sandwich

The butter sizzles hot and nutty in the skillet. Soft bread browns slowly, as white and orange cheeses soften, meld, flow onto the pan, and harden to perfection in a golden aura. It’s only a grilled cheese sandwich, and it is so so much more. It is childhood in my hand. It is comfort and satisfaction. It is perfect.

You know why they say “The greatest thing since sliced bread”? Because sliced bread is FRICKING AWESOME. Only when you’re a celiac, sometimes sliced bread isn’t that great. Sometimes sliced bread that I eat is grainy or crumbly or dry or all of the above.

But when you get just the right amount of butter. When you layer the cheese just so. When you heat them patiently together as the tomato soup simmers. When the bread is fresh and light. That is more than a sandwich. That is a celebration.

drink

The moscato slips across my tongue sweet and silver and light and washes the stress from my aching brain. It glows caramel and lemon, as cheap and comfortable as the clothes you scrub your floors in. I think I should develop more refined tastes, learn about the intricacies of the French terriors, distinguish the legs and noses and lingering aromas of something robust and classy.

But I love this easy sweetness. Why should I fight past the shriveled tongue and feign an adoration of over-dry shiraz? I am no vinophile. I have come late and tired to my appreciation of an evening glass. And so I drink the gentle grape – liquid candy in dancing light. And I toast to cheap wine and simple pleasure.

waiting

Today I went early to an appointment at my favourite spa. I was just killing time anyway, so why not wait where there’s herbal tea, soothing music, fresh fruit, and an atmosphere designed entirely to make one feel at ease.

As I sat sipping my tea, I got really clear about why I was there. It wasn’t just a frivolous way to kill some time and spend some cash – I’ve spent a lot of time, energy and joy this past while being mean to my body. I thought about my hair that I neglect because I do not have a body that deserves a crowning glory. I thought about the clothes I haven't bought because I don't want them in this size. And I thought about what a great job my body does, despite my negligence. Today was an opportunity to be loving to it instead.

I don’t need to hate myself for what my body is and isn’t. I don’t need to deprive and punish it into being some other body. This year, it’s time for a little kindness and gentleness, and that started today, after a pause that refreshed and a chance to clear my head.

the little things

Cut tulips in a stemware glass. Chocolates in a crystal bowl. A hand-written welcome note in a lovely card. Soothing natural shades on a well-dressed bed. It doesn't necessarily take grandeur to create a heavenly home-away from home, but after a day of travel - car, boat, bus, rapid transit - and several hours of meandering in the wrong shoes, I can't think of anywhere I'd rather land than where I am right now - in a rented room with the most gracious of hosts, and his imposing-if-only-he-didn't-think-he-was-a-kitten bull mastiff. 

I'm in Vancouver for what promises to be a very intense few days of international conferencing - networking, learning, and *fingers crossed* a little fun. I found the place I'm staying via a site called Air BNB that STG and I have been using to plan our summer holiday. The ad looked wonderful, but you really can't tell. 

Click Hugo to see more photos

Only, this time the reality is even better than the promise. 

Vancouver is a city that hasn't treated its history well. Too many jewels have been destroyed to make way for condo after condo after monster house. And yet here sits this 1906 suite of flats. Hard wood and penny tiles and baseboards to your shin bone and clawfoot tubs and all. It's not modern. It's not spa-like. It's ... Alice in Wonderland, and Jane Eyre and comfort and style and charm. It's a library, and an art gallery and a home. 

And I'm going to log off now so I can snuggle down in my cozy comfy bed and read until my eyes won't read any more.  And I will drift to sleep grateful for great conversation, for more books than I could dream, for fresh flowers in wee vases, for dogs that make me feel petite, for high quality chocolate, and for a respite and retreat in the midst of a mad mad city. 

the pause that really refreshes

I was bustling about a blustery downtown. Fitting in personal errands between work errands, trying to keep my receipts straight, and trying to keep the rain out of my eyes and my heels on the slippery sidewalk. It was not a comfortable shopping experience, even though I was in some of my favourite stores doing one of my favourite things - buying bits for creative projects. I was tired, cold, nervous of my slippery boots sending me gracelessly flying, and suddenly aware I'd skipped lunch. 

And then I peered through the window of a creamy, inviting haven. A real English-style (a la Victoria) tea shop in the heart of Chinatown. i've been trying to drink  more tea and less coffee, and this seemed like perfection a I peered through the window. As soon as I stepped inside, the world calmed. It was warm, dry, the epitome of welcoming, and brimming with charm. I actually squealed a little when I saw the stacks of real China tea cups & saucers balanced beside shelves of China tea pots of all sizes and designs. Classic bikes line the high walls, their baskets stuffed with bright red roses. 

I ordered a treat - how often do you see flourless chocolate cake that's actually cake, not fudge? - and it was the perfect accompaniment to a steeped pot of loose leaf blueberry black tea. The shop was empty when I came in, but soon a grandma and her adorable 3 or 4 year old grand-daughter entered and order their own pots of tea and a little plate of cookies to share. Grandma taught her protege how to hold the strainer, how long to let the tea sit. They chatted about her little sister, and coming there some day with her. As we sat, one of the owners brought around a tray of warm-from-the-oven ginger cookies ... so sad for me to have to refuse.

