My Date with a Fruit

This guy really looks like a pear. I knew this second date wouldn’t work out but in the spirit of trying new things and proving (to myself) that I’m not superficial, I came despite having no initial attraction to him the first time we met. He’s such a nice guy – what’s his name again? It’s totally rude that I cannot remember and far too much correspondence at this point to admit I genuinely don't. What kind of person am I? I should really pay more attention to what he’s talking about, he looks so animated. I’m nodding, smiling and seem to be giving the appropriate responses since he continues to become more enthusiastic about the topic of conversation.



I noticed his head was quite pear shaped at our first coffee meeting. I label it a meeting and not a date since our source was an online dating site which removes the ability to connect with someone’s energy as you would in person. It’s likely had I initially met him in person, the encounter would not have led to a first date. Well why after meeting him then did I agree to see him again? Single, with my last (and only) long-term relationship ending many years ago, I’m mindful that perhaps I need to make some changes. Bitter women complain all men are the same, smart women stop choosing the same type over and over again.  I read that quote somewhere and it stuck with me. In that spirit here I am…on a date... with a giant, talking pear. He’s actually now fully turned into one in my imagination – his caramel colour skin tone has become a light green colour, his hair has disappeared and his glasses have double in-sized with huge, thick rims. I feel like I’m on an episode of Sesame Street with an animated talking fruit character. 

Back to what brought me here – I really want to romantically connect with a nice, stable, dependable man. I know some of you may think it's impossible but it has to be possible! People are in love all around me and perhaps it won't last forever, but for the moment, they are with partners who bring those qualities to the table. I recognize that instant attraction, butterflies in the stomach, heart beat racing have resulted in some interesting experiences but not in the committed, healthy, supportive relationship I seek. That being said, I thought it would be a productive step to overlook the lack of instant attraction and give him a second chance. I keep hearing from friends that sometimes relationships flourish overtime and attraction grows. The idea reminds me of gardening a plant and though I'm not sold on it, I thought I should at least try it.  

I thought this guy would be perfect to test this theory out on since he has a gentle demeanour, good height,  equivalent level of education and healthy relationship with his family (from what he told me at our first meeting). He is what many would describe as good on paper. Unfortunately, there’s a lack of witty connection, adventurous spirit and the hint of playfulness that I’m usually drawn to. I’ll have to sneak back on to this online profile to learn his name again and then of course delete him and end it. Pears have never appealed to me, I prefer mangos.  

Image from:
https://www.google.ca/search?q=pear+image+with+glasses&biw=1518&bih=714&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAWoVChMI4JPf5__yyAIVASA-Ch0opw0k&dpr=0.9#imgrc=7UIbxFQFhuElYM%3A

Who Knew?

The reno was supposed to take less than a week.   We disconnected the water supply, and removed the old tub and shower—circa 1990.   Only then did we discover that our sleek new tub was a dud.   Someone had mishandled it during delivery, and a thin but nasty crack ran along one end. Bad news.  Especially when we found out that it would take two weeks to get a replacement tub from the factory in Quebec. Suddenly we weren’t facing a few days without bathing facilities—but weeks!  Desperate times require desperate solutions.

I headed to Spadina and Harbord and forked over 90 bucks plus HST for a licence-to-bathe-- a one-month membership at University of Toronto’s Athletic Centre.    On my first two trips, I only used the shower.   But passing all those fitness machines and an Olympic-sized pool enroute to the showers made me feel guilty.  Surely I should be doing a little exercise when

I’m in the building anyway?   Not to mention that actually using the facilities would give me considerably more bang for my membership buck.  So on my next visit, I did some laps in the slow lane with a chatty octogenarian lady, and a couple of newly-minted swimmers whose efforts left more water on the deck than in the actual pool.  On the next visit I opted for a more land-locked experience, doing hard time on the rowing machine and stationary bike.

