Robin Redbreast by the grave side

Surrounded by the graves of strangers I feel completely at ease. 

I like to go to the cemetery when I need to clear my head. It's a great place to go when you need to think - it's quiet, steeped in nature, and no one bothers you. It's the only place in the city where people don't stop me to ask for directions. 

I walk along the path between the headstones and think about my week, mulling over my problems, smiling at my victories, and letting the lives of those who've gone before me help me put things into perspective. 

The sun is shining, but despite the pale blue sky I can see the moon. It looks like a small white button that has popped off a shirt and is waiting to be noticed. I stop to admire this scene and take a deep breath, the air almost smells of spring. At once I feel content and at peace until I'm distracted by the flapping of a bird's wing. I turn slowly to locate where the noise is coming from, when all of a sudden the sound multiples all around me. 

Robins, more than I can count, are shooting into the air from beneath the shadows of the headstones at my feet. I stay perfectly still and let them fly past me to a portion of the path ahead. They land haphazardly amongst the stones and I try and count them - five, twelve, sixteen, no, twenty, twenty-one? As soon as I think I've counted them all they move and seem to add more to their ranks. They hop between the graves, poking at the grass, and standing on the stones, all the time flapping their tiny wings. The noise reminds me of waves crashing on a beach, but it doesn't sooth me, instead it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. 

I've never seen this many robins in one spot before, and I'm surrounded by them. Robins have a rich history in folklore, with their blood red breast tying into tales of hell fire and the crucifixion of Christ. But there is another tale that came to my mind as I stood as still as a statue amongst the graves - it is said that if a robin finds a dead body it will cover it with leaves or moss. This lore was depicted in Babes in the Wood, a story from the 1500s, where robins cover the dead bodies of abandoned children with foliage. 

Newly dug graves dot the cemetery where I walk and I wonder if the robins have come to cover them. If lore is to be believed, maybe they are, but I don't stick around to find out. Instead I side step slowly away from the birds, keeping one eye on them and the other on the path that leads me to the street. Every time I move the robins stop flitting about the grass and watch me, so my progress is slow. Their movements and their gaze has unsettled me and my stomach feels like it's fluttering faster than their wings. 

Robins are said to be a sure sign of spring, but in a graveyard maybe they signify something more, something older than lore. 

The woman in the rain

Last week, on a rainy day not unlike the one we're experiencing right now, I was stopped by an old woman all dressed in blue. 

I was hurrying down Yonge Street on my way to work when she caught my eye and beckoned me over to where she was standing on the corner. I removed my ear buds, shifted my book bag about, and asked if she was okay. 

She wanted to know if I was heading to the subway and if I wouldn't mind walking her in that direction. She was old, she explained, and afraid she'd slip on the wet sidewalk, so she needed a steady hand to lean on while she made her way to the bank. I offered her my arm and off we went down the street. 

We were only a block away from her destination, so I didn't think this would take much time until we started walking. And by walking, I mean shuffling, at a pace slower than I thought possible. Suddenly this city block seemed like a 1000 mile journey and time began to slow and stretch before me - this was going to be a long walk. 

As she carefully put one foot in front of the other, arm looped with mine, she pointed out how wet everything was, how slick the sidewalk had become with the rain, and how the pavement seemed to slant towards the road. Despite having lived in this neighbourhood for almost eight years and having walked this stretch of road countless times, I'd never noticed the slant in the sidewalk until she pointed it out. "Why do they build sidewalks like this?" She asked me. "It's quite dangerous, you could slip into the road." 

We made pleasant conversation as commuters rushed around us on their mad dash to the train. She asked if I was in school, or if I was heading to work. Did I work downtown? Was my commute awful? I asked her how she managed in the winter when the sidewalks were icy and covered in snow. "Winter is hell," she said. As someone who has landed butt deep in slush on an icy run to work, I couldn't help agreeing with her. 

