a contemplation on comparison

It's Saturday, there's snow on the ground, and I'm taking a day to exhale.

(Wait. Wasn't I just blogging about summertime? What happened?)

The past couple of weeks (months?) have been pretty crazy. I find myself saying that more often than not, to the point where it's no longer a valid excuse.

I'm busy.

But I'm always busy.

So what? It's no excuse at all. When you want to make time, you make time.
Or else you let things slide and let the 'busy' excuse dictate your life.
Like blogging, for example.

Truth be told, the last few weeks (months?) I haven't really wanted to say anything.
Not because I don't have anything to say, although at times it does feel as though all the creative marrow has been sucked right out of me.
Not because I don't have a million things going on in my head that I absolutely need to process through written expression.
Not even because I'm lazy or unmotivated.

Nope. The truth is that I've been really struggling with comparison lately. The bad kind of comparison, the kind that has me evaluating everything and feeling like I don't measure up; the kind that has me wanting to hang back, hidden in the shadows of the far corner, afraid I'll get ridiculed or, even worse, completely dismissed once I get up on the stage.
Even if that stage is blogging.

Let me clarify: this is not, I repeat, not a pity party I'm throwing for myself. Not at all. I'm fulfilled, I'm happily in love, surrounded by a circle of the best people one could hope for, and Christmas is around the corner. If I'm crying these days, it's tears of joy (or it's watching Christmas commericals. Seriously. I'm such a suck) that stream down my face.

I think it's that I'm about to take a giant leap of faith, leave the comfortable and the ordinary and the familiar and venture into an arena where, if I'm not completely okay with being centre stage, I will crash and burn and fail miserably in an industry that is entirely about self-promotion.

One of these days, I have to start to affirm to myself that my voice, my words, are worthy of being heard; that lurking in the shadows, too afraid to step forward, is not the destiny I was created for. I want this, I have dreamed of this, I continue to believe myself capable of this more with every day.

Now, I just have to stop comparing myself to everyone else.
Easier said than done.

loving my ladies

I was going to write a mushy, sentimental post about female friendships...
And then I read this. CherryApple Art beat me to it, and really?
I can't say it any better.

Those two incredible, gorgeous, faith-filled, creative women are two of the best friends one could ever hope to have, and they happen to be mine.

However, I do need to add something.
TTC fare: $3.00
Winners gift card: $45.00
tall skinny extra-hot white chocolate mocha latte: $3.95
purple and yellow balloons in the middle of a crowded Starbucks: priceless

Thank you ever-so-much, L., for continuing to make every birthday special.
And for deciding against asking everyone in the place to sing to me.

These three ladies are simultaneously my rocks and my soft places to fall.

Thank God for friendships that grow, change, blossom and bloom, season after season, getting better and stronger and deeper with age.
Here's to decades more.

birthday musings

Believe it or not, I turn 26 today. Shocking.

There are so many things I could tell you, so much I could say about today, about this birthday, about this year and this time and this age.

I could tell you that once upon a time, 26 was a scary age to consider.
Closer to 30 than 20. Closer to settled-down boredom.
Closer to having to have things all figured out.

I could tell you that in another, married life, 26 was the age at which I had discussed the likelihood of becoming pregnant and having a baby. How crazy that seems now, and how utterly different my life would have had to be these last five years in order for that to be feasible or desirable. It's neither feasible nor desirable in this moment, and for that I am unspeakably glad.

I could tell you that I would never have dreamed I would have or could have written the music that is on the album I have just finished recording. Now fully mixed, it is being mastered as I type this, with a release date set for early next year and an upcoming CD release party that is being completely sponsored by my company. I am unceasingly grateful for the journey that has brought me to this point; incredibly proud of the songs that have emerged as a result.

I could tell you that I know myself better at 26 than I think I might ever have known myself had I not lived through the last five years. I don't have things all figured out. I'm not exactly sure what comes next in a lot of ways; in fact, I'm taking a giant leap in the new year and leaving my job to fully pursue my passions. What I do know is that I'm braver, I'm more courageous, than I ever have been. I'm blissfully happy. I'm unconditionally loved. I'm willing to take risks, to show grit and determination and tenacity in ways I wouldn't have thought possible.

Truth be told? I'm excited to be 26. I feel it's less terrifying to be 26 and living my life, this story. the good, the bad and the downright ugly, than it was when I was younger. I feel like people will take me more seriously than they have before, being over that mid-twenties hump (and believe me, I've wished that since I was about 16 years old). I feel as though I'm really, genuinely coming into my own.

It's been a simply lovely day. Including the many sweet and totally impersonal facebook wall posts from people I haven't spoken to in literally years - while they feel good, sure, they really don't mean all that much in the grand scheme of things! - it's been lovely from the get-go. J. woke me with a kiss. My mom and dad called me before 7am to sing Happy Birthday (in harmony no less) and my first few texts and calls of the day were from my sisters, brother and sister-in-law. I am blessed to have such a great family, not to mention my wonderful, supportive and loving friends, whose well-wishes have been pouring in all day. It's amazing how loved and appreciated a birthday can make you feel.

It's a quiet birthday, this year, and for that I'm glad. I'm exhausted. It's been a very long last couple of weeks, and so I'm grateful just to mark it in a simple and private way. Coffee with the lovely L. this early evening. Later, it's dinner with my parents while J. plays ball hockey; hanging out with my sisters; then late-night cake with my parents, my siblings, and J. to finish a perfect day. Then dinner with two of my closest ladies, R. and E., tomorrow: a relaxed girls night likely consisting of spring rolls and lots of cups of tea, laughter and gut-spilling secrets.

I want to get dressed up, go out for martinis and drink in the crisp fall air, certainly. Next week, maybe. Today, not so much. Today, I want to quietly celebrate the joy of being exactly where I am supposed to be at this stage in my life. I want to revel in the magic of having found footholds again, of having scaled mountains that once loomed menacingly in front of me. I want to bask in the grace of knowing that I am loved, I am precious, and I am on the cusp of new beginnings. In a lot of ways, I know what's up ahead, what's coming. I'm excited to watch memorable things happen.

Because that's what I feel about this year.
This year, the year I am 26 years old, will be a memorable one.
Wait and see.

You saw me broken, you saw me battered
You saw me filthy, you saw me shattered
You saw me wicked, you saw me lying
You saw me failing, you saw me trying

You saw me angry, you saw me jealous
You saw me prideful, you saw me selfish
You saw me wander, you saw me lustful
You saw me striving, worshipping idols

You said, I want her, I love her
She's the one for me
I choose her, I know her
My blood has set her free
She is my true love
Bring her to me

Now she's always by his side
She stays in his arms day and night
Out of the cage
Out of the shame
Into the light

She's finding her beauty
She's finding her grace
She's finding her whole heart
She's showing her face
In the light

Into The Light,
Laura Woodley

oh, october

The whirlwind that was October is drawing to a close.
The insanity that will be November is just around the corner.

In the meantime, a few random thoughts from this absentee blogger.

Life is good. Life is sweet.
Life is chaotic, to be sure, but there have been lots of quiet moments during this time that make me immensely grateful to be where I am now, as opposed to where I thought I would be. There is joy in the small things I once thought would never again be mine - coming home to candlelit magic and dinner waiting for me after a long day at the studio or after a fitness class; the shared nuances of intertwined life.

I am discovering that I love that my parents and siblings are also my friends.
I called my dad last night to ask how to stream live baseball coverage off Chinese tv (no, my black-and-white two-channel television does not include a channel with World Series coverage, and yes, I am that much of a nerd).
My mom and I discuss on a regular basis when the next time is that we can meet up for a tea outside the house for a veritable date. It will happen, Mom, I promise.
My aunt and I have bi-monthly hair appointments at the same salon, a perfect opportunity for a day complete with pre-haircut coffees, post-haircut lunch and usually a jaunt to the Eaton Centre to do some shopping mixed in.
My brother came into the studio for two full days to record beautiful cello tracks for my album; my sisters and I have girls nights, usually involving pizza and a lot of hysterical laughter; my sister-in-law and I keep updated through email: on Monday morning, the one in my inbox read "Just wondering how your trip was and how the concert went...let me know".

