infinitesimal or gargantuan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert Frost

glassware, oh glassware, where art thou?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this one's for you, Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

marriage

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

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

Printed in the program, three years ago this day.

Habitation
Marriage is not
a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

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

where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far

we are learning to make fire

Margaret Atwood

an addendum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where Do You Start,
as sung by Sophie Milman

comes love, beautiful love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comes Love,
as sung by Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holliday

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful Love,
as sung by Sophie Milman

shadow life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what misstep has brought me here?

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

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

Aislinn Hunter
from The Possible Past