Holidays
I thought about my dad a lot today. It’s been two years since he passed away, and I miss him. He sure as shit wasn’t perfect, but he was a good man. A good role model for life. Give all that you can, help those who need it, and love with your whole heart. My father embodied the spirit of christmas, all year ’round.
Halifax has been what I needed it to be. Granted, there are times where I feel like it hasn’t met expectations – but I think my expectations were misguided and rooted in a lingering sense of loneliness. It’s been a relatively freeing experience here, and that’s exactly what I needed. As the saying goes – you can’t always get what you want, but you get what you need.
Yes, that’s right. I needed this. I needed all of it. I needed to let go of what was holding me back and forge forward.
Someone recently called me brave. And while my instinct was to argue against it, I have come to realize that I am brave. I have survived a lot of shit. Everyone here keeps telling me my life is full of great adventures and crazy stories. They are right. And lord above, it’s true. For the most part, with a few minor mishaps, I have been brave. I guess that’s why they call me exceptional.
My dad knew how brave I was. I would like to think that he was proud that I had the bravery to face things he couldn’t.
And at the end of the day, that’s why I am here. I am going to be a writer. Something my dad would have loved to do, but never had the balls to try. He would have been a good writer, too.
Merry Christmas,
/J
Snow
I love the first snow fall. I am not sure how often I have written that here in these pages. I love the way it smells. I love the way the snow makes everything feel slightly warmer. I absolutely adore these snowy days.
I would like to think that I love it because snow fall is inherently nostalgic.
Sitting here in my east coast bay window, I am trying to remember who I was this time last year. But, I can’t fully remember her. I remember where I was, who I was with, what I was working towards and what I thought I wanted. But, I don’t remember who I was. How I felt. The snow only makes those memories more familiar, but their still pretty fuzzy. It feels like I am missing something significant. Not some one or some thing, really. More like I am missing a vital piece of information.
I can remember describing a frozen prarie landscape as having a tragically romantic mood about it. But as I sit here now trying to grasp at why that was, I am starting to wonder if I misinterpreted what that emotion was. Perhaps it was a subtle nuance of possibility that I found to be alluring. But why am I sitting here today missing that feeling?
Oh dearie me, the snow fall makes me in to one sappy fool.
XO
/J
My fault.
I have a bit of a problem – I know I have broken my own rules and I have to put an end to the bedroom-only dimensions of my relationship with a fellow who can moonlight as a leprechaun.
Want to know how I know this? I gave myself the edict to not date while in school. And while I joke about meeting sailors and having An Officer and a Gentleman moments in Halifax, I really haven’t been looking much. My motivation to even try is missing. I think I left it somewhere in, oh gee, I dunno….Saskatoon?
So then, when our daily conversations started to become semi-daily, and now seemed forced and the like, it’s terribly uncomfortable. I would like to raise the issue in an effort to keep things transparent enough to save the friendship, but I am not sure how to go about doing that. I could just be blunt, but then things start to fall into the “Unrequited” category, and I do not like unrequited anything – let alone love.
I could just let it go. Which is what I am opting to do for now. However, there is still the February trip that looms over any letting go I could be doing. February is a long ways away from now. A lot of things could change. And I think, as I write this, my desire to date, have sex, or do anything relationshipy is merely on hold. Wait until the leafs game and the trip to Toronto before I totally let go.
Which is probably smart, because I am only a week and a half in, and school is already kicking my ass.
/J
Bonnie Raitt said it best.
I have a problem. I am in love with someone who doesn’t love me back. At least, I don’t think he does. I am not so sure. The boundaries between romance and friendship are blurry, and thus, I am not quite sure where to step next. To make matters worse, there is practically a whole country between us now and all that exists of us is a series of dirty text messages and kind hellos.
I broke my own rules and now I am not so sure how to maneuver through this sticky situation. Is it best if I just speak the truth and risk having everything go south, or do I just let it slide and keep my heart under wraps? I laid awake last night wondering if I should just end the romance without explaining why. As if ending things would save my sanity somehow – but that’s the kicker about hope. It never goes away. Ending the undefined romance isn’t going to stop me from hoping for more. My heart could still very well be shredded.
Perhaps I should just lay down my heart and give it my all. That would require balls, because it could mean the end of everything – not just the sex.
Man, I fucked up. I took the one friendship that was probably one of the most important in my life, and put it in front of a firing squad. Then again, I wonder, why I did that in the first place….heh. That is a rhetorical question; I already know the answer.
I never stopped loving him in the first place. I actually can’t pretend that I can’t anymore. I forced my own hand, and laid in wait for the right time — which is fast approaching I think.
