2008, a year in fragments

What did this leap year bring me if not Rocky Mountain highs and 6-foot-deep lows? I did a lot this year, accomplished a lot - both good and bad. In going through my various journal entries and diaries and photo essays, I found things I never got to share with you, poppets. They may be a better “year in review” than my memory can recall.

It all began with wearing black silk for the first moments past midnight on January 1st. The fact that it was in pyjama form only serves to emphasise the kind of year it would be: contradictory. What was an attempt at being fancy and comfy at the same time only proved that it was not possible to marry opposites into a harmonious whole.

Another disturbing trend that resurfaced was sending and reading too many letters that just resulted in no good. However, sadly, not sending the letters I should have sent is what I'll remember most: "I believe it was in one of these self-flagellating moments that I broke down and laid bare to you all of my worst fears: poverty and mediocrity, living alone with no husband and no children, hungry and cold for the rest of my life. SUCH a drama queen. Your response, however, was something I didn’t know how to deal with or even interpret ('I could help you with 4, maybe 5, of those things') so I just ignored it." Why are we so scared to be honest? Because honesty, if coupled with vulnerability, leaves us far too exposed to the cruelties of truth.

Sitting in a cafeteria along the frozen shores of Hudson Bay, I had a small epiphany: when I could have been anyone I wanted, when my makeup was left in my bag and I wore the same black sweatshirt for days in a row, when all I had to rely on was my questionable charm and wit, I was most myself. And you know what? I hadn’t received more attention in all my life. What is it about trains and the romance of travelling on them? What is it about meeting new people in strange places that instantly bonds humans into quick camaraderie? What is it about being away from Toronto that suddenly makes everyone friendlier and cuter?

Cow Poetry (as found on the wall of Cowpuccino’s) ->

The first thing I brought into my brand-new, white-walled, condo? Toilet paper and hand soap. Those were the priorities. On subsequent trips, I brought in my favourite fridge magnet (“A very cute line monster saying “Come to the dark side. We have cookies!” while holding a platter of chocolate chip goodness), but was stumped by my non-magnetic stainless steel fridge. This did not bode well. Indeed, it was a precursor to a list a frustrations that seemed to be colluding to keep me from enjoying my new digs. Who’s laughing now?

With no great surprise, my official colours came back a split Gold-Green with a strong Orange streak and almost no Blue. What does all this mean? Golds are the nurturers: we take care of people and projects and pets because we feel we will do the best job of it; we remember to cater for the vegetarians and the diabetics at staff meetings and parties alike; we are very good at getting things done and following rules. Greens are the thinkers: we like puzzles and math problems and generally figuring out how things work; we thrive on logic and pattern and when things operate on feelings and not on fact, we feel disoriented, confused and generally lost; we are very good at starting projects but not very good at repeating them – repetitive tasks do not offer any comfort to us; we like to work alone with our own deadlines. What does this make me? A control freak with a strong sense of justice and fairness and a weak sense of people skills. That Orange streak probably accounts for my need to have a full social calendar; oranges are notoriously fickle. Blues are the feelers in the group and I have very little of that in my makeup. This means I am as loyal as they come (gold) and a great ally (green) but, while I love hanging out with you (orange) don’t ever expect me to understand if you cross me (lack of blue).

Christmas this year was really a downer. I usually love the season, only feeling a little blue when I remember all the people I’d have liked to still be able to spend time with but, for various reasons, cannot. This year, one lonely pot of poinsettias marked the occasion. I went through the motions – I baked and wrapped gifts and sang Christmas carols, but I just couldn’t feel it. Is this what getting old does? Robs me of the wonderment and magic that I always associate with this time of year?

A while back, I said I was getting back to writing. I finished a novella with which I’m fairly pleased. One of my favourite lines, as translated from a Hebraic lullabye: “… it's late and tomorrow we'll wake up and see how the day comes after every night …”