Cookie-Baking May 15, 2011

I believe in baking cookies.

My mother attempts every Christmas to bake an assorted plate of cookies for visitors. Yet, with three teenage daughters, stomachs empty faster than her baking trays. In a phone conversation with my aunt Sara last December, my mother mentioned her exasperation with the ever-depleted supply of sweets.

“I feel like the Sisyphus of the cookie-baking world,” she sighed.

Two days later, when my grandparents emerged through the swinging gate of the airport arrivals section, my grandmother carried a huge tin box under her arm. Inside, nestled between pages of carefully cut parchment paper, appeared layers of gingerbread and shortbread cookies. Sara had stayed up all night baking.

Struggling to cover the costs of Sara’s chemotherapy, my aunt and uncle had been unable to send Christmas gifts. That didn’t matter. With every cookie I ate (and, believe me, I probably gained five pounds), I thought of how my aunt, exhausted from a day at hospital, had come home and made my mother enough assorted cookies to last the holiday season. With each crumble that dissolved in my mouth, I could taste the love Sara had rolled into her cookie dough and into our lives.

Three months later, Sara died of bone cancer. When I folded myself out of my plane seat, I made sure to remember the tin of chocolate chip cookies I’d stowed in my overhead compartment. I knew that my cousins and uncle didn’t need the cookies – they had plates of them collecting on counters and spilling from jars. But they did need to know that my family and I cared about them. My cousins and uncle had counted on my aunt to love them unconditionally. Now, with her gone, they required us to love them all the more.

Sitting around their kitchen table, I ate cookies and laughed with my younger cousins. I braided their hair and wiped the crumbs off their faces and made sure they knew that, even if my voice would be a long-distance phone call away, my heart stayed right beside them.

When I returned home, I sat down to a cookie and a glass of milk. I thought of the year after my father dropped dead of a heart attack, when my house had also been filled with gingersnaps, Oreos, and chocolate chip cookies. Just like my cousins, I needed the cookies then, to know that the world had not given up on me.  And I still need them now. I need to know that I am not alone, that people care for me and will look after me whether I’m sitting on the counter or burning in the oven. Just like my mother with Sara’s surprise holiday cookies, I need those reminders that every day I am loved.

So, I bake cookies. I bake cookies for my school receptionists, my teachers, and my friend’s grandmother. I bake cookies so that other people know I care.

Turn to stone May 14, 2011

I wonder how it feels to know your days are numbered. Are gazelles haunted by the day when they’ll finally be caught? Or lions by the day when they’re not fast enough?

There are weekend days when I fear I’ve turned to stone. The music plays, and the notes flow right through me like water past rocks anchoring a stream. Sometimes I wish I were unbroken again. My paper walls don’t compare to the castle I used to imagine myself in. But then I remember the little girl in the room with the glass windows, how those panes were fogged up and smudged up with imprints of cheeks and the tip of her nose squished. There were no scars to compare; she was the last one to leave.

I ran out the door, and banged myself on the step but racing into the yellow meadow, I found no one. I’m outside, but they’ve all left. Save one, who prefers his solitude. I coaxed for stories, but he really just wanted to be left alone. Is it too late to chase after? I can’t stay here with the dreamer for my legs will surely turn to stone, and the house is just a room after I’ve seen the world. It’s crept up on me. Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t be fast enough.

It’s hard being both gazelle and lion. The hunter and the hunted.

The Unexplainable May 11, 2011

I believe in the unexplainable

This summer, I found God 10 km up a dirt backpacking trail.

The sun set over the backdrop of jagged peaks, brushing a varnish of orange on every surface. I crouched on the rocks beside Floe Lake, my blistered feet left bare and chilly. I didn’t care because all I could focus on was the view before me, the power in its magnitude and violent beauty. Here was my church.

I tried religion when I was younger. Lying in bed, I closed my eyes and did my best to pray. On one family vacation, I even decided to read the bible tucked in the drawer of our motel room. I went to a Sunday school class when visiting my grandmother. The problem was, I just couldn’t accept its logic.

My grandmother’s prayer lists (I found them online once, much to my shock) didn’t cure my Lupus or my mother’s depression. They didn’t save my father from a fatal heart attack or my aunt from terminal cancer. What benevolent being could make any of those events part of “the plan?”

