First Paddle

I plunge my paddle in the water and draw it behind me with all my left bicep, trapezius and deltoid muscles can give. My confidence about my paddling abilities have sunk to the bottom of the river. This is hard work, but I can't frown. I'm on the water again, in an over-sized canoe and the sun is lazily sinking below the trees. I'll hurt tomorrow, that is a certainty, but it's the good pain, the kind that's part of the perfect picture on a postcard from a wicked trip with a mix of old friends and new. The soreness and the high feelings will fade and be impossible to have back again in the same way, because you'll never have another first paddle in a dragon boat.

Pretty, please, with sprinkles on top

First day of Summer 2011. It was a mostly cloudy day but the temperature was okay. I promised myself an ice cream cone. There was no line up. Had everyone forgotten what day it was?

I took my chocolate and sprinkle dipped cone outside and sat alone in the middle of the patio, facing Portage Avenue. I gnawed at the chocolate shell. Rainbow flecks of sugar hit the grey cement tabletop. I was making a mess but leaving the world a brighter place. That's the magic of ice cream.

It's just an expression

While getting ready for the gym today I noticed a multi-hued bruise just above my knee cap. I touched it. It hurt. Hm. When did I get that? Must've been recently. How? Mysteriously, as you often do, silly girl. I had a hazy memory of hitting myself with the heavy ramps I used to wheel my lawn mower into the back of Truck yesterday. My dad needed to borrow the mower, so if that was the cause of the bruise then at least it was in an act of love and not just poor coordination, as is the usual case.

The most unfortunate part of the bruise was that I was scheduled to do a portrait session with my photographer friend, Doug (affectionately known as Delores here). I worried about the bruise ruining the pictures. I made a mental note to check the rest of my limbs for unsightly blemishes. Later I would fret that the humidity would mean my hair would be limp and gross looking and that my workout would mean my face would be extra red. Gah. Pictures stress me out.

Last Sunday afternoon when NAF was here we were wandering around at the Forks. He snapped some pictures of the river for his blog.

"Wait, there's one more picture I need," he said and pointed the lens at me.

I made a face and groaned. "Not today."

"Why not today?" he asked.

"I was prettier yesterday," I said although I have no idea what that meant. If anything I was "prettier" on Friday when I was sporting my new frilly dress. On that particular Sunday I was wearing a typical weekend t-shirt with some black, easy-breezy, wide-legged pants and, the biggest fashion faux pas that I allowed myself to indulge in, my tired and worn black runners (the ones from New York that I cannot bring myself to toss. Not ever).

"You're one of those people," NAF said as we headed up the river bank.

"One of what people?"

"The ones who never like how they look in any pictures of themselves when really they take beautiful pictures." He showed me the image. Well if I hadn't have made such a "please don't take my picture now" face maybe the photo would have turned out lovely. Great. Now that is going to be his lasting image of me from this visit. You see? Pictures are so stressful!

When I was a kid, no, for my entire life I've wished that I could express myself physically through dance, gymnastics or figure skating or taking really great photos. I understand the concepts of beautiful  and expressive lines and postures, but I am so freakin' awkward and uncoordinated, like a baby giraffe who has no awareness of the length of her limbs. That's why I am constantly bruised. I am forever flailing my arms out and getting my legs in the way of unyielding objects. If I can practice and go slow, sometimes I think I can look graceful, and then I feel beautiful. But that takes some work. It's not natural to me like the flow of words onto a page is. Meh, everyone has their thing.

I've always been good with words. I know how to place them to communicate what I want to say. I know how to play with sentence length, diction and imagery to create something for my readers or listeners to understand and react to. If I can make someone feel something, I have succeeded in my expression.

When it came time for goodbye on Monday morning, NAF and I didn't have much to say. All weekend we had traded stories and laughs but now we were both quiet.We'd look at each other and I'd search his eyes for something that would tell me what he was thinking. Perhaps he wanted to say something but the words were locked up in his head. Me, I had words, all kinds of words. But I didn't know which ones to use just then. Instead I hugged him and hoped that he could read in my eyes that I understood and I wasn't mad, hurt or feeling regret. It was a hard goodbye for me, harder than I thought it would be, but I wanted to show him my most beautiful self--a girl full of grace, poise and strength. That was the picture I wanted him to take with him on the rest of his journey.

