When the grass isn't greener

When you have a problem you have two choices:

a/ fix it

b/ ignore it.

Sometimes the emotional upheaval of the problem is a problem in itself, which leaves you with two choices:

a/ talk about it

b/ ignore it.

Unless the issue is 'We're Out Of Chocolate!' and you happen to be having too much chocolate anyway, b/ is always the wrong answer, 'kay?  Trust me on this - the problem just gets way worse.  The trick to a/ though is to find the right listener.

Which brings us to c/.

Recently I recognized that a friend needed a listener, having suddenly discovered she is going through problems of such unimaginable horribleness I am amazed she is still walking upright and has not turned completely grey and/or developed tremors.

Actually what I thought was, "Omigosh, I shouldn't be worrying about my stupid problems when she is going through all that."

After a long chat exploring feelings and options, it struck me that there was encouragement for her in a problem I've come to terms with myself, and I shared that - while being careful to keep the focus on her problem.  You know what she said?

"Omigosh, I shouldn't worry about my stupid problems when you're going through all that."

What's that old story about the dinner you go to where everybody dumps their problems on the table and ends up taking home their own, because everybody else's look even lousier?  Yeah.  That thing.  That is c/.

Autumn: on its way?

Okay, I've had a few clues here. 

One is that we're not yet halfway through August which makes it Still Summer. But I'm tripping over crispdry leaves outside that are spilling out of the corners in which they had congregated in corners earlier in the month.  They are all green, but that doesn't fool me.  I mean, they fell off the tree.

Another is that suddenly it's cool enough outside in the mornings that I need to wear sleeves (in April, I would have considered this balmy and gone sleeveless, but I'm putting that point down as another clue.)

A third: I've been baking. When it's heatwave season, I'm too busy being slumped on the floor in front of the air conditioner to think of something crazy like that.

Plus, have you noticed I've been writing in the diary lately instead of just posting a picture and maybe commenting on it?  It's fall that always kickstarts the writing, for me.

Oh, and I'm thinking harder about what exciting things I want to be wearing soon.  This mostly involves layers and layers of black, but still.  The key word 'layers' is in there.


I suppose Spring is the same - you start getting milder moments in March, even when there's still snow on the ground.  Seasons don't come and go by the calendar but in little steps - they are a process, like life.  And like life, you gotta take those little reminders and recognize that what you have now is going. 

This year though... I'm thinking that instead of shoring up for what's coming, like I usually do, I might just focus on enjoying what's left of Now.

(while finishing the cardigan I'm knitting for fall.  Because I don't want to lose a moment of cool weather on not wearing it.)

Getting a start on gifts

It's really been bugging me not to have had time to start on Christmas sewing. I mean, I bought all those sweaters to felt all through August! and there they are in my sewing cupboard, folded up and waiting.

So yesterday when I had to do a tiny bit of sewing, I decided to take advantage of the machine being open and got out the scissors:

and a quilty tea cosy for a template and got this:

Which is photographed flat because it falls over like a much limper sweater than it actually felted to, when you put it over a teapot. I think it needs a liner, which it will get in the next 45 minutes of 'free' time that occurs post-solution-idea.

Meanwhile, taking advantage of the bonus hour we got from Daylight Savings Time or whatever it's called at this time of year, I decided that since the sewing cupboard was open I should cut a bunch of sleeves for fingerless gloves.

Not every sleeve felts suitably for such a project, but it turns out that sometimes you can get two pairs of handwarmers from a single pair of arms, so I ended up with I think 7 pairs. I spent a happy hour or so positioning the thumb openings and adjusting lengths and steaming the wool, and now I have 7 pairs of canvas for blanket stitching and other embellishments.

You know, next time I have 45 minutes of 'free' time.

A thought occurred to me as I did all this. Well, two thoughts.

1/ Is it a gift if all I do is cut off a sleeve with a pair of scissors and then cut a hole for the thumb?

2/ Yes. Because it took time, effort, and money to find the right sweaters to felt, and then more time to fit perfectly, and it will take time - no matter how much I enjoy it - to embellish them however sparingly I do so, and moreover, I have so little time, and people know that, that they will know how much love got poured into these little tokens.