Instead of sitting in a pew listening to the words of a pastor when I felt angry or sad, I went outside. Bushwhacking up mossy slopes and curling up in the crook of fallen trees, I cried my tears into the dirt and flowers of the wild. I found solace in its unapologetic arms.

It’s not easy to accept unpredictability. People like order. Our city streets are patterned into a grid-work, our days are framed by schedules, and our habits are graphed by statistics. Life is treated as a math equation with inputs equaling outputs. There is a formula, a reason for everything. Surely God has a plan, even if we don’t understand it. No. That’s not true or satisfying. My God doesn’t let the world fall to ruin from a heavenly perch, leaving me forever searching for His ulterior motive.

These ideas didn’t fully materialize until that moment in the light of the fading sun. The mountain before me didn’t control its destiny. It was formed by some ancient earthquake and reshaped by erosion from wind and snow. In the sparse woods that braved the elevation, owls caught and killed mice, fires burned the hillside, and landslides felled nests. None of this happened for a greater purpose or as divine punishment. It simply was.

Life is random. Maybe I’ll die tomorrow. Maybe I won’t. But there’s no plan. I don’t sit and second-guess myself or the objectives behind events I can’t control. I don’t yell at or pray to a God that isn’t listening anyway. I stare at the forest and remind myself that life is wild and unexplainable, but in the end that’s part of its beauty and part of mine. I must accept and move on because there is no reason. This is what gives me peace of mind. This I believe.

just say it to their face April 30, 2011

With all the brilliant technology in our world today, I would think that communication would be better.

In many ways it is: people are interconnecting on a global scale, messages can be sent to mass groups of people at a time, and lots of people carry small, hand held devices so that they can communication with just a couple clicks.

Unfortunately, technology has also blinded us. As we get excited with our cool, little gadgets, we also get carried away with them and before long have made everything much more complicated than it needs to be.

Take for example email. These days everyone loves email- it’s quick, easy, and can be sent to multiple people at a time. Not mention, you can check it when you want to, take your sweet time answering messages, and have time to think about what you’re saying before you write it out and click send. Hmmmm is there a bit of a problem here? First off, when people write in emails, they don’t always realize how they are coming across. Second, the sense of urgency that an email is sent with isn’t always tranferred over to the reciever. And thirdly, it’s actually rather time consuming to write it all out and then email back and forth, back and forth to settle a manner. I love email but it is definitely not the best way to communicate.

Texting! What teenager doesn’t love to text? What person with texting on their phone doesn’t love to text? It’s great… if I’m arranging to meet up with somebody I can send a quick message to confirm, no sweat. Or, I could send text my friends about how bored I am and then have various pointless and very distracting text conversations throughout the rest of the day. Again, I like texting, but how necessary is it really?

Facebook…. Must I even explain? As a student in high school right now, I must admit that I think facebook is kind of necessary. I find it extremely useful for trying to organize events, projects, or get-togethers. On the flip side, it’s a useful tool for keeping up with various happenings around the school and community. If I didn’t have facebook, I think I would be very confused. Of course, facebook can be nauseatingly addictive for some people which in turn, results in a bunch of people being supper annoyed with dumb statuses, lame pictures, and ridiculous games. Add all the time you’ve ever spent on facebook all together… Now think about all the other things you could have done with that time. Not to depress you, but please do realize what a black hole facebook can become.

Face to face conversation will always trump any other communication. It’s simple, fast, there’s body language (90% of communication), facial expression, tone, and no one (unless they’re really rude, I suppose) is going to turn their back on you and walk away to deal with it later. Communication is always best when in person and the closer you can’t get to that, the better. Hence, talking on the phone isn’t terrible, but email is quite a few steps lower.

So we advance as a society. We make more fancy gadgets. We form connections all over the place. And we talk lots. But just because we can get in contact with people, are we still communicating?

WOW 1111 April 27, 2011

Hey people – we’ve reached 1 thousand, 1 hundred, eleven unique visitors.

I’ve got work April 10, 2011

I love that phrase so much.

I’ve got work.

Such a rolling, side-ways glancing bunch of words.