There is, of course, the unifying aspect of sports fanaticism in both J.'s family and mine. J. and I have commented on how lovely it is to be in a position where not only do we love our families, certainly, but it's also nice to know that we like them, too, and that we share interests and passions.
For example, we find ourselves planning upcoming weekend activities in the next few months around my youngest sister's varsity basketball home games in her senior year at U of T: in fact, J.'s dad, a former basketball coach, is intending to attend at least a couple of her games this season as well, and one or more of my family members are constant attendees.
Then there's the fact that my sisters and my sister-in-law play on the same rep soccer team, and J. and I play soccer every Monday night in a co-ed rec league on the same team as J.'s sister and brother-in-law. It's a great opportunity for weekly catch-up and post-game hangouts.

I'm also discovering that there is a time for new friendships. For several years, I have shied away from making new connections. I've feared judgement, shunning the vulnerability of new intimacy, choosing instead to rely on my tried-and-true trusted friends. Yet I find myself now in a place where stagnancy and/or disparity in the direction of our lives is seriously choking some of my friendships. It was truly a breath of fresh air to feel a "kindred spirit" connection with an eerily similar stranger I met a week ago. It's a pity she lives on the other side of the country, but in this day and age, that's hardly stopping us from almost-daily contact.

NOTE: I still need my late-night phone calls (L.); my accountability and creative outlet (R.); and my dose of blunt straight-talk (E.) to keep me sane. Don't worry, ladies.

Life is good. Life is sweet.
More soon about the trip out west, I promise.
More too about playing soccer, bad bruises, and how much I love BCBD classes. Because I not only do I love my BCBD classes, I need them.

Also, the CherryApple Art launch party is happening this Saturday.
I'm so excited and so proud to be a part of it. More on that as well!

the promise

He walked away and didn't smile
The man will leave
The boy will cry
To stand out in his freedom
But his freedom hasn't freed him

And they spoke in faith
They prayed their vows
Her broken face is longing now
To turn back the hands of time
But she doesn't know how

Four years ago today.
How time flies. How time crawls.

It's not that I wish my life was different.
I love my life. I love the person I've become in the last four years.
A person filled with more patience, more compassion, more understanding, more grace that I could ever have dreamed I would possess.
A person who has learned to see the beauty in the broken; who has learned to look for beauty scattered amongst the ashes.
A person who has learned that within the black and white lines of judgement, there needs to exist some space for the greys of empathy.

But there is a part of me that will never forget.
There is a part of me that will always wonder.

What about the promise that we made
And the vows we freely made before God
Wonder what he's thinking of...
The promise
The promise that we made

The longing heart, the searching soul
Will search and never find a home
'Til Jesus comes and takes control
And he takes the promises that you left behind
He resurrects the dead to life
And you can run but you can't hide from your life

Today, I'm breathing in the small mercies of a new day.
I'm breathing in mercy.
I'm breathing.

Safe in the home that this searching soul has found; this longing heart now resurrected and renewed; living again, loving again, I have learned that running, hiding from my life gets me nowhere. Pretending is futile; forgetting impossible. The promise was made. Broken, now, but that promise, those vows, were made. They cannot be unsaid.

And so, though most days he is far from my thoughts, I admit it:
Today, I wonder.

What about the promise that we made
And the vows we freely made before God
Wonder what he's thinking of...
The promise
The promise that we made

And although your heart is breaking now
Just let it go and let God turn it
Turn it all around, yeah
Turn it all around, yeah...

This is my story.
This is my past.
This is what has, in large part, shaped me into the person that I am.
And for that, for the journey here, for the lessons learned, for the hope gained, for the future to come, I am unspeakably grateful.

Oh the promise
The promise that we made

The Promise,
by Cindy Morgan

juliahendrikmusic

So it's official.

I now have a music blog, also through Blogspot...
www.juliahendrikmusic.blogspot.com

...and a brand-new music profile on MySpace.
www.myspace.com/juliahendrikmusic

For those who aren't necessarily in the know, much of the last year of my life has been spent towards achieving a lifelong dream: the production of an album of original songs. I'm almost there. Now it's just getting the critical pieces in place to allow this album to be publicized and shared in this technologically driven society.

Oh. And if you're wondering why it's 'Julia Hendrik', here's the scoop:

When I was a little girl, I loved the idea that authors wrote under pen names; that actors performed under stage names; that a person's identity could be something completely different in a public forum than it might be in private. Also, knowing that I wanted to eventually assume my husband's name, I spent long hours thinking about what my alias might be, should I ever pursue a career in the arts that might make me publicly recognizable. I wanted a professional name that would still be very personal, but memorable and interesting as well.

Hendrik is my father's middle name. Growing up, my siblings and I had often heard the story of how when my parents met, my father was calling himself Hendrik - the thinking being that his Estonian first name, Jaan (pronounced the same way as 'yawn') was too often mispronounced. Interestingly enough, my mother, within their first couple of dates, asked my father what his family called him, and decided that she, too, would call him Jaan, not Hendrik.
Foreshadowing, perhaps, their future?

Besides having similarities to the name Jimi Hendrix, a legendary musical great; besides being easily pronounceable; besides the obvious nod to my Baltic heritage; besides all of these things, assuming the name Hendrik also felt like a part of me, a part of my history. It is also a permanent tie to my childhood, to my family, regardless of what my married name might turn out to be. Thank goodness for that, retrospectively, and also in looking ahead to the time when my surname will hopefully change once more.

Plus, I can't tell you just how my dad's eyes twinkled when I officially asked him if he would be okay with me using his middle name as my professional name.

Thus, Julia Hendrik it is.

aches and pains

Enough with the laziness is what I said. Right?

After not regularly doing anything active for most of the summer, both J. and I went back at it hard this week: gym workouts, intense classes, running.
I am paying for it. Every muscle in my body is screaming.

It hurts.
It's wonderful.

Monday was a BodyFlow class at the gym. Tuesday was Eva's BCBD class.
As though the class alone wasn't enough to make me hurt for several days, J. and I decided we would on run on Wednesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays...
so it was approximately 4-5k runs each night on Wednesday and Thursday.
Followed by another BCBD class on Friday evening.

This morning, every muscle in my body screaming (my quads, my hamstrings, my calves, my gluts, my abs, my biceps, my triceps, my pecs and my back...oh, my poor, aching back!) I pretty much died after only 2k on our proposed Saturday morning run. I jogged at a very leisurely place back home while J. went on ahead.
Then we stretched for longer than we'd even run.

I sound like I'm complaining. I'm not, really. Although I'm physically sore and completely spent of energy and therefore needing a bit more sleep than my usual 5 hours a night, I feel good. Exercising is a must for me. As lovely as the lazy summer was, I was longing for this feeling of sore satisfaction, of muscle fatigue, of exhaustion. By the end of the summer, I was starting to feel as I did when I was forced into 6 weeks of inactivity after I was hit by a car back in February 2009. Quite simply, I wasn't feeling great. Not physically, not mentally.

J. and I have been discussing this week how much of working out is the impact it has on our mental health. No, I don't look any different now than I did a week ago. It'll take more than a week for the muscles that have softened and atrophied to firm up and strengthen again. But do I feel different? Definitely. I feel better about myself both when I look in the mirror and when I have my moments of soul searching introspection, which happen almost daily.

When I'm not physically active, I get restless. I get anxious. It's as though my brain picks up where my body is inert. I overthink absolutely everything. I get distracted and discouraged; complacent and competitive. I'm not a nice person to be around, and I don't want to be around people.

Forgive me if I've seemed this way of late. I won't be any longer.

Well, as soon as I'm no longer a limping hunchback.
First week workout burn.
Did I mention that it hurts?

compatible companionship

It struck me last week how rare compatibility is, how special.
Four days at J.'s cottage. No phone. No internet. No television.
Just the two of us, in a small cottage, watching the rain fall steadily. Hours a day, days on end. It was a true test of compatibility.

It could have been a disaster.

It could have resulted in extreme moodiness. It could have led to hours spent arguing, no real refuge to be found from hurtful words or frustrated tears. It certainly could have induced a claustrophobic sense of being cooped-up and stir-crazy and bored to tears. It definitely could have resulted in isolation.

It was heaven.

