July 4th, 2014
The summer has arrived, and we are in full cottage mode. We’ve already spent about 15 days there, off and on over the last little while, and I’m looking forward to a busy summer of even more weekends, even more family, even more visits, even more swimming, and even more nights staying up too late watching movies or playing cards.
My cousins from the west coast were here at the end of June, beginning of July–more like brothers to me, they are a pair (one older, one younger) and we are a pair (one older sister, one younger brother), and the four of us have played together at every stage of our lives. Having our fourth here, with his wonderful wife, and spectacular kids meant the cottage property was filled with my relations, and that felt right. It was chaotic and fun and the kids are all at such fun ages at the moment, playing together, not fighting too much, waking up with juice popsicles, and drawing pictures, sharing lunch, and their toys. Watching them made me feel very lucky for being alive–I know it sounds hokey. But every year, every month, every hour I get to spend being a parent is another one that I have survived in terms of the disease.
We are exhausted, most of the time. But I’m finding the days easier. Whether it’s riding my bike or eating a bit better (more fruit, homegrown lettuce!) or less medication (um, yes!), the usual bits and bobs of a disease-ridden life are quiet. Bloodwork only once every three months. Doctors every six. Deep breathing when I can.
The other morning, my boy clamoured onto our bed and said, “What fun thing are we going to do today mummy? Do you want to ride our bikes up the path?” And I laughed, and said, “What a good idea.” Except we spent Canada Day out with my dad, and he had just as much fun there as he would have on his bike. Oh, to have a life at the moment that’s utterly and completely punctuated by fun. That time and space for him are defined by the exciting events that will unfold throughout the day. It’s a wonder to have a 3.75-year-old. Even if there are still tantrums (oh goodness) and tempers (wow) and outright violence (helicopter arms, watch out!), there’s also the wonder of his smile and amazing giggle, the joy in him learning to swim, the brilliance of his “H’s” as he learns to write.
And speaking of writing–I’ve managed, over the last little while, to finish the second draft of a second novel (my first firmly in the drawer never to see the light of day, wow, that was hard to accept). And I like it, well, I like the ending, and that’s about as much as I’m going to say about that. I’m squeezing time in where possible, and all of my routines are working for me. My garden is growing. Some weight has finally come off. I don’t know what to do, really, when my life is this good.
One thing is for sure, I’m not going to wait for the second shoe to drop. I’m going to keep my foot up, and pedal along as if this is what it’s meant to be, how my life is meant to be, happy, healthy, and laughing at the next crazy sentence to come out of our boy’s mouth.
I don’t know how it happens. Months slip by, and my blog goes unattended. All of a sudden I look up and the season has changed. The cottage is open. And I’ve barely finished a book.
That said, there have been some amazing highs and lows, for all of us–the weather has been amazing. Warm so that your bones don’t ache, but not too hot to sleep. Perfect for biking, which puts everyone in my house in a good mood. My garden is mostly in–I have a sprinkling of Alpine strawberries this year but, for some reason, none of my bush bean seeds are coming up. I went a bit crazy with the cucumbers (I have 15 plants at the moment. I will have to cull)…. still, that I turn the earth, plant the seeds, and then food grows is a process I am forever awestruck by.
The highs of late–a wonderful opportunity presented to me by fate. DNTO was developing a story about crashes just as we had one, and so I was on the radio. Terrifying, but thrilling. I love the CBC so much. The podcast is online here. The best thing about being on the CBC, for me, is spending time with my friend Rosie, a producer there. She’s exceptional at her job, and I can get over my fear of, well, everything because it’s just she and I in the room talking. The part when it played on the radio was a bit difficult to appreciate, because you’re always afraid of acting, sounding, looking foolish. On the whole, definite high.
Then I had the distinct pleasure to be a part of The M Word launch in Toronto in the spring. Kerry’s wonderful book is starting conversations all over the place these days, and that moment, when I was surrounded by so many writers that I admire, made my heart ache. My husband and my boy were there–and he was the perfect “accoutrement” to my reading. Bounding up to me at the very moment I described his thrumming heartbeat in my essay, the response was a collective, “ahhhh.” Amazing high. Panicked and terrified throughout, I was glad it was over, and I was glad I faced that demon.
