“Relax.”

I heard it clear as a bell - a firm whisper that cut through the dead quiet of the night. He said it only once, but he said it so clearly. In his sleep, my husband spoke the one word that has been torturing me for months. 

“Um. What?” I whispered back, my head slightly off the pillow.

No response. The room remained still while my mind ramped up another notch. My feet shifted under the light summer blanket in subtle annoyance. I know what I heard. He said…relax. 

Minutes earlier, I had been running through students’ names in my head, reviewing the school year; my way of seeking closure on events. It’s the only way I can move forward and get myself into summer mode. When I’d finished with that, I moved on to making a mental summer to-do list. It was the middle of the night and the mental gymnastics was keeping me from sleeping off the effects of a chaotic school year. I tried to focus on the pool of moonlight that stretched across the foot of our bed, like a mermaid lounging in the sun. The moonlight was dreamy and warm. But it wasn’t really moonlight. It was a hot white LED light from the nearby streetlight. For the purposes of trying to sleep, I chose to believe in moonlight…and mermaids. The dog was upside down beside my husband, little tufts of matted hair snuggled down into his splayed belly. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen any creature so relaxed in my whole life. I rested my hand on his upturned ribcage. Yup. Still breathing. Just really really relaxed. My husband lay on his side, jaw slack and knees partially tucked. His eyelids twitched ever so slightly, the movement barely detectable, like water bugs on a calm lake. Really frickin’ relaxed.

Beneath the breeze of the ceiling fan, I accepted the fact that I was on my own in my agitated wakefulness. I kept my eyes on the fan as I went back to my to-do list for the summer: refinish a chest of drawers, paint one of the kids rooms, rip out the dead cedars, write a short story, blah blah blah. Trimming the matted hair from my dog's belly jumped up the list. 

At some point I thought even the fan looked relaxed, wobbling and whirring, hypnotizing me with its blurry blades. 

“Ah ha! No! You won’t trick me into relaxing.” I thought. I turned onto my side, giving the ceiling fan the warm summer shoulder.

I thought back to an evening at home, some months ago. My eldest son chirped from the couch, “I can’t relax around you. You need to sit.” 

I was buzzing around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, writing reminder sticky notes, wiping things down and generally fussing. All very important stuff. Very. If I didn’t wipe the excess pepper from beneath the pepper grinder, who knows what would happen? The mortgage wouldn’t get paid, infection, unwanted sneezing? A butterfly effect of disaster. Not gonna risk all that. Besides, low-volume repetitive noises that bubble up when puttering in the kitchen is my lullaby. Squeak goes the drawer, phssssh says the dishwasher tray, thwup, says the sprayer as it clicks back into the faucet holder, whoosh whoosh sings the wet cloth as it glides across the granite. Scritch scratch says my nearly dry pen as it scribbles onto post-it notes. My feet shuffle, my nostrils snort in soft, short bursts. Occasionally, I share a giggle with myself as I mutter “there’s the missing lid to the spaghetti sauce jar I’m saving for the day when I have 8 hours to make my next batch of bone broth!”. 

I think I see it now. The ridiculousness of my tightly wound nature; my gears stuck in sport mode all the time. Aside from making others occasionally uncomfortable, and spending precious time on silly tasks that have little impact on my actual life, this unbreakable link to ‘busy’ is keeping me from things that matter.

April 22, 2023, at 7:00 pm in the Metro Toronto Convention Centre is where the notion of 'relaxing’ first began to haunt me. I sat in a crowd of middle aged women, all wearing some variation of the same mid length rain jacket, all with our tidy haircuts; not too short, not too long, listening to author Elizabeth Gilbert share stories and words of wisdom. Some nuggets were gold, some of her ideas annoyed the shit out of me, others left me spinning. Elizabeth Gilbert is best known for her memoir Eat Pray Love - a story that sings the praises of living an authentic life. Shortly after getting married, Elizabeth finds herself in the suburbs lamenting the inevitability of the predictable life to come. So she leaves her husband, her job, her life and embarks on a year of travel and self discovery. Bold. Intriguing. The book was a global bestseller and translated into 30 languages and spawned a feature film starring Julia Roberts. You could say it hit home for a lot of women. A lot. Many of us were here now wondering what else she might want to share about the creative yearnings of women and achieving ultimate fulfilment.

I leaned forward as Elizabeth strolled back and forth across the stage, hinting at the life changing advice about to come. My friend beside me was much cooler than me, sitting upright, eyes forward. If she was embarrassed by my eager lean-in, she never let me know. Elizabeth was fixin’ to say something big - and I wanted my good ear as close to her as possible so I didn’t miss it. 

“If we want to change the world…we need to relax”.

Seriously? That's it?

I wrote it down anyway, completely unimpressed. 

“If we want to change the world and start a revolution - women need to learn how to relax.”

Revolution = relax? Hmph.

As it turns out, this notion has been a real mindfuck for me. For months, I kept imagining a relaxed version of myself. The benefits? The drawbacks? Would there be so much pepper collecting under the pepper grinder that I might actually be able to see a pile of the spicy dust from across the room? Gasp! If I didn’t scurry down the halls at work (school) would it look like I didn’t care? A slow moving teacher is the one with one foot in retirement. How could I? If I don’t sand and refinish that dresser, would the clothes at the cottage be left strewn about like a dropped suitcase on the floor of an airport? The benefits were what?  

To do less is to be less. No?

No.

I think she’s right. She begged us to stop referring to female role models as ‘fierce’ and ‘badass’. These words are dripping with notes of stress, aggression and paint a picture of an overall anxiety ridden human - one who is always on. A relaxed woman on the other hand is a woman in control. With boundaries. A woman who is not concerned with the balls in the air but gives her attention to the balls in hand. Anything that drops can be picked up later. Or perhaps… picked up by someone else. Calm is a superpower. Ticked boxes don’t matter if they’re meaningless boxes.

“Every martial artist knows the most relaxed person in the room is the one who holds the power.”    Elizabeth Gilbert

The next day I asked my husband if he remembered talking to me in the night, uttering the command to ‘relax’. He didn’t remember. When I asked him if it was possible he was dreaming about me and telling me in a dream to ‘relax’, as he so frequently asks me to do in real life. He just laughed. Fair enough. We’ve been married 24 years. I don’t imagine I am always the woman in his dreams. Henry Cavill and I have been on again off again “friends” in my dreams for years so he’s entitled to his evening wife, Shania.

My nervous energy cut across the deep REM subconscious of my husband and he asked me to relax. Elizabeth Gilbert, who doesn’t know me, begged me in a crowd of so many to relax. My family has asked me to relax. As the years tick by and one to-do list replaces another, I simply must relax. This is not a revolution I plan to fight, but rather one I hope to welcome. 

I’ll make a list of all the steps to achieving relaxation.

Step one…what is step one?

Ooooops.

Carol Sloan

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It’s the last day of spring break and I’m sitting in a library alone. Read that sentence again - but slowly. Kinda sad. Just me and my computer - sitting in the library. This is new for me. 

Spring break as a kid used to mean bustling airports or long road trips squabbling with my older, more cunning siblings. Maybe the occasional water park, or overcrowded ski hill. A combination of wrinkly pink tan lines or wrinkled maps, yes maps, spread across car seats like picnic blankets, waiting to serve up adventure. In my twenties, there were still sunburns but more punishing were the hangovers that thumped behind my oversized sunglasses. My underdeveloped brain led me to foolish recovery strategies; a little hair of the dog. Alcohol to treat the symptoms of too much alcohol was an absurdity I had to figure out for myself. As a parent, spring break was all about packing and unpacking, then treating someone else’s sunburn. Thick creams cooled the skin while simultaneously making children as slippery as buttered bowling balls and thus impossible to catch as they bounced dangerously on hotel beds. 

Today, instead of the smell of coconut lotions or a view of rugged snow capped mountains, I smell old paperbacks and look out at faded carpet beneath aluminum bookshelves - alone. I am struggling to understand the latest evolution of spring break for me. Almost makes me miss the hangovers. Almost.

Spring break has always been so sensory - experienced in the sights, smells and excitement of breaking free of tiresome winter routines. Getting off a plane and feeling a warm breeze on your face after departing a wind and snow swept airport back home can recharge a human battery in an instant; like stepping into another world after a quick trip on a commercial TARDIS. How can two places that are so different exist in the same moment in time? Why did my family remain in Canada when beaches and buffets were an option? How is it the same sun? Same planet? The wonders of spring break travel blew my mind as a kid, and inspired me as an adult. So dramatic, I know. I began to see the winter sun at home as simply a light, meant to illuminate the ground for a few hours a day so people didn’t bump into each other. It produced no pineapple, or warm water. No fun at all.

One spring break in Acapulco, I remember my parents allowed me to walk the beach on my own. A teenage girl walking the beach unaccompanied in Mexico? Let’s just say it was a different time. And It was thrilling! I was in another country, barely clothed, completely anonymous. I could project whatever image I wanted. I strolled along, casually holding my sandals at my side, ignoring the searing temperature of the sand. My boyish hips swayed a little unnaturally; all part of the Mexico-me. I kicked the waves as they lapped across my painted toes, exhaling at the relief of the cool water. I did my best not to look up when cute boys walked past. I kept my head down, only moving my eyeballs to steal a look. I probably should have just looked up. The whites of my eyes as I strained to peek at the boys was likely shocking against my pink skin. It’s possible I looked like a Chucky doll on fire. 

After a trip like that, my sister and I would sit down to pull sheets of peeling skin off each other's backs. We never clued into the fact that our skin type would never tan and sheets of skin coming off is not the sign of a good vacation. We looked boiled, not bronzed. I’ve had several outpatient surgeries since removing the various types of skin cancer acquired from spring breaks and backpacking abroad. Hangovers get you right away, freckles bide their time.

Fast forward to spring breaks as a parent. The luggage - my gawd the luggage! If it can be inflated, it was squished in our bags. If you can snuggle it, it was squished in our bags. If it could wipe up anything that might explode in our bags, it was jammed in our carry-on luggage. If it was labelled pediatric over-the-counter medication, it was tossed in there too, only to be jostled and let loose in transit. Pills and syrups mixed like a daycare art project. 

