Memoirs of a Stina

The wind howls outside my tenth floor apartment. It is negative twelve degrees Celsius outside, with a wind chill of negative eighteen. It is Saturday morning, five o’clock. What will I do with my weekend? Anxiety and pressure begin to mount. I really should do something with the time, take advantage, profit, right? But I hate the cold. And « should » is a red flag word for me.

I go in waves…sometimes it takes me a month to read a book, sometimes a day. Right now I am enjoying the latter, nourishing, through my eyes and my ears, my brain and my imagination. In the book I finished yesterday, « The Stranger in the Woods » by Michael Finkel, which I’d begun only the day before, Christopher Knight explains that for most of the 27 years he spent living alone in the woods, he did nothing. He watched Nature. He just was, just lived. « There isn’t nearly enough nothing in the world anymore. » How true. So much flash and bling and crash, boom, bang. This one little phrase helped me; gave me permission to do just that: nothing, something that is such a challenge for me. (I think that’s probably why I enjoy hiking so much; it is like doing nothing and doing a lot at the same time.)

Furthermore, I consider it a lovely marvel how each and every day, even after eleven years living  here, in my simple, modest, warm, perfect, little 420-square-foot rented apartment, that when I return home, I still think to myself: « I love my little place! » I really do. Tomorrow an Airbnb guest will arrive and share this tiny space with me for two weeks. So maybe I should just stay home and enjoy my space while I still have it to myself. I have no commitments today. Why not just relish in the elusive focus that is allowing me to read and feed my soul and my dreaming? I could just stay home all day long and read and drink coffee and eat and do absolutely nothing. What a thought! There is also my eclectic collection of old French films that I could blow the dust from and indulge in. Shelves and shelves of books here to read, or read again. There’s a downright wonderland of adventure by proxy here, where it’s warm, and quiet and free of stupid humans.

And…AND…it’s February 29th! It’s literally an extra day. A day off from the year. Oh, it’s settled. I’m staying home. Home, peaceful, home.

Farewell to rushing and bustling and people and places,
for a day.

Happy Family Day, my fellow Ontariens, and everyone in Canada, no matter which day you get to celebrate this provincial holiday. To enjoy this lovely holiday, I awoke early, then made my way to the gym, a necessary evil in these cold winters. After a good sweat, I treated myself to a nice breakfast at a local diner, Hazel’s on Mount Pleasant Road. It was my first time there. It’s my kind of place: simple, no nonsense, friendly service, and reasonable prices. My server, Joanna, was lovely. I read a chapter from « Beyond the Trees » by Adam Shoalts. The sun was shining, a beautiful day, so I decided to go for a walk and headed north on Mount Pleasant.

I had only been walking for a few minutes when I passed a smartly-dressed gentleman in his sixties coming from the other direction. As he passed me, he wagged his finger in my face and began shouting at me, « You should be ashamed of yourself! You should be ashamed of yourself! » Stunned, I stopped. He kept walking. « Are you referring to my coat? » I called after him. I was wearing a Canada Goose jacket, something I purchased long before the controversy surrounding the company’s inhumane treatment of wild coyotes came to light. No answer. « Excuse me, sir, you can’t just go around verbally attacking people! If you have some information to share, please do! » He turned around and gave me double-gunned middle fingers and shouted, « Fuck you! »

I wish I could have seen the humour in such ridiculous behaviour at that moment. Instead, all I felt was bewildered and wounded. And angry. He thinks he can just shit on a random person walking down the street then scamper off scot-free? No way, Mr. Coward, not on my watch. So I followed after him.

« Sir, do you think anyone is going to be receptive to you verbally attacking them on the street? If you have information you’d like to share with me, I’ll listen! You’re being a coward! Why won’t you stop and have a conversation with me!? » I shouted  as I followed back after him in the direction from which I’d just come. He stopped again, wagging his finger in my face again. « I have to go visit a very sick grandchild in the hospital. Fuck you! » And off he scurried again. « Who says « fuck you » to a random woman on the street!? » I cried out, exasperated and incredulous.