It hit me on Tuesday evening.
We needed to pick up some dishwashing detergent, and decided to walk the kilometre or two to the small convenience store located on a somewhat main road. Hand in hand, dressed warmly in our sweatshirts, decked out in our running shoes (which, unless we're working out, you will never find either J. or I wearing otherwise), we walked. We walked, and talked, and talked some more. We were giddy with the headiness of being the only two people around. Literally. No one else was silly enough to be cottaging in September, in the freezing cold. We arrived back at the cottage at dusk, went for a frigid dip and a warm shower. Then, lights dim, candles blazing, we began our evening: cooking together, wine in hand, the mellow music of Coldplay on in the background.

It hit me on Wednesday afternoon.
The rain intermittently drizzled and poured throughout the afternoon. J. was sitting on the couch, playing a game on his computer. I was curled up in the armchair across from him with a blanket and a book. We sat in silence for hours; no music, no talking. Every once in a while, one or the other of us would catch the other gazing across the room, and we'd share a smile. We didn't even need words.

It hit me again on Thursday night.
We'd driven all afternoon, and were headed to the Stratford Festival to see a show: Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris. As a child, spending summers at his cottage, J.'s grandfather had played records of many different musicals, and Jacques Brel was J.'s favourite. Having studied musical theatre, I know several of the songs from the musical myself; and, as fate would have it, it was one of the shows being performed in Stratford this year. Sitting hand in hand, clearly the youngest people voluntarily in attendance on that given day, J. and I both equally enjoyed the show. His eyes lit up at certain songs. He applauded vigorously. He understood my criticisms and offered a few of his own. Best of all, he agreed with me that we should do it more often.

Sometimes, I marvel at how easy it is. I feel, sometimes, like it can't possibly be this easy. It can't possibly involve so little drama. It can't possibly stay so wonderful. Here's the thing, though: it is because we work at it. For the first time in my life, really, I feel completely unselfish with him, and he with me. Both introspective by nature, both contemplative and over-analyzing and hyper-sensitive, J. and I can tell in the nuance of a certain tone that something is wrong. And both of us, equally, work to make things better. We work to maintain that balance, not looking for conflict or seeking control. We work to keep the peace.

There is a difference between companionship, and compatible companionship.

compatible
(adjective)
1 : capable of existing together in harmony :
compatible theories; compatible people
2 : capable of cross-fertilizing freely or uniting vegetatively
3 : capable of forming a homogeneous mixture that neither separates nor is altered by chemical interaction

4 : capable of being used in transfusion or grafting without immunological reaction (as agglutination or tissue rejection)

5 : designed to work with another device or system without modification; especially : being a computer designed to operate in the same manner and use the same software as another computer
(from Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary)

My parents have always gone for walks together. As children, we used to roll our eyes as they donned their running shoes and set off every night at dusk, walking leisurely down Lake Drive at our cottage. More recently, they've been known to set off on long journeys through High Park, thermoses of coffee in hand. But now, I understand it. It's the shared, easy companionship of a couple who want nothing more than to spend a few quality moments together, walking, talking. Privately inhabiting a world where the main priority is togetherness, and cherishing whatever intimate alone time they can share together.

Everyone desires companionship, the fellowship of another person or a group of people. It's a gift, though, when companionship isn't just company, whatever that may mean. Instead, the gift of compatibility is found in existing together with another person in harmony; it is in the free uniting of two people; it is in the creation of a homogeneous mixture of personalities that does not separate; it is in the transfusion, the grafting of lives together; it is in the design that allows two individual systems, two individual people, to work together without major modification.

J. and I have such companionship.
And I cannot say it enough.

I am grateful.

here it is again

All of a sudden, the season has changed. There is a new spark in the air, a new energy, a sense of anticipation, of remembrance, of loss, of hope. Over the years, this time of year has represented so many things for me. Here it is again.

September has arrived.

The temperature has dropped about 10 degrees overnight.

The much-awaited week at J.'s cottage has flown by in a blur of comfy sweats, tender cuddles, heartfelt conversation, midnight movie-watching, frigid swims, delicious food, and long walks to town for yummy fudge.

The workout itch has seriously begun, the last of the summer laziness has worked its way out of my system. Just in time for Eva Redpath and her Body Conditioning By Dancers class to kick my butt twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday evenings, throughout the fall. It starts in three days. Yikes. This woman is hardcore.
Check it out.
www.evaredpath.com

Goodbye, summer.
Hello, autumn.
I can't wait for what the rest of this year will bring.

committed

I just finished reading a book. Literally just finished.
Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage.
It's the follow-up to the best-selling book Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, now a major motion picture starring Julia Roberts.

First of all, let me say: this is going to be a very long post.
Consider yourself warned.

Let me also add that if I could choose to emulate one modern-day writer, it would be this woman. With unabashed sarcasm, wry wit, and obvious intelligence, she takes the reader on a journey through her emotional highs and lows while still very persuasively conveying her educated thoughts and opinions on a whole array of subjects, particularly the topic of marriage.

Two summers ago, in the middle of one of the most lost, frustrating and painful times I hope ever to live through, I picked up Eat, Pray, Love, which had come highly recommended by several very trusted friends. I had just returned home from a trip to Cuba with my dear friend L., a much-needed getaway for both of us as we recovered from devastating break ups, and I was instantly hooked. Here was a woman who spoke my language. Here was a woman who, living through the cataclysmic effects of a divorce, struggling through severe depression in the aftermath, decided to take a year-long trip to several different countries in order to truly discover who she was and how to make peace with her life.
In Italy, she ate; in India, she prayed; in Indonesia, she loved.

I didn't take a trip around the world. I had no such desire to gorge on Italian decadence, meditate in yogic silence in an Indian ashram, or delve into Southeast Asian culture in an Indonesian hut. Hardly. I did, however, impulsively book a trip to London, England. All alone, sleeping on the couch of a virtual stranger I'd met in Cuba (who did, let me just say, became a good friend), I set off to spend fifteen days in the city I'd always wanted most to visit.

I walked twelve hours a day, buying a day pass for the tube and getting off wherever I felt like it to explore; journal in my bag at all times, I stopped several times a day for a tea, a scone and a quiet moment to explore my thoughts and note my surroundings. It was wonderful, it was healing, it was necessary; in the end, it gave me the courage to come home and, just days later, make the phone call that would set the final stages of my divorce in motion.

When I heard, several months ago, that a follow-up book had been published, I was curious. I was even more curious to learn that the book was about the author's views on marriage. She had made it very clear in the first book that she was finished with marriage; she was adamant about her desire never to get married again, even though she had, on her travels, met and fallen in love with a Brazilian man.

Similarly, just getting out of my marriage, I was fairly adamant myself that I didn't think I ever wanted to go down that road again. Then, of course, unexpectedly, J. happened. On my travels as well, ironically enough: we met on vacation in the Dominican Republic, and just happened to live in the same city. Suddenly, I was caught up in a vortex of new emotions, terrified and exhilarated and wondering every second what I was doing, knowing what I knew about the end of love. As J. will tell you, I spent most of the first year of our relationship waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak; waiting for the land mine to explode under me and once again blow apart my heart.

But here we are now, very serious and very much in love, and I've stopped expecting the worst. I've stopped looking for disaster to strike. It was only natural, then, that I would get around to reading this book; that, beginning to put my own fears aside in once again contemplating a lifetime of marriage to a man that I love, I would be prepared to understand this woman's journey to embracing her own marriage.

Understand it I have.
Challenged I will continue to be.
Hopeful I am, as a result.

I want to quote several different passages from this book, and then expound upon them. Will you stick with me if I do? I know it's long. It's just that there's so much I feel she explains so well, so perfectly; so many things I can relate to and empathize with, said in words that I quite frankly wish I'd written myself.

Here goes, then.