I can't think of a nicer way to spend a few minutes re-freshing, re-charging, and resuming the day. The decor was so homey and quaint and the owners/servers seemed to genuinely care about their products and their  customers' experiences there. I don't often write 'business reviews' and that's not exactly my intention here. I just wanted to share with you a perfect moment in an otherwise blustery, chilly, harried day. I can't wait to take STG there ... soon!

If you're in Victoria and looking for a great afternoon break, why not pop into Venus Sophia for a little spot of peace. 

me day

I had an epiphany yesterday - it isn't anyone else's job to put me first when I consistently refuse to do so myself. I don't mean 'put myself first' in a self-indulgent or narcissistic way. After this past Spring I've been feeling so depleted, yet I've thought that somehow or other I was just going to get better without my doing something about it. It's been scary for me, and frustrating and exhausting for the people who love me. 

So, I took a preventative sick day today. Now that life is returning to a somewhat reasonable level of balance I can do some recuperating ... starting with sleeping in and taking care of myself for the day. It turns out it's harder than I thought to take a day off and do nothing. I slept in somewhat, but only about half an hour, so I declared that I was just not going to get out of bed until 10 am. Awake or not, I was staying in bed! I played with games on my iPhone, chatted briefly with STG - who also happens to be home today - and eventually headed out. 

The beach was calling. All I packed was my journal, my camera, my keys and my wallet. Unfortunately, all I wore was shorts and a tank top and the day was not nearly as warm as it had looked from my bed. Quick change of plans - I walked about in my neighbourhood, somewhat protected from the wind, and did something I have meant to for a while: buying fresh cut flowers from a stand just a few blocks over. 

From May to November the garden and the stand at this house bring me so much joy when I wander past, and this was my first time having the right change in my pocket to buy ... crimson peonies, royal cornflowers, sunny yellow and white irises. I generally keep freshcut flowers on my table, so I had to laugh tonight when BB1 said "I don't make a habit of paying any attention to your flowers, but those are pretty impressive. " I think he's right.

I did other things today that I don't usually do - I made myself three good meals to share with BB1. I sat by the water and watched the seagulls cavort. I kept my acupuncture appointment instead of giving it to Josh when his got mixed up. But at the end of the day, what makes me smile is the flowers. 

It's amazing to me that something so little can make such a difference to my day. Fresh flowers. The sun on my face. The smell of the beach. Writing in a journal instead of typing on a computer. Watching a seagull survey the world. Very little things bring me joy and a sense of myself. 

I'm going to try to remember this day ... and to have a lot more of them. I don't do anybody any favours when I'm so wiped out I can't function. A part of being who I am means being able to take care of the people I love, and that's going to require a little more in terms of  taking care of me. 

Everything and nothing and a cup of tea

In the past few months of sculpting a relationship in the midst of chaos, STG has said to me more than once that the stuff I'm dealing with is just the stuff I'm dealing with, and not who I am. Or something to that effect. It might not sound like a lot, but it's so easy to internalise life, to make it personal, that it's meant the world to me to have him see something in me besides my circumstances. And, it's given me the perspective to deal with my circumstances as circumstances rather than personal failings. 

Tonight I had a fabulous evening catching up with three friends I haven't seen in far too long. Two of the visits happened at a business event and were far too short, too public and too incomplete. But they were enough to share the main points of our winters. Two other winters that were too long and filled with too much sadness. Two fathers lost - suddenly or otherwise - and two sons who are sometimes fine until someone who cares asks. Who are moving on with their not-the-same lives. Who are honouring their fathers by being the sons and dads they know to be. 

I left those conversations to have a third, with Mrs. F who I haven't seen in 10 months even though, as we just discovered, it's less than a 5 minute walk from her home to mine. And in the unfolding of our evening, with tea and rice crackers (for me) and Danish butter cookies (for her) to mark the path, we shared our highlights and lowlights of the past year. Dreams that are building. Dreams that are on hold. Dreams that are being re-imagined. 

They were all great conversations. Easy, despite the content, because sharing our burdens and our joys is what friends do. It's what people do. 

And the morale of the whole story, the lesson from all the conversations, is that we all have sh*t. Nobody's is bigger or harder or more interesting or less important. We all have sh*t ... and magic ... in just the right balance to get the lesson designed for us. 

The other lesson might be not to let your friendships languish for months on end. But we'll see if that lesson has been learned. :)  

N - Nourished

I kept wondering today how to differentiate N - Nourished from H - Healthy. And what I realised is that being healthy is something I do for myself, but that in large part being Nourished is something that my community provides for me. Both relate to my whole life being, but being nourished is in some ways more rewarding because it also reminds me of all the other things I am - loved, supported, encouraged, cared for.

And, since Christmas is the time when people we love come together in a feast of giving and connecting, it's the perfect time to feel and be nourished. And to nourish those we love.

From Miss Lady making the best Gluten Free Pizza in the world for me on Saturday, to two man friends coaching me on letting my guard down and letting love in, to CoachK giving me a loving reminder to take care of myself, to my choir cheering for me at rehearsal tonight I am as filled up in my heart and soul as I am satisfied with my cantaloupe and chef salad lunch.

