tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22761645947161848642024-02-20T15:20:28.977-08:00On my way runningTrying to make the world puddle-wonderful...Sara Lauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17733137871778157341noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-75498353038373061682013-11-18T13:28:00.001-08:002013-11-18T13:35:56.058-08:00Maid, Mother, Magdalene, CroneI've found myself thinking about the annual spiritual retreat that St. James Anglican holds at Canterbury Hills<span class="st">—I've been fortunate over the years to attend several of these weekends, spent with a community of powerful, wise, supportive women who are equally happy to rub your feet, hold you while you sob, and high-five you when you master a difficult belly-dancing move.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">They're Anglicans</span><span class="st">—in name, anyway</span><span class="st">—but the spirituality of the group and the opportunities for communion with the Divine (however you define that) that they offer go far, far beyond denomination, dogma, and deity. </span><span class="st"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">One thing that these women are absolute wonders at is celebrating being female, at all stages of the journey, and they often make reference to the archetypal stages of a woman's life: Maid, Mother, and Crone</span><span class="st">—especially Crone, as many of the women who attend the retreat are past their child-bearing and rearing years.</span><br />
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<span class="st">Those three archetypes are powerful, universal -- and never fail to leave me feeling a little left out.</span><br />
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<span class="st">Where do I fit? Nowhere.</span><br />
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<span class="st">I'm certainly not a Maiden -- the smile lines around my eyes attest to that. I have a little too much worldly knowledge (and a little too much familiarity with the opposite sex) to ever recapture the blissful ignorance of virginity, and I'm perfectly happy with that.</span><br />
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<span class="st">I'm not a Mother, either, although this is probably where I SHOULD fit. I skirt the boundaries of motherhood sometimes, sort of -- I do have young people in my life whom I cherish dearly. But the real, honest-to-god pleasure and pain of having borne and raised children of my own isn't part of my particular narrative.</span><br />
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<span class="st">I'm also not a Crone -- yet. I have great hopes of being wise enough to not mind being one, either, but I'm not at that stage -- yet. I still rage against the inevitability of aging, and haven't yet gained the peace that will -- hopefully --accompany many more years of experience.</span><br />
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<span class="st">One archetype we explored at the last weekend I was at, though, actually resonated with me -- and that was the Magdalene. This is a riff on the Whore -- the fourth, albeit somewhat less iconic, female archetype. Believe it or not, </span>I found a comforting familiarity in the figure who, in the Roman Catholic tradition, has been identified with prostitutes, wastrels and layabouts.<br />
<br />
Rest assured, I don't see myself as a whore (although, to be frank, that role sounds like a lot more fun than any of the other ones). Not exactly.<br />
<br />
<span class="st">Progressive views of the Magdalene see her as a symbol of women's agency and vision, someone willing to buck the conventional and sacrifice the traditional values of hearth and family in the search for wisdom and truth. </span><br />
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<span class="st">Well, alrighty then. I can get with that.</span><br />
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<span class="st">As I've found myself kind of veering off the traditional life path of marriage-kids-house, I've felt a little disconnected from the grander human narrative a little. </span>There aren't a lot of child-free female archetypes -- there are goddesses, sure, but they're a little harder to relate to.<br />
<br />
Sheesh, even <a href="http://gameofthrones.wikia.com/wiki/Faith_of_the_Seven">Game of Thrones has a whole theology partly based on the whole Maid-Mother-Crone trinity</a>.<br />
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Fine. I'll be a Magdalene. It feels nice to fit somewhere.<br />
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<span class="st"></span><span class="st"><br /></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-71401098361306494452013-08-01T13:08:00.001-07:002013-08-01T13:08:56.664-07:00How I learned to writeI'm officially a writer.<br />
<br />
No, really. My business cards have "Senior Writer" as my job title. I do some freelancing, and get to see my name on a byline a couple of times a week. Every penny of income I make now comes from writing.<br />
<br />
This is a little amazing to me.<br />
<br />
Oh, sure, I still feel like I have to justify myself when the inevitable follow-up question to "What do you do?" is "What have you written?" Somehow, people are never quite satisfied with "I write for Humber College and freelance for CottageLife.com." They want novels. They want poetry. They want made-up stuff. So be it. I don't write fiction, at least not right now.<br />
<br />
The fact is, though, that I spend the majority of my days writing, researching, and writing some more. So I figure, even without a novel under my belt, I get to call myself a writer now.<br />
<br />
I found myself thinking about how I learned to write, and I thought I'd share some of the steps. It is truly amazing what shapes the craft.<br />
<br />
<b>I read a lot as a little kid. I read a lot now.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
That, probably more than anything, is the reason I'm a decent writer now. Writing and reading are inextricably linked -- and just as you can't learn a language without hearing how it sounds, you can't learn to write if you don't know how good words sound in your head. And just as immersion is the best way to learn a language, so it is with writing. Immerse yourself in other people's words, and your own will be better. I'm a non-fiction gal, myself, and I have an enduring, passionate love affair with the writing in <i>Esquire</i>, especially Tom Junod's stuff. <a href="http://www.thedqtimes.com/pages/castpages/other/fredrogerscanyousayheropg1.htm">His profile of Fred Rogers</a> is still my favourite article ever.<br />
<br />
<b>I listen to a lot of music</b>.<br />
<br />
Having an ear for music is a lot more important in a writer than you might think. The rhythm of words, the cadence of sentences, and the patterns of language are all more musical than they are verbal. You can have a stunning vocabulary and great ideas, but that won't help if your sentences go THUMP on your reader's ear. Listening to music -- and really listening, and figuring out what you're responding to in your favourite songs -- is vital if you want your text to sing. And don't bother listening to high-brow stuff if that's not your thing. The underpinnings of music are the same whether you're listening to La Boheme or Beastie Boys.<br />
<br />
<b>I worked my way through the slush pile at Key Porter</b>.<br />
<br />
Reading good writing is important, but reading a shit pile of bad writing is pretty educational, too. A lot of the slush pile was tragic -- seriously tragic, in that some people spent, like, YEARS putting together 1,500-page manuscripts that were simply terrible. I definitely admired the dedication -- I haven't written a 1,500 page novel, after all -- but good god, they would have been better served by learning to write less and better. (One guy actually replied to my rejection letter by commanding me to shred his manuscript so no-one would steal it. I restrained myself from firing back that no one in their right mind would want to claim credit for his bloated, gassy, Tolkien-spinning-in-his-grave pile of hackneyed neo-Medievalisms.)<br />
<br />
<b>I worked as a copywriter</b>.<br />
<br />
Back when Living Social still had an army of freelancers across North America (we all got laid off at the end of 2012), I spent a year writing one or two alliterative, quippy 150-word ads for them every single weekday. I got paid $20 per ad -- a pittance -- but boy, that regular practice of HAVING to turn out something decent every single day was a fantastic training ground for laying aside any existential angst and just writing. My editor was quick to flag lazy prose and tired cliches, so I learned to make anything -- and I do mean anything -- sound good. I won a couple of copywriting awards from them during my time there, so obviously something was working.<br />
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I'm still learning to be a good writer. As I write this, I realize I've completely abandoned my own work -- that is, stuff that isn't written with an audience in mind, stuff that doesn't conform to a series of key messages or tweaked to guarantee a record number of click-throughs. </div>
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Maybe it's time to start. I guess the first blog post in a year is a pretty good beginning.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-29875368182971144572012-08-24T13:34:00.001-07:002012-08-24T13:34:40.828-07:00Three more found Facebook poemsOh, I can't resist. I've been writing these for a while, but they've been relegated to a far and distant corner of the Facebook galaxy through its many redesigns. I thought I'd show them the light of day again.<br />
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<b>How Can an Ice Cream Factory Have a Fire?</b><br />
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It's still snowing.<br />
I'm practicing my grimace, scowl, and unimpressed glower.<br />
Then I'm going to do as little as possible until I can see the point in doing anything.<br />
It's still snowing.<br />
I'm listening to Mob Barley, and thinking of hitting the gym -- but not until my socks match my spandex.<br />
(Why are you laughing?)<br />
It's still snowing.<br />
Anyone who kicks a garden gnome is no friend of mine, so please: watch, think.<br />
<br />
It's still snowing.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Fickle Feline, What's in Your Makeup Bag?</b><br />
<br />
Making chicken soup in a fog, I decided to move to Louisiana.<br />
Doctor said I needed a more balanced life.<br />
Dude sleeps with his tongue out;<br />
Discussed Polkaroo as an agenda topic.<br />
How's THAT for electric?<br />
<br />
Happy birthday, Super Mario Brothers.<br />
They drew first blood, not me.<br />
<br />
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<b>Sara Is Wanting to Write a Poem</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I was suffering from locked-in syndrome, writing a book with an eyelid<br />
When I had a visit from a prophet appearing as a garden gnome,<br />
A walking fortune cookie dispensing excellent advice.<br />
<br />
We're still seeing rabbits in the moon,<br />
Getting carried away in the stream of idiom like a drunk on a subway train.<br />
Mostly mute, injured again, drowning in a sea of puke.<br />
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A torn-up front yard is in my future very soon.<br />
I'm letting the Wookie win.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-31465905447790480892012-08-24T12:47:00.003-07:002012-08-24T12:47:53.863-07:00Rookie Mistake (A found Facebook poem)Congratulations, Lenny, on joining Team Crazy.<br />
We've literally driven to the moon!<br />
(It was a little strange to see children interacting with drunk hoboes...)<br />
<br />
There is absolutely no excuse for burning books.<br />
Familiar rhetoric: fear is the path to the dark side.<br />
(Does it smell outside anywhere else, or is it just my neighbourhood?)
<br />
<br />
The early Christians carpooled, but I can dance any way I want to.<br />
Ate a corn dog, deep-fried pickles and funnel cake.<br />
I am now well-stocked with yummy tea, and ready to face the world.<br />
Who made 40 mustaches on sticks? THIS GIRL.<br />
Off to a night of shenanigans.
