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
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
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
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
Friday, March 20, 2009
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
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
Friday, February 27, 2009
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
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
Friday, February 06, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, January 20, 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
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
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
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
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
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