Being nourished comes in many forms. And tonight I'm truly grateful for all of them.

TI♥T: The Simple Things

• bison sirloin steak, rare, grilled in oil and spices (local, hormone free, delicious)
• leaving the TV and computer turned off
• garlic roasted sweet & new potatos
• warm hands
• wide-ranging conversations about everything and nothing
• soft silences
• clean cotton sheets
• going to bed early
• you

With Gratitude for the Generosity of Being Seen

When it seems like nobody knows you, it's easy to feel like a cipher in the world. Invisible - despite size (and sometimes because of it). Despite bright clothing and a constant quest for the footlights. Despite a sparkling wit, or attempts to same.

But if just one person is able to look at you. And to hear what you haven't said. Or to see what you thought was hidden. If an off-hand comment reveals a life-time of truth stretching out in both directions. Then, well, then the you-shaped void walking around in the world fills suddenly with soil and sunshine and becomes a garden brimming with light and life.

I have someone in my life (several someone's, in fact - I am truly blessed) who has consistently seen me for some time. Reliably. Frustratingly so. Often when I don't see myself. I hope he knows what a gift that is. And that I too see him.

This is for him.




There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you

And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

Patsy May

Some people - people who like to be scowled at mostly, like her baby brother - call MTW Patsy May. I think maybe her dear dad started it. And my dear dad takes it on sometimes (though mostly he just calls her 'hon' - I don't know what he calls her when he's pissed off). Five people from a giant 20 year old to toddling 20 month-er call her Grandma. To a whole slew of nieces & nephews she's Auntie Pat. To her friends she's mostly just Pat. And just three of us are lucky enough to call her "mom."

With Mother's Day approaching I've mostly been thinking about how much I dread this 'holiday.' I hate hoping the BBs will do something for me without my reminding them (or giving them money for the presents). I blush with the realisation that there is no mom award for which I'll ever be eligible or nominated. I regret some things that are, and wish for some things that aren't. As with most things in life, when my focus is on me there's not that much to be excited about around Mother's Day, and I wish it'd just go away.

And then as I was making lunch just now I remembered - Mother's Day isn't really about me, it's about honouring my Mother. I often carry on about how much I love my dad - and trust me, if anyone has heard about it all my life it's my mom - and I've kind of just expected her to be okay with that. And to know that I love her too. That's what mom's do, right? We put up with not getting Christmas presents, or being left out of the photo montage LOVE wall (I really DO intend to have her picture there - I just don't have the perfect one yet!)

So I thought maybe I'd try to make up for some of my daughterly neglect in a blog post. Because nothing says I love you like online media, right? Without further babbling then, I present to you my mom:

Patsy May is funny. She forgets sometimes, but she loves to laugh. And to sing. And to create. She has her father's way with words and her mother's sharp tongue and together they shine a bright clear light on the world. She's petite, but she carries herself in such a way that she is never unnoticed in a room. She's stylish and classy and always dresses the part.  She has such an eye for beauty and an ear for harmony that every where she goes - and she goes a lot of wheres - she brings back sights and sounds and experiences to share. In the words of one of her Grandsons, "Grandma could make cardboard taste good" - though she hasn't tried cardboard, she does love to cook for her family and friends, to leave us all nourished and nurtured and healthy. She's a small town girl and an ardent world traveler. She cares enough to be honest, and to hurt when her honesty is taken the wrong way.

This is my mom. Who loves her family. And takes care of us. And prays for us. And wants nothing more than for us to be happy and well. And who, like most moms, often puts what she wants aside for what she thinks we need. Thanks for all you've done, Mom. And for all you still do.

This is my Mom. Who I love. And who more than anything these days I wish I was more of.

Hello, Ducky

When I was but a wee lassie - not younger than 4, but not older than 7 - my parents took a weekend trip to Jasper National Park (♥), including a visit to the Miette Hot Springs (HIGHLY RECOMMEND!). In bringing back souveniers for their three little girls at home they looked not to the clichéd stacks of T-shirts or useless little spoons, and instead found the three sweetest egg cups in the world: a hen chick, a duckling and a bunny.

I don't know if I'd have learned to love soft-boiled eggs if it weren't for the pleasure of eating them out of my ducky egg cup. For me the pleasure of dipping a crisp, buttery toast soldier into a gooey bright yellow yolk instantly evokes feelings of not just nostalgia but being nourished and nurtured ... and playing with my food.

I recently discovered (thanks to MTW) the absolute heaven that is the Silly-Yak Bakery's GF Italian Herb bread, and this morning it gave two slices to the cause of Italian Herb toast soldiers and a (slightly under-cooked) soft-boiled egg. It went FAST! I'm not even sure how much I tasted. It's been more than 5 years since I had a soft-boiled egg, because eating them without toast seemed akin to going to Disneyland but not being allowed on the rides. And clearly I couldn't wait.

A glass of cranberry juice. A cup of fresh fruit. And I'm in Sunday morning heaven. Thanks, Little Ducky.