At my photo session with Doug today I put on my favourite songs and my favourite outfits. None of them showed the bruise. I tried my very best to show my heart, the whole happy-but-scarred, beat-skipping thing.
 
"Let's make sure we get a real smoldering shot," I told Doug. I wanted to have evidence that I could tell a whole heartbreaker story in one, unblinking look. With the very last head shot he did he said, "your eyes are really blue."
 
I leaned over to look at the preview screen on the camera and smiled. That's the look that makes for hard goodbyes.
 
Now I know.

Craptastic

"Crap," my dad said, looking at my toilet.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"It's going to be a bigger job than I thought. Needs a new part. I'll have to get my tools," he said.

"Mm." I went back to eating my cottage cheese and blueberries.

"Mom and I were supposed to go out this afternoon."

"But you'll fix it today, right? I mean, I don't need it now, but I will by the end of the day."

"We'll see," he said. "You'll still be able to flush, you'll just have to pour water into the bowl." I rolled my eyes and got up to put away my empty dish.

"Crap!" I said looking at the back of my chair that had a small, white, grey and yellow swirled blob of bird crap on it. Ever since Wednesday I've been randomly spotting the stuff around the house--on the window sills, on the floor, on the walls, on the doors, on an empty cup (ewww) my boots, my scarf. Lemme rewind.

On Wednesday I got home from work to find a lovely little shamrock plant on my table with a yellow Post-it Note from my mom attached that read: "We had to let your 'pet' free. It was kinda crapping all over the place. I cleaned that up for you."

The 'pet' she was referring to, apparently, was a little sparrow that some how found its way into my house God knows when. I didn't know anything about it. I had noticed some white stuff on the floor but thought it was from me stepping in paint and tracking it around the house. I was spot testing a colour in my kitchen and had no recollection of spilling it but I have a lot of memory black outs these days so it really didn't seem like a stretch.

When my mom explained this all to me over the phone I gasped because I remembered that a bird in the house was supposed to be some kind of bad omen. I Googled it and confirmed that yes, there is an old wives' tale that says a bird in the house means a death is imminent. My parents went to a funeral that day so I'm hoping that is all taken care of. So far so good.

Later that day, toilet fixed, Judy dropped by to return some mugs I'd left in her car. I was telling her about my kitchen painting project and decided then and there to try out the other colour I'd chosen for the walls. I slapped a few strokes on the wall beside the light switch. Judy ooh'd with delight, I just ew'd. The colour is a greeny yellow and I was brushing it over plain white. I couldn't help but think it looked just like...crap. Avian crap. Hopefully the second coat will improve things, and hopefully I've found all the messes my special visitor left. I can't believe it got my boots! Thank God it wasn't on the Betseys!

Heat: Part 2

Don't sweat the small stuff. (And it's all small stuff).

Yesterday I called my dad to ask if I could come to their place for supper tonight.

"I'm going to hot yoga with Amara and I'm picking her up at six forty-five," I said.

"So you'll be here at five-thirty?" he asked.

I agreed and went about the rest of my evening.

Today I came home from work feeling about 80 per cent burned out. The candle inside of me close to the base of the wick, the light dim. I had seventy-five minutes to myself before I would have to leave for my parents'. I stepped into the shower to wash the day away. I tried to squeeze more heat out of the water, completely closing the cold water tap, but there was no more to be had. I stepped out and drew the big citrus orange towel around me for a dry hug. I was clean again.

On my way out I checked my phone and saw that my parents had called, twice, and left a voicemail. I only had one bar of power left and didn't want to spend it on retrieving the message when I was going to be seeing them momentarily. I tossed the phone in my bag and headed out.

The roads are like curling rinks this week. This is my least favourite road condition because Truck performs so very poorly. LOW TRACTION flashed above the odometer as I spun my wheels. Brake lights flashed intermittently in front of me. Spin, go, stop. Spin, go, stop. It took me twice as long as usual to get to Charleswood.