Then I had a third thought:

Just because it's super easy for me to do these things doesn't mean it's easy for everybody else I know. It's okay not to undervalue my skills.

And it's okay for you, too!

Passing it down

Sandals: who knew they could tell you a lot about culture and learning?

Yesterday at the Bata Shoe Museum I saw a display of three different woven sandals from three different periods in one culture's history. The sole of the sandal on the left was tightly and intricately woven, very strong and quite beautiful. The sole in the middle? Still pretty nice-looking, but woven more simply in a different design and much more loosely. The third? Same design as #2 but on a much bigger scale - no doubt faster and easier to make, but nowhere near the quality of the other two.

Somewhere between the first and second sandal, that culture developed a specialty in another area of expertise, and the people who made the sandals stopped teaching the next generation the more elaborate weaving technique. And so it was lost, and the later generation was left making a beginner level sandal as though none of their ancestors had ever known anything different.

I found this so moving, even though I personally got interested in spinning and have now learned to make a viable string with nothing more than a spindle, which sort of proves that people can recapture past skills without any economic need for it. It reminded me that no matter how many advances we make as a society, much can be lost with just one generation - with just one person, come to that.

And it reminded me how great it is when people do become obsessed with a subject, and learn all about it, and pass it on to others... because you never know when that old thing will become the necessary thing.

Laundry harvest

After reading this and thinking

b/ how brilliant to make supper immediately after breakfast, thereby being able to do other things right up to the moment of 5pm snackiness and

c/ pasta salad for supper? Yes and yes

I went to shift around the almost-dry laundry to make space for the fresh out of the washer variety and it hit me:

Laundry harvest!

Other people gather food from their gardens with which to make future delicious meals and here I am, gathering clothes from the washer to make future comfy outfits. And just like food (and cleaning) you do all that work only to have to do it all over again for the next round. It's sort of reassuring and also, more than a bit depressing.

But I won't think about that. I will think instead of the importance of remembering to buy staples like pasta and genuinely plain yogurt - vanilla doesn't count - so that next time I want pasta salad I can actually make it.

I have been sewing

This morning when I was about to pour a glass of milk I stopped myself from reaching for the glass shelf because I really only wanted a little, and went for a teacup instead. And that got me thinking - why? I can pour the exact same small amount of milk into a big glass as into a teacup, plus the glass shelf is a whole lot easier to reach than the teacup one I have to stand on my toes to reach, not to mention that I'm not likely to run out of either kind before I wash dishes again.

Am I that wedded to my spatial sense or am I just obsessive? Don't answer that.

In other news, I've made a couple of tote bags:


There's a little pocket inside, too.


I wrote down for future reference the measurements of each piece without considering the serious angle on which IKEA printed this sailboat stuff onto the fabric, but the degree to which I had to sew inside the intended lines made the measurements kind of irrelevant, so I won't post that info this time.

Still, cute bags, yes?

In the middle

It's hard not to eavesdrop while knitting at the coffee shop, especially now that the weather is hotter and school is wrapping up and everybody wants to meet a friend someplace air conditioned before they all go off for the summer.

Yesterday was something special, though. When I arrived, the only free seat was beside two retired gentlemen talking over real estate values in cottage country and which of their friends' cottages was where while they finished their coffees.

When they left, their places were immediately filled by two girls, both just finished their year at university, meeting up to catch up on the last day one of them would be in town. The one leaving first? Newly married, with in-laws from an entirely different culture speaking an entirely different language, and living with them part time as she starts a specialized degree. The other? Leaving soon for another country where she knows nobody but hopes to find a job. She told her friend that people keep admiring her bravery but she doesn't get it, because she doesn't consider herself brave and has no idea how she came to be heading off into the unknown and is frankly a little scared.

That's pretty much the spectrum, isn't it - finding your way in your 20s, reassuring yourself of your place in your 70s. And there I was in the middle, knitting.

And then I came home and guess what?


The peony bloomed.

The moment we've all been waiting for

Any day now, this peony is going to bloom! My neighbours' plants (which seem to have about a million buds on them every spring compared to the two on mine) have already opened up, so I've sort of been getting my peony fix. But I'll be so happy to see these.