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(Taken from my friends' Facebook status updates over the last few days, re-ordered, and presented as poetry.) Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-30691167133676418482012-06-18T12:05:00.001-07:002012-06-18T12:11:48.593-07:00A (long) letter to my inner critic<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My dear inner critic, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You sound so much like me sometimes</span>—<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">it’s hard to tell where you leave off and where I begin. You have my voice, you look a little like me – and yet you’re not me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I know you pretty well, though. You’re petrified of doing the wrong thing, of saying the wrong thing, of writing the wrong thing. You’re more content to live in fantasies (and what lovely fantasies they are—you really are <i>very</i> imaginative) rather than deal with reality and all its complexity and potential for failure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You know me equally well</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">at least, <b>you know my faults</b>.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> You know that I’m prone to getting excited at the beginning of a project, then running out of steam halfway through.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You know that I get overwhelmed with details. You know that conflict makes me feel hot, and sick, and desperate to escape. You know that my enthusiasms wax and wane easily, that I’m easily diverted, that I’m pulled away from what really matters by all manner of shiny things and in-the-moment distractions.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>You have a definite gift for visualizing worst-case scenarios</b>—financial ruin, relationship breakdown, loneliness, abandonment, rejection. You think that by sharing these visions with me, I’ll be more likely to avoid the path that might bring me within disaster’s muddy-bordered territory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t climb, because you might fall. Don’t be honest, because people might not like what you have to say (no one likes a critic). Don’t abandon tangible security in favour of some woolly concept like authenticity (authenticity doesn’t pay the hydro bill). Don’t gamble the pretty good for a slim-to-none chance at the wonderful (why would you risk failure?). Don’t try unless you’re sure you’re going to succeed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You tell me that ambition is a recipe for stress. You tell me that I don’t have the attention span to sustain a long writing project, to maintain the discipline necessary to write, and write, and write, then write some more, never knowing whether I’m going to succeed. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You tell me that I’ll feel worse about myself if I try and fail than if I never tried in the first place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I make you sound malevolent, and evil—like you’re a jealous step-sister who doesn’t want me to succeed, who wants to keep me in my place, who doesn’t want me getting too big for my britches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I know you well enough, though, to know that’s not true. I know you’re not bad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I get it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>You’re trying to keep me safe</b>. You’re trying to help me stay on an even keel, surrounded by friends and family who love me. You’re trying to give me a calm, contented life, with a steady paycheque, because you don’t want me to be stressed out. You don’t want me to be unhappy. You want me to be safe and stable. You don’t want me to gamble. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You have my best interests at heart, and I appreciate that. I appreciate your caution, your care, your tethering influence when I’m liable to go floating off somewhere. Thank you for loving me enough to worry as much as you do—for loving me enough to want to protect me from all harm, from all negativity, from every bad feeling that’s out there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">No, you’re not bad—<b>but you are misguided</b>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You, my dear friend, are <i>so very scared</i>. You have so much fear, and so little faith. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In fact, not only do you not have any faith, but your fear is so great that you actually lack <i>objectivity</i>. You think you’re being smart, and rational, but you’re not. Your fear is preventing you not just from seeing things the way they could be, it’s stopping you from seeing things the way they <i>are</i>. You think that I shouldn’t try and be a writer because I probably won’t succeed, but if we look at my accomplishments rationally (there’s that word again) that may not be a wholly accurate assessment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve won awards. I’ve gotten praise. I’ve got the concrete skills. In fact, I make a living as a writer now—I’m just not writing what I’d like to write. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fear is a very poor basis for decision making, my friend. It makes us see things that aren’t there, and it makes us blind to the things that are actually real. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And really, <i><b>what’s the worst that can happen</b></i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Am I going to die because my first, second, third novels don’t get published? No. Failure isn’t fatal.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Are my friends going to abandon me because I try, and never make it? No. If anything, they’ll probably show me how incredible they all can be. I’ve seen it before, and I have every reason to believe that it will happen again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Am I going to end up a toothless old woman</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> on a street corner, wrapped in tinfoil and screaming warnings about alien death rays because I didn’t become a published author? Unlikely. If anything, not writing is worse for my mental health than trying and not getting anywhere.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You see? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I know you can’t really trust the hopeful visions that <i>I</i> have – trust and fear rarely walk hand-in-hand – but I’ll tell you what I see, just in case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I imagine long hours of hard work made delicious and sweet by those times where the words flow, where the story tells itself, where the characters speak and act on their own, without any prodding from me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I imagine the palpable joy of my fingers clicking on the keyboard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And finally, I imagine the cool, steady-eyed assurance that comes from knowing that I’m doing </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">what I’m meant to be doing – using, not squandering, the gifts I have. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My dear, imaginative, caring friend, take a seat. I’ve got a comfy chair for you. A cup of tea. A really, really good book. A purring cat. A dark, dreary day outside, perfect for curling up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Please, make yourself comfortable. Living scared is awfully tiring, and it’s time you took a break.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-50934742291414792182012-05-24T13:30:00.000-07:002012-05-24T13:37:47.231-07:00Thoughts on not having kids"Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother." <span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">--</span></span>Oprah Winfrey<br />
<br />
Oh amen, Oprah.<br />
<br />
See, I don't have kids. Not only that, but it's unlikely that I'm ever going to have kids. Oh, sure, it's biologically possible, and should be for another few years, anyway<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">—</span>but unless my life circumstances take a strange and bizarre turn, I'm probably not going to be needing any baby showers.<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And like so much of my life these days, I feel completely out-of-step.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I know women for whom becoming a mom just isn't open to debate--women who, if they were in my shoes, would be either deeply grieving an irreconcilably empty life or fiercely trying to remedy the situation by any means necessary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I know women for whom motherhood is the most incredible, wonderful, fulfilling thing they've ever done--a pile of hard work, certainly, but something that manages to define them as women in ways that career, hobbies, and other types of relationships never could. Yes, they're tired a lot, and yes, they miss the freedom to curl up with a book or in a bath without interruption--but they're deeply, deeply happy, and wouldn't have it any other way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And finally, I know women for whom motherhood is definitely a mixed bag--who are doing their best, but feel intense guilt at the ambivalence they sometimes feel towards their kids, who feel like they're never quite enough, never quite measuring up, never quite as thrilled with the whole parenthood thing as they thought they would be. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is the kind of mom I'm worried I'd be, all the time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Being a mom always seemed to me more inevitable than desirable--it was just something you did, like going to school and getting a job and buying a house. Parenthood was something on the road towards becoming a real grown-up, something akin to managing mortgage payments and making RRSP contributions--something that marked your place in adult society, as a fully-fledged human being. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And while I never would have written, at age six, "I want to be a mommy when I grow up,"</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I probably would have followed that path myself, not really stopping to think consciously about my choice, just keeping in step with most of the people around me, because that's what people do--except life didn't quite turn out that way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now that I'm not exactly on the happy edge of fertility--almost two years beyond that magical low-risk age of 35--I actually have to sit down and think about what having or not having kids means to me. (And don't think I don't know it takes two people to make a baby--in this post, though, I'm going to stick to the only person's thoughts I'm sure of: mine.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A year ago I was firmly convinced I didn't want children. I was coming out of an enormous personal transition, enjoying a relatively independent lifestyle, and couldn't possibly conceive of upsetting my hard-fought solo applecart. I relished my solitude, revelled in my freedom, luxuriated in my liberty. I hated the idea of having a child, then resenting him or her for destroying a life I'd worked so hard to build, that I truly loved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I still feel that way. But...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I still don't get goo-goo over other people's babies. Don't get me wrong--I like kids, a lot, and they seem to like me. But I don't feel any sort of uterine throb when I see a mom and her child.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I wonder, though, whether I'm missing out on some very essential human experience--whether I'm missing out on an intensity of love that just doesn't exist in any other human relationship. If our purpose on earth is to love, and love, and love some more--and I believe it is--shouldn't we be seeking out love in all its incredible forms? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Would I be a happier person if I had kids?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Would I be a <i>better </i>person if I had kids? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don't know--but the fact that I may not get a chance to find out is a little scary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-68355220599449352042012-03-27T14:00:00.001-07:002012-03-27T14:17:04.968-07:00The cheapskate's guide to exercisingI'm desperately trying to resist the birthday cake that's in the office kitchen right now, so I thought I'd distract myself by writing a post about exercising.<br />
<br />
Those of you who know me know I'm an occasional runner, hiker, biker, and roller skater. I've done one <a href="http://warriordash.com/">Warrior Dash</a>, <a href="http://www.womenstriathlon.com/">one beginner triathlon</a>, and <a href="http://www.unitedwaytoronto.com/ratrace/main.php">one 5km race</a> in the past three years, and I'm aiming to do at least one 10km run this year, simply to have a goal to work towards.<br />
<br />
I'm a terrible cheapskate when it comes to working out. I've never belonged to a gym, I don't do any equipment-heavy (read: expensive) sports, and I skimp on all gear except a decent pair of running shoes, cold-weather running pants, and a jiggle-free sports bra. (Seriously, one of those is worth the $50 I pay...)<br />
<br />
This isn't just an economic decision, although that's part of it.<br />
<br />
For me, exercising is a lifestyle choice, a habit, a technique to keep me sane and healthy—not an opportunity for conspicuous consumption. That's not to say that if you belong to a gym and go regularly, you're wrong—it's just too many people think that's the only way to get fit, and that's just not true.<br />
<br />
Exercise doesn't have to be a huge investment, either of time or money—and, in fact, treating it that way is probably a deterrent to ever getting started. <br />
<br />
Ideally, although it may be uncomfortable at times, exercise, whatever form it takes, will leave you feeling joyful, strong, and even-keeled—and won't deplete your bank account.<br />
