes the water through the slates in the deck above my patio onto my table.
In winter, when snow falls on the roof, the house gets steaming mad and melts all the snow. Drip! Drip! When the temperature gets cold, the house holds the icicles and then in a moment of demented glee, it lets them go in a big crash on the walkway. If someone happens to be on the walkway at the time, all the better.
The house keeps busy at night too. It creates the best conditions for making a slippery, hard-to-see coating on the walkway. In January this year, the house could hardly contain a chuckle when one of the two visitors from Mexico slipped off one step to the next. Silly Mexicans, it thought, having no appreciation for their sunny country.
This year, the house was particularly annoyed at the long winter and lack of sun. With nothing but time on its hands, it dreamed up a diabolical plot. With the resident going in and out the back door, what about creating a new drip, right at the edge of the house where the path through the snow began? Clever, it thought. And so it did. The result was far better than expected. The resident got the first drip right on the top of her head and it splashed onto her glasses; she blurted out a curse.
The snow melted and the sun started appearing more and more each day. The house began to feel better and better. It became less irritated by visitors. It decided to read one of the books on one of the shelves, "Attitude Is Everything," in the long daylight hours. Maybe there was something to this changing your thinking idea. The sun came out, and the house slowly forgot about the rain, the snow, the clouds, and it closed the book.
"I'll think about that tomorrow."
What responsibility do you have that you'd like a break from? I thought of my house..
This house has an attitude problem. During the summer when friends and family come over, they are impressed by the beauty, light and spaciousness. The house truly shows off. But those who visit in the winter get to see the house in the downside of its mood disorder. It likes sunshine and that's it. Nothing else will do.
In the rain, it gets all moody and definitely doesn't keep to itself. Drip! Drip! It announces itself on the heads of all visitors who follow the walkway to my door. Drip! Drip! It pushes the water through the slates in the deck above my patio onto my table.
In winter, when snow falls on the roof, the house gets steaming mad and melts all the snow. Drip! Drip! When the temperature gets cold, the house holds the icicles and then in a moment of demented glee, it lets them go in a big crash on the walkway. If someone happens to be on the walkway at the time, all the better.
The house keeps busy at night too. It creates the best conditions for making a slippery, hard-to-see coating on the walkway. In January this year, the house could hardly contain a chuckle when one of the two visitors from Mexico slipped off one step to the next. Silly Mexicans, it thought, having no appreciation for their sunny country.
This year, the house was particularly annoyed at the long winter and lack of sun. With nothing but time on its hands, it dreamed up a diabolical plot. With the resident going in and out the back door, what about creating a new drip, right at the edge of the house where the path through the snow began? Clever, it thought. And so it did. The result was far better than expected. The resident got the first drip right on the top of her head and it splashed onto her glasses; she blurted out a curse.
The snow melted and the sun started appearing more and more each day. The house began to feel better and better. It became less irritated by visitors. It decided to read one of the books on one of the shelves, "Attitude Is Everything," in the long daylight hours. Maybe there was something to this changing your thinking idea. The sun came out, and the house slowly forgot about the rain, the snow, the clouds, and it closed the book.
"I'll think about that tomorrow."
Saturday, April 25, 2009
How the Italians drink coffee
We live in a caffeine driven world, we all love to drink coffee, but the way in which we as a society drink our coffee is as distinctive as language.
In Canada we like to clutch our mug or paper cup in one hand, bag and briefcase in another as we march into work. Sipping coffee through a plastic lid is not particularly easy whilst walking quickly, so we are thankful for the red hand at the crosswalk as a chance to imbibe or more usually the coffee is escorted carefully to our workplace where we sit at our desk and hope that our beverage has not become lukewarm.
In Italy no-one carries their coffee around the streets. The Italians take so much care in dressing exquisitely the logo'd paper cup does not seem fitting, and poses considerable risk of spillage on Armani suits. Besides the Italians are a gregarious people, they cannot drink their coffee in solitary confinement at a desk, they must meet and drink coffee together, just as every meal must be taken in company, the long lunch hour, the large family gathering at dinner, the flirtatious mingling at a bar; Why should breakfast be an exception to the rule?
The Italian home may be equipped with a kitchen but in reality it is rarely used because it is actually cheaper to eat out for every meal in Italy than to shop and prepare your own food for yourself and your family. That has led to one of the most sociable and sophisticated cultural structures in Europe.
Breakfast at home in Italy comprises of coffee prepared on a gas stove using a pot that has cold water in the bottom, a small sieve in the middle containing the coffee and an empty compartment at the top which fills with coffee as the heat of the water is steam filtered upwards under high pressure. This is accompanied by a piece of cake, usually a plain sponge cake without cream or filling. For the Italians this will suffice as nourishment until 1:00pm, for anyone else this sugar/caffeine combo induces a savage hunger that is only satiated by binge eating the whole cake prior to 9:00 in the morning.
But most Italians leave their kitchen in a sparkling condition in the morning because for 3euros ($4:50CA) they will purchase their breakfast out and not have to wash up a single plate or cup. Even when an Italian does unexpectedly eat at home he/she will stilll feel compelled to purchase an espresso out, because to do otherwise is anti-social, like missing a step, the Italian version of getting out of bed on the wrong side.
The Canadian coffee shop regards the decor of it's premises of vital importance in retaining a regular client base, there is an all-important branding issue. In Italy everything is annoymous, no logos on the cups, no logos on the wall, most of the time not even a name on the premises, just a battered sign saying Bar. Why Bar? Because in Italy there are no coffee shops there are only bars, places where in the day you can purchase pannini and in the evening you can purchase Spumante Campari and the full range of alcoholic drinks.
Consider the poor tired bar owner, he closes his bar about 4:00am and he opens again at 5:00 am to serve coffee. Who knows of a Canadian coffe shop that opens at 5:00am? The Italian bars in the cold early morning light are utilitarian in their decor, whitewashed walls, unadorned tables, and empty chairs. The Italians do not sit down to drink their coffee their gather around the bar in shifting bubbles of conservation and mingling.
There are no line-ups. As you enter the door of the bar, if you are a regular and nearly everyone is, you catch the eye of the barman, by the time you have walked across to the counter, the drink of your choice is waiting in a white or blue china cup and saucer and placed on a paper coaster.
If you are not a regular, a slight nod as you enter indicates that you wish to order an espresso.
An espresso in Italy costs 1Euro the equivalent of $1.50Canadian. Anyone in Italy who dares to price their espresso at say 1Euro 50 invites that Italian signal of condemnation, the sucking in of breath through the front teeth, shortly followed by a mass exodus of clientele. The espresso is how grown-ups in Italy take coffee, sometimes a double shot, sometimes with a spot of cream, sometime accompanied by a small shot of vodka or other spirit. Even the Italian police will take a shot with their coffee in the morning whilst dressed in their Carabinieri uniform and no-one blinks an eye.
At the bar you will see 10 cups of espresso lined up and maybe one cappuccino. The drink that the rest of the world regards as intrinsically Italian, the cappuccino, is considered a child's or a woman's drink in Italy, for those weak souls who need the calcium. I'm not sure what the Italians would make of squirting caramel sauce on the top of a drink but definitely they would not define that creation as either a latte or a cappuccino.