If it was a well worn super hero cape or jammy set, it was definitely squeezed in. Usually in place of a nice button down shirt, preferred only by parents for the unlikely event of a ‘nice’ dinner past 5 pm. During many a resort dinner, I threw a pitying ‘I’m-sorry-your-kids-don’t-have-the-imagination-of-my-little-darlings’ look to families whose children were dressed in matching sear sucker suits like they just stepped off the set of a Mary Poppins film. I maintain that children who quietly eat restaurant dinners in adult looking clothes are serial killers in the making. Dirty capes dragged through ketchup are the hallmark history of well adjusted adults. I’m firm on that.

 I also remember other people’s children eating adventurous plates of colourful seafood while my own sat pining for an IKEA hot dog then diving under the table to lick up dropped ice cream off the floor. I became very good at pretending to be a free spirited mom without having taken one single improv class - ever. When the eyelids of my wee darlings finally dropped, I sighed and poured one last drink, dreaming of life beyond the chaos.

Eventually, my husband and I thought we’d try ski trips with the kids. I was always grateful to leave the ski hill with the same number of children we had arrived with. If I close my eyes now, I can still see my youngest breaking through the caution tape meant to warn of the cliff on the other side. I heard him screaming, seconds after I could no longer see him; a voice in the clouds. My own scream stayed caught in my throat. One of the other dads skiing with us, along with my husband, raced to the edge, popped off their skis and went down. With a black eye, a banged up cheek and a sore arm, and no more sense then when he sailed over the edge, my kiddo emerged, like a happy drunk off a mechanical bull. Really Quebec? Caution tape? How ‘bout a fence?

Spring Break in my twenties was something else entirely. Back in Mexico again, I recall a friend of mine, a wee bit hungover, retching in the lobby of our sketchy hotel as we waited for the shuttle to the beach. With no time to run to the bathroom, she let it go into a plastic bag. She cried in horror at the bugs splashing up in her vomit. Through her tears we managed to calm her down and remind her of the watermelon she’d had at breakfast. Seeds. Just seeds. With the medical emergency averted, we hopped on the bus and listened to all the other spring breakers sing the praises of a little ‘hair-of-the-dog’. What did we know? 

Then there was Jamaica - another cheapo spring break in my twenties. My friends and I were so excited to be in Montego Bay for some sun and surf and no school. We hopped into our cab after landing, eager to see the island on the drive to the hotel. Again, swept away by the warm air and the magic of travel, we squealed as the cab pulled away from the little airport. The sticky hot taxi coasted out the entrance of the terminal, puttered across the street and immediately drove up another driveway; not even enough time or distance for the cab to go more than 20 km/hr. Our home for the next week was a motley coloured airport motel - walking distance from where our plane had landed. We had to take a taxi to the busy public beach where the only entrance was through a pay turnstile off the sidewalk. Still a good time. Still got a sunburn. Still so many spring break stories from my twenties that will remain in the vault …until long after my own children have been through their twenties. 

After tan lines and lift lines, spring break memories are full of games. Ping pong, beer pong, would-you-rather. Uno and crazy eights - on a plane, in a car, on a messy hotel bed. The best way to get kids to help clear dishes is to tell them there will be no board games until the coffee table in the chalet is cleared of all dirty dishes and takeout containers. Boom. Clean table. I’ve played games in the pool, tag on the ski hills, and ‘punch-buggy” in the car. Musical chairs in seedy hotels, resort obstacle courses and cocktail hour dance-offs. Hands reaching out to grab the last card, or high fives after a team win - laughter and comradery. Licking dessert plates and kissing the warm cheeks of exhausted babes. 

But I’m here now. Alone in the library.

I’m not the kid on holiday with my parents. My own kids are on different schedules now that don’t always align with my own. Two are in University and my youngest is busy with soccer, endless training, and his friends. The most I could steal this year was a few days at the cottage with the young one. My husband is a freelancer and worked this year. But I’m a teacher. I will always have spring break, or so I thought. It’s a reflex to buy sunscreen and blow the dust off the luggage in March.  A reflex that still wants to fire.

It’s quiet here - in the library. People are weird and surprising but I can get some writing done. I’m not sure if anyone else here is on spring break. I’m looking for the restless kids rolling around in the picture book aisle begging for McDonalds. I’m listening for the twenty-somethings chugging Gatorade and reminiscing about the night before but I hear nothing. No evidence of spring break here. The books around me are swollen with adventure, comedy and unexpected romance. All I can do is stare at the titles and resist the urge to settle for fiction and someone else's stories. Meanwhile, a snow storm rages outside, denying me a glimpse of spring and a much needed change in weather. I wonder when it will pass. This is just a break. Just another storm. All this will pass and spring will surely arrive soon. I have no sunburn or luggage but it certainly feels like I have much to unpack. 

Carol Sloan

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]]>Spring Break?Personal StoryCarol SloanThu, 26 Jan 2023 01:13:13 +0000https://www.myselfthink.com/blog/2023/1/25/4q77ly666symnj0hg5dwypjpdvrger59ff6b2d29f1878f055d49a3:59ff6c3653450a448c8cc6cc:63d1ce8db39336113d6916c6(Sorry about 2022. I’m back now!)

Myselfthink.com, one of Toronto’s Top 30 Blogs - https://blog.feedspot.com/toronto_blogs/#

The basement floor was always cold. Pieces of old carpet separated my bony bottom from the concrete floor as I sat playing. I played for hours, all alone with my Barbie play house on the frigid floor. It was magical. My Barbie house was made of cereal boxes. Barbie was living in a custom built home brought to you by Kellogg's - specifically Shreddies and Corn Flakes. Shreddies because my brother loved them. Corn Flakes for the rest of us. Occasionally, a room or feature was added to the house, thanks to an occasional whimsical purchase of Raisin Bran. My best friend had the Mattel Barbie Dream Home, what some might call the real one. Two stories, balconies, different wallpaper in every room. I spent years believing I was jealous of my friend. The feverish building of my own version, the cereal box palace, was proof of my envy. Now I know that wasn’t the case. She had the second class Barbie house and I had the dream home, literally built from my imagination. 

Hers came in a box; some assembly required. Each piece had its place, clicking and snapping into position. We built it together in under an hour, dizzy with anticipation. Barbie’s new life (sadly a mostly domestic one at that time) was just a page of instructions away. We bent the nearly unbendable Barbie and Ken at the waist and sat them down at a kitchen table (not included) to have pretend conversations that mimicked our version of adult life.

“I’ll just check the paper today. I hear lawn mowers are on sale.” said Ken, craning his plastic neck to look at Barbie.

“Oh that’s nice honey. I’m off to the spa with the girls.” replied Barbie, already picking out her outfit for the day. “We should have a baby when you get home from work.”

“Okay. One baby coming up.” 

Thank goodness times have changed.

Evenings with the Barbie house were always interesting. In the empty basement, before I went off to bed, I scooped up the hem of my nightie and slipped downstairs to tuck in my dolls. The routine included a little dry humping; Barbie and Ken’s plastic ‘bones’ clacking together on the stiff bed made of Nancy Drew novels. Their long shiny molded legs were never quite covered by the stained blanket made from an old wash cloth. Even when playing at my friend’s house we managed to get weird and sneak in a little dirty bedroom scene with her dolls. In fits of giggles, between fake smooching sounds, we choreographed a little Barbie roll in the hay. Maybe partly to see each other’s reactions, maybe partly to see if we were doing it right.

I never let anyone see my Barbie house. I didn’t have friends over to sit on the cold floor to poke at the jagged cardboard doors swinging from a layer of crooked masking tape. I didn’t think they’d like it. It didn’t come in a box. It was a box. Several boxes. How wrong I was not to share the magic!  Barbie didn’t have to sit (half lying down, half sitting up) on a tiny plastic chair in a nauseating shade of pink. I could make the chair taller, raise the ceiling to accommodate her statuesque, unrealistic figure. My chairs were made of mismatched Lego stolen from my brother and augmented with more expertly cut cereal box pieces. Overnight oats and avocado toast can’t compare to the endless gift of cereal in a box. 

I cut out windows with a giant Exacto knife my dad had safely stored in his tool bench, or so he thought. During construction, I kept one ear to the stairs, listening for footsteps so as not to get caught playing with a knife. I loved playing with the Exacto knife. I was a sculptor carving out a reality for my doll - for me. Mistakes never scared me because I knew there'd be another cereal box by week’s end for any changes or repairs. I was fearless.

I raced home from school on many occasions just to get back downstairs to cut and fuss, and tape and sometimes glue. I painted layer upon layer, cursing that stupid cheerful Corn Flake rooster that showed through the watery paint. Then I discovered White-Out - perfect for trimming windows and doors. I was resourceful.

Fabric scraps from old clothes became awnings and curtains, tied with wrinkled and worn Christmas ribbon. There was no need to engineer a toilet. With no real private parts this unsavoury part of everyday life could be skipped over. The first time I peeled Ken’s camo pants off to find nothing was a relief. The anxiety caused by the mystery was exhausting. “Men…so basic.” I thought. I covered the kitchen walls in white paper then drew tiny flowers all over using smelly markers ‘borrowed’ from school. Thankfully the grape marker smell never clashed with the smell of Barbie’s fake cooking. She ate a lot of cake and Smarties. 

All the Mattel Dream Home had that mine didn’t was a balcony. I could never quite figure out a sturdy design. There were a few too many accidents that led to Barbie being covered in tiny band aids, like a fashion model in flesh coloured couture. Occasionally, I bandaged her slippery forehead in strips cut from patterned socks. Actual gauze seemed too plain for my girl. Safe to say she was Boho before Boho was a thing.

I never stopped planning, wondering, and playing in the realm of endless possibility. I never came home to the same toy nor did I ever have to wait for the next trip to the toy store before I could add furniture or a new wall. I just got to work, taping, cutting, drawing, occasionally sewing (but mostly gluing and taping). To avoid sewing I told myself, and the dolls, that frayed edges were all the rage - like I said, we were Boho first. 

