Mirror, Mirror

Who do you see when you look in the mirror? Is it the person you now are or the person you once were? Surely your age will help define your point of view.

I was alerted to these questions last night when I was visiting the local nursing home to hand out Christmas cards and one of the residents told me in a confidential tone, “They make me sleep in a room with two old women.”

Clearly she did not think she was living among her peers and I wondered what she saw when she looked at her reflection. The general observer would look at this woman and see someone who was old and unwell.

I don't know this lady but I can imagine how she feels. Even at 40 I sometimes have to remind myself that what I am contemplating is not age appropriate. Admittedly that mainly comes into play when I admire a good looking young man. And it was catching myself in such thoughts that made me feel the cage that age could be especially if you have never mentally adjusted to your chronological age.

Such moments have made me think of my grandfathers; one was a fan of the television show The 20-Minute Workout in the 1980s and the other was a keen observer of his young female health care worker. No one had any illusions as to why my grandfather liked the 20-minute workout; spandex-clad, bending, and thrusting women. But the female health care worker just didn't understand that my grandfather, although 90 years old, was still thrilled by her trim figure puttering about his room.

Both of these men still had eyes for young women and no doubt, somewhere in their minds, thought of themselves as the young men they once were, but it was the reality of age that let them only feast with their eyes.

As time moves on I see physical changes in myself but none that seem too drastic. I still look very much like my High School graduation picture. I have never been afraid of aging as I am generally relieved to be alive at all given my medically precarious beginning. But I do wonder if I will ever be able to accept that I belong in a room full of old women.

Burnt Shadows--Kamila Shamsie

There was a section in this novel which struck me as a page from my own life. It occurred towards the end of the story when an American asks an Afghan—Have you ever read the Quran? To which the Afghan replies-- Of course I have. And the American retorts-- Have you read it in a language you understand? The Afghan states unequivocally-- I understand Islam.

I had similar arguments with a man who I once loved more than anything else in the world. For approximately three years I tried to understand him and Islam. He was a Thai Muslim and I was the all-knowing Westerner who tried to square my love with his religion. This literary exchange made me realize how foolish I was to think that my reading of the Quran in English translation meant anything compared to his life raised in the faith.

This novel brought so much back to me, opened so many ideas about my own past; places I have lived and histories that in some way intersected with my life although they were distant in time and space from my own experience.

The novel begins in Nagasaki, before the atomic bomb and after. My life has been touched by this history, in a round about way, as the lives of anyone with a connection to Japan since the bombs dropped has been affected by those few days before the end of the war in the pacific.

That war, the surrender of the empire, the resulting impact on the Japanese psyche, touched my life in the person I chose to father my children-- much as the impact of those last day touched the lives of children born to, or related to, characters in the novel, who had never walked under a Japanese sun.

The thread in the first half of the novel that tied the main characters, almost all who were in exile from their homeland, was very engaging and when the story shifted to the next generation I almost put the book down. But soon I was drawn into a Muslim world where, although there was war and death, there was also a hint of that acceptance and love that I had experienced in the Thai Muslim communities that had once been part of my every day life.

I have never felt more love from strangers than in those small rooms and cinder block houses on dirt tracks in the jungle or small housing projects on the outskirts of Bangkok; peace be with you-- said my new brothers and sisters. I miss waking up to the call to prayer and the feeling it gave me to see an old man, one of my traveling companions, unfurl his prayer mat at the break of dawn when we stopped at a roadside gas station.

When I read this book I thought of how many people would read it and miss this point-- although the writer shows you the love that exists, even in the heart of a tacit supporter of the Taliban in Kabul-- I predict very few westerners will be able to accept it. In general, westerners fail to see the humanity of jihadist. I think that only when we can see them as people, try to understand their motivation, will we be able to end the so-called war on terror.

Of all the themes in this novel, the most important one, in my reading, is the possibility to look beyond fear, hate, class, and religion and find a brother/sister.

