Something engraved

Ever since I was a kid, I've liked graveyards.  Invariably, whenever people find this out about me the first thing they say is "WHY?", usually accompanied by a look of confusion on their face and incredulity in their voice. Now, of course this reaction makes sense. After all, the first thing most people would think of with a place where one buries the dead is...death.   Ooooh, isn't that an uneasy topic! Psychological studies have shown that death the #2 biggest common fear for people, only beaten by a fear of public speaking. My statement about liking graveyards has the side effect of plunging people into unintended mental proximity to one of the scariest things in life! *insert evil cackles here* And, if it's not death that gets them rattled, then it's ... ghosts.  You know, that thing that people say they don't really believe in, but actually kind of do in a spirituality-adjacent-but-creepy way.

Occasionally, however, following my declaration of graveyard love, the response I get back surprises me.  "I get it!" or "me too!"  There's something about these kind of responses that conjures a warm sense of fuzziness all the way from my heart to my toes. 

Look at this graveyard in the spring!

The people who get it usually understand this simple fact: graveyards are peaceful. There is the separation that occurs within a graveyard from the hubbub of society, and simultaneously with this separation comes a return to nature.  There is stone, grass, trees and quiet, calm. If this was the one redeeming quality of graveyards they would still be very lovable, but to borrow the words of the world's most infamous infomercials: wait, there's more! 

Beyond the space to think and breath within a busy life, there is also an incredible sacred dimension to graveyards.  In my graveyard wanderings I've found myself drawn into the story of life and death - of the circle of life.  I've become aware that I am part of that circle, part of the loop of common humanity.  I am not alone in my humanness.  The people who are buried around me are people who lived, laughed, loved, suffered, cried, felt trauma, failed, succeeded.... they weren't perfect but they did come before me and they paved the way for me to be here, now as I am.  Drawn into this story I feel an incredible sense of connectedness that transcends time even while including time. 

In memory of that time I sat on the kindness bench

Part of me is very aware at how long this preamble has been, but I felt like it was necessary to provide some context before I start posting pictures of random tombstones on my blog.  You see, this morning I decided to go for a walk and ended up in the nearby graveyard.  Once there I started with an activity I would recommend people try: reading tombstones.  And by "reading" I don't mean just look at the words - rather, take in their meaning, figure out what story they are telling.

 For example, take this gravestone family story:

From what I can piece together, we have John and Elizabeth, who were married (she was three years older than he was) and their daughter Christina who lived to a ripe old age of 92. It's hard to place Frederick - there's no age - but one would assume there is at least a 20 year age gap between him and Christina, judging by the dates of death and from what we know about normal life expectancy. So, I'm guessing Frederick is a grandson to John & Elizabeth, perhaps Christina's son??  If that is true though, why is he the one who gets to go on the tombstone over any other grandchild? Were there no other grandchildren?  The fact that Christina has her maiden name and no listed husband makes me wonder more - did she have this child out of wedlock?  Where is the father?  Was she a single mother and Frederick was her only child?  Are you not as fascinated as I am that we have stumbled into this mystery with only names, ages and dates?!

But I'm not done yet, there's more to the story this tombstone tells.  There's another name on the list, Alida, and she stands out because of the footnote that came only moments before.  She is not called the "wife of" Frederick, but he is called her husband.  If you study enough gravestones you'll realize how rare this is.  Women are often treated like belonging to the man rather than the other way around.  There is a subtle sense of hierarchy in this presentation, that when repeated indefinitely across hundreds or thousands of tombstones diminishes the value of women in general.  And yet here, I immediately felt the sense of respect in these words towards this woman who even though she is not related by blood to this lineage seems to be grated this place of esteem. He was her husband too, she was not just his wife.  

~

On my way home I found myself reflecting on some of the most common engravings to be seen on gravestones: "in loving memory", "loving wife", "loving husband", "I am the resurrection and the life" .... one of these things is not like the others.  There is so much that can be said in a few a words that adds context to the whole story. And yet, some phrases are used so often they have almost lost their meaning, they're basically platitudes.  So, I was wondering, what it might be like if we started including in these few words a story about the person that was a little less conventional?  Something like:

    "kicked ass in life"
    "epic level friend"
    "beloved by her cats and husband"   or
    "Canadian to the core"  

What do you think?  What story would you want people to read about you, if a random stranger was seeking your story on a gravestone and you only had a few words to tell it in?

