Archives for category: Personal

What’s Your Thing? Passions and Hobbies

January 5, 10 //

I grew up in a musical household. My mother is a professional violinist who revels in playing music. She has played the violin since she was five years old, and it’s her thing. She loves to play. I think she would say that when she is playing her violin she “blisses out.” I think I may have even heard her echo these words on more than one occasion: “I love to practice my violin.”

If you’ve ever been an unwilling music student, you might be aware that it is not everyone who can say, “I love to practice my instrument.” But my mother has been playing professionally for decades, and playing the violin is still her thing.

As the daughter of a professional musician, I grew up playing the cello. I started playing at the age of four, and I even faked my way through a season with the Vancouver Island Symphony. I enjoyed playing the cello, but it was not my thing. Unlike my mother, I did not love to practice my cello–even though I tried to will the cello to be my thing. Intellectually I wanted to be a glamorous cellist, but I did not have the will for it. It didn’t flow. I couldn’t bliss out playing the cello the way my mom could bliss out playing her violin. Playing music wasn’t my thing.

As a kid I remember genuinely wondering what was wrong with me. Why could my mother play for hours but for me it felt so forced? Why wasn’t I like her? I didn’t understand why, but I realized that we weren’t the same. My mother is a kind, kindred, warm person and there was no ill-will over my lack of dedication or drive when it came to the cello. I think she realized that it wasn’t my thing, and by the age of fourteen I was a spent cellist.

I entered teenage-hood, and by the time that I emerged out the other side I had found my thing.

I never decided that blogging and writing and communicating with you would be my thing. It just happened. It was natural. Once I started in 2001 I just couldn’t stop. This is my thing.

This blank box in which I am typing allows me to read, write, share. To connect with you. I can tell you a thousand secrets. I can paint a picture with my fingers. I can create something out of nothing. All this from a keyboard and a blank box in which I can type.

In this blank box I can go in any direction. This is my creative outlet. This is where I feel that I am the most me.

One of the greatest rushes of joy in my life is when I have an idea that I want to write about or I receive an email or a comment in which someone divulges that my words have touched them.

Like any person with a thing that is creative, I don’t know where my ideas come from. Ideas just hit me. Of course, ideas don’t come as often as I like, but, sometimes, somewhere inside my brain an idea is born, and then I find myself writing inside this little white box. Once I’ve got an idea, I go into a state of what can best be described as flow. Once I’ve got that idea it’s all a blur. Everything just flows. There’s no push. There’s no friction. The words just pour out of me so easily. It is a pleasure.

I have finally found the equivalent to my mother playing her violin in the warm living room night after night after night. It’s me, writing to you, night after night. I’m happy that my mother has her thing and I have mine.

To anyone who is reading this, I hope you realize that you’re a big part of my thing. And I hope you’ve found your thing, too.

Resolutions for the New Year

January 1, 10 //

I’ve never been much of a resolution maker. I do decide to make changes throughout the year, but I don’t tend to make resolutions during a specific time, such as at the turn of the year.

The standard new year resolutions are to quit smoking, stop excessive drinking, lose weight, and get physically fit. Thankfully, I don’t have many external vices (me being a non-drinking, non-smoking, non-gambling, non-meat-eating gal), although losing weight and getting physically fit are certainly wise ideas for most of us.

No, I seem to have a handle on the external world just fine. It’s my internal world that is unable to be controlled as well as I’d like it to be.

They’re not resolutions per se, but I have been working on the following for the last six months:

STOP WORRYING ALL THE TIME.

DON”T BE SO SCARED TO MAKE MISTAKES.

BE NICER.

I have pretty much failed on all accounts, but not for lack of trying. I suppose it’s just that my three non-resolution resolutions all involve trying to train my brain to do other than what it instinctively does, and, by George, that is hard to do. Not impossible, but hard!

Do you make resolutions? Are they worth doing? And, lastly, how do you control your brain when you want it to take cues from someone else’s more laid-back brain?

Cold Winter Morning

December 31, 09 //

Sometimes I have occasion to drive to Charlottetown, PEI’s capital, to do business. And sometimes I have to show up there for 8:30am. In the winter, an 8:30am appointment in Charlottetown sees my morning as follows. There’s no jaw-dropping twist to this story; the following is just a simple scene from my simple life.

I am sleeping. The wind is howling and the snow is blowing outside, but inside our house the woodstove keeps us so toasty that we’re sleeping nothing save our pyjamas and a sheet.