Being part of a Muslim community was one of the most important events in my life. It taught me to see the most demonized people of my time as part of my heart. I am forever grateful.

It was the image of the burnt cranes that drew me into this novel. I expected to be disinterested in the portion that I knew was coming at the end of the tale; that section dealing with 9/11. I have hit the saturation point on that topic, but this was not what I expected. It reminded me of a part of my life I don't think about often enough and the people that taught me how a true believer really acts, lives and loves in the world.

I hope other readers will see this in the characters of Abdullah and Ismail and give them their full attention. There is the potential for greater understanding here; I encourage everyone to take the opportunity.

Not the assignment

“That's not the assignment,” a student told me recently when I questioned her about an observation she made in her paper. And that is, in large part, what is wrong with the education system today; students are not challenged to think outside of the box, or to think at all in many cases.

These days I am looking at the education issue from many points of view simultaneously; as a teacher, a student and a parent. None of these perspectives makes me feel we are winning on the education battlefield. Occasionally I have students that challenge the status quo, have original ideas and make me want to spend more than my allotted 30 minutes with them. Unfortunately I don't see enough of that type of student.

What I do see more often than not are students that have summarized information. Questions about what all this information means are usually met with blank stares. I can handle that. I wish I had more time to lead these students down a path to greater understanding but that is not my job—which is also part of the problem.

Sometimes I feel like an emergency medic-- patch them up to get them through this crisis-- this deadline, that thesis statement. I am not there for the major surgery, the recovery, the revelation.

I have accepted my role and as I said I sometimes get wonderful shinning students in my office and sometimes I get ones that tell me, “That is not the assignment.”

In the case mentioned above, the student had made an observation that I found anthropologically significant; in her work experience at an nursing home there were only white faces in the resident population. I asked her what she thought that meant and received the terse reply noted above.

I am very curious about what her observation says about our population, our culture. There are many African Nova Scotian communities near this nursing home as well as one Native community; why were they not represented in the nursing home population? Is it due to the cost of care or the connectedness of those communities where elders are taken care of at home for as long as possible? I don't know the answer to the question but it intrigues me and it should have intrigued my student. And therein lies the problem-- it didn't.

This student did not want to think outside the boundary of her assignment and when I asked her to do so she became confrontational. What does it say about university when students expect not to be asked to use their minds beyond the scope of a stated problem?

Universities were initially a place for people who desired higher learning. That is sadly no longer the case at most post-secondary institutions. Universities are now akin to financial institutions who trade in credentials. Said credentials, once paid for in both money and time by the consumer, will presumably translate into higher income brackets for the newly certified. That has become the goal of university students, not knowledge.

I would like the focus of academe to shift to knowledge over commerce but with rising tuitions and unrealistic consumer expectations—that is unlikely. In the meantime I will relish the students who come to me and show they are the wolves in the flock of status quo sheep.

The Children Act-- review

Last week I reluctantly borrowed the novel, The Children Act by Ian McEwen. My reluctance stemmed from two sources; the first being that the last McEwen novel I read was unsatisfactory. I was not a fan of Sweet Tooth. The second was that the thumbnail sketch of the novel sounded a little too much like a Jodi Picoult—issue of the month-- plot line.

After looking over many of the new books on the library shelves, of which I have read or tried to read in recent weeks, I was left looking at The Children Act.

The main topic in this book, as it is set out on the flyleaf, is the right of a judge to overrule the wishes of both parents and patient concerning medical treatment as formed by religious views. In this case Jehovah Witness precepts that hold blood transfusions are not in keeping with God's will.

Last week this was a particularly interesting issue in Canada. A very similar case was heard in Ontario; an aboriginal family withdrew their 11-year-old child from chemotherapy treatment and was taken to court by the hospital that had been treating the child. The hospital lost the case on grounds of aboriginal rights; a ruling that is surely groundbreaking and most likely will result in the death of the child in question.

But the issue that this novel tackles that intrigued me more than the flagged topic de jour was the responsibility we have to those whose lives we either create or extend through our intervention. There is a proverb that is most often attributed to the Chinese that if you save a man's life you are henceforth responsible for that life.

