White Space

The last entry in the Summer of Pause. Again a bit late, but I’m starting to think of this more as incubation than tardiness.

I’ve been back at work for a few weeks now and in catching up, I’ve been relearning my work. Last week, I got to attend a great short session with our graphic design team on some of the latest trends in graphic design. This is a group of creatives that does the most astounding and beautiful work. They make technical things look like art.

One of the principles of good design is to leave white space on the page. As many of my graphic design colleagues say, it enables the page and the text to “breathe”. Cramming things into every little space on the page creates business and chaos - they eye doesn’t know where to go. And everything becomes as important (or as trivial) as every other thing.

I’ve been thinking more about the white space in my life. Or really, the lack thereof. I’m on a near constant crusade to rein my attention span in and not be so tired and not fill every moment with something. And yet I find myself constantly battling with myself.

But what if I just leave some white space? What if I allow life to breathe for a minute? What then?

As we approach a new season, how can we create white space? We have collectively been heads down for three years, and enclosed. Worried perhaps, too, because things took a turn for the worse. But even on those moments, there is always white space. I, for one, am dedicating myself back to my hands - to creating, to writing, maybe making more cups of tea. To do useful things with them. And to do nothing with them.

How will you create white space?

The Joy Radar

Tonight is my last night of parental leave (although, is it ever?) before I head back into the office tomorrow. I wasn’t sure how I’d be feeling right now, but I’m in a soup of emotion. Today’s prompt from the On Being Project comes at an interesting time. The prompt is what places you in a stream of timelessness?

But I think rather than take the project up on its prompt to offer the stream of timelessness, I’m thinking about what happens when those streams are stirred up. What you once found like a pocket of zen in your day is suddenly gone or looks different? Can we find something in those times to anchor us to that feeling of timelessness, or a pause (much like the eye of the storm?).

Ross Gay, a scholar and writer, spoke about his Joy Radar that he developed while undertaking a whole year of writing a small essay every day. Writing every day allowed him to build a muscle for experiencing joy or tenderness or pause every single day. He compared it to its opposite, the Despair Radar, which media outlets have, pouring on us, the unbearable in the world. Jane Hirshfield, in her story tells of something similar. A journalist was reporting from the ground when the Haiti earthquake happened a number of years ago. He was talking about the chaos and looting that was imminent after any big disaster. Behind him, people were sleeping in the streets as aftershocks were still shaking the buildings. But they were singing. There was a joyful communion outside in the midst of despair and what was reported. Where we choose to focus flexes that muscle strongly.

Like all humans, I have a strong despair radar because there are so many things in the world that need fixing. And it makes me sad.

I’m starting to believe that hope is retrospective. That we only see the good things when they’ve happened, and not in the present - in that stream that we can step into. But rather than seeing the joys of the bygone, perhaps we can live in the stream as it now. There are a million things for which we can hope. A million rivulets of grace that we can step into every day. And that we can find pause and reprieve on those days that feel the heaviest.

As I go into this next chapter that has a very distinctive start, I hope to keep developing that joy radar. And perhaps those million little joys will become their own stream of timelessness.

Naming the Storm

Today’s prompt in the Summer of the Pause is about they eye of the storm and what keeps us grounded when we encounter the many storms - both physical and perhaps metaphorical.

I’m reminded of this fantastic passage from Michael Ondaatje’s “the English Patient” that talks about wind. He describes the various kinds of desert winds, some small and some far-reaching enough to destroy entire armies. You can read this gorgeous passage here - it makes my hair stand on end every time.

Every year for as long as I can remember, there is a particularly forceful wind/rain storm that happens when the seasons change from summer to autumn. It’s never quite night when it does happen - always the early evening. It strips the trees of their leaves and scatters them on the ground as if to say “There. That’s the end of that season.” As if the gentle, constant waning of summer is not enough. It characteristically brings with it a lot of wind and I almost always know that it’s the one. I haven’t named that storm yet. Perhaps I should think of something to call it this year.

That’s the one thing I’ve learned about the storms in our lives. It’s important to name them. Often naming something gives it power. But it this case, whatever private storm you’re going through, if you name it, you take your agency back. Perhaps that’s why I love that passage by Ondaatje. Each storm has a name. To name means to know what you’re up against. Or to make friends with the thing you’re up against.

So while it’s possible that sometimes we brace ourselves for the incoming storm, it’s entirely possible too, to simply name it and be in it. It might be a bit unsettling but isn’t it also a thrill?

Mind the Gap

I’ve always been obsessed with the London Underground. And oddly the entire experience of taking the London Underground. I’m not sure why - it’s no different than most metro services in most major cities. I love the wind tunnels, the Mind the Gap signs and the swift way in which people hop on and off the tube. I even love that it’s called the Tube. I’ve always loved that map - those little coloured dots as you move through the labyrinth under the city. I became so obsessed at once point that I actually asked my aunt to bring me a fresh map next time she visited so I could frame it (I never did).