My alarm goes off. I am jolted awake, and I scramble off the end of the bed (I’m jammed on the wall side and Cameron gets the aisle seat). I head to the windowsill to turn off the alarm. In utter darkness, I make my way out of the bedroom by feel and by sheer familiarity.

I immediately head downstairs, still groggy and half asleep. I head to the back hall. I fish around in the pile of coats and curling pants and scarves, looking for my snowpants. I find them, and I pull the snowpants on over top of my pyjamas. I look for my warmest down jacket and slip it on. A scarf, toque, and mittens are quickly added to my outfit, and I grab the flashlight from its very important home near the back door. I slip on some once-stylish-now-turned-farm-boots-due-to-salt-damage. I’m not wearing any socks.

I grab the snow shovel, and I slip out the backdoor. By this time it’s 5:20am, but it is still utterly pitch-black outside, the sun still asleep like Cameron upstairs. I survey our car in the beam of my flashlight. The windshield and side windows are covered in snow. I start scraping and clearing the windshield, still half asleep.

The car clean, I shine my beam down the long driveway. I can only see a few feet ahead of me, so I always walk the length of the whole driveway–about the length of a football field–checking how deep my sockless-boot-clad feet sink into the powdery snow. Too deep and I’ll have to wake up Cameron and get him to blow the driveway with the tractor. Not too deep and I’ll just clear the problem drifts with my shovel.

I bumble along shining the flashlight back and forth, poking snowdrifts with my salt-stained boots. Occasionally, I’ll stop to shovel an uncharacteristically deep spot where the snow has blown and settled. I get to the end of the driveway where it meets the road. Because of the lay of the land, this spot’s the worst. I spend most of my time shoveling this area. The wind blows my hood off, and I’m glad I took the time to wear my toque. My nose is starting to feel cold. I shovel some more.

Thanks to my shoveling, I deem the driveway now clear enough to be passed by our 4×4 vehicle. I head back to the house, looking forward to a hot shower.

I crank the “H” tap as far as it’ll go, and I’m thankful for our plumbing work. The shower could use a good scrubbing, but I dismiss that thought as soon as it enters my mind. In the shower, I start planning what I should wear. I’ve got a few clothes laying on the spare bedroom bed. Hopefully I won’t change my mind about my outfit and have to creep back into our dark bedroom and grovel around in the closet trying not to wake the still-sleeping Cam. Closet groveling in the dark always takes longer than you think it will and nothing is ever where you think it is.

Finally, dressed and ready for the day, I plan to make a smoothie for breakfast. A banana, an apple, some cranberries, some lettuce, and some mint. I load the blender, and I cringe as I crank the blender all the way to high. Poor Cameron, I can envision him with his head under the pillow gritting his teeth until our Vitamix blender–which sounds like a dentist’s drill being amplified by a megaphone–is quiet again.

I take my smoothie up to my computer, and I do “the rounds,” as I call them. I check my email, check Whimfield, check in at PEITalk, and read some of my favourite blogs. I may or may not also check my website statistics about seven times a minute.

I watch the clock. By now, it’s almost seven. Time to get going if I want to have a pleasant, slow drive into town to get to where I need to go for 8:30am. The drive can be done in less than an hour, but I give myself an extra half-hour of wiggle room. I hate to keep people waiting.

I grab my coat, purse, and briefcase. I throw my hood up, and I race in heels from the warm house to the cold car. It’s a 1982 Landcruiser–the same age as me. When I’ve got to be somewhere important, I always think a quick, “Come on car… Don’t fail me now” thought as I press the glow plugs and wait for the old beast to chug alive on the cold winter morning. Invariably, she starts fine. I then think, “Good girl. You never fail me.” and I give the dashboard a loving pat.

By this time, the sun is starting to rise. I can see a warm glow rising across our neighbours’ fields. I sit in the car, letting the engine warm up a little. I don’t even try to turn the heat on; the old car won’t actually generate any feelable heat for another twenty minutes or so. I reflect on my calm, plodding morning. Once past the groggy state, it’s nice to be awake before the sun rises. It makes me feel alive. (Shoveling snow at 5:30am will do that to you.)

Whimfield Christmas Wrap Up

December 27, 09 //

This Christmas season was an especially festive one, especially compared to last year.

Last year, we were pretty disorganized. We didn’t set up our Charlie Brown Christmas tree until Christmas Eve, and after Christmas was over we simply opened the front door and turfed the tree into the middle of the yard, where it sat until Spring.