When we got to the corner she asked if I could help her cross the street. By this time I was already ten minutes late for work, so I said "of course", and we began our snail-like amble across Yonge. A very busy Yonge, in the midst of rush hour traffic, with construction dominating one corner and buses roaring past on Eglinton spraying pedestrians with gritty puddle water. The orange hand on the cross walk started to flash its countdown and we were barely half way through the road. She must have felt my arm tense because she quietly said "we'll make it" as she continued to shuffle by my side. Our time ran out and cars gingerly drove around us as we completed our crossing. 

We finally made it to the bank and she squeezed my arm and thanked me three times for my help. I asked if she'd be okay getting home, and she said she'd manage. "Manage" being the operative word here. A walk that would have taken me less than two minutes had taken us almost fifteen to complete. A road that I wouldn't balk at to cross suddenly seemed like a horrifying obstacle course when I looked at it through the eyes of this little, grey-haired lady dressed in blue. I told her to have a good day, but I couldn't help but wonder how good it would be if there wasn't anyone to help her. This city isn't set up to accommodate people who move slower than the average rat-race clip and I worried about how long it would take her to get home. 

I ended up being very late for work, but I learned a valuable lesson, which made my tardiness seem worthwhile. For the past week I've been trying to see things through the eyes of the little old lady in blue in attempt to observe more and appreciate the ease of my youth. I've slowed down my commute so I can observe my surroundings, like the slant in a sidewalk, or how quickly my neighbourhood is growing. And today, I took out my earbuds and listened to the rain patter on my umbrella as I walked. It was a nice sound, and I slowed to a shuffle. 

Renoir, the man knew how to paint an umbrella. 

The Book Diet

I have a serious problem with books.

I'm always popping into bookstores just to "browse." I'm just having a look - I say. I'm not going to buy anything - I promise.

I wander by shelves, and riffle through stacks, and flip through copies of books I've never heard of, and sometimes - this is embarrassing, but - I smell the pages. You may come across me in a used bookstore one day with my nose in a book, not because I'm reading, but because I'm sniffing paper. I was yearbook editor in high school and I had a really bad paper sniffing problem then too. The moment those freshly printed books came in, I'd crack open the box and take a big whiff. Oh man, the only thing that smells better than an old book is a box of shiny, new Jostens yearbooks. I swear to Hemingway, it smells like ink and victory.

I accumulate tomes at a prodigious rate. I read and read, but I always have stacks of books I haven't read yet and I just keep buying more. So they pile up. They filled case after case, and I finally had to start storing them in bins, which I'd stack in the closet one on top of the other until there was room for nothing else.

Yup, sounds about right. 

I always thought I had my problem under control though. After all, I'd read all these books one day, right? There would be time. It wasn't until I moved that I realized I needed an intervention.

Packing my books was a daunting task, so I kept putting it off. It wasn't until my friend Lisa came to visit that the books got boxed up. Lisa is awesome in so many ways, but one of the things she's amazing at is being an organized packer. The morning we tackled my shelves she said "this will take two hours tops." Time went by and at the two hour mark we'd barely gotten through half of one of my bookshelves. Incredulous, Lisa exclaimed "are they multiplying? Because it feels like they're multiplying!" I don't know how we did it, but we somehow managed to get every book packed over the course of a weekend. A lot of tape was used to fortify the heavier boxes, and the smaller ones were stacked almost six feet high.

I stack and wedge books wherever I can find space.

The packing of the books was challenging, but I had help. When it came time to unpack them all in my new home I tackled the project alone - determined to get rid of a few titles as I went. I ripped open box after box and lovingly took out each volume and placed it on the floor. I had to organize and decide which ones could go. The morning turned into afternoon, which faded into evening, and I was still unpacking, sorting, and shelving books. After an entire day, hands sore, scraps of cardboard every where, I held two books... two. Out of all the books I had just unpacked I was willing to part with only two.

I wanted to scream at myself - "they're just books!" But I couldn't part with more than those two. Every title meant something to me, every story was one I wanted to experience. My book choices painted a picture of who I was as a reader and, by extension, who I am as a person. Giving up the books was like giving up a part of myself.