Something ... brain... no words...

Have you ever had your brain implode?

I'm talking about that stop in your tracks, do not pass go, do not collect $200, can't put words together into sentences type of mental implosion.  The kind that if you try to back your car down the driveway you would run into a fence because you can't handle the mental load of shoulder checking over two shoulders at the same time?

Yeah, I probably shouldn't have tried to back the car down the driveway last night.

I knew something was off with my brain as soon as my last client left the office for the day and I couldn't remember what my goals for the evening had been and also could care less that I couldn't remember.  A small semi-lucid part of me observed this phenomenon and thought it was quite interesting; after all for the past couple of days my brain hadn't been able to shut up about the to-do list that I had to get done in preparation for moving into the my new condo in August.  I've been struggling the last few days to eat and sleep and do recreation properly, and it was like that part of my brain had finally worked itself into exhaustion, like a kid who falls asleep during dinner with their face in the plate and then their parents take embarrassing photos to commemorate the moment.

Despite the lack of mental cohesion I couldn't miss the 7 foot tall corner cupboard occupying the passenger space next to me and entire back of my car after I had finally stumbled down from the office to go home.  Right, that had been on my list of things to do - get shelf into garage.  No consideration about whether this was wise to attempt when a person has absolutely no brain power in their mental tank, there was only autopilot.  Hence backing the car down the driveway, managing to avoid the brick wall to the right, directly into the fence on the left. The fence survived (hooray).  My tail light did not.

 

It's semi-repaired.  Kind-of.

There wasn't enough brain power to be upset at the situation, no rewind, just facts.  I simply unloaded the cabinet and moved on to the next reasonable thing to do.  Which was to go get superglue and sit on the asphalt of the driveway in my dress and proceed to glue my fingers together for the next 30 minutes. 

.......It may not have been my best or brightest moment.....  

My one successful intelligence check of the night was that it finally occurred to me that maybe this wasn't a task to be attempting when my brain couldn't think enough to tell my fingers what to do.  We'll consider it a graceful surrender.

Something weather-related

 "We had the worst weather today!" I tell this to my sister as we greet each other on the virtual call that makes 800+km of distance shrink down to mere milliseconds in cyberspace.

"Let me guess," she says, "Three inches of ice and you can't get into your car?"

"YES!  And there was a THUNDERSTORM AT THE SAME TIME!!!!"

"........ wow."

I'm glad I don't have to drive anywhere this morning...

I feel like by posting this picture I'm inviting other Canadians to join me in a weather measuring contest of "my weather is worse than yours!" Take exhibit A, sent to me by a friend this morning:

She told me she couldn't get out of the driveway this morning.

Or exhibit B, taken from my Facebook feed:

Years ago, when I was travelling across the Canada I remember overhearing someone comment that "Canadians sure like to talk about the weather."   

 "....Yeah, because we have a lot of it!" Was the reply.  

I also once heard a statistic that Canada has more weather channels than pretty much any other country on earth.  Indeed, the first lesson for small talk 101 in Canada is "If you have nothing else to talk about then talk about the weather!"

So all that said, I don't know if this blog entry has anything significant to say other than to talk about the weather.  Like, last year we got a crazy windstorm in Ottawa that knocked power out at my home for a week. The local trails were untraversable for the rest of the summer due to the number of knocked down trees blocking the paths.

I exaggerate not.  This is a tame example.  I didn't even capture a photo of the tree that fell on a house down the street.

I wasn't even surprised this morning when I arrived at the local coffee shop to receive the inquiry from the owner that she has repeated to every person who has come in since, "Do you have power?"  The truth is that we lost power at our house only for 10 minutes last night at 8:30pm, but apparently the people down the street have lost power overnight and still have no power this morning.  Somehow, after last year's experience of losing power for a week, I fail to be shocked.

I guess the small silver lining that may go unappreciated amidst our crazy Canadian weather is that it gives us something in common, almost akin to a national identity.  It is something we can talk about, something that unites us in experience, and builds the sense of community, of fighting against a common foe.  With all the war and political drama around us, I'd definitely prefer if weather was the only source of conflict, instead of each other.