...correct in one respect (we will all be fine eventually), but dead wrong in another respect (we will never entirely move past it, either). In this sense, we divorced folk are something like twentieth-century Japan: We had a culture which was prewar and we have a culture which is postwar, and right between those two histories lies a giant smoking hole.
I will do virtually anything to avoid going through that apocalypse again. But I recognize there's always the possibility of another divorce...because love-based unions make for strangely fragile tethers. I'm not giving up on love, mind you. I still believe in it. But maybe that's the problem. Maybe divorce is the tax we collectively pay as a culture for daring to believe in love - or at least, for daring to link love to such a vital social contract as matrimony. Maybe it is not love and marriage that go together like a horse and carriage after all. Maybe it is love and divorce that go together...like a carriage and a horse.
It's been famously said that second marriage is the triumph of hope over experience, but I'm not entirely sure that's true. It seems to me that first marriages are more hope-drenched affairs, awash in vast expectations and easy optimism. Second marriages are cloaked, I think, in something else: a respect for forces that are bigger than us, maybe. A respect that perhaps even approaches awe.
Committed, page 83-85

How insanely, brilliantly true. If the only thing that holds together a marriage is love, then it is a fickle marriage at best. If there is no commitment, if there is no understanding that the shifting nature of personal happiness is not the be-all and end-all of life, if there is no mutual agreement to work things out at all costs, then why marry at all? Love is a choice. Modern-day society has no need of marriage for economic or political reasons, leaving the decision to marry solely in the hands of the emotionally impassioned.

Dangerous? Certainly.
Disastrous? All too often.

So, yes, my love affair...had a wonderful element of romance to it, which I will always cherish. But it was not an infatuation, and here's how I can tell: because I did not demand that he become my Great Emancipator or my Source of All Life, nor did I immediately vanish into that man's chest cavity like a twisted, unrecognizable, parasitical homunculus. During our long period of courtship, I remained intact within my own personality, and I allowed myself to meet...for who he was. In each other's eyes, we may very well have seemed beautiful and perfect and heroic beyond measure, but I never lost sight of our actual realities.
We were two nice enough people, bearing the wounds of some very massive personal disappointments, and we were looking for something that might simply be possible in each other - a certain kindness, a certain attentiveness, a certain shared yearning to trust and be trusted.
To this day, I refuse to burden him with the tremendous responsibility of somehow completing me. By this point in in my life I have figured out that he cannot complete me, even if he wanted to. I've faced enough of my own incompletions to recognize that they belong solely to me. Having learned this essential truth, I can actually tell now where I end and where somebody else begins...as nicely defined by C.S. Lewis, when he wrote of his wife,
'We both knew this: I had my miseries, not hers; she had hers, not mine.'
One plus one, in other words, is sometimes supposed to equal two.
Commitment, page 105-106

I don't believe that I realized just how much I depended on my first marriage to somehow fulfill me, to complete me, to bring me unending bliss. Don't get me wrong; I loved him with everything I had. It's just, perhaps, that I didn't really know how to love him and love myself at the same time, and I dove in with unrealistic expectations. I didn't realize how my need to have him complete me was basically a demonstration to him that I would dissolve into the entity of our marriage as though I had nothing that he couldn't absorb. But I did, and I do, as does every human being, and when this became clear to me, it was too late. In fact, I think he expected me to dissolve regardless, as he said many times in many different ways. I didn't realize just how difficult that was going to be. It proved to be impossible; as a result, the marriage proved to be untenable for him, and looking back with perspective, ultimately it would have eventually become unbearable for me as well.

With J., on the other hand, I know my weaknesses. I know my fears, I know my failings, I know my needs, and I know that he's never going to fill all the gaps, try as he might. And I, too, will never fill all of his. Still, we love each other fiercely, protectively, with a selflessness I could never have imagined I was capable of demonstrating. Perhaps this is because we are both all too keenly aware of our shortcomings, and are both unfailingly honest and up front about them.

Whatever the reason may be, I feel more with every passing day that this time, the equation will not be faulty: one real, flawed person plus another real, flawed person does equal two. And two real, flawed, vulnerable, open, honest people who love each other is far better than two scared, unrealistic, closed off, angry, resentful people. Any day. Even if they really do love each other.

When I tried to sort out my resistance to a public wedding ceremony, I had to admit that part of the issue was simple embarrassment. How very awkward to stand in front of one's family and friends (many of whom had been guests at one's first wedding) and swear solemn vows for life all over again. Hadn't they all seen this film already? One's credibility does begin to tarnish after too much of this sort of thing...To paraphrase Oscar Wilde: one divorce may be regarded as a misfortune, but two begins to smack of carelessness.
...how those two little indicting words - this time - make me cringe. Yet it was true. The recollections of last time felt all too recent for me, too painful. Also, I didn't like the idea that guests at a bride's second wedding are just as likely to be thinking about her first spouse as they are to be thinking about her new spouse - and that the bride, too, will probably be remembering her ex-husband on that day. First spouses, I have learned, don't ever really go away - even if you aren't speaking to them any more. They are phantoms who dwell in the corners of our new love stories, never entirely vanishing from sight, materializing in our minds whenever they please, offering up unwelcome comments or bits of painfully accurate criticism.
Committed, page 241-242

Ah. There it is, one of my biggest fears about getting married again: the actual ceremony itself. Sure, I'll pick out an exquisite dress, choose beautiful flowers, and walk down a candlelit aisle to my love; but why do other people need to be there? Isn't it really just about the two of us? And, even if family and friends are present to celebrate with the bride and groom, why must it become a spectacle for those phantoms of the first time to witness as well? Why are those ghosts allowed the opportunity to play brutal games of comparison inside my head, to make me agonizingly question myself over and over?

Still, it will be a first for J. And, because of that, I will banish my fears to the darkest recesses of my mind, silence the ghosts, and pray that the day, when it comes, will be new, different, and more incredible than anything I could have imagined. Because it will, ultimately, be about us, and that "us" is more incredible than anything I could have imagined.

It's fitting that the title of this book represents how I now feel about marriage. It's not just about infatuation or love. It's not just about who my parents would have chosen, or what my siblings think, or how well he gets along with my friends.
(Lest you worry, there's not a single person who's seen J. and I together who has ever expressed a negative opinion. Not so with my first marriage, let me say).

Remember the horse and carriage...or the carriage and the horse?

Marriage is, ultimately, about commitment. Through the good times and the bad, whether deliriously happy or desperately sad, I want to know that at the end of the day, my commitment to the man I marry will last a lifetime. For in the end, it's not about love. It's about the commitment that joins two hearts and lives together.
Come what may.

trucking through the muck

In any project, there comes the point at which you find yourself on your hands and knees, staggering, shuffling, crawling. The finish line is in sight, the majority of the journey complete; but still, the final stretch looms before you, the footholds of the last crest perilously fragile.

Exhausted, frustrated, sick and tired of the whole thing, you want to give up: instead, you press forward, press upward, press on, hoping you have enough left to give it your all, right to the end.

I'm right about there right now. This current project of mine, the recording of an album of twelve original songs, is in the final stages of production. Three more weeks of engineering, followed by several weeks of mixing, and then several more weeks of mastering, and finally off to press it shall go in mid-November.

Does that ever seem far away.

It's been a very long year of seeing this come to fruition, for a variety of factors, but the end truly is in sight. I've referenced often this past year the need to elaborate on this whole process, I know, but have yet to do so. Call me crazy, perhaps; superstitious, even; but I've decided that I don't want to discuss it in great detail until it's all finished. Until, album in hand, website up and running, iTunes account activated, songs purchased, there is something legitimate to show for it.

I will go into detail about the incredible, unexpected sponsorship I received last October, which has paid for all of the studio time and engineering of this project. I will go into detail about the brilliance of my producer and friend, and the joy it is to work with him. I will go into detail about the daunting process of finding a photographer, shooting creative portraits; then choosing artwork, critically selecting representative imagery to effectively immortalize a look and a sound.

I will go into detail, I promise. For now, though, end in sight, I truck through the muck of small necessities that threaten to overwhelm, that make me feel as though I am wading through quicksand, arms and legs pumping, not getting anywhere.

I need to get rid of the remnants of laryngitis left from my airconditioning cold so that I can record the last few vocal tracks. I need to get technologically current with a functional, aesthetically pleasing website. I need to decide on the style of CD format (digipak? wallet-style? jewel case? 4-panel? 6-panel? centred? spined? booklet? matte? hi-gloss?) and the company I want to trust with such a significant task as reproducing 1,000 copies of this album. All of this in time for Christmas.

Several years ago, my mother gave me a book entitled The Dream Giver, a parable written by Christian author and motivational speaker Bruce Wilkinson. In it, a man named Ordinary leaves his Comfort Zone, the land of the Familiar, in order to pursue his Big Dream. Along the way, he meets Bullies in the Borderland, or those who stand in the way of the initial process. He then walks through the Wasteland, a season of barrenness, before finding Sanctuary. Then, in this fictional story, Ordinary enters the Valley of Giants. These giants are obstacles that threaten his faith and bar the way to the Promised Land.