Over the last couple months, I’ve had very good news from the doctors–the disease is exceptionally stable right now, and I’m on the lowest dose of prednisone I’ve been on in over four years. But what that means is it’s time to face the music in terms of the state of my body–pummeled as it was by the one-two punch of prednisone and pregnancy–I’m woefully out of shape and overweight. I know the solution. I need to eat less, move more, and cut out the sugar, but the time and energy for both is simply not there. This is my low.
March 19th, 2014
Last Saturday we went to a conservation area near Campbellville called Mountsberg, where they have annual maple syrup / sugar bush days. We went with my RRHB’s sister, and her family, and it was one of the nicest days I’ve spent all winter. The conservation area was charming, we went on a horse-drawn sled ride, ate pancakes (ahh, Bisquick, ugh), walked around, and visited with the birds of prey they have rescued and rehabilitated (having never heard a bald eagle up close, it was spectacular). There was a lookout area, a great barn for the kids to play in, and some farm animals. The weather held out, not too cold, not too snowy, not too polar-gusty, and after lunch in town, we headed home, exhausted, but for all good reasons. The Boy and I watched The Jungle Book, which I’d never seen, and I was happy, content, and relaxed.
That was how it was supposed to be on the previous Thursday.
Except, the weather, as is its wont, dumped a pile of snow the night before we were supposed to go to the sugar bush, and made the roads a mess. It’s not the first time this year we’ve driven out and about in rotten weather. I mean, you’re not Canadian if you let the weather stop you from going places or doing things. So, away we went in our car, the Boy tucked away in the backseat, rushed as always, and everything was fine until we turned the bend of the 427 on ramp to the 401. And then: carnage. There was a car in the ditch, another crashed and turned around facing the other way, and a third accident we couldn’t see in front of a Crate & Barrel delivery vehicle, tow trucks littered the side of the road, and then in an instant we were slipping and sliding and crashed right into the back of the aforementioned truck.
A ridiculously handy Ukrainian tow-truck driver raced over to the car, our front end slightly crushed, helped direct us off the road, and while my RRHB dealt with the logistics of the fender-bender, sat the Boy and I in his truck. We were all unharmed. The car wasn’t going very fast, the slipping was unavoidable, and the chaos on the road made it impossible to do anything but slide into the truck. Our Ukrainian towed us to a collision shop on Kipling, and within a half-hour we had a rental car. Everything else wasn’t so smooth–the fact that I had upped the deductible on our insurance in order to reduce our monthly premiums over three years ago was an issue (I thought it was to $1000.00; it was actually $5,000!!!), because the amount is MORE THAN OUR CAR. So, we’re fixing it out of pocket, and it was just a pile on of a pile on of a pile on of financial issues over the last few months. The adjuster was lovely and understanding, and the insurance company is doing more than it needs to, and it’s all going to be fine.
So it goes, that our luck would have been better not to have an accident, but when it’s all said and done, we’re luckier than most. Our car will be fixed. I’ve learned a lesson about saving $10 to pay out thousands, and our Boy got to ride in a real tow truck. We finally made it to the sugar bush.
It’s hard to put into words, how I feel about car crashes. I’m terrified in cars and can’t find my bearing regardless of how many deep breaths I take. My family has had worse luck than most–a beloved uncle died as a result of a drunk driver; my mother’s unbelievably sad situation and subsequent death after living for twenty years with her injuries; an equally beloved cousin’s accident when we were just teenagers; and a night when I was with a bunch of friends and we rolled the car–it’s no wonder I’m scared. Yet, when we were slipping, and I was listening, quite outside of myself as my husband was saying, “we’re sliding, we’re sliding,” in a strangely-calm voice, I wasn’t as scared as I thought I would be. I have always expected us to crash, and we did. And when we did, it was the best possible way to face a fear, because, like I keep saying, we’re luckier than most.
And that’s the crux I’ve been rolling around in my mind over the last few days. Just because I expect something to have the worst possible outcome, doesn’t necessarily mean that it will when the worst possible situation actually happens. This is revolutionary for me. I was calm. I took care of my son. I let my husband deal with everything, and felt very bad for him for having to do so–tried not to make the situation worse, although I did for a minute let the stress get to me, and in the end it was okay. Somehow, this is the way of my life–incredible stress meets incredible bliss. I have a disease, I live with it, but I am alive. I lose my mother in a car crash, and it’s impossible, sad, but it also defines my life. I am pregnant, the disease explodes, near-death, but I have my son. I am consistently terrified, and when the worst happens, we just deal with it. And so I look upon my worry as necessary evil. Sure, it would be better if I didn’t worry. But if I didn’t worry, I wouldn’t be able to contextualize anything.