<br />
Here's how I make it work for me:<br />
<ul>
<li><b>I keep it simple</b>. My workouts require little gear beyond the aforementioned shoes, sports bra, t-shirt, and shorts. I have cold-weather pants and a windbreaker for the winter. And I have free weights at home. If I felt really ambitious, I could add a stability ball, but I haven't really felt the burning need to so far.</li>
<li><b>I choose to be outside, for the most part, interacting with my community</b>. I huff my way up and down the hills in my neighbourhood (yes, even in the winter). I hike the Bruce Trail. This is far more soul-filling than putting in time on a treadmill in a loud gym—and that keeps me going back out for more.</li>
<li><b>I figure out what motivates me</b>. Judging from <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/story/2003/08/08/gym_030808.html">the number of people who don't use their gym memberships</a>, an expensive gym isn't enough motivation to keep most people slogging through exercise's inevitable discomfort. For me, immediate rewards like new music, a new route to explore, and the promise of a post-run bubble bath or back rub are pretty good at getting me out. Watching the scale (and the mirror!) is a powerful motivator as well. To be fair, when I was at university I liked going to the (free) campus gym for the people-watching—but that appeal isn't enough to get me to pay.</li>
<li><b>I figure out what's stopping me</b>. I found that I was skimping on my runs if I got home late, or only had a limited window of time—so on the days when I don't have enough time to do a 45-minute run, I climb the stairs in my building for 15 minutes. (Believe me, 15 minutes is plenty.) If I have another 15 minutes I'll follow up the stair climbing with some weights. A friend of mine who lives in a house runs up and down her stairs if it's too cold to go out.</li>
<li><b>I do fun stuff, as well as hard slogs</b>. Roller skating, hiking with friends, biking with my dad—these things offset the more goal-oriented (and, let's face it, sometimes agonizing) running and stair climbing.</li>
<li><b>I make fitness functional</b>. I don't have a car, so this is easy: I walk to the grocery store, and carry my groceries home. I walk to the library. I walk to the Farmers' Market. Hell, I walk to the bus stop! I consciously chose my current living location precisely because it was walking distance to almost everything.</li>
<li><b>I don't have a TV</b>. Seriously. And I don't miss it one bit. It's far, far too easy for me to lose an entire evening parked in front of the tube—and without it, I get bored enough to get out and move. </li>
<li><b>I surround myself with like-minded folks</b>. I belong to an awesome group on Facebook, and we encourage each other to exercise, even though we don't manage to get together as often as we'd like. My best friend does karate (how's THAT for inspiring?). I catch up with other friends over a hike or bike ride.</li>
</ul>
<div>
OK, the birthday cake temptation has passed. (And I have nothing against birthday cake, but I want my splurges to COUNT—so I try not to eat junky stuff simply because it's placed in front of me.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What about you? How do you get up the motivation to get off the couch?</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-20951355225136838942012-03-12T19:13:00.002-07:002012-03-12T19:14:57.154-07:00Scared to writeRemember that post I did in January<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">—</span><a href="http://onmywayrunning.blogspot.com/2012/01/be-not-afraid.html">the one about (not) being afraid</a>? I was going to do a whole bunch of things that terrified me.<br />
<br />
Risk rejection.<br />
<br />
Risk failure.<br />
<br />
Risk ridicule.<br />
<br />
Yeah, well, I'm bloody well scared shitless now, because in one fell swoop, I went and did something that risks all three, all at once.<br />
<br />
You know what I did?<br />
<br />
I sent out a tweet a week ago: "I need some accountability/support/SOMETHING to get my writing going. Any suggestions, #hamont? Writing groups? Classes?"<br />
<br />
Right away, I got responses. Trevor Cole (the author of one of my all-time favourite magazine profiles, "<a href="http://www.trevorcole.com/page35/page35.html">Being Stuart McLean Isn't Always So Darn Funny</a>," among many other things) wrote and said I should get in touch with <a href="http://amandaleduc.blogspot.com/">local novelist Amanda Leduc</a>. Then <i>she</i> wrote and invited me to a booky/write-y/literary get-together she was having. Then I got a message from <a href="http://girlcancreate.blogspot.com/">Lisa Pijuan-Nomura</a>, a creativity coach, visual artist and new Hamiltonian, offering to chat.<br />
<br />
I gratefully said yes to all these wonderful, wonderful opportunities.<br />
<br />
And then I burst into tears.<br />
<br />
Let me explain.<br />
<br />
I've wanted to be a writer as long as I knew there were words.<br />
<br />
Correction: I've <i>been</i> a writer as long as I knew there were words. I have poorly spelled, messily printed stories about horses named Henrietta, rambling, random typewritten sketches, essays, poems, articles, a body of work from j-skool that won a couple of awards.<br />
<br />
I have websites and blog posts and tweets to my credit. I actually write for a living, if you count corporate blog posts about <a href="http://www.bizenergy.ca/success-stories/liaison-college-teaches-student-cooks-about-sustainable-food/">energy efficiency</a> and <a href="http://www.sleepcountry.ca/sleephealth/sleeptalkblog/tabid/123/blogkey/56_how-to-stay-awake-at-your-desk/default.aspx">sleep health</a> as "real writing."<br />
<br />
And a lot of people don't. <i>I</i> don't.<br />
<br />
Right or wrong, I don't feel like a <i>real </i>writer.<br />
<br />
I haven't written a novel. I don't get published in magazines. I haven't seen my name on a byline since Ryerson j-rad days.<br />
<br />
I took a safe, non-threatening copywriting job with the excuse that I needed to pay the bills, and a freelance career was just too precarious. Who'd want to give up a steady paycheque in return for fleeting glory, anyway?<br />
<br />
Truth is, I was scared. I <i>am</i> scared.<br />
<br />
Scared to try and fail.<br />
<br />
If I try, and I fail<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">—</span>can't stick to it, can't sustain the energy it takes to sit down and write again and again and again, what am I left with?<br />
<br />
Half-formed ideas flopping around on my desk, armless and legless. The knowledge that I couldn't bring them to birth.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm paralyzingly terrified to find out that this wee writing dream I've held so carefully, tucked away and safe <i>my entire life</i>, might turn out to be just too fragile if I take it out, if I let it look around, if I let it breathe, just a little.<br />
<br />
Am I willing to risk killing my dream?<br />
<br />
And then Langston Hughes popped into my head:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<center>What happens to a dream deferred?</center><center>Does it dry up<br />like a raisin in the sun?<br />Or fester like a sore--<br />And then run?<br />Does it stink like rotten meat?<br />Or crust and sugar over--<br />like a syrupy sweet?</center><center>Maybe it just sags<br />like a heavy load.</center><center>Or does it explode?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
All right, I get it. I won't say that I'm not still PETRIFIED, but deferment is no longer an option.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</center><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Be (not) afraid.</div>
<br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-46399626475764402162012-02-22T12:52:00.000-08:002012-02-22T13:14:47.799-08:00A mental health reading list<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Apologies for the wonky line breaks. Gotta say, WordPress is looking better and better. Hear that, Blogger?)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm convinced that in a past life I was a neuropsychologist.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I like brains. I think they're cool.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I like knowing how brains work (the little we know, anyway). And, even more fascinating, I like knowing what happens when they <i>don't</i> work quite right<span class="st">—how our brains affect our behaviour and our overall health for good or for ill. (And yes, there's a whole body of work out there that's "pop-ified" neurology, boiling down our complex brains into digestible little chapters. I don't care. It's fascinating too.) </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I also have a roiling circle of friends, creative types all, which puts me in almost-constant contact with the more extreme expressions both of mental ability and disability. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="st">So it's no surprise that I get really worked up about issues surrounding mental health</span><span class="st">—like why, for example, we insist on calling it "mental" health, as though the brain isn't part of our physical body, as though our brain doesn't affect our body and vice versa. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="st">You see, Descartes</span><span class="st">—</span><span class="st">he of the "I think, therefore I am" philosophy</span><span class="st">—</span><span class="st">did us an <i>enormous </i>disservice by artificially splitting the brain and the body into separate entities, setting in place assumptions about mental health (there's that phrase again) that have resulted in generations of ill people hearing poisonous, toxic things like "It's all in your head," and "You could deal with it if you just got out of bed."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="st">I</span>f you've ever felt these words cross your lips, you need to educate yourself, because that kind of attitude belongs to the last century. Seriously.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">OK, rant over. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've been reading a lot about psychology lately, mostly as an effort to understand the last couple of years, why other people act the way they do, why <i>I</i> act in ways that, sometimes, leave me baffled.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I like to think I've managed to achieve at least a measure of compassion, if not wisdom, with my wheelings through books on ADD, depression, bipolar disorder, and suicide. If you have someone in your life who's dealing with this stuff--or if you've been dealing with it yourself--you might find some of these books helpful. I did.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><i>The Noonday Demon</i> by Andrew Solomon</b>. This is a classic book about depression. It's long, but it's a great mixture of personal anecdote (we're suckers for stories, we are) and extensive research. It's incredibly accessible, and well worth reading for anyone who has the mental wherewithal to tackle it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><i>Night Falls Fast</i> and <i>An Unquiet Mind </i>by Kay Redfield Jamison</b>. Jamison, a professor at Johns Hopkins, is a clinical psychologist specializing in bipolar disorder. <i>Night Falls Fast</i> is her elegant, poignant book about suicide, and <i>An Unquiet Mind</i> is her personal memoir about her own struggles with manic-depression. Both are equal mixtures of hope and disbelief, especially for those of us watching from the outside.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><i>Half In Love</i> by Linda Gray-Sexton</b>. I have never read a memoir about suicide (and I've read a few) that was so honest, so free of platitudes, and just so beautifully written. If you've been stymied by the suicide of a loved one (or contemplated your own), this sure isn't an easy read, but oh my goodness, it's worth it simply for her meditations on that mammoth Mac truck called pain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><i>In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts</i> by Gabor Mat</b><span 16px;"="" bold;="" font-style:="" font-weight:="" line-height:="" normal;=""><b>é</b></span><span 16px;"="" line-height:="" normal;="">. All about addiction, from a doc who works on Vancouver's east side. Stories and research in an elegant dance...</span></span><br />
<br />
<span 16px;"="" line-height:="" normal;=""><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have a bunch of slightly more positive books, too, but I'll save them for another post. For now, if you read any of these, let me know what you think. I'm curious...</span></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-14207344455004285992012-02-01T09:07:00.000-08:002012-02-01T09:07:18.872-08:00Goddamn hormones (or, Lessons I Learned from PMS)(This post borders on TMI. Just saying. You've been warned.)<br />
<br />
For most of my life, I've been spared the ravages of PMS.<br />
<br />
Oh, sure, there's been the odd headache, a breakout here and there, cramps easily managed with skilful administration of Advil<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—but n</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">othing, <i>nothing</i> that approaches the raging, crying, out-of-control bloaty/screamy/eaty extravaganzas that I've heard about from my friends.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My period has never been more than a minor inconvenience</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">until the estrogen gods looked down on me, laughed nastily and figured I had had it <i>way too easy</i>. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And sent me the last two months.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">All of a sudden, my usually (relatively) stable emotions yawed crazily out of control. I found myself crying</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—<i>sobbing</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">at the smallest provocations</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">: a misunderstood text, a few social awkwardnesses, hell, even saying goodbye at the end of a night out set me up for wildly stormy weeping sessions lasting <i>hours</i>. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Seriously. <i>Hours</i>. My eyes looked like big poofy pillows for days.</span><br />
