I've been thinking a lot about love lately. I'm not ready to write about it yet, but I found a quote that I especially liked, so I thought I would share it here, mostly so that I didn't lose or forget about it.
The weirdest thing happened the other morning... I woke up with tears in my eyes and one rolling down my cheek... and I knew I must have been dreaming of you again.
Seems sad, really, but it does reflect a bit of how I've been feeling lately. We'll leave it at that.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Crystals
I remember when I was in university, there was a store on Queen West called “Zephyr”. It sold all sorts of “hippy” things: bracelets, scarves, mood stones and the like. They also sold crystals.
I loved those crystals.
I pictured them hanging in a bay window, one that drew the light in and flooded the room with warmth. I pictured touching the crystals and how in doing so the light would reflect off of them and cast rainbows across the room. At $25 a crystal though, when I figured that I would need at least five of them, that $125 would be a ridiculous amount for a university student with no money to spend, to spend that much on such a frivolous expense.
I loved those crystals.
Years later, I told a friend about these crystals and how I saw them years ago and that, now that I had a job and money that I could spend on such frivolous things, I needed to find another shop that sold them as Zephyr had long since closed its doors on Queen West.
A number of weeks later I organised a birthday party for myself. A gathering of 30 something or so of my friends at some restaurant on College St. That friend was there and she gave me my birthday present.
I opened the box and inside I found a crystal. How did she remember? Ahh, right... she was listening. Really listening.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Shortbread Cookies
Another one, lighter than the last post though. :)
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It was the week before Christmas. This year, unlike the previous years, things were going pretty well. Mark and I had had much trouble in the previous years that led up to and past our recent wedding, adjusting to the change in Christmas traditions, figuring out the best way to satisfy both sets of families. Figuring out a way as to not offend the two sides and allow them both to still experience some, if not all, their Christmas traditions. This year seemed to be different. Managing the expectations of both families seemed to be working. We had a schedule all worked out that people seemed to be happy with. Plus, our Christmas shopping was all done weeks ahead of time, save for a few minor gifts. I was feeling pretty good about things.
It was this year that I decided to try my hand at shortbread cookies. A little bit of background information is required here. I am not the best baker in the world. Sure, I can make the usual chocolate chip cookies and banana bread, but I’ve always feared shortbread cookies. “Make sure you don’t knead it too much! That’ll ruin EVERYTHING!” my friends would tell me. Of course, hearing about how difficult it was to make these cookies properly, no wonder I had a complex about it.
I had conjured up the idea about giving the small gift of a tin of shortbread cookies to our relatives that we would visit over Christmas. “We can line the tins with doilies and decorate the cookies with red and green sprinkles and icing!” I said excitedly to Mark who simply looked back at me in shock. And rightly so… the woman who had said in past years that she “hated Christmas and hated the stress it brought” was now actually excited about making Christmas cookies. About making cookies in general even. “Sounds like a great idea” he replied and just smiled back.
We did a mad search in the downtown Toronto area looking for the necessary items that we didn’t have: cookie cutters, Christmas tins, and doilies to line the tins with. Looked everywhere and eventually found them in a small shop in Chinatown. Meanwhile I had already done the necessary research with other people that had surpassed the shortbread cookie hurdle. Discovered tips, gathered different recipes and had settled on one that seemed the easiest. I had purchased red and green icing tubes and a little box of assorted sprinkles in which I could decorate the cookies. I was set.
I think that something strange happens to women when they begin doing something like this, making shortbread cookies for Christmas. It’s as if something maternal kicks in, and kicks in hard. Something kicks in that says, “you’re going to be doing this for a long time now, and probably for your future kids, so you’d better get it right”. This certainly happened to me. As I settled in that night, the week before Christmas, around 10 pm (I had decided that this was the best time to begin my quest) looking at the flour, cornstarch, icing sugar, butter, cookie cutters, rolling pin and so forth, that maternal instinct hit me and I became absorbed. Mark would ask me questions that I would either ignore or reply with a distant “Sure…”. As I began mixing the ingredients, I started to notice flaws. “Why is it all crumbly? It’s not supposed to be crumbly!” I asked myself in panic. I then realised that I hadn’t read the instructions correctly and didn’t put enough butter in. With a sigh, I reached for the butter and dumped some more in. And kept mixing. “It’s still crumbly!” I yelled over to Mark who was attempting to ask advice from his mother that he happened to be speaking to. I decided to try to roll it out and try cutting a few pieces to see what would happen. The rolling seemed to be working with a bit of patting on the ends to keep the distorted shape from crumbling over. The cutting of the pieces did not work. The dough crumbled right out of my angel, my gingerbread person, and my star. I looked over to Mark glumly, wondering what I was going to do with this big mass of buttery flour, cornstarch and sugar I had created. I was doomed. I had no cooking ability and my future children would be the laughingstock of their friends. We would have to resort to store bought cookies and they would never know the joy of home baked treats. I could see it clearly. These unborn children would favour their friend’s mother’s cookies over mine and would head over to someone else’s house for Christmas shortbread. I had failed even before I started.