Spoiler alert

In this novel the intervention of the judge saves the life of the boy but leaves him in a spiritual vacuum; one that sets him in opposition to his family and his community as a whole. He has survived but he no longer has a connection to his world—he is a drift.

He predictably seeks love and belonging from the only source that seems to understand him-- the judge. Her rebuff of his attention and need results in predictable consequences.

I believe that children's welfare relies, in some cases, on the state. In this novel the judge has made the correct decision. What she fails to do is monitor the resulting fall out. In such a case an alternate support system is necessary for the recovering child. When one's entire belief system is challenged-- a replacement needs to be ready at hand.

I have seen this play out in the life of an acquaintance of mine many years ago. She was a staunch believer in the Chinese Government; a native of Kunming province. She detested the liars and revolutionaries in Beijing and told me that Tiananmen did not really happen; at least not as the Western media had portrayed it.

When I knew this loyal Chinese citizen she was a fellow classmate of mine in Bangkok. Without the control of the party she soon started to see things she could not explain; knocking down the walls of her prejudiced perception. I was not surprised when she came to class one day and told me that she had been 'SAVED'. She traded one ideology for another. Several months later she left her new religious cadre; adrift. I don't know what happened to her, over the years we lost touch, but when I read this book I thought of her grasping at the edge of a new raft in an unknown sea.

In the end, although I was not interested in the topic of morality in medical decisions, I was drawn into this novel as it explored the failure of the judge to recognize and take responsibility for the identity chaos she created in the young protagonist.

I read this novel in one evening, skimming over the sections relating to the marital difficulties of the judge although these do pertain to my current interest in the mid-life crisis; which I think I am entering at astounding speed. It was time well-spent but not necessarily focussing on the obvious theme.

Afraid of the dark

How could it be that the thing I was most worried about when I went to university at 17 years of age was not my grades, not my finances, nor my new environment but whether or not I would be raped. It speaks volumes that this was a constant worry in my late teens. And that it was something that I didn't talk about with any of my female friends whose shared experience might have helped me deal with that fear.

When I went to university in Halifax in 1991 there were warnings from the police about walking after dark. There were reports of a rapist hiding out in the densely foliated lawns of the South end where my school was located.

To combat this 'fact of life' a campus car service was implemented; the Husky Patrol. The service would take you home after class if you were on the St. Mary's campus (within a given radius from the university—luckily I lived within the permitted area). That was a lifeline; especially after daylight savings time clicked into play-- making a walk in the dark inevitable unless you were off campus by 4:30.

Despite the car service, I still ended up walking in the dark. I had an evening class on the Dalhousie campus that required a long walk down Robie Street. There was no way, other than paying out of my own pocket, to avoid walking alone after dark. So not only did we women have to live in fear, we also had to pay more to attend classes if we wanted to feel safe. And just to be sure I am clear, I am talking taxis not buses-- there is nothing scarier than standing on a mostly deserted street corner for fifteen or twenty minutes in the dark waiting for a bus.

Poster campaigns littered the walls of all the womens bathrooms telling us who to call if we were raped and what defensive measures we should take to avoid being a victim; carry our keys slotted through our fingers, add a rape alarm to our keychain, etc. I never once saw a poster directed at men telling them how not to be raped.

After a while I think we all internalized these warnings—and what they really meant. First, this was a woman’s problem. Second, as women we would never be safe.

During my years as a young undergrad I did some things that, in retrospect, were stupid but they should not have been. It shouldn't have been up to me to be constantly on my guard. How many of the young male undergrads were worried about date rape, walking home at night, or if they were placing themselves in a dangerous situation by coming back to my apartment? I am guessing not many.

When I went home from the Northern Pikes concert with a cute guy from Iona-- I should not have been kicking myself the next day for the possibly dangerous situation I had put myself in. Luckily for me he was the gentleman my female friends, who knew him from back home, said he was.