I am in the Valley of Giants. I can see the Promised Land, the fulfillment of this album, my Big Dream, just ahead. It's overcoming the obstacles along the way in these final few faith-testing, confidence-eroding, character-building weeks ahead that will ultimately make the completion of this project so rewarding, so fulfilling, so satisfying when it's all said and done.

Every Dreamer soon learns that the road to the future you really want is clogged with Dream-threatening obstacles. That's why so many turn back. But what many don't realize...is that each obstacle is also an important opportunity. The obstacles come in a predictable sequence, and each for a very promising reason.

So let me ask: Did you have a dream as a child that you lost along the way? Do you have a dream right now that seems impossible to pursue? Do you feel like God forgot to even give you a Big Dream? Or are you pursuing your Big Dream, but experiencing setback after setback?

If your answer to any of these questions is yes, then this book is for you.
May your heart sing as you embrace what you were created to be and do.

from The Dream Giver,
Bruce Wilkinson

discouraged and dismayed

Most of the time, I consider myself to be a fairly understanding person. This is not to say that I'm even remotely near perfect, that I'm unfailingly right, or that I'm always a saint. Am I? Hardly.

However, I'm certainly not someone who enjoys creating conflict; in fact, the last few years have been a process of learning to avoid impulsive responses of excessive emotion so as not to induce conflict. Over time, I've learned how not to be a doormat, how not to be manipulated or controlled; but rather to stand up for myself, to voice my opinion calmly, succinctly, and rationally, without displays of tears or angry words.

This week was a clear juxtaposition of the ways in which two very different people handle conflict: one with steely calm and silent resolve, the other with impassioned anger and impulsive behaviour. Somehow, as the calm, resolute one, I came out the 'winner'; I also, as a result, came out the 'villain', so to speak. And have I ever been vilified, now, with extremely hurtful, highly emotionally-charged impulse responses made public on every social networking tool available.

Maybe it's just my hurt and a bit of shock speaking, but will someone please explain to me how and why a mature, adult person believes that it is acceptable to spew verbal slander through emails, Facebook profiles, Twitter updates and Blackberry statuses? Will someone kindly elaborate on the seeming need for some people to publicly insult and offend others?

Forgive me for being discouraged, and a little bit dismayed.

I'm not sure what professional conduct really means any more, let alone a professional relationship that has deepened into friendship. I'm not sure how one goes from answering the phone at 3am to comfort hysterical bawling to reading defamatory accusations (and I quote directly from telephone conversations, emails, Twitter and Facebook) calling me hostile, stubborn, selfish, self-serving, full of bullshit and lame excuses; and, while I find this kind of funny, a princess.

All of this while repeatedly stating the following:
"...time I start looking out for myself."
"...just doing ME from now on."

Once again. Forgive me if I'm slightly confused.

I spent a lot of years of my childhood being bullied and intimidated into acquiescing to the demands of manipulative, petulantly pouty girls. I decided a long time ago never to be a doormat again, never to be a pushover. Apparently, my adult resilience to manipulative demands is viewed as hostile, stubborn, selfish, and self-serving. Interesting.

I should probably stop, lest I too veer into slanderous territory.

I will say, though, that I am thankful for my resoluteness in the face of conflict, for my learned ability to stick up for myself, for my reserved response to the situation, for my resiliency to bounce back. I am grateful that I have come to understand the consequences of impulse.

And, most of all, I am glad of this small consolation in this mess; when the dust settles, I will not be the one with regrets.

Those who guard their lips preserve their lives,
but those who speak rashly will come to ruin.
Proverbs 13:3

Those who have knowledge use words with restraint,
and those who have understanding are even-tempered.
Proverbs 17:27

Those who guard their mouths and their tongues
keep themselves from calamity.
Proverbs 21:23

An angry person stirs up dissension,
and a hot-tempered person commits many sins.
Proverbs 29:22

a letter for L.

for L.

Did you know? We have shared a decade of friendship.
It's hard to believe how far we've come in those ten years:
how many laughs we've shared;
how many tears we've shed;
how many hours we've spent in midnight phone calls.

It's remarkable to me how we've bridged the gaps:
how we've grown from high school teenagers to university students to working women;
how we've ranted and raved, sobbed and screamed, giggled and grimaced;
how we've had both seasons of distance and seasons of inseparability;
and how, over time, we've all but learned to read each other's minds.

Last Sunday, sitting on L.'s familiar couch, talking non-stop for almost seven hours, I was reminded of how rare kindred spirits are, how lucky it is to find a friend who knows you inside and out and loves you still, no matter what.

L. and I have certainly had our moments of closeness and our moments of contention; at one time, we literally did not speak for over a year. Still, it is a testament to the strength of our friendship that everything we have gone through has only brought us closer.

When my phone rings at 3am, I know who it is. I know that we have the kind of friendship that transcends certain boundaries, that is unequivocally supportive and yet brutally honest. I know that while we don't see each other for weeks, sometimes months, we rarely go a week without speaking on the phone, sharing the nuances of our daily life.

Together, we have been naive, idealistic dreamers. Together, we have gone through the traumatic demise of each of our first loves and come out the other side. Together, we have aimlessly walked countless miles over the years, discussing any matter of subjects; we have stood for hours on street corners, lost in conversation. Together, we will embrace the future, whatever it holds.

Happy Birthday, my person.
Here's to decades more.

*cough, wheeze, gasp*

My mother sent me an email yesterday afternoon.

Of course, I didn't get such email until I got into work this afternoon, being able to access my email only at work. (Though that will change very soon, as I got word today that my MacBook Pro is ready for pickup. Yessirree. I will enter the world of the technologically connected within a matter of days. Yay!)

My parents are on holiday, spending two weeks up at my uncle's cottage; being empty nest lovebirds and adventurers as they see small-town theatre shows, relax, enjoy the beach...and clearly miss their children.

An exerpt from said email:
We're in the Collingwood library checking our email...no new blogs? no news? How is the recording going? We'll check again later this week. We're praying for you. IWALY.
(How cute is my mother?)

Okay, Mom (and blogworld). I confess. I haven't felt very motivated to do much of anything these last couple of weeks.
Mostly because just breathing is difficult.

I have an air-conditioning cold.

It all started the day I came back from J.'s cottage. First it was a sore throat. Then a few random, hacking dry coughs. But by last weekend, it was a full-blown chest cold. Deep, phlegmy coughs that leave me gasping for air, a wheezing voice that sounds like that of a 75-year-old lifetime smoker, and energy levels that are non-existent: I fell asleep with the bases loaded halfway through the ninth inning watching the Jays game a couple of nights ago. If you know how much my family loves the Jays, then you understand that normally I would be paying rapt attention and commenting on everything.
I could barely keep my eyes open.

This isn't the first time that I've had an air-conditioning cold (and by that, I mean a chest cold caused by air-conditioning). A few summers ago, I had laryngitis for six straight weeks - badly enough that I was referred to an ENT (Ear Nose Throat) specialist. Apparently, my lungs and vocal chords are highly susceptible to extreme temperature changes, and the dichotomy between my sauna-esque apartment and my icebox of an office has me constantly in flux this summer.

Too hot, too cold.
Too much for me to handle, clearly.

Thus the sense of lethargic blah that has seemed to rule this summer continues on, trailing me unprotestingly with it.

Goodness knows I can't run right now, not even breathing properly; I don't really feel like being social, coughing my way through conversations; and singing? Forget it. My plan to record vocals the last two weeks has been completely thwarted by the froglike sounds emerging from my throat.

So, Mom. No news, really.
Although, when you check, I hope you smile.
IWALY.

Also. Mom, you sent me an email.
How 21st century of you.

the living is easy

Ah, summertime.

What a lazy July I've had. Honestly.
Apart from working an awful lot, there really hasn't been all that much going on.
It's been a blissful season of sunshine, of romance, of relaxation.

I've concocted gourmet meals, some nights; other nights, I've snacked on veggies and dip and crackers and cheese for dinner. Along with J. (because it's become rare that we spend more than an evening or two apart) I've sampled many new wines, mostly sparkling white or rose. Something about summer makes me long for chilled, sparkling, pale shades of white or rose wine in my glass.