But this year, we got our tree up in plenty of time, and we even wrapped a few gifts.

Christmas eve day was exciting. I was recently interviewed for a Canadian blog review site, and they published the article on Christmas eve day. It was a very kind review, and I blushed while reading it. Go over and take a gander if you like. It’s a well-written article, and in it I share some insight into the world of blogging and what it’s like to blog about real life.

Plus, then on Boxing Day we were mentioned in another article in the Saturday Edition of The Guardian newspaper.

It’s pleasing to know that the photos, my meandering diatribes, and our story are striking a chord with you. Thanks to Alexandra Highcrest of CBF and Mary MacKay of The Guardian for making us feel special. We will do our best to pay forward that special feeling.

The weather has been strangely mild and cooperative. There is almost nary a morsel of snow to be seen! We took advantage of the mild weather; on Christmas day, Cameron and I went for a long walk to the back of our property.

We spent hours on the phone with members of our family back in British Columbia, and we sort of felt like part of the action.

All in all, it was a wonderful, Christmassy Christmas. I am looking forward to 2010.

Christmas Traditions

December 19, 09 //

Cameron and I both seem to have a love/hate relationship with traditions. On the one hand, traditions are lovely: doing the same thing year after year because it’s enjoyable and because, well, you did it last year is perfectly fine. But, at the same time, we sometimes give each other a worried look when we realize we’re redoing traditions from years gone by.

Case in point:

Last year, we cut down our Christmas tree from our own property. This year, we did the same thing, which is, of course, just fine.

We then proceeded to re-do the exact same Christmas portrait as last year. I suggested it, and he set up the camera.

Last year’s portrait:

This year’s portrait, taken in the exact same location:

After the camera flashed and the photo was taken, we gave each other funny, embarrassed looks, as if to say, “Well, that was fun. But are we going to do this again next year, for the third year in a row?”

We both get nervous when we feel like the future is rolling out in front of us and we can see its path. Time goes by fast enough as it is, but when you’re living in the same spot year after year memories just blur together into one giant melting pot of vague notions. I feel that at least if you’re located somewhere new, you’re experiencing new things and your memories seem to stand out more.

Am I crazy? Are traditions a good thing?

There are some traditions that I do enjoy. For example, I always have to have a real Christmas tree, and egg-nog and mandarin oranges have to be consumed on Christmas day. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without those three traditions.

So maybe it’s not the traditions that I object to. Maybe it’s knowing exactly where I am going to be when I set up my Charlie Brown Christmas tree, where I’m going to drink my creamy egg-nor, and where I’m going to peel my tiny orange that scares me. I want location, at least, to remain a mystery. I like to look to the future and see a big question mark. It keeps life exciting.

Do Something Special

November 25, 09 //

Cameron and I have been together for almost twelve years, and it’s easy to slip into patterns. As much as I hate to admit it, I am not perfect. Sometimes I take him for granted. And sometimes I forget that it’s the little things that matter. Like shaving your legs.

It’s the little things.

The little things, like back massages and eye gazing and writing a card and taking the time.

The little things, like a husband wishing his wife MRS. M. STOFFEL OF ROCHESTER NEW YORK A SPARKLY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY and letting her know that HUSBAND M. STOFFEL OF ROCHESTER NEW YORK wishes her a happy birthday and wants to let her know that he will find a way to bring them both back to the island they love so much just as soon as possible.

The little things, like sharing the last sip and reminiscing about the old days and leaving a love note in the cutlery drawer.

There have been littler and littler little things these days. I need to remind myself that the little things are even more important than the big things.

Otherwise the lack of little things could turn into one really big bad thing.

Some Peoples’ Idea of Relaxation

November 22, 09 //

It’s late morning. Sunday. We’ve had breakfast, and we’re sitting in our home office, looking at each other from our desks.

I’m still wearing my pyjamas and big floppy white socks. We’re both splayed out on our office chairs, facing each other. My legs are sprawled out in front of me; my posture is atrocious.

“I’ve got a lot of work I’ve got to do today,” I say. “What are you going to do today. It is Sunday, you know.”

“I think I’m just going to relax today.” He says. “Maybe I’ll lay on the couch.”

“That sounds great,” I say. “A perfect Sunday.”

He wanders downstairs. I hear the couch squeak. (It’s an old couch.)

I start typing on my computer. Half an hour later, I hear the couch squeak again, and I hear the screen door slam.

A few hours after that, I go outside looking for Cameron.