But hey, it feels special at some point, especially when the ratio of high school students who don’t have a job is greater than the ones that have one.

Teaching piano and theory is pretty good. No physical labor and the money rolls in like a muddy puppy.

Oh! But the kids!

They make me cry and laugh and mad all at the same time. I thought it was supposed to be teaching piano, but it ended up more being teaching how to wash hands, how to keep fists out of mouths, stay still, be responsible, concentrate, fine motor skills, and patience. They ask me so many piano/music -unrelated questions that I end up teaching them about how dogs are bred and how submarines work. I ended up counseling a student after the death of her dog, reassuring and reasoning with a kid who brought his nightmares into the day, and listening to boy troubles and friendship explosions.

One of them sings songs like a prima dona when his little kindergarten-er self goes to the washroom, and the vibrato echos across the hallway back into the classroom. Two boys play hockey with pencils and erasers and use books as a rink during theory class. (Commentary included – score: 25- 27…something like that…) Another describes farts and other bodily functions with Italian music terminology. (decrescendo – gradually getting softer; Largo – broad, slow and stately; tenuto – held, sustained)

I love all of them so much. Working on Friday evenings isn’t so appealing. No one else wants the slot -so student teachers get them. I just want to go home and sleep the troubles of the week away. I can’t bring my rage from home and school to work, so I’m cranky and tired on the way there, but those nine kids make it worthwhile. They are all pretty weird sometimes, in their own ways -just like me, I guess.

When they finally get something I want to a bit of a British Gigue. It’s to gratifying to know you’ve immortalized yourself in their life.

Oh, how smug I feel.

A Place in the World April 10, 2011

I like having a place in the world.

I place where I fit.

But its a little hole in the wall, a cage, like everyone else’s.

It seems like everyone around my knows the perimeter or their bars and push and fight to stretch them farther. I don’t even know how big my cage in. I feel so brave when I do something new, but in truth, I’m very very scared all the time. I feel like I act confident, but I’m never going to be that angry hawk on the perch flapping to be released. I hate moving past my little roads I take everyday. I’m just a little mouse running through the walls of the same house and scampering to and from the same nest and the same pantry. Stocking up my little food supply for what?

I’m like a magpie – picking up shiny things and looking for little drops and splashes of treasure where ever I go. I hoard everything unceasingly – every memory, every dream, every hope. I like to drown and flounder in them sometimes. It makes me feel richly smug to lie and wiggle in my life so far – I remember everything. But it makes me so frustrated when I pick up a nice fat shiny gem with my curious beak and find it so faded and chipped. It looked so nice and clear from far away, but now it’s just like all the other graying curls of chains in my nest. Just like my memories. After something passes into the realm of what has happened, it blurs and fades. The second that has just passed seems as swimmy as my two and a half year old self splashing water in only my underwear. Little floating islands of sepia everywhere – I can’t seem to string them up in a necklace of red gold.

But music is clear. I can hear the piano playing through the bars. That instrument is the darkest thing I’ve ever seen – but filled with such light in it’s severe case. It makes me cry all the time – how can people create something that makes life worthwhile? Oh Beethoven, how I love your Pathetique. The second movement trembled with spring greens and stole my heart with golden pale afternoons. Bach’s French suites came calling with their delicate steps and unmovable stability. Watery depths and fluttering reflections submerged Debussy’s Sunken Cathedral. Beauty hurts like a blinding camera flash. I can’t see anything afterwards but little blue dots.

I thought I knew myself. The puddles of yellow lamp light never reflect anything, though. I will never see – this blindness can only be cured by music and words. The only way I will know who I am is to tell my entire story again and again – different every time. I created my own history out of blurred seconds ticking in a mirrored clock. It’s in the deepest velvet of the sky and the blinding, blinding white: whistling like the wind funneled into the depths of the city.

Love is so scary. It makes you throw everything away until you grab a hold of yourself again. But I always regret talking myself out of love.

I used to think myself cold. But I never was, I think. I’ve always loved everything so much that it felt like the moments would explode. The world is so beautiful sometimes I can’t even breath and I have to go cry for a while.

I like my cage. But nothing ever happens in it.

I’m afraid I’ve waited too long.