I haven’t been to London in over a decade now so I’m not sure if the experience has changed. I think it probably has and so have I after a global pandemic and so many life events. The idea of wayfinding somewhere under a bustling city and emerging to be where you wanted to be (or perhaps not at all) is a thrill. I think, so is the constant reminder to Mind the Gap.

I’m reminded of Zora Neale Hurston’s quote, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” And I think sometimes we need to mind the gap between them. To make sure that we do the little hop. The wayfinding signposts are helpful (which way to the South Bank?). But sometimes you just emerge in a different place on the platform and go from there. Just be sure to mind that gap.

Wild Green Silence

I’ve decided to participate in On Being’s Summer of Pause - a thematic series, where, each week, we get to explore a new theme and think more deeply about the art of living. My Grace Notes for the next few weeks will talk about these themes. Stay with me.

I’m a week behind on my Summer of Pause (or perhaps I’m exactly where I need to be). Last week’s theme was about our connection to nature and a wild love for it.

One time, a friend told me that outside didn’t love me. The sun burns me. The allergies bother me. I wish I could forest bathe but it would be a miserable experience.

When we moved to this suburb almost a year ago, I was excited about my family being surrounded by nature. There are trails and waterfalls. There are birds and squirrels…and bears. How exciting to get away from the sirens, the motorcycles screaming down the street in the middle of the night. I loved being in a part of the city where I could walk to everything, but I was relieved at the lack of cacophony that this move afforded me.

And then, I couldn’t sleep. The silence of nature for the first few nights was deafening. The summer night was a weighted blanket that fell on the neighbourhood, muffling everything. The morning was nothing but birdsong and children walking to school. Can you be stifled from relief? I’m not sure, but perhaps that’s how I felt.

I spent the first few days staring out of the window, heat emanating from the sun and filtering into the house - I had wanted big windows. The garden outside had dried out from neglect - dead bushes are still festooning the sides of the fence. Should I water them even though they won’t come back to life? I felt like I had asked nature to come with me on this next journey and it had, sort of…declined. No thank you. I’ll be here and you can come to me if you like. But I couldn’t love it the same way that others did.

So now I don’t fight nature anymore. Finding a place in nature meant doing it on my own terms. When nature says, come spend time with me. I’ll say, my way of spending time with you is to water this orchid and leave the windows open in the home. It is to smell the incoming rain and sit for a few minutes underneath an autumn tree.

Rumi said that there are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground. In my case, it’s not literal.

I’ve come to the conclusion that nature and I love each other from a bit of a distance. Perhaps it’s a mutual admiration but I don’t always have to dig my nails into the earth. But that says a lot about our relationship with many things. Does outside love me? Probably. I get to live in nature. I have sustained greenery of all kinds in my home for decades (except for basil, which dies like it’s part of a Shakespearean tragedy). We can care and be present without engaging or digging ourselves in. Sometimes the wild green silence says much more than the rancorous footsteps on the muddy ground.

Transitions

I’ve decided to participate in On Being’s Summer of Pause - a thematic series, where, each week, we get to explore a new theme and think more deeply about the art of living. My Grace Notes for the next few weeks will talk about these themes. Stay with me.

We start off week one with perhaps the most timely and apt of all the themes for me: Transitions. How do we transition and what are the transitions happening in my life right now?

I have been thinking a lot about transitions for a few months now. I’ve undergone, perhaps the largest transformation of them all in the last while - going from Working to Mother and now to Working Mother. As I am apt to do in almost any situation of uncertainty, I’ve been patiently researching and gathering my resources and steeling myself for what might be a blast impact as two very big parts of my life meld together in a few short weeks.

But of course, as I stand on this precipice, the first interview that the On Being project presents is that with renowned cellist and perhaps the most generous musician I’ve ever seen, Yo Yo Ma. His concert, which I attended many years ago is one that will stand out in my mind for many years to come as the best night I spent alone in a sold out audience. So it only makes sense that the echoes of music as a theme in my life and my favourite classical cellist should come and greet me at the gates of transition right now. I almost cried from the joy.

But veering away from music a little bit, I’ve been thinking about transitions as an exercise in truth-telling. When we occupy a liminal space, or, a pregnant pause, there is potential of all kinds. There are paths that blast out in different directions for the so many you’s that you can be. But I’m starting to find that it is critical to simply sit in that pause and ask yourself to tell the truth. What’s working? And what isn’t? How will and can the world work differently for you?