/J
So, my sin and I broke up last week. At least I think it was last week. Everything got blurry since the time I landed in that household until the day after I left it.
I wish I could tell you I was all torn up about it on the inside, but I am not. In fact, I feel pretty damn good about it. This is my first real break up that was bloody, messy and loud…and I feel like it was exactly the right thing to happen. The unexplainable sense of obligation is lifted and I can actually start to see things a bit clearer. Rather than think “Hamilton is home because that is where I am needed”, I can go out and find some place where I am wanted just for who I am. And, most importantly, find a place where I want to be.
In the middle of the proverbial hitting the fan, I was reminded that I have to let go of my sense to control how others see and feel about me. I have to understand that sometimes, things just go sour. I have spent a lot of time, about the distance between Hamilton, Ontario and Halifax, Nova Scotia thinking about why I worry so much about wanting to belong somewhere. What is the appeal of being a part of something beyond my own little existence? Why do I romanticize the notion of belonging somewhere with phrases such as “my own little existence?” Isn’t this the train of thought that gangs and cults look for when recruiting new members?
I guess, one could trace it back to some kind of latent sense of abandonment that developed when I was just a wee little tot. But that seems like a bit of a cop out. I guess, when it all gets boiled down, is that all I have ever wanted to do was put up roots, start a family and live a very simple life. However, it wasn’t until recently that I started to actually have the confidence and the peace of mind to obtain that goal. So is that the missing key? As yoda would say, you cannot belong if you want to belong.
Stop caring and then I will find and make friends? I sincerely doubt it. I mean – the problem is that I am not sure I want more “friends” and would much rather stick with the ones I have. Even the ones on the periphery are fine with me. I really don’t feel like taking the time or energy to make new friendships at the moment. This time is all about me, myself, and I. I suppose that is entirely selfish, but the problem I have been having for YEARS is that I don’t actually know how to be selfish.
It’s time to let the universe unfold.
…And study.
.J
It’s true….
So, funny story….I spent nearly 4 years in Saskatchewan refusing to call the place home and thinking that my home would always be the town in which I grew up. But being back here, I have come to realize that as I have grown and changed, Hamilton is no longer home. In a stupid plot twist, Saskatoon is the place I miss now.
I guess I just don’t hang onto nostalgia the same way, or perhaps it’s simply due to the fact that I am not the same person I was when I left. Nor are the people I left behind. Everything is…different. Life has moved on, believe it or not (please, note sarcasm). Everyone here seems to be something they weren’t – or am I just remembering things with rose coloured glasses?
Yet. perhaps more significantly, is that I was linked to Saskatoon when I found the confidence I had been lacking for a long time. This version of me is rooted in Saskatoon. The people, the places, the smells even….It is home now, and now I want to have roots like this. Genuinely.
The reality is that to do what I want to do, I will need to be in Toronto or Vancouver (or Winnipeg, but that’s not really an option), and there really is only one reason for me to return to Saskatoon. That reason, however, keeps falling short of providing proof that it would be worth it to move back.
Whomever originally said that home is where the heart is, really knew what they were talking about.
XO
Jane
Compassion.
So the word rolling around in my head these days is compassion.
com·pas·sion
noun /kəmˈpaSHən/
compassions, pluralSympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others
I have come to realize that in this life, genuine compassion makes an appearance like a recurring character played by a b list actor. You recognize him, but can’t quite pinpoint where from. Compassion has become “that guy, you know, in that show with the thing”. Compassion, it seems has been type cast into the important, but not vital category in life. However, in a world where economies are in turmoil, foreclosures are the norm, and poverty is rampant, compassion needs to be a leading role in our own daily lives. Giving to a world organization is nice and all, but if we fail to be compassionate to those in our own communities, how can we truly be compassionate to those beyond our national boundaries?
The sad part is that compassion is that one thing that everyone wants, yet they never outright say as much. They ask for people who care, or people who give a damn, but they rarely speak of compassionate people. And people who care and people who have compassion aren’t necessarily the same kind of people. Equating care with compassion is a slippery slope to climb for one reason, and one reason alone. Forgiveness. Compassion requires one to forgive all that they know, presume, or judge and care for someone for the sake of caring. It seems that as the b-list character, compassion is something one can do from afar, which inevitably does not require any kind of real forgiveness. The starving in Africa have done nothing to harm you; have never offended your sensitivities; nor have they directly impacted your tax bracket. But to be compassionate to those in your own streets who are just as needy and just as hungry requires you to forgive them for all the misgivings you prejudge them for. This kind of forgiveness seems to be a lost art in our society.