Luckily we consulted the Joy of Cooking. It clearly states that if the dough is crumbly, add some water to moisten it, but not to overdo it. Adding a few drops did the trick! My shapes were coming out perfectly. I had beautiful angels, gingerbread people, and stars. “La la la la… I’m makin’ shortbread.” I sang confidently to myself. What do all those people know? Shortbread hard to make? No problem. I decided that I should become a pastry chef.
After cutting up all the shapes and arranging them on the pan off they went in the oven for approximately “15 – 20 minutes, or until the edges were browned”. 15 minutes passed…. Then 20…. No browning – this was odd. Mark assured me that we just had to keep them in longer. “I think our oven is low. Ovens can be as much as 30 degrees off. It’s probably just at a lower temperature than we’ve set it so it’s going to take a bit longer.
After an hour and no browning I decided that this was enough. I took them out, cooled them off a bit, and then did the test. Dry. Tasty? Yes, but still dry. I decided that it was a good thing that I didn’t make a more than one batch. Looking over at Mark though, who was happily chomping away at the, although dry, but still butter and sugar filled cookie made me realise that perhaps I still had a chance with our children to be. Plus, they’ll be young and inexperienced. With a little bit of practice maybe I can even fool them.
It was this year that I decided to try my hand at shortbread cookies. A little bit of background information is required here. I am not the best baker in the world. Sure, I can make the usual chocolate chip cookies and banana bread, but I’ve always feared shortbread cookies. “Make sure you don’t knead it too much! That’ll ruin EVERYTHING!” my friends would tell me. Of course, hearing about how difficult it was to make these cookies properly, no wonder I had a complex about it.
I had conjured up the idea about giving the small gift of a tin of shortbread cookies to our relatives that we would visit over Christmas. “We can line the tins with doilies and decorate the cookies with red and green sprinkles and icing!” I said excitedly to Mark who simply looked back at me in shock. And rightly so… the woman who had said in past years that she “hated Christmas and hated the stress it brought” was now actually excited about making Christmas cookies. About making cookies in general even. “Sounds like a great idea” he replied and just smiled back.
We did a mad search in the downtown Toronto area looking for the necessary items that we didn’t have: cookie cutters, Christmas tins, and doilies to line the tins with. Looked everywhere and eventually found them in a small shop in Chinatown. Meanwhile I had already done the necessary research with other people that had surpassed the shortbread cookie hurdle. Discovered tips, gathered different recipes and had settled on one that seemed the easiest. I had purchased red and green icing tubes and a little box of assorted sprinkles in which I could decorate the cookies. I was set.
I think that something strange happens to women when they begin doing something like this, making shortbread cookies for Christmas. It’s as if something maternal kicks in, and kicks in hard. Something kicks in that says, “you’re going to be doing this for a long time now, and probably for your future kids, so you’d better get it right”. This certainly happened to me. As I settled in that night, the week before Christmas, around 10 pm (I had decided that this was the best time to begin my quest) looking at the flour, cornstarch, icing sugar, butter, cookie cutters, rolling pin and so forth, that maternal instinct hit me and I became absorbed. Mark would ask me questions that I would either ignore or reply with a distant “Sure…”. As I began mixing the ingredients, I started to notice flaws. “Why is it all crumbly? It’s not supposed to be crumbly!” I asked myself in panic. I then realised that I hadn’t read the instructions correctly and didn’t put enough butter in. With a sigh, I reached for the butter and dumped some more in. And kept mixing. “It’s still crumbly!” I yelled over to Mark who was attempting to ask advice from his mother that he happened to be speaking to. I decided to try to roll it out and try cutting a few pieces to see what would happen. The rolling seemed to be working with a bit of patting on the ends to keep the distorted shape from crumbling over. The cutting of the pieces did not work. The dough crumbled right out of my angel, my gingerbread person, and my star. I looked over to Mark glumly, wondering what I was going to do with this big mass of buttery flour, cornstarch and sugar I had created. I was doomed. I had no cooking ability and my future children would be the laughingstock of their friends. We would have to resort to store bought cookies and they would never know the joy of home baked treats. I could see it clearly. These unborn children would favour their friend’s mother’s cookies over mine and would head over to someone else’s house for Christmas shortbread. I had failed even before I started.