Something pricey

Let's talk about my current living situation. 

Ultimate cosmic powers! Itty bitty living space.

This is my bedroom.  It is also my office, my living room, my coat closet, my library and my game room: my only option that I can truly go to to have my own space when I am home.  Not so apparent from the photo is how small the room is - only made to appear bigger by virtue of my ingenious furniture arranging skills, where I have pushed the single bed against the wall so as to have a scrap of floor space that struggles to accommodate my flailing limbs when I attempt yoga within the confines of its boundaries.  If I lay down on the floor, my feet touch my bedside table and my head is next to the wicker chair that I salvaged off the street to use as a desk chair.   

"Surely," you might say, "There are more places in the house you can go to other than your room?  What about a kitchen?  A bathroom? Living room?"

You mean the mould-infested bathroom with the discoloured floor and the salmon-pink tub, where in desperation one day I took a scrub brush in order to scrape off the strange yellow substance growing in the grout between the ancient tiles?  That bathroom?

 You mean the kitchen that is so long and thin that the only way to have two people in it at once is for one person to squeeze themselves into the counter-top and suck in all their bits so the other person can pass?  Where the best way to make dinner is to wait for the other person to finish making dinner, however long that might take? That kitchen?

Oh, the living room!  You mean the living room that is occupied almost 24/7 by the only other occupant of the house, both my landlord and my roommate? 

 ...  I suppose this would be a good time to introduce my roommate.

CHEESE!

This is Tony, an 87-year-old Italian immigrant, a lovely man who is respectful of my boundaries and who couldn't remember my name for the entire first year we lived together (My name was "Nme" mumbled really quickly in hopes I wouldn't catch on). There is definitely a generation gap between us, complete with a difference in values.  He's finally stopped telling I need to get a real job that is 9-5 and not work on weekends.  Sometimes he appears at the door of my room to tell me his phone is broken, because his finger accidentally hit a button on the smartscreen of his cellphone and he doesn't understand the interface.  

The COVID pandemic was not easy on my roommate.   Before lockdown measures he would go out multiple times a week to play cards in an Italian bar for candies or to community dance events to rip up the floor with the good old-time rock-and-roll (he likes the fast songs).  Of course, once the lockdown began, all of that ended and he found himself with nothing to do, except to stay home and watch news that he only marginally understood the context of, and nostalgically reminisce about returning to his native country one last time before he dies.  I've watched as he's lost enthusiasm to go out and as his health has begun to falter.  It is becoming increasingly apparent to me that the day is coming when he's either going to need to move into a home where there is assisted living, or that one day I might come home and find out that he's had a heart attack.

Not happy thoughts.

But they are practical thoughts, because despite the cheap rent, it is clear that the day is coming where I will need to find my own place.  Also, I would like to be able to enjoy the pleasure that comes from being able to sit on a couch in the living room without having to listen to someone's life story or watching wrestlemania on tv.  I would like to be able to make dinner when I'm hungry without having to delay it for an hour if my roommate is concocting something in the kitchen.  It would be nice to be able to see my virtual clients from my home without having to worry that they are getting a professional view of my bed, or worry that, half-way through the appointment, my half-deaf roommate might answer the phone and loudly ask the person to repeat what they are saying or give a "F*** YOU" to the telemarketers.

Now that I have described my living situation you might be able to understand why I would possibly want to buy a house in this horrendous market that we are experiencing right now, where all housing is over-priced and interest rates are jacked to their highest rates since 2008.   You might even be wondering why I haven't moved out sooner.

 Believe me, it's been a test of patience.

 First, I was in university and planning to move back to BC afterwards.  Then I was graduated, in student debt and making a pittance. In fact when Canada's CERB benefit came out at the dawn of the COVID era in the summer of 2020, $2000/month was about $600 more than my monthly living allowance.  (It was a bit of a disappointment that I wasn't eligible to apply).  Since then I have pinched pennies where they could be pinched and then, when I finally felt financially secure enough to consider renting my own place, rent prices surged.  Now the cost of rest is equivalent or higher to the cost of getting a mortgage, even with $500+ condo maintenance fees and property taxes in the thousands of dollars and interest rates at the highest they have been in over a decade.  Voluntarily raising my living expenses by 4x the amount with nothing to show for it at the end sounds like the quickest way to say to someone else "Take all my money."

