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!

 

Something on ice

"So, when was the last time you skated?"  I asked him.

"He" was a middle-aged middle-eastern man from San Francisco who just happened to also be my schoolmate at the school for French immersion.  His name: Mohommad. We were presently on our way towards the Plains of Abraham* to take in a afternoon of leisurely outdoor skating on one of the many outdoor skating rinks of the city.  Accompanying us was an 18-year old young lady from Mexico, also a schoolmate, who despite her vehement dislike of the cold, also claims to love snow and outdoor winter sports such as skating.  Her name: Alinna.  Mohommad from the USA, Alinna from Mexico, and me: a 30-year-old something from British Columbia, Canada. Yes, between the three of us we were together proudly representing the nations of North America.



Is the French word for a Zamboni "Zamboni"?

"Never." Mohommad replied to my question.  His voice was so matter-of-fact and devoid of self-consciousness that I was taken aback.  Maybe I had heard him wrong?  Or maybe he had misunderstood my question?

"Never?" I tried to confirm.  "You have never skated outdoors - or have you never skated at all?  You have never worn skates?" 

If you have ever learned how to skate you can understand why confirming this fact is very, very important. After all, I had just purchased skates after a personal 15 year skating famine, and for my first reintroduction onto the ice I had purposefully chosen to go on a freezing cold day to an out-of-the-way abandoned rink in order to avoid having an audience for my imminent performance of shame. And how shameful it was!   When I had first stepped onto the ice, it had taken all of my latent muscle memory and willpower to not become an ungraceful pancake.  At first I couldn't even move forward - I just let my legs wobble like a newborn Bambi.  After a couple minutes I had managed to summon enough stability to kind of scoot forward a little bit. And then I hit that little bump in the ice that sent me flying into a snowbank like a hockey puck.

If it had been that difficult for me, who had been a decent skater when I was a child, to get back on the ice - then for Mohommad, if he was truly a beginner.......

"No, this is the first time for me." Mohommad's voice was light and optimistic, giving off the impression that we were on our way to a picnic, and not about just about to go gliding on a rock-hard surface of frozen water on razor-thin blades of metal using muscles in his legs that he had never thought of using before.  A shiver of simultaneous horror and glee rippled through my spine.  The sadistic part of my soul couldn't help but revel in his apparent naivety, which was immediately in conflict with the nurturing, caring part of my soul that actually cares about the spiritual, mental and physical well-being of other human beings.

I couldn't blame him for assuming that learning how to skate is easy.  Watching the other people glide effortlessly on the rink in front of us made skating look as simple as breathing.  It requires the experience of having gone through the gauntlet to know what Mohommad was about to learn: that he was about to learn first-hand the true meaning of humiliation.

Sorry Mohommad, I thought to myself as we entered the shack adjacent to the rink to don our skates, but you are going to lose a little bit of pride today.  Let the fun and games commence!



On the ice and ready to go!

*If you managed to stay awake through the Canadian history portion of high school social studies, then you will remember that the Plains of Abraham are the site of a very important war fought between the French of the English, which ultimately determined the British dominance over British North America (later to be known as Canada).  If you weren't able to stay awake for that portion of the class then this footnote is for you.

Something velcro

It was after I arrived in Quebec that I began to see them.  They were everywhere - seemingly sprouting up around every corner - and I began to wonder to myself: "How many outdoor skating rinks does a city really need?"  No, I'm not talking about the frozen puddles in the middle of the street intersections or the ice-covered risk-your-life-to-use-them sidewalks. I'm talking about honest-to-goodness real-life skating rinks!



IT'S AWESOME!!! 

 

I have seen outdoor skating rinks before, but they have always been small and few and far between, kind of like my lottery ticket wins. It is probably because the winters in southern British Columbia are occasionally prone to periods of crazy thawing, making ice retention a bit of an issue. Take exhibits "A" and "B" for example, taken a month ago near my hometown:

 



EXHIBIT A:
Tulip Creek in Southern BC
Taken around January 16, 2016
Photo by Cristi-Lynn Villecourt

 "Winter in the Kootenays is kind of like having a generous aunt who shows up from time to time with cookies and a warm hug.  Winter in Quebec, by contrast, is like that cantankerous uncle with the frigid personality whom you can't seem to get to leave the house."
~ Myself, written right now 



EXHIBIT B:
Same place. It's only a little difference right?
Taken 2 weeks later, January 30, 2016
Photo by Stephanie Michelle Harron

A real benefit to the more consistently-cold winter of Quebec is that it allows for a genuine urban winter-culture to develop in and around the city.  And that culture manifests itself as skating rinks: many, many, beautiful puddles of frozen water for people to gracefully glide and fall on.  And seeing all of those many, many beautiful puddles of frozen water I couldn't help but feel an inner longing to join the people of the city in their winter-cultural pastime of gliding and falling.

