I have some seriously huge song association sensory receptors. Same with smell. I'll talk about smell first.
I
worked in a factory for 3 days when I was 19. My job was to pound dirt
down into a box and staple the four corners with a foot pedal and then
pass it along. On my third day of working there, I was sent on my coffee
break (where I developed a nearly unshakeable addiction to powdered
chemical coffee creamer) and then when I returned, I was sent to a new
spot: along the rose bushes belt. My new job was to grab a branch of
rose bushes and put it on a different belt behind me. I learned quite
quickly that it was necessary to eyeball the branches as early as
possible so as to grab the ones with the least amount of thorns.
I
was doing quite well at grabbing all the barest of the bare thorn
bushes until the lady beside me grabbed the same one as I did, at the
same time, and didn't let go. I was like, "whoa lady, that's my branch."
And she was like, "LET GO OF MY BUSH, BITCH." For real. But the thing
is, is she smelled like this certain kind of perfume, and it's a super
popular one and to this day I smell it everywhere.
I'll be walking through some totally random place, like a tire centre, and I'll smell the bush lady.
It sucks.
I quit the factory, and went back to work at Sport Mart. Dream big!
I
was totally going to talk about song association sensory receptors, but
I'll do that tomorrow because, oh wow, I just wrote a whole lot about
nothing.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Day Three
I got an orange cat for my 16th birthday and I named him Harley. He was a purebred (inbred, quite honestly, and more obviously as one would notice given the chance to spend longer than 30 seconds with him) with a flat face and a penchant for acquiring dingleberries.
But we loved him. Oh, we loved him.
My parents, during a particularly trying time in their lives, found that Harley bridged the gap between them when the river of silence was too tumultuous to cross. I remember watching them standing in a room and when they were seemingly a football field apart, Harley would walk in the room and they'd suddenly be side by side.
"Look at him! Oh, Harley... silly cat. Oh dear, where's the brush? Ha ha ha... oh my. What a funny looking thing. Poor Harley." *pet pet pat pat purr purr*
And me? I'd be alone in my room crying my eyes out about some wretched beastly boy who had broken my heart into a million irreparable pieces and Harley would cruise in, jump up into my face and kiss me with his furry and wet little nosey and then all of a sudden I'd smile, or shudder with relief that no, I'm not alone. That yes, even when I think I can't possibly breathe in one more breath to keep me alive, I am suddenly able to sit up and reach out and love. *pet pet pat pat purr purr*
My dad loves to tell this story. A bird flew into our house one day and the usually docile Harley (a borderline medical problem of the lazy sort) became... well... an animal. He was on FIRE. His tail swooshed around, his ears pricked up and his eyes darted to and fro. His mouth, barely seen for the surrounding face wrinkles, twitched with adrenalin. It was time for a feast.
He stood at the foot of our fridge staring up into the corner of the kitchen where he had first detected the scared bird.
Except the bird had flown away, and out the door.
And yet Harley still stood at the foot of the fridge, waiting, tail swooshing, ready to pounce. On nothing. For hours.
Don't we all do that sometimes? I do. I get so pissed off, so caught up in my own indignant anger, justifying it all simply by the intensity of my emotions (SURELY I have been wronged, for how could I feel so angry if I wasn't?!) that I get stuck there. I get that glazed over look in my eyes where all I can see is The Problem and nothing else. Meanwhile, The Problem takes off into the background and perches itself on its fellow meaningless Problems (in the grand scheme of life) while I sit there and stare at the empty space, angrier than ever, and I'm probably drooling. And let's just hope I don't have dingleberries stuck to my fur.
I miss Harley.
But we loved him. Oh, we loved him.
My parents, during a particularly trying time in their lives, found that Harley bridged the gap between them when the river of silence was too tumultuous to cross. I remember watching them standing in a room and when they were seemingly a football field apart, Harley would walk in the room and they'd suddenly be side by side.