This year the sole surviving poppy of my attempt to plant a few of those three years ago also bloomed for the first time. As illustrated on the plant card, its petals were milky white with a dark purple centre, almost black in its depth - perfect for my garden, but very different from the poppies that made me want to have one of my own.

Those were growing in the large triangular bed of a house on a corner a few blocks away. This bed was fenced off in rustic fashion and the entire space inside was filled with orange-red poppies. When the pods developed, they looked like magical eggs, soft green and full of promise, and when the flowers opened and shifted in the breeze, you couldn't help but feel happy.

On its own, my poppy was beautiful for about two days after maybe a week of a creepy looking pod that got furrier and furrier every day, and then last night - poof. Petals down. Nothing but the creepy looking purple center. That's why there's no picture of it, by the way; next year I'll be smart and take some moments after it opens up.

These late spring flowers always make me think how different a thing can look on its own than similar things in a large group, and also how fleeting their impression. It's been put more eloquently I know, but you really do have to enjoy them while they are around. Just like people and happy times in your life.

Just imagine though... what is it like for the plants? Working hard to produce even one bloom that lasts maybe just a few days, and making it special enough to attract whatever it is it needs to get to sustain it for another whole year. Not just to sustain it, either, but to help it spread and support new growth. I find that amazing.

Even more amazing: some people have to live that way, too.

Magnetism

One of my friends has died - the dad of a friend, if you want to get picky, though I have known this man my whole life so I consider him a friend as well - and wow, there is nothing like a funeral to draw everybody together.

Well, I suppose not always together emotionally or there wouldn't be so many movies and books using a funeral as the catalyst for the plot. But physically.

Every Christmas when you hear the story of Mary and Joseph traveling for the census, I'm struck by the notion of so many people traveling to a specific place - the choreography involved, having all of them on the move, and the reunions with people who didn't leave their home towns, and the sense of Event (quite apart from having a baby.)

Funerals are like that too, except everybody affected comes to one place instead of a lot of different ones. They drop everything, or at least reschedule it. Normal life stops on practically a moment's notice so that they can come together for that moment and support each other and mark the loss... almost as though by clustering in one newly empty place it will be possible to close up the gap.

It isn't possible, of course. But it is surprisingly comforting to try.

Don't panic: be somebody else

"Nervousness is okay," my driving instructor told me on Monday. "It's a normal human reaction. Panic is not okay."

I thought that was a good window onto a healthy life - you can't really help nerves (I've tried) but you can function through them, perhaps even more effectively owing to the attention you give to whatever is making you nervous; panic is just paralyzing and not at all helpful.

He also pointed out that even if you don't personally need a particular skill, you can still use it to serve others. If you know how to swim, for example, you can save a life. So too with driving, helping out elderly neighbours or getting somebody to the hospital.

I like the idea of service, because you get so much more out of that than you put in.

The nerves vs. panic thing, too. It reminded me of my high school acting efforts, which were persistent if not brilliant, because I always seemed to do better with a good dose of stage fright.

I didn't try to go on with it because while I was super at memorizing lines and saying them expressively, I really, really didn't like the idea of becoming one with the character. I found it frightening not to just be myself. This isn't a problem for me with fiction, even when the character whose perspective I'm writing from is saying or doing things I find unsettling; somehow, I can spin out many different personalities through my fingers and never lose sight of me.

Unfortunately, right now it would be helpful to lose sight entirely. A Mary who doesn't worry about a thing but just gets on with it - that's what I need to be.

Instead I am being a lopsided Mary who worries at lot and creates even more potential for that by getting on with it anyway. 'It' being the booking of two appointments with two different driving instructors, one Saturday and one Sunday, both for highway driving (but both in my own car this time.)

After I did that yesterday, I went out and parallel parked perfectly on the first attempt, and then I bought groceries just to remind myself how nice it is not to have to walk them home, and when I got home I decided it's not worth all this stress just to have my license.

But I'm going to try anyway. Maybe I'm not any of those other Marys, but just my own worst enemy?

