Tuesday poll

From Neerg, a Tuesday poll.

Simply copy and paste the questions below and leave your answers as a comment:

How are you feeling today?
Tired - two nights of 3am-6am insomnia...Hoping this will stop soon!

What are you wearing right now?
My fave blue jean shorts, black zipper sweater and pink booties - Halifax is amazingly cool in the summer, most days.

Where are you and where would you rather be?
In my home office. If I have to be working anywhere, I'd rather it be here!

Your all time happy song?
Most upbeat music makes me happy, so I'm not sure how to answer this one.

What book/s are you reading?
Finishing American Wife but looking forward to start Julie and Julia, and am also halfway through Cibou (hoping that one gets more interesting soon)...

Do you have pets at home?
No, but I consider the friendly golden lab across the street who visits us as good as a pet - all the benefits without the cleanup and fur everywhere.

Quotable Monday

I have a small notebook I picked up several years ago, in which I write down titles of books I would like to read, titles of books I have read and quotes from books that I have found particularly memorable.

So, on this drizzly Monday, I'll share some of those quotes, from The Sweet Edge:

"Words are a breath expelled, the part of the body that rises and disappears. The first part of the body to be gone."

"On the tundra, the wind blows, but there are no trees to reflect this. The thought untranslated...the tundra is the image of the body inside out. It is wearing the soul on the outside."

Why Do I Write? Writing "jusqu'au bout"

Why do I write? Why am I driven to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and why as this haunted me since I first learned to read? Here's a post I made on the jour3441 blog a few months ago, and I think it encapsulates it well...


“There were nights during the decade that Adrian Nicole LeBlanc reported Random Family (2002) that she’d grow so fatigued she would simply hand her tape recorder to her interview subject and go home to sleep.” So begins this article in the New Journalism Review, which discusses Adrian Nicole Le Blanc’s book Random Family, the seed of which was “Landing From the Sky.” When I read that Le Blanc researched her subjects for 12 years, all I can do is be impressed with her dedication and perseverance. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be so driven by your subject, and to believe so deeply that the story that you want to tell is important enough that you would spend 12 years researching it to the point of exhaustion, and then be able to make something of the material.


I’m currently reading Pierre Berton’s The Joy of Writing, and I see a parallel here with Le Blanc’s dedication. One of Berton’s key points is that writers write because they have to. Even if it means working a 10-hour day in a mining camp as he did as a youth, then coming home to write and write and write, to the detriment of friends and family, if that’s what it takes. Writers have no other choice. Perhaps this was the case with Le Blanc.


I can’t remember a time where I didn’t believe that writing was my calling. In fact I can’t really imagine a life without writing. But when I read Berton’s book or learn about Le Blanc’s dedication, the thing that scares me is that I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt that relentless, burning drive that fuels “real” writers like Berton and Le Blanc, certainly not to the point where it became a feverish passion. Maybe my feeling that I am not a “real” writer has a lot to do with the impostor syndrome I've often written about - I seem to be scared to start a story. The blank page is so often intimidating and each time I begin, there is indeed a fear that perhaps this time, I’ll be found out for a fraud. Perhaps this time I won’t be able to do it. Often times the writing is agonizing, with me staring blankly into space, keying in a few words only to realize that the rhythm and structure are all wrong. But then there comes a point where the words and the story fall into place. I can hear their tone, their cadence, the structure works and they spill out onto the screen. From that point on, the story lives, and I can’t stop until it is all down. The afterglow of that moment where everything falls into place is the best kind of satisfaction I know.


I admire Le Blanc for her perserverance in following her subjects for such a lengthy time span and seeing the project through to its end. There must have come a point where they might have begun to feel like family. Yet I didn’t get the sense that she was emotionally connected to her subjects. The story reads objectively: here are the lives that these women have lived. Le Blanc’s story simply reads as a window into their realities over an impressive timespan. I find it funny that she received harsh criticism both from the left for not addressing the social issues, and from the right for seeming to condone these lifestyles.


I do wonder though about her methodology of simply handing the women a tape recorder and asking them to speak into it. I guess it would have been the best way to gather information from the women over such a long time span (especially if she also had a full-time job), and it might have garnered a lot more honest moments from them than if LeBlanc was just hanging around all the time. In a way, that’s the best kind of fly on the wall reporting technique. But imagine the transcription and organization that would have been required! I can only think that there could be dozens of variations of stories on the same theme, just depending on how the information was structured and what information was selected. And so I come back to my original point - this was a massive undertaking and while I’ll be frank that I wasn’t totally drawn in by the characters in the story, I am completely impressed by the methodology that LeBlanc used for this article.


I love the phrase “Jusqu’au boutiste” from Tony Horowitz's From Baghdad Without a Map. In addition to being a great metaphor for the story itself, I think it’s also a great metaphor for writers such as LeBlanc, Horowitz and Berton. Each of them are driven by such a need to tell their story that they will go to the end - “le bout” - to tell their story. Even if that means putting their lives in danger.