I slipped into a dream state every time I sat cross legged with my Exacto knife and old pillow cases. At least I think they were old? It slowly became less and less Barbie’s House and morphed into my house. I stopped mimicking the design of the ‘original’ and went for my own style. I stopped copying adult conversations I heard and began scripting dialogue that came from a secret place deep inside me - my true self. Soon, Barbie didn’t give two shits about having a baby. She was hosting her own radio show, acting in commercials (for cereal no less), actively designing her own clothes and explaining her choices aloud to suspicious, albeit less avant garde consumers. ”Of course it’s cool to wrap your body in deflated balloons.” I became the star of this world, not Barbie. More and more I left her alone on the cold basement floor, sometimes face down, waiting for me to pick her up. The house was animated instead by my giant fleshy hands wandering the rooms, rearranging stuff and talking to myself “Friendly Giant” style. 

When my sister actually got the Mattel Barbie swimming pool I thought I had hit the jackpot. No construction involved! I could just drop my dolls in for a dip. I would fan their hair over the edge, imagining each shimmering strand drying under a hot August sun in the Barbie universe. The lightbulb above my head suddenly felt as warm as the summer sun. Then it broke. The pool collapsed in on itself. Water spilled out onto the floor leaving a wet spot on the cement floor like a blood stain marking the death of the good life. Luckily, the flood missed my house. I didn’t have insurance.

Instead of worrying, I set out to make a new pool. One large piece of a black garbage bag as the liner pulled tight and taped over a cookie tin and boom - I was back in the pool business. Yes kids, sometimes cookies came in a tin. That pool broke too - many times. But I knew how to fix it because it was mine. 

My house, my daily practice of building now seems like the epitome of youth. Anything was possible (other than a balcony).The thrill of always looking ahead to a life yet to be lived is irresistible to many. If you’re just getting started, you can’t be disappointed or judged for what you’ve already done. That’s a nice space to inhabit.

I moved on from the Barbie house, forgetting all about the disappointment I carried for never having had the real thing. Eventually, I left my solitary world in the basement in exchange for the real world, a complicated place where the sun is not just there to warm me by the pool, but ready to burn me if I stop paying attention. I think about that Barbie House from time to time and why it was such a memorable part of my childhood, that heap of recycling and tape.

Actively making something stopped my thoughts and dreams from swirling endlessly inside my head, building pressure. Creating flushed those dreams straight out into the open where they could breathe, swell and take shape. I was the original 3-D printer. In that basement, my hands moved effortlessly as if following instructions whispered in my ear by a secret muse - the kind only a child can hear. 

I don’t need to be young with endless days and years ahead of me to feel excitement for life. I need a cereal box, an Exacto knife and a little tape. Life isn’t better when you think outside the box. It’s better when you cut the box up and think…about anything you like.

By Carol Sloan

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]]>Barb the BuilderPersonal StoryCarol SloanThu, 03 Mar 2022 01:24:35 +0000https://www.myselfthink.com/blog/2022/3/2/and-shes-5059ff6b2d29f1878f055d49a3:59ff6c3653450a448c8cc6cc:62201130396a644e92d44ee0Myselfthink.com, one of Toronto’s Top 30 Blogs - https://blog.feedspot.com/toronto_blogs/#

I got a bit of a spiritual spanking this past year on my birthday - six months ago now, September 2021. I woke up at 6:00 am, a bundle of nerves in anticipation of the first day of school. A new year, new classes to teach, opportunity lurking, and the promise of an end to the pandemic around the corner. I felt hopeful. There’s an energy in the cool autumn air that often inspires change; a new pair of jeans, the launch of a long awaited business, a fresh haircut that may or may not last the year. And all around us nature explodes in a miracle of technicolour, too spectacular sometimes to seem real. All in all, it’s a pleasant time of year. Buried deep in those September distractions is my birthday. I turned 50 this past year. I had decided ahead of time that I would not acknowledge it. It didn’t feel like me. Fifty felt like a sweater that wouldn’t fit, a flight I wouldn’t dare board or a menu item I would NEVER order. I was certain it would turn my stomach and burn my delicate esophagus going down. I would find a way to send 50 back to the kitchen. Not to be dramatic, but I had made up my mind - 50 was not happening. 

But it did.

Luckily, I had enough excitement to keep me distracted from this ‘milestone’. It could pass by before anyone was the wiser. My husband had just returned from a long trip to Japan, my middle son was turning 18, two of my three boys were starting University, and I had new courses to sink my teaching teeth into. At night, I was going to work TIFF - a fabulously intense international film festival. Not to mention, I had been working out a lot lately and I felt great. I had the biceps of a 46 year old, the calves of a 47 year old and the thighs of a 49 year old. I was firmly, or somewhat firmly, committed to staying in my forties. I felt in control.

That fateful day in September - the dreaded birthday, refused to go as planned. It started with a COVID case. I had waited all summer to see my husband. We were able to spend only a few days together before he received the news that he had tested positive for COVID and would need to go into isolation. He was showing symptoms and beginning to get sick. Like so many households around the globe, we now had someone to care for in seclusion. Masks, gloves, food trays being left outside the door and facetime check-ins with each other as though he were still half way around the world. We had Netflix watch parties with ‘dad’ in the basement. He was our very own Harry Potter, instead of under the stairs, he was just downstairs.

This blew up my plan for the next two weeks. I was supposed to pass off the baton to my husband. He would take over the household and I could throw myself into work - school all day, and the festival at night. In order to protect the celebrities and the infrastructure of the festival, I was told not to come in to work. The school board? They didn’t mind so much. I taught, despite having ‘made out with COVID’. Those couple of weeks that were going to be filled with work and festival fun were reduced to 24 hr a day lesson planning and meal planning with a whole lot of cleaning in between. We celebrated my son’s birthday as best we could while I continued to ignore mine. To complicate things further, I began to feel the pain of bursitis and a tear in my left glute, diagnosed months later, that left me unable to tie my shoes or sit properly. My new workouts were clearly the culprit. Steve was sick, I was sore. We were meant for each other. The birthday was poo poo so far.

Friends and family sent flowers, thoughtful gifts, and even cards and letters full of memories and well wishes. If I were a kind or honourable person, I might have been more appreciative. With two hands, I pushed the loot to the other side of the kitchen table. At the edge of it all was a pair of socks I had lovingly received that said “Fuck off! I’m reading”. I identified a little too much with the first part of that sentiment. I said my thank you’s and made sure to let people know I was busy managing September and maybe there would be a celebration at a later date. With my schedule now cleared in the evening and nothing left to do but cook, clean and think, I had more head space to ponder my age. This was not the plan. I wanted to be wildly busy doing interesting things. I could hear the chatter in my head:

“Wow! Look at her go. And she’s 50!”

“She’s so thin! And she’s 50!”

“When does she sleep? And she’s 50!”

“What? A full time day job AND working a film festival? Amazing. And she’s 50!”

“She has the energy of a teenager, but did you hear? She’s actually 50!”

I would amaze, delight and defy my age. Instead… I was sweaty from teaching in an unairconditioned building all day in PPE, sweaty from cooking and sanitizing all evening, sweaty from late night lesson plan revisions, sweaty from the stress of trying to figure out how to stop sweating. And sweaty from repeatedly opening mail or packages that screamed “Happy 50th” in toxic gold and glittery ink. With hair and random bits of paper towel stuck to my dampened forehead, I was beginning to feel defeated.

There were so many reasons why I had decided 50 shouldn’t happen. It seems by 50 you are encouraged to join a different gym. One for people ‘your age’. Because there are paramedics on site? Bursitis watch dogs? You are required to take a ‘poop’ test now that colon cancer is a very real threat at this age. Without any regard for well established routines in the privy, they request a self-administered test. Despite my years of training in good manners, I found myself in the bathroom acting like a preschooler  - poop, scoop, smear and then pop it all in the mail. Well I never! The alarm bells also go off for breast cancer as well - a mammogram is a must once you hit 50. As it should be. I’m too nervous not to do that one. Next - a shingles vaccine is recommended. I don’t need to be low on collagen, dealing with turkey neck and then break out in oozing shingles wounds, thank you very much. I’d look like a baseball mitt left out in the rain shot up by a BB gun. I surrendered to getting the shot before the stress of aging could bring on the shingles. Fifty is often when one might begin to feel mild arthritis, and rightfully so if you’ve done anything fun in your life that puts a little stress on the ole joints. It’s like you’re being punished for having lived a little. 

Trying to pass gas in secret is no longer an option - it’s all thunder now. Bending over requires a bit of scheduling. There isn’t enough conditioner in all the beauty supply aisles in the country to soothe the menopausal hair. My knuckles don’t even look like my knuckles anymore. They look like ostrich footprints in wet sand. And my glasses? I am dependent on a much more complicated prescription now. Even my earlobes have begun to sag; barely enough elasticity left in them to hold up the cheapest of earrings. I looked it up. Not a single article in any scientific journal about this problem. Can you believe it? My ears, dressed up with meagre studs look like someone has spit a tooth into a ball of dough.

I see no reason for cake or balloons.

However, within a few days, by which time I was truly entrenched in my misery, I received an email from an unknown address. It was the daughter of a former colleague, dare I say friend, informing me that her mom had passed away. She was five foot nothing and laughed bigger than a stadium full of potheads. She ran the kitchen, with gusto I might add, for special needs teens and adults at a school where I had worked years ago. She taught students with varying abilities how to cook, clean, do laundry and take pride in the smallest of daily tasks - all the things I had been moaning about all week. I had been sullen about my increased household duties, my work schedule, and worst of all …my birthday. I had forgotten that I had won virtually every lottery there is to win in life and for some reason had become bogged down in counting meaningless pennies.

Shortly after hearing the sad news, another colleague at my current work innocently wished me a ‘happy birthday’ as I sat stewing behind my desk. I replied, big surprise, with a groan and an unnecessary cliché about aging. Composed and with a genuine kindness, she looked at me, a broad smile lighting up her three-ply surgical mask, and said “But…you GET to turn 50!”.

