"fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la"

Deck the halls with boughs of holly
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la
Tis the season to be jolly
Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la

I have Christmas carols in my head. Constantly. Ceaselessly.
This is the time of year during which the same songs are recycled over and over again, year after year, and apparently no one is tired of them. Well, I'm not, at the very least.

Silver bells, silver bells
It's Christmas time in the city
Ring-a-ling, hear them ring
Soon it will be Christmas Day

I sing carols as they pop into my head. I find myself humming them while I'm Christmas shopping, cleaning my apartment, doing dishes, folding laundry, ordering coffee, even filing paperwork (my friend Julie will attest to this).

I hear those sleigh bells jingling
Ring ting tingling too
Come on it's lovely weather
For a sleigh ride together with you

I sang carols several days ago at the annual carol sing hosted by the MacSweeney family, my former neighbours. They began the tradition more than a decade ago, and what began as a simple huddle with apple cider around their creche outside on Christmas Eve has become an evening long feast of food and song held the Sunday night before Christmas every year.

Hark! The herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn king
Peace on earth, and mercy mild
God and sinners reconciled

I sang carols with the Victoria Scholars as they included an audience participation number during their fantastic Christmas concert on the weekend, just as I did at the St. Michael's Choir School Christmas concerts at Massey Hall for all the years my brother was a student there.

Angels we have heard on high
Sweetly singing o'er the plains
And the mountains in reply
Echoing their joyous strains

I sang carols last night, at our annual Medri cousin Christmas get-together, harmonizing together for over an hour. I didn't realize that a room full of my cousins, all of us musicians in one discipline or another, could sound so ridiculously good.

Joy to the world, the Lord is come!
Let earth receive her king
Let every heart prepare him room
And heaven and nature sing

I will sing carols on Christmas Eve, at J.'s parents' house, as I join for the first time in their annual tradition of drinking eggnog, making merry, and singing carols with family and friends.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the tree tops glisten
And children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow

I will sing carols in the evening on Christmas Day, presents scattered around the room, my dad on the piano, my family sprawled on couches around the fire, my grandmother's now frail soprano singing sweetly in her beloved Slovenian mother tongue.

Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace

This year, heart full to bursting with happiness, I'm wishing you a wonderful Christmas and a holiday season filled with family, friends, laughter and love...and Christmas carols.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Let your heart be light
From now on our troubles will be out of sight

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Merry Christmas.

strong notes of positivity and delight

for J.

Strong Notes of Positivity and Delight
But do you remember
how excited?
open-mouthed, I laughed until tears ran
delighted by nonsense
arm out the truck window

We held each other
prisoners that night
asking,
soundtrack on repeat
bathed in flickers of tealit magic

What are we going to do about this?

Julia Hendrik
November 19, 2009

An ambiguous reference, a blissful memory.
I quote below the arguable brilliance that served as inspiration.

No matter what we say
No matter what we think
We will never, will never leave this room.

What are we going to do about this?

This Room,
The Notwist

infinitesimal or gargantuan

It's funny how change works. Painfully, mercilessly, unrelentingly; it pulls, it tugs, it stretches, it shakes; upending, shifting, bulldozing, crushing; through the anguish, through the agony, through the chaos. On, and on, and on...and then, suddenly or gradually, the dust begins to settle. And when the dust settles, all is not as it was before.

Change is dreaded. Change is desired. Change is nebulous, transient, uncertain; and yet, at the same time, undeniably tangible, essential to growth, vital to maturity, crucial to advancement at every level, every stage.

Oh, how I have changed in the last three years.
I spent the first year kicking, screaming, railing against the perceived injustice of a devastating, unexpected change. I protested loudly, angrily, shouting until my voice was hoarse, my lungs were burning for air. I streamed constant, salty tears. I begged and pleaded and argued my case to anyone who would listen to my desperate rant. I lost the battle.

I spent the second year stuck, having sunk into the quicksand of demoralization, head above the muck but unable to move, without energy to kick or scream or paddle my way out, too tired to rail against anything. I struggled to survive.

I spent the third year taking baby steps, facing fears of falling flat on my face, attempting to allow myself the freedom of failure. (Easier said than done.) I dared to dream again, dared to think that only better things could come, that beauty would rise from the ashes. I ran marathons of what-if scenarios in my head. I risked my heart again. I rejoiced.