Just like life

Life is scary sometimes, isn't it? I mean, when you're young and you look ahead into your 20s and 30s - where will the job come from, the place to live, the person I really want to have children with? How am I going to find a way to do what I really love and get paid for it?

You can imagine those things all you want, but you won't know - you can't come close to finding out - until you're actually out there, living. And when you're in there living, you have to be able to look around and recognize that everybody else is, too. You have to know you have a right to be out there, and even if your path is different from others', you need only to follow certain unspoken rules of conduct to move freely through the masses.

Yesterday I had my first driving lesson in a little over four years, and it was just like that. Everybody has the lane they're sitting in, the space they occupy, and they all just have it granted to them. You just have to move along the road the way everybody else is, and make your turns when everybody's agreed you're next, and change your lanes when the car behind you fills the correct percentage of your rear view mirror, and then - voila! - you'll be where you were going.

Jerry agreed that I will need a ton more practice before I'm ready for a road test. I need to get out three or four times a week, he says, for at least an hour each time.

Really? I asked. I was thinking, like, every day for at least an hour.

Ummm, yes, that would be good, he said.

I need to brush up on the basics like full stops and tighter right turns and oh MAN, lane changes, and then I need to focus on a whole lotta parking. But my main problem is confidence, as in, I have none. I give my right of way too freely, I wave other cars through. I panicked and darted off to a side road when he wanted me to make a lane change on a super busy one.

Accepting all this, I made another appointment with Jerry and then went inside to book my actual test (end of May) and to sit glumly, worrying.

After supper I got back into my car and this time, instead of taking back roads, I got myself into a stream of traffic and took the nearest busy one - the one with the lane changes and the cars chronically parked in patches along the side. I changed lanes twice, and when I came to the place where I nearly had an accident last week I paid closer attention, and when I got to four way stops at almost but not quite the same time as somebody else I took my right of way and let them wait.

And you know what? I feel better.

Well, a little better, anyway.

Best before

Yesterday I replaced a battery and the new one I found in the 'frig turned out to be old - it was marked Best Before 2008. Meh, I thought, and put it in anyway. It's not like it was food, and what's the worst that could happen?

I still don't know because it worked just fine, which reminded me of other things that seem to be Best Before and really aren't.

Kathi, Karen, and TexNan will remember our mutual friend whose mother decided, after her children were old enough, to go to med school. Somebody pointed out to her that by the time she was done she'd be 45, or 50, or whatever crazy age she would be. She pointed back that if she didn't do it, then by the time she would have been done she'd be 45, or 50, or whatever crazy age.

I got braces just a few years ago instead of in my teens like I should have. The other day, looking back at old photographs, I was shocked at how crooked my teeth used to be! I'm so glad I bothered to have that done as an adult, hassle though it was, because not only do I smile for pictures now - I've had a clean bill of health from every dentist's visit since.

And then there's this ridiculous driving license situation I'm in. I had wanted to get the highway test part of it done a year or two ago so I wouldn't be in this 7-week deadline nightmare. But you know what? I would have dragged out the experience for months if I'd done that. This way I can just focus on one thing and get it done.

Which will free me up for a fabulous, relaxing summer.

And that? That is the best.

Fallow

I got to thinking last night how much my life has changed in the past year - some sudden shifts that shocked, and some others that crept quietly through the undergrowth and produced a subtle sense of unease until they stepped out in front of me.

That kind of upheaval happens everywhere, even in the economy and the environment, and it seems to me to be cyclical. I've had up to 15 years of a comfortable routine, before some critical component is yanked away and I have to replace it or adapt to getting along without it.

Some people even seek that experience, giving up their jobs to travel or teach a second language in a foreign country.

What I want to know is, how many of us are able to write about it while it's happening?

Because I don't seem to be able to do it. Before this round, I was finally capturing the essence of things I witnessed twenty years ago or more; it seems to take a long time for ideas to filter down to my fingers.

Well, I guess it's better than having no filter at all! and there are worse things, aren't there, than not writing. (hard as that is to believe, some days.)

Learning: it's a process

I got thinking yesterday that I should really do a regular series of posts on what I've learned about life since last week, because I'm recognizing at last that any sense of normalcy in how one lives it from one day to the next is pure coincidence. At best, you're going to end up with 'the new normal' every few weeks or months when the next disaster, or should I say opportunity?, strikes.