I get to turn 50? 

I thought of my former colleague… my friend. 

It’s not 39 Shades of Gray, it’s 50 Shades of Gray. Betty White, rest her soul, turned 50 nearly 50 years ago! Julia Child didn’t get her infamous cooking show until she was 51. Dracula was published when Bram Stoker was the ripe and delicious age of 50. Kamala Harris became the first bi-racial female U.S. vice president at the age of 56. That tells me that six years from now I still have the potential to blow the roof off this place. Fifty is magic. Fifty is everything. My life has been incredible so far and to think there is more to come and I’m still here, limping ever so slightly, but still here, is exciting. Sure - 50 is drying skin and a renewed investment in the turtleneck, but I am relieved of the pressure to find myself or prove myself and can now live with the satisfaction of being myself. While my vision is poorer and I don’t see much in front of me anymore, I can honestly say, everything else in life has become much clearer. What do I care if life burns a little going down the old esophagus, everything burns now anyway - dairy, soy, garlic, a good cocktail. I’ll gladly take the heat of another year ‘round the sun. So, happy 50th to all the lucky ones.

For Marilyn.

By Carol Sloan

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The street looks mostly the same; a neighborhood from the seventies with wide driveways, big lawns, houses with stained aluminum siding and tall street lights good for evening ball hockey games as much as late night suburban traffic. I don’t know if they still do, but kids around here used to build forts out of sheets and kitchen chairs then run alongside train tracks with shoelaces untied. Half naked bodies in all shapes and sizes, glistening from a layer of baby oil, suntanned next to boom boxes sitting in overgrown grass. I don’t even have to close my eyes to see the carefree messiness of the ‘old days’ when I look down this street. The smell of grass clippings, chemical weed killer and home perms comes back to me easily. My parents sold our family home some time ago and my father has since passed away. I’ve had no reason to come back here… until now. Another house is being packed up - the door closing for good on the ghosts of another childhood. One of my oldest friends has just lost her dad and she’s come back to put the house up for sale. Any reason she had for coming back will soon be gone too. The oxygen that passes from sentimental hands to old walls, breathing life into random memories, will soon be cut off, replaced by fresh air and optimistic fingertips. I pull into her driveway, steps away from my old house, trying not to let the lump in my throat liquefy and choke me up.

Her house is already mostly empty. A bin sits in the driveway and the garage is neatly arranged with folding tables displaying items for sale; a lifetime emptied out of a house in a matter of days. Been there. I walk up to her door, trying not to look toward my old house. I know it’s different now - a new colour, fewer trees, a bigger fence. Our family has been scrubbed out and painted over, our voices muffled under renovations I can’t even see. Here and there, now and then, I miss having no place left to visit, no portal to step back in time and remember what is was like to be small and reaching for things. To me, our house was a virtual reality trip to the past, every creak and crack animating a moment in time and telling my story back to me. Without our old home, I feel like a rocket launched years ago, continually in orbit, with no place left to circle back to, my home planet lost to me. I liked being reminded in 3D that I came from somewhere; a floor that held me up, walls that kept me safe and windows that provided a view of the world as I needed or imagined it to be.

Her vacuum is loud and she hasn’t heard me come in. Not even the creaky stairs give me away, so I shout.

“Hello? Hey, Tanya!”

She hears me and looks up.

“Hey you!”

Despite Covid, we decide to hug (both fully vaccinated). The sadness of losing her dad is trumped by the business of what needs to be done now. I’m heartened to hear that I am late to the game and friends have been in and out all weekend, helping to lift, move, sort and pitch.

“How are you at cleaning?”

“I’m a Virgo - that’s kinda my thing.” I smile, ready to get to work.

There isn’t much else that needs to be said. Friends since grade two - if she needs me to clean, I’ll clean. The walls, the floors, the furniture that’s still in place, the closets - it all needs a good once over. Cobwebs, dust bunnies and fingerprints on windows from hands that no longer exist. I’m ready. We go to the kitchen and she gives me the inventory of supplies. I start with her parents' room.

Her parents. They’re both gone now. And soon Tanya will be too - back to Florida where she has lived for many years.

I vacuum, dust, wipe the walls, polish the furniture and shake out the curtains. I know this room; the double paned windows that rattle when you close a door, the thin white baseboards that collect dust deep into the seam. I look out the window into her backyard, knowing I can’t see my old house from here, but I try anyway. These houses are all similar - double garages, big kitchen windows, skinny plank hardwood floors, worn black in some spots from heavy foot traffic and life. I turn toward the door and look out into the hallway, blinking as an old memory materializes in front of me. I see her mom heading down the stairs, a tall leggy blonde, hollering something to us as we head out the door - typical teens ignoring our elders. Wherever we were going, I’m pretty sure her mom was not entirely in the know. Teenage girls are clever that way. And we were clever.

“Heading over to Jen’s house!” meant any number of things. Perhaps it meant ‘we’re headed to the concert at Molson Park where we plan to hop the fence, get in for free then sneak into the beer tent without ID’. That may or may not have happened.

Neither of us were allowed a car too often so I’m sure we either bounced over to the bus stop at the end of her street or actually went over to Jen’s house for a ride - her parents were much more generous with the family car, and much less concerned with how many of us got in the family car. Cool parents.

I see Tanya’s mom smile as we leave, all giggles and mystery. Her mom always wanted to talk a little more but Tanya regularly threw her a “Ma! Goodbye!”

Her mom, slender and cheerful, rounds the corner and heads into the kitchen. We are long gone, rushing off to find trouble. The memory fades and it’s just me again, clutching the overstuffed vacuum in the empty bedroom. I turn back to my job at hand, to the now, knowing there’s no one in the kitchen and Molson Park concert grounds were sold off to commercial development years ago, another piece of my youth wiped out. If the park were still there, and a band were in town, who knows, maybe we’d be heading to the beer tent for a quick drink after our cleaning - either through the front entrance or over the fence for old times sake. We are painfully unaware of our age at times and may have attempted the jump.

I open the closet and get up on a chair, ready to wipe down the shelves. The shelf paper, a dark brown vinyl with tiny faded flowers, covers each thin shelf. Pieces of the paper curl in the corners and the top has a long tear. The closet doors are the same wobbly, faux wood panel we had in our bedrooms at home. Running my fingers through the dust atop the sagging shelf is eerily familiar. It wasn’t too long ago that I was wiping down the shelves in my old house. I crane my neck to look over my shoulder as another memory takes up space in the present. My mom is standing in the centre of the kitchen, each cupboard is empty and every pot, pan and Tupperware set is spread out on the floor in piles, all except the dishes that will be taken to the new apartment in assisted living. My dad, frail and upset, sits in his chair outside the kitchen. The cupboard doors are left open, exposing the shelf paper my mom carefully placed in each cupboard over the years, refreshing it as needed. In every room, in every closet, there was shelf paper in different designs, signaling pride of ownership and adding a dash of personality to the innards of our home. I’m sure Wayfair has jazzed up the latest incarnation of shelf paper, but my hand aches for the thick old vinyl kind as though it held a soothing heartbeat.

I lift my hand to break the reverie so I can get back to my cleaning. I drag the vacuum and supplies over to the next room. I am instantly welcomed back to the 80’s by the decor, and of course, I feel right at home. There is wallpaper trim, emerald green walls, seashell shaped lamps and a gold trimmed dresser. The only proof of the 2000’s is a desktop computer that seems terribly out of place. It looks like the set of an 80’s teen movie temporarily set up as an office for a crew member. Wallpaper is peeling off the closet doors that hang slightly off track, and inside, more shelf paper on shelves. I hear Tanya come up the stairs.

“I put that wallpaper up in here myself.” she muses.

“It’s awesome.” We smirk at each other.

From beyond the wallpaper, another scene plays out in my mind. I see her dad raising a glass and toasting a small gathering of all our friends in the backyard; all of us in patterned dresses and frosted lipstick. It’s graduation (which one I can’t quite remember) and we’re gathered among her parents prized rose bushes, melting in the sun. People used to have their wedding photos taken in her impressive backyard - ponds, roses, bridges and trimmed hedges. The house was regularly featured on the Horticultural Society tours. I used to watch the cars arriving from my living room window. Her dad was a complicated man who had a complicated relationship with his daughter (and us). But I remember that garden party. All was normal for a day. Now…the yard is overgrown, ornamental grasses well over six feet tall, and garden treasures are strangled beneath vines that seem to begin and end nowhere. There is a shed full of antiques, buried at the back of the yard. More ghosts. The glory days of the yard are long gone, along with the perfect hardwood floors and unblemished shelf paper indoors. Everything that’s left is worn and heavy with time. The wallpaper not quite as green as it once was.

Becky and I, another of the old friends, slip into the backyard to dig up some of the overgrown perennials, hoping to transplant them in our own yards. Maybe they will flourish and find new life with us, and one day, our children and their friends will dig them up again, as they clean house as we are doing now. Such is life. We laugh, dig, reminisce, and help Tanya sort through her dad’s backyard treasures tangled both in the past and the weeds. Our laughter is the same as it’s always been, just a few more laugh lines at the source.

By day's end, visitors stop coming and most of the work is done. It’s just Tanya and I again, talking, like we have done for so many years.

“Am I doing the right thing?” she asks, wondering if it’s okay to sell the house. “Will it feel okay to let it go?”

“Yes. Your life is in Florida now, with your kids.”

Let go. Easier said than done. I pull and tug on one more ornamental grass. It comes free, the roots fragile in the sun. We toss the plant in my car, hoping it will survive the transplant. The garage is organized and the rooms inside sparkling. It already feels different. The ‘familiar’ wiped away, dug up. The house, like the hole in the ground, is ready to be filled in, ready for whatever comes next.

By Carol Sloan 

For Tanya. And special shout out to Jon Tobin for all his help.

