The Great Thaw of 2014

I believe it was this past weekend, the weekend of May 2-4, that I was walking home from the subway station and the wind on that bridge over Highway 401 felt like it was trying to bore through my brain. I put my hand over my left ear because I was actually worried about my eardrum freezing. This prompted me to indulge in one of my occasional fits of swearing at the weather (we all do it, come on), followed by a couple choice words like "Come on Toronto, let's get with the program!!!"

But this post isn't about the weather. It's about the thawing of my O-Canadian life. On February 14, I got my Permanent Resident Visa papers in the mail. After a quick trip to Buffalo on the 22nd, I now have the right to work, drive and receive government healthcare in Canada. Of course, in immigration-time, "now" means in 6-10 weeks, but hey, it's still pretty awesome. I've made some big decisions about my career, including giving up the idea of working in the Communications Field. I'm now fully committed to my original and strongest passion, helping people along paths of mental, emotional and spiritual growth. And I've been practicing mindfulness with quite a bit more dedication, which is opening up worlds of inner resources that I'm excited to share with the world. You can read about these at my other blog, Pointing at the Moon.


Oddly, the more I become used to life in Canada, the less I have to say about it. Perhaps that's not surprising. I'm less like a fish out of water here, and more like, well, a fish... in water? You know what I mean. I'm less interested in what's different about Canada, and more interested in creating my life here. The past year has given me ample time to look over the past, land in the present, and prepare for the future. Along with doing lots of yoga and making friends with awesome people, I've also written some memoir, some of which I may post here. I'd particularly like to tell the stories of my time on the U.S. West Coast, and the 6 weeks of traveling the U.S. that brought me to California in 2002. Though I would often silently curse my travel companion, John, for keeping me so long away from regular hot showers and kitchen luxuries, he was right: It was the trip of a lifetime. And since I don't have kids, I need someone to tell it to! (hint, hint)

For now, adieu; I wander off into the land of pseudo-bilingualism, borderline Americanism, and quirky national traditions like "bacon" and "tuques". A land where Catholicism is still part of public school, where the lakes hold more water than any other place in the world; and where indigenous people fight not-so-distant battles for responsible oil production, collective health and environmental sanity. A city where I feel completely at home, no thanks to the slow transit system or 60-story condos, but thanks to people, and the spaces of love and community they create.

The past is a country you can never return to

I'm officially Canadian!! - well, actually, I'm a Permanent Resident, but that's pretty good. It that means within weeks I can drive, receive healthcare, and work in Canada. And in a couple years, I can become a citizen, too. Valentine's Day I got the letter marking the end of an 11-month phase of waiting, dreaming, resting, and establishing myself as a wife, community member, and Torontonian. Now, I'll be able to complete the final chapter of my life here, which is finding a job.  I'm super excited to start making money again, to plan our honeymoon, and do simple stuff like go out to eat more and really experience Toronto, this amazing city.

Perhaps it was the finality of it which brought on my sharp stab of homesickness today. Or perhaps it's that a new year is beginning, and moving into the future requires leaving something else behind. I'd been homesick before, but I wasn't prepared for the loss of a certain kind of closeness that comes when you live in the same towns, frequent the same restaurants and stores, and know the same people as your friends. Being in a person's home and just sipping tea or watching TV is a superb way of getting to know who they are, and what life is like for them. This level of closeness feels lost, particularly with my parents. I can't just pop over anymore. And that's really tough.

There's another level, too - that even if I were to move back home someday, it wouldn't be the same as what I left behind. When you live somewhere continuously, sure, everyone changes, but it's slow and you almost don't notice it. But when you leave and ocme back - as I've already done - the return is never quite what you expected. Businesses have closed, new ones have opened (Kent, I'm talkin' to you), people have moved on or started new phases of their lives, like having kids or going back to school. The "scene" you miss isn't the same scene, and there's no way of catching up, because, well, you weren't there. So there's really no going back, and no place to be except the present.