<br />
I spent a full week teetering on the edge of what felt like real madness<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—thoroughly and utterly convinced that I was flaky and ugly and unlovable, and that my life was a nothing more than a train wreck of underachievement and laziness and <i>just</i> <i>so much wasted time</i>. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(Now, lest you think I was truly ready for the madhouse, there was always some left-over practical, un-addled part of my brain standing back with its arms folded, watching me keen and wail, and thinking, "What the fuck?" As the hormonal storm rolled away, that part won out. Slowly.) </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So what's this experience left me with</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—aside from a now-justifiable dread of the middle of the month?</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Well, it's partly been a graphic illustration of that maxim of cognitive-behavioural therapy, "Don't believe everything you think." </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
brain is capable of creating the most catastrophic narratives from mere
wisps of nothingness. Most things are rarely as monumental</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—or as <i>self</i>-focused</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—as they appear. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This is your brain. This is your brain on hormones. And the two are not the same. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But, interestingly, they're not that different, either. Yes, my <i>reactions </i>to situations were extreme</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—but I also realized the extent to which I dismiss uncomfortable circumstances and feelings, and the amount of intellectual rationalizing that goes on when I really should be letting my emotions speak up. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Being as emotionally fragile as I was forced me to express the feelings that were, after all, there all along. Snuffling and snotty, I did manage to articulate most of the time <i>why</i> I was unhappy</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—or, at least, I tried to. For me, that's a step in the right direction.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So I'm faced with another potential hormone storm soon. What am I going to do?</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Well, I'm going to try my very best to remember that things aren't nearly as dire as they seem</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—but I'm also going to remember that this state of mind highlights lots of things that I've been ignoring, and I'm going to try and acknowledge that, too.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I'm going to be gentle with myself, rather than beat myself up for being weepy (read: weak, at least in my head). And I'm going to try and ask for what I need from the people around me</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—which, for me, means a little more attention, a little extra talking, and some help to unpack what may actually be legitimate, if magnified, issues. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(Note to friends: I don't like being left alone when I feel bad. The more attention I get, the better. I promise to be this needy only once a month. And I promise to repay in kind.)</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Bring it on.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-36868552662657969662012-01-16T18:36:00.000-08:002012-01-16T18:44:18.186-08:00Be (not) afraid<span class="st">I <i>hate </i>New Year's resolutions. Hate them, hate them, hate them. For me, making resolutions is usually a straight and narrow road to Failure Town and that's a place I really, really don't like to even think about, let alone visit.</span><span class="st"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">But I just finished reading Brene Brown's brief book <a href="http://www.brenebrown.com/books/2010/8/8/the-gifts-of-imperfection.html"><i>The Gifts of Imperfection,</i></a> and I've been inspired. Brown's a researcher at Harvard who specializes in shame, vulnerability, and living what she calls a "wholehearted" life: </span><span class="st">that is, a life full of all the emotions available to our fragile human hearts</span><span class="st">—and not filled with the numbness that's the inevitable byproduct of our too much food, too much TV, too much debt Western culture. </span><span class="st"> </span><br />
<span class="st"><br />
<span class="st">She argues, <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html">in an eloquent TED talk</a>, that we use this numbing behaviour to avoid feeling shame, guilt, anger</span><span class="st">—all the nasty emotional bugaboos</span><span class="st">—but, in the process, we numb the good feelings too. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">When we numb pain, we also numb joy.</span><span class="st"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="st">This leads me to my very first New Year's resolution: <b>be afraid</b>.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">I need to explain that, I think. After all, who wants to be afraid? </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Well, me. </span><span class="st"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="st">In the spirit of feeling <i>everything</i>, I've decided that I need to start feeling afraid</span><span class="st">.</span><span class="st"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="st">You see, I never really got the phrase "feel the fear and do it anyway," because a great deal of what makes other people quake in their boots</span><span class="st">—public speaking, performing on stage, rock climbing, flying, eating in a restaurant solo</span><span class="st">—totally turns my crank. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">In fact, one of the greatest compliments I ever got was from a rock climbing guide who looked at me admiringly after I'd nimbly hoisted myself up an escarpment rock face and said, "Boy</span><span class="st">—you're <i>fearless</i>."</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">So I figured I wasn't really afraid of anything.</span><span class="st"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="st">Silly girl. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">I may not fear many <i>activities</i>, but turn the spotlight on <i>feelings</i>...and, well, watch me quake in my boots.</span><span class="st"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="st">Rejection. Disappointment. Failure. Conflict. Anger.</span><span class="st"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="st">I do some pretty acrobatic dances trying to keep those feelings away. Even typing them is tough. Right now, my chest is getting tight and I can feel my cheeks heating up. So you can imagine how I feel when I'm in the midst of a situation that might actually cause me (or someone else) to feel that way for real.</span><span class="st"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="st">Many of us spend a crazy amount of energy trying desperately to appear in control, cool, on top of it all. I know I do. I always have. (Ironically, I don't do this very well. Any of my friends would chuckle at the idea of me being "on top of it." But it's the <i>trying</i> that counts.)</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">And, frankly, I'm tired of trying to pretend that's the real me.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">So I'm going to be afraid. I'm going to court rejection by asking for things when there's a real chance the answer might be no. I'm going to risk people thinking I'm clingy or weak or flaky by taking down the perfectionist mask I've tried so hard to hold up. I'm going to risk conflict by speaking up when I feel wounded. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Or at least I'm going to try.</span><span class="st"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="st">I'm going to be afraid</span><span class="st">—and I'm going to lean into the fear, and I'm going to discover that the things that terrify me are never as bad in reality as they are in my head. Never.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">I have this quotation from Martha Beck on my fridge: "Most of humankind's great achievements</span><span class="st">—the sorts of things that make you say, 'Oh, wow'</span><span class="st">—were accomplished by people who were muttering 'Oh, shit.'"</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">I'm going to mutter, "Oh shit." </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">And I'm going to remember that nothing great</span><span class="st">—relationships, careers, self-discovery</span><span class="st">—</span><span class="st">was ever accomplished from a place afraid of fear. </span><span class="st"><br />
</span></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-19822500320630536222011-11-25T09:03:00.000-08:002011-11-25T09:03:06.160-08:00Fifteen things you should KNOW by the time you're 30—still six years lateThe second half of <a href="http://www.glamour.com/magazine/2007/02/things-women-should-have-and-know-by-30">the iconic Glamour list</a>, snarky comments and all. (See <a href="http://onmywayrunning.blogspot.com/2011/11/fifteen-things-you-should-have-by-time.html">the previous post</a> for the first half...)<br />
<br />
<b>By age 30, you should know:</b><br />
<ol><li>How to fall in love without losing yourself.<br />
<br />
I think I have this figured out. The relationship that I'm in is exciting, and comforting, and filled with discovery—and emphatically NOT joined-at-the-hip, giving me enough valuable alone time to remember who I am and what I hold dear.<br />
</li>
<li>How you feel about having kids.<br />
<br />
Well, I know I feel ambivalent. This bears a more in-depth post, I think, but I've pretty much come to peace with the idea that whatever family I have in the future may not be mine, genetically. That makes me a little sad, but it isn't the devastating realization it might be to other people. Families take lots of different forms, and they're all rewarding in their own ways. I do know, though, that I'd like a family of some sort—whether that's biological, adopted, blended, whatever, it's something I think is important.<br />
</li>
<li>How to quit a job, break up with a man and confront a friend without ruining the friendship.<br />
<br />
Working on it. It's strange to talk about blessings when it comes to break-ups, but one of the enduring blessings in my life is that Paul and I are still friends. It hasn't always been easy, but we've managed, and I'm grateful. Confronting friends, now—that's a totally different thing. If there's one thing I'd like to work on, it's my ability to a) feel anger and b) do something constructive about it. Work in progress, work in progress!<br />
</li>
<li>When to try harder and when to walk away.<br />
<br />
I'll try and try and try and try and try. Walking away is very difficult for me—but when I do, it tends to be a complete and total break. <br />
</li>
<li>How to kiss in a way that communicates perfectly what you would and wouldn’t like to happen next.<br />
<br />
Haven't really practiced this one too much, frankly.<br />
</li>
<li>The names of: the secretary of state, your great-grandmother and the best tailor in town.<br />
Hillary Clinton. Anne Morgan. (Wait--I have four great-grandmothers. The other ones are, I think, Rose Ella Wood, Cecilia Bolinski and...oh dear. Something...Schumacher. Huh.) And the best tailor in town is whoever can hem my jeans on seriously short notice.<br />
</li>
<li>How to live alone, even if you don’t like to.<br />
<br />
I do like to, and I'm pretty good at it. The cat helps, admittedly.<br />
</li>
<li>How to take control of your own birthday.<br />
<br />
Finally! And the best birthday celebrations are the ones that extend for, like, a week. And involve a bunch of different people at a bunch of different times doing a bunch of different things.<br />
</li>
<li>That you can’t change the length of your calves, the width of your hips or the nature of your parents.<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, I like all these things, so I'm not interested in changing them. But along the lines of "accept what you can't change," I know I'm never going to have normal teeth, my chin is always going to look like a knob of balled-up Silly Putty, and my nose is always going to have a bump in it—but I like all those things too. <br />
</li>
<li>That your childhood may not have been perfect, but it’s over.<br />
<br />
My childhood was good, actually—the usual "I didn't get enough attention" older child woes, certainly, but I'm a happy, functioning adult now because my parents did a good job.<br />
</li>
<li>What you would and wouldn’t do for money or love.<br />
<br />
Heh. Heh heh. All sorts of inappropriate comments spring to mind.<br />
</li>
<li>That nobody gets away with smoking, drinking, doing drugs or not flossing for very long.<br />
<br />
True enough. Fortunately, I haven't had to learn this lesson from personal experience.<br />
</li>
<li>Who you can trust, who you can’t and why you shouldn’t take it personally.<br />
<br />
I trust just about everybody. This may be a weak spot.<br />
</li>
<li>Not to apologize for something that isn’t your fault.<br />
<br />
Yes, I've learned how to do that. Or, rather, I apologize, then catch myself. Getting there...<br />
</li>
<li>Why they say life begins at 30.<br />
<br />
Well, this is dumb. Life—that is, the choices I make that shape the way my days are spent—began a long time ago. I have, though, just recently begun to revel in my freedom to make the choices that are best for <i>me</i>.<br />
</li>
</ol><b> </b>That's all, folks. When they say "life begins at 30," what does that mean to you? Ignore the arbitrary number if you like—what does a beginning life look like?Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-13295883766780108352011-11-22T09:23:00.000-08:002011-11-22T09:23:43.613-08:00Fifteen things you should have by the time you're 30—six years lateDon't know if you know this, but I'm a fan of lists. <br />