Emboldened by the resulting endorphin rush, I decided to explore the labyrinthine building.  It takes up an entire city block.  It has concrete stairwells that lead to more stairwells, and hallways that lead to corridors and yet more hallways.  At the end of one such maze was a huge set of closed wooden doors. A sign above it says “Dance Studio”.  Below it, another sign:  “Do not disturb while class is in progress.”

I noticed a schedule taped to the door.  It indicated that a class led by "Karine", and mysteriously labeled “Fusion” would start in 10 minutes.  I only understand fusion in food-terms. And I haven't done a bouncy-jumpy fitness class in decades. So, I turned and headed back toward the showers.  Then stopped and wondered, "What if I just do this class, whatever it is?”  I sat down in the hall and waited.

 When the door opened, the last class filtered out and I looked in. What a beautiful room!  All windows down one side, and a very shiny floor.   Karine arrived, and I asked what “fusion” is.  She was very enthusiastic and spoke quickly.  I caught something about music, and bars and jumping.  I asked if someone with zero experience could attend.  Karine said “absolutely!” and invited me in. That’s when I noticed all the railings along the walls, and realized that ‘bars’ are actually “barres” -- that we’d be doing some kind of ballet moves.   Paralysis set in.  When I was a kid, I built tree forts while my girlfriends took ballet class. Ballet is SO not my thing. To make matters worse, the other five women in the class all looked like regulars.  Two of them were even talking about classes they’ve attended at the Canadian National Ballet School.  Yikes. There was still time to dash right back out the door and straight to the shower. 

But I willed myself to stop envisaging impending mortification—and stepped up to the barre. 

I found myself doing rudimentary plies and frappes and even some grands ronds de jambs.  Then some jumping plies.  And more things I don’t remember the names of.  My knees hurt.  I kept losing the rhythm.  When others turned, I jumped.  My arms threatened to detach themselves from my body.

The most surprising part of this whole experience?   Believe it or not, I am actually looking forward to more of this torture next week.  Despite my misgivings upfront, it was a strangely exhilarating experience.  Karine was lovely and non-judgemental.  I felt like I achieved something.  And not just a killer work-out.  More importantly, I managed to suppress my instinct to bolt from something potentially humiliating-- something I've rejected my whole life as SO not my thing.  Who knew that the results of our reno would extend so far beyond our bathroom walls?   

On Writing from Weakness

"That reciprocity is something I cherish about blogging. But I think there’s also intrinsic value in writing occasionally from weakness rather than strength. The truth is, after all, that we all start out as beginners in everything we do, and that’s not something we should forget, especially if we’re teachers. Doing things, reading things, that are new to me and thus puzzling for me gives me a healthy lesson in humility. It’s also a useful reminder for me about the process of learning, and it’s an opportunity to model that process, which is one that inevitably includes at least some confusion, frustration, and wrong turns." —Rohan Maitzen, "This Week in My Classes: Being Beginners"

As good as it gets

Today it’s been a different day and I loved it. This morning I woke up having a purpose: I’m going to change my daily routine; I’m going to modify some of the things I do everyday as a robot and see what happens.

I left my daughter at daycare and I started the experiment. I changed my route to work and instead of Bay Street I took another one. I never asked myself why I always go through the same one if I have other choices -I guess that when something works for you there is no reason for change it-.

But today I took Davenport Road and I walked paying attention to the stores. Honestly, that part of the street has nothing special but I actually found a store that cached my attention. It was a small paint store and I couldn’t avoid thinking how can a small and specialized business survive nowadays in downtown Toronto! Maybe I should write a post about it...

Before the morning meeting, I had –as always- my medium cappuccino but I decided to order a different muffin. I have to confess that I was scared because when I’m starving it’s better to eat something I really like -my mood depends on it- but anyway, I changed my daily carrot muffin for a chocolate and banana one and…I loved it! I really wasn’t expecting that taste; the mixture of banana and chocolate is mmm...delicious!