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I felt his hand gently land on my ankle at the foot of the bed and squeeze. I lay sleeping under the light sheet in the hot summer, waiting for this moment.  

“Time to get up. I have to leave in 30 minutes.”

“Okay” I said.

I wiggled my fingers and toes and slowly came to life. The dog stretched beside me on the half empty king size bed before we exchanged a sad glance, knowing what was coming. I watched my husband slip out of the room in his towel, his fresh cut hair dripping onto his bare shoulders as he headed back to the bathroom. His luggage lay on the floor.

Steve, my husband, is off to Japan for eight weeks to work on the Olympics. I will remain here with the kids. It’s an opportunity he is very much looking forward to and one that I am very much hoping to survive. This kind of work separation is not new to us. He often travels for work and when I can, I visit, with or without the kids, and we share in the adventure together. We make it work. This time it's for longer, and this time we have no options. Covid is still in control and will prevent us from being together at all during the eight weeks. People have been through worse. There are people experiencing real suffering as I write this. We have been through worse. So all this emotion and dread seems inexplicable to me. But for some reason - this eight weeks hurts. 

The morning he left, the sun was big and bright, exuding delight like a spoiled teenager with mommy’s credit card and a new pair of shoes. I raised an eyebrow as I looked up to the sun to give it some stank eye. ‘Read the room, stupid,’ I said to myself as I mentally flipped off the sun. I drove up to the terminal and pulled over as slowly as humanly possible. It was quiet at the airport. This will be a simple, trouble-free good-bye. Along with a bright and cheerful sun, this was another element that did not align with my mood.

He’s a confident guy. And I like to think I am too - lady, a confident lady. We are not the same but we fit; we bring out the best in each other. We met in University when we were both rather immature and looking for excitement, not a partner. I didn’t care much for his bravado, he liked my hair and my free WWE pay-per-view access, a benefit of my job with Astral Media. Not the usual sparks associated with the beginning of any serious love affair - free wrestling and some ‘hey baby’ posturing. It took several years after graduation before we ran into each other again, our offices close to each other in the CBC. He was very put together, poised, polite and looked out at the world with pale blue eyes that sparkled. Were those the same eyes I saw on dollar draft night on campus? How did I miss those? No question, we had both grown up. I saw things in those eyes. We had each moved on from cheap beer to name brand cocktails, and walked around with big dreams now instead of big backpacks. We were on the same path. Twenty two years, three kids, two dogs, and one house later and we’re still here. Sometimes those sparks sneak up on you and before you know it, you’re on fire.

Now I’m alone for the summer. For my sanity, I have to believe this is happening for me, not to me.

I will have eight weeks of summer vacation with one less person to tend to, or be with. A good relationship requires daily attention. Being married is like being on parole...in a good way. You have to check in regularly, lean in, tell stories about how you’re getting on and listen to a few yourself. Bring each other a Starbucks once in a while and dutifully complete ‘community’ service - which could mean pretending not to be bothered by yellow stains on white t-shirts or play-by-play from the bathroom. Our husband and wife routine seems innocuous, but it is a commitment and it matters. We have our daily division of chores and activities; shopping, making meals, dishes, sport pick-ups/drop-offs, exercise, then - a bit of TV and wine, and finally, reading in bed. I am used to feeling his breathing and giggling so close to me, disturbing the air and warming it up with his life. It’s a little emptier now, as if someone shut off an air conditioner and a hum is gone. Despite the routine of it all, we still hold hands at night and comment on the red wine, enjoying every sip as though we were on holiday, not sitting on our couch in the same old sinkholes night after night.  

“Mmmm. That’s nice. What is it?”

“A Merlot.”

“Good choice.”

We savour it - the wine, the hand holding, the time together. Now when I pour a glass of wine, I try to imagine the familiar sound of Steve opening the closet door to put the empty bottle in our bin. I always ignore his ‘wow’ as he looks at all that we’ve accumulated. I like that he acts surprised every time.

Steve is a multi-talented TV producer who has an intense love of game shows. I know he’s home when I open the door and hear an audience clapping or buzzers sounding off. God bless the Game Show Network. Trivia, dumb luck, competition style, puzzles, and hysterical contestants screaming “big bucks, no whammies” says home to me the way bacon and flannel screams of Canada. Children’s laughter? Sure. The dog nuzzling my feet, sure. Hearing the name of tonight’s Jeopardy champion echo across my living room? Aaaaaahhhhh, I’m home. 

Game shows are his, not mine. I drink tea, he drinks coffee. I like loud music, he likes talk radio. I’m up all night, he sleeps soundly. I like yoga, he lifts weights. He loves “Cocktail”, I love “Stand By Me”. He reads thrillers, I read book club. He likes to cook, I do not. He has always known what he wants to do in life and has achieved great things. I struggled, and still struggle, to find my way. We’ve remained individuals in our marriage so time apart should be a breeze. But I feel it this time. I want to be with him. At times I wonder if I’m in shock; a conjoined twin feeling around the empty crib for my other half after separation surgery. 

His coffee tin in the freezer remains half full. The empty space at the end of the kitchen table where he sat and worked endless hours during Covid looks confusing to me, like a plant has been moved and suddenly there’s space, a dusty outline of some form of life that used to be there. The other side of the couch has started to puff up again and take shape. The laundry basket takes longer to fill up and there is no more sound of applause coming from the living room. Only the sound of clicking as I scroll endlessly through streaming services, trying to remember what it was I was so eager to watch when I could steal some time for myself?

Time for myself. This is absolutely happening for me, not to me. Steve being away all summer has given me space. I’m the couch that needs to puff up again. 

We both cried at the airport. I love that he cries. He walked away from the car and disappeared into the terminal - my other half pulling away, taking with him some of my breath. The sound of his luggage rattling on the concrete trailed off as I turned up the radio. I shook my fist again at the smug sun and drove away. No hand holding for a while. No one to ask me how I liked tonight’s Pinot Noir.

I still check in with my parole officer via Facetime in Japan. It’s important. I need to look at those eyes. Every time he looks away from his screen during our video chats, I take a moment to tell myself again, ‘this is happening for me, not to me.’ Before every good-bye he tells me, “I’m counting the days.” I need that.

At home, the boys and I are doing ‘us’. My youngest son and I play loud music and sing as we drive from soccer game to soccer game. Just us. I helped my oldest son plan his first ever solo adventure out west. Just him and I, talking travel. I have spirited chats about Formula 1 racing and our favourite drivers with my middle son - Hamilton vs. Verstappen. His thoughts vs mine, just mine. I cycle, rollerblade, and make lunch dates with friends without checking in with my partner. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss him. It means happiness is a whole universe and I am swept up in other orbits right now.

The time I previously spent on my romantic love is now being spent on my other love - my writing. I have my book back from the editor and there is work to be done. I can be that reclusive, peculiar, writer-type that holes herself up in a dark room to play with the voices in her head. I can light candles and clack away on my computer without that pull to spend time with my best friend. Writers shouldn’t have friends anyway. We need to teeter on the edge of weirdness. This summer, I’m teetering.

I chose to get busy, not sad. Without him I am breathing with one lung, it’s true, but I am still breathing. One of our last serious conversations before he left was about my writing. When I finished my book and was beginning to look for an editor, I was discouraged by the process of publishing. It was Steve who said, “You gotta bet on yourself.” That’s his game show spirit - and it's infectious. Shortly after that, he left for the summer and I did it, I put all my chips down. There is no question that twenty two years ago I bet on us and won, so I’m feeling good about my instincts - our instincts. This is happening for us, not to us. While his eyes are lighting up again with adventure in Japan, I’m letting my computer screen light up with new ideas. I can already hear the rattle of his luggage on the concrete sidewalk, coming back to me. He is the warm part of me, the human sweater for my shivering soul. We get to start all over again - each of us fresh and changed. I’m excited for the next challenge in our game of life. There will be some whammies but hopefully we only ever feel the applause.  

By Carol Sloan

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TDpOcp98b5k - For the romantics - this song gets me every time. Pardon this super white and hetero video.

Note: I am very superstitious about writing about my relationship like this. I don’t want to jinx us. I know how lucky we are. If I’ve made us sound perfect, we’re not. Whammies, there are always whammies.

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I don’t know exactly how to describe the colour. It’s a complex mix of dirty mustard at the base with spots of golden yellow on top. Each spot is dome-like in shape and under the light, and even in the shadows, the bumps glisten from fresh ooze and the application of useless ointment. These are the pustules that cover my neck, face, hands and beyond. Yes ...beyond. They stare out at the world like tiny ice cream scoops of brownish pus dripping with poisonous lemony syrup. I want to scream ‘look away’ at everyone I see but I know that only encourages a closer look. The bumps on my fingers have turned dark red and burst, leaving painful open wounds. Did I mention it’s itchy? And burns like fire; like a thin layer of lava or a full body yeast infection. The relief I get from scratching is short lived as every strike means a bump splits open, allowing the poison to escape and spread to virgin skin. The rash is crawling across my body, with new spots every few hours. I can think of nothing else, except the constant burn and itch. I feel disturbed as I wrestle with my impulse to either scratch or throw myself off a bridge to end it all. This rash has single-handedly crushed my goal of living a more Zen and Buddhist existence. I have begun to kill again, my victims in the hundreds.

I’m allergic to gypsy moth caterpillars as well as the actual moths. This year in Ontario, there has been a massive influx of gypsy moths. The caterpillars are eating up the leaves on hardwood trees, stripping entire forests of their summer foliage, threatening their existence altogether. They have tiny spiky hairs (setae) that blow in the wind and pierce innocent bystanders like micro-hypodermic needles. A small percentage of people react to these toxic barbs and I am thrilled to announce that I am one of the chosen ones. I was hoping to be named for a Pulitzer, not a caterpillar pustule contest, but nonetheless, here I am, a winner. I HATE them. It’s a strong word that somehow still seems to fall short of describing the intensity of my feelings. How about, I f’ing hate them?