In Canada we cannot imagine lasting until lunchtime without eating but in Italy it is the norm to dispense with food in favour of the espresso. However for those who wish to eat, at the counter of every bar there is a plastic case containing two heated plates gently warming a collection of Italian style croissant called Brioche. The french Croissant is doughy and yeasty but as you cross the border into Italy it transforms into the brioche a more flaky and crumbly pastry that must be eaten the same morning that it is baked and is at it's most heavenly when slightly warmed. The French dip their croissant in coffee, there is no dipping in Italy, after all who can fit a brioche in an espresso cup? You can choose from brioche vuota - empty, con marmellata, with marmalade, albicocca - apricot jam or cioccolato. If you want to try these delicious sweet concoctions for breakfast you cannot keep tourist hours, by 8:00 the container will be empty. Each brioche is wrapped in a paper serviette and eaten standing up. Italian bars open at 5:00 and by 8:00 the morning trade is pretty much done, all that is left is a scattering of brioche flakes on the floor.
How long does your breakfast last in Italy? Between 2-5 minutes. Any excess time is spent chatting. This is where you meet your colleagues, not at the office, but the bar next door and this is where you bond. What a convivial way of starting the day. If you want to see how Italians think and how Italy works drink coffee with them. But what about us, what do are coffee-drinking habits say about us Canadians?
In Canada we like to clutch our mug or paper cup in one hand, bag and briefcase in another as we march into work. Sipping coffee through a plastic lid is not particularly easy whilst walking quickly, so we are thankful for the red hand at the crosswalk as a chance to imbibe or more usually the coffee is escorted carefully to our workplace where we sit at our desk and hope that our beverage has not become lukewarm.
In Italy no-one carries their coffee around the streets. The Italians take so much care in dressing exquisitely the logo'd paper cup does not seem fitting, and poses considerable risk of spillage on Armani suits. Besides the Italians are a gregarious people, they cannot drink their coffee in solitary confinement at a desk, they must meet and drink coffee together, just as every meal must be taken in company, the long lunch hour, the large family gathering at dinner, the flirtatious mingling at a bar; Why should breakfast be an exception to the rule?
The Italian home may be equipped with a kitchen but in reality it is rarely used because it is actually cheaper to eat out for every meal in Italy than to shop and prepare your own food for yourself and your family. That has led to one of the most sociable and sophisticated cultural structures in Europe.
Breakfast at home in Italy comprises of coffee prepared on a gas stove using a pot that has cold water in the bottom, a small sieve in the middle containing the coffee and an empty compartment at the top which fills with coffee as the heat of the water is steam filtered upwards under high pressure. This is accompanied by a piece of cake, usually a plain sponge cake without cream or filling. For the Italians this will suffice as nourishment until 1:00pm, for anyone else this sugar/caffeine combo induces a savage hunger that is only satiated by binge eating the whole cake prior to 9:00 in the morning.
But most Italians leave their kitchen in a sparkling condition in the morning because for 3euros ($4:50CA) they will purchase their breakfast out and not have to wash up a single plate or cup. Even when an Italian does unexpectedly eat at home he/she will stilll feel compelled to purchase an espresso out, because to do otherwise is anti-social, like missing a step, the Italian version of getting out of bed on the wrong side.
The Canadian coffee shop regards the decor of it's premises of vital importance in retaining a regular client base, there is an all-important branding issue. In Italy everything is annoymous, no logos on the cups, no logos on the wall, most of the time not even a name on the premises, just a battered sign saying Bar. Why Bar? Because in Italy there are no coffee shops there are only bars, places where in the day you can purchase pannini and in the evening you can purchase Spumante Campari and the full range of alcoholic drinks.
Consider the poor tired bar owner, he closes his bar about 4:00am and he opens again at 5:00 am to serve coffee. Who knows of a Canadian coffe shop that opens at 5:00am? The Italian bars in the cold early morning light are utilitarian in their decor, whitewashed walls, unadorned tables, and empty chairs. The Italians do not sit down to drink their coffee their gather around the bar in shifting bubbles of conservation and mingling.
There are no line-ups. As you enter the door of the bar, if you are a regular and nearly everyone is, you catch the eye of the barman, by the time you have walked across to the counter, the drink of your choice is waiting in a white or blue china cup and saucer and placed on a paper coaster.
If you are not a regular, a slight nod as you enter indicates that you wish to order an espresso.
An espresso in Italy costs 1Euro the equivalent of $1.50Canadian. Anyone in Italy who dares to price their espresso at say 1Euro 50 invites that Italian signal of condemnation, the sucking in of breath through the front teeth, shortly followed by a mass exodus of clientele. The espresso is how grown-ups in Italy take coffee, sometimes a double shot, sometimes with a spot of cream, sometime accompanied by a small shot of vodka or other spirit. Even the Italian police will take a shot with their coffee in the morning whilst dressed in their Carabinieri uniform and no-one blinks an eye.
At the bar you will see 10 cups of espresso lined up and maybe one cappuccino. The drink that the rest of the world regards as intrinsically Italian, the cappuccino, is considered a child's or a woman's drink in Italy, for those weak souls who need the calcium. I'm not sure what the Italians would make of squirting caramel sauce on the top of a drink but definitely they would not define that creation as either a latte or a cappuccino.
In Canada we cannot imagine lasting until lunchtime without eating but in Italy it is the norm to dispense with food in favour of the espresso. However for those who wish to eat, at the counter of every bar there is a plastic case containing two heated plates gently warming a collection of Italian style croissant called Brioche. The french Croissant is doughy and yeasty but as you cross the border into Italy it transforms into the brioche a more flaky and crumbly pastry that must be eaten the same morning that it is baked and is at it's most heavenly when slightly warmed. The French dip their croissant in coffee, there is no dipping in Italy, after all who can fit a brioche in an espresso cup? You can choose from brioche vuota - empty, con marmellata, with marmalade, albicocca - apricot jam or cioccolato. If you want to try these delicious sweet concoctions for breakfast you cannot keep tourist hours, by 8:00 the container will be empty. Each brioche is wrapped in a paper serviette and eaten standing up. Italian bars open at 5:00 and by 8:00 the morning trade is pretty much done, all that is left is a scattering of brioche flakes on the floor.
How long does your breakfast last in Italy? Between 2-5 minutes. Any excess time is spent chatting. This is where you meet your colleagues, not at the office, but the bar next door and this is where you bond. What a convivial way of starting the day. If you want to see how Italians think and how Italy works drink coffee with them. But what about us, what do are coffee-drinking habits say about us Canadians?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Spring Walk
Here we are 9 days past the vernal equinox. Today I went in search of spring. When we woke up this morning, the clouds had descended and as we set out for the gym, there was snow falling. By noon, the sun was peaking out. Later it was drizzling. These are definitely all signs of spring, the unpredictability and varied weather systems blowing in and out.
This afternoon, I walked around the block and saw two people. One woman was running down the street with a toque, and mittens. Mittens??? On a runner? The other was shovelling snow in her backyard. The good news was that it wasn't on her walkway. My assessment was that she was moving the snow from one big pile and scattering it about so it would melt faster.
My back lawn as you can see has one leg in winter and one in spring...
Here is the sky to the north, the mighty force of winter not easily receding. I suspect there are some snow flurries in there.
I continued my stroll, and found some new life!
This week, the snow retreated enough that I got to see the garden for the first time in 5 months. As more and more of the back yard is revealed, there is a pulling to go outside and clean up. There are reminders of winter everywhere. Near my patio, there is a coating of seed shells from birds that visited my upstairs neighbour. The compost is bursting. There are two empty bags of Safe-T-Salt, on the ground, 2 of 6 that I sprinkled on the walkway and stairs. If I had not, it would have been treacherous. The fence that was leaning in the fall is now officially useless, having been weighed down by mounds of snow.