I've boycotted the gym (until September, when I will be going hard core to make up for all this yummy, lazy living) and exercised only minimally by running 3-4km with J. once or twice a week. Light exercise, to say the very least. It's lovely, if somewhat guilt-inducing, to be so intentionally inactive, and I will probably be longing for exercise come September.

I've become addicted to Mad Men. After the purchase of a beautiful 42-inch LCD television several months ago, J. and I discussed in depth which series we wanted to watch on DVD this summer. Mad Men was the definite winner. It has certainly not disappointed: we're now only three episodes away from finishing Season 3 on DVD, just in time to catch the beginning of Season 4 now airing on television.

I've had restful weekends of fun in the sun with good food and wine and great friends and family. Beginning with our getaway to Ottawa the first weekend of the summer, J. and I have spent our July weekends engaged in the following activities:

• spending a night in Guelph for J.'s friend's birthday pig roast, including a late-night sleuthing adventure around an unfamiliar town in search of a set of misplaced keys;
• babysitting the beloved children of two of my very best friends while their rockstar daddy was away on tour and their frazzled mommy had a day off to get glamourous and celebrate at a childhood friend's wedding;
• keeping J.'s mom company with Scrabble and gourmet dinners while his dad spent time in the United States visiting his sister and her family;
• watching many episodes of Mad Men at home and a number of movies in theatre (Despicable Me, Inception, Salt, to name a few) on rainy weekend days;
• driving up north in J.'s truck with my parents, listening to the Jays game, J. and my dad in the front, my mom and I wedged into the back seat of his 2-door pickup truck;
• playing games of volleyball and soccer with my sisters and several of my cousins at my family cottage.

Now, this weekend, we're off to J.'s family cottage for a weekend of total seclusion, including more gourmet meals (homemade lobster rolls and tomato and pimento salad, to name just a couple of the recipes I'm dying to try!) and more good wine.

We're both excited to have a weekend away this summer in one of the places where our story really began. His cottage was our getaway on two long weekends last year, when we were attempting to begin our relationship long distance: J. was living and working in Ottawa, at the time, and I was here in Toronto. We were just getting to know each other, just beginning to fall in love, just learning how to be together (not that we're old pros at it or anything now). It's a place that holds memories we both treasure dearly, memories that are beautiful and magical and fundamental to the foundation of our relationship.

Both my pen and my keyboard have been silent of late.
Perhaps August, with its proposals of productivity, its promises of provocation, will beckon me towards further creative output.

For now, I am enjoying the crickets chirping.
Summer silence.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high
Oh! Your daddy's rich and your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby don't you cry

One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singin'
Then you'll spread your wings, and you'll take to the sky
But 'till that mornin', there's a'nothin' can harm you
With your daddy and your mammy standin' by

Summertime,
George Gershwin

hot, hot heat

So, ladies and gentlemen; a question, if I may, before I begin: how many of you thought, upon seeing the title of this post, that I was referring to the unspeakably ridiculous heat wave that has descended upon us this early summer?

And how many of you sports lovers assumed (and for those who don't know what I'm talking about, you will) that I must certainly be talking about the big announcement made by LeBron James yesterday: that being the decision to joining Chris Bosh and Dwyane Wade as a member of the Miami Heat next season?

Well, folks... (to quote my dad's teaching style: IWALY, Dad!)

You're right either way, I may say, yes it's true.
You're right. So now, without further ado,
I hope you enjoy both post 1 and post 2.
(I should write a book a la Dr. Seuss.)

post 1:

hot, hot heat...
...as in Toronto weather conditions.

This weather has me feeling like I'm living in a sauna. There's no airconditioning in my apartment, and the fan I have blowing full force feels futile. It's basically just moving around hot air.

Think about it. Saunas are relaxing, certainly; sweat-inducing, definitely; but they are not meant to be lived in. Nope. As a result? Hello, lethargy. Hello, nudity. It is much too hot to move, much too hot for sweaty clothing. I fell asleep on my couch in my sports bra and underwear mid-afternoon yesterday. Not because I was tired, but because I couldn't help it. I could barely breathe.

Then, I go into work, which of course is over-airconditioned to compensate for the men in suits, and I am shivering, sweatered, covered in goosebumps, longing for a space heater under my desk to warm my bare toes in their stylish summer sandals.

Sheesh. I like summer, but not this much.

post 2:

hot, hot heat...
...as in the Miami Heat basketball team.

I've been asked this question multiple times, and for all those who haven't yet heard my verdict, my opinion on it, here's the deal:

I like it.

I like it.

I really, really do. Here are three guys, all drafted the same year, who've been carrying their respective teams for years without much help: LeBron James with the Cleveland Cavaliers, Chris Bosh with the Toronto Raptors, and Dwyane Wade already with the Heat. Here are three extremely talented players who have not won NBA titles thus far in their already acclaimed young careers.

People are upset about loyalty. Seven years isn't enough, people? Seven unproductive years? These guys are conditioned, as all athletes are, to win. I don't begrudge their desire to go somewhere else to try to achieve that in the least.

Besides, any team that can take down the dominant L.A. Lakers is good news. I'm pretty sure these repeat all-star Eastern Conference boys probably feel the exact same way.

I'm looking forward to next season.

And to this heat wave breaking.
Before I melt.

Post Edit: J. kindly informed me that, contrary to what I posted earlier, Dwyane Wade and the Miami Heat have already won an NBA title. Before the 2005/2006 season, they acquired all-star Shaquille O'Neal. From being among the last place teams in previous seasons, they went on to win the NBA championship that year.

So. If they can do it then, why wouldn't they be able to do it now?

straight line

If there is such a thing as utter perfection, this past weekend surely fits the bill. It was absolutely, perfectly wonderful.
Snippets of our adventures:

sleeping in the truck on a deserted country road the first night after we missed the check-in time at the Rideau River Provincial Park campground;

wandering through the crowded downtown streets full of drunken revelers on Canada Day en route to see the fireworks on Parliament Hill;

bundling up in every layer we could find and cuddling each other for sheer warmth the night we slept in the tent because it got so cold;

setting out on a late-night hunt through the streets to find Chinatown, armed with little more than a map, because we were desperately craving good ol' Chinese food;

running along the path around the canal on a beautiful morning, then stopping to walk hand-in-hand to a look-out point for a quiet moment together before we ran back;

watching the World Cup in an open-air upstairs bar;

revisiting the restaurant at which we ate lunch last year strictly for the sake of nostalgia, then stuffing ourselves silly on our giant order of raw veggies and dip, nachos, and cheesy jalapeno poppers;

browsing the eclectic outdoor stalls of the Byward Market;

escaping to the air-conditioned heaven of the Chapters store to cool off with iced coffees and the lure of books;

napping post-sweltering afternoon walk;

randomly choosing a patio at midnight for two hours of heartfelt late-night conversation over a bottle of red wine and a platter of brie cheese with apple chutney, chunks of toasted baguette and pieces of Granny Smith apple.

The list could go on and on.
It wouldn't even begin to capture the intimacy of shared moments, the love that grows daily, the bond that continues to strengthen with time.

I am blessed to have found such a love, and I know it.

A couple of nights ago, in the middle of a power failure, my sister-in-law and I had an impromptu date night over fruit smoothies. It was lovely. Amidst the hours of conversation on a whole number of matters concerning love and relationships, she told me something of her observations of J. and I that struck a definite chord in me. That being this: J. knows how to handle me.

I don't want to scare anyone, here, but let's face it:
I know I'm not an easy-going, carefree person.
I'm emotionally high-maintenance, sometimes.
I'm an over-thinker, a psycho-analyzer, a hyper-emotional person who tends to occasionally blow things way out of proportion, exaggerate, overreact, fly off the handle, and take offence at nothing; which then leads to sullen withdrawal, icy coldness, and silent tears. It's not always fun to navigate the emotional wheels I seem to cycle through in an instant. I've even been accused of being bi-polar, although I most certainly am not.

Yet through all my ups and downs, in all my melodramatic moments; in silliness or sadness, exhaustion or exasperation, J. laughs with me, cries with me, knows how to calm me when I'm riled and comfort me when I'm distraught.

Some days, the past looms behind me, threatening to overwhelm the present. Yet it's especially then that I'm beckoned back into arms that love me patiently, compassionately, fiercely.