I read this book every year at Christmas.
It's become a tradition for me

That's when I decided to put myself on a diet. The guidelines are as follows:

• No books will be purchased for a whole year. (Borrowing is ok, trading is ok, the library is there for a reason, and I may accept books as gifts, but I'm not allowed to buy any until the year is up.)
• After I finish a book I have to seriously ask myself if I will ever read it again. If I don't think I'll get around to reading it in the next ten years than the book will be passed on to someone else. 
• I will not smell books in stores any more. I can look, but no sniffing! The smelling is what sometimes leads to the buying, so no more nose to paper contact. 

My boyfriend tries to help by finding books I want at the library.
(He also cooks. Bonus!) 

The half-year mark is approaching and so far my book diet is going well. I haven't purchased a single volume and I've gotten rid of a few titles. I've traded for a couple of new texts, and I've received some as gifts, but all in all I'm proud of my progress. Giving up a lifelong habit cold turkey is difficult, but when your habit has the potential to fall on you and bury you alive you've got to start taking it seriously.

Now... what are you reading? Anything new? Can I borrow it... does it smell nice?

Good grief: How do you deal with death?

The dust bunnies that have taken up residence in the corners of my apartment better hide because I am sweeping. Hunched intently over the broom scouring the floor for bits I've missed, I sweep the apartment again, and again. I'm wiping down counters, doing dishes, and reorganizing the little boxes that sit on my bedside table and store my favourite pieces of jewelry. I'm thinking about coating the tub in Vim and taking a toothbrush to the tiles. 

My apartment isn't dirty, so it doesn't really need this overhaul of vinegar and vacuum cleaners. I'm cleaning with such vigour because I'm sad. Yesterday someone I knew, someone I had interviewed and wrote about and talked to about life, died. 

The rational part of mind says that death is a part of life and there's no avoiding it, so I should just accept this passing. But the emotional part of my mind is in turmoil and is screaming that this isn't fair. She was too young - she should have lived longer - how did this happen and why? No fair, no fair, no fair - skipping like a scratched record my brain says "no fair." 

How do you deal with death and the grief that accompanies it? How do you handle something that happens whether you want it to or not? How do you prepare? 

I, rag in hand, knees on the floor, nose running from dust, clean. I clean because it's something I can control when life suddenly seems out of control. I scrub until the cries of "no fair" subside and I wash as if I can wipe the sadness away.

Good grief - a phrase often muttered by the ever relatable Charlie Brown comes to mind. Can there be such a thing as "good" grief? Maybe there can if we take each passing as a chance to remember what we've lost, reflect on what we still have, and take a moment to clean. 

What can you remember?

What is your earliest memory? If you close your eyes and think really hard can you recall it? What are you doing in the memory? Is it something important or mundane? Is there a smell associated with it, a taste, a touch? Where are you?

Every day I deal with people from all walks of life and some of them are growing very old. I watch them as they talk about memory like it's a shapeshifter that can't be tamed. One minute a memory is there, the next it's changed or disappeared entirely. They can tell me they'll remember what I've just said, but moments later they'll need reminding. "Do you have a pen handy" is a phrase I repeat often. 

Observing people as I do, I can't help but wonder what these seemingly forgetful people can remember from their past. They can't recall my name, but can they remember what kind of cake their mom baked for them on their birthday when they were eight? Can they remember what they wore on their first day of school or who their first crush was? 

I recently watched Still Alice and felt a creeping sense of dread as the movie progressed. Starring Julianne Moore as Dr. Alice Howland, a linguistics professor who faces early-onset Alzheimer's disease, the film shows how Howland goes from forgetting a word here and there to literally getting lost. As she slowly begins to forget, she grapples with remembering things that make her who she is - a recipe, her children's names, memories of her sister and mother, words. Moore's performance is devastatingly real and it chilled me to the bone. I couldn't help but think about what I would remember, or try to remember, if I were in that character's shoes. And when trying to remember anything at all fails and chance comes into play, what memories or details of my life would involuntarily stick and what would fade?