I was so excited about the results I was getting so far that on my way home I decided not to read or sit in the subway. I traveled observing the passengers and trying to guess the ages they had -I realized how bad I’m guessing that kind of things! Indeed, it is a hard exercise to do, have you ever tried it?

My non-routine day had two more challenges left. In the afternoon when I picked up my baby, instead of playing at the same place as we do always I parked the stroller in the other side of the park. At the beginning she felt lost, surprised. But after two minutes observing the area she recognized the park and started touching other trees and climbing some new stairs. It was awesome for both of us. We had lots of fun.

Finally, at night I change my daily routine with my partner deciding to start a bottle of wine before dinner and not while we are eating. We had a drink while we were cooking, while we were talking about our day. We weren’t at the table yet, the context was different and I really enjoyed the time.

I reviewed my day when I went to bed and I realized that, although I hadn’t put on a pair of red boots or a white hat, my non-routine day made me consciously go out of my comfort zone, and I liked it. I found a paint store, I had fun in the subway trying to guess the ages of the passengers, I discovered another side of the park, and I had a great time with my husband having some wine.

Today my little part of Jack Nicolson in As good as it gets disappeared and I really enjoyed the experience.Tomorrow I will probably have a sit in the subway again or I’ll walk through Bay Street without paying attention but I haven’t decided yet if I’ll eat the carrot muffin or the chocolate banana one.

Notes for Week 4

1) Your next assignment (which will be your final on our class blog) will be to find a blog you admire in your blogosphere, and write a post about it. What works about the blog? Why does it resonate with you? What does this blogger do that you'd like to emulate in your own work? How can you do an original take on this blogger's approach? The challenge here will be making your post an interesting one in its right: take us readers by the hand and show us what you love.

2) Your assigned text for next week is "Woolf's Darkness: Embracing the Inexplicable", by Rebecca Solnit. Please come to class ready to discuss answers to the following questions:

• How might the ideas in Solnit's piece relate to blogging?
• For a blogger, where is the value in uncertainty?
•  What are your impressions of this essay? What parts of it resonated with you?

Some see park, I see opportunity.

Crackheads and couples and children - oh my!
These are just some of the sights to absorb in the park by my home. Alongside the different people, the poignant smell of marijuana often lingers in the air and it's amusing to see passer-by's take deep breaths with small smiles as they walk past. Despite it's importance, which I'm reminded of by the presence of the many dogs who need it to happily graze, mark there territories and relieve themselves, I do sometimes question how it came to be. The thing is, I'm not sure if it should really be called a park. What makes a park a park? There's no flowers, no playground and no plush view of sprawling acres of land with perfectly cut green grass. Instead, it boasts narrow grassy areas, a handful of benches, street lights, a few random trees and winding, grey pavement pathways. According to the City of Toronto's sign it most certainly classifies as a park and has even been named after George Hislop. I'm not sure who George is but I can only hope he would be happy to be associated with such an interesting space.

Often when cooped up in my tiny studio apartment and feeling the desperate need for fresh air, I try to convince myself to take a book, claim a bench and get some reading done in the park. More often then not, I fail this battle with myself and opt for my balcony instead. The park you see, is not a quiet, soothing place to read. I find the sounds of barking dogs, friendly chatter and the occasional incident of someone arguing with their imaginary opponent to be somewhat distracting.

I hope it doesn't sound like I dislike the park because the truth is, I love it! Do I wish it was slightly larger and safer with more of  garden? Of course I do. However, with an attitude of gratitude (which I encourage because it really IS the best attitude), I appreciate the park for what it offers. It's a space where everyone is welcome to do as they please and that alone makes it a form of entertainment. The park never seems to have a routine or pattern in terms of who will be there and each time I walk by it, it's a new sensory experience full of varied sights and sounds.