Three years have passed, now, and I'm entering another time of change. The flowers of some of the beautiful friendships of my past seem to be losing their blossoms; some dropping from the weary stems that have held them up for so long, some closing into buds that perhaps may bloom again someday, perhaps not. Grief is inevitable, but grief is not forever. This I have learned. I look forward to new growth, to new seeds that have been sprinkled taking root, shooting up and bearing fruit. I'm embarking on a mind-blowingly exposing endeavor on a professional and yet a very personal level. I'm embracing the grace of second chance love, of trusting someone with a heart battered, bruised, stitched together, glued with kisses of compassion and understanding.

It's all about perspective, too, isn't it? The sweet taste that replaces the bitter is that much sweeter by comparison, the joy that much more exquisite juxtaposed against sorrow, the love that much more cherished having lived through loss. Change itself can be infinitesimal or gargantuan. It is the perspective gained that truly transforms the future, that propels irrevocably forward rather than allowing endless wallowing in the ruins of the past.

Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Robert Frost

glassware, oh glassware, where art thou?

I can be funny sometimes. I really can. I can also get my point across far better, as I've learned over the years, with a bit of sarcastic humour than with straight-up facts. Luckily, I love to write somewhat derisively, somewhat wittily, somewhat candidly, shall we say. Working in an office full of guys (about 50 men and fewer than 10 women) this style of writing is not only acknowledged, it's appreciated.

I also love that I work somewhere where I can send some pretty unconvential, unprofessional emails...and not only not get into any kind of trouble, but get laughs, clever quips in response and the kind of backhanded compliments about my writing that leave me a little bit exhilarated and a little bit uplifted. Typically, as I painstakingly perform the mindless, menial tasks that are the very unglamourous parts of my job, I'm frustrated. So, when I decided to go on a rant this afternoon about ridiculous, should-be-self-explanatory office behaviour (namely, asking the guys to clean up after themselves!) it was heartening to receive such funny feedback to the following email I sent to the entire company.

From: Julia McGee
Sent: Thursday, October 22, 2009 4:56 PM
To: WWCM Employees
Subject: "Glassware, oh glassware, where art thou?"

Okay, everyone, enough is enough.
As if the fridge growing things (again!) isn’t bad enough, now we have dirty bowls of breakfast remnants being left on the printer (seriously? who did that?!) mugs with filmy layers of fermenting coffee cream left in the kitchen (is it so hard to rinse them out?!) and not enough mugs or glasses to even have two boardrooms of clients have clean mugs for coffee.

Alas, I know exactly where thou art, oh glassware. Thou art hiding in the corners of desks, piled over with papers and post-it notes and notebooks, and I am not going in search of thy stinky sticky loveliness. However, I would appreciate it immensely if thou wouldst stop hiding from me. Emerge. ASAP.

In other words, people, please, please, PLEASE bring your freaking dirty dishes to the kitchen at the end of the day. Sheesh.
Thank you kindly!

Sigh. Sometimes, just sometimes, I love my job.

this one's for you, Dad

No matter how old I get, I think I'll always ask my father for his advice, for his help, for his opinion on matters great and small. For three of my high school years, he drove me about 25 minutes to and from school every day. That's a lot of talking time, especially for a chatterbox like me. I wouldn't trade those memories for the world, even if sometimes I don't think he really understood a word of what I was jabbering on about.

My dad is not a talker. Not a small talker, at least. On matters such as politics, faith, finance, and a host of other globally relevant topics, my dad will talk for hours. We've had many such discussions over the years, and I treasure those moments immensely. Every once in a while, too, my dad will initiate a conversation about my life. Yikes. He picks and chooses these moments carefully. The most recent of these conversations happened on the Labour Day weekend this past summer. While everyone was lazing around, watching the sunset, my dad made us both cups of coffee and asked me if I'd like to take a walk.

That walk lasted an hour. I was left reevaluating choices I'd made, reflecting on attitudes and outlooks I'd adopted, renewed in my sense of purpose about my life and my future. My dad has a unique way of simulateously criticizing and encouraging me that no one else has ever quite been able to achieve. Though in my stubborn hard-headedness I'm more often not quite able to receive what he's saying in the moment, in the end I'm always appreciative of the views he's so thoughtfully presented.

