Moonkin Musings

Remembrance Day has held some drama for me over the years. When I was little, and not in school yet, my Mom explained to me that soldiers had died for us during the war and this was our opportunity to thank them and honour them. I followed her example of solemnity from that early age.

In school, we were given small brown envelopes to collect change for the Veterans and to “buy” our poppies. Even at that age, the task was held with great seriousness and lacked the usual giggles associated with anything outside the normal grade one routine.

When I was in grade 10, we had a service delivered over the PA system. We paid our respects by standing for the playing of the national anthem and Taps. During the 2 minutes of silence, my friend Ingrid was standing behind me and she started to rattle her desk. Me being the proper, quiet, non-rattly student I was thought this to be unscholarly behaviour and cast my evil eye back to her. Ingrid didn’t look at me but kept on shaking, more fervently. After my second dirty look, my friend collapsed on the floor. Typical grade 10 commotion ensued and Ingrid regained herself in a few moments. She had fallen at skating practice that morning and had suffered a concussion. The following year I stood behind Ingrid and kept my dirty looks to myself.

In more recent Remembrance days, my places of work have observed the day with a short ceremony. On October 22nd, 1998 my dear mom passed away. I was at Novocol for the memorial service on November 11th that year. I recall we were in a meeting and at 11:00am, Taps was played over our phone system and we had our two minutes of silence. I remember chewing on the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying in the meeting. The memory of that day still brings me to tears even now as I write this.

So this Saturday at 11:00am, I will do as my mom taught me, and thank the soldiers who died for us in the war and now that I know a little more I will offer thanks to those who fought and lived as well.

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On our final day in Edinburgh, Nick and I go off on an adventure. At the opposite end of the Royal Mile from the Castle is Arthur’s seat, a beautiful natural formation that you can climb. The “mountain” begins at Holyrood, which is the castle the Queen stays in when she visits Edinburgh. There is a cute gift shop there for all your lavender drawer scent needs and a much appreciated loo. Not seeing any obvious signage we follow a trail up the incline. There is another more gentle looking slope but I notice a do not enter sign and people coming down the hill…so I figure the path is a circle and one should travel in one direction around it. Shows you what I know!

Nick and I make our way up the once paved path that is now mostly gravelly asphalt. It is a good work-out and we are getting our cardio workout done for the day. The “road” eventually meets up with another path that leads back down to a main highway, but it is on the other side of the Seat than where we started. We also haven’t really made it to the summit and that was the loose goal we had set out to achieve. There was a sign indicating that only experienced climbers with equipment should carry on, so we were unsure how to proceed.

We found a small trail that lead a little deeper in the mountain and that lead to a lovely path of stairs made out of rocks. Many people of various sizes, ages and fitness levels seemed to be coping with the climb, so despite my growing unease I agree to go for it. I use the shrubs growing along the side of the stairs as a sort of railing until I stick my hand in a pile of nettles. OUCH! Nick is happily taking photos and enjoying the view. I keep my eyes on the stairs in front of me and try to keep from thinking about how the heck I would get down these slippery rocks with the wind picking up.

The nice stair trail eventually turns into more of just a steep path on the side of the mountain…just what I love the most! My breathing is laboured from the climb and as a blast of wind tips me a bit my emotions take over and I’m in the middle of a panic attack. It feels like gasping for air through a straw (not the MacDonald milkshake straws…the tiny straws you get with a rum and coke). Eventually with Nick’s help I realize there is really no danger and I calm down. It also helped that I stopped climbing for a bit and my heart rate slowed a little.

Nick is confident that there is another way down Arthur’s Seat. I don’t know where he was getting his tourist information but I was hopeful he was correct because I didn’t want to face a trip down those windy stairs. We were very close to our goal now and there were a bunch of kids in view frolicking at the top. The way up looked like a serious hike up the shrubby terrain but Nick found a path with a railing! What a concept. Alas the railing ended about 50 feet from the top of Arthur’s Seat and the path was narrow, rocky and very windy. All of my climbing courage had been spent and I couldn’t see my way to getting to the top.