Transitions can be both smooth or effortful. But I think there is a needless effort that comes with not telling the truth. It’s when we make things that much harder for ourselves by not answering to something that is off-kilter. For me, this new world means a reordering of priorities. I cannot and will not do it all. I will ask for help and I will drop some balls. I’m refusing the martyrdom that is so common for working women. I hate the word authenticity because it’s become a business buzzword, so I think honesty, in transitions too, is the best policy.

Now back to music. As a choral singer, I always bow in reverence to the great teacher in transitions that is music. I’m reminded of the terrifying Soprano notes of the hymn Zadok the Priest. Those first notes have the potential to soar into the heavens or have you squawk like a strangled rooster. And you never know which - having done both - you’ll be faced with. But as you transition into the vocal parts of the song you quickly leave the Big Leap behind and get on with it. The scariest bit of the transition is just the first part. And then whichever way you went, off you go. But you must leap, regardless. And I think that’s the one thing that music has taught me. In quoting Pablo Casals, Yo Yo Ma talks about the infinite variety between notes. Not really of the failure but that we can go a number of different ways.

And so as I explore what the next chapter (or perhaps next bar) looks like for me, I’m fully aware of its strangled-chickenness. But I think it’s in my best interest to get on with it afterward.

Some things to circle back to on transitions:

Yo Yo Ma’s Interview with On Being

Zadok the Priest by Handel, relive the horrifying/beautiful with me

Bach Cello Suite No.1 by Pablo Casals

Still, Moving

A few days ago, my partner and I wandered downtown on our second date since the little one arrived almost nine months ago. Dinner and a show. I haven’t been in our downtown core since the beginning of the pandemic, only stopping there once for the art gallery, and never in the evening. We didn’t have much of a walk about that time. This evening we had some time to wander the streets before heading over.

I was surprised by how much the energy of the place had changed. Some of the busiest streets felt deserted. People gathered in little groups outside of venues or inside restaurants. There didn’t seem to be too much ambling around.

I walked up and down streets that I’ve visited hundreds of times now. Landmarks where we gathered, nursing broken hearts and lattes. Entire blocks we walked complaining about difficult work projects and celebrating with relief when those ended. Dark restaurants where you met with friends who were in town for a few days, and sunday brunches that were underwhelming save for the company you ate them with.

I realized that while the energy of the place had changed, so have I in the time. As I said to a friend, I haven’t been in the downtown core since turning a new decade. And while it shouldn’t seem like a big sea change, something inside has shifted.

It’s interesting how the brain lightly dusts old memories so that only some of the essence can seep through, but never the whole experience. We can’t re-live things in their full technicolor wonder. And perhaps that’s a good thing, so that we can create room to be slightly different people. If everything was relevant, nothing would be.

And while faint nostalgia ran through me like the spring breeze coming off the ocean, I suddenly felt grateful for the journey that had taken me down those streets - that I wouldn’t want to revisit the same way again. Which has led me to where I am. And for once in a long time, I missed the comfort of green trees and settling birds at dusk in my own home. A wonder what a bit of distance can do.

While buildings framed with cherry blossoms in the summer return every year, I think none of us ever really will. There is grace in that, I think. And relief.

Plastic Fires

I could feel my blood pressure rising, as I sat there feeding oatmeal to my son. He had decided that blowing raspberries with food in your mouth was going to be his MO for the morning. He was having a fantastic time of it. Me, not so much. I’d have to change him and we were running short on time. We’re going to be late for story time at the library, my insides screamed. My sympathetic nervous system, always on high alert, was about ready to make a mountain out of a pile of oatmeal goo.

As we wrapped breakfast, I had to mentally shake myself out of an emergency that I had created. So what if we were late for story time? What if we just didn’t make it? My child wasn’t going to drop in intelligence by missing half an hour of singing and stories. I had to calm down about it. The worst case scenario was that we’d go, have a gander about, maybe take a few books out, sit by the window and watch the world go by. My son is young; everything is currently interesting.

The whole episode made me think of how many of the emergencies we have are truly manufactured. We put arbitrary deadlines on our daily lives, expect people to return our calls right this minute and act like the world is about to come to screeching halt when things don’t respond to us promptly.

I’m so cognizant of passing on this anxiety. These plastic fires, that we stoke. I’ve decided manufactured urgency is simply not going to be the order of the day. I like timeliness, but when life has its own plans, sometimes its best just to go along with it. What’s the worst that can happen? There are movements around getting people to slow down because we are so harried it’s making us all sick. Doctors are now prescribing time outside.

Nothing is urgent, truly. We want and need it to be, to perhaps add some kind of meaning or forward motion to our lives. But it turns out, things simply choose to take their time to unfold.

I ended up not rushing us from breakfast. It wasn’t worth passing on the stress. We did make it story time with the rest of the harried parent-child clusters. Everyone looked exhausted. I’m not sure my son even enjoyed story time at the end, as much as he enjoyed reading a book we took out called I am Calm. Perhaps we both needed it.