Several years ago I began reading The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama, a long form interview with psychiatrist Howard Cutler. I have yet to finish the book but I enjoy it in bursts, as needed. I reach for it when the mood strikes me, eating up the nuggets of wisdom like bread crumbs along a path to fulfillment and peace. The Dalai Lama is wise and witty and a master at turning the simplest experiences into the most profound lessons. Buddhism focuses on kindness and by all accounts, that is aspirational for me. I have always loved the stillness and calm that surrounds Buddhism and its followers. There is a connection and respect for nature that makes perfect sense to me and I want, or wanted, to be a part of that loop. I watched any progress I had made at attaining a Buddhist mindset get crushed the same moment the plump body of my first caterpillar victim exploded under my Birkenstock. I smiled. 

One down.

Like most people I hope, I’m not all monster. I’ve had moments of success, where kindness and calm were my default. But now I’m in a bug vs. lady version of Home Alone - I’m Macaulay Culkin and the caterpillars are my home invaders. I’m almost enjoying the fight, creatively looking for opportunities to strike. At this point, I need to dig deep to recall any goodness left in me. I am covered in caterpillar blood.

Not long ago, I caught a horrifying spider from the ceiling in my bathroom and carefully cradled it in a paper towel. I carried it gently down the stairs and out the door, placing it in the front garden. I guess you could say we’ve become friends since this little fella, or his arachnid doppelganger, seems to visit repeatedly, each time begging for another paper towel airplane ride. My old chum. What a little scamp.  

Then I stomped on a fat, juicy caterpillar on the side of a country road at the cottage. I smiled as the brownish green innards oozed out the side of my shoe. A day or so later, I walked the same route and found the dried corpse and the stain on the asphalt and smiled a second time, slightly wider.

As a special education teacher, I have de-escalated a 190 pound teenage boy with autism who had become overstimulated at the sound of music coming from down the hall. He charged at staff, screaming with arms up, looking to strike as he struggled to self-regulate. Soft words, kind eyes and a comforting gesture. A reminder to choose a preferred activity or toy and suddenly, we were connected again, crisis averted, trust and calm restored.  

A gypsy moth dangled from a tree above my head on its silk string. I ran for the scissors, cut a swath of duct tape and wrapped the sticky square around the acrobatic web spinner until it was completely enveloped in the tape, a square little package, snug as a bug...then I squished it between my fingers until I felt its body flatten and liquefy.  It was disgusting. I tossed the tape bundle in the trash and went back to my book.

Once at a fast food restaurant, I rushed to help an elderly woman with dementia shuffle into the women’s bathroom to be cleaned up after a public accident. She had become belligerent with her husband and refused to go to the handicap bathroom with him. I was able to calmly step in and offer my help just as she started to drive her cane into his foot in disagreement. I met her confusion and anger with direct instructions and a promise to be helpful. I returned her to her husband after a clean up.

As I walked through the woods, attempting to raise my heart rate - in an effort to battle the COVID 15, I saw two gypsy moth caterpillars wiggling across the path ahead of me. My pace was quick and I had already passed them before I realized what they were. I stopped, doubled back, which is a no-no during cardio, placed myself next to the slow moving creatures and squashed them one at a time, imagining arcade type bells and whistles sounding off as they changed from solid creatures into gooey puddles beneath my weight. I returned to my up tempo walk, feeling rather energized. 

I cuddle my dog every single chance I get. I talk to him. I whisper in his ear. I brush his hair, buy him treats and toys. He is an animal but sometimes I can barely believe he’s not my actual baby. Many years ago, my youngest son dared to ask if I loved the dog more than I loved him. That was a tough moment. As all my kids maneuver through their teenage years, I find myself repeatedly pondering this same question myself.  But in the end, I love them all, animals and children. Love. I can love.

I bashed a moth cocoon on one of our trees with a piece of wood.

I put out a tiny bowl of water and tried to hand feed, one drop at a time, a bird that lay dying in our yard after hitting our window.  A small mercy to a beautiful creature. 

I gave my son a BBQ lighter and asked him to torch the gypsy moth caterpillars that were climbing up the side of the cottage by the firepit. He is 14years old and should be brimming with adolescent rage and curiosity about his power in the world. Not to mention, excited to be given permission to play with fire. He declined my invitation to murder.  “I can’t kill them.”  Then I spotted the white powdery cocoons on one of the tree’s.

“Burn them!” I said. Or hollered. Not sure which.

“I can’t!  What if there are babies inside?”.  

He moved away from me. Rightfully concerned with my state of mind as I muttered, “Who cares.”

I burned them myself. Kids today.

I am trying feverishly to add up all the times I have cooked or baked and delivered food to friends in need, or helped babysit or move furniture. Or told an off-colour joke to lift someone’s spirits. Or made a donation to a favourite charity. Or? Or? Is any of it enough? I don’t know which side is winning in me - the good or the bad?

After the township sprayed the area in an effort to thwart the return of the gypsy moth next year and save the trees, bodies lined the paths and the shores. We sprayed our property as well. More nature-channel type carnage. I don’t care. With many of our trees wrapped in duct tape, any surviving caterpillars that may try to climb up for a feast will get stuck and eventually die. Starve to death I assume. Don’t care. I have started a heavy dose of steroids to stop the attack on my body from this brutal allergen and hope I’m not physically scarred from these creatures. I hear there are now support groups for people like me who suffer this type of reaction from gypsy moth caterpillars. I’m afraid to join. My behaviour may be encouraged.

The Buddhist approach to ahimsa, or non-harming behaviour, applies to all small animals and microorganisms; no killing, on any level. So it’s official. I have failed. But maybe there’s a way back for me.

“When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.”

― Dalai Lama XIV

I found another spider in my house. A small one this time. Sitting on the stairs. I scooped it up with a Kleenex and took it out to the front garden, hoping it might find my other friend and live a full life outdoors. Maybe I can build back some of my good karma. One tiny sentient being at a time.

This could take a while.

“Whether our action is wholesome or unwholesome depends on whether that action or deed arises from a disciplined or undisciplined state of mind. It is felt that a disciplined mind leads to happiness and an undisciplined mind leads to suffering.”

― Dalai Lama XIV

I calculated my murders, doubling back to smash, taping trees to capture, and cutting perfect squares of duct tape in order to entomb my enemy. This disciplined approach brought about the suffering of the caterpillars and moths, that ‘s true. But now, I’m scratching less, bleeding less, in less physical pain and sleeping a hell of a lot easier at night. I’m happy. That was the goal, no? And who attacked who here? I don’t think the Dalai Lama or Siddartha Gautama have ever been this itchy. Maybe I am already on the right path - now that it's cleared of caterpillars. Peace and love.

By Carol Sloan

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I decided to enter my neighbors house uninvited. They weren’t very secretive about the state of their general household security and I knew for a fact, the back door was always unlocked. For that matter, the front door was usually open as well. My mom was a nurse and frequently on the night shift. She slept during the day while my dad was out selling houses. It was the 80’s - injury and the whereabouts of children was usually a concern after-the-fact. For us young ones, mischief and floppy band aids kept us busy daily. My sister was five years older (still is) and probably resented being in charge of my safety so, she pretty much left me alone. My brother took even less interest in me, unless I showed up on his turf unannounced. Seems he didn’t like his snot-nosed, rat-tailed little sister jumping out of the bushes while he and his friends took turns peeing on spiders. As I got older though, and my friends got cuter, aka bustier, he minded less and less, eventually crashing a few of my summer afternoons. But not this time. I was alone. The day was hot and full of butterflies, bug bites and promise. I had no idea where the neighbors were, and clearly, they had no idea where I was or, that I was about to find the naked people in their house.

It was almost too easy. I walked out my back door into our large open yard, eying my surroundings as though I had just opened the hatch to my space ship after an emergency landing. These were the days when fences were considered rude, and backyards were too big for firm borders. The coast was clear. I skipped across the yard, bounded up the steps of the neighbors back porch and pulled gently on the screen door. It squeaked once, then gave way. One scrawny leg at a time I slipped into the kitchen of the comfortable split level house. It was empty. This felt like the perfect opening to a Disney movie where adults existed in the periphery and children were left to survive on their own -  free and wild. I was in. I closed the door behind me.

Jewelry, money, clothes, it was all there. But I wanted none of it. What I wanted held deeper meaning. I was desperate to find secrets and to see this family up close. Perhaps this was the beginning of my writer’s curiosity. With no one around, I could look at what I wanted, for however long I wanted, and make my assumptions - in private, no adults curating what I was allowed to know. I swept quickly through the bedrooms, paying little attention to the clothes strewn about, the dusty plants, even the day-old underwear. Somehow I knew better than to go into drawers. I moved through the upstairs like a helicopter pilot weaving in and around mountains on a search and rescue. I’d know what I was looking for when I saw it. The family photos and stashed liquor I had already found during previous visits at neighborhood parties, when I had been snooping in a group with other kids. But I was sure there was more to see here. 

The kitchen was mostly clean and the countertop displayed an impressive amount of junk food. I didn’t dare touch any, even though I knew this family would have given me whatever I wanted. They were from Newfoundland. Fun, generous, trusting, and brimming with that unwavering sense of community, a bit foreign to our buttoned-up WASP-y ways. Did I mention fun? Their parties were epic and often included seafood flown in from the east coast. Tents were set up across their yard, and ours, with games of horseshoes and tables covered in loaded paper plates squeezed in between. Guests wandered freely between the yards while the imprint of plastic straps from woven lawn chairs throbbed across their thighs. Men were shirtless, bottles were stubby, and the ladies were loud. I could feel the energy of this sparkling family in the house that day, even though it was empty and still. Then I spotted it. The exact sort of discovery I had been hoping for. Naked people … on a Rubik’s cube. A child’s toy perverted into a dirty little game. It was magnificent! Just sitting on the coffee table. In the living room! My living room coffee table had an antique candy dish, a few well chosen books and some dried flowers in a ceramic vase. THIS was outstanding.