Spring is moving in slowly, it appears. The temperature seems to have little effect on the birds, who are very vocal in their appreciation. The cat, who is very keen on birds, is very active these days as she flits from window sill to window sill to see the action. I am grateful each day as we see more and more of the sun. Soon, the sun will enter my living and kitchen room windows, and each day I will rejoice in that specialness. For now, I no longer have to inch my way down the hill to work to avoid sliding, and I wear one less layer of clothing. It is all a good sign.
This afternoon, I walked around the block and saw two people. One woman was running down the street with a toque, and mittens. Mittens??? On a runner? The other was shovelling snow in her backyard. The good news was that it wasn't on her walkway. My assessment was that she was moving the snow from one big pile and scattering it about so it would melt faster.
My back lawn as you can see has one leg in winter and one in spring...
Here is the sky to the north, the mighty force of winter not easily receding. I suspect there are some snow flurries in there.
I continued my stroll, and found some new life!
This week, the snow retreated enough that I got to see the garden for the first time in 5 months. As more and more of the back yard is revealed, there is a pulling to go outside and clean up. There are reminders of winter everywhere. Near my patio, there is a coating of seed shells from birds that visited my upstairs neighbour. The compost is bursting. There are two empty bags of Safe-T-Salt, on the ground, 2 of 6 that I sprinkled on the walkway and stairs. If I had not, it would have been treacherous. The fence that was leaning in the fall is now officially useless, having been weighed down by mounds of snow.
Spring is moving in slowly, it appears. The temperature seems to have little effect on the birds, who are very vocal in their appreciation. The cat, who is very keen on birds, is very active these days as she flits from window sill to window sill to see the action. I am grateful each day as we see more and more of the sun. Soon, the sun will enter my living and kitchen room windows, and each day I will rejoice in that specialness. For now, I no longer have to inch my way down the hill to work to avoid sliding, and I wear one less layer of clothing. It is all a good sign.
Seeking signs of Spring - Connecting with nature
This afternoon Patricia and I met (via telephone) for writing practice, but I ducked out, cried off, couldn't bring myself to settle to work, why? The sun was shining. The first gloriously sunny day of the year, cherry blossom in full bloom, people cutting grass, everyone outdoors, I felt compelled to get out of my concrete bunker too and get some vitamin D on my parched white skin. So we agreed, (Patricia and I) to go out and write about connecting with nature, and seek out signs of spring. This I thought would surely inspire some romantic Tennyson-like poetical piece of writing, oh how wrong can you be....
Yesterday a low grey cold dropped rain on our heads from dawn til dusk and then today hallelujah we are bathed in sunshine and warmth, on a Sunday too. The whole world is out strolling on the coastal path, pushchairs, dogs, grandparents, joggers, cyclists, skateboarders, power walkers, all weaving along this thin strip of land between the beach and the affluent suburb of James Bay.
We are all of us here to look out on the sun-dappled sea, admire the snow-capped mountains of the Olympic Peninsula, feel the sunshine on cold pale flesh, and in our own way make some connection with the natural landscape. Except we all seem to be getting in each other's way. There's no space for connection due to the inordinate amount of jostling going on, each of us interrupted from our reverie by tripping over dog leashes and small children.
I spy a bleached white log balanced on rocks beneath the steep orange cliffs at the end of the beach. I climb swiftly to secure my place in the sun overlooking the cove, the satisfying crunch of surf on pebbles running beneath my perch. My pen is poised, my paper pinioned by my left hand. I wait for inspiration. Much to my disgust the first thing I note is a man in a black sleeveless T-shirt, dirty jeans and a drunken gait, who is unzipping his flies and proceeds to pee on a gorse- bush. On his way back to his pile of clothes, he tries to bum a cigarette from a bald man who is passing. He gets turned down, "Good" I think. Then I notice that the bald man is the owner of a large wildly out of control Doberman that is terrorising toddlers. Both the bald man and the Doberman appear to be skillfully circumventing all of the NO DOGS ON BEACH signs.
The truth is I try to like people but there are just too many of them, like ants or snakes, or flies, they are interesting individually, but pestilent en masse. Within five minutes I have been passed by a least a dozen crag-hoppers of the human kind. I glare at a hooded teenager who is skulking in my direction, he jumps a few rocks and finds a different way down to the beach. He is followed by a woman with a coat and handbag in one hand and a Tim Hortons paper cup in the other. I look down and try to focus on my page. Then the suffocating smell of cheap perfume clouds out the scent of salt and seaweed, followed by two pairs of skinny legs in jeans and faux ballet slippers. Now a Thrifty's plastic bag containing a packet of shortcakes brushes against my knee. I glance up at the offender and get a strange stare from a lonely man in a baseball cap. I seem to have located myself on some major thoroughfare masquerading as coastal wilderness and the world and his aunt are trooping past. What do you have to do for Christ sakes in order to 'Wander Lonely as a Cloud.'
I shift position on my piece of driftwood to survey the ocean instead. Only the yacht sailing across the horizon seems to be able to breathe, it's white sails billowing in the breeze. For several months last summer I dreamed of owning a yacht, but eventually my husband pointed out that my vehement dislike of windy weather ran contrary to the fundamental basis of sailing. It's always windy in Victoria. It would be nicknamed the Windy City if that title wasn't already held by Chicago. On a high summer day the breeze necessitates a fleece, coat and hat in order to prevent excruciating earache and on a winter day the wind is like a bullying older brother, always pushing and shoving until in complete exasperation you shout "Oh go to hell!" and slam back into the house.
So Patrica, I'm relying on you to find the the Shelley and Coleridge in it all. My angry blue biro has been put away for the day. The battle for SPACE continues, the biggest enemy as usual is myself.
Yesterday a low grey cold dropped rain on our heads from dawn til dusk and then today hallelujah we are bathed in sunshine and warmth, on a Sunday too. The whole world is out strolling on the coastal path, pushchairs, dogs, grandparents, joggers, cyclists, skateboarders, power walkers, all weaving along this thin strip of land between the beach and the affluent suburb of James Bay.
We are all of us here to look out on the sun-dappled sea, admire the snow-capped mountains of the Olympic Peninsula, feel the sunshine on cold pale flesh, and in our own way make some connection with the natural landscape. Except we all seem to be getting in each other's way. There's no space for connection due to the inordinate amount of jostling going on, each of us interrupted from our reverie by tripping over dog leashes and small children.
I spy a bleached white log balanced on rocks beneath the steep orange cliffs at the end of the beach. I climb swiftly to secure my place in the sun overlooking the cove, the satisfying crunch of surf on pebbles running beneath my perch. My pen is poised, my paper pinioned by my left hand. I wait for inspiration. Much to my disgust the first thing I note is a man in a black sleeveless T-shirt, dirty jeans and a drunken gait, who is unzipping his flies and proceeds to pee on a gorse- bush. On his way back to his pile of clothes, he tries to bum a cigarette from a bald man who is passing. He gets turned down, "Good" I think. Then I notice that the bald man is the owner of a large wildly out of control Doberman that is terrorising toddlers. Both the bald man and the Doberman appear to be skillfully circumventing all of the NO DOGS ON BEACH signs.
The truth is I try to like people but there are just too many of them, like ants or snakes, or flies, they are interesting individually, but pestilent en masse. Within five minutes I have been passed by a least a dozen crag-hoppers of the human kind. I glare at a hooded teenager who is skulking in my direction, he jumps a few rocks and finds a different way down to the beach. He is followed by a woman with a coat and handbag in one hand and a Tim Hortons paper cup in the other. I look down and try to focus on my page. Then the suffocating smell of cheap perfume clouds out the scent of salt and seaweed, followed by two pairs of skinny legs in jeans and faux ballet slippers. Now a Thrifty's plastic bag containing a packet of shortcakes brushes against my knee. I glance up at the offender and get a strange stare from a lonely man in a baseball cap. I seem to have located myself on some major thoroughfare masquerading as coastal wilderness and the world and his aunt are trooping past. What do you have to do for Christ sakes in order to 'Wander Lonely as a Cloud.'