Creature Comforts

Today, we get a new couch. It’s the first one that my husband and I have bought together. It’s been built to fit our needs as a family in his new-ish space. For the last three years we have been living with an old, cream leather three-seater that I owned prior to meeting him. It has more than seen its heyday over the last decade.

When I first moved out, it was the first big piece of furniture that I bought for myself. Italian leather (on sale, obviously). And I wanted it to be cream because I hate darkness in my home. It was on the receiving end of many things: quiet days spent reading, brunches with friends, book clubs, movie nights, sick days spent recuperating while watching television and, more recently, playtimes, feedings and sleep-deprivation driven new parent naps.

When I bought it, I was so worried about scratching it up or staining it. I would wipe it down and take such good care of it. Over the last decade it has weathered, sinking ever so slightly towards the middle. The leather, as weathered with fine lines as my own eyes. No doubt from smiling, but still.

I didn’t plan to spend my day writing an ode to a couch. Really it’s not remarkable. What strikes me though, is our proclivity to be drawn to our own creature comforts. We all have them: that old sweater you can’t throw away, the chipped mug you’ve had for ages or that old song that reminds you of someone you love but never see. There comes a time when that item becomes more than the sum of its parts, too small to contain the multitudes that live within it. Certainly two of us are always fighting for space on a long day. Three of us sitting on it looks like we’re waiting for the next bus. So like I hermit crab, we move on to a bigger shell.

It’s only human nature to seek and keep these things. And when we finally decide the memories are to be house elsewhere, we can let them go. Now come the bigger things - ones that hold their own stories. Makes me wonder, in 10 years, what are the things that will require me to make space? Stay tuned.

Mixed Bag

I love Licorice Allsorts. Odd because I don’t like licorice all that much. I could (mostly) inhale an entire bag of Bassetts Allsorts in one sitting if left unsupervised. But my love for them comes with conditions. I dislike the plain ones. The ones that are too…licorice-y. The mouth-curling saltiness of them never did sit right with me. So I’ll eat everything but those - I’ll even eat the jelly-like one covered with tiny candy balls, even though it tests me.

I’ve been lucky though. I’ve always lived with or been around someone who will eat the plain ones, so nothing goes to waste. In the cases where I haven’t been so lucky, I’ll nibble on them as a last resort, thoroughly disliking the process and only being propelled forward for my hate of wastefulness.

Being given a lot that’s a mixed bag is often par for the course. Sure, there are lots of things to like, but so many to not like. And we aren’t always lucky enough to have someone take away the unpalatable. We have to suck it up and deal with it.

Life experiences aren’t like a Woolworths Pic n’ Mix. Remember those? You’d get a cup and fill it with your favourite candy (Jelly Babies and gummy cola bottles first, Allsorts and Dolly Mixture next, of course). Sometimes we get what we get and we don’t make a fuss. You empty the bag anyway because you’d hate to lose out really. And it’s not that bad - it’s not great but really it could be worse.

Perhaps the mixed bag is a good thing. If you aren’t looking, there might be one of the brown and black striped candies (that don’t taste like cocoa, but you’d imagine they should) that you didn’t eat after you’ve gotten through the ones you don’t like. And isn’t that the best one?

Cumulative Losses

I’m losing hair. A lot of it. Every time I brush my hair, a small gerbil-sized tangle appears in my hand. For a normal person, this might cause panic (I probably should worry). But I have enough hair for a dozen people - ask the graveyard of mangled bobbypins and snapped hair elastics.

Hair loss is a routine part of postpartum change. The body is an absolutely remarkable thing. It chooses - by design - to redirect precious, finite resources to the task at hand, namely, creating life. Rather than keep your run-of-the-mill processes growing, everything concentrates on keeping a tiny human going. Hair is one of those background things. So we hang on to all of the hair because nobody’s there to clean house and it becomes beautiful and thick and you glow and people compliment you and you break more hair elastics.

At the end of the whole event, your body has to go back to running things around here. So you shed things: hair, weight, bits of your previous self that you no longer need. You make way for a new person in an unfamiliar skin.

But that’s what happens sometimes. We hang on to things over time because we need them in our back pocket. Or we simply don’t have time to get rid of them because we are focused on other things. And then comes the process of cumulative loss. Everything goes. All at once.

It’s a good thing, as Martha would say. Why keep the things you don’t need? There are enough of the things you do need. There’s enough hair (maybe for a cute little side part, maybe bangs?). It feels like a shock to the system when it first happens. But you step back and reframe. Suddenly you’re a little lighter. It’s a good thing, you say.

It’s still the pensive early days of a new year. So many of us are still taking stock. What are the things you’re ready to let go of? Or, conversely, what do you need to hang on to a while longer?