Now, over 20 years later I am back on campus. Last week I was walking to my car after dark. I have a night class, and I thought to myself how liberating it was not to feel afraid. My lack of fear was not due to a decrease in the probability of danger that a woman walking alone at night faces-- my fear was diminished because I now felt that my maturity would help me better handle whatever life might throw at me.

These days I am mostly afraid for the young women I know and my daughters. Things don't seem to have gotten any better then when I went on my first 'take back the night' march two decades ago. At this point I want to write a reality cheque to those who think such actions make any difference to the plight of women and the potential for sexual violence that we all face. Such marches, like all movements that confront the issue of sexual violence, will not have positive results until as many men as women attend these events.

I sincerely hope that the current discussion around sexual violence will create a movement towards change in which everyone will participate. I don't want my daughters to grow up fearing what lurks around the next bend in the road, behind a seemingly vacant bathroom stall door, or within the young man they just met at a concert.

I am tired of being afraid of the dark.

Kink or crime—loss of hope and trust is the result

Last week I heard some stunning news break over the airwaves; CBC had broken off their relationship with long-time radio host Jian Ghomeshi. I had been a fan of Ghomeshi's since he started his flagship morning radio show Q and I could not believe what my ears were hearing.

As the day went on more news broke on the story and then there was the famous/infamous Facebook post that Ghomeshi published in order to get the jump on the upcoming media storm.

My first thought when I read Ghomeshi's post was, 'Well at least he is straight-- all be it with a few kinks.' Because with a voice that a girlfriend of mine described as 'chocolatey' I doubt I am the only woman who thought it would be nice if he was available in the heterosexual supermarket. A visceral if not enlightened reaction.

After that it was disbelief. This man, who I had gone to bed with night after night via the radio waves, could not possibly be a sexual predator. A criminal.

I did not want to believe that I had once again put my trust in some one only to find it blasted to pieces like some kind of pumpkin drop on Late Night with David Letterman-- another case in point for disappointment.

How could it be that a man that I had heard arbitrate a discussion on rape culture had suddenly become the poster boy for the topic?

And then there is the other thing, a very unfair thing but nonetheless a truism-- Ghomeshi is Iranian and he personified what it means to be Iranian to most Canadians. It is a very heavy burden that he certainly should not be weighted with but through his openness we learned about Iran and the wonders that are hidden behind the country's not-so-loveable leaders. Through him we have been given a glimpse of a culture that we otherwise would not have had and no doubt would not have gone in search of. He's done more to make Canadians see Iran and its people for what they really are; people, than any other person or cultural outreach effort I can think of. How much of that progress will now be lost? I hope not much.

At this point I have stopped reading the Ghomeshi media coverage. There have too often been people in the public eye that we looked up to only later to find out that they were secret monsters.

Constantly misjudging people in the public eye has left me feeling jaded. I know that as listeners to radio we feel an intimacy with the voices that enter our lives and this is part of the beauty of the medium. But I also know that this feeling of knowing the voice that comes out of the box is misplaced. We don't know them any more than they know us; the listener.

No matter what happens now with lawsuits and accusations, the cultural life of Canada has been dealt a serious blow and once again the publics' trust has been waylaid.

Fat Ass

Last week someone called me a fat ass. I will clarify that and say 'he' called me a fat ass because I find that this sort of comment often comes from men. Of course I am a woman and am more likely to be ridiculed by a man but I doubt that a noticeably slender man would ever be called a fat ass by a woman.

The other thing I want to say is that I hope my daughter heard this comment.

And why would I wish for such hateful words directed at me to be heard by my daughter and every other woman and girl-- so that they will know when someone directs these words at them, and it will happen if it has not happened already, that these words have nothing to do with physical appearance. These words directed at women or girls are meant to sting and shame. They play on our insecurities and make us hate our bodies no matter how they look.

And I wish my daughter had heard them – heard them directed at me – all 115 pounds of me.