I grabbed the smutty cube and ran down the stairs, heart pounding as though a pack of hungry dogs were at my heels, salivating over the treat in my hands. At the bottom of the stairs was a little door that led into a cramped and dark crawl space. Too small for Harry Potter, but just right for me. I tucked in, leaving the small door open just a crack. Under a sliver of light, I worked on that Rubik’s cube. The thrill of twisting the rows to the left, then the right, then up, then down, in order to complete the image of a curvy lady ...or an oiled up man, entangled on a velour blanket before my eyes was not like any puzzle experience I had ever had to date. A Gumball machine or hot air balloon over Tuscany was the extent of our tabletop puzzle collection. Now the task of completing a regular Rubik’s Cube, with sides of solid blue, white, yellow, orange and red, seemed as disappointing as a stale piece of spelt toast for breakfast rather than a thick Belgian waffle dripping in syrup. Waffle every time please. Was it too much to hope my school would up its toy game? How would I ask for one of these for Christmas? Was this a stocking item or did it belong under the tree? Boobs and testicles or primary colours? I was young, rippling chests and pubic hair had my attention.

I don’t know exactly how long I worked on that Rubik’s cube but I only ever managed to finish a disturbing Picasso looking orgy on a couple of sides. It was fun. And bad. And wrong. I definitely spent some time snooping around in the rest of their crawl space but to this day, no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember what else I found. A dead body? Wedding album? Viking coins? Cocaine? Regardless, nothing was nearly as interesting as that Rubik’s cube … and those people. My sister babysat the kids in this house quite regularly and I started to wonder, had she played with this Rubik’s cube before too? Or did she play it cool and walk on by, only nudging it slightly out of the way in order to put down a bowl of chips for movie time. I wanted this discovery for myself. The pervert neighbors hadn’t pulled anything over on me.

Something drew me in that day and made me cross the yard. I was too young to have any ill intent, but old enough to prepare a rationale defending my innocence if caught. B’n E? Huh? Whatever could that be? I assumed I was weird, with slight criminal tendencies, and that when left alone, my weirdness grew stronger when fed by opportunity. I now know it was curiosity that happened to meet up with a few hours of free time. I had what every other kid had - the urge to discover the world for myself, without adults giving me their version. I needed to know things - about people and who they were behind the curtain. What makes us all tick? You could have searched my house high and low for decades and you would never have found something like that. I looked. I spent many afternoons rooting through boxes in our own crawl space, digging around drawers and jewelry boxes, making up stories about everything I found. I told myself that some things were incredibly valuable or had mystical powers because I could feel the heat in my hands.  I imagined black and white photos of unknown family as royalty one day, and outlaws the next.  Whatever I needed my family to be that day in order to feel interesting was within my power. I was making sense of the world by hunting for evidence of life beyond my own. A writer or voyeur, either way, I enjoyed looking without being seen.

Now, peering into other people’s lives is not only commonplace, it’s encouraged. Social media is a window with an endless view to a production of life. Supervised voyeurism feels more like a flight simulator than a transatlantic adventure in your own plane. At the cottage, I see minutes tick by with one eye while the other eye watches my youngest son glued to his iPad. Behind him a massive black raven squawks high up in a tree, an army of chipmunks race from trunk to trunk and hot yellow light bounces off thousands of green leaves in a gentle June breeze, the wind occasionally strong enough to blow the pine needles at his feet into piles. Our memories of this afternoon, this place, will be vastly different. What I wouldn’t give to see him sneaking into the neighbors cottage right now, lured by uncontrollable curiosity to get into things...in real life. 

I want to put a sticker on his screen that says Dance like no one is watching but the idea that interesting things happen undocumented is unthinkable to the latest generation. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to put it on Tik Tok, does it matter?

That Rubik’s cube left on the coffee table was not meant for me to see. It was not placed in the perfect light and edited to make each square on the cube equally fleshy. It was a gold nugget in a riverbed of silt. I learned that day that sexuality and nudity is expressed or lived differently for different people. It could be a part of everyday life in ways I never imagined. What kind of people have something like that? Is there something wrong with them? With my conservative family? It doesn’t even matter what conclusions I made, what matters is that a door was opened for me that day. I learned that people are full of surprises and just as puzzling as that cube. We are more than the stories we choose to tell, or photograph. Good people have dirty Rubrik’s cubes. Busy IG accounts can be the work of lonely people who might need your time more than your thumbs up and heart eyes. Geniuses post offensive memes sometimes because they don’t know what else to do. Poor people can look rich and sad people have exceptionally deceptive smiles. Holding that Rubik’s cube in my little hands is burned in my memory because I lived it. I sat with this secret, my pornographic break and enter, for years without understanding it. I forgot how the experience obliterated my small minded view of the world. There were more fenceless yards beyond my neighbors waiting for me. The world was endless and the people within it had more to teach me. I worry my kids will like and tap and forget to do. Now when curious kids, or future writers, feel the urge to snoop, they will do so without sweaty palms or the thrill of stepping out of a fantastical space ship onto a new landscape. They will get too much, too fast, and not be able to sit in a darkened crawl space with a single discovery.

Another bright afternoon passed, the sun suddenly low. My back ached from sitting so long and my fingers needed a stretch after all the typing. Darn blog. I’ve been on my computer for hours now, looking out at the landscape, romanticizing my oddball coming of age. Across from me I see the indent on the cushion of the chair where my son was sitting. I have no memory of when he left me. Probably inside on his iPad watching soccer tricks. Watching. I’ll talk to him tomorrow about unplugging more. Who spends a beautiful afternoon on their device? I glance at the neighbors cottage and pause for a moment, letting my imagination drift to their coffee table. With my charger in hand, I push the top down on my laptop, wondering where the day went.

By Carol Sloan

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In my house, a bottle of Prosecco and two coats of bright red nail polish can disappear before Brad Pitt is even a whisper on the red carpet. That has been my Oscar ritual for many years - painting my toenails and sipping bubbles while Hollywood’s greatest celebrities and artists meander down the carpet, like pretty lambs to the media slaughter. Adoring fans and unstable looky-loo’s scream from the stands while I gawk from home, my limbs tingling with excitement and alcohol at the spectacle of it all. I love it. Too much perhaps. I’ve shushed people, yelled my disagreements at the screen, jumped out of my seat in celebration and forgotten to breathe while an envelope was clumsily opened.  I still believe that all my campaigning among colleagues and friends was partially responsible for Matt Damon and Ben Affleck winning Best Original Screenplay for Good Will Hunting in 1998. No way they would have won without me. All the local publicity I worked tirelessly to stir up made them a shoo-in. Irrefutable. 

My Oscar tradition has suffered in the years since Matt and Ben took home the gold, all fresh faced and innocent. Back then, nothing seemed more important to me than celebrating the Oscars. As long as I can remember, I have wanted one. Just one golden Oscar please. I’ve practiced speeches in the bathroom mirror, the car, the shower, everywhere, both awake and in my dreams. Every year I watched other people - writers, actors, directors, make their acceptance speeches, thanking God, mom, their agent, and sometimes, the Academy. On some level, being awarded for making a movie seems ludicrous to me. It’s like being given cake for having baked a cake. How sweet does life have to be for some people? Isn’t being involved in baking a beautiful cake reward enough? While a cake is a series of ingredients that are carefully blended to produce a tasty dessert, so to is a film a magical combination of ingredients; pictures, sound, and a masterful script, painstakingly layered together to produce something that feeds the soul - a different kind of treat altogether. Circumstances, lack of courage and a series of choices led me further and further from this world with every passing day. But the Oscars - I’ve always had the Oscars. I can watch the ones who made it. The ones who replaced the mirror with an actual audience.

The night of the 93rd Academy Awards, 2021, I sat on my couch in my pajama bottoms, that have no less than two holes in them, in unsavory places admittedly, and frayed ties at the waist.  My U-neck t-shirt was rumpled but soft and I had painted my toenails earlier in the day, not bothering to save the task for the red carpet. They were pale pink, having lost my verve for bright red. Instead of Prosecco, I had a vodka cooler that I managed to pour into a nice glass. I’m not an animal. Maybe there was more than one vodka. I’m not a nun. My love of the spectacle has ebbed and surged over the decades for different reasons. There have been years where sneaking in a grown-up movie while raising three kids was not always possible. I could easily have run through episodes of The Power Rangers, line by line, more so than tell you anything about the best picture nominees of 2010 - unless images from The Hurt Locker or Inglourious Basterds appeared on little boys pajamas, or came in Lego sets. How cool would a Christophe Waltz Lego man be? Those years, I didn’t have the presence of mind or body to rise to the occasion. I was most likely up at night with a Tide stick and stained sweats, pulling Cheerios out of my hair, not lounging with champagne and glittering toes in a fresh coat of Opi’s best red, “I’m Really An Actress” (an actual colour).  

There have been other years when I have not been able to emotionally connect with the nominated films - like Birdman, in 2015.  I couldn’t get there. I just...you lost me on that one. Michael Keaton, hallucinating while running amuck in his underpants in New York wearing giant pair of feathered wings. That’s a lot for me to get behind.

But 1998 and Good Will Hunting - what a year! Two first time writers with a story dripping in humour, deep friendship, drama, love, and an ensemble of broken people, sorry - characters, that split open on screen, creating a slurry of pain and disappointment until their only option left is to rebuild - each other, and move forward. No wings or grimy underpants. How do you like them apples? (my favourite line).

Television and movies imprinted on me long before Ben and Matt came onto the scene. When I was still in diapers, I stepped in front of the TV to get my parents attention at bedtime. As usual, they asked me for a goodnight kiss. I leaned in to kiss my mom, dramatically twisting my head side to side, my diaper crinkling as I wiggled. Without a beat, I said - ‘it’s a Hollywood kiss’. From then on, I was regularly asked for a ‘Hollywood kiss’, which I happily gave, each time rolling my head around like the tarty little starlet I thought I was. I’ve looked to movies to show me what to do, what to wear, what to hope for, what I could be, and how to get myself out of, or into, a tricky situation. I still can’t put lipstick on the way Molly Ringwald did in The Breakfast Club, but boy I’ve been tempted to make some vengeful poo pie like Octavia Spencer in The Help.  I’ve dreamed of banging out a hit play at my seaside home like Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give and I’ve wondered what would happen if I ever ran away to Italy, India and Indonesia to truly find myself. The Oscars is the night when I get to see filmmakers rewarded for guiding me through the year. Films that stole my thoughts, disrupted my emotions, comforted me, inspired me, and surprised me, have me rooting for them like a face-painted sports fan. When Danny Boyle filmed a small boy from the slums of India plunging into the bottom of an outhouse, I was shocked and transported. Slumdog Millionaire is an epic story of classism and survival; a narrative I felt at every turn. And with a catchy Bollywood number at the end? I was team Boyle all the way that year.