Thoughts in the rain March 28, 2011

“Call it what you will, I call it rain”

There is just something about rain that I love. Maybe that comes from living in a place where rain is so frequent that I have to learn to live with it but I think it is something more than that. I am sitting on my bed on vacation in a warm hot place and the rain is pouring down outside but really I am not that upset. There is something about rain that is calming even with the thunder and lightning; it makes you slow down, relax and that is something that we all need to do every once and a while.

Drops racing down my window

Falling from the sky

Breathing life into this old earth

Helping it to fly

The smell of dust rises up

Thunder begins to sound

The flash of lightning wakes me up

As the water swirls around

Like music the drops fall down

Making their journey from sky to earth

Watering the ground

And creating new birth

So today I will spend time relaxing and enjoying my day and thanks for listening to my thoughts on this day.

Unbroken Walls March 16, 2011

One day you come home from school and see a realtor in your dining room, showing your parents where to sign the official looking papers sitting on the table. Suddenly, your house is up for sale and you have showings a few times a week and then some papers are signed and a new place to live is found and then the place that you call home, where you laugh and cry and spend hours at night doing homework and drinking tea and playing with your dog isn’t yours any longer, and the walls your posters are taped to aren’t yours and the doors aren’t yours and the cupboards aren’t yours, and soon the stove will be used by different people, taking food out of your fridge and cooking it on your stove which is no longer even yours but someone else’s, strangers you’ll never meet.

Somehow this happened to my family, for the second time in as many years. Just as I’ve learned to love my home and neighborhood and even my daily hour long commute to and from school, I have to stuff my life into boxes and move on. The last time we moved, it was from my childhood home, and as I’d never moved before, a lot more nostalgia and loss was felt then. This time around, it’s more the memories I could have made that I’m missing. In a week I’ll have lost the chance to make the familiar walk down to the nature reserve, sit on the roof outside my window and stare out at the lights of the city, or even run down the stairs and slide on my sock feet all the way to the fridge.

This time around, the hassle of moving itself combined with a love of our current house means I dread moving, but I know in the end everything will work out. I just dislike the in-between time, the time when I don’t feel like I belong in this house, and yet don’t belong in the new one either. This house taunts me, pointing me continually towards the clock which refuses to stop counting down the few days I have left to live in my home. At the same time, the new one is big and empty, full of new opportunities, though the opportunities manage to look simultaneously inviting and distressing. The other day we went to the new house, and my brother and I ran around, getting excited over plans for our new rooms, figuring out how all of our stuff would fit. On the other hand, finding excitement and goodness in moving is hard to do, and I’m having to make an effort to filter out the negatives.

With my stuffed animals in a box and our pictures taken down, my house no longer looks like home. The unbroken walls are no longer mine, although they still watch me fall on my bed with exhaustion every night and find breakfast every morning. They remain the witness’ to my last late night homework marathons, meals with my family, and hours spent working on a guitar song. These lasts are coming all too quickly, but I will treasure them. In a few days I will have left my room and my home for the last time, and looking back is never quite the same as looking forward.

 

 

it’s raining today March 13, 2011

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life. It goes on.” ~Robert Frost

Sometimes, I almost believe in a God. But most often than not, the closest I’ve gotten is an ethereal being, like a whisper of a thought.

What I believe then is that no matter how bad things are at this moment in time, life will go on. I can see this in the young cherry tree on my front lawn, its pink bundles waiting to spring forth into blossoms, hear it in the mourning call of the geese as they flee the incoming winter, even in waking up and knowing before I glance out my window that the world had been blanketed with snow overnight. Life is always happening: flourishing and wilting. Birthing and dying. It’s such a fragile kind of beauty; it almost hurts to appreciate because you know that part of the reason your heart longs for it so is because it’ll only be there for a fleeting moment before it’s gone. Nothing can ever remain the same, but this persistent change is what makes life so meaningful. For everything we’ve said and done, and anything we didn’t say and didn’t do, has led us to who we are now. Life will always go on, and amidst its going-ons, we will continue to become until the grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back and you’ve reached this journey’s end.

Pippin: I didn’t think it would end this way.

Gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass… then you see it!

Pippin: What? Gandalf? See what?

Gandalf: White shores… and beyond. A far green country, under a swift sunrise.