If I close my eyes and think back the earliest thing I can remember is a concrete step. It is spring time and I am sitting on this step beside a metal bowl filled with kibble. I can smell the grass, feel the roughness of the concrete, and I have kibble crumbs on my hands. I'm keeping my best buddy, a black cocker spaniel named Baron, company as he eats. I sometimes take a piece of kibble out of his bowl and set it on the concrete, so I can see his perfectly pink tongue curl out of his furry face to lick it up. I can hear my mom's voice through a door behind me. She tells me not to stick my hand in the dog's bowl while he's eating, to give him space. I hear her, and I understand that she's trying to warn me that I might get hurt, but I look over at Baron and he looks at me and we both know that we would never hurt each other. His eyes are a warm brown and they are full of love. Even though I can't be more than two-years old in this memory, I'm aware that at that time I knew that this dog cared for me more than anything. Which is probably why he tolerated me moving his food about for my amusement. 

None of us really knows how much memory we will lose as we age and whether we'll have someone ask us constantly if we have a pen handy to write things down. But if we did know and could select things to remember, what would you chose to keep? 

I'd want to keep that first memory of a concrete step, the smell of spring, my mother's voice, and a dog. It's a memory that I hope sticks because it's a memory where I am loved. 

A moment with Baron and my dad that I wouldn't 

be able to recall if it weren't for the help of this picture.

Resolute: How Changing the Way I Wrote New Year's Resolutions Made a Difference

The way I celebrate New Year's has varied widely over the past 15 years. I've gone from popping bubbly in a dark barn, surrounded by horses to getting kicked out of a cougar bar. I've gone from partying with strangers to gathering with my dearest friends. 

No matter how, where, and with whom I celebrate, I always do one thing the same - I write New Year's resolutions. The countdown to midnight and the first kiss of a new year is thrilling, but there's something about writing a list of goals to be accomplished over the next 365 days that really gets my heart pounding. 

What can I say, lists turn me on. 

I always broke my New Year's list down into categories: mental, physical, and personal success. Under each heading I'd carefully write my goals in point form, leaving space to add a check mark upon completion. I would format space for footnotes, so I could add details of my successes and failures as the year progressed. 

That may seem ridiculously nerdy to most, but all the other list lovers out there will understand that having a well formatted set of goals made me feel like I could accomplish them better. If the list was well laid out and resolute I thought my achievement would be absolute. 

This, of course, was not always the case. I was usually able to accomplish things under the 'physical' and 'personal success' headings, but I'd falter under the 'mental' category. I'd write things like "put yourself out there more"; "let someone in"; "trust."

I kept failing at these point form, short sentenced goals that had a lot to do with my mind and my heart. I'd try, I really would, but I'd always stumble and these goals would end up back on the list the following year. I'd write them out again, frustrated and determined to improve. 

Things didn't change until a weekend in 2014 when I was working at the National Women's Show. I was helping promote a book by Jacquie Somerville, a life coach and author. Jacquie's a live-out-loud kind of woman that tries to inspire others through her own life experience. Many people responded strongly to her suggestions; I responded to one in particular - how to write your New Year's resolutions. 

Jacquie's suggestion was to write New Year's resolutions not as a list of short-form goals, but as a manifesto made up of questions. Ask yourself these questions and the answers will be your goals: 

• Who am I going to be next year?
• What will I no longer tolerate in my life? 
• How will my life be different? 
• What do I want to feel, experience, and accomplish in (insert year here)? 
• Where will I go?
• What will I change? 

I was intrigued by this idea and decided to throw out my dedicated way of writing lists and give the manifesto a try in 2015.

Answering the questions was a lot harder than I anticipated. I thought about it for a long time and tried to be as crushingly honest with myself as I could be. The most challenging question was - what do I want to feel in 2015? 

I was afraid of my answer. 

I wrote: I want to feel true love. I want to feel like I can trust someone enough again to let myself fall in love. I want to feel safe in putting my heart and dreams into someone else’s hands.

Words from my old point form goals reappeared in my answer and although it was difficult to write down, I realized I had to take this resolution seriously. 