At this point, a man from a business or restaurant nearby came out to see what was going on. It was clear something was going on from the man’s aggressive body language and the distraught look on my face. The man who had accosted me said something to the newly-arrived man, again with aggressive body language and pointing in my direction, then off he hurried again. He seemed determined to not have to face up to what he started with any intelligent or respectful conversation. Then the newly-arrived man turned to me and said, « I just came out to see if you were okay. By the way, I support the teachers. »

Oh. Right. I was wearing two pins on my coat; one that says « Class size matters » and one that says « Just let me teach. » Then, and only then, did I realize that this gentleman’s tirade, and I use the term « gentleman » loosely, may have had to do with the teacher strike and not my Canada Goose coat at all.

But, you know what? I’ll never know for sure, so articulate and effective was his attack.

Which brings me to the point of this blog.

If you have a point to make, be intelligent and respectful in making it. Even if you have insightful information to share, it will get lost in an angry and rude delivery. Even people who are « right » will lose their argument if they deliver their argument in a demoralizing and condescending way. And even if you don’t change the other person’s opinion or viewpoint, you might make them think differently about some things or consider new angles if you share your viewpoint in a kind and non-attacking way. BE KIND. Always.

I think what upset me most about that angry man’s actions was that his cowardice and lack of accountability. Did he give a second thought about the ramifications of him angrily lashing out to a woman alone on Family Day? Afterward, I cried. I’m thin-skinned, it’s true. I wish he’d seen that. Furthermore, what account, if any, of this incident will he share with his friends and family? « Hey, guys, check this out! I verbally attacked a random woman on the street today and made her cry and she doesn’t even know what my issue was! Who wants to give me a high five!? » A rule of thumb when dealing with fellow humans might be this: if you can’t go home and proudly tell your friends and family how you treated someone, you  should probably re-think how you treat people. He is entitled to have his opinions and voice about the teacher’s strike and Canada Goose jackets just like I am entitled to wear that jacket and my education pins. What neither of us nor any of us is entitled to do is to be randomly cruel to one another.

The kicker of all this is that I really don’t know if it was the jacket or the pins on my jacket that caused his inarticulate, hurtful, embarassing behaviour. I guess he sure made his point!

I’ll share a quote from the introduction of my book that quite applies here. « Our shared humanity and the impact we have on each others’ lives…can happen in the briefest of moments and can be either profoundly positive or deeply negative. » This incident happened 600 meters from my home. We are a community. We’re stuck with each other and our differing opinions. You won’t always be able to hide behind a screen or scamper off into anonymity.

To that gentleman, to myself, to all of us, a gentle reminder: Think before you speak. Be able to discuss what you feel strongly about in an intelligent and respectful way. If you speak, also listen. Think about the impact of your words and actions. And, above all, be kind, man, even if for no other reason than knowing that nobody is going to listen to an asshole.

Maybe they weren’t award-winning, but I had the fire to write them. And I liked my poems. They are finished products. And perhaps my songs are simple, but I had the affliction to write them. Finished products. And maybe my book wasn’t a best-seller, but I had such passion in writing it. And I am proud of my book. Also, a finished product. I have always written. I had always wanted to write a book, I just didn’t have that unique subject to write about, until the bike ride. The bike ride was more than three years ago. The book was published more than two years ago. Since then, I have been hungry.

I thought giving up alcohol would be revolutionary. It’s wonderful that it isn’t. I am the same me, though a little more bored. It is disappointing, because I need a revolution! The dust needs a blowing, the soul needs re-calibrating. « A precise use, application, appeal. » The love of writing, the adventurous spirit. I knew writing about the Camino de Santiago was not in my heart. I tried to write about hiking up the southern coast of France, I tried to write about my solo hike and camp excursion on the Ozark Highlands Trail. These were not in my heart, either, as it turned out. So what will my next muse be? That is the torment.