I talked to a mortgage broker yesterday.  My penny pinching has paid off and I have over $30,000 prepared for a down payment on a home, over half of that saved in the past two years.  I don't have a steady job but as a self-employed business owner my income has been stable for over a year now.  Now, with home prices looking they might fall in the near future and two years of provable self-employed income in my tax records, I thought maybe I could take a chance and get prepared by seeking pre-approval for a mortgage.

....yeah.... Yesterday I was told that, with my current income, I wouldn't even qualify for a mortgage within the $300,000 price range.  That's the cost of some of the cheapest condos in the city.  I was told that if I wanted a bank to take me seriously, I would need to double my down payment to at least 20% ($60,000), and that I should consider trying to borrow money from other people.  When I expressed my frustration at the system the broker had the nerve to try and justify the situation from the perspective of the banks. I interrupted him and changed the subject.  I get it, from the bank's perspective it's understandable, and I don't give a rat's ass about the perspective of the banks in this moment.  

 What I do see is that I am in a lucky position - at least I live with an 87-year-old Italian roommate who doesn't milk me dry for all I'm worth in rent.  At least I have the option to save money.  What about all the other people who are being taken advantage of?  Who can't save to buy a home because inflation has vastly outstripped wages?  Who are stuck paying off other people's mortgages while banks won't even consider them for their own mortgage, because on paper they aren't "good enough"?

I hate feeling like I have to hope for other's poor fortune (e.g. a drop in home prices or bank foreclosure) in order to have a hope that one day I might have a place to call my own: a place where I can paint the walls, own a cat and maybe even have my own coat closet to put my shoes in.

Something intentional

Despite having less than an hour until my first client of the day the sunny blue sky and relatively balmy temperature of -6 degrees celcius had called to me to bask in the brightness of the morning.   

 

 

 "It's such a beautiful day," I thought to myself as I stepped out of the office.  "It would be a shame to not enjoy it." I step onto the sidewalk that is covered in glistening sheet frozen ice heralding the potential impact of butt on concrete and immediately retract my statement.  "On second thought, maybe this isn't the best time for a walk."  I immediately shake off the doubts like dandruff, and choose instead to stick to my old mantra: a little bit is better than nothing.  I don't have to walk far or fast, but a little bit of exposure to a glorious morning would be good for my soul.

As I walk through the frozen streets of downtown, the bright light of day obscured by obnoxious multi-story buildings, my mind turns to reflect on my day.  It is a five client day.  The sense of anxiety spikes a bit in me with that thought.  Five clients is my maximum client load for the day.  Working as a psychotherapist I have found the formula for energy output is as follows: three clients feels like a brisk walk - you feel the exercise but it is refreshing, four clients is like the walk plus the weight lifting in an hour-long workout - you are tired but satisfied with what you have accomplished, and five clients is like adding an extra 5k jog onto the end of aforesaid workout - you barely manage to drag your lifeless corpse back home so you can make your best face-down pancake impression onto the foot of your bed.  Reflecting on this, a part of me inwardly groaned.  I already knew how the day would go: I would feel anxious before seeing clients knowing of the strain that the day would bring, I would struggle to write my notes because my brain would go on strike in an effort to preserve energy, I would be exhausted when I got home and spend the rest of my night watching youtube mindlessly in my room, probably having popcorn for dinner because it's popcorn (💘).  Sadly, despite the promise of popcorn, it did not sound like an appealing day.  In fact, it was a crime against beautiful weather that my day might end up so aimless.

What kind of person do you want to be today? The thought drifted into my mind like a gentle six-sided snowflake.

"I want to be someone who goes to the gym after work today." I responded out loud, impulsively, impishly. "And who doesn't get anxious about seeing clients."  

Wait. If I wanted to be those things, why couldn't I actually do them?  Maybe I could go to the gym after work; after all I keep my gym bag in my car for those moments when the all-to-fleeting willingness to subject myself to the germ pool that is public workout equipment presents itself.  And maybe, at least for today, I could be a person who doesn't get anxious when seeing clients; after all, I'm a therapist - I have skills for that! Skills like mentally reframing who I want to be and believing I can do it (!!!!).

