From Nat's Brain

No beginning and no end

I'm not sure how this ended up falling by the way side but here it is, and here I am. I took a long long walk in the snow yesterday. It provided silence, solitude and much needed time for reflection. Distance from those things that have, somewhat magically, taken over my life since summer: fixing a school, easing out of the security of my job, and following through on a promise I made to myself back in January of last year. The walk outside, alone provided for a few hours of quiet reflection and much needed letting go.

There's anew cast of characters, you'll meet them, no doubt, in due course. For now, they are all hibernating, resting getting ready for the year ahead. They are all shiny and new, and they still seem perfect to me (even in their beautiful flaws.) All in all, it's been good for me the upheaval -- part of me enjoys a desperate and impossible projects.

And this week, I'm trying to remember what I did before all this. Ukuleles, guitar, a few terrible haikus and lots of half started short stories and poems, long walks... Sounds like a terrible personal ad. But in all the change of direction, I am feeling a bit dizzy. Two weeks rest are proving a bit hard on the non-stop whirring in my mind.

The walk helped. Today's massage too. Need to just slow down. Rest. Contemplate. Regroup. Look back.

Tonight, while The Man and The Boy look for an elusive cable of some sort (it's never the right one is it?), I wander back to 2000 and the fear, trepidation and excitement of waiting for The Boy's spectacular entrance into our lives. Play to the cliché, it was 24 hours that changed everything. He was actually born at 14:14 on the 29th. Labour was long and created a whole new checklist of things that can possibly go wrong. Miraculously perhaps, we both made it.

Seems impossible that it was 12 years ago, yet there he is my big little man, taller than I am, growing into an adult. It is one of these impossible and magical things raising The Boy, mostly beautiful and loving but also frustrating and complicated. Yet, somehow, we navigate through it. And in the end, it's all that matters.

Snap back to reality

 

Of all the photos I took during our trip, this is my favourite. It has that deserted village feel to it. Forgotten in time. Just ignore the people on the bottom right, I decided they were the survivors of the ferocious goat zombie apocalypse. Every one knows that the fog rolls in when it's nearly over

The fact of the matter is that I really didn't want to come home. Left to my own devices, I'd have happily found a cheap fixer upper over looking the ocean and devoted my time to sitting in the quiet looking at the fog roll in. Make sense of my next steps, maybe develop a habit of late afternoon whiskey watching the boats float on ... Far from big city, goat zombies and other signs of civilization.

I'm feel the city is moving far too quickly these days. It's almost as if, collectively, we ticked off planting the flowers, but not only aren't we taking the time to enjoy them, we've forgotten that we planted them in the first place. Just another item on the to-do list, tick done move to conquer the world, compete, better than... More than... Seem to have lost my taste for all this city life and all of our many many commitments. (Though The Man and The Boy were all keen to get back at it.)

Not to be outdone, civilization struck hard, making us sit in traffic for two hours as we crossed Montreal. Can I have that house on the bluff now? The following day, sworn at by a rather nasty driver on our street unhappy that I'd forced him to slow. I just don't have it in me to create that change, maybe it's just not my war to wage. Accept that it's beyond my control... Like city planning and goat zombies.

Missive for the road: Get outside

I'm really not much of one for unplugging. Luckily the Rogers' cross Canada coverage doesn't really extend far outside major centers. Three days, no 3G. Fabulous weather, and we flirted with Cape Breton.

With much dramatic whining, we dragged The Boy to ceilidh at a local parish hall. The compromise had been half the show then ice cream. The Man and I attempted a square dance, The Boy loved the music and wants to take fiddle lessons. Something about Cape Breton fiddlers eh? (Advice on fiddles is appreciated.)

The culture seeps into him, I'd say it's his sleepy Scottish genes but the Scottish side is the adopted one. On our way out off the island we end up at the Gaelic Centre (?), more fiddles, more gaelic roots. (The menfolk are of the Napier clan.) The Boy decrees that the crest is very cool. Balanced by my Acadian roots, history and roots are a theme this trip. The Man's father passed away back in February, maybe it's led to more existential musings about life, history and how it all makes sense. I'm not sure we came to any clear answers.

Me, I love the pace when we travel. It's a freedom without reliable wifi coverage, we just slow. Focus on here and now. That's all there is, we three -- and a feisty if overloaded Honda Civic. It's this space we need to remember as already, "home" intrudes. Seems to me, I still need to slow.

With a promise to the ocean to return soon, we're turning the corner to return home.

 

Missives from the road: Old King Cole

After many days on road the crammed into our small Honda Civic, we arrived sea-side, finally in Baddeck. On the shores of Bras d'Or Lake. They call it a lake, but it's an inland sea of (mostly)salt water and waves. I'm not sure if it's ever still really still.