<br />
I'm also a fan of gauging my life's progress against an arbitrarily defined set of societal standards, and, with equal amounts of sour grapes and gleeful iconoclasm, summarily dismissing anything that doesn't fit. <br />
<br />
I have a feeling most of us feel like late bloomers at some point—so when I rediscovered <a href="http://www.glamour.com/magazine/2007/02/things-women-should-have-and-know-by-30">this classic list from Glamour</a> (written in 1997, updated in 2005) I couldn't resist reproducing it here.<br />
<br />
This is the first half<span class="st">—I'll post the second half in the next post.</span><br />
<h4>By 30, you should have:</h4><ol><li>One old boyfriend you can imagine going back to and one who reminds you of how far you’ve come.<br />
<br />
I have old boyfriends that I still stay in touch with (actually, they're ALL friends on Facebook), but I don't think I'd go back to any of them. All of them were appropriate to the time and place we were together<span class="st">—</span>and that's over. And yes, some of them remind me of how far I've come<span class="st">—</span>and I'm grateful for that.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li> A decent piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in your family.<br />
<br />
Hm. My bed is mine, all mine<span class="st">—</span>but does Ikea furniture count as "decent"? I have my doubts...<br />
<br />
</li>
<li>Something perfect to wear if the employer or man of your dreams wants to see you in an hour.<br />
<br />
Yes, and yes. Since the employer of my dreams would likely be a theatre, and I have a carefully curated supply of black clothes and stage makeup, I'm covered. As for the man of my dreams<span class="st">—well, I have a couple of outfits that never fail to garner appreciative smiles/compliments/whiplash, so I guess I'm set on that front, too. (Plus, I just discovered that Victoria's Secret makes a push-up bra that gives me cleavage of SUFFOCATING proportions!)</span><br />
<br />
</li>
<li>A purse, a suitcase and an umbrella you’re not ashamed to be seen carrying.<br />
<br />
If you'd lost as many umbrellas as I have, you'd realize that it's far less embarrassing to be seen with a $2 Chinatown special than be seen with no umbrella at all.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li>A youth you’re content to move beyond.<br />
<br />
Most definitely.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li>A past juicy enough that you’re looking forward to retelling it in your old age.<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, yes. There was the time one of the aforementioned old boyfriends and I wandered around Italy for a month...getting drunk on a pier in Venice...getting lost in Sicily...getting stuck on Capri...<br />
<br />
</li>
<li>The realization that you are actually going to <i>have</i> an old age—and some money set aside to help fund it.<br />
<br />
Well, about that... I have every confidence that I'm genetically equipped to live a good, long time, but as to the money to pay for it<span class="st">—</span>well, that's one of the things in my life that make me feel like a teenager with eye wrinkles. I do finally have an ING savings account, which is a teeny step in the right direction.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li>An e-mail address, a voice mailbox and a bank account—all of which nobody has access to but you.<br />
<br />
Damn straight.<br />
</li>
<li>A résumé that is not even the slightest bit padded.<br />
<br />
Yes! And although it's a rather checkered employment history, I'm proud of every avenue I've explored.<br />
</li>
<li>One friend who always makes you laugh and one who lets you cry.<br />
<br />
Yes, oh yes. More than one. Even better, though, I have friends whom I absolutely trust to tell me the truth, even when it's unflattering. (Believe me<span class="st">—if I ask whether something makes me look bad, <i>I actually want to know</i>. My best friends understand this, and don't pull punches. And they don't always wait for me to ask.)</span><br />
<br />
</li>
<li>A set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill and a black lace bra.<br />
<br />
I don't have a cordless drill. <br />
<br />
</li>
<li>Something ridiculously expensive that you bought for yourself, just because you deserve it.<br />
<br />
Define "ridiculous." I just spent almost $5 on a watermelon, because I like watermelon. I buy original art, but I don't think that's ridiculous.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li>The belief that you deserve it.<br />
<br />
Well, you know, I deserve not to panic about my bank account more than I deserve that cute-but-exorbitant pair of pretty shoes. I deserve to have a life of simplicity more than I deserve one more cluttery object. So what I really deserve is a life that's free of the <i>need</i> to affirm myself through my purchases.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li>A skin-care regimen, an exercise routine and a plan for dealing with those few other facets of life that don’t get better after 30.<br />
<br />
I object to the idea that 30 marks a downward slope in terms of appearance. I look <i>far</i> better now than I did before I was 30, simply because I've a) figured out how to make myself happy and b) mastered the art of eyeliner and blow drying. But yes, I take care of my skin, and I'm careful about what I eat, and I didn't used to worry about that stuff <i>quite</i> so much.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li>A solid start on a satisfying career, a satisfying relationship and all those other facets of life that <i>do</i> get better.<br />
<br />
Yes. Those are two areas of continuous work and reinvention, but as I get older, I'm realizing they always will be. All those other facets—being happy with myself, knowing what it and isn't authentic, speaking up and speaking out about what's really important—well, as the title of the blog says, I'm on my way running. <br />
</li>
</ol>Next post: 15 things you should <i>know</i> by the time you're 30. <br />
<ol></ol>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-38734982635469067202011-10-20T10:22:00.000-07:002011-10-20T10:26:59.132-07:00I was a bully, tooIt's <a href="http://www.glaad.org/spiritday">Spirit Day</a><span class="st">—a now-annual commemoration of support for LGBTQ youth and a show of solidarity against bullying. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">The day's gotten me thinking about bullying generally</span><span class="st">—and </span><span class="st">I've come to some uncomfortable realizations.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">I was a bully, too. </span><br />
<span class="st"> </span><span class="st"></span><span class="st"> </span> <br />
I've never pushed anyone down the stairs. I've never beaten anyone up. I don't think I've ever said "That's so gay" or "What a retard." <br />
<br />
But I was still a bully.<span class="st"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">All through school</span><span class="st">—mostly elementary, but into high school, too</span><span class="st">—</span><span class="st">I stood by, watching and listening, while other kids were teased, laughed at, excluded and whispered about and shunned. Insecure and desperate for acceptance by a powerful "in crowd"</span><span class="st">—</span><span class="st">of which I was a nebulous member</span><span class="st"> at best—I cast those bullied kids in my mind as somehow less feeling, less <i>human</i>, than I was. </span><span class="st">If the in-crowd was excluding someone else, that meant they weren't excluding <i>me</i>.</span><span class="st"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">And that made it OK to watch those kids cry</span><span class="st">—or, worse, see them go along with the teasing with a smile on their lips and agony in their eyes. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">The excuses of age and of immaturity are meaningless</span><span class="st">—it's not like the kids who were being taunted or shunned felt it any less simply because they were 10 instead of 16. </span><span class="st"></span><span class="st"> </span><span class="st">And the contempt we showed as elementary school students wasn't any less powerful, less hurtful or less <i>adult</i> simply because we were in grade six.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">I was a bully </span><span class="st">precisely <i>because </i>I did nothing.</span><span class="st"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Because I feel that way, I wonder whether our current trend of separating the bystanders from the bullies</span><span class="st">—as in Barbara Coloroso's book</span><span class="st"> </span><span class="st"><a href="http://shop.kidsareworthit.com/The-Bully-the-Bullied-and-the-Bystander-Book-and-CD-BBB-BOOK-and-CD.htm"><i>The Bully, the Bullied, and the Bystander</i></a></span><span class="st"></span><span class="st">—</span><span class="st">lets the ones who stay silent, who stay below the radar, off too easily. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">It's time to stop exonerating the bystanders. <b>Doing nothing is</b> <b>just as bad as doing something</b>. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Reaching out may not have saved <a href="http://news.nationalpost.com/2011/10/17/blog-reveals-sad-final-weeks-before-gay-teens-suicide/">Jamie Hubley</a></span>, <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Health/jamey-rodemeyer-suicide-ny-police-open-criminal-investigation/story?id=14580832">Jamey Rodemeyer</a> or <a href="http://www.xtra.ca/public/Toronto/Gay_teens_suicide_brings_some_changes-4260.aspx">Shaquille Wisdom</a>, or the scores of other bullied teens who have seen suicide as the only way out of an intolerable existence.<br />
<br />
But doing nothing sure as hell didn't help. And for the record, I'm sorry.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-19518159430869783352011-09-20T08:32:00.000-07:002011-10-20T08:25:15.907-07:00Eleven commandments of happiness (à la Gretchen Rubin)(Apparently the writer of Genesis was slightly more concise than I am...)<br />
<br />
I've been reading a lot about brains these days: specifically about how they work, and what happens when they don't. It's been a wide-ranging set of topics: consciousness, happiness, sleep, the sense of smell, brain injury, depression, bi-polar disorder, and suicide. Not light reading, most of it, but illuminating, and assumption-challenging, and, for the most part, intensely engaging. Don't get me started, because I can talk about this stuff now for HOURS.<br />
<br />
This time I want to share just one thing from one book I've found in my brain-travels: <a href="http://www.happiness-project.com/">The Happiness Project</a>, by Gretchen Rubin.<br />
<br />
This is one of those "I'm going to do something for a year and write about it" books<span class="st">—essentially, she does a whole lot of research about happiness, and spends 12 months putting different techniques to use. It's a good book</span><span class="st">—readable, personable and with enough real science and ancient wisdom behind it to make it more credible than the usual run-of-the-mill self-help dreck.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Not everything she tries resonates with me. I don't feel the need to keep a gratitude journal</span><span class="st">, and starting each day by singing a) feels contrived and b) would get me evicted. And, to be fair, not everything resonates with HER, either. But one thing that did stand out for me was her list of very personal commandments for happiness. In her case, there are 12, and they include things like "Be Gretchen," "Spend out," and "Do it now." </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Now, the idea behind these is that they should be PERSONAL, so, being the navel-gazing narcissist that I am, I thought long and hard and made up my own. They're not so much commandments, I guess, as they are both ideas I hold at the very core of my value system</span><span class="st"> and need to remember regularly to stay happy. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">Here they are:</span><br />
<ol><li><span class="st">Take the more interesting option. (Closely correlated to the phrase, "You can sleep when you're dead." This contradicts #9, but whatever.)</span></li>
<li><span class="st">Mercy over justice.</span></li>
<li><span class="st">Stop and ask.</span></li>
<li><span class="st">There is only love.</span></li>
<li><span class="st">All shall be well.</span></li>
<li><span class="st">I am enough.</span></li>
<li><span class="st">What do I need? (OK, that's a question, not a commandment. Whatevs.) </span></li>
<li><span class="st">Knowledge is its own reward.</span></li>
<li><span class="st">Say no. (I have a really, really hard time with this one. See commandment #1.)</span></li>
<li><span class="st">Be Sara. (Stole that one from Gretchen Rubin.)</span></li>
<li><span class="st">Make the effort.</span></li>