Also, I've changed. I think about my aunt, who moved to Colorado with her husband, lived there for 15 years, and then moved to Los Angeles. She keeps in touch with the family, but the fact is that her life is kind of a mystery to us. She belongs to another world, and now, so do I.

Sean has always told me that I'm a "country girl" at heart. I chuckle at that, since it's based on his rosy view of Ohio as the "country." But in fact, I'm from Northeast Ohio, which is kind of better: I'm from world-class schools, post-industrial economic rebirth, corn on the cob, and the Burning River. A corner of Ohio that's just as sophisticated as it is relaxing. And I love that. So I don't mind Sean calling me a country girl - he's never forgotten that I came from Ohio, and maybe that will help me remember who I am.

Isn't there some kind of saying - "you can't take the country out of a country girl...?" Yeah... that seems true. When you're getting used to something, it can seem to consume your entire identity, but there comes a point when you remember who you were before. I may be a Toronto girl now - knowing how to find the best food, the best museums, how to ride the subway without losing my balance - but I'll always be a girl who shopped at Beckwiths Orchard and hopped around sandstone cliffs at Kendall Ledges. I'll always know how to shuck corn into a paper bag, how to find a great sweater at the VD, and how to smalltalk with the folks back home. And I can count on them welcoming me back, and doing what they can to make me feel at home. I think I can count on that.

Sometimes when I feel homesick I go to my suitcase and get out the little stash of American money I keep, leftover from the last trip. It's the pennies that get me - we don't have pennies here, so  when I hold a penny, it's like a piece of America in my hand. Of course, holding American money also makes me think about our national debt, our problems with consumerism and all the stuff that makes me ambivalent about being American - but damn, I miss the States. Not because I think it's the greatest country in the world (though it is great, in many ways), but because it's my home. In a way my American money is like the past, as it's really only a symbol for something else. You can't eat money, and you can never return to the past. I can only try to be in the present, and realize that the legs that climbed on redwoods and waded in Blue Hen Falls, are the same legs that can ride the TTC subway without stumbling. I've been shaped and molded by so many places, so many relationships, and yet, I'm still myself.

Being apart from my family is sometimes like having a limb cut off. Sorry to be gross, but they're part of me, because throughout my life, they shaped and molded me like clay. As teenagers, we resent our families for that - but if you wants to get over that, I'd suggest moving away. Move to a place where you can't come home, and then repeat that, until you realize - wow, they're not trying to mold me - it just happens. And it's time that I choose to mold my own life - to choose who I am, what I do, who I hang out  with, and above all, what is home. Being away from them, I realize how lucky I am to have the option to come home - to come home for fresh corn, leaf-raking, coffee on the porch - for what keeps me feeling like me, as I move into this new country, into the present.

More wierd things about Canada

1) Canada's economic strength is based on their money being less valuable than the U.S.
We watched a show on (public) TVO on the economic future of Canada. It wasn't surprising that much of the consensus hinged on the U.S. economy; it was surprising that the Canadian dollar being lower than the U.S. would be an economic advantage, since the U.S. (and also other countries) would then import more from Canada. 

2) "Buy online... with debit!"
One of my favorite laughs these days is the "Buy online with Visa debit" commercial. "How to buy online with debit", the announcer says, and various antics ensue with carrot cake ingredients, before an Amazon.com page is shown, with someone entering their debit card information to buy a cookbook. This is a classic example of the 10-year Canadian delay. Whereas debit cards have been equivalent to credit cards in the U.S. since roughly 2004 (according to my memory), Canada is apparently just catching up to the trend.