So when I asked my dad, who was driving me home the other night (clearly, some things never change!) what he thought of my blog, and asked if he'd read it recently, I had to laugh when I heard his response: "You know, Julia, if I wanted to read quotations from other people, lyrics from songs, etc., I wouldn't need to check your blog to find those things. I'd like to hear what you think about things, your voice, not just other peoples' thoughts." Touche. Here I thought I was being so insightful and well-versed - and I'm not discounting the fact that I really do enjoy looking up quotations, lyrics, definitions and such, and that they're definitely part of my creative process - but I've decided that I'm going to write more. More often, more in depth, more candidly. Ambiguity only goes so far. If I really am emerging from the ashes, I must also learn to write with strength and conviction, leaving behind fear, sharing new joys rather than dwelling under the shadow of past sadnesses.

That said, it was time for me to update my blog, to give it a facelift of sorts. The interestingly abstract image that now highlights the header of my blog is actually an artistically distorted bunch of orchids. Orchids are, incidentally, my new favourite flowers. Symbolic meanings for the orchid flower are complex and varied, but most highlight 'delicate beauty' and 'resilient strength'. Is it any wonder, then, in rising from the ashes, that I so love this colourful display of beauty and strength?

Okay. I know it's a quotation, Dad, but I think it's entirely relevant. I found this insightful explanation accompanying the image of orchids (called 'Kultivating') I've used for the blog header, written by the creator, Joao Felipe Cunha:
"The main purpose of blogs is to share ideas...‘cultivating’ ideas in this big garden that we call the Web...the reigning magic of the orchid is [its] invisible power of communication."

As with so many other things in my life, then, I'm learning to trust my own voice, rather than hide behind other peoples' faces and voices. I'm learning that the best way to rise from the ashes is not to run away. Instead, the challenge is to embrace possibility, to seek growth, to pursue dreams that have long lain dormant. I'm not sure who is on this journey with me, but I'm grateful for the chance to be heard and the opportunity to share my experiences.

I heard you, Dad. Thanks for the challenge. This one's for you.

marriage

Just a warning, all. I'm sorry in advance.
Forgive my nostalgia, my self-indugent pity party.
Today, quite simply, sucks.

Memories overwhelm, tears threaten, and I am in no mood to be reckoned with. I wish I could say that I knew enough to grasp how meaningful, how simultaneously menial and yet miraculous marriage can be. Fortunately or unfortunately, I cannot.

Printed in the program, three years ago this day.

Habitation
Marriage is not
a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

The edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn

where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far

we are learning to make fire

Margaret Atwood

an addendum

I have to be honest.
For every beginning, there is an ending.
If the first song off Take Love Easy speaks to me of a beautiful new love, the last song on the album, ironically, hits me painfully hard in mourning a love lost. Especially this time of year.

Sometimes, it's easier not to think about it; sometimes, not thinking about it means that when memories catch me by surprise, it hurts that much more.

I wish...
That bits of memories weren't scattered here and there;
That a song or something in the air again
Won't mean that he'll be there again
A moment in what might have been
I wish these lyrics didn't ring so true.
But they do.

Where do you start?
How do you separate the present from the past?
How do you deal with all the things you thought would last?
That didn't last
With bits of memories scattered here and there
I look around and don't know where to start

Which books are yours?
Which tapes and dreams belong to you, and which are mine?
Our lives are tangled like the branches of a vine
That intertwine
So many habits that we'll have to break
And yesterdays we'll have to take apart

One day there'll be a song or something in the air again
To catch me by surprise and you'll be there again
A moment in what might have been

Where do you start?
Do you allow yourself a little time to cry?
Or do you close your eyes and kiss it all goodbye?
I guess you try

And though I don't know where and don't know when
I'll find myself in love again
I promise there will always be a little place no one will see
A tiny part within my heart that stays in love with you

Where Do You Start,
as sung by Sophie Milman

comes love, beautiful love

Anyone who has spent an evening with me in the past year might recognize the scene: my apartment, late evening. Tealight candles flickering, an open bottle of wine on the coffee table, jazz music playing softly in the background.