This year I celebrated New Year's Eve in my pajamas with some close friends. After the countdown and the midnight kiss, we all started talking about our best moments from 2015. What had we accomplished? What were we proud of? 

Although I'd done a lot professionally to be proud of that year, standing there with my boyfriend's arm wrapped around me I said "when we got the keys to our new place." 

Words I thought I'd never say. 

I'm going to write my New Year's resolutions the same in 2016, asking myself the questions and letting the answers be my guide. The tough question this year is: how will my life be different? 

A Caledon Christmas

You never know when you might be experiencing something for the last time. If you did, you might not look ahead so quickly. Instead you might linger a little longer in that place, in that time, and with those people that are next to you. 

I didn't know that last year I would be celebrating my last Christmas in Caledon, a place I'd called home for 20 years. My family had talked about moving for a long time. "We might not be here next year" was a phrase I heard so often that I had started to drown it out. So when the time finally came it was too late to realize that my last Christmas in Caledon was in fact THE last Christmas. Now every Christmas in Caledon will be a memory, a ghost of Christmas past. 

The holidays in Caledon aren't more special than they are anywhere else. There is the lighting of trees, the baking of goods, the gathering of friends, and the exchanging of glad tidings, but now that it's all in the past it somehow seems more dear. So here I will share a memory with you...

I'd come home from university to celebrate the holidays with my family. It was Christmas Eve and it was the first time I'd paused from my academic circus of juggling course work and part-time jobs in months. I was beyond exhausted, but still wanted to put my all into celebrating. After feasting on tourtière and probably a bit too much wine, my parents and I retreated to the basement where we put up our Christmas tree every year. 

The room was like a postcard - lights dimmed, a roaring fire and candlelight created a warm glow, accompanied by the smell of woodsmoke, cinnamon, and pine. The tree was covered with multicoloured lights and heavy with ornaments, the presents underneath waiting to be unwrapped. I sat in the wooden rocking chair as my parents curled up on the sofa to watch one of our holiday classics, The Bishop's Wife. My cat, Daisy, leapt onto the back of the couch to snooze behind my parents as we settled in to watch a movie we all know by heart. 

The warmth from the fire and the wine we'd drunk made us all sleepy, but I managed to stay awake as Cary Grant came to lend a helping hand to Loretta Young, both of them preserved forever in black and white on our TV screen. Soft snoring drew my attention away from the movie and I looked over to see my parents fast asleep on the couch. They had followed Daisy's lead and were dreaming the night away. They looked so peaceful - Mom, Dad, and cat - that I didn't want to wake them to tell them they were missing the best parts of the movie. Instead I just watched them and made an effort to memorize the moment. 

As I sat there enjoying this tranquil scene, Daisy's furry form, heavy with sleep, slowly started to slide down the couch. She was in such a deep sleep that she didn't realize she was falling onto my parents below. Her body slumped right on top of my mother's head. 

Mom seized awake, legs kicking, voice screaming "what?! what?!", grabbing at my father, who was jolted awake by all this noise. In his confusion he also started yelling - "huh!? What?!" The cat, who was awoken by the fall that had her crashing into the laps of two screaming adults, started shrieking in a panic. She leapt from lap to lap in an attempt to escape the swinging arms and cries of terror she had inadvertently caused. For a second the three of them were yelling and grabbing at each other as they tried to figure out what the commotion was about and why they were suddenly awake. 

I was doubled over with laughter, so it took me a moment to explain what had occurred. Mom and Dad settled down eventually and went back to peacefully dozing by the fireside, but Daisy was miffed for the rest of the night. Skulking around the house with her tail puffed up, she was ready to take up a battle cry again if need be. 

That is one of my favourite memories of Christmas in a home that I no longer call my own. It's silly, and it's brief, but it sums up my little family quite well. 

This year I spent my first Christmas Eve in Rosemont. Celebrating the holidays with my boyfriend's family, I got to make new memories and practice different traditions. Their family also includes two cats and lots of laughter, which reminds me of my family, and therefore already feels like home. 

A view of Caledon one Christmas many years ago