3) Polar vortex non-sensation
My sample size is small - about half a dozen Toronto friends - but their reaction to the Polar Vortex of early January, with temperatures nearing -40 C/F (when temps get that low, we're the same), was pretty nonplussed. Sure, it was cold, but nothing to check the news about. This surprised me, since Toronto is on the warm side for Canada. I chalk it up to most Torontonians having lived in Ottawa, Winnepeg, or some other cold-as-balls city earlier in their lives. According to a friend, some Toronto schools shut down, but many remained open. Compared to Northeast Ohio, where every public school, several government offices, and a handful of private companies closed preemptively for two whole days, and it would appear Toronto folks are pretty cold-hardy.

Oh, and we still have milk in bags. That's all for now folks!

Cold Plunge: Anchoring in the New

As I mentioned in a previous post, there's nothing like winter to make you hunker down and just be with what is. Having survived the Ice Storm of '13 (not so bad for me, I'm a snow-belt girl) and the Polar Vortex (hardly a show-stopper in Canada), I'm still much more stunned by the emotional aspects of winter. Vast expanses of glistening ice coating thousands of cat-tails; stark contrasts of white snow against dingy brown grass, seem to highlight the sense of distance from summer, and from places you'd like to go, like home. But they also command attention to the simple beauty of what exists in front of your nose. Freshly baked ginger cookies, visiting friends at home, faces flushed with cold and laughter.

But then, you also have that January urge to re-create your entire world, or at least, improve upon it. For me, January has called me to begin my work as Communications Chair at my church. So far, I am managing the communications (web and print) for a fundraising event in May, and have some other responsibilities coming up. It's been awesome to finally have something to work on, and feel the sense of contribution I've been missing. Last week I met the committee in person, and put in about 2 hours/day on a project.

While it's great to have a sense of routine, I've been feeling a little burnt out on all the newness I've created. After all, I've already had several fresh starts in my life, and moving Toronto wasn't the smallest of them. In addition to adjusting to metropolitan, car-less living, and meeting new people, I also decided to throw in a career change. True to form, I assumed that switching to the Communications field would be easy, since I have a degree in English and some related experience. But as it turns out, and as I should have known, any career change can feel like biting off more than you can chew. That's why I'm keeping my mind open to ways that I can integrate mental health, writing, and teaching into a career that will make sense for me.

When I came to Toronto, I had this feeling that somehow all the various strands of my life would weave together into a cohesive whole. In fact I hoped they would - because looking back, I've lived so many places, and had so many jobs, and I finally wanted to settle down. I didn't really feel a need to re-invent myself, but rather to be who I'd been all along. Instead of going into the "great unknown", I wanted to dig deeper, and unearth a career/life that would fit me perfectly, maybe even permanently. Fortunately, I've had this break from work, and a cozy little sanctuary that is our apartment, looking out over Toronto. So even though I get homesick and stir-crazy, I've taken time to weave the seemingly disparate strands together into a life. I've been writing, looking through photos, going over the colors and textures of the past for clues to the future.

In my post Adventures in Renaissance Personhood, I listed all the jobs I'd had and courses I'd ever taken. Many times I've looked back at my life and thought it was pretty disjointed. I sort of beat myself up for being the kind of person who's had the privilege to explore anything, but rarely followed through. I sometimes think, well, even if I choose a new direction, how do I know it will last? But the thing I realized, is that the directions I've taken were not random. From massotherapy to music, they were all ways of answering questions I had - about myself, about the world. And now, looking through those memories and experiences, I have my answers. It's my own personal treasure trove of wisdom. My one wild and precious life.

So in the deep cold of winter, in the disorienting plunge into the New, what holds you together? For me, it's playing my old songs, writing my little memoir of my 20's, and tying my knowledge of mental health in with the exciting field of neurobiology, which is answering some of the questions I've had since grad school. It's letting go of some "New Year's resolutions" that feel overwhelming (bye bye, French dictionary) and sticking firmly to the ones that help (yoga EVERY DAY - no really!). When things change we tell ourselves stories about what change should look like, how fast, and in what direction. But there's no sense pretending that anybody but me should write my own story - because after all, I'm the one with the pen.