</ol><span class="st">I'll elaborate on these in the next post</span><span class="st">—this one's getting a little long. (Maybe one of my commandments should be "Use fewer parenthetical asides.") But for now, there they are.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="st">What are your happiness commandments? I'm curious</span><span class="st">—please share!</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-72316622557243790562011-09-13T12:15:00.000-07:002011-09-13T12:15:57.553-07:00Ohmigod--FICTIONWell, kind of fiction. This is how I imagine the characters who wait around my head.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Moira shifted in the waiting room chair and picked at her cuticles, pushing at them with a finger and wishing that she had the guts simply to let loose and gnaw at them with abandon—much like her editor was doing in the chair across from her. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You shouldn’t bite your nails, Graham,” she said, leaning forward onto her knees so she could speak under her breath. No matter how long they’d all been there, no matter how well they knew each other’s little tics and quirks, that waiting room hush was still impossible to breach. “It’ll happen when it happens. No use agonizing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Graham glanced up and managed to condemn Moira as a hypocrite and skewer her misplaced maternalism with one cocked eyebrow. She blushed a little, and shoved her hands—ragged cuticles and all—under her knees, brushing the top of Ahmed’s small head as her fingers disappeared out of sight.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ahmed—dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes—had crawled under Moira’s chair and was now lying on his back, dreaming of a place he’d never seen, but knew as surely as he knew his own nine-year-old face in the mirror. Somewhere, someplace, sometime, there was a hot, dry sun, a clamoring soukh, and air that smelled like cooking meat, spices and…something else. Something not pleasant, certainly, but as familiar as the smell of his mother’s jasmine. Somewhere that smelled like animals and rot and generations of toil and craft. Somewhere that gave Ahmed a whiff, even in the unwindowed, airless waiting room, of antiquity and exoticism that none of the others seemed to possess. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Graham got up from his chair, pointedly ignoring Moira, and walked over to the two boys huddled together in the opposite corner. The smaller of the two—curly dark hair, bright blue eyes and an easy, relaxed smile—looked up and grinned, while the larger boy, pale and quiet, acknowledged Graham with a shy, lopsided shrug. Both shifted their chairs so Graham could sit with them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We’re trying to figure out where Mackenzie’s cave is,” said the small boy, who Graham had learned only recently was named Tobin. “It hasn’t been easy, since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she</i> doesn’t know where it is yet, either, but we’ve got some good ideas.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“She knows it’s in Dundas,” said the larger boy, whose name was Ben. “She’s pretty sure it’s somewhere close to the railway track. But she hasn’t figured out how to go and see it without getting lost, and that’s holding her up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Graham dismissed this theory with an irritated wave. “Excuses. If she really wanted to write the story, she’d have written it, even if she didn’t have the place quite right in her head. If she were in my newsroom, I’d have her writing…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Moira broke in. “Isn’t that the point, Graham? She’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> in the newsroom—she’s sitting at her kitchen table. She chose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to write news stories because she wanted to concentrate on fiction. You may thrive on the rush of daily news, but not everybody…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know,” Graham said wearily. “Not everyone wants to turn into an alcoholic—excuse me, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">recovering</i> alcoholic—chain-smoking adrenaline junkie like me.” He paused, rubbing his temples. “Jeez, you’d think with her imagination she’d be able to come up with an editor character that wasn’t a stereotype…” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Graham trailed off and glared moodily at the ceiling.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ahmed piped up from under Moira’s chair. “At least she knows what a newsroom’s like. Me, I’m from somewhere she’s never been, from a time she can’t visit. But I know she—and I—will get there. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inshallah</i>.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Moira got up from her chair and knelt in front of the table in the middle of the floor. It was littered with ephemera: snapshots—a ruined church, a winding road, a waterfall, a crowded marketplace; dog-eared books, underlined and notated; postcards of paintings; loose magazine articles; and pages of writing scrawled in a rainbow of ink, type-written, laser-printed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As she had done countless times before, Moira shuffled through the pages, admiring the artistry of the photographs, chuckling at the writing—especially those early sketches, when the girl wanted to be Stephen King and hadn’t grown up enough to be confident in her own voice—and wishing, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wishing</i> that the girl out there would start to use all this inspiration she’d been gathering, hear Moira’s whispered encouragement and set them all free. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">They were patient, all of them, Moira and Ahmed and Graham and Ben and Tobin. They weren’t going anywhere—but oh, to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live</i> a proper life, in a proper story, with a plot and scenes and conflict and resolution…well, that was their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> destiny. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And it was just a little frustrating to have their fate thwarted by nothing more than a lack of confidence.</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-37859913681590404172011-07-29T12:50:00.000-07:002011-07-29T12:50:12.138-07:00Sara gets budgetyIt's that time again. It happens twice a month, almost without fail.<br />
<br />
I've breathed an enormous sigh of relief because I just got paid, and have managed to skate away from the edge of overdraft. <br />
<br />
I've been living paycheque to paycheque my entire life, and I'm sick of it. At 36, I feel like a savings account (with something in it) and at least <i>something </i>put away for retirement are hallmarks of being an adult--and since I don't have either of those, I feel...well, like a teenager with eye wrinkles.<br />
<br />
I'm not exactly extravagant. I don't have a TV, I don't have an air conditioner, I don't belong to a gym, I don't own a car. I do enjoy a beer out with friends once or twice week, but I rarely eat an entire meal out. I carry my morning coffee in a travel mug. I brown bag my lunch, at least most of the time, and I tend to avoid processed food.<br />
<br />
I'm carrying a fair amount of debt, true, both my own and what Paul and I managed to accumulate together. My cellphone is expensive, but it's my <i>only</i> phone, so it's not as bad as it could be. Commuting adds up, but it's still not as expensive as having a car full-time. <br />
<br />
And yet I get to the days before each paycheque, if not in the hole, then at least staring into it. It's not a nice view--and the fact that it happens week after week means I'm obviously not backing away from the precipice any too quickly.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to get budgety. There aren't a lot of expenses over which I have a lot of control--well, I suppose I could give up my iPhone, but then I suppose I could also cut off one of my legs to save on shoes.<br />
<br />
Something I can control, though, is my grocery budget. So that's where I'm going to start: cutting food expenses.<br />
<br />
According to Mint.com, which I use to track my spending, I've spent an average of $270 per month on groceries. Considering I live alone and don't throw extravagant dinner parties, this is probably a lot higher than it needs to be. <br />
<br />
Cutting food expenses, though, is harder than it seems. For one thing, there's no inexpensive grocery store within walking distance. I can hike the 2 kilometres to Fortinos, or go the other way and hit the Farmers' Market. Neither are cheap. For another thing, I'm not home a lot, so, if I'm going to take my own food to work, I need to do a fair amount of advanced planning--not my strong suit (read my <a href="http://onmywayrunning.blogspot.com/2011/07/add-me.html">very long post on adult ADD</a> and you'll understand).<br />
<br />
But there are <i>some</i> things I can do. So here's what I'm going to try:<br />
<ul><li>No more convenience store shopping. It's a whole lot easier, but it's also a whole lot more expensive.</li>
<li>Change what I buy: bagged milk, rather than cartons. Store brands, rather than name brands. Stuff that's on sale, rather than sticking to the same old, same old. Stuff that will freeze, so I can stock up on ingredients and sale stuff without having them go bad.</li>
<li>Plan, plan, plan--but take advantage of sales when they come along.</li>
</ul>Will it work? Well, it has to. I'll keep you posted.<br />
<br />
If you have any tips for saving on your grocery budget, feel free to share! I'm open to suggestions.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-20638780246557906632011-07-18T19:28:00.000-07:002011-07-18T19:28:11.611-07:00ADD? Me?(OK--last navel-gazing post for a while. I swear.)<br />
<br />
My day job involves my writing about a wide and eclectic range of topics--what clients want, I write. My store of knowledge now ranges from leadership training, to energy efficiency, to summer camp, and, most recently, the science of sleep.<br />
<br />
It was in the course of researching an article about teens and sleep--did you know the average teenager's sleep-wake cycle isn't 24, but <i>26</i> hours?--that I stumbled across <a href="http://www.faslink.org/adhdtips.htm">this checklist for adult ADD</a> by Edward Hallowell and John Ratey, the authors of <i>Driven to Distraction</i>. Don't ask how I found it--my approach to research is to fall down the rabbit hole of Google and wander aimlessly along whichever paths present themselves. (Which is not altogether unexpected, as you'll see.)<br />
<br />
I read through the checklist, more out of academic interest than any personal curiosity. And then one point sounded eerily familiar. Then another. Then another. Then another. By the end of the list I was nodding my head in recognition as intensely as any <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wG6G4XBnvLQ">Slipknot</a> fan.<br />
<br />
I have friends with varying degrees of ADD and ADHD, but I'd never really thought about those states of mind as they related to me. Sure, the standard phrase when I was younger was, "You'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on." I lost things with alarming frequency, including a winter coat, my retainer, my glasses, and countless umbrellas. (To this day, I don't carry an umbrella that costs more than $2.) I was scatterbrained, careless, and messy, with an awkward habit of blurting out inappropriate things, usually to my parents' friends. I was frequently late. But that was just being young, right? Aren't all kids like that? I wasn't hyper, I wasn't constantly engaging in high-stimulus behaviours, and never once did I hear, "You're just not living up to your potential."(As an adult, well, that's another matter.)<br />
<br />
But still...<br />
<br />
The checklist said things like:<br />
<ul><li>"More than the average person, the ADD adult withers without encouragement." Check. I am, to put it mildly, a praise whore. Stroke my ego and I'm yours forever. This gets me into trouble.</li>
<li>"Transitions are difficult for ADD'ers, and mini-breaks help ease the transition." Check. I'm the one sitting in the bathroom following a meeting, just to allow myself time to gather my thoughts. If I have travel time, so much the better.</li>
<li>"Make use of lists, colour coding, reminders, notes to self, rituals [and] files." Anyone who's seen my calendar at home knows that social engagements are written in blue, theatre commitments in pink, work stuff in orange, bills in black, and appointments in purple. I can't get started in the morning without a hand-written to-do list.</li>
<li>"Plan scenarios to deal with the inevitable blahs." Check. Have you seen my stuck-to-the-fridge list of ways to cheer myself up? </li>
<li>"Expect depression after success...This is because the high stimulus of the chase or the challenge or the preparation is over." Check. I'm frequently intimidated by nebulous challenges, but if I have a very specific goal in mind (get into university! start doing theatre!) I revel in the chase. Stability (read: boredom) scares me. A lot. This also gets me into trouble, and is probably the reason I have three undergraduate degrees.</li>
<li>"Don't 'cut to the chase' too soon, even though you're itching to." Check. One reason I hate talking on the phone is that I can't seem to stop interrupting people, making for awkward, painful exchanges.</li>
</ul>And as I thought about the scattered-ness I thought I'd outgrown, things occurred to me: I can be so spacy that one of my best friends suggested I go get a hearing test. (It was normal, of course. I'm not deaf, just distracted. That should go on a bumper sticker.) I forgot my headphones, umbrella, lunch, book and work documents at home yesterday, and that's not the first time that's happened. And thank God for Facebook, otherwise no-one would ever hear me say "Happy Birthday."<br />
<br />
But I'm not (generally) late. I manage to keep (most of) my appointments.Yes, I find it hard to sit still without fidgeting, but I can pay attention well enough to carry on a decent conversation (usually) and contribute to meetings, rehearsals, and other interactions in meaningful ways. I'm a reasonably happy person--with perhaps a subtle undercurrent of discontent that I should, somehow, be accomplishing more in my life. <br />
<br />
So if I'm dealing with...<i>whatever</i>...reasonably well, is there any reason to label it? Are we, as a society, too eager to pathologize personality?<br />
<br />
Maybe. Certainly we need to take responsibility for our actions (or inactions), no matter what the cause. (To my massage therapist: I'm sorry I missed my appointments. To my dear friends: I'm sorry I can't remember your birthdays. To my mom: I'm sorry I don't call more.)<br />
<br />
But there's a reason that one of the bibles of adult ADD is called <i>You Mean I'm Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?</i> Most adults with ADD I know have spent much of their life a) beating themselves up for perceived personality deficits or b) dangerously self-medicating themselves because of something that is, in fact, a <i>treatable medical disorder</i>. <br />
<br />