Then I realized the posts would be full of things like, "Chocolate: best not gorged upon, no matter how stressful the day."

How do I know?

Because my first idea was this:

"Pre-made Rice Krispie Squares: pay more for the smaller box; it's safer than buying an economy case of 40."

(it really is safer, though.)

Life goals

My mother dreamed of one day dancing with Fred Astaire - and did nothing whatsoever about it.

I mean, honestly. You don't see me dreaming of one day having a whole book out with just my name on it

(and I do mean my name, and not that of the other Mary Keenan who lives in my town and is also a writer and does have a whole book out with just her name on it)

and then just sitting around knitting or sewing heating pad covers or eating chocolate, do you?

Oh, right.

Well, as long as we're setting goals doomed to be unattained, I will publicly state my dream of one day going shopping with Patricia Marx.

Have you ever read any of her shopping articles for The New Yorker? She is such a good writer, and so witty, and what an eye for cool stuff. Shopping lost its charms for me back when I noticed I was living in an already-full, tiny house, but I would leap at the chance to hear all those quips live and in person, while stocking up on a lifetime's worth of material memories.

Meanwhile, one has the consolation of reading those articles, which may not be as good as the real thing, but aren't as hard on one's feet. Much like watching Fred Astaire dance, rather than actually being his partner.

H'mmm. Think maybe my mum was onto something?

Good times

Time has been forcing itself on me lately with reflections on how brief 'the old ol' days' really are.

Like, the grocery store that some friends used to drive out of the neighbourhood to get to because it just stocked better stuff? I remember that as a whole period in my life - the days before they moved away, when we met up every weekend and ate really delicious takes-time-to-prepare foodie things. We saw the Blue Jays win the World Series together.

I passed that grocery store the other day without thinking much about it. It lost its cachet years ago, which means that happy time was years before that, and now that I think of it - it lasted about two years, tops.

This is true for a lot of my past, and it's suddenly struck me that pattern will continue with the happy times I enjoy now, and the ones I'll enjoy in the future. Life comes in stages, like it or not, and good times are often cut off by bad ones, as when friends move away.

But the other thing I noticed is that other good times replaced those ones. Kind of like water that finds its way around obstacles to reach the next lowest point, we seem to be able to find other ways to enjoy life, don't we. And I for one am going to start being more mindful about doing that, because who knows how long this particular patch of good will last?

Marshmallow day

Today will either shape up into something interesting, or sit there like a blob while I decide what to do with it for so long that suddenly it's over anyway.

I know that there will be a fair amount of pondering the process of grieving, because there has been a fair amount of that every day since I read an article in The New Yorker on the subject. Do you think grieving was more effective when people did it collectively - and personally, not at a distance as with celebrities - wearing black, having noisy wakes, or otherwise being with the primary recipients of the force of the blow?

I'm not so sure. Collective grief is a comfort, but I also feel that however social we are as a species we are also quite solitary, and grief is buried so deep anyway it would be difficult for others to touch it. To say nothing of how long grief lasts - a lifetime, for many. Nobody wants to hang around long enough for that to pass, not even the person who's grieving. Maybe especially that person.

While I'm pondering all that I will be eating some of this:


It's bread with pecans and dried cherries (among other fruits) baked in - fabulous when plain, possibly more fabulous toasted with cream cheese.

And I will be thinking more possible craft projects with old sheets I wish I had some of... h'mmm, maybe a trip to the thrift store is in order? because of this thought-provoking bit of Tiny Happy.

Maybe I will go to a Posh Shopping Neighbourhood to see if I can find some Ghirardelli milk chocolate hot chocolate mix, which is no longer stocked where I live.

Or maybe I will take some long naps, and imagine I'm sleeping on a big marshmallow.

Winter weirdness

Climate change lives here:


That's what it looked like outside my door two days ago and - seriously, folks. It's January. In January, this scene should show knee-deep snow on the sides where I've shoveled a path to the garage. Sometimes in early January there is no new snow, and sometimes the temperatures are milder than, say, in February - but rain?