A few months ago I found my daughter standing in front of a full length mirror and she told me she didn't like how she looked. She said she was fat and what is more a male friend of hers had called her fat several months before that.

I remember that incident well; we had talked about it at the time. They had been playing and the boy wanted her to move off the slide and when she didn't he called her fat. She was visibly hurt by the comment and I told her that people say these things not because they are true but because they know those words are hurtful and mean. I told her that people had called me fat and asked her if she thought I was fat. She quickly said that I was not fat and was astonished that anyone would have ever called me that. I wanted her to understand that when someone calls a woman or girl fat it is not about their actual appearance it is about trying to hurt the woman or girl's sense of self worth.

So last week when this ignorant man told me to get off my fat ass I was hoping my daughter heard him so she could fully understand the explanation I had given about the senselessness of these words when they were directed at her or any one else. They do not reflect reality. They only highlight the ignorance and baseness of the person who chooses to hurl them like Molotov cocktails.

Do not let others create the image you have of yourself. It's a tall order. As the mother of two girls it will be a battle I will be fighting for years to come but I hope discussing such thoughtless words will help pave the way for them towards a body positive future.

Wrecking ball

Ok-- I am well behind the cultural zeitgeist but two days ago I heard the song Wrecking Ball for the first time. And I liked it. Mainly I liked the chorus and the way Cyrus cuts it up on “You wreck me”.

Currently listening to it on full volume now that the kids have gone to school.

So watching this vdo, and having heard much of the brouhaha about it when it first came out, but not having seen it—I have to say the part that disturbs me most about the vdo is the sexualization of a sledge hammer.

I know there was a lot of talk about Cyrus being highly sexualized in this vdo but the part that is most gratuitous, most meant for the male gaze, is where she licks the sledge hammer. This is purely a male fantasy. No woman wants to lick a sledge hammer. And this is what bothers me the most. I don't mind if she performs acts that satisfy her own sexuality but to pander to male sexual fantasies is why I will not let my daughters watch this vdo.

Being naked and swinging on a wrecking ball may be stimulating –I have no problem with that. The air on your skin, the internal spike that swinging sensation causes—could be a good thing for a woman. Not that I am going to test out my theory-- but I can imagine it.

And I find her clothes in the vdo much more disturbing than her nudity. Her clothes are skimpy, highly sexualized while the shots of her when she is naked are somewhat tasteful. Nice angles, good positioning to hide the obvious, more risky, bits. The human body is a work of art-- it was her clothes that reduced her to the lowest sexual denomination.

I dislike most pop vdos-- its all women slapping their scantily clad asses and pushing their augmented breasts into your face—this is far from the worst offender in terms of the sexualization of modern day pop divas. Cyrus got called out for what I think is the least offensive part of the vdo-- her naked body.

Undecided

Does celebrity erase past crimes? Does time served efface the evil done?

An acquaintance of mine met Mike Tyson today. She posted her encounter with Iron Mike on Facebook noting that he had a strong handshake and that the person who offered to take her photo with Tyson was shaking so badly that all the photos were blurry.

My first reaction was-- cool, she met a celebrity.

My next reaction was-- Hey, what's up with the photo op with a convicted rapist.

If you were walking down the street and saw a man walk by who you knew was a convicted rapist would you ask him if you could have your picture taken with him? Most likely the answer is no. I predict that not one person would, when given this scenario, answer yes.

Of course when you throw the fact that the rapist is a celebrity in the mix the answer to this question seems to change-- at least for some people.

I have to think that, like me, her first reaction was –cool, a famous person just entered my orbit. Maybe her impulse to snap a selfie with a celebrity was as far as her mind worked through the situation.

I also have to consider that she is younger than me and from a different country and may not even be aware of Tyson's stint in jail or his conviction for rape. Maybe she just knows he's the guy in the Hangover movies.

And even if she did know about his conviction maybe she believes in rehabilitation. This leaves me questioning if I do. If you do the time for your crime should you forever be painted as your former self; a sort of Dorian Gray, never finding release from your past? Or are some crimes so heinous that a person should never be accepted in society after they have been convicted of committing them?