He’s outside, replacing a screened in window with shingles.

“What are you doing?!” I yell. “I thought you were going to relax!!” I glare up at Cameron, who’s sitting in the tractor bucket and leaning, hammer in hand, against the side of the house.

He looks sheepish. “I don’t know… There are things that needed to be done.” He says.

I throw up my hands, exasperated, because I want him to take a little time for himself.

But inside my heart, I do realize that the only reason we can do what we’re doing is because of the way he defines things. To him, relaxing means getting things done.

Not that I’m complaining. It’s just that, well, to me “relaxing” means lying on the squeaky couch ALL DAY LONG. And there is just no other way to look at it.

If You’ve Ever: A Whimfield Poem

November 19, 09 //

If you’ve ever brought us produce
If you’ve ever offered me tea
If you’ve ever given us a television
or a delivery of magazines

If you’ve ever blown out our driveway
If you’ve given us disc and harrow
If you’ve ever given us pickles: crisp, long and narrow

If you’ve ever invited us in for a cup of steaming joe
Let us join your Christmas gathering
or stood in our hall while I held the door on your toe

If you’ve ever sent us invitations
stood on our stoop
loaned us saws or boots
pulled us out of a snowbank
delivered pre-screened newspapers to our mailbox
given us a call
left a comment
stopped by to say hi

If you’ve ever done any of these things

And wondered, Why, Why, Why

Why hasn’t that Whimfield couple
dropped by for tea
invited you over for dinner
sent you a card
returned that email
dropped by to chat or
returned the favour

It’s because our house is messy
And we don’t have a kitchen
nor kitchen table
nor kitchen sink, for that matter

It’s because I’m easily overwhelmed
Because the goodness of neighbours makes me eyes bulge and my head go spinning

So if you’ve ever wondered Why, Why, Why

Please understand

That’s it’s not easy for me to leave this house
That I’ve got a running list of friends and neighbours and good deeds unreturned
But one day, I am certain, I will come a-calling

Dedicated to my friend J. Collicott-McGuigan, whose poem “Why, Why, Why” seems to have inspired this poem (of sorts)!

Coming for a Visit

November 12, 09 //

This blog as a chronicling of the exterior; of how we look from the outside looking in. This blog is like visiting our house; it’s like getting a guided tour around our lives.

But it’s not a visit inside my head. It’s not necessarily real life. It’s still only what I choose to show.

It’s like when a new friend comes to visit. You show them the tour, but they don’t get to look in your closets or under your bed. You show them the best parts, and you hope they don’t look in your medicine cabinet when they’re in the bathroom with the door shut.

I’ve censored myself. I show what I choose to show. And I choose what to leave out.

It’s like you’re over for a visit, but there are mountains of papers and dust-bunnies and cardboard boxes shoved under the bed and in the closet. I’m starting to worry that, should you take a wrong turn and open the closet door by mistake, you’ll be buried by a cascade of catalogues and wrapping paper and empty egg cartons. The jig will be up.

Last night, while chopping cucumber in our kitchen-that-isn’t-really-a-kitchen, I spazzed at Cam for being the cause of my censorship.

His eyes got smaller and a little more almond-shaped. “You’re totally wrong.” He said. “It’s not me. When have I ever censored you lately?” He asked.

I glared at him.

He continued, “You can write whatever you want.”

I glared at him some more. Slowly, I relaxed my gaze. “Really?” I asked. “Well why have I been so closed lately?”

He shrugged and went back to arranging chopped radishes.

And then I proceeded to unleash a tirade of pent up angst about this blog… People know us. This blog is not anonymous. We’re running businesses. I can’t just open my medicine cabinet and yell, “Here it is, everybody. Have a look!”

I’m not that brave.

I clenched my jaw and walked out of the kitchen, my cucumber–half-cut–still lying on the cutting board.

Growing Love

November 3, 09 //

Look at this dear, sweet soul.

He concentrates so hard. He works so hard. He wants nothing more than to have life go smoothly, make things grow, and for us to be happy together.

Why is it that the people we love, the people who we’re closest to, are the people we can ignore, scowl at, snap at, and take for granted?

Maybe it’s because we can. Maybe it’s because we trust them. Because we believe that they love us enough that even if we show our ugly sides they’ll still be there.

But what kind of reward is that?

I want to treat our love like a little seedling that needs nurturing and water and sunlight. Not like a tree that will bend and sway and withstand every storm that invariably passes through.

Because even wise old trees can only weather so much.