We stood up, we let people help us, we solved the problem, the car is getting fixed, we ended up having a wonderful day, and life goes on. There is wisdom in here somewhere. I’m sure I’ll reflect upon it even further but, for now, I’m just going to sit in wonder about the fact that if you’re going to have a car crash, it might as well be on a snowy day when there are Ukrainian tow-truck drivers handy, and dozens of other people suffering similar fates.
March 3rd, 2014
We are so big these days. We speak in big sentences. Have giant ideas in our heads. Have an imagination that makes for conversations Seussian in nature, and yet we are still so very small. Hold on tight so he doesn’t go over the falls small. Hold on tight in the middle of the night because I hear his feet come racing down the hall at some unholy hour because the monsters in his dreams are chasing him. Hold on tight because for the VERY FIRST TIME since he started going to daycare, this morning, he did not turn to say goodbye to me, but had all his attention on his teacher–and it was brilliant. Because I can say that his tears become my tears, and his stress at drop-off leaves me feeling awful all day.
We are enjoying family things as of late. A music class that he attends all on his own. Trips to the library to pick out our own books, with our own library card. Not one but two concerts in the last little while, Totsapolloza and The Monkey Bunch. Helping all over the place, so much so that we burnt our fingers on the oven racks because we wanted to help so desperately. We are cheeky in our language and having some issues with “please” and “thank you” and thinking the whole world revolves around us. We want to play, play, play, play, play, and then I worry and worry and worry that he’s an only child and will grow up lonely and bored with two old parents as his companions.
There are tempers and tempers and tempers, and most days, they are handled, with time outs, and taking things away, and trying not to baby the behaviour, but we are strong, opinionated, and very stubborn. We are giving up our naps. But when we don’t, we are awake until the wee hours of the night. We’re watching, perhaps, too much television, but we went to see our first movie–if we can call it that–because we took an awful lot of bathroom breaks (four, to be exact) and then I missed the end of the movie. Every day is different. I wish we ate more interesting foods. I wish we weren’t so spazzy when we’re tired. I wish I didn’t lose my temper, because I feel awful when I do.
I never wish I didn’t love him so desperately. I always wish that I could remember every single conversation because they’re so endlessly interesting to me–the sheer idea that ears can fall off and then get stuck back on just because they can, that the whole world is busy being divided up and cross-checked and put into boxes of same and different–is amazing. Every. Single. Day.
The endless questions are sometimes frustrating. And then I have to take a deep breath because it’s all about understanding the world around him. That he hasn’t experienced it yet. Living isn’t old hat. Living isn’t something to be enduring. Every day is a giant jump into ever-loving arms. I wouldn’t trade that for anything either.
The other day, we were sitting, where were we sitting? At our kitchen table, at our dining room table, we may have been surrounded by family, or not, but I was struck by how much of a person he’s has become, and those elements of his personality that have been there the whole time–that steadfast, stubborn, intense but happy nature that belongs only to him–are flourishing these days.
This is what three is, three.
The book goes on sale April 15th, and I’m so proud to be one of its contributors–in company with some of our countries best writers–and we’re even having events. Events!
The M Word Events
Waterloo: April 14 Indie Lit Night at Starlight Social Club, 8pm
Toronto: April 15 at Ben McNally Books, 6pm
Kingston: April 16 at Novel Idea, 7:30pm
Winnipeg: May 6 at McNally Robinson, 7pm
Hamilton: May 7 at Bryan Prince Bookseller, 7pm
Everywhere Via Twitter Livechat: TBA
And congratulations to Kerry Clare for shepherding, steering, and pulling the whole project together brilliantly. What a spring it’s going to be.
While I know I am not a cultural commentator with any weight whatsoever, and I know social media has sort of ruined the art of sustained thought through 140 snarky characters, but I’m going to ramble on about some stuff, and feel free to ignore me.
First, I’m a feminist. There are no modifications to that statement, I am, and, like Caitlyn Moran, I’ll stand on a chair and shout it, if you can’t quite hear me: I AM A FEMINIST.