As I begin to understand the importance of being able to focus regardless of my outer environment, I now look at the park as a platform for learning and development. I will begin the challenge of taking a book down and continue this action until I can master sitting and reading in peace despite any chaos that may surround me. I will approach the park with an open mind and understanding that anything can happen. Perhaps the next stranger to whistle or cat call at me while I stroll through will be a handsome man - anything can happen in the park! For now, the park now represents an opportunity for me to change for the better and for that (and the great smell), I'm also grateful.

My refuge

Hidden in the middle of downtown, between two of the more busy and noisy streets of the city, Bay and Avenue, I’ve found my place in Toronto. Doesn’t matter the season, I go there everyday. The peace it transmits the beauty it has and the silence it produces, have done this place my refuge. I have been there reading a guide of the city when I first arrived, looking for a job, enjoying pregnancy and having the first walk with my baby. It was also there that my daughter discovered for the first time the leaves, the squirrels, the birds and the flowers.

I don’t remember how I found it or when was my first time there but it cached me right away -maybe because is a magical environment or maybe because is an oasis in the middle of the chaos-. Indeed, my refuge has no traffic -just bikes are allowed-, it’s grass is clean, thick and green –perfect to rest and read a book-, and the buildings around are beautiful –it’s surrounded by old university buildings that makes you feel inside a Harry Potter’s film-.

And all of this doesn’t happen just in summer.  I love being at my refuge the whole year. In fall, I like spending hours watching the leaves on the grass creating a mixture of green, yellow and red colours that any artist would find inspirational. In winter, I love seeing how the snow covers the grass and how the sun allows me to sit on a bank having some warm coffee. In spring one of the things I like the most is laying on the grass hearing the birds trying to eat every small piece of bread some student forgot during lunch. Finally, in summer, I love taking pictures of the flowers -with all that yellow and orange bright colors- making me think about the fall season again.

I don’t know if I’m going to live in Toronto for a long time but nevertheless I try to pay attention and keep in mind all the special places I’m discovering. I try to take pictures, to write notes and to put a mark on the map. But with my refuge all of this is impossible: The pictures don’t show the beauty it has, the notes can’t keep all the moments I had there and the map doesn’t show where it is. And it’s ok. I know I would never forget this place. I’m sure that even without notes, maps or nice pictures this place will be the first thing that will come to my mind when in twenty years, someone asks me about my time Canada.

The Market

Hungary-Thai and Rasta Pasta.  Four cultures represented in two restaurants.  Where, other than Kensington Market, would you find people who dare to combine such eclectic ethnic mash-ups, and  whose businesses survive --and thrive-- year after year?  

At Rasta Pasta, owners Magnus and Mary have
fused their cuisines to represent their respective Jamaican and Sicilian heritages. The result?
Original offerings like gnocchi with ackee and
saltfish or jerk-meatball pasta.   The Hungary-Thai menu also represents the diverse backgrounds of its owners and their chef, but there's no fusion here – Pad Thai & Schnizel compete for diners' attention from opposite sides of the menu.  These two    businesses serve up completely different interpretations of multiculturalism. But they both capture the essence of Kensington Market. This is a place where people can be exactly who they want to be.

It's not a touchy-feely neighbourhood. We don’t have family street parties and fall fairs like the Annex and Riverdale. Our parks are less leafy and our alleys are grittier and edgier. Our community meetings are often poorly attended--except when something threatens our character. Word of a Walmart or Starbucks with Kensington aspirations will bring local merchants and residents out en-masse, packing the community center to its rafters.  We rally together when it’s really important, but mostly, we’re busy being individuals.

This is a place where nobody pries into your life unless you invite them to. Over the past decade, I’ve had many chats with a guy called John, when I take my dog out for her morning constitutional in the parkette down the street.   We talk about current events-- Rob Ford's antics, or who will win the federal election.  John has a grey beard that stops somewhere between his chest and his belly and carries all his worldly possessions in a beaten-up rucksack.  He sleeps at the Scott mission on Spadina, but spends most of his days around Kensington market.  He says he likes it here because he doesn’t feel that anyone is judging him.  I don’t know why John is homeless and I don’t ask.  John is comfortable here, because the neighbourhood accepts him at face value, no questions asked.