Following this line is making me question whether it is acceptable or not to take a selfie with Mike Tyson. For me—celebrity, redemption, debt paid to society with time served—I'd still walk away. What about you?

Hope

This morning I was prepared to write about climate change. There were protest marches across the globe yesterday to focus attention on the issue as the UN is set to meet in New York this week and climate change on the agenda.

I love a good rally but there were none scheduled close to where I live; the nearest was 1 1/2 hours away and I could not bear the hypocrisy of driving that far to protest the fossil fuel economy.

The course I am currently in, Health and the Environment, deals a lot with climate change and the effect it will have on us all-- from increased adverse weather events to the spread of disease. I would love to use less petroleum based energy but right now the best green technology is out of my economic reach.

So instead of driving to a rally in Cape Breton or Halifax I went to my local beach and picked garbage from the shoreline. It's a little thing, and next week there will be just as much, but it is the least I can do at the moment.

This and more is what I planned to write about but then I got sidetracked by Facebook. And not by the thousand useless, inane updates: post if you love your mother, think cousins are the best or believe it's always wine-o'clock somewhere. I was distracted by the great suffering of a little girl. A little girl whose mom was a childhood friend of mine. Reading her post about how her eldest daughter has been suffering these past months and how, at this moment, she is in hospital, struggling with an unknown illness, is so heart wrenching. I, and everyone else except her medical team, are helpless.

This morning I thought about sharing her most recent post which detailed the horrible night they had just been through-- but then I didn't really know why I wanted to share that update. I guess I wanted to share it because a shared pain is easier to survive than a hidden one. I guess I wanted people to know why I was distracted today. I guess I wanted to share it just in case the energy of our thoughts could help this child and her family.

There's nothing else I can write at the moment. I can't think beyond the word hope. That's what I will be doing today.

The second act

Life begins at 40. That's a well-worn phrase typically meant to make that momentous birthday pass a little less painfully for those that are age adverse.

Last year, at this time, I turned 40. And at that time I found nothing to write in honour of that significant event. What did it matter, it was just a number, just another year. I did give it some thought though. 40-- it is the half way point in life—if you are lucky. The first half of my life was full of accomplishments, adventures and a little mayhem. What was going to happen in the second act? Was I just going to coast along in the life I had created—the house, the kids the job?

One thing I know about myself is that I am never content without goals, without something I am working towards. I had been sinking into a deep ennui for several years, all my goals fulfilled: I had my family, worked in my aspired to field, bought my house. I didn't know what I wanted next but I knew there had to be a next.

For many years I had debated applying for a MA in Adult Education. It was offered at a nearby university as a distance education program with only a short period required on campus. But after thinking about it for years, and looking at it seriously last winter, I decided it was not the program for me. The thought of it did not make my heart beat faster. If I was going to return to school for fun and excitement, I have never pursued education for practical reasons, this clearly was not going to provide that experience I was craving. I wanted to go back to school—I love being in university and learning new things—but the thought of this course of study left me cold.

But I knew university was the thing missing from my life.

I looked at the sciences. I have always been interested in Biology but the thought of slogging through another undergraduate degree was daunting—especially at my age. I looked into applying for a Msc but whereas my other degrees were in the Arts the likelihood of acceptance was not great.

This summer I took the advice that I had given others who were reluctant about going to university due to the time it would take to finish a degree; time passes no matter what you do but if you are in school –when the years roll on you have the degree, the experience, you were wanting.

I put time considerations aside and applied for my Bsc with a ball of excited anxiety pulling at my stomach. I looked at the course catalogue and knew it was the right decision. The thrill I got from the things I could be studying—it was like academic porn.

Going back to school for me feels like reuniting with an old lover; I'm a little nervous and a lot excited. I run scenarios in my head of the coming days, months and years. I'll caress my new text books and breathe in their heady scent. I'll stumble bleary eyed through the day, after a night of elicit learning, fuelled by the excitement of what I might discover at the next lecture or lab.