So, too, apparently is Cate Blanchett, and I admired her speech last night for it’s obvious stump-like quality of suggesting, broadly, that women want to see movies with other women in them. And I loved her comment, as above in the title of this post, “the world is round people,” when referring to the fact that it’s more and more apparent that there are juicier roles available to actresses that don’t involve being half-naked and chasing around after men. But here’s where the whole thing fell down for me–I find it hard, and harder still, to stomach, that Blanchett, who has played some kick-ass women in her career, was pontificating for Blue Jasmine, which contained two of the most appallingly-non-feminist, anti-women, even, characters to grace the screen in a long, long time. Woody Allen’s personal issues aside, and they are legion, celebrating the great opportunities for women from a movie that demoralizes our gender so insultingly, well, it gave me pause.
Just because there are female roles doesn’t necessarily mean that they are role models for females. I found the same thing with Gravity, which I enjoyed far, far more than I did Blue Jasmine–yes, Sally Hawkins and Cate Blanchett played the hell out of those characters, but they were not real women. They were not even approximations of real women. They were one-notes played on a sliding scale of bad decisions, and the sexism displayed in that film honestly shocked me. Never, not once, at any point in that film do either of the characters step outside of being defined by the men in their lives–they allow men to walk all over them, in multiple ways, their children are plot points, and their whole perception of the world around them is clouded by a desperation, which is seemingly of their own making.
But back to Gravity–a film celebrated for both its technical complexity and its brevity–not to mention the fact that Sandra Bullock plays an astronaut trapped in a terrifying situation (lost in space, even the thought of it freaks me out!). Why does Bullock’s character have to be “damaged” (SPOILER ALERT) because she’s lost her only child? Why does she need some emotionally cloying backstory? Does George Clooney’s character have any other reason for being in space than the fact that he’s a scientist? Why couldn’t the George Clooney character be played by a women too–at least we’d be seriously challenging some gender stereotypes there in a meaningful way.
So while Hollywood was all “whoo-hoo!” look at all these great roles for women–let’s break it down to see what kind of roles they actually were: Amy Adams plays a women who uses her sexuality for criminal purposes; she’s a grifter. Cate Blanchett plays a women whose husband cheats on her, and then Bernie Madoff’s a whole pile of people, and she can’t stand on her own two feet. I haven’t seen the film that Meryl Streep was nominated for, so I can’t comment on her character. The same goes for Judi Dench in Philomena–I haven’t seen the film, and don’t want to make assumptions (especially, again, because it’s based on a true story). And then Sandra Bullock plays an emotionally damaged scientist who is only up in space because she can’t stand life on earth.
Forgive me for insisting that great roles celebrating women actually portray women who are changing the conversation in any feasible way? Just because the character is female isn’t cause for celebration–why can’t we be pushing the boundaries a little bit further and actually have roles that are good for our gender, and not just roles because of our gender.
I’ve included an image of Julie Delpy for a very specific reason. I loved Before Midnight to distraction, and it got my vote for best adapted screenplay even though I knew it wasn’t going to win. Why? Because that character was a real woman–in almost every way. The only bone of contention I had with that script was how (SPOILER), while arguing, Ethan Hawke’s character kept referring to Delpy’s character as “crazy,” which I hate–it’s an easy way of doing away with a woman’s feelings, going back to hysteria, etc., etc., but her Celine was the most modern, well rounded (with flaws, of course) female character I’d seen on the big screen in a very, very long time. Everything she said rang true, rang authentic, and I didn’t feel like her gender was a plot point to be exploited, and nor was she emotionally manipulated for the purposes of audience enjoyment.
It’s wonderful to see the rich and varied performances of some of the greatest actresses of my generation doing such vivid work, I just wish that there was an equal veracity applied to the scripts as is applied to the conversations about the shifting nature of Hollywood. It’s not enough to be present on screen and winning awards. The words matter. The context matters. And that’s what I found so frustrating about much of what was celebrated last night.
January 21st, 2014
My son went to my father’s yesterday, I dropped him off just after lunch, so he could spend the night. We had tickets for a Neutral Milk Hotel show at the Kool Haus last night (show = awesome; venue = not awesome) and my dad will drop our little guy off at daycare where I’ll pick him up after work. And I had plans for that time–I was going to write, read, rest, nap, and just unwind in a way I haven’t had a chance to do in forever. But by the time I got home, driving in some pretty icky weather, I was, well, let’s just say the only motivation I had was to drop my coat, boots and keys in the kitchen and head for the couch. Where I stayed for ALMOST FOUR STRAIGHT HOURS.