Luckily we consulted the Joy of Cooking. It clearly states that if the dough is crumbly, add some water to moisten it, but not to overdo it. Adding a few drops did the trick! My shapes were coming out perfectly. I had beautiful angels, gingerbread people, and stars. “La la la la… I’m makin’ shortbread.” I sang confidently to myself. What do all those people know? Shortbread hard to make? No problem. I decided that I should become a pastry chef.
After cutting up all the shapes and arranging them on the pan off they went in the oven for approximately “15 – 20 minutes, or until the edges were browned”. 15 minutes passed…. Then 20…. No browning – this was odd. Mark assured me that we just had to keep them in longer. “I think our oven is low. Ovens can be as much as 30 degrees off. It’s probably just at a lower temperature than we’ve set it so it’s going to take a bit longer.
After an hour and no browning I decided that this was enough. I took them out, cooled them off a bit, and then did the test. Dry. Tasty? Yes, but still dry. I decided that it was a good thing that I didn’t make a more than one batch. Looking over at Mark though, who was happily chomping away at the, although dry, but still butter and sugar filled cookie made me realise that perhaps I still had a chance with our children to be. Plus, they’ll be young and inexperienced. With a little bit of practice maybe I can even fool them.
Breathing
Another old piece of writing I came across. This one scared me; I forgot how far gone I was. I almost didn't include it. Thankfully I can say that I am well past this point and am happy and healthy.
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Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and find I cannot breathe. With a start, I sit up abruptly, and all I do is gasp for air. I reach out, trying to grab handfuls and stuff them in my mouth… to no avail. Suddenly, as quickly as it stopped, the breathing comes, slowly but surely and I begin to calm down.
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Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and find I cannot breathe. With a start, I sit up abruptly, and all I do is gasp for air. I reach out, trying to grab handfuls and stuff them in my mouth… to no avail. Suddenly, as quickly as it stopped, the breathing comes, slowly but surely and I begin to calm down.
We often do not give our breath the credit that it deserves. It is the one thing that links all humans on this earth. Everyone must breathe to survive. It is our life-force, our prana or chi. Nevertheless, we march happily along in our lives, ignoring its importance.
I wake up and begin my daily rituals. First I must weigh myself in, to record every half-pound gained or lost. This often determines the course of the day to come: a little to over will cause irritability or the lucky pound under is a cause for celebration. Today, I weigh in at 102 pounds on my 5 feet, 6 inches frame. One pound less than yesterday. I reach for my measuring tape where I must measure my waist to ensure that no changes have been made since the day before. Since, as everyone knows, weight really doesn’t indicate your true size…
I step inside the shower, feeling the water rush over my emaciated body. My roommate told me the day before, as she saw me changing, that she could see all the ribs in my back. I pull my fingers through my hair, looking helplessly at the handfuls that have come along with it. I don’t understand why my hair to keeps falling out.
I start eating breakfast. It’s the usual half-cup of cereal (134 calories) with a touch of milk (37 calories), both of which has been carefully measured out. I hide as I do this so my roommates won’t see. They wouldn’t understand.
I sit through my Engineering classes, trying to concentrate on the lecturer words. I receive my latest midterm results from one class; disappointment devours me as I see the failing mark.
The day goes by in a haze; I wander through the halls going to each of my classes. Meeting up with friends, attempting to be my usual cheery self, and trying to hide the screams that are inside me. I want people to notice. I want them to ask me what is wrong, why look so sad all the time. The truth of the matter is, I don’t know why. I don’t know why and how this emptiness has formed inside me. I don’t know what I would say if they asked.