Personally, I've spent my entire adult life...well, really, my entire life altogether...believing that if I cared just a little more, if I applied myself a little more diligently, if I were a little less lazy, if I were a little more ambitious, I could overcome all my scatterbrained shortcomings and achieve everything I know I'm capable of accomplishing. The idea that some of the things that drive me crazy about myself--the lack of ambition, the utter inability to sustain attention on something that isn't immediately interesting, the overwhelm I feel when confronted with tasks that have no clear steps for completing them--may not be my fault is incredibly, wonderfully liberating.<br />
<br />
Apparently, I'm <i>not </i>defective as a person. <b>I am not a moral failure</b> because I can't fake an interest in committee meetings. <b>I am not evil</b> because I can't sustain a writing project beyond tweets and the occasional blog post. <b>I am not a bad person</b> because I could care less about pursuing salary, and position, and am happy with a job that simply allows me to feel competent and occasionally fires me up about interesting stuff.<br />
<br />
Some quirk of my brain chemistry <i>over which I have no power</i> affects the way I engage with the world. End of story. It's not my fault. I don't have to keep beating myself up. All I have to do is learn how to deal--and, by some stroke of luck, I have. <br />
<br />
So where do I go from here, now that I've figured out this part of myself? Well, because I'm dealing reasonably well--stagnating writing projects notwithstanding--I see no need for medication. If I do, indeed, have ADD (and the <a href="http://www.hcp.med.harvard.edu/ncs/ftpdir/adhd/18%20Question%20ADHD-ASRS-v1-1.pdf">Adult ADD Self-Report Scale that I found</a> pegged my profile as "Moderate"), I've learned enough coping mechanisms through sheer luck, a little bit of self-awareness, and a modicum of common sense that I'm not making a mess of things on a regular basis.<br />
<br />
There's a definite blessing, though, in the suspension of the accusatory, judgmental voice in my head that's accompanied me for so long. It may not be completely gone, but at least it's only muttering instead of yelling.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-41061881378991682152011-05-25T11:39:00.000-07:002011-05-25T11:39:38.424-07:00I don't have a drinking problem—do I?So I was what you'd call a social drinker. Someone who enjoyed kicking back. Someone who liked to hold her own with the guys. A wee bit of a party girl.<br />
<br />
I enjoyed a glass of wine (or two) while I was cooking dinner each night. I had a pint (or two...or three) when I went out with my friends each weekend. I wasn't above tossing back a shot (or two...or three) of scotch at the end of the night. But I went days without drinking. Well, a couple of days, anyway. OK, at least 24 hours.<br />
<br />
But I definitely wasn't a "problem drinker." Certainly not anything as serious as an "alcoholic." <br />
<br />
Was I?<br />
<br />
My relationship with alcohol was once a passing acquaintanceship—one that I thoroughly enjoyed when it was around, but didn't miss when it was gone.<br />
<br />
That changed.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago—after I'd ordered a completely unnecessary second glass of wine while out for dinner—I realized I had a problem. I noticed that I was often the only one drinking. I had started to fantasize about carrying a flask, just so I wouldn't have to worry about buying drinks. I dreamed about having a drink as soon as I walked in the door after a long day.<br />
<br />
It wasn't the quantity of my consumption that concerned me—I've never drunk enough to get rip-roaringly sloshed, and even by the most stringent standards, my weekly intake has been moderate at most. No: although I wasn't drinking a lot, I realized that booze had gradually become a <i>necessity</i>; that slight tipsiness I got from one (or two) drinks was something I was starting to <i>need </i>in order to feel like I was truly having the best possible time I could.<br />
<br />
And that scared the shit out of me.<br />
<br />
I realized that I was becoming addicted—using that very strong word on purpose—to the ecstatic illusions alcohol engendered. I had started using booze to <i>manufacture </i>feelings of happiness, of belonging, of confidence, of bravery—those feelings that so often get subsumed by doubt, inertia, fear, and fatigue. Ironically, of course, I <i>do</i> feel happy and confident, quite regularly—but there's a seductive magic about being able to call up those feelings, however artificial and chemically dependent, on demand.<br />
<br />
Alcoholism, like weight gain, is a slow-but-slippery slope. Often you don't realize that there's anything to be concerned about until your pants don't fit—or, in my case, you find yourself the only tipsy one at the dinner table.<br />
<br />
At this point, I don't believe I'm an alcoholic—but the potential to become one is certainly there, so I've made some changes. I don't want to get to the point where I have to give up drinking entirely, but I have imposed two personal rules:<br />
<ul><li>No buying booze as part of weekly grocery shopping. Drinking at home is for a special occasion, not everyday. Ginger ale in a wine glass is a reasonable substitute.</li>
<li>No more than one drink in any one place. OK, sometimes I'll have a pint and a half. That's still considerably less than the three pints I've been accustomed to.</li>
</ul>This hasn't been easy. I walked in the door yesterday after work and just about made a beeline for the beer—and then realized that it wasn't a drink I needed. I was tired and hungry; what I needed was <i>dinner</i>.<i> </i>And by the time I'd fed myself, the urge to have a drink was gone.<br />
<br />
So what have I noticed, two weeks into observing my new rules?<br />
<ul><li>My overall mood is much better. Although acute alcohol consumption elevates serotonin levels in the short term (which is partly why many people with clinical depression are also alcoholics), it affects the functioning of a variety of feel-good neurotransmitters over the long term. When I'm drinking less, I'm actually happier more often. </li>
<li>I'm better able to assess what I <i>actually</i> need. With alcohol no longer my go-to solution for feeling bad, I can better determine whether I'm sleep deprived, hungry, under-exercised, or simply in need of a hug.</li>
</ul> Nothing miraculous at this point—but I feel like I've managed to dodge a nasty bullet. I'll keep you posted.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-1682474535621429232011-04-20T14:13:00.000-07:002011-04-20T14:13:24.021-07:00The fridge-sticker's guide to mental health<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0Wt9W_4h-j0/Ta86oLgEUvI/AAAAAAAAAAw/WsbGMxuCwYM/s1600/Fridge+photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0Wt9W_4h-j0/Ta86oLgEUvI/AAAAAAAAAAw/WsbGMxuCwYM/s200/Fridge+photo+1.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br />
I'm an inveterate "fridge-sticker."<br />
<br />
Family photos. Cards. Playbills. Two Walt Whitman magnets. Magnetic poetry, including a rather minimalist contribution from my 14-year-old nephew, "I devour thee, naked candy."<br />
<br />
My family has valued fridge ephemera for generations, to the extent that fridge magnets are the de facto souvenir whenever anyone goes on a trip. Our fridge collections betray our politics, our religious convictions (or lack thereof), our friends—everything we find important enough to see many, many times in a day.<br />
<br />
There's a new addition to my fridge these days, and it's something I'm happy to have, but grateful that I haven't needed recently.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ET92zaHVBf8/Ta86uz2l94I/AAAAAAAAAA0/pv1JXQhAqhI/s1600/Fridge+photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ET92zaHVBf8/Ta86uz2l94I/AAAAAAAAAA0/pv1JXQhAqhI/s200/Fridge+photo+2.jpg" width="200" /></a>A little context, perhaps.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I had a bad night. A <i>really</i> bad night. Hours of ugly, teary, snotty crying—not a good time. My evening plans had been changed rather abruptly (damn snowstorm) and for some reason, I completely fell apart at the prospect of spending a long, lonely night all by myself.<br />
<br />
What was worse, though, was that there were plenty of things I <i>could </i>have done to yank myself out of the doldrums—but in the distress and panic of an unanticipated stretch of solitary confinement, I simply could not gather my wits together. (We'll address what's starting to sound like a pathological fear of being alone in a future post, perhaps.)<br />
<br />
The next day, I decided that if I didn't want to be at the mercy of my admittedly mercurial moods, I needed to take some practical pre-emptive steps. Always literal-minded, I came up with a list called "Cheer yourself up." Wrote it up. In different colours of markers. And stuck it on the fridge.<br />
<br />
I figured that if I <b>wrote down</b> all the things I could do that might make me feel better, I'd have a better chance of actually <i>doing</i> them, of weathering the next emotional storm with a little less snot and a little more dignity. Think of this as my optimistic, straightforward, compassionate side talking calmly to my insecure, scared, doubting side.<br />
<br />
Here's the list (and yes, I wrote in all in lowercase):<br />
<ol><li>write it out in your journal</li>
<li>go for a walk</li>
<li>write a blog post or short story</li>
<li>go onto happiness-project.com and do the quizzes (I like self-help quizzes)</li>
<li>have a shower (I also like showers)</li>
<li>watch a movie</li>
<li>make cookies</li>
<li>play happy music</li>
<li>play dress-up</li>
<li>clean something</li>
<li>do a crafty project—preferably one that's straightforward and easy</li>
<li>read "the right to write" and do the exercises</li>
<li>play with the cat dangler</li>
<li>play guitar</li>
<li>go on damnyouautocorrect.com</li>
</ol>Interesting how many of the items start with "play." Funny, too, that the very act of writing the list up makes it less likely that I'll need it—just knowing I have a game plan if the blues hit makes it easier to keep the beasts of sadness at bay.<br />
<br />
Do you have tips for lifting yourself up out of the doldrums? Let me know!Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-81452616505432743182011-04-07T18:58:00.000-07:002011-04-07T18:59:22.807-07:00Yes, I'm thinner than I used to be. Here's what's changed.OK--I've never been a big girl. Genetics have blessed me with a body that, at its heaviest, bordered on "curvy" but hasn't ever approached "chubby," "zaftig" or "rubenesque." I have no more control over this than the colour of my eyes or the fact that I really, really like eggplant--so please don't roll your eyes at the skinny girl complaining about her weight. That's not what this post is about.<br />
<br />
I <i>am </i>thinner than I used to be, though. Three years ago, I had finished my journalism degree at Ryerson, and graduated with honours, two writing awards, a pile of fascinating, accomplished classmates, <b>and about 20 extra pounds</b>.<br />
<br />
Yes, I gained the frosh 15--it just took until my third undergrad degree to do it. And, being an over-achieving mature student, I added an extra five, just 'cause I could. I wasn't overweight, but I was concerned that the habits I'd developed would lead to trouble down the road.<br />
<br />
Three years later lots has changed, body-, diet-, and exercise-wise--so I thought I'd share what I've been doing, partly because people have asked, and partly to remind myself what I need to <i>keep</i> doing if I want to stay as happy with myself as I am now.<br />
<br />
So what do I do? Generally, I'm mostly careful about what I eat, and I exercise--not as much as I should, but more than I used to. But specifically: <br />
<ul><li><b>I'm honest about my motivations</b>. Yeah, I'd like to say I'm doing all this for my health. Nope.Vanity trumps health. I just like the way I look. If I want to keep being happy with what I see in the mirror, I need to keep working. End of story.<br />
<br />
Well, not quite. Actually, I <i>do </i>exercise for my health--my mental health. When I'm not running (or dancing, or hiking) regularly, my moods swing more wildly, I sleep badly and my natural optimism plummets. Actually, I haven't been running recently--and boy, do I feel it. (My Facebook status updates probably reflect it, too.) Guess I need to lace up the sneakers... <br />
<br />
</li>
<li><b>I cook at home</b>. I know, I know--I'm lucky because I work at home, so I've got a little more time in the day to plan out meals and actually <i>cook</i>.. I also don't have kids, so I'm not balancing picky palates with healthy choices. (My parents' secret for getting me to eat veggies? Serve them frozen, as a snack. It's still the only way I really like peas.) My advice is to get a simple cookbook (I'm a particular fan of <a href="http://www.howtocookeverything.tv/">Mark Bittman's <i>How to Cook Everything</i>)</a> and stop thinking that cooking has to be some massive, high pressure gourmet undertaking. Really. Bunging a salmon filet and some cauliflower in the oven is hardly difficult--but if you bake the salmon on a couple of slices of lemon, and roast the cauliflower in some olive oil until it's brown and crispy, you'll have a great (simple!) dinner.<br />
<br />
Here's a list of what's generally in my fridge and pantry: 1% milk, salad mix, salsa (Herdez, which has no sugar), V8 (which also has no sugar), eggs, almond butter, apples/pears, frozen berries, frozen fish filets, plain non-fat Greek yogourt, maple syrup, sliced almonds, canned tomatoes, canned beans, canned tuna, chicken broth, curry paste, chili garlic sauce, soy sauce, olive oil, vinegars--so essentially a lot of ingredients, but very little ready-made stuff. Omelets are great last minute meals...<br />
<br />
</li>
<li><b>I don't eat a lot of "white stuff</b>." You know--refined sugar, flour, rice. <i>That </i>white stuff. I'm not a dietician, and my iconoclastic side rebels at diet books and anything that tries to tell me what to do. For me--and this is highly, <i>highly</i> personal--I found that eating less pasta, bread and sweet stuff helped take off the weight. This is akin to a death sentence for some, so you may have to find your own eating habits that you can live with. I've never been a carb-craver (although I have a weakness for grocery-store birthday cake) AND I found any cravings I <i>did </i>have went away eventually. My go-to dinner these days tends to be roasted fish or chicken, roasted veggies and plain Greek yogourt with maple syrup and almonds for dessert.. <br />