In that time, I did some work, I’m teaching the distance ed session of Publicity for Book Publishers at Ryerson this term, so it’s nice to be able to do it from home, although I do miss the classroom environment. But I also watched Sarah Polley’s amazing documentary, Stories We Tell. In a nutshell, Sarah Polley discovered, after the death of her mother, that her dad was not her biological father, and that led her to looking at how families tell stories, which culminated in her gathering hers to tell theirs.
Coming from an artistic Toronto family where her father was an actor (before finding steady work upon the birth of her two siblings), her mother an actress/casting director, and her family all involved in the business in some way or another, the context of Sarah Polley’s life seems rich with drama, literature, and words in general. It’s a personal documentary, something that’s a hybrid of many different voices–Michael Polley, the father who raised her, her biological father, her brothers and sisters, her “new” family once she uncovers her DNA–and the result is a symphony of tales that come together not so much to explore the truth but to examine the impact of loss. In as much as this documentary is about Polley finding a biological father, it’s also about the loss of her mother–and that’s what resonated so deeply with me. The dichotomy of loss/discovery plays out almost in every scene–all stemming from one simple question Polley asks at the beginning: “Can you tell the story how you remember it?” And everyone seems to remember different bits, snippets here, thoughts there–and the entire film is narrated by a wonderful piece of writing by her father, Michael Polley. How do you tell a story when the central character, Polley’s mother, has no voice–through the thoughts and memories of those closest to her. But, even then, it’ll never be the whole story, and I think that’s the point–that every honest, aching moment of truth isn’t a possibility.
So, I sat for an afternoon on Sunday before we went to see Neutral Milk Hotel, and just contemplated my own stories about my own missing mother. Realizing that while there’s no question regarding the origin of my DNA, there’s many unanswered questions when it comes to my mother. What were her disappointments? I know she must have had them. How did she manage with two kids being so small, and she being so young herself? Where would her life have taken her if it wasn’t taken from her? And I’m not a filmmaker, and for once I’d rather not even imagine. I don’t want to write my mother’s voice into a story and I don’t want to have to explain to my boy about how mommy’s mommy died–but I did, and I do, because, like all of the stories that came together, and evolved Sarah Polley into the fascinating person she has become, all of these stories have made me the person I am too. It’s just a shame that we see ourselves reflected so deeply in our children, at this moment, in the middle of that documentary, I simply wanted to see my own mother’s face smiling back at me. She had a spectacular smile.
January 3rd, 2014
There have been a couple great articles in the last little while summing up the year, the usual best of movies, books, missed great culture, and blah de blah–but the two articles that got me thinking were these: 1) “The Year We Broke the Internet,” and 2) “Generation X is Sick of Your Bullshit,” which was written in response to this article on New York Magazine.
1) So, we’ve broken the internet… for once I’m thankful that a broken lede isn’t referring to the publishing industry, but to how f*#@ed up the internet has become. Referring traffic isn’t so much about driving discovery of great content anymore but damning us all to getting lost in a mess of tangled up wires masking themselves as a website. I’m one to blame–I use social media as a holding ground for all of the articles, notes, photos, thoughts, and bits and bobs of information that I’m trying to keep track of. I don’t read everything I post–I often post it to mark it to read later, because I think the header is interesting, and because I think it might be of interest to people in my circles. I’m doing it fast–scanning headlines and first paragraphs and often entire articles, and not thinking it through in some cases, but forwarding it along because that’s what you do. And every year I try to rid myself of the awful, voyeuristic celebrity gossip sites–but they’ve become an automatic response, something my fingers are doing the minute my mind becomes idle or I’m simply bored and need a distraction. I mean, do I need to know anything about Kim Kardashian? I’ve never seen an episode of her show–could care less about her rock, her fiance, her child, her thoughts on motherhood–and still, I click, and click, and click, and click. And I used to use the internet for good. Built great websites, wrote good content, and here we go again, another habit I need to slow down and look closely at–how to use the internet for good, again.
But that’s okay. Generation X is used to being ignored, stuffed between two much larger, much more vocal, demographics. But whatever! Generation X is self-sufficient. It was a latchkey child. Its parents were too busy fulfilling their own personal ambitions to notice any of its trophies-which were admittedly few and far between because they were only awarded for victories, not participation.