"Who called and what did you want?" I asked my mom when I got inside.

"It was me, I wanted to know what time you were coming," she said.

I hung up my jacket in the closet, dropped my keys and mitts on the table. "Dad told me five-thirty," I said and headed to check my email.

I was getting caught up in checking my mail, Facebook, the news, when Dad came in and asked me if I wanted garlic butter on my toast. I imagined first the resulting stink of garlicky sweat and then the blah-taste of plain buttered toast. I chose garlic and hoped Amara could forgive me.

I emerged from the computer room and saw that it was six twenty-four. My eyes bulged because I was supposed to pick Amara up at six forty-five. The lasagna was just coming out of the oven, steaming.

I cut through the cheese and took a small bite. Hot. I was hungry though. Beggars, choosers. Lord I love them, but don't put retired folks on a schedule, lesson learned. The whole day boiled up under my skin again. I put a forkful of hot cheese, noodle and beef in my mouth and it blistered the roof of my mouth, numbed my tongue. My parents tried to inject cheer into the situation but I was having none of it.

At six thirty-five I left for Amara's. When I pulled up to her house Little boy B was dancing and laughing in the window. My heart lifted and everything else melted away. Thank goodness for little boys.

The yoga class began with lying down. I could feel the hot, heavy air pressing on my face, enveloping my limbs. With my eyes closed I imagined I was in India.

It didn't take long for the sweat to start dripping. Depending on the pose the water rolled down to my lips or up my nose or into my ears. I was swimming within myself.

A few times I felt dizzy so I took a pause. I struggled a bit with the tree pose, especially on my weak ankle. I just kept thinking, don't sweat the small stuff. Just enjoy the glorious heat.

Life does not seek to punish us, only to give us opportunities to learn and grow. Don't let the small stuff burn you out; enjoy the heat.

Take a picture, it will last longer than your generic verbiage

I'm officially a Christmas donkey.

I got my sister's Christmas card in the mail today. The image on the front is of a large, downtown store. When I first looked at it I thought it was the downtown Winnipeg Bay store. I opened the card and read the printed verbiage: "Like a snowflake, each day is a small miracle. Celebrate accordingly." Above that my sister wrote in her best penmanship, "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year Jill". Okay, standard stuff. But below the pre-printed sentiment she added:

We are looking forward to celebrating with you this holiday season and in the year to come. The picture on this card is from New York, I figured you'd appreciate it. Love Tracy + C.

I turned to the back of the card. It had the Saks Fifth Avenue logo and yup, a little caption that noted the image on the front was of the New York City flagship store, circa 2004.

She totally out-sentimentaled me on this one. Well okay, at least she didn't send a "Dear Sister at Christmas Time" card. We all know Christmas isn't about the gifts or the butter tarts. It's the one time of the year for telling people how much you love them and value having them in your life. Yup, that's it, only once a year does that opportunity come along and if you miss it you have to wait a full four seasons for the window to open again. Perhaps she will forgive and forget if I tape a twenty to the gift tag on her present.

***

I knew what I wanted to eat before stepping into the Osborne Village restaurant with Vince, Florence and Vince's friend, Dorothy. I had read the reviews for Segovia that afternoon and everyone raved about the hanger steak and the patatas bravas. Winnipeg's only true tapas bar promised something a little different for the meat and potatoes fare.

We were seated in the lounge at a bar height table. My brushed steel stool faced the patio doors that were a window to the winter white urban street front. The three tables for two beside us were occupied by daters. There was a mixed group of four living in the moment at the bar behind us. Unlike the dining room, this room felt like we were in some hipster's apartment. Old fashioned light bulbs hung from the ceiling, their warm glow kissing the flicker of the tea light candles in old canning jars. The candle was sitting in a couple of inches of sand in the bottom of the jar. I loved this and decided I wanted to take a picture of the candle, the brick, the gouged wood table, so I could try to mimic the simple romance in my home.

I just downloaded the photo now though and it's nothing compared to the real thing. It looks like a washed jam jar on a table beside a cold brick wall. That's not how I saw it at all. It looked like heat, like a sample of a beach campfire. Which image is the truth, my memory's or my point and shoot camera's?