I prepare my dinner with methodical care. A small amount of rice, a few vegetables; carefully discarding anything that may be too heavy or fattening. I attempt my assignments, trying to ignore the grumbling in my stomach, and soon the night ends.
When I lie in bed, in the dark like this, my thoughts begin to absorb me. Often I cry, and for no apparent reason. I don’t know why I’ve changed. I feel like I’m trapped inside myself, and I can’t get out.
I wake up later on, again gasping for air. It dawns on me then. I’m looking for my life. The life that I’ve lost, the one I want back, but have no idea what path led me here and no idea what path leads me out.
Learning
I wrote this in 2008. I forgot I even wrote it until I stumbled upon it. To me, it looks like I was starting to see kairos time before I knew that there was a label for it.
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I take things for granted. I try not to and I’m getting better, but it still happens. I used to take my children for granted. My preschooler with the constant demands and needs for atttention, potty training and temper tantrums, and the baby with night wakings and need for attention... in my haze of post partum depression I didn’t understand what was happening and why it was happening I just knew it was almost too much for me to bear. I felt like I was trapped. “Trapped in my own life”, I would say, not realising how very blessed I was to have these so called trappings around me.
And then I got the call. The call where my friend would tell me that her son had stage 4 liver cancer. Her 10 month old son whose body would ravaged by this special form of evilness that plagues at least one person we know... or more... or more than that. I went to her and the second I entered her house I felt the thickness of air, heavy with disease and panic and grief and worry. This thickness enveloped me into the fold and barely 36 hours had passed and then I was holding his thin frail body, listening to his heavy breath and the thought “this child is dying” passed through my head. And then, not even 10 minutes later, being in the whirlwind of his death: the ambulance, people swirling, seeing his body, already cold to the touch, and watching his mother and father crumple, shrivel and weep, their entire universe crushing around them.
When I finally got home and held my children and felt their soft bodies I thought to myself “Ahh... this is what healthy children feel like.” That is when the light clicked on and the conscious decision was made to stop taking them for granted. I try to take in the moments of their childhood, relish their amusement at the beauty in things. Their genuine kindness. Their laughter. I decided to have another baby so I could “get things right” and show another baby that I was deserving to be his mother and have more time to show that love to my older girls. My number one goal is to make sure that each one knows that I feel that they are the most important person in the world. They are my love, my light.
Starting Out
I decided I wanted to write again. I’m not sure how this snuck up on me, but here we are. I write for work all the time, but that consists mainly of boring reports about IT projects. I want to write to feed my soul. You cannot feed your soul with talk of project budgets and timelines.
I read an article a while back that introduced me to the notion of “kairos time”. First, there is the regular time that we all know about, chronos time. That’s the time where it forces you to get up, get dressed, get ready to go to school or work. The time that carries you through your day going to meetings or getting your kids to swimming, piano, ballet, skating lessons, or whatever activities. The time that you strive for at the end of the day, the goal if you have children... bedtime... so you can have a bit of peace and sit in your own thoughts for a moment or two.
Then there is kairos time. This is metaphysical time. Time outside of time. The time when everything stands still and you’re truly in the moment of your life, breathing it in and letting it permeate through every cell of your body. And feeling your emotions. Really feeling them, not letting them flash in front of you and then slip away as you move on to something else that chronos time is forcing you to do.
I couldn’t stop thinking about this notion of kairos time and if injecting it into my life the most I can is the key to true happiness. Listening to my eldest daughter chatter and then noticing how lovely her eyes and skin are and how her hair falls around her face. How my middle child’s slightly chubby, five year old cheeks curve into her mouth and cause a slight indent. How my two year old boy giggles at his own little joke.
I started taking figure skating lessons, as an adult, a year ago and fell in love with it. I realise now it’s because I forget about chronos time. It’s the only way I forget about a clock and am just focused on what I am learning or trying to achieve and at the end of every lesson I’m slapped in the face with that buzzer that rudely tells me I have to get off the ice.
I’ve decided I need more kairos time.
This blog will simply be musings of my life and my thoughts and experiences. Sometimes they will reflect my search of more kairos time, sometimes they will illustrate how very far I am. But they will always be authentic and given freely, with an open heart.
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