I shift position on my piece of driftwood to survey the ocean instead. Only the yacht sailing across the horizon seems to be able to breathe, it's white sails billowing in the breeze. For several months last summer I dreamed of owning a yacht, but eventually my husband pointed out that my vehement dislike of windy weather ran contrary to the fundamental basis of sailing. It's always windy in Victoria. It would be nicknamed the Windy City if that title wasn't already held by Chicago. On a high summer day the breeze necessitates a fleece, coat and hat in order to prevent excruciating earache and on a winter day the wind is like a bullying older brother, always pushing and shoving until in complete exasperation you shout "Oh go to hell!" and slam back into the house.
So Patrica, I'm relying on you to find the the Shelley and Coleridge in it all. My angry blue biro has been put away for the day. The battle for SPACE continues, the biggest enemy as usual is myself.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Where is the hottest place you've ever been?
1979.
I watched Mum pack. She held up each pastel strappy t-shirt and floral sundress in turn, all carefully ironed and deftly folded before being packed in the large family size suitcase. I loved my new clothes. I asked "Why don't we live somewhere hot all the time?"
Mum sighed, "Because we live here."
The timeshare was in the hills above the Costa del Sol, a rectangular block of concrete apartments with green balconies. The grown-ups had long conversations about whether timeshares were a good idea. I saw the big blue swimming pool and just knew they were a good idea. All day my brother and I played in the bright blue pool, only reluctantly succumbing to calls to "Put on more suntan lotion!" "Sit in the shade for five minutes!", "Wait until your lunch has gone down!"
In the intervals when I wasn't submerged I would scuff out of the complex and along a dusty street, holding my flip flops on with toes curled. There was no sign to distinguish the whitewashed house from any other in the street, except for a faded brown door that was always propped open and a boxes of melons stacked in the shade against the wall. Condensation rolled down the paper on the ice lollies I held up for the shop assistant to see. With the other hand I held out the silver pesetas that in my mind I often confused with the word potatoes. Pleased with my ability to perform essential transactions in Spanish I whispered "Gracia's" and dashed out into sunshine. My lips turned cherry red sucking the syrup out of crystallised ice, my brother's lollipop rapidly melting in my left hand.
In the evenings, with hair wet from the shower and dressed in one of my new sundresses and hand-knitted cardigan, we would drive down to Fuengirola for dinner, a choice of french fries and ice-cream every night. After dinner there was the promenade. The pleasure of swinging between my parent's hands as Dad searched for another bar. All around were groups of loud gregarious, vibrant, bronzed, dark-eyed, dark-haired Spaniards their smiling teeth lit up by the neon of the crowded shops, bars and restaurants. Behind them in the moonlight the white surf lapped on a dark beach. I prayed that we could stay on holiday forever. I liked being brown.
A few years later we returned to the timeshare, with another family, friends from our street. It was a holiday of minor disasters. The second day by the pool I noticed a trail of red footprints following me. It was only after they pulled the shard of glass out of my foot that I burst into tears, suddenly very sorry for myself because Mum was tutting about the barmen not sweeping up properly. I felt the need to limp for at least 5 metres before running to catch up with the game of volleyball in the pool.
That evening Tanya didn't appear for dinner. Tanya was older than me, a teenager, with long legs, pale skin and pale blond hair carefully dried back from her face in 'Farrah Fawcett' waves. By the end of two days of continual sunbathing to achieve the perfect tan, she had turned the colour of a lobster, with a swollen face and a slow scarecrow walk. She spent the rest of the week in her bedroom with heavy curtains pulled shut, we tiptoed past the door. "Sorry you're not feeling well" we chorused from the doorway before happily rushing out into the sunshine.
Then the bug struck. My brother and I fell first, one moment fine, the next vomiting into the sink. We were made to endure the injection. The humiliation of it. At home, injections were always in the arm, later when telling my school friends about my holiday, the most important thing to relay was that "In Spain they give you an injection in the bum."
My abiding image of that holiday remains the sight of Mum leaning sideways in bed and Avril running to her, holding out a large beach towel in which to catch the vomit. I asked "Will she be better soon?" Outside on the balcony the 'Dads" immunised themselves with cigarettes and alcohol. Murmured conversations of "The kids all ate the ice-cream." and "Did Trish eat the scampi?", a concerned investigation that ended with a question mark over ice and a rule about only buying bottled drinks from the bar.
The last time we visited the timeshare, it was just Dad and I, the divorce had already gone through. Our rental car was the only vehicle in the outside car park. Our footsteps echoed on the concrete walkways, all the timeshare people had deserted for the Balearic's and the Canaries. We were visiting a couple who had bought their apartment. I used to envy them, "They can stay all year round!" Now sat in one of their armchairs I noticed for the first time that their apartment was decorated in a quintessentially English style. To protect the furniture and framed photographs from fading, heavy drapes were drawn against the intense white sunshine. Dad talked loudly, deliberately cheerful, cracking jokes about 'the old days'. Their voices in reply sounded muted, resigned, tinged with defensiveness.
Wondering how long we would have to stay I stepped past the brown fabric onto the balcony. In the gardens below the bar was shuttered and the barmen with their starched shirts and white smiling teeth had gone. The pool, in which I had swum like a fish, was bright green with algae, brown leaves piled up on surrounding tiles. Clear blue sky, bright sunshine, picturesque whitewashed houses encircling the grey concrete walls within which the apartment complex was sighing. I stepped back inside where the grown-ups were pouring out generous glasses of gin and tonic despite the breakfast bowls on the table. They acquiesced to my request to drink the same. I was old enough now.
I watched Mum pack. She held up each pastel strappy t-shirt and floral sundress in turn, all carefully ironed and deftly folded before being packed in the large family size suitcase. I loved my new clothes. I asked "Why don't we live somewhere hot all the time?"
Mum sighed, "Because we live here."
The timeshare was in the hills above the Costa del Sol, a rectangular block of concrete apartments with green balconies. The grown-ups had long conversations about whether timeshares were a good idea. I saw the big blue swimming pool and just knew they were a good idea. All day my brother and I played in the bright blue pool, only reluctantly succumbing to calls to "Put on more suntan lotion!" "Sit in the shade for five minutes!", "Wait until your lunch has gone down!"
In the intervals when I wasn't submerged I would scuff out of the complex and along a dusty street, holding my flip flops on with toes curled. There was no sign to distinguish the whitewashed house from any other in the street, except for a faded brown door that was always propped open and a boxes of melons stacked in the shade against the wall. Condensation rolled down the paper on the ice lollies I held up for the shop assistant to see. With the other hand I held out the silver pesetas that in my mind I often confused with the word potatoes. Pleased with my ability to perform essential transactions in Spanish I whispered "Gracia's" and dashed out into sunshine. My lips turned cherry red sucking the syrup out of crystallised ice, my brother's lollipop rapidly melting in my left hand.
In the evenings, with hair wet from the shower and dressed in one of my new sundresses and hand-knitted cardigan, we would drive down to Fuengirola for dinner, a choice of french fries and ice-cream every night. After dinner there was the promenade. The pleasure of swinging between my parent's hands as Dad searched for another bar. All around were groups of loud gregarious, vibrant, bronzed, dark-eyed, dark-haired Spaniards their smiling teeth lit up by the neon of the crowded shops, bars and restaurants. Behind them in the moonlight the white surf lapped on a dark beach. I prayed that we could stay on holiday forever. I liked being brown.