The older I get, the more I love jazz; mellow, soulful, bluesy jazz especially. I love jazz standards for the simplicity of the text, the complexity and variety of the music. I find myself soothed by the swinging movement of the songs, the moments of resolution contrasted with the syncopation of improvisation, the ornamentation imposed by each individual musician.

It is, perhaps, telling that I am enjoying this unpredictable style of music so much right now. Truth be told, my brain has been admittedly befuddled of late. Oh, what a wonderful word. I'm going to pause my train of thought, momentarily, for that word:

befuddle
(transitive verb) 1. to muddle or stupefy with or as if with drink
2. confuse, perplex
(from Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary)

I feel intoxicated, stupefied. My head is spinning with the unexpected, terrifying reality of a situation that I didn’t feel ready for, that I wasn’t prepared for: I fell in love. Now, despite my fears, I am loathe to let that go…even though, having felt it once before, I am aware of how much I will hurt should it vanish.

Maybe it was unexpected. Maybe it was terrifying.
Maybe I didn't feel ready. Maybe I wasn’t prepared.
But love comes.

Comes a rainstorm, put your rubbers on your feet
Comes a snowstorm, you can get a little heat
Comes love, nothing can be done

Comes a fire, then you know just what to do
Blow a tire, you can buy another shoe
Comes love, nothing can be done

Don't try hiding, cause there isn't any use
You'll start sliding, when your heart turns on the juice

Comes a headache, you can lose it in a day
Comes a toothache, see your dentist right away
Comes love, nothing can be done

Comes a heat wave, you can hurry to the shore
Comes a summons, you can hide behind the door
Comes love, nothing can be done

Comes the measles, you can quarantine a room
Comes a mousey, you can chase it with a broom
Comes love, nothing can be done

That's all, brother, if you ever been in love
That's all, brother, you know what I'm speaking of

Comes a nightmare, you can always stay awake
Comes depression, you may get another break
Comes love, nothing can be done
Comes love, nothing can be done

Comes Love,
as sung by Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holliday

I studied that song when in theatre school; took it apart, worked line by line, beat by beat, created a story to give context and meaning to simple lines of text, attempted to understand.
Ironic. I understand it perfectly now.

Recently, I’ve been listening to Sophie Milman (as J. well knows from many such aforementioned summer evenings) and if you don't know who she is and you enjoy jazz, have a listen. She's incredible. A young, beautiful, multi-lingual Canadian jazz songstress whose third release, Take Love Easy, has not yet left my CD player since the day I put it in several months ago.

Now, with questions of all sorts about my future looming, my ability to trust and to stay vulnerable a constant battle, this first song off her album matches my meandering thoughts.
Enjoy.

Beautiful love, you're all a mystery
Beautiful love, what have you done to me?
I was contented till you came along
Thrilling my soul with your song

Beautiful love, I've roamed your paradise
Searching for love, my dream to realize
Reaching for heaven, depending on you
Beautiful love, will my dreams come true?

Beautiful Love,
as sung by Sophie Milman

shadow life

I love poetry. Recently, while J. waited patiently for me as I endlessly perused the aisles of a bookstore, I came across a collection of poetry. Short weeks later, it is already looking dog-eared from my reading and re-reading. The Possible Past is described as "an incandescent meditation on memory, a restless and illuminating inquiry into the abundant riches and the tensile limits of language." There are any number of poems that I will doubtless post over time, both from this book and many others. Today, though, this one is resonating.

How far I am these days from being a shadow of my former self, so to speak. Still, there are times when unexpectedly, in strange places, I find memories of a woman at once no longer me; yet irrefutably, undeniably me.

Shadow Life
The afternoon gathers itself and folds into an envelope of evening.
The what ifs begin at the door.

A house as familiar as the Brahms I learned as a child -
Every note, the whole arrangement.

The minute hand, the hour. The grandfather clock
minding itself on the wall.

Here, chairs that already have my shape in them.
Books I've read on the shelves.

Not a what if, but a question of inhabitance. My dresses filling her closet;
her sorrows close to, but not exactly, mine.

Upstairs, a strand of my hair on her pillow. In the garden, foxglove
I would have planted, were it not already there.