No closer to finding love, though much more comfortable without it. Nothing good ever came from being safe and comfortable, though.

Fourteen years until I can retire. I can finally see this on my radar, though not what it will look like, but I’m starting to visualize. Buy three acres in Arkansas and build a yurt? Live there a third the year, live at home in Toronto a third the year, and live in Paris with  my dear best friend, Anthony, a third the year? Sounds charmed, and vaguely possible. Four months until summer. What will my next adventure be?

So many compass points, so little magnetism, at the moment. A little CPR for the blog, then. Not lost, just…adrift.

Me. My version of Hurt from Johnny Cash. December of 2018. My shitty ukulele-playing. And some production added, February of 2020. Pretty fun. And I’m dreaming again…

http://www.dropbox.com/s/mt828n2srtf4p1r/Hurt.mp3

What cross do you bear? Knowing that is half its weight. At least. I know mine, and for that I am grateful. For with this awareness, I can choose how I handle its heavy load. My entire life, I have always felt like the outsider, the visitor, the one tagging on, arriving late, joining in to an already established circle of friends. There are varying amounts of room left for me, both truly and perceived. I moved around a lot as a kid. I went to three different elementary schools and five different high schools. Although lonely and isolating, the outsider identity is what I know best and thus am most comfortable with. Perhaps that is why I perpetuate this status as an adult. Never in one place long, always leaving for the next quest, either alone or with newfound friends.

But perhaps being forced to face the daunting challenge of leaving old friends behind and starting fresh in a new and foreign environment gave me the insight that this can be done, fairly easily, and that it brings new learning and stadiums of fascination that nourish the young soul. Perhaps it gave me the taste for adventure that so fully fashions my lifestyle. Perhaps it opened my eyes to all the other worlds that exist not just across the map but in the next city over. I vote this interpretation; the visionary adventurer over the left-out loner. I love my life, I love the exploration and voyage. I crave the fear of the unknown and thrive there.

So perhaps my role is, indeed, the outsider, the visitor. The older I become, the more comfortable, happy, and proud I feel in a role that once made me feel strange, odd, alone. Anyway, there are much worse things than being lonely. Some do not realize the cross they carry and become buried and broken beneath its weight. Not me; I’ve become strong and the cross my raft. Perhaps there will be love. Perhaps there already is. Of course there already is. I’m overflowing with it. One week until Mexico…

Oh, the winter. Longer than a season. From clocks back to clocks forward. Eighteen weeks of cold darkness. The inspiration of summer hastily extinguishes and I rush home to escape the cold; to an empty apartment where I do nothing but go to bed way too early and feel longing and guilt for all the things I could be using all this shut-in time for. I am hard-wired to move and all this rest is weighing fearfully on a frail consciousness revealed without the distractions of doing and going and seeing and adventures. I am wasting away, every year, more than a quarter of my life. I have too much time to lament my thinning hair, my face that is cracking, my vision that is blurring. I still have my body and when I can’t use it, I am lost.

Last night was the same. I came home, poured myself a glass of wine, and settled in watching « Camille Claudel 1915. » Then I put on « La Bolduc » but fell asleep half-way through, somewhere around 9:30 p.m..

Of course I could be doing things, exercising at the gym, running up the stairs of my thirty-floor apartment building, going to the rock climbing gym, and in the beginning of this cold condemnation, I do. But quite quickly my mind disallows it. What’s the use? The dark makes me feel hidden away, the coldness makes me feel buried and my step heavy. I turn in toward myself. Leaving the house is impossible. A forced hibernation I find long and painful to endure.

Some mornings, though, have somehow eluded the deathly grasp of winter’s suffocating depression. My sacred mornings! How I love to rise before the Sun, make an espresso and bathe in the peace of a new day, free from anxiety and over-thinking. When the world is still asleep and I am awake, I feel motivated, like I am getting a head start, like today might be different. Look at this morning, after all. Here I am, writing.