With that thought, like magic, the anxiety towards seeing clients for the day faded and was replaced with a faint excitement. The excitement is infectious, spurring me onwards. What else did I want to be today? 

 "I want to be a person who reads and takes morning walks!"   The thought had barely materialized when I realized that I had actually already accomplished (or was in the process of accomplishing) those two items on my agenda that morning.  In fact, I was already beginning to resemble the person I wanted to be. Huh, go me!

"I want to be someone who completes her notes.  I want to be a person who eats salad for supper!"  Now I was really getting into the spirit of things.  Lettuce go big or go home (pun intended)!  I immediately took a sharp turn right so I could angle my walking path towards the grocery store where I could find a salad to eat after work before heading to the gym.

"I want - ..... I want...." Wait.... was that it?  I mentally reviewed my list of goals and felt the slow sink of disappointment. It was like getting housecleaning chemicals as a birthday present.  Sure, this list encapsulated well my daily goals that might inhabit any typical Saturday working day, but it lacked pizazz, spice, le joie de vivre.  After seeing my clients, eating my salad and working out, was that all I could really expect of my day? I want to be a person who has more than this to look forward to in a day.

"I want to be a person who blogs."  The words slip out of my mouth, under my breath before the thought has even fully formed. I blink and process what I just said. What?  Okay, full confession, blogging has made it onto the goal list in my birthday journal entries for the past two or three years, but the act has been stymied by a lack of inspiration, content and willpower.  But, today, on the freezing cold below-zero street of Ottawa none of that mattered.  Rather the question today was, if I decided to become a person who blogs, what would I need do to make that happen?  

Step one: because this is a blog that is called A Picture of Something, I would need to take a picture. 

    I pause to take a picture in that morning of the February morning street.

Success! Moment captured!

Step two: Since the picture usually informs the entry, what is this entry about?  Well... I guess the picture is about my decision to blog.  It's about a morning walk and the mental conversation that took place with it.  So meta of me, in a non-Facebook way.

Step three: Make time to write. Perhaps easier said than done, but I have thirty minutes before my first client, and since I decided that I'm not going to be a person who gets anxious today that frees up a bit of time, fifteen minutes at least, to get started on my post for the day.

 

But first.... salad!

 

Something about a tree

 Once upon a time a long time ago in a family Christmas far away I received a tree in a Secret Santa gift exchange. It was a cute fluffy evergreen looking thing with tiny little needles covered in glitter...Lots of glitter.  It was the kind of gift no one else wanted.  

This is the best picture I have
of the tree in its original form,
cropped from a much larger picture. 
It is the one in the red pot.

 

 No one but me, that is, because as soon as that tree fell into my lap I was besotted.  It was just too cute!  Also, I have a thing for trees.  There's something about how tall they get, about the branches that grow outwards like nature's ultra-climbable jungle gym, and about the shade those branches provide, when you look up through the leaves and can catch a glimpse of the sky without being perpetually blinded by the sun.  When I was a child I remember swearing a promise to myself in the middle of weeding one of my mother's six gigantic flower beds, "When I grow up I'm not going to have flower beds - I'm going to grow trees! You don't have to weed trees - you just prune and fertilize them once a year then they practically take care of themselves!"  Plant perfection, as far as I was concerned.

This tree arrived at a clutch time in my life.  It arrived the same Christmas that my dad died. .... (I just had this realization...).  It was also at a time when I was struggling to learn the secret of how to keep house plants alive.  (For more about my plant growing chronicles, you can read this entry).  When I received this tree I remember dreaming of it one day growing into a large and proud Christmas-sized tree that could fit presents under it and be a shining example of my ability to keep plants alive!   It was a symbol of life and hope in a world that had been rocked by the shadow of death.

... Nearly ten years pass by and this tree continues to grow in its pot. It moves with me back into my mother's home.  My mom's cat decides that playing in the dirt in the pot is fun.  We booby trap the dirt with plastic forks to keep the cat out.  The cat is understandably upset about this. She starts to dig around the forks.  We put more forks in the pot until the dirt is filled with point white spikes.  It's s a true battleground standoff.  The cat surrenders, and we win!