I'll enter exam rooms with the confidence of a seasoned vaudeville performer. It is my place, my home, my love.

I can't wait for the second act.

All that-- and I want the ring.

Dissonance

I am a time traveller,

shape shifter,

life jumper.

Past lives intersect in my nightmares and day dreams

They crash into each other at odd angles

Small town signs on big city streets

Asian smells in country kitchens

Beds unfamiliar and lives unfinished

Evolution and reincarnation with every rotation of the earth.

Where I am is where I am not.

Body and mind disconnected,

One constantly pulling the other into alternate realities.

The wheel always turns,

But time folds in on me.

That once straight arrow

Is bent and creased like discarded origami

Happy Anniversary

This week I celebrate my one year anniversary; an anniversary that was so life-altering that I just had to write a post about it. One year ago I started running.

I know I am about to start sounding like a religious convert; but running has changed my life. I could never have guessed that putting one foot in front of the other could make such an impact.

One year ago I hit the Trans Canada trail in my almost dead winter boots. The trail was packed with snow and ice-- but I felt the time had come to get out and do something for myself. In the past seven years I rarely found time to do anything recreational let alone physically challenging-- my mind and body were crying out for it-- but it was a need that would not be easily met after such a long period of physical dormancy.

I have always been an active person to some degree; have had bouts of being a weight-lifting gym monkey, dabbled in martial arts, fencing, kayaking, rock climbing. I have always been a prodigious walker. But running was a new challenge.

In the beginning I hoped to run 20 minutes without stopping; other than that I had no goals. I just wanted a 20 minute work out to fit into my always busy day.

Things started off pretty good by my standard—some of my first days out I could run for 10 minutes. Then other days doing five was a real chore. But once I had done 10 I knew I could do more.

In three months I was up to 20 minutes, not every day but most. I could run 5 km in about half and hour and was pretty happy with that. I ran almost every day that my kids were in school.

And then summer came.

Most people would consider summer a blessing for any running enthusiast but for me it meant less time to get out on trails and dirt roads because the children no longer had school.

It became my habit to run during every birthday party the kids got invited to; this often meant new roads in different areas of the county. Exploring new ground added to the adventure.

Luckily birthday parties were not the only excitement on offer for kids in this area over the summer holiday and I enrolled the kids in almost everything –recreation for them meant running for me.

I also went home to Massachusetts and went running there with my cousins and ran my first race—a 5 km to raise funds for a Boston bombing victim.

And when my family came to Nova Scotia for a visit, I had a running buddy and a supply of aunts to watch the kiddies while I hit the road.

After my first race I started to dream of more-- I got ready to tackle a 5 mile race in my home town. At first that seemed like an impossible goal but I did it and then did another 5 mile road race in the next town down the shore.

In July and August running 5 miles was the end of me for the rest of the day-- I had to come home and sleep. I could not run the next day. It took all my energy. So 5 mile runs were not something I was planning to make a habit of doing-- regular 5 km runs seemed good enough.

And then there was the dreaded coming of winter. I could not imagine being a winter runner. Those people were nuts!

Yet again I surprised myself and learned how to run through the winter. Running in the winter when it is harder to get overheated helped me run farther. I went from a regular 5 km run to a regular 5 mile run several times a week.

Now we are heading into a new spring and today I ran just over 6 miles and didn't feel like a limp rag after my run. I have also managed to stay up past 10 pm with no post-run nap.

Every day is not a 6 mile day but they are feeling more normal-- 5km is just enough to get me warmed up now.

When I used to see people running I would ask myself-- why would you do that to yourself? Now I have a few answers to that question.

Running has made me feel more energetic and less stressed. It is my form of meditation, my time to work out everything in my head.

Running always leaves me thinking about how much I can do the next day; excited to get out of bed and back on the road.

Running has brought me closer to some members of my family and my community. It has made me a better person who is disciplined in at least this one aspect of my life (despite my passion for writing I am never disciplined about sitting down and getting the words out on the screen).