Kensington Market has seen many iterations of this ethos over the past century.  It was once a safe haven for thousands of Jewish immigrants, fleeing persecution in Eastern Europe and Russia.  After the second world war, Italian and Portugese immigrants came here to build a better life.   

Casa Acoreana

To this day, Casa Acoreana, a coffee and candy shop at the corner of Baldwin and Augusta is the physical and psychological anchor of the market.  When a rapacious realtor tried to jack up the rent a few years back, the neighbourbood rallied behind Ozzy, the Portuguese-Canadian owner who'd run the place for decades.  A deal was struck.  Casa and Ozzy are still there.

In the last few years, there’s been an explosion of hipster coffee shops and late-night party spots frequented by twenty-somethings in Range Rovers from the burbs.   In summer, tour buses disgorge loads of tourists at the corner of Bellevue and Oxford.  Some wonder if all this activity will ruin the market.   But if history is any guide, the spirit of Kensington will survive. It will continue to attract people from far and wide and absorb the impact of those who pass through. And it will beckon those who feel its rhythm to stay and become exactly who they want to be.  

The Gift of Giving

It’s a place that is dreaded by most; a place of loneliness, a place of last resort. For me, it was a place of friendship and joy. I stumbled across The Gibson Retirement Home when I was in University. I had enrolled in the course called Women & Aging without truly understanding what the class entailed. I remember attending the first class and hearing the professor mention in passing that we should provide her with the name of the retirement home where we would be volunteering. I turned to the student next to me and asked “what is she talking about, what retirement home?” Apparently, as part of the course, each student was to complete 20 hours of volunteer at a retirement home of their choosing and document their experiences in a journal.  At the time, I had a full course load, and couldn’t image adding an additional 20 hours of volunteer work. I didn’t even know where I could volunteer. Luckily, fate intervened on my way to a friend’s house and I found myself at the entrance of The Gibson Retirement Home in North York. I didn’t know then what a profound effect this retirement home would have on me.

 

When I walked into The Gibson for the first time, it was the beautiful 2-story atrium that captured my attention. It was so open and inviting – it felt like a home, rather than a retirement facility. The exquisite gardens, the cottage-like gazebo, the kitchen area and the amenities were spectacular. I especially liked the large sitting area upstairs, ideal for visits with friends and family. It was the perfect location for the daily 3:00 p.m. “Tea Time” that I attended frequently. Spending time with the residents, learning about their families, their trials and tribulations over a cup of tea was my favourite part of the day.  
 
The best part of The Gibson Retirement Home was the vast selection of activities they offered for their residents; movie nights, bingo, shopping trips, parties - there was always an event for everyone. While I was volunteering there, I had the opportunity to participate in a few of my own activities, including weekly manicure sessions and baking classes. Once a week, I mixed ingredients and baked cookies and sweets with the ladies that we would later serve to the other residents at “Tea Time.” They loved the treats and I loved the company.      

A project that started out as a class assignment ended up being much more than a series of journal entries. I had the privilege of meeting some very special people, and learning a great deal about life.

Notes for Week 3

1) For your next blog post, I want you to consciously go out of your comfort zone in some way and write about that experience. It can be a small thing—wearing a new pair of shoes, trying something unusual on a restaurant menu—or a big(ger) thing—venturing into a part of town you've never visited before. The point is not to be made uncomfortable as much as to try something new. Make this experience a story—a blog post, even!

2) Your assigned text for week 3 is "Why I'm Breaking Up With My Blog," by Tracey Chappell. Please read the post and come to class ready to answer the following questions:

• What does this piece have to tell us about the history of blogging? 
• What does Chappell have to tell us about how blogging can shape and enhance one's life?
• What of her blogging advice is useful to you?
• What have her challenges in blogging been? 
• Tracey Chappell died in May 2015. She's enormously missed by her family and her writing community. How does knowing about her death change the meaning of what she's written here? 