The mirror in the dining room casting candlelight
onto a landscape of plates and glasses.

Bone china, polished silver. Whole afternoons remembered,
staring out a window not my own.

Later he'll pass me a glass of wine and I'll know exactly
the span of his hands.

What night did I sit up in the bed of this other life,
push back
the covers and walk away from the body beside me?

And what misstep has brought me here?

Somewhere there's a corner that turns into the possibility
of this existence.

The woman beside me having walked past it herself,
and lost something she went back to reclaim.

Aislinn Hunter
from The Possible Past

risk

"Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth."
~ Katherine Mansfield
(New Zealander short fiction writer)

I've been contemplating risk. It's a fairly nebulous topic, one laced with all sorts of subjective notions: the degree of risk and the inherent danger involved (whether that be physical, emotional, financial, etc.) is dependent on person, place, context, time, mental stabitility, essential feasibility...and so forth.

risk
(noun)
1 : possibility of loss or injury : PERIL
2 : someone or something that creates or suggests a hazard
3 : a) the chance of loss or the perils to the subject matter of an insurance contract ; also, the degree of probability of such loss
b) a person or thing that is a specified hazard to an insurer
c) an insurance hazard from a specified cause or source
4 : the chance that an investment (as a stock or commodity) will lose value
(from Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary)

I'll specify, first. I'm not talking physical danger (no skydiving for me, thanks!) or financial volatility (I'll leave that to the guys in my office). Nope. It's emotional risk for me right now; risking my heart, my dreams, my sanity, my complacency, my desire. In short, risking it all to see things change.

"We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit."
~ E.E. Cummings
(American poet, playwright, essayist)

Regaining belief in myself was the first step. Now, it's taking the risk, leaping from the edge, tuning out the myriad voices - both externally and those that war in my contemplative brain - and finding freedom in uncertainty. I have learned to face the truth; it's the action part that has kept me hanging back and hesitant. It's the "what if" factor. What if I take a risk only to crash and burn? What if it all falls apart? What if I'm in more pain afterward than I am even now? What if? What if?

But then I found this.

"And the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
~ Anais Nin
(Cuban-French-American diarist, novelist)

So I'm going to blossom. Winter is over, spring has arrived, and these buds are going to bloom. The "what if" factor involved in risk-taking will never dissipate entirely, nor should it; but neither will I let it continue to paralyze me completely.

Every step that you take
Could be your biggest mistake
It could bend or it could break
But that's the risk that you take
What if you should decide
That you don't want me there in your life?
That you don't want me there by your side?

Oooooh, that's right
Let's take a breath jump over the side
Oooooh, that's right
How can you know it when you don't even try?
Oooooh, that's right

What If,
Coldplay

magic carpet rides

I can show you the world
Shining, shimmering, splendid
Tell me, princess,
Now when did you last let your heart decide?

I can open your eyes
Take you wonder by wonder
Over sideways and under
On a magic carpet ride

Ah, fairy tales.
Once upon a time, I was a huge believer in fairy tale endings, in blissful idealism, in hopeful optimism. I was the princess in every story, I was the queen of the castle, and I genuinely, earnestly, unfailingly believed that my story would end happily-ever-after.

Perhaps that was foolish. I tumbled head-over-heels, blindly dove headfirst into unseen depths I thought I could navigate with my eyes tightly shut...and then, from what was supposed to be a dream coloured in a rosy haze of bliss, I found myself waking up in the darkest of nightmares.

Heartbreak is one thing. Shattered idealism is completely different. The fall from the pedestal of perfection is that much harder, the jagged shards of truth that remain are that much more fragmented. The process of rebuilding the heart alone is an uphill battle; relearning how to think and feel about love, to trust instinct again (rather than constant psycho-analysis and cynical over-examination) is a feat that seems insurmountable.

A frustrating process, to be sure, and one that has been at times inconceivable...but not impossible. I'm learning, slowly, to trust myself again, and to trust the words and actions of another. I had relegated unequivocal trust to a place of foolish ignorance. Now, it has become a daily ordeal to extricate my ability to believe in love without cynicism from the confines of fear. It's not easy. It's not pretty, a lot of the time. It's laborious, painstaking effort. This time, though, my eyes are open. They're wide open. And while I am sometimes tempted to squeeze them shut and hide, staying stagnant and scared, I am choosing to keep them open.