Returning to my urban roots, and being reminded that not everyone is as lucky as I am, has forced me to think about this act of compassion. I used to be the kind of person who would give change, buy a coffee, or just engage in conversation with those who seemingly needed the friend. But now, having been in a society where the needy are shunned to the outskirts of town, I realize that I have forgotten how to be genuinely compassionate. Compassion, it seems, is not like riding a bike. You have to actively practice it for it to become a natural part of who you are.
So, how do you actively practice genuine compassion? Well, for starters, you have to learn to be comfortable with forgiveness. When faced with issues that hurt, or people who have harmed, learn to let it go. Just remember this: We are all human, and at one point you will hurt someone else and you will cause painful things for others. And when you do, you will want someone to forgive you. As humans, we are not perfect. Let the things that weigh you down go. Then, seek to be active in understanding what has caused pain, what has done the damage. You can try to fix it, if the situation allows, but that rarely is the case. Understanding and listening is the compassionate part.
After that, it becomes pretty easy.
But the point isn’t to be compassionate 100% of the time, it is to try to be as often as you can. Live a life in which compassion is valued. You will struggle with it at times, and in truth, you have to allow yourself those struggles. This is how you will be able to witness your own compassion at work, and ultimately grow because of it.
Life is just too short to not be compassionate.
/J
This story should be told…somewhere….
Let me tell you about my Ecuadorian sailor. Full head of black wavy hair, tiny stereotypical latino ‘stache, 5ft4, and dark but kind eyes. Andres.
I could tell, from the first time I laid eyes on him, that he was one of those people that are sustained by the open ocean waters. He was meant to live on the cool blue waters around the Galapagos islands and they welcomed him with a familial love. He was calm while the waters weren’t and he was at ease, swaying in time with the ebb and flow of the boat’s motions.
He was generally quiet, saying that which only needs to be said and leaving everything else to the silence. He was an early riser like me, and I would sit in the dinning cabin and watch him drink his coffee. I would watch him and wonder what he was thinking about. Was there a girl on his mind? Was he a father? Did he miss someone?
I found him intriguing and would watch him interact with his fellow sailors. Laughing at their jokes, and making the odd one himself. He seemed like that guy that everyone admired and that no one really fucked with. He was, it seemed, the one person that everyone trusted.
He only knew a little english, so we didn’t talk much at the beginning, but as time progressed, we started to have more conversations. Jilted and broken as they were, they were always pleasant and jovial. Because of this, when I needed a guard from the lecherous advances from the ship’s guide, I felt as though he would be a good candidate. I make a joke out of the guide, and he picked up on the hint. For the next day or so, he was my knight in shinning armor, keeping me protected from the waggly tongue of your typical Ecuadorian player.
The last night, standing on the upper deck of the boat, Andres and I were talking about the stars. As I stood there, with the ocean winds, blowing my hair about, Andres shifted his coffee cup to the other hand, reached over and touched my face.
“Tu et muy bonita”, he said. I blushed, but stared into those dark eyes. I hadn’t been called beautiful for quite some time, and in that moment in time, it was exactly what I wanted to hear. Embarking on an adventure that would have never been had it not been for my demolished heart, being called beautiful by a lonely Ecuadorian sailor seemed….poetic.
He had to go launch the dingy taking the rest of the boat’s crew to land for the night, and I wanted to wander away from being alone in the one place the guide would most certainly be able to corner me, so I travelled around the boat, slowly taking in the sights of the relatively busy port. Once everyone had left, I was reading in a lounge chair on the second deck. I was only a few pages into the next chapter when all the lights went out. Curious as to what had happened, I wandered back down to main deck, where I found Andres doing his rounds. I explained to him, as best as I could, that I just needed one light, but instead he guided me back to the bridge and showed me where all the light switches were. We stood there in the dark for quite a while, and he touched my face again.
We kissed, right there, on the bridge. I knocked over instruments as the kissing became more passionate and urgent. He laid soft kisses down my neck, on my chest and poured equal amounts of affection onto each breast before guiding into the empty cabin. There, we made love. A term I hate and rarely use, but this, this was different than anything I had experienced. He was devoted to me in that short little while, he told me I had a beautiful body, he tasted all parts of me. He made me feel feminine and pretty. He made me feel wanted.
When we were finished, he went down to the bar and stole us a couple of beers. We sat, wrapped in the sheets, and shared stories about our lives. It was only as the conversation was winding down again that I realized that I should probably get back to my own cabin. He walked me back to the door, kissed me good night and went back to his job of taking care of the ship while the passengers slept and the crew partied at port.