Yes, it didn't take me long to make the decision: I needed a pair of skates.

Doing the mental math I quickly determined that it would probably be cheaper for me to purchase a pair of skates then trying to rent a pair any time the fancy to skate overtook my imagination.  My imagination can be rather overactive, and rentals average around $8 a pair per session. This equates to a hole burning through my pocketbook if I had to rent a pair everytime I wanted to step on the ice for 20 minutes.  And yes, I am under no illusions: my flights of fancy on the ice would last for almost exactly 20 minutes.  My feet have special magical skill of turning blue whenever they decide that they are getting too cold.  Spending prolonged periods of time in outdoor temperatures of minus something ridiculous is one of the fastest ways I can think of to tell my toes that I don't need them anymore.

On the other hand of the cost equation, I knew that the likelihood of using the skates again after I left Quebec City would probably be equivalent to me deciding to spend $6 for a head of cauliflower (aka: not likely; does anyone need cauliflower that much?).   The most economical decision therefore was to Google whatever "a thrift store" was in French (un magasin deuxieme-main) and hope that someone else in the city has perfectly average size 8 feet, just like me. 

Fortunately, stressing the perfectly average size of my feet and the abundance of skating ponds in the city, I correctly assumed that such thing would not be difficult to find.  The first thrift store I visited, La Village de Valeurs (translation: Value Village), had exactly 3 pairs of skates that would theoretically fit my feet.  One was missing the laces, the second pair was so rusted over that I wasn't even sure if they could be sharpened, and the third used Velcro fasteners that were falling off.  After weighing my options, I chose the pair with the least amount of rust - option #3 - and discovered that the skates were lacking one vital piece of information: a price tag.

It did not take me long to determine what needed to be done; I needed to go to the till and utilise my fledgling French communication skills to tell the cashier:

1. that I couldn't find the price tag, but
2. that the Velcro on the skates was falling off, and
3. ask if she could quote me a price for the skates. 

It would be like a right of passage for my advancement in Quebec society from "I can't speak French" to "I can communicate in rudimentary, pre-thought-out sentences!"  Advancement! What an exciting and novel concept: never before attempted on such a scale by yours truly!

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders, taking out my phone.  First things first.  I needed to find out the French word for Velcro. 

Incidentally, it is Velcro.

And so, having officially passed that advancement test with flying colours, I am now the proud owner of a pair of size 8 used ladies skates that sport a minimal amount of rust and velcro that likes to fall off.

The best thing about the purchase was the price: $5.99.  Less than the cost of rentals!  Less than a head of cauliflower!  I am feeling like the queen of bargain hunters!

TA-DA!

Something('s) cooking

I'm pretty sure that my host family in Quebec thinks that I'm trying to burn their house down.  In my defense I want to say that it's not that I am doing it on purpose! It's just that every time I cook lately it seems to result in an ungodly amount of smoke and other burning things.  And it's not that I'm a bad cook either.  ... ... ...  Okay, so I'm not a great cook, but I can get by all right.  When I started travelling more I determined that I would start doing right by my body and stop eating popcorn and nachos for supper.  Like a proper adult I determined to start applying the fundamentals of healthy cuisine. It's amazing how many different ways you can use onion, pepper, rice, eggs, broccoli, and a bit of cheese.

No, the problem with my cooking is not my cooking.  The problem, I've determined, is trying to speak French and cook at the same time!  This is because the process of trying to speak French at a beginner's level is not all sunshine, roses and pamplemousse.  It requires patience, dedication, a constant technological lifeline, a ridiculous amount of repeating words over and over again, and absolute focus.  Focus, which cannot be spent on such trivial things as making sure the food that you are cooking doesn't catch on fire.

The first "incident" happened, incidentally, on the night of my birthday.  I had bought a 2 pound bag of carrots from the grocery store because it was on sale and seemed like a good idea at the time.  As I stood there contemplating what to make for dinner, however, I had to acknowledge the fact that I am actually not a person who eats a lot of carrots.  That probably would have been a good thought to have while I was at the grocery store. 

I knew that I  would have to come up with a strategy for consuming said carrots, or my very limited fridge space (which the carrots were commanding a majority of) would be perpetually lost forever.  I looked at my almost-completed dinner and decided that I really should try to include a generous helping of boiled carrots.  I peeled and chopped the carrots and put them on the stove, then sat down to eat my dinner with the rest of the family.