... The tree continues to grow.  I move away, leaving the tree with my mother.  "Please take care of it." I beg her, perhaps a bit unreasonably, thinking that one day I would return and this tree would be part of my life once again.  She agrees like a saint, and keeps watering it despite the awkward amount of space it now commands in her office.  The thing is, I don't return... instead I get my master's degree and get a job, deciding to stay in a city that is on the opposite side of the continent....

... The tree continues to grow.  It now looks impossibly huge for its small pot having never been repotted in the ten years it has been alive.  My mom buys a new home and needs to downsize.  It's time for the tree to go.  And me, still somewhat attached to this tree although I haven't lived with it in over five years ask "Do you think we could plant this on my aunt and uncle's property?"  Yes, I knew my mother was moving, and was super busy and had no time or energy to her name.  Yes, I felt like I was being a huge imposition on both her and on my aunt and uncle for asking to use their property for my thing.  But, despite all this, I ask because it's my tree and I feel responsible for its life, even if it is a plant!  I want it to live a full and happy life, a life I can no longer provide for it.  Be free tree!  Be free!

 

It's grown so big!

I got this lovely picture from my aunt a few days ago.  The tree has been planted in its new home with love and care, a large painted rock I once used as a doorstopper decorating the plot.  My heart leaped with joy and excitement as I opened the message on my phone.

"What kind of tree is it?" My aunt texts me the question.

".... I don't know." I reply, explaining that I got the tree in a Secret Santa.

About few hours later she replies, "After a bit of research we came to the conclusion that "the tree" is perhaps a Norfolk Island Pine...which is usually available at Christmas time as a cute indoor mini alternative Christmas tree.  It is apparently a tropical tree and is in no way suitable for our Canadian winters."

I stare at the text message mortified, then I start laughing.  All that to-do about a tree, and it was doomed to begin with!  All that effort put into preserving its life, and yet, alas tree, I fear this may be your last summer.

 RIP: Tree.

2012-2021

Something fun!

 Pandemics suck.  I think we're all in agreement on this by now.

I'm no stranger to spending a lot of time at home.  As a teenager I was the queen hermit of indoor individual entertainment, computer games ftw.  The thing is that after a lot of growing up, reflection and work on my own mental health, I realized that I felt a lot better about myself if I introduced variation to my environment, if I went out and spent time with people and actually developed friendships, if I made sure to have some fun. Not that computer games aren't fun - THEY ARE. (And yes I fully acknowledge my own bias).  But there is something about the spontaneity of physical fun, that steps away from the computer screen and involves being in the material, tangible world, that touches a different part of the soul.  It's this kind of fun that (at least for me) has gotten vampire-sucked out of life by the pandemic.

I started realizing my lack of fun a little over a month ago.  I suddenly had a revelation it was the middle of March 2021 and OH MY GOD it's the middle of March 2021?!!!!  How had time passed by so fast and yet so slowly?! How had the year managed to suck so much that I could barely remember a moment of actually feeling true appreciation and excitement for life in almost three months???  The monotony was too real:  the same places, same activities, the same things every day, day in and day out. That was what life had been reduced to.

Since then I've been looking for small ways to bring fun into my life.  It's challenging, I admit... especially when one's only daily companion is an 85 year old half-deaf Italian roommate with whom there is almost nothing in common... but today I went for a walk by the river.  And in the course of walking by the river in the middle of this bustling city, I saw a small dirt path that left the paved trail and I decided to act on a whim of spontaneity.  Let's explore and see where this goes. I ended up walking through weeds to the edge of a small unpopulated peninsula that led straight to the water.  I saw a duck in a tree.  That was weird. 

Don't tell me
this isn't weird

 

And then after enjoying the silence, reflecting and praying, I began to seek the opportunity to get the ultimate selfie, because... why not? 😄  I  found myself engrossed in moving back and forth from the camera trying to get my phone to perch perfectly on a branch of a tree because I was nothing if not determined to get my picture, never mind the mortal risk to my phone from being in such a precarious position.  And I let myself get lost in moment, in the fun, because for me photography is a form of play.  And play these days, especially in the middle of a pandemic, is in such precious short supply.

So whether you think that selfies are vain or not, this photo was worth it because it allowed me to engage with the physical world and get some joy out of life today. I hope that you can find your fun too. 

💗

CHEESE!