There’s someting oddly fascinating about Horowitz’s story - the fact that he was willing to put himself literally in the line of fire to get a real sense of what was happening in Beirut. And what made his writing all that much more appealing was what many critics have said - he has a great skill for juxtaposing the comic and the horriffic, within the space of a few lines. For instance: “I found myself sighing as each rocket shell streaked through the night. Look at the oranges! The pinks! The display was carefully choreographed.” Or: “We laughed again. The cannons boomed, twice in succession.”


I also really liked the description of the boat - the tropical showers above, and the one-armed bandits beneath…Such a marriage of contradictions, much like Horowitz’s article itself. But what I really appreciated was one moment of honesty with the reader, where he admits:
“It was one of those uncomfortable journalistic times I’d experienced many times before. After fourteen hours together, we’d become buddies. Now, having milked Marwan for all the quotes I needed, I was headed back to safety and he was headed into hell.”


This might be a moment many writers experience in the process of infiltrating their subjects’ lives - at some point, they have to leave and the subjects remain. But the fact that Horowitz decided to continue on with Marwan for a bit made me respect him all the more.


I’ve always found that there’s something oddly exotic about travel writing - wandering the world and getting paid to do it (though not necessarily if it means getting into the line of fire). Yet at the same time, it must be a challenge to balance the immersion in a place with trying to write a story. To explain what I mean, I’ll go back to a few weeks ago, when I was observing my yoga instructor for a story I was researching. I had interviewed him a few times, and was getting into the story. In the meantime, I decided to take one of his classes as I usually did.


What I found was, now that I was writing about him, I couldn’t experience the class the same way that before I had decided to write the story. There was a different part of my brain at work now, that I couldn’t turn off. Every moment was being assessed for its merit as a potential scene. As I stretched in Downward Dog, my mind was racing frantically to try to put to memory some detail I’d noticed about my instructor - a gesture, a phrase. In the same way, I imagine that traveling and writing might be the same way - a different part of my brain might be working than if I was “just traveling.”


And now I come back full circle to the theme of writers who write because they are driven to. And this makes me think that for a “real” writer, every moment, every experience is a potential story. IS a story. So if they were traveling, whether on assignment or not, I don’t think it would be that different an experience for them. Perhaps what’s more consoling to me in my uncertainties about whether I am a “real” writer is that in the past few months, a different part of my brain has been switched back on again. Now that I think about it, I have been sifting each experience in my brain, weighing its worth as a potential story. Scribbling ideas in a notebook. Driving my boyfriend crazy with my oft-repeated observation that such and such “could make a really great story.” After hearing this refrain for a few months, S's eventual reply was,

“Don’t just talk about it then. DO something about it.”


Even though at the time his honesty cut, I realize now that it was because he was speaking the truth. I talk a lot more about writing than I actually write (ok apart from the fact that my full-time job is in publishing, but writing for an organization is different than writing for yourself.) Perhaps it’s true what they say - you are your worst critic. My fear of failure may keep my writing fresh, but it’s perhaps also what makes the glow of the blank screen seem so much more intimidating. I’m getting the sense that the only true remedy is to do what Pierre Berton recommends in his book: “Write. Write. Write. Read. Read. Read. Rewrite. Rewrite. Rewrite.”


And then go jusqu’au bout.

A lick of paint, two chairs and some pansies...

It's amazing what a lick of paint can do to turn a house into a home...In my last post I wrote that a man who loves me was going to paint the front porch. It seemed like an inane comment at the time, but it has changed our house and our relationship to it.

I'll admit it: we live in a suburban cookie-cutter neighbourhood, in the middle of a street where dozens of beige-sidinged homes face each other. We love our home, but it's a little funny how we have all been trying to assert our individuality on this street.

Last year, our neighbour painted her front door grey. It completely transformed her house. Soon after there was a green door, then an orange one. Crazy fuschia pink and brown doors followed suit. It seemed we were living on Jellybean Lane - our street became a rainbow of painted doors.

As winter and the Christmas holidays approached, the wreath wars began. Each of us trying to find that "perfect" circle of green to adorn our door and welcome guests. And neighbour after neighbour hung a bigger, and a more ornate wreath.

Two weeks ago, S and I decided to purchase a Victorian-looking screen door. It was startling how it changed the look of our home. Now *we* had become the individuals on the street. And for some reason the door became the talk of the street, according to some.

Two days later, our neighbours facing us put up a Victorian-looking screen door.

The following week, S spent five hours painting our porch white and the front door an electric blue (though it was meant to be a royal blue - you never can quite trust those "paint experts" at the hardware store...). We hung two baskets of pansies and bought two plastic Adirondack chairs.