In the story of Aladdin, the unlikely street-rat-turned-hero-prince pulls up to Princess Jasmine's window on a flying magic carpet. Although frightened, cautious and inarguably skeptical, she decides to go with him, to take the risk. She is not jumping into something with her eyes closed. Instead, albeit tentatively, she is opening herself to new things - with a bird's eye view, no less! - and is willing to embrace possibility, to explore it, to encourage it to grow. Faced with the same incredible, unexpected opportunity, I am sincerely attempting to do the same.

A whole new world
A new fantastic point of view
No one to tell us 'no'
Or where to go
Or say we're only dreaming

A whole new world
A dazzling place I never knew
But when I'm way up here
It's crystal clear
That now I'm in a whole new world with you

Unbelievable sights
Indescribable feelings
Soaring, tumbling, free-wheeling
Through an endless diamond sky

A whole new world (Don't you dare close your eyes)
A hundred thousand things to see (Hold your breath it gets better)
I'm like a shooting star
I've come so far
I can't go back to where I used to be

A whole new world (Every turn a surprise)
With new horizons to pursue (Every moment red-letter)
I'll chase them everywhere
There's time to spare
Let me share this whole new world with you

A whole new world
That's where we'll be
A thrilling chase
A wondrous place
For you and me

A Whole New World,
from Aladdin

silence

Lying on the floor for the final stretch at the end of my Sunday Body Conditioning By Dancers class, the music starts to play. It's a haunting melody. A mournful melody. The first week, exhausted from the class and not really absorbing anything but the yoga mat under me and the fact that the class was finally over, the melody was all I noticed. By week three of the eight-week session, I had started to pick up lyrics here and there. By week six, I finally began to piece together the song. This week, the final Sunday, I will hear it and understand.

Yesterday, I recorded some violin tracks for the EP of a singer/songwriter who also happens to be aquainted with a great number of people I know. As a result, she knows my situation. Terrifying, at one time, that thought. Not any more.

She asked some point-blank questions about my journey of the last couple of years. Questions that, while initially musically related, were also intensely personal. The answers were shockingly revealing. Perhaps, curiously enough, not for her; my responses were self-revelations. It took a while, it took a long time, but at last I have learned the hardest lesson: to face what was real, and to let go. At last, emerging from silence, I have clarity.

It's a funny thing, music. It can hit you where it hurts. Hit you when you least expect it. Hit you, hurt you, but leave you feeling, somehow, stronger than you thought. Leave you with the sudden realization that something that once hurt immeasurably is now but a dull ache. This I have learned. In silence.

At last I have clarity
It took a while, it took a long time
But now I can seeI learned to let go
It was the hardest lesson of all
But I gave you my love
In silence
Silence

There would come a time in my life
When I'd face what was real
I turned a blind eye
I'd feed the lie
Too afraid to come clean
But I learned to let go
Although you would never know
That I gave you my love
In silence
Silence, silence, silence

But I learned to let go
It was the hardest lesson of all
Did you ever know?
I gave you my love
In silence

Silence,
Selena Cross

once-in-a-lifetime

I have a confession to make. I'm a closet fan of the infamous reality television show "The Bachelor" (gasp). It's a guilty pleasure I've engaged in watching and following with different girlfriends over the years, more for the sake of pure fun and entertainment than with any real expectation of a happily-ever-after ending.

Anyone who's watched, recently, knows of the fallout that has resulted from the latest bachelor changing his mind about the woman he chose during the show, instead dumping her and choosing to pursue a post-show relationship with the runner-up. It's not that I care, really, about either one of the women. Nor do I care about the bachelor's ultimate decision: in fact, I agree that the least amount of farce, the most honest response (regardless of the throngs of disappointed tv-watchers) is best in dealing with the post-show, real-life situation. These are not just fictional characters; rather, they are real people attempting to make a real relationship work in the real world.

As for their 15-minutes of fame, this too shall pass.
However, there is something that the rejected woman said in those drama-filled moments that has stuck with me, that I relate to on so many levels:

"To me, getting engaged and finding that person was a...
once-in-a-lifetime thing, and you took that from me. You took it.
I wish, more than anything...that you would have just let me go.
Instead of doing this to me.
I'm so mad at you!
I'm so mad at you."