Dear Sleep, I love you.

What I love is my cousin Nikhil. I wish he'd known that...perhaps he wouldn't have killed himself. Sometimes I think he did know and still made the choice to do such a hurtful act - I'm not sure which truth I find harder to accept. The question leads me to question the whole idea of truth. It seems like a surreal concept that people can be so passionate about. We try to associate it with logic and fact when really it's a matter of perspective and individual experience. While in Paris to identify Nikhil's body I tried to put together the pieces of what happened. This was my funny younger cousin, from India, who insisted on moving to France to attend a top school, received a scholarship and was living what he described as his dreams. Three days passed full of translating French to English in my brain then to Hindi for Nikhil's father who understandably was devastated. In a state of confusion on how his dream turned into this nightmare, I even went back to Paris a second time on a  search for the 'truth' on what transpired. I spoke to as many people as possible - taking notes, asking questions trying to make some sense of what could have driven him to make that choice. I still have all the notes tucked away safely in an envelope marked 'Important Documents.' As I slowly accept I will never really know because no one but him knew what he was thinking, I acknowledge that I may never open the envelope again. I will keep it tucked away like the whole gut-wrenching experience. The mere thought of the topic is so draining that it brings me to the thing I really love which is sleep.

I absolutely adore sleep. My appreciation for it has grown rapidly. It's a need and a luxury all wrapped up in one. It's a time of rest and distance from my own thoughts and I can't seem to shake my desire for it. Even now, as I write, it feels like my sleep is calling my name, inviting me into the blissful place of comfort. I have the ability to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind insomniacs pray for. At times this feels like a gift and a curse. Part of my brain is aware it's an unproductive habit. Sleep isn't helping me find a new career, it doesn't make me feel loved, it doesn't help me get my homework in on time or lose the 27 pounds I managed to gain within the past year but I still love it. It's all I want to do during the days. Sometimes I wake up early on a Saturday just to create the opportunity to indulge in an afternoon nap. My love for it transcends places and temperatures. Cold, rain, sun - I enjoy sleep in all settings and temperatures. My favourite place to sleep is on the beach, with sun on my face with the sound of the ocean. A big, plush bed with the sound of the rain is a close second. For my birthday this past year, I travelled to Lanzarote in the Canary Islands and indulged in daily afternoon naps in my own little beach cave. As a result, I remember it as one of my best trips.

Two years ago I was working 60 hours a week, working out at least an hour a day, socialising and thriving off a mere six hours of sleep. I used to brag about how little sleep I needed. Now sometimes even after I wake up from a nine hour slumber and have a coffee, I'm exhausted. The more I sleep, the more tired I feel. Now I know this may sound like I have a 'problem' or have slipped into a form of 'depression.' You may be thinking I'm a certified 'sleep addict' in the midst of a downward spiral due to the experience of losing a loved one but the bizarre thing is, I'm generally a very positive person. I meditate regularly, I believe in the attitude of gratitude - I even keep a little gratitude jar full of post-its where I write down my many blessings. The people I love come to me to talk about their problems and I'm fortunate when they select me as someone to listen to them or even offer advice. I understand loss is a shared, human experience and death is a reality of life. What I don't understand anymore is what about life is really better than sleep. I appreciate my family, my friends, laughter - all these things are in my gratitude jar but I just don't feel they compare to the joy of sleep (sleep is also in my jar, perhaps on more then one post-it). The warmth of a soft blanket, the cosy feeling of a perfect mattress, the bliss felt right before drifting off into a deep sleep - it's such a peaceful experience. I know I can't pass my life in a slumber but a part of me wants to. Even in my happiest moments full of energy and laughter, a small part of me is looking forward to slipping into my bed. Even now as I'm typing, writing, creating and enjoying it as  healing, expressive process, I'm looking forward to finishing so I can crawl into my bed.