A few years later we returned to the timeshare, with another family, friends from our street. It was a holiday of minor disasters. The second day by the pool I noticed a trail of red footprints following me. It was only after they pulled the shard of glass out of my foot that I burst into tears, suddenly very sorry for myself because Mum was tutting about the barmen not sweeping up properly. I felt the need to limp for at least 5 metres before running to catch up with the game of volleyball in the pool.
That evening Tanya didn't appear for dinner. Tanya was older than me, a teenager, with long legs, pale skin and pale blond hair carefully dried back from her face in 'Farrah Fawcett' waves. By the end of two days of continual sunbathing to achieve the perfect tan, she had turned the colour of a lobster, with a swollen face and a slow scarecrow walk. She spent the rest of the week in her bedroom with heavy curtains pulled shut, we tiptoed past the door. "Sorry you're not feeling well" we chorused from the doorway before happily rushing out into the sunshine.
Then the bug struck. My brother and I fell first, one moment fine, the next vomiting into the sink. We were made to endure the injection. The humiliation of it. At home, injections were always in the arm, later when telling my school friends about my holiday, the most important thing to relay was that "In Spain they give you an injection in the bum."
My abiding image of that holiday remains the sight of Mum leaning sideways in bed and Avril running to her, holding out a large beach towel in which to catch the vomit. I asked "Will she be better soon?" Outside on the balcony the 'Dads" immunised themselves with cigarettes and alcohol. Murmured conversations of "The kids all ate the ice-cream." and "Did Trish eat the scampi?", a concerned investigation that ended with a question mark over ice and a rule about only buying bottled drinks from the bar.
The last time we visited the timeshare, it was just Dad and I, the divorce had already gone through. Our rental car was the only vehicle in the outside car park. Our footsteps echoed on the concrete walkways, all the timeshare people had deserted for the Balearic's and the Canaries. We were visiting a couple who had bought their apartment. I used to envy them, "They can stay all year round!" Now sat in one of their armchairs I noticed for the first time that their apartment was decorated in a quintessentially English style. To protect the furniture and framed photographs from fading, heavy drapes were drawn against the intense white sunshine. Dad talked loudly, deliberately cheerful, cracking jokes about 'the old days'. Their voices in reply sounded muted, resigned, tinged with defensiveness.
Wondering how long we would have to stay I stepped past the brown fabric onto the balcony. In the gardens below the bar was shuttered and the barmen with their starched shirts and white smiling teeth had gone. The pool, in which I had swum like a fish, was bright green with algae, brown leaves piled up on surrounding tiles. Clear blue sky, bright sunshine, picturesque whitewashed houses encircling the grey concrete walls within which the apartment complex was sighing. I stepped back inside where the grown-ups were pouring out generous glasses of gin and tonic despite the breakfast bowls on the table. They acquiesced to my request to drink the same. I was old enough now.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
What is the hottest I have ever been?
Here is the next writing prompt from Natalie Goldberg.
Ryan and I arrived in Palenque around dinner time on a day like all others during tourist season. Shop keepers have no days off and everything is open late.
On the bus ride, my son and I pored over the town map featured in our Lonely Planet guide. We knew we didn’t have to go far to find a room. We had traveled the day bus from Merida, first class with air con, so when we got off, we were floored by the heat and humidity. The beginning of the rainy season. The book had warned us.
The cobbled sidewalk was narrow, as we turned right towards the town centre, single file. Our suitcase wheels clicked behind us.
I stood with the luggage on the street while Ryan checked out our Lonely Planet pre-selected hotels. After visits to three places and describing to me what he had observed, he picked the place where the proprietor spoke the best English. We got a front-facing room that would not be ready until 8:30, when the current tenants departed for the bus. Lots of events, it seemed, were scheduled around bus terminal arrivals and departures. The hotelkeeper offered to hold our luggage in his lockup.
We walked one block up to the main street. The shops were full of merchandise, spilling into the streets. Women and young children wandered the streets, thrusting their wares at us. A young girl had small zippered bags embroidered with Chiapas on the front. Made in China. She convinced Ryan. I bought a kerchief, having remembered an old trick of wetting it and winding it on the neck to keep cool. Carts of hot food beckoned us closer. The sidewalks were full of people. Again we walked single file as did the line of people coming towards us. We walked slowly in the heat.
The sun was setting when we found a restaurant suggested by the Lonely Planet. As Ryan contemplated an outdoor seat, I looked at the ceiling fans and the empty tables below them. Being outside in Palenque, even when the sun went down, was not a cool experience. He agreed. We sat inside. I sat very still in my chair, minimizing any heat I was generating. I ordered a pina colada, having already envisioned the ice. We waited an intolerable amount of time for our food. As we waited and made plans for the next day, many women and children with wares piled high approached us. Ryan bought two braided bracelets from a young girl. By the time the meal arrived, I was ready to find an ocean, a lake, a dugout, a muddy pond. Anything to cool off. I ate quickly so we could leave.
Back on the street, the air was marginally cooler. When we finally got our room, I headed straight for the shower. The towels were very small. I contemplated asking for one larger. Shortly after getting out of the shower, I realized that a bigger towel would not be any more helpful. Within minutes, my body was wet again from the humidity.
I was exhausted. I had tried all my regular cool-down techniques, but nothing worked. I decided that sleep was the best solution. As I lay in my bed, sleep was impossible. I shuffled the suitcases and slid my bed directly beneath the ceiling fan and next to the open window facing the front street. The glow from the streetlights offered enough light to read, and it was party time in Palenque. Party time in Palenque was on the streets. Perhaps this was the locals’ solution to the rainy season. I went back to the shower, this time not even attempting to dry myself off. Under the fan, I felt sweet relief for several minutes. I thought of the mountains in the close distance and remembered how, at home, our mountains released their coolness at night. This was my fantasy as I waited for sleep.
But it didn't come. I decided to do something other than think about being hot in Palenque. I sat in the beam of the streetlight, listening to the sounds on the street, and picked up my journal, began to draw and watched the sky lighten in the distance.
In the morning, Ryan and I were ready to expose our gringo-ness and decided to give up our second floor walk-up in favour of a room with air con, though it would cost 50 pesos more a night. Our proprietor was perplexed. “This isn’t hot. It isn’t even the rainy season yet.” Indeed.
After settling into our new room, Ryan and I found the taxi collective that offered fares to the ruins. It was when we arrived at the front gates, that we found out that it was vacation season for Mexicans. We lined up for one hour to pay our entrance fee; some of it, thankfully, was under a tree. With kerchief and water bottles in hand, we entered the site. Through the trees, we saw the structures in the open plaza. We relinquished the sweet coolness from the ceiba trees – The Tree of Life and ventured into the sun. I remembered a statement from a tour guide we met at Chichen Itza eleven years before who said that the Maya believed that, “Happiness is a shady tree.”
We walked across the plaza, and over the foot bridge. The path circled under a grove of trees, and up to the next level. At the top of the stairs was another open plaza flanked by the Cross Group of three temples, massive structures, each with a set of stairs leading to a room at the top. We climbed. Later, in photos, I saw the glisten on my skin.
I descended the temple stairs, and went immediately to join others sitting on a stone wall in the shade of another temple. I was learning to appreciate the subtle degrees of hot. The difference between hot and wilting. The relief of a drink of water. Growing accustomed to always sweating. And learning how to pace myself.
When we visited the tour guide, I wondered if I stayed in Palenque how long it would take me to adapt to the heat, to be like him, wearing pants, a long-sleeved shirt and closed-toed shoes.