I love driving up to our home now. On warm evenings, S and I sit out front and enjoy the sun with a beer. Some nights, our neighbours stop by for a chat. We feel such a sense of pride in what we have accomplished with a lick of paint, two chairs and some pansies.

Home is definitely where my heart is...

Has this ever happened to you? Why do you think our front door plays such a big role in asserting our individuality? I'm curious to hear your thoughts...In an era of cookie-cutter homes, I'm sure we're not alone in this experience.

~ Ceebie

It's a wonderful life...

I'm in the office now. Usually that phrase does not tend to follow "It's a wonderful life..." unless you're one of those lucky people who does those one in a million dream jobs. But I've gotta say, I'm feeling pretty close to it right now.

My office today is the back deck. My work attire consists of a bubble gum pink Garrison t-shirt S bought for me while we lived long distance last year. I was in the Big Smoke. He was here by the ocean, waiting for my arrival. I'm also wearing PJ pants with pink-clad reindeers riding Vespas, and my slipper booties.

The keys on my laptop are warm from the sun that is shining down on me through a blue sky overlain with a blanket of clouds...not smog. If you look closely, you may even be able to see a thin glimmer of ocean behind the hills of Point Pleasant Park in the distance. The leaves have started budding in the trees, which look like they've been spray-painted with a thin fuzz of that fresh spring green and brown. Somehow colours always look so much fresher at this time of year.

From the marsh and band of forest nearby come the twirps, chirrups and burbles of a dozen birds I haven't yet been able to identify, despite the backyard bird identification book S bought me last year. Some mornings I sit out back here and try to identify the audio clips to what I am hearing. So far I know we have red-winged blackbirds, marsh sparrows and Canada warblers as neighbours. And of course, the pigeons with their incessant cooing (though they seem to have left us alone). Every so often a breeze drifts over me, cooling off the keyboard.

In the distance, I hear the rumble of dump trucks and whir of a helicopter landing at the hospital. But no sirens. No constant roar of a river of traffic. This is about as noisy as it gets.

The sun is warm on my arms as I work. One day a week, I get to have this as my office space, because my boss is flexible enough to let me do this. For this, I feel tremendously lucky. I have a job that is important to me. A man who loves me is going to paint the front door and porch today. Who could ask for more?

~Ceebie

Two legs, 21.1 kilometres, one finish line...

I love to run. I mean actually it's more of a love-hate relationship. There are days when I have such a runner's high - my legs are pumping, there's no pain. It's easy. I feel lucky to be healthy enough to do it.

Other days are different. I wonder why the heck I put myself through it. "Snain" - that wonderful east coast precipitation that's neither snow or rain - is pouring down on me. As I limp up the hills of Halifax, my legs are in utter agony. My feet are cold and wet. My clothing and hair are pasted on to me. I arrive home, and my fingers are white from the cold. On those days, I tell myself it would be so easy to just become a couch potato.

Yet something always compels me to keep going. Most of the time, actually, it's my fiancé. He reminds me of the work I've already put in. Tells me it'll feel better once I'm done (it usually does) and that I'll feel proud of myself. So on those days that I'm dragging my butt, I still pull on my running gear, lace my shoes, strap on my watch and head out the door.

So if I was able to cross the finish line yesterday at the Halifax Bluenose Half Marathon, it's largely because of S and the people who believe in me, including the great folks from run club.

As I lined up in the race corral yesterday, I could hear S's encouragement in the back of my mind. I no longer cared about staying "on pace." I knew he would be proud of me no matter what my time. I'd put in three and a half months of training (through the good days and the bad) and he was waiting for me at the finish line. This was, as John Stanton puts it, a celebration of healthy living.

Standing at the start, surrounded by thousands runners, I turned my attention inwards. Visualized looking down at my watch and seeing 1:48 on it as I crossed the finish line (that was a little ambitious, I'll admit). I knew I had trained for this and had run 22 kilometres before, but there's always that burst of nervous anticipation when you're waiting for the start, and the anxious uncertainty that perhaps this time, I won't be able to complete it.

The Halifax Highlanders shot the starting gun. I turned on my iPod, and thousands of us took off, although getting past the starting mat always takes a few minutes. We rounded the Citadel, turned right at the highschool. As we neared the one kilometre marker, I checked my pace band - I was on target, but there was no way that I'd be able to keep this up. So I just decided to run and ignore my pace - there were 20 kilometres left to go.

We ran through Acricola and down by the naval base. Ahead of me was a river of runners taking over the streets. Running by the Haligonians who lined Barrington street to cheer us on, the traffic at a standstill, I felt proud. As we ran down Young Street to Point Pleasant, a group of three or four runners were already heading back - they must have been a good 20 or 30 minutes ahead of us! We cheered them on as we kept going in the other direction.