"Look at him! Oh, Harley... silly cat. Oh dear, where's the brush? Ha ha ha... oh my. What a funny looking thing. Poor Harley." *pet pet pat pat purr purr*
And me? I'd be alone in my room crying my eyes out about some wretched beastly boy who had broken my heart into a million irreparable pieces and Harley would cruise in, jump up into my face and kiss me with his furry and wet little nosey and then all of a sudden I'd smile, or shudder with relief that no, I'm not alone. That yes, even when I think I can't possibly breathe in one more breath to keep me alive, I am suddenly able to sit up and reach out and love. *pet pet pat pat purr purr*
My dad loves to tell this story. A bird flew into our house one day and the usually docile Harley (a borderline medical problem of the lazy sort) became... well... an animal. He was on FIRE. His tail swooshed around, his ears pricked up and his eyes darted to and fro. His mouth, barely seen for the surrounding face wrinkles, twitched with adrenalin. It was time for a feast.
He stood at the foot of our fridge staring up into the corner of the kitchen where he had first detected the scared bird.
Except the bird had flown away, and out the door.
And yet Harley still stood at the foot of the fridge, waiting, tail swooshing, ready to pounce. On nothing. For hours.
Don't we all do that sometimes? I do. I get so pissed off, so caught up in my own indignant anger, justifying it all simply by the intensity of my emotions (SURELY I have been wronged, for how could I feel so angry if I wasn't?!) that I get stuck there. I get that glazed over look in my eyes where all I can see is The Problem and nothing else. Meanwhile, The Problem takes off into the background and perches itself on its fellow meaningless Problems (in the grand scheme of life) while I sit there and stare at the empty space, angrier than ever, and I'm probably drooling. And let's just hope I don't have dingleberries stuck to my fur.
I miss Harley.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Day Two
The total cost of my University degree was approximately $32,000. When I was 18, my first priority was to have as much fun as possible. I played for the varsity soccer team (we sucked) while I took dumbass "gym" classes with my friends (who I don't even see anymore). I had no career goals in mind; I saw only the bright lights of a future filled with possibilities, and I was convinced that my degree would catapult me straight into the pools of opportunity like a leggy 40-something walking into a seedy suburban pub.
All I got was a minimum wage job and a hangover.
I have to say though, that I believe that everyone should spend some time in the service industry because it helps us treat our fellow humanity with respect; if we know what it's like to work on the other side of the counter than we will be quicker to respond with grace and mercy. Not just when we get our coffees extra sweet when we asked for extra hot, but when we walk through our child's seemingly un-chewed Kraft Dinner vomit in the middle of the night, or when our nephew is born with a brain injury. Life-alteringly huge or embarrassingly small, we need the tools to deal with life when it (and the people in it) hand us adversity because we all know it's going to happen.
People teach me things all the time, and it almost always happens when I least expect it. I started my job at Starbucks in June and one summer night I worked with a girl named Trish. Quite honestly, I didn't like her straight off the get-go and in fact, I came home and told Andrew that I hated her. I thought she was bossy and rude and condescending. But the second time I worked with her I learned that she also went to the same University that I attended and she too, has a degree. I asked her over my nerdy drive-through headset how she felt about working at Starbucks when she has a degree, for goodnesssake, and she replied with, "I'm using my degree. I don't get paid much, but that's not what is important to me. I got my degree in "people" and this is where I belong."
I exhaled and humbly looked down at my vanilla syrup-splattered shoes and realized that Trish had it right all along.
A few months later she was outside in the drive-through changing garbages and I, at the drive through window, poked my head out and whistled at her. While I watched her, I noticed a lady drive through and, because Trish was in the middle of changing the trash bags, the woman impatiently threw her garbage at Trish. It bounced off her shoulder and fell to the ground.
What did Trish do? Get angry? Resent the amount of money she spent on her degree? No. She laughed. Because she knew that SHE had it going on, and that lady didn't have a fucking clue.
Life isn't about degrees, or education, or salaries. It's about people. Community. Kids throwing up macaroni, and nephews in wheelchairs and high school and Lego and letting mistakes go, giving and receiving grace. It's about not being alone. It's about togetherness.
And although now that I have a new job related to my degree, I'm not just walking away from minimum wage; I am walking away from some of the coolest people I've ever known. Because they know how to stand strong in who they are, strong enough to take the garbage in the face from a person who has far greater debt than they do. And that's a life lesson that I never want to forget.
All I got was a minimum wage job and a hangover.