Perhaps there are simply stages of surviving this curse. Stage one, I ride on the life and enthusiasm of summer’s bliss. Stage two, depression. I wallow in and am flattened by the stark contrast between the boundless energy and inspiration I know in warm weather and sunshine and the lethargy and discouragement I know in the numbing, black winter. I let it defeat me.

But today feels different.

Perhaps it is the wisdom of age, not that wisdom automatically comes with getting older but it can if you are humble and open to learning. That, I am! How I want to learn how to deal with this eighteen week sentence! Perhaps it is the lesson of being receptive rather than combative when life brings you things you do not like or understand. The Camino de Santiago taught me this last summer. Had I forgotten already? Hard-wired recidivist, I also am! Or perhaps it is remembering that, yes, I still have my body. But I also still have my mind.

It is the ukulele and the piano. It is the books and the writing, too. It is the good company I have been so fortunate to find. It is the French films I have so long been meaning to see. It is the learning to cook and how creative and fulfilling that is. It is being still for a change and not hating it but embracing it; switching gears consciously rather than begrudgingly.

Stage three, acceptance.

Six weeks down, twelve to go. Perhaps it won’t be so bad after all.

The mighty Sun spills in with quiet power through my frosted, dirty window and open blinds. I can feel a radiant beauty envelope me; I am alight, energizing, eyes closed. I stop marking my students’ work, I stop worrying about my book launch party that will happen tonight. I just receive. Though mostly mild, but not today, it has been a drab and dismal winter, cloudy, no Sun. My skin has never been drier or whiter. But on this special day, the Sun has come to say hello, to kiss my face with shiny tiger stripes, to wish me luck and give me its blessing. Dear Sun, I promise. I will continue to roar. I will continue to let my fear dictate my path. My light is unique and needs to shine, like these radiant ribbons you paint on me with energy and fire this cuttingly cold morning. I am a flame, I am a tiger, according to lineage and the Chinese calendar, respectively. Indeed, Universe. Indeed, Sacred Sun! Thank you for your beautiful benediction. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have positive and important things to do…

Already, I don’t even remember what I wrote in that damn book. My memory is wonderfully weak that way. It’s why I wrote it, after all. To remember at all that extraordinary thing that I did. And what a gift a frail memory is. Then everything is eternally somewhat new and like a little adventure, again, and again. “You can tell Christina the same joke every week,” he said of me. Yet I can remember him saying that, already ten years ago!

So now I have three weeks of nothing but time on my hands. With such deeply burning aspirations to write, what a gift of a pocket of time to do so, right? Wrong. A void of time does not equal inspiration! I had wanted to write for years. But what to say, at such a young age and of so little venturing? I finally had something particular to write about. Unique, mine. So I did. It is done. Now what?

Shall I write about this minor elective surgery that has me cooped up and unmoving, lying about like a shut-in, watching movies and ordering food for delivery? Is this how people live? “Some people, some of the time,” he said. A lot of people, a lot of the time, I think. It’s a social experiment, that’s how I’ve framed it in my mind in order to survive. And I’ve kept quite lovely spirits through it all, I must say. Seven days down and fourteen to go.

I’ve watched “Lady in Gold” and “Big Eyes” and “Cezanne et moi” and “Violette.” I miss Paris, where every moment is poetic, every word spoken is lyrical, where nothing is mundane, and even the air I breathe is melodic and infused with inspiration. I wish I could go there and be poor and work as a waitress and never speak English again. I wish I could live in Bordeaux, a place I have never been, and Benjamin would be my neighbor. We would meet sometimes for dinner and get drunk and smoke one hundred cigarettes in an evening. He would encourage me and I would always be the foreigner, with the accent, who makes little mistakes with her grammar, and nothing could please me more than fulfilling this exact role.

The neglected blog, the scattered poems to sort through, the unwritten ones. Back to the couch, to waiting, to wasting, to incubating.