 

The place is teeming with tourist, and the waitress calls The Boy "honey" and us "dear" with no pretense. The seafood is fresh and unpretentious. There's a patience and a kindness here. We rush through so much. In a hurry to get to work, to pick The Boy up. Today, there is only a slow walk down to the water.

 

Sneaking in a rare moment of solitude, I head down to the water. Thoughts punctuated only by rhythm of the waves. I spot a boy in red swim trunks make a mad mad dash for the end. 4,3,2,1 ... Dead stop. Looks over the end of the pier and jumps. Three times, each time not quite gathering enough courage to jump in blind.

Slow down enjoy the ride, leap when the opportunity presents itself. Lessons for the day.

After dinner, we wander down over to ceilidh in the parrish hall. An amazing 17 year old fiddle player and a piano player originally from Kansas City. "We serve King Cole tea at the break." Memories. Before the age of peppermint, green, Earl Grey, lemongrass and all those variations and permutations, there was King Cole. When we moved to Ottawa, it was the one thing my mother complained about, no King Cole tea. And every trip, and every visitor brought with them a box or two of the precious tea.

Over the last year, I've been struggling to make sense of the journey to here. Sitting in the church hall, I am reminded that we can never really escape the past, we can just come to peace with it, learn, forgive and move on. Oh yes, and don't forget to enjoy the ride...

(PS: The boy loves fiddle music so much he's now asking for lesson.)

Missives from the road -- Growing up

My dear friend Jackie O talks of finding home when running through fields of golden wheat on the family farm. I've lived in Ottawa a mighty mighty long time, but home is that spot where ocean waves meet land. Try as I might nothing really comes close. A sit by the river on a windy day if I close my eyes or sit just so, I can pretend, but I can see Gatineau on the other side... The river and I both know the mighty Ottawa is but a stand-in until I can make my way back home.

On Saturday, we crammed the Civic to the brim with stuff and, along with most of the National Capital region including the lovely Maven (who was staying in a very freaky Days Inn with dolls and dwarf armor), and headed east. Never did confirm where she was going... Ocean is probably enough.

It's a long drive, one I did at least twice a year in my youth. Driving through now, I can't help but indulge in a bit of "well, when I was a girl..."

First pitt stop: Edmundston, NB. They're hosting La Foire Brayonne featuring a "points for trying" Black Sabbath tribute band. The hotel a recently refurbed Clarion (with a really really good breakfast) used to be a Howard Johnson's. As kids we liked it because of the indoor pool. The pool now is still as small and dated. The Boy finds it a let down.... The smaller kids don't seem to mind. Feels small town... Smells like the pulp mill whose smoke stack dominates the skyline, though the church (newish at a guess) tries to be impressive.

The town has grown since HoJo came and went. Hotels for the drive-by tourist, chains, and still the old Belair. Once the only game town with the same crunchy waitresses they've had for generations. Back then the drive involved the ups and downs of the Renous, The logging road become shortcut. Sure the new highway is safer and shorter (and the most boring stretch on the TransCanada) but my it's taken the hardcore out of the drive.

I still haven't seen the ocean, she's near, you can feel her in the breeze... We'll say hello tomorrow and maybe then I'll have more to say.

And we're off...

Leaving the safe den of my kitchen table to have a chat with the Atlantic Ocean.

 

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There is a season...

With the end of this week begins the official summer season, the solstice and the true beginning of summer -- last days of school. Last day at this school after seven years... I felt we should have a fanfare of sorts.

"Here marks the end of elementary school!" *tatadaaaaaaaaaaaa* rings out the fanfare with a row of eight or ten horn thingies.

A fanfare just like this one (from army.au)

Instead we were late, he didn't want to go and he couldn't rush out of the school yard fast enough. This is the same scenario that occured the first day in Senior kindergarten. Circles eh? Then he didn't want to leave me, couldn't wait to get back to me. This year, well, I think he just wanted away. No teary farewells. No see you arounds. Hallmark moment twarted. 

Instead the principal told me what a wonderful incredible child I had, and we both choked back the tears.  I know I cried on the first day too.  Circles eh?

It's done and now we take it laid back and easy.  There's a vacation to plan (but not too much) and supersoaker battles to be wages.

Vagina and bad words

Really there isn't much more to be said about Lisa Brown being silence except: 

Vagina.

Just when I let my guard down for a second, the big old Republican man is up there trying to get all in my vagina. Maybe we need a "Just say no to Republican penises" campaign. One headline mused that maybe if she'd used the word uterus maybe folks would be so fucking irrational. I doubt it. When it comes to this abortion debate, all I can say is that I hope there are states near Michigan where folks can go and get the help they need.