I have to say though, that I believe that everyone should spend some time in the service industry because it helps us treat our fellow humanity with respect; if we know what it's like to work on the other side of the counter than we will be quicker to respond with grace and mercy. Not just when we get our coffees extra sweet when we asked for extra hot, but when we walk through our child's seemingly un-chewed Kraft Dinner vomit in the middle of the night, or when our nephew is born with a brain injury. Life-alteringly huge or embarrassingly small, we need the tools to deal with life when it (and the people in it) hand us adversity because we all know it's going to happen.
People teach me things all the time, and it almost always happens when I least expect it. I started my job at Starbucks in June and one summer night I worked with a girl named Trish. Quite honestly, I didn't like her straight off the get-go and in fact, I came home and told Andrew that I hated her. I thought she was bossy and rude and condescending. But the second time I worked with her I learned that she also went to the same University that I attended and she too, has a degree. I asked her over my nerdy drive-through headset how she felt about working at Starbucks when she has a degree, for goodnesssake, and she replied with, "I'm using my degree. I don't get paid much, but that's not what is important to me. I got my degree in "people" and this is where I belong."
I exhaled and humbly looked down at my vanilla syrup-splattered shoes and realized that Trish had it right all along.
A few months later she was outside in the drive-through changing garbages and I, at the drive through window, poked my head out and whistled at her. While I watched her, I noticed a lady drive through and, because Trish was in the middle of changing the trash bags, the woman impatiently threw her garbage at Trish. It bounced off her shoulder and fell to the ground.
What did Trish do? Get angry? Resent the amount of money she spent on her degree? No. She laughed. Because she knew that SHE had it going on, and that lady didn't have a fucking clue.
Life isn't about degrees, or education, or salaries. It's about people. Community. Kids throwing up macaroni, and nephews in wheelchairs and high school and Lego and letting mistakes go, giving and receiving grace. It's about not being alone. It's about togetherness.
And although now that I have a new job related to my degree, I'm not just walking away from minimum wage; I am walking away from some of the coolest people I've ever known. Because they know how to stand strong in who they are, strong enough to take the garbage in the face from a person who has far greater debt than they do. And that's a life lesson that I never want to forget.
Monday, October 22, 2012
30 Days
When I am 90 years old with saggy tattooed skin and missing teeth and I'm hunched over in my bright green pleather armchair, I want to be able to look back onto my life and have peace.
There are a lot of elements that play together to create peace in my life, but there is one specific thing that birthed this post today: I would be filled with regret if I got to the age of ninety and hadn't even attempted to write and publish something. Maybe I'm dreaming, and really?...this is what makes this quest all the more urgent. A "to do" list is watered-down with practicality while a dream has fertile potency. Let's get knocked up, shall we?
I decided that I would spend the next 30 days writing something every single day. I've had lofty plans of doing this before but without the accountability of others, my writing slips down the ladder of priorities, doing the backstroke in the puddle of practical to-do lists.
I'm also afraid of being transparent on here. I'm scared of offending people with my language and ideas. I worry about judgement. I fuss about saying too much, of hurting people. But I know that when I question my motives for my writing, I always conclude that I want to do it to create community, not discord.
I want, in my fantasmical Land of Nauseatingly Optimistic Suzy, to be able to share my heart and help people in some form, in some capacity. That by sharing my stories, my life, my heart, that I could bring people together. That our bellies would be full, our cheeks would be warm, and that at the end of the day we would remember that we aren't alone.
If 30 days is the gestational period of something bigger, then bring it on. And if all this quest produces is a small form of entertainment layered in shy transparency and topped off with a sprinkle of foul language, then at least I know that I stepped out. Because there's nothing comfier than sinking into a bright green pleather armchair, free from the nagging discomfort of regret.
There are a lot of elements that play together to create peace in my life, but there is one specific thing that birthed this post today: I would be filled with regret if I got to the age of ninety and hadn't even attempted to write and publish something. Maybe I'm dreaming, and really?...this is what makes this quest all the more urgent. A "to do" list is watered-down with practicality while a dream has fertile potency. Let's get knocked up, shall we?
I decided that I would spend the next 30 days writing something every single day. I've had lofty plans of doing this before but without the accountability of others, my writing slips down the ladder of priorities, doing the backstroke in the puddle of practical to-do lists.