Oh, do I ever understand those words. These days, that's pretty much exactly how I feel. I don't regret where I am. I'm not unhappy, or even unsatisfied with the way things are now. But I am mad. I feel betrayed. I feel used. I wanted a once-in-a-lifetime engagement, and more than that: I wanted a once-in-a-lifetime wedding, the start of a once-in-a-lifetime marriage. I thought I had it. Obviously, he didn't. More than anything else, that is what makes me mad. I wish he'd just figured it out a bit sooner. I wish he hadn't taken those moments from me, left me with memories that I wish I didn't have. So. I'll make those words my own.

To me, getting engaged and finding that person was a
once-in-a-lifetime thing, and he took that from me. He took it.
I wish, more than anything, that he would have just let me go.
Instead of doing this to me.
I am so mad at him!
I am so mad at him.

And that is why this song will forever make me cry.

Part of me has died
And won't return
And part of me wants to hide
The part that's burned

Once, once
I knew how to talk to you
Once, once
But not any more

Part of me has vied
To watch it burn
And the heart of me has tried
But look what it's become

Once, once
I knew where to look for you
Once, once
But that was before

Once, once
I would have laid down and died for you
Once, once
But not any more

Once,
Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova

moral dilemma

I was hit by a car recently. I'm badly bruised (and when I say badly, I mean that I look as though someone took a baseball bat to my legs below the knees) - but otherwise basically unharmed. Definitely a blessing, all things considered. I don't want to harp on the injuries, or the pain. That's not my point...but suffice it to say that the pain was pretty brutal the first few days, and I'm still limping almost two weeks later. Pure frustration for someone who enjoys 5-10k runs at least twice a week.

It's the moral dilemma, though, that's plaguing me more. In this money-starved, self-protecting, individualistic society, it would be ridiculously easy to file a personal injury claim and walk away with several thousand dollars. According to the financiers I work with, that number is actually probably closer to several tens of thousands of dollars. The accident was, after all, very much the fault of the driver. She has a careless driving charge against her that includes a court date for which I have been summoned to testify. I have horrific bruises, which I have made sure to document every few days as they blossom from black and blue to hues of lilac, lavender, olive and chartreuse. Literally. My legs are multi-coloured. As the firefighter so aptly put it when examining my legs at the scene: "Thank goodness it isn't summer...because believe me, these legs are not going to be pretty for a while."

There's the part of me that agonizes, "justice, Julia? or mercy?" I can't help but think of the poor woman and her scream of terror as my face hit her windshield. I firmly believe that she never saw me until that moment. So. Isn't that image, the image of my bloody face, enough? Do I need to drag her through civil court in order to feel that justice has been served? Do I really need money from her (or the insurance company)? Isn't that egomaniacally self-seeking? Even as I've contemplated this over the last few days, one of my best friends related how she'd heard the story of a woman who'd hit someone with her car. Weeks later, the woman was still traumatized and wracked by feelings of guilt.
My point exactly.

On the other hand, I haven't slept well since it happened - if I'm not seeing a car coming at me whenever I close my eyes, I'm tossing and turning for hours because I'm used to being far more physically active on a daily basis than I'm able to be right now. A double layer of tensor bandages still adorn my lower legs ("you sure you don't want shin guards?" asked another friend's gym teacher father) and add to that the comment made by one of my incredibly well-meaning co-workers: "Julia. How badly do you want to move to London?" (is that even fair?). I'm confused.

What should I do?

I've been forgiven of more
Than I could ever be angry for
Instead of judgement I choose mercy

Mercy,
Laura Woodley Osman

loss

Not a whole lot to say, other than it's over. It's over. Finally.
Now, if only my heart can realize it the way my head has.

Loss
this ache
catches me unaware: a flash
of blue
roses, hung
upside down
in my stomach, lumps
in my throat, tears
I swallow hard
against bile, rising
retching dreams: nothing left now
to spit out.
empty.
do I believe, again: can I
hope? tell me
how.