Entering the park, two teenage boys who were running the marathon whooped as they saw their family, then kept going. As the fog drifted over the ocean, the weather cooled a little. The gravel crunched under our pounding feet. A fishing boat floated nearby. Iwas glad that instead of smog, I smelled salt in the air.

As we headed back down Young street after exiting the park, I high-fived a young boy standing along the edge of the street. "All right!" he yelled. "Looking great!" Their cheers and claps gave me the extra energy to keep going. So many volunteers were there in their purple shirts and orange smocks to cheer us on. Halifax has an amazing way of coming together on race day.

Nearing Spring Garden Road, an older gentleman asked a group of women running near me - "Is this the 10k race?" he asked. "No," they answered. "You're in the half marathon but you're doing great! You're at 14k!" No matter where you go, runners are always so polite and are a great source of support for each other.

As we continued along Agricola Street and by Hydrostone with only five kilometres left to go, I knew I wouldn't finish in the time I'd been training for, but I didn't care. And although the little nagging voice inside of me kept asking whether I could really do this, there were times in that race yesterday where everything came together, and I felt great...There were actual moments of almost effortlessness where the kilometres melted away, one by one. I actually smiled a few times too!

Crossing the finish line at one hour and 56 minutes, I was just so pleased to be able to say that I have one more half marathon under my belt. I think I'll try my legs at another few halfs before I try a full, but I believe now that I can do it, if I try hard enough.

For today, it's a day of R&R for me, and of basking in the post-race glow...

~ Ceebie

Discovering my inner green thumb

I've written so many times over the years about how often in this urban world we lose connection with the natural world. Our concrete lives are not likely to sprout much, except for a few hardy dandelions and weeds. I never thought it would happen to me. How could it? I have a love for nature and love being near the sea, in a park or even back country with my canoe. Lose connection to nature? Moi?

Yet it's only after I started writing this post that I realised what that means. It's more than just losing an appreciation for green things. It's losing connection with the rhythm of the earth and of the seasons. And that realization just hit me this morning while writing this post.

S and I had been condo and apartment dwellers in the Big Smoke (or just outside of) for several years. I'd head out on the madness that is a 12-lane highway a few times a week and be secretely horrified at the vast expanses of grey...But then he moved out to Nova Scotia, and I followed. We are now next to the sea and I know what it means to have the salt air run through your veins. The last time I returned to Toronto, I missed the sea within a matter of days.

Just over a year ago when we bought our home, we actually sought out a house with a postage stamp-sized yard because we thought we wouldn't want to have to tend to a garden...Being apartment dwellers, we'd never had a green space to call our own.

How we were wrong!

Last summer, the handy man that is my fiancé toiled away in the front yard with a pick-axe for a week. Nova Scotia is mainly rock, sea and sky - not exactly the best climate for a garden. So after pulling out boulder after boulder after boulder (we've since discovered we could have rented a back-hoe for a reasonable price and saved his back) and dumping in I don't know how much soil and mulch, we had a garden.

Heading out to the garden centre was overwhelming - so many options to choose from, and what if they don't work well together once we've planted things side by side? But once we decided to relax about it, things went more smoothly. We realized that should we not like the plants in a few monts or even a year, we could reposition them easily. So we planted a red maple and a few other well-positioned plants, and S was out there every evening watering and tending to them.

Soon enough though, fall came, a little earlier than in other parts of the country. The leaves fell, the last blooms faded. I bought a bunch of crocus bulbs and dug holes for them in the mulch and soil - giving us something to look forward to for the spring.

It was a long winter, but finally, spring arrived, a little later than in other parts of the country. A few weeks ago, little green shoots started poking through the mulch - little green exclamation marks scattered in the brown, saying "look, we're alive again." It didn't take long for the purple and white crocus heads to emerge - a welcome splash of colour after a winter of whites and greys. I spent a rewarding afternoon a few weeks ago pruning back the dead twigs and weeding out the weedy invaders.

Now, the buds are forming on our willows and maple. The rose and spirea we planted look like they're breathing life again. The astilbe is well on its way too. All of a sudden I'm paying much more attention to what is in my neighbours' yards, getting a sense for when things emerge. An azalea would be lovely now, its splash of purple brightening things up before the rhododendrons bloom. And maybe we'll plant tulips this fall, too.


Who'd have thought we'd enjoy discovering our inner green thumbs? Gardening has become something we can both share. It's a way to measure the seasons, and to marvel at the mysteries of the natural world, right in our front yard. We have big plans for the backyard now, too. And this year, we'll be hiring the backhoe.

~ CB

PS - my parents just came back from Crete yesterday. They spent two weeks hiking through its more rural areas. My dad told me a story of walking into a tiny restaurant in a village somewhere. As the owner served them dinner he said: "This is my lamb. My bread. My cheese. My olive oil." Now that's what I call being connected to nature. And what a sense of satisfaction!