Nick was certain there had to be an easy way down. He found a lovely meandering path that passed by a ruin and we ended up on the “do not enter” path windblown but whole. Nick pointed out that he never thinks about anything about the way back on the trek, he just enjoys the moment. I however, am always anticipating how difficult the next phase of the journey will be. Hmm…isn’t that an interesting metaphor for life. I’m endeavouring to not anticipate a rough road anymore and just be in the path I’m on.

When we got back to Holyrood (after a tip to the loo), I looked back at the path and from the more distant perspective, I could see that the “do not enter” sign was meant for cars. It would have been the easier stroll up Arthur’s Seat! I suppose that is a lesson in recognizing when a sign isn’t really meant for me.

Current Mood: Reflectory

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We have had an overnight guest for sometime now. I saw one of our visitors the first day we were back from across the pond. He boldly ran across our living room whilst I got caught up on Prison Break. He was spotted the next night again whilst watching TV with friends (this time it was BSG). Again I was the only one who saw him. The following night (we are up to Wednesday now), I was busily preparing for human overnight guests, doing laundry, straightening up, hiding the Firefly comics…when our dastardly Mus Musculus ran right in front of me. I cornered him behind the couch at which time DH asks what he thinks I might do now? Darn he was right, so I added mouse traps to my list of breakfast foods needed on my shopping trip for the next day.

The next day.
Now at Thursday, the first day of the K-W Improv Festival (KWIF), and I am determined to rid our house of vermin before our guests from Bad Dog Theatre in Toronto arrive tomorrow. I purchase, bait and lay the traps and head out to perform in the ToTE show portion of the festival. The show was great. Nice audience, funny scenes and an arm licking by Bernie the Dali Llama…I’m on a high.

Time to check my traps. The one in the kitchen, still baited, and empty. The one in the mouse haven living room….filled. I momentarily feel bad for my fellow mammal just wanting an easy snack, but that soon passes as I realize as the only homeowner presently home, I have to deal with the carnage.

I am torn between waiting for my DH to return home from business travel tomorrow and rescue me from the nasty dead garbage and being the strong, independent woman I have come to think I am. Wimpy…Strong….Wimpy…Strong…I AM WOMAN….and I clean up the tiny mess with nary a squeam. I feel victorious.

3 days later. The Improv Festival was great despite the business on the 401 that caused a 3 hour delay for both of our visiting teams. Our guests decided to go home so we had the evening to ourselves and the alumni night was a hoot and a half!

After such a whirlwind weekend, I get back to some chores. Hmm….I notice some telltale signs of creatures in the cutlery drawer. Is that like the Bellagio to mice-folk? Why do they take a shine to rooting through the knives and forks of their human brethren? Not wanting to answer these mysteries, I take to emptying the silverware, cleaning the tray and disinfecting the drawer. With only moments to go before friends arrive for more TV watching, I industriously begin to dry the cutlery. I open the drawer to replace the items and WOW there’s a mouse in there. I shriek and run away. My DH is amused to find me meters from the offending drawer shaking with spookedness. We set some traps just before our friends arrive. Not able to keep our shameful vermin secret, we regale our friends with the tale.

Have you noticed one thing about this “situation”? I am the only person who has seen these creatures in our house. Being astute to the world around me and my own personal process…I take note of this fact. I have a book called Animal Speak. It is a handy reference when one encounters animals in dreams, the waking world, or one’s cutlery drawer.
Mouse brings the energy of scrutiny. It is through Mouse that we learn that least of details can be a major factor in the out come of our journey. Without Mouse there would be very little order in our life.

So I endeavour to be more scrutinous if it will indeed relieve us of these unwanted house guests.

Current Mood: Squiggey

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After 30 Something years I will out myself and reveal that I LOVE TELEVISION. I know it is au courant to dismiss this piece of electronics as an idiot child, but I take delight in finding the savant. Some of our wonderful friends turned us on to new and delicious watching experiences. Sean and Shae first showed us Firefly which tuned us in to the brilliance of Joss Whedon. We then enjoyed all of the other universes the man created. How could I have dismissed Buffy The Vampire Slayer (I thought the name was too stupid and never watched once)?