As it happens I'm quite partial to rain, but it does worry me to see quite so many buds and new plants sprouting from old ones in all the gardens around here. At least the evergreens look right.


Today it's a different world.

Last night the temperature dropped and turned the puddles into squirrel-sized ice rinks, and it's snowing the kind of snow that's sticking, so we have a dusting of white as I type. By mid-morning there should be something to shovel off of them.

If you don't consider the implications, this recent run of spring weather has been a great break... the scent in the air, the touch of a soft breeze, the promise of new beginnings, all positioned so close the winter holiday season there's been no time to be beaten down by the cold or become in any way desperate for sun. I read a passage last night in The Morville Hours (really, this is a wonderful book for inspiration) that reminded me of the appeal of 'getting back to nature' - following the rhythms of the world through planting and harvest, composting, etc.

Yes, it's meditative and so time- and energy-consuming as to make you forget you don't yet have the latest pocket-sized technological aid. But if all goes well, it also gives you the illusion of control over your surroundings, don't you find? As though the plants produced fruit because you told them to, by way of a seed and good soil.

Denial: a girl's best friend.

Why we buy things

Last night it snowed - a big wet fluffy snow that filled the sky with white. All the previous snow has melted and the weather is a little mild, so this new snow felt like a pre-Christmas edition.

And here is the memory it brought me:

One December when I was very young, maybe 7, my mum put me on a train to the city to visit my biggest sister, then a university student. And that sister took me shopping. At night. In my town night shopping was restricted to the budget department store on Main Street, so this was a big deal. It was snowing out - a big wet fluffy snow that filled the sky with white, and blanketed the ground with just enough white to catch the toes of my boots.

My sister suggested we go into a mysterious little shop a few steps and a wrought iron railing down from the sidewalk. Inside, the light was warm and friendly, and an enormous number and variety of beautiful candles were displayed for sale. I looked and looked, amazed and happy, and then I was drawn to a little white china box with a red china bow tied around it.

I lifted the lid and - oh, the scent of the little red candle inside! Fruity and sweet - everything a 7 year old girl would want. I bought it for my still-at-home sister's Christmas present.

For me, as I now realize, the candle encapsulated everything about the moments leading up to its purchase - the excitement of being in the city, the treat of being with a sister I missed terribly, the luxury of all those candles, the illusion of being all grown up. I bought it to capture for our other sister the gift of all of those wonderful things.

Of course, what my sister actually got was a candle in a highly breakable and dust-catching kinda seasonal-specific box. A candle she wasn't allowed to burn in her room for her own self anyway, being too young for that sort of thing. She left it behind when she moved out for her own university career, and when I came across it in her room afterward I found the scent had gone too.

Still reminded me of that wonderful night though. Even the image of the box in my mind does that. And so, it seems, does a peaceful night's snow.

The need/want gap

I don't know why I'm still surprised at how wide the gap can be between what I want and what I actually need. I don't mean material things, but Life Goal things. It's so easy to misinterpret what will actually bring happiness, don't you find?

For example, what I want is not to have to go out anywhere for three days so I can sit in an armchair and knit or read a book or just listen to music without dashing off all the time. But when I effectively did that over the holiday, staying with a friend who had an inconveniently broken bone, my brain started to melt. I got to forgetting things, like what day it was. And when I left - oh, the fresh air! It was like a miracle!

Then I got sick and I didn't go out anywhere for another three days, and by the time I recovered I was into the annual orgy of Christmas Chocolate, also very much wanted. Is there any greater bliss?

Apparently not, because what I felt was sad. Not to mention a little sick, as when one eats too much cake at a party, ahem.

On the last day as I packed up my bag to take to my trainer's, the better to sleep in the first morning back to Real Life, it hit me:

I didn't exercise for nearly three weeks.

(Something I wanted even more than Christmas chocolate, if you want to be picky.)

And I felt lousy! Even lousier than the very middle horrible ab thingy when I realize there's still a lot left to do! How on earth can something so miserable make you feel so much better?

I may never really accept that it's true, but at least I was able to remember it as I walked past this today:


Also known as the fence that separates my dream house from the park I cross to get to my trainer's gym.