As for me, well, I'm taking back the word vagina. It's funny because it's suprising to me because when I woke up on Friday I was pretty sure that I owned it along with uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, clitoris, vulva and any variation or permutation of the female anatomy thereof slang, vulgar or otherwise. Really, I just want it to be clear that all of me is off limits to you unless I give you permission, and legislating vaginal and uterine actions isn't going to make the icky birth thing go away. I'm planning on having sex and I'm planning on using birth control. Yeah, I know I'm not your demographic.

The fact is that I'm so much more than a uterus or a vagina. And I think Michigan's Republican House Leader, who has a penis really doesn't like it when we women stand up for something other than babies and servicing his needs. Or something.  But he doesnt' like the word Vasectomy either and silence another representative Barb Byron.

But it all kind of fits doesn't it? Pass a restrictive abortion bill which makes subjugates women, then you go about silencing the women who oppose it. Then you silence all the opposition. Then you silence the women who support it...  Then you silence all the women and before you know it, it's a fucking vaginaless timewarp to the 1950s.  It's been pointed out that elected male officials have used variations of fuck on the floor with no formal censur-- vagina trumps fucking. Just like the women who have them, should have final say in what does or does not happen to them. 

It's as if the abortion bill wasn't really waht the Republicans were after, what they wanted was a return to simpler times. You know, when men were men. And women were oppressed, barefoot and pregnant -- home baking biscuit.

We need to stay vigilent folks. Be loud, be strong and stand up for who we are as important, intelligent parts of our communities. Not just as vessels to carry the next generation.

Promises to yourself.

When I relaunched my brain a month ago, I promised myself that I'd post something at least once a week. Important to keep promises to yourself, even on the weekends when you have to work. (Westfest this weekend, drop me a line if you're on Richmond Road.)

Bit of a grocery list of things, and who doesn't love a list.

• The Boy had his end of year pagent yesterday. It is confirmed that it damned near impossible to get Coldplay's Paradise. (Click at your own risk.) Ring My Bell seems to have worked for now. But I fear that it's a case of the cure being worse than the disease. Just saying.
• At some point last year, I did a photo shoot as part of Kym's project Le Mien to photograph 100 strangers.   The book is called Les Nôtres. All proceeds go to Operation Rainbow Canada to help children with facial deformities. (So far she's raised $2,000!)

We'd taken a bunch of photos where I got dressed up in a gown and heels and went to the gym. Then we went for coffee and she took a few more photos. She's right this feels more authentic. And The Man says that this is pretty much what I look like when I'm talking about things I'm passionate about. I like that. I never find that I look like me in photos.

• Greek yogurt and Siren Bakery granola (Chocolate almond) is my new favourite thing. It's got that smooth and crunchy thing going. The owner lives behind me. She got very cute bulldogs including a super cute puppy. (No photos, he's gun shy when I whip out the iPhone.)
• I'm going to add a Painting with Words section to this blog for poetry and other forms of word pay. I'm not sure I understand what makes a poem great, just that I know the ones I like. I've been writing poems as long as I can remember feels like I've found a friend.

As such I leave with a haiku.

Hopscotch, lemonade

Sidewalk stand -- cold watermelon

Boys run through sprinkler

 

 

 

 

I'm going to live forever!

It's the last few weeks of school up here. The Boy is finishing Grade 6 and though his school does go to Grade 8, he's asked if he can go to a bigger school next year. It's great idea, he's out grown the school and it really doesn't offer the diversity he needs. Deep down we all need to find a few kindred spirits.  Excuse me while I muse over the fact that the little boy who made quite the scene letting go of me in SK, is now moving to a Middle/High School mix. He's super excited I'm scared to death. 

We're sending him to Fame school, well, sort of. The best Fame school Ontario's public school system can produce. The Man and I explained that we expect every single day will be like this. EVERY DAY. (Maybe we fewer leg warmers... and maybe a bit more hip hop. Though I am not necessarily opposed to hot lunch.) Not setting him up for disappointment. He still has to take Math.

 

Seems a world away from the convent and embroidery to encourage us to "well rounded." Embroidery was a bit of a problem for me. Sister Pierrette, the math teacher, used to judge our work by the tidiness of what was under the canvas. I became so obsessed with it that the front of my canvas was a mess. I'd like to say I was rebellious enough to not care about embroidery instead it ate away at me, and I lost sleep over it. Apparently being well-rounded caused me undo stress. I'd have been much better off taking something less... ummmm... strict.

As for The Boy, I hope that we're striking a balance between getting it done and fun creative time.  Nurturing his creative drive is all I can. I seem to be finding my own in the process. There is more than on artist in the family.

The Boy is growing up. It's a bitter sweet thing. I can see the awesome man he's becoming while perhaps missing the little boy he once was. On this rainy Saturday morning as he prepares for his piano recital, I'm waxing nostalgic and trust that I'm doing right by him. Suppose that's all we can do.