The Best of Times

It's February 1999 and I'm strolling down the avenue in New York City. No, not strolling - something more chipper and intentional, less quirky than prancing, more energized than ambling. It's my fifth or sixth day in Manhattan, and I am in love with life. Having raided Freckle's closet and that of at least 2 girlfriends before taking off, my outfit is the perfect combination of fashion-forward and comfortable - a black leather biker jacket, a long boho chic skirt, a soft feminine sweater, the uber long & muppety burgundy scarf I bought on arriving in frigid Greenwhich Village. I am present, in my skin, happy, and free in the most alive city in the world.

A man I barely notice until I can see the white of his smile is approaching me in the opposite direction. As we pass he says, "you are gorgeous - thanks for making me smile." And I laugh, and say thank you, and we continue on our divergent paths - he back to an office, or home for dinner (no, it's too early for that), or to meet friends & colleagues for lunch, and me on my way to the New York Public Library to be hushed and awed and moved.

That crystal moment is one of my favourite memories. I relive it like I'm still in it - feel the crip Eastcoast air in my nostrils. The blush warming my cheeks, wondering who heard our exchange. The leather squeak of my jacket as my arms swing freely. The swish of his wool coat as he turns to speak, and turns again to carry on. The only detail that's missing for me is what I was wearing for shoes. Did I have knee high black boots then? I imagine that I did.

Whenever I feel that memory coming upon me I know it's a good day - a day to savour. A day to celebrate being. Today is one of those days. I need nothing. I welcome everything. And I am free.

The Accidental Inarticulate

Although I hold my word skillery among my most prized possessions, it often happens - when pushed comes to shoving - that what I want and need to say is not at all what comes out. In ink (or pixel) my words are generally fully arranged (mostly even self-arranging), neatly ordered little thought soldiers who march out, form an intention, and build a foundation, and march on through to the end (though sometimes typographical errors leave a few walking wounded). But in speech, well, that's a communication of another colour.

It seems that sometimes when I mean to ask for assurance & comfort, what comes out is 'does this shirt hide my fat tummy?' And sometimes when I'm scared and want someone to check the dark corners for monsters, the words sound more like 'go away, monster.' There have even been times when this dyxlexicographia has struck so ferociously that when I tried to say I need some time for myself it came out 'I can't be with you.'

It causes untold upset and creates drama and sadness. The funny thing is, it also creates opportunity. Like how the crazy lady talking to herself on the street always has room to walk, no matter how crowded the rest of us are. And, there's another upside - it's possible that sometimes 'That's really interesting' can sound like 'You have the most gorgeous lips - kiss me.' And that 'I enjoyed that' can sound like 'please, sir, can I have some more?'

I am sorry though, to everyone to whom I tried to say 'I love you' and it came out 'I don't need you.' Maybe I'll learn sign language and see if that works better. Or maybe I'll just blog.

TI♥T - whenever I'm in doubt, Winnie-the-Pooh is the answer

When I was turning 6 my mom bought me the most beautiful hardcover edition of The Collected Poems of A.A. Milne (which included the collections "When We Were Young" and "Now We Are Six") with colour illustrations. I still cherish it as one of my favourite books and prized possessions, and it sits alongside a similar hardcover illustrated Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh (which includes both the "Winnie-the-Pooh" story collection and "The House at Pooh Corner" collection) I bought to celebrate BB1's birth.

And then I started school, and quickly bounced into dear Mrs. Livingstone's Grade1-2 split class, where we were frequently rewarded with viewings of the original Winnie-the-Pooh films, from the original stories, before the voices went weird, and the characters were Disneyfied, and the stories became little more than pedantic moralising. I love those old films, with the turning pages and the consoling narrator. And my books. And their lessons of love and friendship and acceptance and bravery.

So this week I've returned to the house at Pooh corner, to visit some old friends, and re-learn for the first time some old lessons:

♥ When late morning rolls around and you're feeling a bit out of sorts, don't worry; you're probably just a little eleven o'clockish.

♥ Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

♥ Some people care too much, I think it's called love

♥ You can't stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.

♥ Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.

♥ Poetry and Hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. And all you can do is go where they can find you.

But most of all, and always,

♥ If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together.. there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart ... I’ll always be with you.

A girl who has a tendency to over-think things can learn much from a bear of very little brain.

gaping void time again

I'm not sure where the title 'Gaping Void' comes from. I probably read about it sometime. Anyway, sometimes Hugh MacLeod squiggles what I am thinking. Tonight is one of those nights:

I know some people will think this is personal. It's not.

Another Olympic tee hee

This weekend has been ALL about the Olympics for me, with slight interruptions for celebrating Valentine's Day with Cowboy, selling BB2's old loft bed, and doing dishes (during commercials). And while I suspect/hope/intend that once I get to work tomorrow things will get back to normal, I thought I'd leave this image with you from the flower ceremony for Canada's first Gold medalist on home soil:

PS - I'm SUPER ticked right now that CTV isn't airing the medal ceremonies, or at least isn't airing them on time and in any form of completeness, but ... it's not like they're going to care what I say. Jerks. You better believe the CBC would show the medals ceremonies. :P