The experience has been a conversion for me-- a new way of living, a new force in my life.

It warrants celebration- one year on the run.

Out on the town

Below is my not very embellished version of a conversation I overheard last night. Writing dialogue is tough-- just trying it out:

“The baby is kicking a lot,” she comments to her slouching partner who is sprawling artlessly in the chair on the other side of the table.

He orders another round of drinks. He does it loudly as if the carrying capacity of his voice increases his importance.

When his attempt at upstaging his forthcoming child's bid for attention fails, he bellows to the remote waitress, “Another round of drinks for everyone.” The room, including the waitress, continue to ignore him.

“Cathy and Phil are going to get married and she asked me to be the bridesmaid but that'll be hard when I'm pregnant,” she says.

“Get married, why the hell would they do that? Why the hell do that?” His reaction to the news is clearly disconcerting. Marriage is not something he's considering while his girlfriend sits there hopefully sipping her herbal tea sneaking occasional glances at her rippling abdomen. She looks off into the middle distance and imagines him on his knees with dewy eyes and a ring for her hand that rest lightly on her baby bump.

“She's had a really tough life and they are good for each other,” she tells him qualifying the reasons for marriage, the thought process behind proposals.

“Oh, Jesus. Would you look at that guy with the fucking cane. He's like 20 and he doesn't have a fucking limp. What a homo.” He orders another round as he watches the young man walk towards the bar.

“You go ahead,” she says as she plays with the lemon that remains on the bottom of her tea cup. If only the leaves within could instruct her, direct her toward the best path.

They're moving soon to Alberta. They'll never be close to friends or family he tells her, “Get used to it.”

“I found a program in Calgary where I can get my yoga certification so I don't have to go all over the place,” she tells him.

“I think I'll go to Thailand. Yeah Thailand,” is his response.

There are lots of ways to die in Thailand-- attack by supposedly tamed and sedated tigers, decapitation by train trestle, crocodile attacks in flooded streets, and the usual alcohol and drug related modes of self-immolation. But he's not seeking martyrdom, he's not planning to actually leave her and 'the baby'; which is unfortunate for them all.

Single motherhood is scary but not as scary as the man across the table.

They walk out of the bar; he's drunk at 7:30. She's only showing slightly but the bump may already be influencing her decisions; she's going to run while she still can.

Starting off on the right note

This is not a bucket list thing, this is a -- I finally have the time, money and opportunity—thing. From the early days when as a child I played a masking tape version of the 88 keys at my great-aunt Lois' house, to plinking about with a thorough lack of artistry at my great-aunt Eveleen's—learning the piano has always been one of those things; one of those things that I have longed to pursue.

As a youth I had visions of sitting around the piano and belting out show tunes and Disney classics. In school my friends and I had that opportunity every lunch hour where a piano practice room was made available to us and a die-hard group gathered to sing while one of the 15-year-old girls in our group played endless versions of 'The Rose'.

My favourite CD of all time is my Glenn Gould Goldberg variations-- it is perfect, right down to the huffing breathe sounds on many of the tracks.

Many kids had piano lessons. Many hated them. I didn't have the chance to hate lessons and longed for the chance to get my hands on those black and white keys.

I did play the flute one year. It was an instrument that we had in the house; it had been my mother's and the school I was in that year-- Dawson Creek; the same one with the piano practice room—had band class. My band teacher, Ms. Coats was wonderful and I spent, on average, two hours on practice every day after school and longer on weekends. Ms. Coats was always amazed by my weekly practice sheet totals.

I have several flutes at hand now—a Irish flute and a standard Boehm beauty with intricate filigree on the mouth piece, but instead of stepping back into the past-- and resurrecting my ability to play the flute—I want to move ahead and learn something completely new.

...

Had my first lesson and it is surprising what a spring it has put in my step. I even played one little practice song.

To Greg Favaro and the Favaro School of Music Performance; that was awesome. It is fabulous to have this opportunity. Thank you so much.