More and more, with every passing day, I'm running a straight line away from the pain of the past towards the promise of the future. Not wanting to waste time thinking, talking about what was; but instead focusing on what is, and what will be.

All this time we were waiting for each other
All this time I was waiting for you
Got all these words, can't waste them on another
So I'm straight in a straight line
Running back to you

All This Time,
One Republic

scabs and scars

Sometimes, pain can sucker punch you like a fist between the eyes. It's immediate, it's excruciating, it leaves you reeling, rocking back and forth trying to find balance; but, after the initial shock is over, it fades into little more than a dull ache.

Sometimes, pain is not so instantaneous. It's like a scab, the remnants of an old wound. Unintentionally, unthinkingly, perhaps, that wound may be picked open, peeled back, and suddenly there is blood, there is rawness, there is mess.

I learned some interesting news this week.

It didn't really hurt, at first.
In fact, it barely hurt at all. It felt kind of like I'd brushed over a once-injured area that had almost healed; gingerly, with gentleness, with care, then moved on.

It didn't hurt, in fact, until I decided to dig a little deeper, to find out a little bit more; and, in so doing, to probe into my own half-forgotten memory box of the past. Consequentially, I managed to open up some almost-completely-healed hurts. Now they need time to heal over again.

The more a scab is picked, the worse the scar will be.

I seriously need to learn to stop picking these scabs.
I don't want to be covered in scars.

hi-ho, hi-ho, to ottawa we go

Last year, I took a risk, went out on a limb, and went up to Ottawa for the Canada Day weekend to meet up with J., who lived and worked in and around the Ottawa area most of last summer.

We had known each other for less than a month; we'd been dating less than a week. Still, we had an absolutely amazing time, and, despite all sorts of different obstacles we could foresee might challenge our future, we came home from that weekend resolutely determined that our relationship was a really good thing and we really wanted to make it work. We certainly have.

Clearly nostalgic by nature, I tend to want to revisit the scenes of my memories. So, we're off to Ottawa for the extended Canada Day weekend again this year. J. and I will camp for a couple of nights along the Rideau River, then spend the next couple of nights at the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Ottawa. We intend to go for runs along the canal, take in some of the jazz festival, roam the cobblestone streets, dress up for late night drinks, and order at least one pizza to watch the World Cup in our hotel room.

I seriously cannot wait.

I feel, somehow, that something has changed in me over the last couple of months. Fear has vanished; the past is slowly fading into blurry snippets of half-forgotten moments. Perhaps it is the marking of an anniversary, perhaps only the passage of time, but I feel like this is once again a new chapter of life I am writing, and I'm constantly excited to turn the page.

The future holds so much promise again where once, not so very long ago, it seemed void and empty. I am well aware that the seasons of life come and go; I have lived through many different storms in the last few years. Now, though, there is much to look forward to, much to hope for, much to dream of, and I am full to bursting with the knowledge and understanding that I have entered a happy, fulfilling, rewarding season of my life.

I intend to milk it for every sweet, satisfying drop.
Then drink up every single one.

one year later

It's been a year.
365 days of change, of growth, of love.

When this year began, I didn't know what it felt like to have arms wrapped around me while standing at my kitchen counter, making dinner or doing the dishes. At first, they were willing me to believe they were real; then, they were willing me to believe they were there to stay. I didn't know that one day I would really believe it.
I do now.

When this year began, I didn't know what it felt like to have soft, comforting words spoken when conflict arose. I didn't know that not every misstep inevitably results in insults, accusations, blame. I didn't know that yelling and name-calling were completely, permanently out of the question. I didn't know that love could be so compassionate, so empathetic, so tenderhearted.
I do now.

When this year began, I didn't know what it felt like to have to learn how to understand the irrational; to weigh the impact of every thought, every action. I didn't know I was capable of being so selfless, so sympathetic. I didn't know that in doing so, I would truly comprehend the meaning of unequivocal, sacrificial love.
I do now.

When this year began, I didn't know what it felt like to have hope for the future, to believe that there really could be a happy ending. I didn't know how strong I would have to be, at times; how weak I would be, at other times. I didn't know that sometimes I would have to be the one to carry things through, and sometimes I would be the one to need to be carried through things.
I do now.

It's been a year. 365 days.
I have changed so much. I have grown so much.
I have learned to love again.

Happy Year, baby.
I can't wait to see what the next one brings.

for J.

Breathing Dreams
Time, now,
I'm thinking
in this story life
Thinking, I'll
write a new chapter
sing a new melody
turn a new leaf
I think

It's time.
No more
spilling my guts
gasping for air
coughing up blood
no more.

Easy, now,
I'm breathing
in this story life
Breathing, I'll
dream new dreams
of you and me
with every breath
I breathe.

Julia Hendrik,
April 2, 2010

no-go piano

The Wurlitzer, alas, is not mine.

Too many unforeseen maintenance costs combined with its sheer age made my daddy-o say no-go to the piano.

The tears fell fast and furious.
They're dry now, though.

On to the next one.

gearlust

It's a phenomenon that has run rampant amongst my musician friends, but up until now has left me mercifully alone.
Not so any more. I have a serious case of gearlust.

gearlust
To have an intense desire for equipment.
It is usually used in the audio world.
(from Urban Dictionary)

It's this whole wanting to be creative, wanting to be interesting, wanting to be different thing that started it. I'm being completely serious. I'm blaming my creativity, my non-conformist desire to look and sound unconventional, not branded into some genre or image, for my gearlust.

The topic of discussion in the studio of late has been how I should mount a live show (well, it's been one of many topics of conversation on what comes next). The thing is that I really do see myself behind an instrument on stage; however, the feasibility of playing a grand piano everywhere I go is virtually non-existent. It would appear that I need to purchase a keyboard in order to have portability and practicality in performace.

Herein lies the problem. I have a fundamental opposition to playing a keyboard on stage. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against keyboards, or keyboard players, but I am not a high-tech, fully synthesized-type of musician. No sirree. If anything, I'd rather look and sound vintage.

That said, the discussion had turned to old-school electric pianos instead. A Rhodes piano, perhaps, or a Wurlitzer; pianos with an output allowing for amplification, but with a smaller, more intimate, more distinct sound.

And then, there it was. My incredible producer/friend and I were out for lunch mid-session when he decided to pop by a vintage music store in the Kensington Market that he often frequents. And, lo and behold, there it was. A 1954 vintage Wurlitzer piano, in a scuffed up, cream coloured finish (immediate thought: it would look incredible under a spotlight) - complete with the lid that officially turns it into a fully portable suitcase piano.

I fell instantaneously in love.

I fell hard. I fell fast. I fell so completely that I had to go back to visit it an hour later, to play every note, to figure out if it was just a passing fancy or the beginnings of a slow-burning flame.

Tonight, I have coerced my wonderful dad to come down and look at it with me. An expert musician, he will appraise it, approve it, and (hopefully) help me afford it.

And then, maybe, I can stop talking about it. Out for birthday drinks last night with a group of musician friends, I ranted and raved, showing the printed out version of the vintage Wurlitzer manual that we'd found online. The guys totally understood. So much so in fact that they gave me high-fives for joining the gearlust club, for feeling the pangs of intense desire so strong that it consumes the majority of thought. J. swears that he's falling in love with it himself because I can't stop talking about it.

As for being interesting?
I may have just unintentionally and yet fatefully found my unique and unconventional image.

I mean, how many girls do you know who own and play a vintage 1954 Wurlitzer piano as their instrument of choice?
Especially with a violin on the side?

I thought so.

cup-runneth-over happiness

Call me crazy morbid, but I find it harder to write when things are going well, when I'm happy, when I'm not wrestling with angst or sorrow, as I have been so often these last few years.

Hence the silence of late.

I'm not saying that life is perfect.
Yes, there are moments of petty grievances and silly arguments and paltry offences that occur daily.
Yes, there are moments of wanting to accelerate everything in my life, to skip ahead six months or even a year to see how different things will look, how changed my life will be.
Yes, there are moments of feeling stuck in a period of contented complacency, longing for bigger and better right now, but not quite knowing how to get there from here.

Life is never perfect. But I'm happy. Incredibly happy.
Here's just a glimpse of my cup-runneth-over happiness.

Beautiful, fulfilling friendships.

scene: Red Chili Thai Restaurant, then a gorgeous apartment on the Danforth.