Ryan and I arrived in Palenque around dinner time on a day like all others during tourist season. Shop keepers have no days off and everything is open late.
On the bus ride, my son and I pored over the town map featured in our Lonely Planet guide. We knew we didn’t have to go far to find a room. We had traveled the day bus from Merida, first class with air con, so when we got off, we were floored by the heat and humidity. The beginning of the rainy season. The book had warned us.
The cobbled sidewalk was narrow, as we turned right towards the town centre, single file. Our suitcase wheels clicked behind us.
I stood with the luggage on the street while Ryan checked out our Lonely Planet pre-selected hotels. After visits to three places and describing to me what he had observed, he picked the place where the proprietor spoke the best English. We got a front-facing room that would not be ready until 8:30, when the current tenants departed for the bus. Lots of events, it seemed, were scheduled around bus terminal arrivals and departures. The hotelkeeper offered to hold our luggage in his lockup.
We walked one block up to the main street. The shops were full of merchandise, spilling into the streets. Women and young children wandered the streets, thrusting their wares at us. A young girl had small zippered bags embroidered with Chiapas on the front. Made in China. She convinced Ryan. I bought a kerchief, having remembered an old trick of wetting it and winding it on the neck to keep cool. Carts of hot food beckoned us closer. The sidewalks were full of people. Again we walked single file as did the line of people coming towards us. We walked slowly in the heat.
The sun was setting when we found a restaurant suggested by the Lonely Planet. As Ryan contemplated an outdoor seat, I looked at the ceiling fans and the empty tables below them. Being outside in Palenque, even when the sun went down, was not a cool experience. He agreed. We sat inside. I sat very still in my chair, minimizing any heat I was generating. I ordered a pina colada, having already envisioned the ice. We waited an intolerable amount of time for our food. As we waited and made plans for the next day, many women and children with wares piled high approached us. Ryan bought two braided bracelets from a young girl. By the time the meal arrived, I was ready to find an ocean, a lake, a dugout, a muddy pond. Anything to cool off. I ate quickly so we could leave.
Back on the street, the air was marginally cooler. When we finally got our room, I headed straight for the shower. The towels were very small. I contemplated asking for one larger. Shortly after getting out of the shower, I realized that a bigger towel would not be any more helpful. Within minutes, my body was wet again from the humidity.
I was exhausted. I had tried all my regular cool-down techniques, but nothing worked. I decided that sleep was the best solution. As I lay in my bed, sleep was impossible. I shuffled the suitcases and slid my bed directly beneath the ceiling fan and next to the open window facing the front street. The glow from the streetlights offered enough light to read, and it was party time in Palenque. Party time in Palenque was on the streets. Perhaps this was the locals’ solution to the rainy season. I went back to the shower, this time not even attempting to dry myself off. Under the fan, I felt sweet relief for several minutes. I thought of the mountains in the close distance and remembered how, at home, our mountains released their coolness at night. This was my fantasy as I waited for sleep.
But it didn't come. I decided to do something other than think about being hot in Palenque. I sat in the beam of the streetlight, listening to the sounds on the street, and picked up my journal, began to draw and watched the sky lighten in the distance.
In the morning, Ryan and I were ready to expose our gringo-ness and decided to give up our second floor walk-up in favour of a room with air con, though it would cost 50 pesos more a night. Our proprietor was perplexed. “This isn’t hot. It isn’t even the rainy season yet.” Indeed.
After settling into our new room, Ryan and I found the taxi collective that offered fares to the ruins. It was when we arrived at the front gates, that we found out that it was vacation season for Mexicans. We lined up for one hour to pay our entrance fee; some of it, thankfully, was under a tree. With kerchief and water bottles in hand, we entered the site. Through the trees, we saw the structures in the open plaza. We relinquished the sweet coolness from the ceiba trees – The Tree of Life and ventured into the sun. I remembered a statement from a tour guide we met at Chichen Itza eleven years before who said that the Maya believed that, “Happiness is a shady tree.”
We walked across the plaza, and over the foot bridge. The path circled under a grove of trees, and up to the next level. At the top of the stairs was another open plaza flanked by the Cross Group of three temples, massive structures, each with a set of stairs leading to a room at the top. We climbed. Later, in photos, I saw the glisten on my skin.
I descended the temple stairs, and went immediately to join others sitting on a stone wall in the shade of another temple. I was learning to appreciate the subtle degrees of hot. The difference between hot and wilting. The relief of a drink of water. Growing accustomed to always sweating. And learning how to pace myself.
When we visited the tour guide, I wondered if I stayed in Palenque how long it would take me to adapt to the heat, to be like him, wearing pants, a long-sleeved shirt and closed-toed shoes.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
What I no longer have
This post was written out on the back of a 16 page patient information sheet from my doctor. This seems to be the new trend, your doctor searches for a website, prints it out and voila, no need for time-consuming discussions or clinical diagnosis, just read what's wrong with you, and choose the drug or surgical procedure from the list of "Treatments" starting on page 4.
I look first at the "Causes" section. It's a short single paragraph which starts "Although the exact cause is unknown, their growth seems to be related to..." I hate this kind of language from scientists, the same scientists who tell us that everything is black and white and analytical and well, scientific. For them to fall back on wishy washy phrases like "seems to be" or "it is not clear actually.." is the height of hypocrisy. Especially when you then are expected to skip lightly over the scanty "Causes" section to the long definitive stricture of "Treatments". I look at my choices, a lot of cutting, slicing, gouging out of malfunctioning flesh and a smorgasbord of painkillers and drugs that carry a long list of nasty side-effects and nothing that addresses a cause.
My doctor knows I want to find the cause, treat the cause and get better. She tells me that it is "the fickle finger of fate" or that's what she means; when what she actually says is "Genetics can sometimes be a factor." I pick up that mantle of family guilt anyway for no other reason than she seems to be saying that it's mine.
So this week I am angry with my doctor, a friendly understanding supportive woman, who doesn't have any answers. She has disappointed a universal expectation in omnipotent science and my own personal expectation that I will visit, be tested and then be cured. So I'm disappointed, my self-pity is just pitiful. My doctor invites me back for a chat in a months time to see how I'm going on. That would be a kindness from a friend but it is just plain annoying in a doctor. A friend would give me more than a mandatory 10 minutes, a friend would acknowledge the big invisible elephant in the room, would sit with me and my frustration and help me grapple with the human condition of not-knowing.
Through my twenties I saw no reason for doctors, didn't understand the need to arrange for my medical records to follow me around the world. When I finally got a symptom and went through the circus of getting on a doctor's list I had in mind one consultation maybe two at the most. Chronic illness was to me some kind of mythical creature, a rare and unlikely possibility. That was before I discovered the so-called 'gaps' in medical knowledge, less like gaps more like The Grand Canyon. It was a shock. The first time I got the medical practitioner's slow nod, sympathetic smile and shrug with a kind smile it was like death walking into the room. The physicality of life and death had gone largely unnoticed by me whilst everything in my body was working OK. And then, the first cracked tooth, the first time I noticed my receding gums in the mirror, the first time I stood up and one leg didn't seem to want to work, the first time I couldn't read the bottom lines on the sight test, the first time I sat in a movie theatre of laughing people and had to whisper "What did he say?". The first time I realised that all of this stuff and more is irreversible - Frightening, frightening, frightening. But there it is. Fear dissipates, and with it comes the realisation that this is also the first time to engage with the mystery that the scientists tell us doesn't exist.. the mystery of life, of aging, of crossing over and what's beyond.
I forget to make my next appointment. I don't need a doctor. I need a guru, a priest, a spiritual adviser, counselling for those who are quietly losing their immortality and finding it, all at the same time.