And we started talking, in French.  The French which, if you remember, requires absolute focus.  This time I was able to multi-task enough to remember to eat the dinner that was in front of me.  Unfortunately, I was not able to remember that there were, in-fact, carrots cooking on the stove.  Nope, I did not remember this until my female host Helene left the table, effectively pausing the conversation for a moment.  My brain thus freed up to think about other things than French, I suddenly recalled the carrots I had been cooking and turned around to see a cloud of smoke billowing out of a pot on the stove like someone had just let off a nuclear bomb.  Yikes!  I dashed over to the stove to try and stop the disaster in progress, madly turning on fans while the male host, Franck, ran over to the sliding glass door to vent the smoke into the freezing elements outside.

It was then, when I holding the smoking pot of carrots in my hand that Helene returned to the room with a birthday cake full of lit candles ready to burst into song.  I was caught: orange and black-handed.  For the record, it is probably the most awkward thing in the world to be in the process of burning your dinner while someone else is trying to sing to you Happy Birthday.

I wish I could say that this was the only time that I had nearly set off the smoke alarm in home here, but the sad fact it that within the first month of being in Quebec it has happened, oh, four, or five, or six, or seven, or eight times.  In fact, it's been so regular that Franck finally declared (in English) last week while I in the middle of diffusing another such incident: "When you are cooking, it's English time!"

"Yes sir!"

Even French immersion must yield to the force of nature that is me in a kitchen.

Proof that I can cook a decent meal when it has my full attention!

Something that needs a better version of Google translate

I could see the very first night I had met the host family that there were going to be massive hurdles to overcome in learning the French language.  I greeted them as politely and properly as I knew how to in French (aka: "Bonjour"), and they greeted me back with a string of words that sounded like this to my ears: "Puweki sille ai u hogeons sow m'yden?" I immediately felt like a deer that had just been caught in the headlights: brain completely frozen and unable to process anything.  I tried to communicate my confusion: "Je....je ne......ahhhhh.... je ne sais pas!!!!!!!"  They tried to ask again: "Asayg fioreq titoe u'ka?"  Oh boy, I could tell we were not going to get anywhere fast.  As time wore on, however and I settled into my new home I devised a strategy for circumventing the language barrier:

• Step one: Always have my cellphone or tablet with me so I could look up any words that I didn't know on Google translate.  I'm a bonafide internet addict anyways, so the step proved to feel quite natural for me.
• Step two: Repeat back words I don't understand back to them to make sure I am hearing them right.  For example, today I got my host to repeat the word "Olive" to me four times (which in French incidentally happens to be "olive") because my brain couldn't make the correlation between olives and crackers.
• Step three: If all else fails, just smile and nod and say "oui" as though I totally understand what they are saying.  This last step has proven very successful when I'm at bus stops or in other public places.

Fortunately the language barrier hasn't prevented me from making new friends!

The second evening with the family I was ready to try again.  Armed with my cellphone I sat down opposite them at the dinner table for supper, and thus began the interrogation.  About an hour and a half later they had managed to find out that I had a family with both boys and girls in it and that I liked to travel across Canada every once in a while, and I was finally able to eat my neglected dinner that had surrendered its heat to the time it took for me to look up all the words we had used on the internet.  It was then that I realized that learning to be bilingual will require the sacrifice of a warm dinner every once in a while, all in the name of progress.

Unsatisfied with my continually low rate of comprehension however, as I near the one month mark, this past week I decided that in order to expand my vocabulary more swiftly I should buy a book in French and attempt to read it.  I went to a second-hand store and picked a chapter book out of the children's section that had a title I recognized "Le Livre de la Jungle" (The Jungle Book).  Perfect! I thought to myself.  A child's book should be easy to read and have simple vocabulary!  I went home and happily displayed my new purchase to my host.  "I am going to read this tonight, and I might get two or three pages done!" I proudly announced.  She smiled and laughed a little at my obvious enthusiasm.

Two hours later......  "J'ai terminé!" I announced to the household.  It had been long and arduous work and I had been tempted to give up more than once, but I finally had read two pages!  (Oh my word...as having typed that last sentence I feel shame for how far my lofty self has fallen!)  Of course, even having finished the two pages there were still things that didn't quite translate properly with Google translate so I called over to my hosts for help.  The lady took one look at the phrase I was having trouble with and her face immediately wrinkled in consternation.  She took the book over to her partner and they started to conference over the phrase, as though they didn't quite know themselves what it meant or how to explain it.  I overheard the word "difficile" in their conversation.  Finally, after a couple of minutes the lady comes back to tell me that she doesn't actually know how to the explain the sentence to me, because the language the book is using is actually quite archaic and isn't really commonly used anymore.

Great.  I go out and buy one book - a book for children - thinking that it is going to be filled with simple easily-translatable words about cute fluffy jungle animals, and instead I end up with the French equivalent of Shakespeare!  Go figure.