I can't actually say it much better than what was written by my beloved friend at CherryAppleArt after a much-needed girls night out on the Danforth, so here are some snippets from her fabulous blog.

I NEED my girlfriends.
I NEED my cup of tea and my bitching (oops) and my uplifting and my jolt of fab that only a group of rather stunning friends provides...

...gab and giggles and eye rolling we abandoned ship and went to the most wonderful land of comfy couches and cheese and crackers...

It is one of the best remedies for a heavy heart, or a stressed mind, or tired eyes...
One Dose Of Estrogen Filled Room Coming Right Up.

Side Effects: Male avoidance, full bladders (tea), and happiness that spills into tomorrow. Prescription required.

Honestly, I couldn't have described the evening better myself.
Somehow, we keep each other sane in the midst of insanity.

A mind-bogglingly amazing relationship.

scene: Shopper's Drug Mart pharmacy counter, Bathurst & St. Clair.

It was early evening after a packed-to-the-brim-wonderful weekend when we stopped in at Shopper's Drug Mart. While I waited to pick up a prescription, J. decided to pick up some snacks for our evening. Knowing how reluctant I usually am to show any form of PDA, he gave my hand a slight squeeze and walked away. Seconds later, in my peripheral vision, I saw him turn, purposefully, and stride back towards me with a mischievous look on his face. He then announced, "I love you!" (inordinately loudly, I might add) and planted a big kiss on my lips.

I smiled. He smiled. The onlookers in the pharmacy smiled.
Then, grinning, he went in search of our snacks.
Need I say more?

A loving, caring, close-knit family.

scene: a family residence, currently the home of my newlywed brother and his bride.

It was my brother's birthday on Thursday, the first of his married life. We planned to meet up at his place at 10pm for some cake and coffee, served courtesy of his lovely wife. Coming from choir (my parents), a soccer game (my sisters), a work event (myself), home church (my sister-in-law), dinner with his boys (my brother), we congregated around the dining room table that once-upon-a-time belonged to my grandparents to laugh, talk and gorge on sour cream chocolate cake, cherries, strawberries and whipped cream.

It was only an hour, but it was a wonderful hour; all of us taking time out of our busy lives to get together and catch up. It is something I'm sure we all cherish.

Hopes, dreams and the pursuit of passions.

scene: newly renovated studio on Baldwin Street in Kensington Market.

I still haven't blogged too much about this, so I'll be intentionally vague until I've elaborated in more detail in a later post.

After almost six months of anticipation, hearing live drums set to songs that have lived in my head for years was almost enough to make me cry. The extremely talented, extremely generous drummer gifted me with his passion, his heart and his incredible feel for my music as, track after track, he listened to the synthesized drum sounds we'd created and went far above and beyond anything I could have imagined.

This process has been, and continues to be, a magical experience, one for which I am beyond grateful, no matter the end result. It really is a dream come true.

Tell me, how can I not be happy?

alarm clock

for J.

Some days
the best part of waking up is
you
still sleeping
on my pillow, pink
beneath your ginger hair
A perfect pair.

Julia Hendrik
May 31, 2010

the last five (six) years

Tomorrow night I am going to see one of my favourite musicals together with a group of my friends from back in my theatre school days. I can't wait! We'll catch up over dinner and drinks beforehand (never a shortage of conversation amongst us talkative folk) before heading over to the show. My parents, who saw it last weekend, enjoyed it immensely; I expect to as well.

The Last Five Years, by Jason Robert Brown, chronicles the story of two New Yorkers in their twenties who fall in and out of love over the course of five years. Jamie tells the story of their relationship beginning at the start; while Catherine relives it from the end going back to the beginning. The characters only meet once on stage, at their wedding in the middle of the show.
It's beautiful. It's heartbreaking. It's fantastic.

It's interesting. There are so many songs that now, having lived through some pretty serious emotional upheaval, I understand so much better than I ever could have before. In particular, this musical. I can substitute the name 'Jamie', the male lead, very easily for that of my long ago love; their names rhyme. Many times while singing songs from the show, angrily, mournfully, tears streaming down my face, I have been able to access emotions I only wish I'd been able to tap into in theatre school.

The last six years of my life have been a journey of falling in love, becoming engaged, getting married, separating, divorcing, and now, in the last year, learning to love again. In turns joyful, lovely, mind-boggling, messy, ugly, and painful, these six years have birthed in me an understanding of things I could scarcely have dreamed I'd ever have been truly able to comprehend.

This musical tells a similar story.
So freaking excited.

I leave you with this song.
(And yes, this is one I've sung often in the past couple of years.)

Jamie is over and Jamie is gone
Jamie's decided it's time to move on
Jamie's got new dreams he's building upon
And I'm still hurting

Jamie arrived at the end of the line
Jamie's convinced that the problems are mine
Jamie is probably feeling just fine
And I'm still hurting

What about lies, Jamie?
What about things that you swore to be true?
What about you, Jamie?
What about you?

Jamie is sure something wonderful died
Jamie decides it's his right to decide
Jamie's got secrets he doesn't confide
And I'm still hurting

Go and hide and run away
Run away, run and find something better
Go and ride the sun away
Run away like it's simple
Like it's right...

Give me a day, Jamie
Bring back the lies
Hang them back on the wall
Maybe I'd see how you could be
So certain that we had no chance at all

Jamie is over and where can I turn?
Covered with scars I did nothing to earn
Maybe there's somewhere a lesson to learn
But that wouldn't change the fact
That wouldn't speed the time
Once the foundation's cracked
And I'm still hurting

Still Hurting,
from The Last Five Years
Jason Robert Brown

all work and no play

The past couple of weeks have been interesting.

It's been a whole lot of being at work, and not a lot else.

In the past, I've worked really long days; double shifts while my job-sharing co-worker is off dancing, acting, etc. - but I don't consider that normal. That's insanity, for 11 hours a day, with no lunch break and hardly any time to breathe. And, usually, this insanity lasts for only a couple of days at a time. But this time, I'm working a couple of weeks of 'normal' days, or what passes as normal for most of the working world.

So this is what it's like to work a regular 9-5 job (or, to be more exact, 8-5) complete with a half-hour lunch break and unlimited coffee breaks, five days a week, weeks on end.

I don't know how you all do it.

I hate it.

I suppose that if I loved my job, things would be different. If I loved my job, perhaps I would be enthused, exhilarated, at the thought of so many hours here. Instead, I find myself in a terrible mood by the time I get home, not even wanting to socialize. Thank goodness for the beautiful weather and the 5kms I've been running daily over the past couple of weeks. That, playoff hockey, the great start to the Jays season, and a few short-lived look-but-don't-buy shopping trips have kept me sane. How sad is that?

The thing is this: I need variety. I need stimulation. As crazy busy as my life gets sometimes, I thrive off it. Days on end of boring, redundant tasks and an 11:30pm bedtime drive me more crazy, make me more exhausted, than 4-5 hours of sleep a night after days of running around like a madwoman. When my schedule is full of things I love (days in the recording studio, fitness classes, rehearsals, even the craziness of my job-sharing role half-days) I am energized, ready to tackle anything. When I work a regular day, I am zonked. My energy is low, my desire to be social nonexistent, my attitude pessimistic.

Plus, J. is currently working insanely long days himself, so I don't have any comforting, cuddle-filled down time. This week, he's arrived at work for 8am and gone from meeting-to-training-to-meeting-to-training all day until 10pm. I believe that's a 14-hour day, to be exact. I can't really complain, I suppose, except that as tired as he is, he's also genuinely learning, being challenged, growing in his role. He's more than willing to put in the time to see a positive result in the end.

Truth be told, though, he did email me this earlier today:

"All work and no play makes J. an unbalanced individual."

No doubt. It's inevitable. I would probably be a screaming lunatic if I had to work consecutive 14-hour days without all that much notice, and he doesn't even have time to reap the benefits of a nightly run to ease the angst.

After this awful normalcy is all over, it's a week or so of 11-hour day insanity, again, while my co-worker takes a trip to the Dominican Republic...lucky, lucky girl...and then, after that insanity, maybe I'll be back to me. Back to feeling social, feeling productive, feeling creative, feeling hopeful, feeling myself.

Thank goodness for the long weekend.

For now, please bear with me.
I'm surviving my way through this.