I woke up, early as usual, feeling refreshed and slightly remorseful. I do not regret anything that happened, only that it happened the night before my departure. But, as I got dressed and brushed my teeth, I realized that had it happened earlier on the trip, letting it be exactly what it was might have actually been harder to accomplish. I stepped out on to the deck and into the mess in search of coffee, only to find Andres on the same search I was. He smiled gently, and told me good morning. I asked him how he slept, and he pointed to the couch in the lounge area. He explained that the Leo, the guide, had returned early and kept him awake most of the night talking about stupid things.
We then stood out and watched life float by for what was probably only 20 minutes, but it felt more like an hour. Time just slowed right down that morning.
After I had packed and prepared for my departure, I ran into him one last time. He slipped his address into my hand, and looking around to ensure that no one was watching he kissed me one last time. And as my boat pulled away from the ship, I looked back to wave goodbye.
I am nearly positive I will never see him again, and while he may indeed have been playing me the whole time, I don’t really care. If he was playing, than he played well and I cannot fault him for having good game. Either way, I think I may send him a postcard one day in the future. If to only know I tried.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my story.
G’night.
/Jane
The road trip post.
There are those out there who suggest that it is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved before. Quite frankly, I feel as though those people haven’t lost very often. It’s a nice sentiment, but there is something deflating about loving someone and never doing anything about it, or never fighting for it.
That is not to suggest that I am in love, or that I didn’t fight.
In truth, I have loved with my whole heart and I would have gone to great lengths to keep it that way. I would have travelled to distant places, and I would have spent all my money. I would have easily walked away for everything else. It is deflating to have no confidence in the other person’s feelings for you. I guess, somewhere along the line, that is a problem with the beholder. Yet, when nothing that needs to be said actually gets said, it’s hard to trust in the situation at hand.
Mind you, this is not to suggest that I am in love, or that I didn’t fight.
I once joined an online dating site that required you to answer certain personality type questions – “Which is worse, book burring or flag burning?”; “Do you have to sleep with someone before you marry them?”; and, so on and so forth. My personal favourite is in regards to what it takes to make a relationship last – passion or dedication? About 95% of the profiles I read through, all belonging to men, answered “passion”. However, in my experience, passion alone does not make a sustainable relationship. It’s nice to have, and it sure is a lot of fun, but dedication means that you will give the relationship everything you can to make it work. Passion is, I believe, is a symptom of dedication. And for me, loving and losing means you only have passion and no dedication – which is a rather sad and lonely existence for one’s heart.
But I am not suggesting that I am in love, or that I didn’t fight. Or, that I lost for that matter.
I think I may be suggesting that I never stopped loving and pushed past it instead. I think I may be suggesting that I have been fighting against that fact for a long time. Either way, it sure would be nice if he picked up and travelled across the country to see about a girl, leaving no note for his buddy and a heartfelt note for his psychotherapist…
…wait….that’s the ending to Good Will Hunting. Nevermind. I’m going back to my beer.
Fenced in
I have been repairing and painting a fence since I landed back in Saskatoon. The process has become something just shy of consuming. I mend the holes, replace the broken boards, and paint away in silence all day. With the sounds of the quiet little neighbourhood as my soundtrack, I turn the old into the new and I spent too much time alone with my own thoughts.
I have to plan my cross country road trip, and I have to say goodbye to all the folks around here that I doubt I will ever see much more of. It’s all very humbling. I have yet to take stock of my clothing and my stuff and determine what I can and cannot bring with me. And I have yet to find places to sleep during the road trip. Somewhere, back in my head, I am starting to panic. But I still obsessively work away at this fucking fence. I am even dreaming about it now.
I have stories to tell you, my lovelies. Stories I want to devote all my attention into telling. I have a travel blog I have to finish. I have more theories and essays rolling around in my head. But instead I toil over the fence until long after the sun has gone down.
Things around me are shifting and I am not sure I am entirely comfortable with them. While I recognize that with time, people change and ideas change, I am still struggle to accept the change when it happens before my very eyes. Things shift and boundaries get blurred and everything else caught in the middle gets confusing. I think it may be love, my dearest, but I am unsure. I am just not sure if the turbulence is related to my soon to be exit, and no one seems to be able to be honest with me.
Just like all the rest — none of them have ever been able to really tell me what’s going on, and I am left to speculation and hypothesis as if I am supposed to understand the math that is involved.
So I just sit and paint the fence oxford brown. Following the grain. Trying to drown out the inquiry with road trip plans and ideas of what I will do when I first get to halifax.
/J