I look first at the "Causes" section. It's a short single paragraph which starts "Although the exact cause is unknown, their growth seems to be related to..." I hate this kind of language from scientists, the same scientists who tell us that everything is black and white and analytical and well, scientific. For them to fall back on wishy washy phrases like "seems to be" or "it is not clear actually.." is the height of hypocrisy. Especially when you then are expected to skip lightly over the scanty "Causes" section to the long definitive stricture of "Treatments". I look at my choices, a lot of cutting, slicing, gouging out of malfunctioning flesh and a smorgasbord of painkillers and drugs that carry a long list of nasty side-effects and nothing that addresses a cause.
My doctor knows I want to find the cause, treat the cause and get better. She tells me that it is "the fickle finger of fate" or that's what she means; when what she actually says is "Genetics can sometimes be a factor." I pick up that mantle of family guilt anyway for no other reason than she seems to be saying that it's mine.
So this week I am angry with my doctor, a friendly understanding supportive woman, who doesn't have any answers. She has disappointed a universal expectation in omnipotent science and my own personal expectation that I will visit, be tested and then be cured. So I'm disappointed, my self-pity is just pitiful. My doctor invites me back for a chat in a months time to see how I'm going on. That would be a kindness from a friend but it is just plain annoying in a doctor. A friend would give me more than a mandatory 10 minutes, a friend would acknowledge the big invisible elephant in the room, would sit with me and my frustration and help me grapple with the human condition of not-knowing.
Through my twenties I saw no reason for doctors, didn't understand the need to arrange for my medical records to follow me around the world. When I finally got a symptom and went through the circus of getting on a doctor's list I had in mind one consultation maybe two at the most. Chronic illness was to me some kind of mythical creature, a rare and unlikely possibility. That was before I discovered the so-called 'gaps' in medical knowledge, less like gaps more like The Grand Canyon. It was a shock. The first time I got the medical practitioner's slow nod, sympathetic smile and shrug with a kind smile it was like death walking into the room. The physicality of life and death had gone largely unnoticed by me whilst everything in my body was working OK. And then, the first cracked tooth, the first time I noticed my receding gums in the mirror, the first time I stood up and one leg didn't seem to want to work, the first time I couldn't read the bottom lines on the sight test, the first time I sat in a movie theatre of laughing people and had to whisper "What did he say?". The first time I realised that all of this stuff and more is irreversible - Frightening, frightening, frightening. But there it is. Fear dissipates, and with it comes the realisation that this is also the first time to engage with the mystery that the scientists tell us doesn't exist.. the mystery of life, of aging, of crossing over and what's beyond.
I forget to make my next appointment. I don't need a doctor. I need a guru, a priest, a spiritual adviser, counselling for those who are quietly losing their immortality and finding it, all at the same time.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
What I No Longer Have
Natalie Goldberg's latest book, Old Friend From Far Away is full of practices for writing memoir. Katherine and I have each checked it from our local libraries for several times each, as it is full of great writing prompts - to get the pen moving.
Katherine and I have continued our practice of writing together weekly, despite the miles now between us. At a pre-arranged time, we phone each other, and decide on our writing practice. We set the timer and then call each other to read what we have written.
This week we chose a prompt for a blog posting that each of us promised to write. The question was... What do you no longer have? Here's mine...
As I sit here, the gas fireplace ignites. I think of the wood-burning fireplace when we lived on Garrity Creek Road. I no longer have to pull myself from my comfortable chair, slip on Sorels and jacket and slump my way to the wood pile. I no longer have to haul out the axe and chop the wood into pieces that fit inside the fireplace, or make a backup of kindling. I no longer have to spend my time off cleaning up wood chips that are strewn through the living room. I no longer have to have to slide out of my warm bed and scamper to the stove, crumple paper, build a tent of kindling and strike a match.
I no longer have to make arrangements with loggers who take advantage of my naiveté and sell me wet wood, and then charge exorbitant amounts to split and deliver it. I no longer have to adjust my clothing while I wait for the room to warm up and then when it gets hot.
And yet... I no longer smell the burning wood wafting through the air when I come back from a walk. I remember the smell of the wood when I reached into the pile under the tarp laden with snow.
The fire brought a warmth on a cold winter's night that hugged the entire room. And I remember the feeling of warm clothes from the dryer, put in for a few minutes to take off the sting of the cold.
There is a feeling of well-being and release after spending an hour with an axe and chopping block.
There is a satisfaction years later as I remember how we had a power outage for 6 hours on Christmas Day 1996 and we were warm all day. Thanks to propane, our dinner wasn't delayed.
There is a delight, too, in knowing that my daughter recalls these times as her favourite.
Katherine and I have continued our practice of writing together weekly, despite the miles now between us. At a pre-arranged time, we phone each other, and decide on our writing practice. We set the timer and then call each other to read what we have written.
This week we chose a prompt for a blog posting that each of us promised to write. The question was... What do you no longer have? Here's mine...
As I sit here, the gas fireplace ignites. I think of the wood-burning fireplace when we lived on Garrity Creek Road. I no longer have to pull myself from my comfortable chair, slip on Sorels and jacket and slump my way to the wood pile. I no longer have to haul out the axe and chop the wood into pieces that fit inside the fireplace, or make a backup of kindling. I no longer have to spend my time off cleaning up wood chips that are strewn through the living room. I no longer have to have to slide out of my warm bed and scamper to the stove, crumple paper, build a tent of kindling and strike a match.
I no longer have to make arrangements with loggers who take advantage of my naiveté and sell me wet wood, and then charge exorbitant amounts to split and deliver it. I no longer have to adjust my clothing while I wait for the room to warm up and then when it gets hot.
And yet... I no longer smell the burning wood wafting through the air when I come back from a walk. I remember the smell of the wood when I reached into the pile under the tarp laden with snow.
The fire brought a warmth on a cold winter's night that hugged the entire room. And I remember the feeling of warm clothes from the dryer, put in for a few minutes to take off the sting of the cold.
There is a feeling of well-being and release after spending an hour with an axe and chopping block.
There is a satisfaction years later as I remember how we had a power outage for 6 hours on Christmas Day 1996 and we were warm all day. Thanks to propane, our dinner wasn't delayed.
There is a delight, too, in knowing that my daughter recalls these times as her favourite.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Looking for Signs - March 9th
The 9th does not belong to the other days in March because it marks a birthday. I took the day off work because I couldn't bear the thought of meaningless office duties crowding out the hours, crowding out my thoughts.
As we sat in silence at the cafe and watched the falling snow, in the distance a circle of sunlight appeared on the ocean. Then the ray of sunshine shifted and just for a few brief minutes our table was bathed in a watery luminence whilst, outside the window, snow continued to fall.
At 8:00am I pulled the blanket down from the window. The streets outside were filled with grey cloud, thick heavy snowflakes tumbling down, spiralling up and occasionally throwing themselves recklessly against the glass.
I'd imagined a day of quiet reflection; Instead of strolling by the sea in a meditative fashion, we were able to take only sidelong glances at the grey shrouded seashore, whilst pushing forward into a blizzard of swiping, vindictive snow.
At Ogden Point cafe we thawed out, sipping ginger tea and munching on homemade chocolate cookies. Then we reviewed the photographs we'd taken en-route, the stillness of the images belying the rough buffeting of the wind, the clever flowers sheltering in low, quiet corners. Resilient purple, bowed yellow, graceful pink.