I'm also afraid of being transparent on here. I'm scared of offending people with my language and ideas. I worry about judgement. I fuss about saying too much, of hurting people. But I know that when I question my motives for my writing, I always conclude that I want to do it to create community, not discord.
I want, in my fantasmical Land of Nauseatingly Optimistic Suzy, to be able to share my heart and help people in some form, in some capacity. That by sharing my stories, my life, my heart, that I could bring people together. That our bellies would be full, our cheeks would be warm, and that at the end of the day we would remember that we aren't alone.
If 30 days is the gestational period of something bigger, then bring it on. And if all this quest produces is a small form of entertainment layered in shy transparency and topped off with a sprinkle of foul language, then at least I know that I stepped out. Because there's nothing comfier than sinking into a bright green pleather armchair, free from the nagging discomfort of regret.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Faith
I
stood motionless in the kitchen, barely breathing, one foot in front of the
other the way we were taught to stand at the start of the 1500 metre run at the
track meet. And then I heard it: my mom’s car disappearing down the driveway,
punctuated by the soft whirring and finally the clomp of the garage door to its
down position. She was gone. And my sister Tracey’s new George Michael cassette
tape was waiting for me upstairs. I tore up our spiral staircase,
grabbed the corner of the banister for propulsion and burst into Tracey’s room
breathless with excitement. As if on sacred ground, I tippy-toed over to her
ghetto-blaster and pressed the play button. At first I put it on such a low
volume that I had to press my ear up to the speaker just to hear it. But as
time passed and my bravery grew, I turned it up louder and louder and
eventually joined Micheal in all of his sexy splendor.
I grew up in a pretty strict family as far as music and
movies were concerned. If I ever wanted to go to a dance at school, I had to
sneak into it somehow. I made it to a dance in grade eight and I danced with a
guy named Nathan who smelled like beer. I went home that night and with pink
cheeks and a nervous tummy, I lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling above
my bed and imagined what sort of torturous eternal death that was waiting for
me after such an act.
But alas, despite my extremely convincing conscience, I didn’t
wake up in burning hellfire but in my cozy bed in North Delta.
I like pushing limits. I love the adrenalin rush of seeing
how close I can get to something dangerous, feeling the heat from the fire on
my face but being just far enough away from the flame that I don’t get burned. To
a point. As I get older and more mature (sigh…) I notice that I’m starting to
slow down and be much more deliberate and intentional in my actions. It’s
boring sometimes, but much more peaceful.
About a week ago, I took a running jump into a pool and, unbeknownst
to me, the deep end of the pool was only 5 feet deep and I ended up messing up my
knee. I can’t run. I can barely even walk. I’m not sure what this means for me
as far as running is concerned but I’ll find out more on Tuesday when I see my
physiotherapist. All I know is that this will be an opportunity for me to learn
something new about myself. Running taught me a lot about who I am. It brought
things out of the depths of my soul that I didn’t even know existed. But this?
Being injured will inevitably bring me to a whole new level of strength, I have
no doubt.
I will run again. My stupidity may have singed my eyebrows a
bit this time, but I won’t let my running shoes get burned.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Wings
I took anti-depressants for a while, several years ago...12 years ago, actually. Didn't everybody? Seriously. They're practically handed out as condiments beside the salt and ketchup packets. They did their job though, that's for sure. Those little oval pills turned every single one of my serotonin (happy feelings) receptors into wide receivers. There's just something about those bad boys that a glass of red wine just can't compete with. What they didn't do though, is deal with the underlying personal issues that needed attention. Nothing huge... just stuff that I needed to work through in order to be the best me.
Eventually I was able to self-regulate (get a grip) enough to face my stuff and as I worked through it all, I went down on my medication. Anti-depressants tend to numb the sense-receptors... all of them. And as a person comes off of them, all the senses come back alive almost to the point of pain. Everything feels felt and seen and experienced for the first time and it can at times be overwhelming. I'll never forget the day I was running up one of the streets in my old neighborhood and I caught sight of a tree blowing in the wind. Have you ever needed glasses and not known, only to put them on for the first time and be overwhelmed by the detailed visuals? That's what it was like. I stood still, mouth agape, absolutely in awe of this stupid tree blowing in the wind. I could see each leaf, each vein on each leaf, and it did something to me that I can barely put into words without sounding like I need to be back on the medication. Beauty. Awe. Like all my walls were down and that tree, that leaf, that vein, was inside of me and all around me and everywhere, all at the same time. And I would have missed it if I hadn't stopped running.