We returned the favour to S&S and finally had cohorts who enjoyed the early seasons of Alias and the only seasons of Arrested Development with us.

Along with shows on DVD (how addictive is that? No commercials and you can watch as many episodes as your early morning calls will allow), I’m hooked on “Live” shows like Lost, where I have to suffer through at least seven days before I can learn if Charlie is hooked on Heroin again or what new nickname Sawyer has for Jack. I’m also waiting impatiently for the new season of Battlestar Galactica. I was a fan of the first rendition of the series (back in 1978 when I was 10 and can’t be held accountable for my taste). The new version has adopted the new type of television I enjoy lapping up. The character development is as crucial as the plot to the series. My hat is lying on the floor to all the incredible writers who suck me into their world.

Films show snippets of characters lives and can’t delve into the minutiae of their quirks. When you can spend 150 hours with a family of characters vs. 120 minutes, the movie theatre is less captivating then my comfy pants filled living room. I’m not saying that everything on TV is of interest. I’ve never watched any Idols, or full seasons of Dancing, Skating or Shaving with Celebrities. Its not likely Donny Most with an uber red wig would turn to breaking the judge’s fingers to garner information about the Others who are rumoured to live in a hatch in a banana stand for the last 24. So why would I watch?

I love the heat and relaxation of the summer, but it does put my addiction on hiatus. Thank the Gods S&S have turned us onto 24 this summer. It may be a rough 3 weeks though, as vacations and work tear us apart from the dutiful Jack Bauer…oh and uhm each other too.

Come On! Share with me your tubey little secrets. Television has not turned my brain to mush. I now have a better idea for what emergency supplies to pack in my carry on. Anyone know where I could get a radio transmitter battery? I will never say, “You’re kidding, right?” If one of my dearests declares they are really working for a secret government agency…and I will not lollygag if they tell me to go to XYZ location for my own safety.

Thank you television. I feel entertained and safer now.

Current Mood: Next Hour Anxious
Current Music: Beep Boop Beep Boop

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Pottery was a passion of mine for a long while, a long while ago. Meeting with a friend from those days yesterday stirred up a bunch of those memories. My first hand building course was in 1991, the year before I graduated university. It was a Saturday morning and I had the rare luxury of not working at 1 Hour Photoworks that semester. The room was bright with weekend sun and smelled of wet clay and Escape perfume. Natalie, our guru was wearing orange tights and a bright overshirt with a funky belt. Her hair was cropped to spikes and I would have been totally scared by her, but her smile and sweet eyes gave me courage to try out this creative pursuit.

Claymates Studio was my pottery home for the next five years. As well as building vases, sculptures and masks, many friendships were built in that time. I moved into my first apartment because one of the other class mates bought a house and invited me to look at her spacious, yet inexpensive rental.

Natalie, a brilliant artist herself was so supportive of all of the projects her students attempted. For most of those years I never questioned the “goodness” of my work. I gave away pieces with abandon and now cringe at the quality or the ugliness of those pieces.

So many joyful hours were spent bonding with the other classmates and creating reflections of self in that epoch of my life. Somehow entropy overtook all of that. I took a wheel course and then joined the Waterloo Potter’s Workshop and with each step became less confident and less connected to the other artists. Natalie graciously allowed me to drop in to her space whenever I wanted to. Things had changed for her as well as she started working with a business partner and delved into her own particular darkness.

I drifted from the bold creator I had become. Natalie closed her studio and I bumped into her a couple of years ago. Her sparkle was still there but she didn’t look well and her artistic endeavours were darker images of her former brilliant works. I got news about a year later that Natalie had passed away.

It is still an unreal truth that I have lost a mentor I’d barely recognized as such. It was kind of funny (strange) when I saw Natalie that last time, I tried to tell her how much her classes had meant to me and how wonderful she was to her students. It was an awkward moment, I don’t think she heard me well or at least was not in a place where she could hear such gratitude. Had that scene been in a movie, the score would have grown epic and the focus gone soft and then a fade to black. A text credit indicating Natalie had passed away shortly after the making of the film would allow the audience to feel that she knew how loved she was.