As we sat in silence at the cafe and watched the falling snow, in the distance a circle of sunlight appeared on the ocean. Then the ray of sunshine shifted and just for a few brief minutes our table was bathed in a watery luminence whilst, outside the window, snow continued to fall.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Una Bella Tazza Di Caffe
It seems not that long ago that we sat across each other at this table and I poured tea from my beautiful teapot from Pier One. We drank out of the small cups that came with the pot, and refilled them frequently. We had treats as well, though they were not cake. What brought us together was the love of words. What we shared was an unfolding of our lives through writing practice.
I wished I would have met your Mum, and at long last when I saw her photo, I felt I should know her for the stories you shared and the gifted daughter she brought into the world. And I wished I would have had that opportunity to sit over a table sharing coffee with her.
In that loss, I think of change. I am remembering of those deep connections I made so many years ago. From my soul-filling visits with friends over coffee, for that is what we drank then. Edwards coffee out of the can. I kept it in the freezer to keep the coffee fresh. We would drink coffee late at night, our sleep not affected by that amazing act. Then, I began picking up Tim Horton's on my way into work. And my visits with friends shifted more often to tea.
I discovered then the incredible flavour of coffee with an espresso grind. And eventually found coffee that was roasted locally. And then I went to Seattle, and had a cup of una bella tazza di caffe at Vivace. The people who work here are called Preparation Specialists! They take their coffees seriously.
Sadly, I can't drink coffee anymore... though I do hold out hope... one day... (*longing face*)
What has not changed over the years is the wondrous sharing that I have with my friends. I am looking forward to this space being a place of sharing, exploring, and appreciation for the finest things in life.
I wished I would have met your Mum, and at long last when I saw her photo, I felt I should know her for the stories you shared and the gifted daughter she brought into the world. And I wished I would have had that opportunity to sit over a table sharing coffee with her.
In that loss, I think of change. I am remembering of those deep connections I made so many years ago. From my soul-filling visits with friends over coffee, for that is what we drank then. Edwards coffee out of the can. I kept it in the freezer to keep the coffee fresh. We would drink coffee late at night, our sleep not affected by that amazing act. Then, I began picking up Tim Horton's on my way into work. And my visits with friends shifted more often to tea.
I discovered then the incredible flavour of coffee with an espresso grind. And eventually found coffee that was roasted locally. And then I went to Seattle, and had a cup of una bella tazza di caffe at Vivace. The people who work here are called Preparation Specialists! They take their coffees seriously.
Sadly, I can't drink coffee anymore... though I do hold out hope... one day... (*longing face*)
What has not changed over the years is the wondrous sharing that I have with my friends. I am looking forward to this space being a place of sharing, exploring, and appreciation for the finest things in life.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Why Tea and Cake?
There's a song by Anne Murray called Another Pot o' Tea.
Put on another pot of tea
Because I'm in love with the Irish accent of your stories
And I need someone to help me.
Well, they say that now you don't talk straight,
And as of late it's been my lot to be afraid,
To remember you by anything,
But memories I already keep.
So put on another pot of tea,
Because I'm in love with the Irish accent of your stories,
And I need some sympathy.
It's harder when it takes so long to leave,
The table where we all learned to laugh, learned to grieve,
Over the pain that came so close to you
And it comes so close to me today.
So put on another pot of tea...
I'm showing by British roots to talk of tea and cake. Tea is drink, food, medicine and so much more for the British. For me tea and cake has always been synonymous with a gathering of kin and kindred spirits. From the time when as a child I would lay out plastic cups on a blanket for my stuffed toys, I learnt the joy of invitation and began my training in sharing and empathy.
Drinking a cup of tea (or coffee) in company, is a prelude to conversation, a settling down, a ritualised opening to listening and sharing. Even the act of laying a table with cups and saucers, the warming of the pot, is like a warming of the heart, it brings over me a sense of inclusion and belonging. I think of the economy of movement of my Grandmother's hands as she placed cups on saucers and arranged custard cream biscuits on a plate. How we groaned about it when we were trying to diet! How later we chided ourselves for moaning, because we understood the connectiveness between her offering of food, drink, and the offering of love.
I think of the miles I would drive with Mum to find the best cafe, the best piece of cake, the best brew of coffee. Even when money was short, which it nearly always was, we could not deprive ourselves of this tradition. In fact in hard times it became even more essential. "We'll treat ourselves" we said and what we meant was I will treat you, you deserve happiness and simultaneously you were saying the same to me. And in each other's company we found the comfort and humour that made the rest of the struggle ok.
I write this piece whilst sat alone in a busy cafe and I am overwhelmed again, as I am every day, by the inconsolable grief of losing my Mum, my best friend, my confidante, my companion, the person who loved me longest and loved me best. How inadequate words are to describe this love that gathered me in, listened, counselled, and gave me solace and healing when I was broken open. How to explain now the emptiness that extends to all edges of my world?
My Mum and my grandmothers taught me that love is simple. First you listen, then you understand and then the love flows.
A blog is an acknowledgment of the new reality of physical separation. Despite that, "Tea and Cake" is intended to be an expression of the willingness to listen, understand and love, even when we are too far from each other to sit down at the table together.
To quote another Anne Murray song:
There's a wren in a willow wood,
Flies so high and sings so good,
And he brings to you,
What he sings to you.
Put on another pot of tea
Because I'm in love with the Irish accent of your stories
And I need someone to help me.
Well, they say that now you don't talk straight,
And as of late it's been my lot to be afraid,
To remember you by anything,
But memories I already keep.
So put on another pot of tea,
Because I'm in love with the Irish accent of your stories,
And I need some sympathy.
It's harder when it takes so long to leave,
The table where we all learned to laugh, learned to grieve,
Over the pain that came so close to you
And it comes so close to me today.
So put on another pot of tea...
I'm showing by British roots to talk of tea and cake. Tea is drink, food, medicine and so much more for the British. For me tea and cake has always been synonymous with a gathering of kin and kindred spirits. From the time when as a child I would lay out plastic cups on a blanket for my stuffed toys, I learnt the joy of invitation and began my training in sharing and empathy.
Drinking a cup of tea (or coffee) in company, is a prelude to conversation, a settling down, a ritualised opening to listening and sharing. Even the act of laying a table with cups and saucers, the warming of the pot, is like a warming of the heart, it brings over me a sense of inclusion and belonging. I think of the economy of movement of my Grandmother's hands as she placed cups on saucers and arranged custard cream biscuits on a plate. How we groaned about it when we were trying to diet! How later we chided ourselves for moaning, because we understood the connectiveness between her offering of food, drink, and the offering of love.
I think of the miles I would drive with Mum to find the best cafe, the best piece of cake, the best brew of coffee. Even when money was short, which it nearly always was, we could not deprive ourselves of this tradition. In fact in hard times it became even more essential. "We'll treat ourselves" we said and what we meant was I will treat you, you deserve happiness and simultaneously you were saying the same to me. And in each other's company we found the comfort and humour that made the rest of the struggle ok.
I write this piece whilst sat alone in a busy cafe and I am overwhelmed again, as I am every day, by the inconsolable grief of losing my Mum, my best friend, my confidante, my companion, the person who loved me longest and loved me best. How inadequate words are to describe this love that gathered me in, listened, counselled, and gave me solace and healing when I was broken open. How to explain now the emptiness that extends to all edges of my world?
My Mum and my grandmothers taught me that love is simple. First you listen, then you understand and then the love flows.
A blog is an acknowledgment of the new reality of physical separation. Despite that, "Tea and Cake" is intended to be an expression of the willingness to listen, understand and love, even when we are too far from each other to sit down at the table together.
To quote another Anne Murray song:
There's a wren in a willow wood,
Flies so high and sings so good,
And he brings to you,
What he sings to you.
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