After feeling numb for so long, I welcomed the sensual overload. Of course, there are painful times when the load is too much to bear and it's those moments when I wish I could take a fistful of the numbness one more time, just for a night... for a reprieve from the heaviness. I had a night like that recently. I picked up a book a friend had given me and I read this:
"A cocoon is no escape...it just takes time. The dangers of leaving a cocoon too soon are obvious. A child once found a cocoon. Wishing to set the creature inside free, he took his pocket knife and pared an opening at the bottom of the chrysalis, making it possible for the butterfly to wriggle free. But when the creature unfurled its wings, it couldn't fly. With the butterfly's waiting cut short, its wings were hopelessly unformed." -When the Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd
When I read this I was overwhelmed with that "awe" feeling, like when I saw the tree for the first time. Pain is as sacred as pleasure conducted through the body but felt with the soul. Pain, if we have the courage to sit through in our cocoons, produces growth. Pleasure is our reward, felt through our wings, seen in the blowing wind of the trees. If we can just stop long enough to take it in.
Eventually I was able to self-regulate (get a grip) enough to face my stuff and as I worked through it all, I went down on my medication. Anti-depressants tend to numb the sense-receptors... all of them. And as a person comes off of them, all the senses come back alive almost to the point of pain. Everything feels felt and seen and experienced for the first time and it can at times be overwhelming. I'll never forget the day I was running up one of the streets in my old neighborhood and I caught sight of a tree blowing in the wind. Have you ever needed glasses and not known, only to put them on for the first time and be overwhelmed by the detailed visuals? That's what it was like. I stood still, mouth agape, absolutely in awe of this stupid tree blowing in the wind. I could see each leaf, each vein on each leaf, and it did something to me that I can barely put into words without sounding like I need to be back on the medication. Beauty. Awe. Like all my walls were down and that tree, that leaf, that vein, was inside of me and all around me and everywhere, all at the same time. And I would have missed it if I hadn't stopped running.
After feeling numb for so long, I welcomed the sensual overload. Of course, there are painful times when the load is too much to bear and it's those moments when I wish I could take a fistful of the numbness one more time, just for a night... for a reprieve from the heaviness. I had a night like that recently. I picked up a book a friend had given me and I read this:
"A cocoon is no escape...it just takes time. The dangers of leaving a cocoon too soon are obvious. A child once found a cocoon. Wishing to set the creature inside free, he took his pocket knife and pared an opening at the bottom of the chrysalis, making it possible for the butterfly to wriggle free. But when the creature unfurled its wings, it couldn't fly. With the butterfly's waiting cut short, its wings were hopelessly unformed." -When the Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd
When I read this I was overwhelmed with that "awe" feeling, like when I saw the tree for the first time. Pain is as sacred as pleasure conducted through the body but felt with the soul. Pain, if we have the courage to sit through in our cocoons, produces growth. Pleasure is our reward, felt through our wings, seen in the blowing wind of the trees. If we can just stop long enough to take it in.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Junkitalia
Sigh... it's difficult to be me, sometimes. A few days ago I slipped in my shower and unknowingly got my sacrum (triangle part of my pelvis) twisted up. It didn't hurt when I did it, but I knew in that moment that something in the world just shifted, you know? That feeling that something just isn't right. My hamstring started twinging on me during my next couple of runs, and when I did my 5k time-trial (19 minutes! Which means I could do a sub-19 in a 5k race!) my hamstring really gave me some grief. So I went into see my physiotherapist who helped me figure out what I had done when I fell in the shower. So he put my sacrum back in its place, and la-dee-da, all was right in the world once again.
Until I went to work today and told someone that I had put my scrotum out in the shower, which was why I was limping.
My life is over.
Until I went to work today and told someone that I had put my scrotum out in the shower, which was why I was limping.
My life is over.
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