But the one thing that struck me about the reply-rant, was the whole, “the first generation not to do better than their parents” refrain. And it’s got me thinking about how we qualify doing “better,” and what it means to be a parent, and the kinds of things that occupy your mind when you’re waiting for the TTC in sub-sub-zero weather. Because, while I’m certainly not monetarily doing better than my parents at my age, I don’t judge my life’s success in that way–my mother had two children by the time she was 24, wanted to go to university but didn’t, and spent her life doing menial jobs–sometimes two or three of them at a time (both she and my father worked all the time). Yes, they did a great job paying off their mortgage but my mother didn’t even have a chance to enjoy any of the benefits of her hard work–her car accident stopping her life short at thirty-four. She sacrificed her freedom, in a sense, so that I could have mine–two degrees, dancing around for while until I hit my own career path, not settling down until I was in my mid-twenties, and not having my own baby until I was much older, and while we haven’t got our house paid off, we lived the hell out of our years before we had kids. My mother was saving it up for later–a later she never got to experience. So, I guess I’m saying that it’s all relative. Money isn’t the guiding focus of our life as it was for my parents–in a sense. It’s not that I want to have an ‘artistic’ life or have been driving to be ‘different,’–but I always knew I didn’t want to live in Mississauga where I grew up (not that being one zip code away in Toronto is all that), that I wanted to travel, meet people, experience things in a way that was only made possible because my mother worked so hard to throw me out into the world and into the person I became. So, I don’t want the “glory” like the kids in the other article, and I’m not so pissed like the Sick of the Bullshit article, but it did get me thinking about what I’ll be leaving for my kid, and how hard I’m working now that it really matters, and one day I might get my house paid off, but I will always love the Beastie Boys, and be thankful my mother got knocked up when she did.
December 30th, 2013
I’m a little terrified to revisit my New Year’s Revolutions from last year, and I am sure that I did not succeed in making any changes. Except, that when I look them over–I actually managed small changes where I never thought possible. I never made it to the gym. But I am finding small ways to be more active. I rode my bike far more this summer. I’m walking more than I was a year ago, just to and from the subway, but it’s something. I’m not sure I did well with being more patient, but that’s an ongoing struggle. I certainly failed on the blogging part, but I did manage to read over 60 books this year, which is certainly more than last year. We have had an epic year for change–we’re in a big boy bed, we’re migrating out of all kinds of baby habits (pulling and tugging in some areas, ahem, toilet training, the bane of my parenting existence)–and I found time for myself. Let me repeat that–I found time for myself. The all-encompassing, suffocating parenting feelings are still there sometimes, mainly on the weekends when I’ve spent 48 straight hours with my son because he refuses to sleep in his own bed, but we’re all a little bit older, a little bit wiser. We’ve discovered the joys of an afternoon playdate. We can let our boy roam around the house unsupervised to an extent because he’s mainly playing and not actively engaged in activities that could wholly injure him. And so, here we go, for 2014–here are my Revolutions.
1. Start. Finish.
I’m revisiting this revolution from last year because it’s important to me. I managed a large-scale writing project this year, a rough draft of a novel, and it felt terrific. Like so many of these things, it may never see the light of day, but I proved to myself I could do it, and that was a feat in and of itself. The other amazing part to finishing the bits and pieces you start is that of feeling of accomplishment. The place where your life is controlled, in some extent, by you–and it’s empowering.
I did bits and bobs of yoga. Went to acupuncture once. Listened to a bunch of meditation audio books. Read about meditation. Tried to sit still. Put my legs up the wall a whole bunch. Listened to hours and hours and hours of classical music. And, still, it just wasn’t enough. The integral part for me to stay healthy is to keep calm. And, I need to do it without medication. Without terrible food. Without it taking too much time because I have so little of it. The easiest way? Taking a deep breath. Way way way down into bottom, as far down as it can go, kind of breath. As much and as often as possible.
I can do it here. I can do it there. I can do it anywhere. And I found a groove in the latter part of the year that I want to continue. I have so many ideas. And finding a place for them that’s out of my head, well, that’s the goal.
Over the last twelve months, so many things have changed. Work is busier than ever because of our new structure, but I have a wonderful team. I’m teaching again, which was both rewarding and extremely hard last summer, and looking forward to it. The upcoming year will most likely prove, again, to be the most difficult but also the most rewarding of my career. I’m invigorated by work these days. It’s taken almost a decade of working in publishing to arrive at this point–the perfect marriage of job description + my particular skill set + the right company + great opportunities. Now I just have to continue to work hard, to try and be a good manager, and to prove to the naysayers that our industry hasn’t got a cold, isn’t on death’s door, but is alive, vibrant and innovative.