Julia Hendrik
January 8, 2009

the merits and pitfalls of introversion

So I've discovered something. Officially. No physical exercise and no musical outlet make this lady one very, very unhappy person. I guess I discovered some of that before, but it's been reinforced time and time again over the last couple of years. Especially now. Living on my own, I have perhaps felt the need to socially overbook myself in order to make sure that I maintain contact with people: otherwise, I would be sorely tempted to become a reclusive hermit who lives curled up with a book, candles and an ever-replenishing mug of hot tea.

Instead, I have found myself not even having enough time to go to the gym for a week at a time...not having enough time to journal, to write, to sing, to play violin, to take the stretch class that will prevent the migraine headache, to go for the run that will effectively exercise the mental angst. But wait. It is not that I don't have enough time. It's that I am not making the time. My own need to be perceived as a constantly busy social butterfly has never been more tangible than it is now (read: just look at how well Julia is coping!) - yet I get burnt out, exhausted, irritable, when I don't get alone time.

But I am not an extrovert.
I repeat: I am not an extrovert.
I'll clarify. To the dictionary.

extroversion
(noun)
the act, state, or habit of being predominantly concerned with and obtaining gratification from what is outside the self

introversion
(noun)
1 : the act of directing one's attention toward or getting gratification from one's own interests, thoughts, and feelings
2 : the state or tendency toward being wholly or predominantly concerned with and interested in one's own mental life
(from Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary)

At the risk of sounding completely self-centred, I'll elaborate. I'll attempt to explain my justification for why I am so completely an introvert. I like people. I really do. But I don't get my energy, my joie de vivre, so to speak, from being around people. In fact, very often, I find it exhausting. As in, somebody-hand-me-my-book-and-my-mug-of-tea-so-that-I-can-relax-by-myself-for-an-entire-day kind of exhausting. Don't talk to me, please don't touch me, and basically leave me alone. However. I don't really think it's egomaniacal self-absorption and/or self-gratification that has me spending time with "one's own interests, thoughts, and feelings"...or that I'm "wholly or predominantly concerned with and interested in" myself alone. It's that I need my time to myself to recharge before I can be ready to handle interaction with other people, as dearly as I may love them.

And there's something else I've realized, too. There's only so much being busy and hard-assed I can handle before it hits me that I'm not even being real with myself any more. Spending time on my own is, more than anything else, a reality check that tells me just how good I am at pretending. I can bury myself under mountains and molehills of my own making: constantly busy days, glossed-over demonstrations of my own competency and capability, showcases of my ability to handle anything and everything...but...then reality bites. I get bogged down by pretenses of my own construction, and the world threatens to overwhelm yet again. Ever-resilient, emotionally-detached Julia suddenly is a force of feeling to be reckoned with - and I can't say that the feeling is always positive. More often than not, the assumed apathetic complacency disintegrates into a vortex of cynicism and regret.

Songs, both the lyrics and the music, are often what do me in. Hence the song lyrics that have inspired and culminated every posting I've written thus far. So, here's another.

He is jealous for me
Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree
Bending beneath the weight of his wind and mercy
When all of a sudden
I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory
And I realize just how beautiful you are
And how great your affections are for me

We are His portion and He is our prize
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes
If grace is an ocean we're all sinking
So heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest
I don't have time to maintain these regrets
When I think about the way
That he loves us

How He Loves,
John Mark McMillan

bittersweet symphony

Photography, Jessica Balfour, Kelowna, BC
Source: http://www.jessicabalfour.com/
"Imagine if these moments could last forever."

bittersweet
(noun)
something that is bittersweet ; especially :
pleasure alloyed with pain
(adjective)
being at once bitter and sweet ; especially : pleasant but
including or marked by elements of suffering or regret

symphony
(noun)
consonance of sounds... a musical composition... consonance of colour (as in a painting)...
something that in its harmonious complexity or variety suggests a symphonic composition
(from Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary)

If there is a word more appropriate than bittersweet to describe how I feel about looking at the home page of this website, I don't know what it could possibly be. Just look at me...
Beautifully innocent.
Blissfully naive.

An exquisite mixture of moments weave the tapestry of life.
It is a symphony of memories, both bitter and sweet, in which I find myself drowning these days; yet, it is through this cacophonous, dissonant array of melodies that I will learn to hope once again.

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony this life

Bittersweet Symphony,
The Verve