I wish it really had been a scene from a movie.

Good bye Natalie and thanks for everything.

Current Mood: sad
Current Music: Great Big Sea (Graceful and Charming)

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Feeling worthy
I find myself with the great fortune of working about 1 day a week throughout the summer. As business is a bit slower during the summer, staffing needs are diminished and my boss has sweetly allowed me to schedule myself when I want to work. This allows me the minimum of spending money but the maximum amount of time to pursue summer time interests. This will allow me to travel with my handsome husband to Seattle (where he must go for business), as well as increase my literary portfolio.

This summer could be an idyllic sunrise of relaxation and discovery. However, it could also be an overwhelming mass of humid unused potential. I’ve come to see in myself, when offered such an immense gift I feel challenged to receive it fully. I’m plagued with thoughts of, “Do I deserve to have the summer off?”, “What if I don’t get anything done?” and “Will people think I’m lazy?”

So, I’m finding, the real trick to taking the summer off, is to actually get off my own back about it. Having an abundance of time to myself allows these frequent feelings of “unworthiness” to pop to the surface like a watermelon seed. I’ve never liked spitting those suckers out, but maybe I should develop a taste for them.

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I had another one of those dreams last night where you can’t move, but you really really want to move because some dream entity is trying to touch or tickle you and you are really really not in the mood. In this particular version of the dream, hands were creeping along my body and my screams were just that annoying whisper sound. I was surprised to find that my rasping actually worked to wake myself up enough to move and see that I was safe in my room.

I was safe, but not finished with the strange stage of REM sleep. I was lucid, able to determine no bad people were trying to hurt me, but some part of my visual cortex was still firing something. About 2 feet in front of me animated flowers appeared, and then they would morph into fairies who would giggle and fall off the flowers until a new one would start to grow. No amount of blinking or trying to refocus my eyes made the flower-fairies disappear. So, I did what I usually do when faced with such strangeness, I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

Maybe this was the last of the Advil Sinus I took this week leaving my system.

Current Mood: Beautiful July Day Happy
Current Music: The Mermaid (Great Big Sea)

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I’ll admit it, I had a negative belief about health care in Ontario. After careful internet diagnosis, I determined that the crushing pain in the middle of my chest was likely gallstones. Taking a somewhat masculine approach to self health care, I decided to wait and hope that the feeling an alien was trying to escape my upper abdomen would never return.

Alas, after two more sequels and much nudging from parents and parents-in-law, I called my family doctor. I presumed this would begin a long road of scheduling appointments and setting up tests that would likely take all summer. I was unpleasantly surprised when the doctor’s office took me the day I called and then booked an ultra sound for the following week.

The appointment for the ultra sound was yesterday, and the staff at the clinic was prompt and jovial, kindly understanding that I probably wanted a coffee about then (which I did, but you have to stop eating for 10 hours before the appointment). The technician had warmed up the gel so there was no nasty shock to my uncaffeinated system. After 15 minutes of a one-sided conversation that went, “Hold your breath.” (held my breath). “Breathe away.” (felt I should be more free with my breathing…but didn’t know how…Damn, should have paid more attention to those Deepak Chopra videos.), the procedure was complete and I could recaffeinate and muffin up my upper digestive tract.

I should buy my doctor a coffee next time I see her.

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Well, there are differing views on the actual date of Bun Day, but a friend of mine heard on one of those boy-named radio stations that it was Bun Day on Wednesday. This is an Icelandic holiday where children endeavour to awaken their slumbering parents by hitting them with a stick covered with duct tape at one end (presumably to prevent puncturing said parents which would likely put an end to the real payoff); the number of wacks it takes to wake the parents is the number of buns the child will be priveleged to injest that day. It sounds like it is a prelude to Carb Overload-Sugar Crash Day where the happy children lol in bed watching re-runs of the Doodlebops while being served sausages or Spam.

Current Mood: Pre-Gymmy
Current Music: Bedouin Soundclash

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