<br />
Now, I polished off a plate of spaetzle tonight, so it's not like I've conquered carbs completely--which leads me to the next point.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li><b>If I'm going to splurge, it had bloody well better be worth it</b>. Today I was out for dinner with my dad, and we were at Zum Linzer, a great little Austrian place here in Hamilton. Their spaetzle was divine--and I enjoyed every single doughy buttery bite. Far healthier, physically and mentally, to truly enjoy good food shared with family, than to shamefacedly scarf down a jumbo bag of Doritos on your own and then beat yourself up about it afterwards. Empty calories <i>and</i> solitary shame? Don't do it! Make your splurges <i>matter</i>, and, ideally, make them feed your spirit as well as your belly. </li>
</ul>Look--everyone's different. What works for me may not work for you. And please, please don't beat yourself up if you've got other priorities in your life right now that don't involve exercising and changing the way you eat. (Just keep in mind that exercise will help you <i>cope</i> with those other priorities...) Change happens when it happens. For me, it started happening about three years ago, and it's still going on--so stay tuned. I may have other nifty little tips--and roadblocks, and setbacks--to share. And there will definitely be more cooking posts...<br />
<br />
And please--feel free to share your own tips in the comments section.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-37979782353476279932011-03-24T12:56:00.000-07:002011-03-24T13:03:17.371-07:00Four very personal reasons why 35 is better than 25OK, let's get this out of the way first--if you're 25 (or 24, or 26), I'm not knocking you, or your age, or the stage you're at in your life. I swear. <br />
<br />
It's just that, at 35, I look back on my twenties with a mixture of fond nostalgia and pure unalloyed relief at not being there anymore. And I'm not the only one--I'd say that most of my 30- and 40-something friends, even those grappling with the seemingly inevitable stresses of adulthood (relationship breakdown, health issues, financial woes) wouldn't trade places with their 20-something selves.<br />
<br />
But why? Every year that passes is a year closer to...well, <i>death</i>. Why wouldn't we all leap at the chance to recapture some of that youthful bloom?<br />
<br />
Well, for some of my friends (and thank you to those who responded to my Facebook/Twitter query), their thirties is a time to settle down--time to enjoy the families they've built (or are in the process of building), the careers they've worked for, the relationships they've developed. It's a chance to see all the hard work of their twenties start to pay off.<br />
<br />
That's great, awesome, fantastic, and I'm happy for all of them--but, well, that isn't exactly me at this point. I get it, but I'm not there. (In fact, at the moment I'm the polar opposite.)<br />
<br />
But I'm still happier.<br />
<br />
And here's why.<br />
<ol><li><b>Confidence</b>. I may look older than I did at 25 (although, thanks to good genes, I don't quite look my age), but <b>I've got a much better handle on how to look <i>good</i></b>. At least, I know how to style my hair, do my makeup, and put on clothes in a way that doesn't make me wither when I look in the mirror. More than that, though, I've become comfortable enough with my personality--especially <b>my brainy, big-word-spouting, know-it-all side</b>--that I now consider my nerdy side an asset, rather than a liability. (At least, I've had enough people tell me that smarts are sexy that I'm starting to believe them...) <br />
<br />
I also have the confidence to know what I stand for and to stand up for the values I've managed to develop. When I was 25, I was like a reed in the breeze--capable of being swayed every which way. And along those lines...<br />
<br />
</li>
<li><b>Knowledge</b>. At 35, <b>I've realized some important truths</b> that I didn't know when I was 25. I think a comprehensive list will have to wait for another post, but a couple of the most important ones have to do with valuing compassion and mercy over mindless "fairness," and recognizing that the accumulation of stuff isn't a path to happiness. Plus, I now know how to cook a decent meal from scratch without a recipe, how to maintain a healthy body <i>without</i> paying for a gym membership, and how to ask my friends for help with all the stuff I <i>don't </i>know how to do. Knowledge is a powerful thing, and it's a power I had much less of when I was 25.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li><b>Compassion</b>.This is a biggie. I've started acknowledging that I'm actually not in control of a whole lot, and that weakness and vulnerability are part of being human for all of us--and that <b>the response to weakness and vulnerability, in myself and in others, needs to be compassion</b>. Just that. Not to say that people don't piss me off on a regular basis, because they do. I piss <i>myself</i> off regularly. But when I remember to look beyond my irritation--and, in a couple of very specific cases, deep, deep anger--I can usually find a current of compassion. When I was 25, I just hadn't been kicked around enough, or experienced the compassion of others enough, to really be able to understand what being compassionate really meant.<br />
<br />
</li>
<li><b>Honesty</b>. This goes along with being confident, I think. I'm slowly, slowly, slowly starting to be honest--with myself, with others--about who I am, what I need, and what I am and am not willing to change. This is probably the hardest lesson I've had to learn, and I fall down on it regularly. Being a bred-in-the-bone people-pleaser makes it hard to be truly myself--but I've learned that <b>honesty and subordination are, well, <i>incompatible</i></b>, and I sure as hell don't want to be a subordinate to anything anymore.</li>
</ol>One of my classmates from Ryerson--many of whom celebrated their quarter-century birthdays last year--was thrilled to see from my Facebook comments that life gets better as you get into your thirties.<br />
<br />
Mimi, it does get better. It doesn't get any <i>easier</i>, mind you--but it does get better. At least, it has for me. <br />
<ol></ol>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-63571504602248563002011-03-16T12:53:00.000-07:002011-03-16T12:53:36.024-07:005 (very unscientific) tips for getting things startedAs many of you know, I work from home. Oh, I work for a real company--<a href="http://rightspotmedia.com/">RightSpot Media</a>--but we've run a virtual office as long as I've been with them.<br />
<br />
Generally, I'd say the challenges of virtual work--isolation, lack of accountability, distraction, loneliness--are more than offset by the financial, environmental and personal benefits I get from not commuting. At least, they were until six months ago. For the very first time, I'm starting to find the difficulties are actually <i>outweighing </i>the benefits.<br />
<br />
The big problem? I simply can't seem to get things done. <br />
<br />
Sure, I meet my deadlines. I do decent work, or so I'm told. But boy, oh boy, more than ever these days I've turned into a serious deadline junkie, unable to even start things until THE VERY LAST MINUTE, relying on adrenaline to carry me through and, most crushing to my sense of professionalism, seldom doing my very, very best work. <br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure I'm not the only person who struggles with getting stuff done--hell, not just getting stuff <i>done</i>, getting stuff <i>started in the first place</i>. <br />
<br />
Today has been a better day, frankly, so I thought I'd share some of my (very, very personal, very unscientific) techniques for getting off the procrastination adrenaline train. I wish I could say these worked all the time...<br />
<ol><li><b>Write the first three words</b>. This is actually written on a sheet of paper and posted on the wall above above my computer. I find that if I can get past the first three words, the rest start to flow--but even if they don't, at least I've written <i>something</i>. I can trick myself into starting by saying "I'll write the first three words--then I'll make some tea." More often than not, the tea gets forgotten. This applies to other stuff, of course--if you can't muster up the energy to get out and run, well, just put your shoes on. (Yeah, I've done that too.) And along those lines...</li>
<li><b>Never mind chunks. Break your tasks into <i>slivers</i>.</b> I'm serious about this. If I have to rewrite an article, for example, I approach the steps in <i>painfully</i> minuscule detail. First, I need to minimize my browser window. Next, I need to locate the article folder. Next, I need to open it. Next, I need to open a new document... Well, you get the picture. If a task seems insurmountable (and never mind whether it actually <i>is</i>, it's the perception that's important) break it down, break it down, break it down to the point of ridiculousness.</li>
<li><b>Turn off the radio. Turn off the TV. Shut the cat in the bedroom</b>. Whatever. Minimize distractions. I'm a CBC junkie but, realizing that the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over again and expecting different results (thank you, Einstein), I thought I'd try something different today: total silence. It worked.</li>
<li><b>Turn on the radio. Turn on the TV. Play with the cat</b>. And then sometimes you just have to trick yourself into working. When I was in journalism school, I had what seemed like <i>piles</i> of articles to write. (It probably wasn't that many, compared to a real working journalist. Remember, though, it's the <i>perception</i> that counts.) The only way I seemed to be able to get the words to flow was to sit on the couch with my laptop, throw in one of the five Harry Potter movies I had on the shelf and pretend <i>I wasn't actually working</i>. After all, my reasoning went, it wasn't really work if there was a movie on. More often than not, lo and behold, the article got finished before Voldemort made an appearance. In the same vein, music can make even the worst drudgery enjoyable--just ask anyone who has a playlist on their iPod specifically for working out.</li>
<li><b>Take a shower</b>. Well, showers work for me. If I can't get something started because I'm grappling with a problem--the structure of an article, for example, or a lede, or the headline--I'll take a shower. Or I'll go for a drive. Or a walk. Or a run. Doing this seems to allow the cognitive, analytical, language-oriented part of my brain a chance to work in peace and quiet without any interference from <i>me</i>.</li>
</ol>That's my wisdom for the day. This stuff works for me, sometimes. It may not work for you--but I'd love to hear what does...Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2276164594716184864.post-8374038676807224322011-03-15T13:46:00.000-07:002011-03-15T13:46:48.428-07:00On my way runningPeople have been telling me to get back into blogging for a long time now, and I've been ignoring them--mostly because I don't want to start something, then neglect it and spend the rest of my life trying to shake off a niggling sense of failure. (This isn't exactly without precedent, you see--anyone remember "Eschew Obfuscation?" "J-Rad Blues?" Oh, my poor abandoned bloggy babies...)<br />
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ANYWAY...I've been writing more. Something about being alone, with no TV (yeah, there'll a post on that eventually) seems to lend itself to creativity, funnily enough. I've rediscovered the joy of getting lost in writing, and even though nothing's turned into anything I feel like sharing just yet--that happens when writing is both therapy <i>and</i> hobby--I thought it was high time there was a place I could start to publish stuff, even if it's just for me and a small (slightly charitable?) cadre of followers.<br />
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Wondering about the story behind the blog's name? Well, it's taken a while to grow on me. You see, I wanted to be all literary and intellectual, so I was going to pull a name from one of my favourite poems. Something like <i>Puddle Wonderful</i> (from e.e. cummings' poem "in Just-spring") or <i>Gravity and Waggery</i> (from Christopher Smart's poem "Jubilate Agno," better known as "For I will consider my cat, Jeoffrey...").<br />
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Yeah, well, other people were equally smart, and already HAD blogs with those titles. Humph.<br />
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This title came from another poem, one I hadn't known before I picked up my copy of <i>A Child's Anthology of Poetry</i>. It jumped out at me right away:<br />
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<b>Song for a Young Girl's Puberty Ceremony</b><br />
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I am on my way running,<br />
I am on my way running,<br />
Looking toward me is the edge of the world,<br />
I am trying to reach it,<br />
The edge of the world does not look far away,<br />
To that I am on my way running.<br />
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From what I can determine (and Google failed me here, just a little) these are words from an Apache ceremony undertaken at sunrise by girls entering puberty. Well, I'm a long way off from puberty, thank god. But something about the hopefulness, the freedom, and the slightly naive optimism in the poem resonated with me. Given that my life now is almost like a new puberty--a changing body I'm still getting used to (it runs! it lifts weights! who knew?), new social situations, dramatic ups and downs with loved ones and friends and colleagues--maybe a ceremonial song about that major life change is perfectly apropos.<br />
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Stay tuned. I have a lot to share, and I promise to do it on a semi-regular basis.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0