5. Make Dinner.
Whether it’s me cooking on the weekends or my husband throughout the week, I want to make more dinners, have our boy explore more food (because he’s effectively stopped eating anything except about three dishes), and use what we buy by having it end up in our belly’s instead of the green bin.
6. Stay Organized.
Somehow, in the fury of my daily life, my organizational skills have collapsed. I need a better system. I’ve been using a great app on my iPad called “Wunderlist,” and it’s terrific. But it’s not the same as being organized from the core up. My drawers are a mess. My closet even worse. Being disorganized is expensive, as I’ve discovered, but over the last few months, I’m slowly working to climb out of a crazy hole somewhat of my own making–and if I can start the way I mean to finish, setting my clothes out the night before, bringing my lunch, and keeping track of all of our lives, I think my messy mind might improve.
One year I’d like to read 100 books in a year. It’s funny, because clawing out time for reading means giving up other activities, mainly watching television or putting myself into an internet coma. Two changes that I find impossible to make. I find it implausible to even suggest a life without television and movies (and why would you want to?), but I could spend less time watching the crappy stuff that fills up the hours, and get to bed earlier a couple nights a week so I can read. More short stories. More small press publications. More poetry. More. More. More. More words.
What do we really need to be successful in this life? For me, it’s thinking a lot about the experiences I want to have with my family. The parts of the world I want to see, and how I want to see them. For there to be a world for my boy, we need to live within our own boundaries. What does that mean? Cutting down on the stuff. Working with what you have. Making. Gardening. Baking. Fixing. Reusing. Recycling. We are familiar with these concepts. And we take it seriously. But like saving money. Even 10% more can be accomplished. And that’s what I’m looking to do–cut 10% out of my life, reduce it in every way possible. I’m going to think more concretely about this over the next day or two with more thoughts on exactly how.
In this picture, there are so many ways that I can take it apart–I’m still so chubby, my roots are growing in rapidly, my glasses are old and crooked, my skin is dry, and flaking in bits–but that’s not at all what I was thinking at the moment it was taken. In that instant, after flying downhill with my boy on a sled, I was blissfully, stupidly, happy. And those are the moments that I know are important. We all need more moments like this–where we’re free for a split second of everything else in our lives except joy. Having them can’t be planned per se but they can be recognized and celebrated by not being so hard on ourselves. Therein lies my goal: to not be so hard on myself.
10. Take Pictures.
This one is self-explanatory. And will, hopefully, not be the only Revolution I manage over 2014.
November 26th, 2013
Right now I wish that Goodreads would let me give half stars–it’s really a 3.5 kind of novel. Parts of this epic tale by Donna Tartt contain some truly, truly exceptional writing, intuitive observations, and a keen eye for the failings of the human spirit. But parts are bloated, even a little overwritten with a tendency to restate, sometimes within the self-same sentence, a previous observation–and this made me batty.
That said, I loved Tartt’s first novel, The Secret History, with abandon. Thoroughly enjoyed her second, The Little Friend, but got lost in the beginning of this book, almost to its detriment. The novel opens with a terrorist bomb blowing up in one of the biggest galleries in New York. Theo, having been suspended with school, is there with his art-loving, advertising-working mother, before a meeting at his school, his deadbeat father having been out of the picture for a while. The plot device-ness of the attack concerned me, but it was necessary in order for Theo to come into possession of the novel’s namesake, a Dutch master’s painting, “The Goldfinch.” And it’s within this framework–what happens to him as a result of the painting, where his life goes, what decisions he makes, that form the bulk of the action in the book.
Almost immediately, there’s Charles Ryder-esque quality to Theo–he’s the centre of the story but not necessarily the most interesting person in the book. Especially when Boris arrives on the scene. He’s an incredible character, amazing, actually, who flits in and out of the book at exactly the right moments like he’s in a movie. The book is Dickensian in all the right places, and despite its length and heft moves at lightning speed. The only thing I was really missing was a keen and wholly believable emotional core–but, in the end, the heart of the book is one boy’s tragedy and the depths that it pulls his life in a direction that can’t seem to be reversed. And for that, Tartt had my heart, and that’s all you can really ask of a novel, isn’t it?