This year started out feeling like one of those years when there were more important things going on then red carpets, cocktails, and celebrities patting each other on the back. The movies for the most part had not even been released and the show was put off for months. Cinema’s are closed, studio movies have been held back and parties are a no-no. So, the U-neck shirt and a canned cooler seemed fitting.  A couple of weeks before the Oscars, against all odds, we searched and committed to watching some of these films regardless of our lack of enthusiasm or the presence of blockbusters. Once again, movies freed me like a butterfly from an unwanted cocoon.

We watched Anthony Hopkins (The Father) from a first person perspective, spiral into the terrifying world of dementia. I felt sad and sentimental. I thought of things I didn’t want to think about. Then came Daniel Kaluuya (Judas and the Black Messiah) as a man utterly driven by a mission to empower African Americans before the ultimate betrayal by an insider informant cost him his life, at only 21 yrs old. A true story. I felt shocked and enraged. But mostly grateful for people that are far more amazing than I could ever be. After watching Nomadland, which plodded along and left me wanting to take a shower, I felt nothing. Then I talked about it more. I let memories of working at Provincial Parks as a teenager in Northwestern Ontario, a mere 30 hour wilderness train ride from Toronto, creep in.  I met many a nomad in these secluded parks, either hiding from something, seeking something, or discovering something; all committed to a life on the road and under the stars. The rumblings of my own wanderlust began to surface as I reminisced about simpler times; my youth, backpacking, and having no fixed address. We talked about nomads as a family. One of my son’s said, “I could totally see you doing that mom.”  

To which my husband promptly responded, “She doesn’t want to live in a van and shit in a bucket from Home Depot, trust me.” And I was reminded how much I like a nice hotel and freshly squeezed juice.  But still, I felt alive again thinking about freedom.

Minari drops a young Korean family in the middle of Arkansas - none of which should resonate with me. It’s a delicate look at a marriage that struggles to find its feet, dreams of independence, growing old, growing up, finding a voice, healing from trauma and learning to love each other despite hardship and generational divide - it was impossible not to connect with it. Watching the quirky grandmother gain the children’s love and seeing the ‘new’ family on the fringes of a small town church group took me back to my childhood. I remembered church picnics I went to as a kid and the Vietnamese refugees that had come to our community - the hat passed around for ‘boat people’. I thought about the spicy ginger candy my Australian nana used to give us and how I spit it out the second heads were turned. I thought about all the clumsy but beautiful lessons I have learned from my family. Minari was delicious.

Of course living in a house full of people who think they’re funny, I also watched Borat Subsequent Movie Film and am in awe of Maria Bakalova, the best supporting actress nominee. That’s all I can say.

Then, Sound of Metal exploded onto the scene with its profound lesson. My husband and I watched Riz Ahmed literally become deaf.  As a heavy metal drummer, and former addict, he damages his hearing beyond repair and fights to get his life back, ignoring the life he has been given. No pun intended but it’s a quiet film, except at the beginning, that takes you to a place you are normally not invited. You are brought into a community that is often on the fringes and ignored. I was reminded of my brother, the drummer and high school principal, who is experiencing tinnitus in one ear. Ironically, or not, I remember him teaching sign language and being the Director of the Ontario Camp for the Deaf when he was younger. I remember the phone we had in our house that would convert speech to text so we could communicate with deaf students. I still know some signs and remember the young man who gave me my sign name. The performances in this film I will never forget.  I felt scared. I felt opened up. I have warned my brother. I felt what I was supposed to; an appreciation for sound and at times, the absence of it.

Watching the Oscars, for me, is like eating a bucket of ice cream after a good cry. It’s not the awards I want to devour. It’s the stories I want to relive. The laughs. The humanity.  I need to see the people that gave me the gift of feeling and seeing worlds I never imagined until seconds into a movie. I like their dresses and speeches, it’s true. I critique the presenter banter, and question the set design. I balk at the results sometimes and text friends my opinions that no one asked for. I envy the work of all the participants. But mostly, I am grateful for their talent. I am a winner year after year because I joined in the most human of activities - the sharing of stories. The Academy Awards have steadily lost viewers over the past five years, at less than half their normal numbers. It’s okay. We can ignore the awards, but we must never forget the movies. My ugly pajamas and vodka coolers will never win best costume.  My tears, my memories revisited, and my enthusiasm for movies have never really needed a statue or red toe nails. Every year, the Oscars give me a reason to pause and look back, not just at the year in cinema, but at my life in general, and remember that I am human. 

And for that, I’d like to thank the Academy.  

By Carol Sloan

Note: Books have had a similar effect on me but this…this was all about the movies.  

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The sweat collects across my upper lip as I zone in on the fine print of the instructions for my new alarm clock. The booklet is about the size of a large business card, with print so small, each time I read it I see something different. ‘Press the arrow’ upon second glance, looks a lot like ‘Punch the alarm’. I’m tempted to do the latter. Struggling to read the fine print combined with the added heat from the afternoon sun pouring in through the window is now causing stress sweat to dampen more personal places than just my moustache. Anything worthwhile takes a little effort, I tell myself as I pause to blow down the neck of my tee-shirt. The alarm clock arrived from Amazon within 24 hours, which is impressive, considering it may take me twice as long to set the actual alarm, as I alternate between pressing it and punching it. When it’s all over, my phone will no longer be on my bedside table. All it ever was to me at night was a distraction. A clock that’s just a clock is all I need. That, and my ability to focus again for more than a nano second. COVID and its restrictions on life has left me wandering through my days barely able to finish … I wonder if the neighbour had her baby yet? 

I set down the booklet, satisfied that my alarm is set for tomorrow. I look forward to reading a book tonight without stopping after each page to respond to every ding, dang, dong or buzz.  I can wholeheartedly be swept away to 1920’s Ireland or tossed into the bedlam of 1980’s New York, gripped by drama or mystery, without the impulse to take a quick peek at IG (that’s what the kids call it) to glimpse ‘a quick way to upgrade my avocado toast’ or watch a dog skateboarding through suburbia. Selfies from friends and family can now wait until morning. I need to sharpen what COVID has dulled.

I head back downstairs to the kitchen. I stand at the island with one hand on my hip looking around the room before heading back upstairs to grab laundry from the bedrooms. Might as well have laundry going while I do whatever else it is I need to do. Laundry goes in. I’m back in the kitchen. I’ve strategically left the bread maker on the table so when in doubt about how or where to start, my eyes are drawn to the maker of bread. Today seems like a Challah day so I grab the eggs, flour, yeast, yadda yadda.  Done. I’ve got a couple of hours before the dough is ready. 

From the corner of my eye I see the Instant Pot. Great time to whip up some dal - lentils, brown sugar, garlic, onion, ginger, cayenne, cumin. The click of the sauté button has the spices slipping around in oil at the bottom of the stainless steel, 8 quart bucket. A nice, brownish red sauce thickens and burns my eyes. The house fills up with a spicy warmth while the bread maker whirrs on the table, kneading the dough tirelessly.  I feel like an Amish woman with super powers - standing in the middle of the room doing nothing at all while things are magically being created around me. Also known as ‘a woman with electricity’. Drop in the lentils, fill up the water, seal the lid and wait. A little white rice and that’s lunch for the week.  

I know there are other people in the house but I’m in my own world and can’t stop to connect with them now. I can feel their presence at the outer edges of my reality - my Amish superhero reality. It’s as if I’m on an island and everyone else is on the mainland waving to me as they wait to catch the ferry to come to me. There is a dense fog around my island that muffles sound and blurs my vision. I keep busy while I wait for them, while I wait for something.

Next, I start digging my farmers hands into the greasy meat of a roasted chicken, pulling chunks off the bone. Suddenly, the alarm errantly goes off upstairs. I hurry up the steps to shut it off, wiping my hands on a tea towel like a mechanic rushing to answer the garage phone.  I don’t actually know how to shut it off yet though. It wasn’t supposed to go off until tomorrow morning. Is it tomorrow morning? The instructions either say Hold the home button or Home the hold button to stop it. As the earsplitting beep gets louder I am told by my youngest son that I am disturbing the making of a Tik Tok video down the hall. That wasn’t even on my to-do list today but I actually feel proud of that.  What kind of maniac wants their kids on Tik Tok anyway? Is it Tik Tok or the Tik Tok? So I hold, press, slam and aggressively hunt and peck around the new alarm clock to shut it down. 

Silence.  

Back downstairs I go. I hear my son say to his friend on Facetime, “My mom can’t work her new alarm clock.” followed by giggles in crackling adolescent male voices. If I wasn’t on my island engulfed by fog, I might have chirped back with a middle-aged mom quip like “Ok Tik Tokking Tik-Tokkers, you set the alarm!”. Good thing my quip bank is closed during COVID.

As I walk back down, I notice all the dust on the carpet of the stairs. I grab the vacuum and give them a good once over.  While the vacuum is out, I might as well do the rug in the front room and the runner in the hall. And there’s a fair bit of dirt by the back door too.  A quick Swiffer of the hardwood floors and under the cabinets and tables is in keeping with clean rugs. Can’t have one without the other.  Sacrilege.

Wait. My actual to-do list...what is on my actual to-do list anyway?

Lesson plans for the week, make food, schedule a doctor’s appointment, get the car serviced, read and do research for a second book, write a blog post, work on my book edits.  

Like a lot of lists, some of it is practical, like food and tuned up wheels. But part of my list is pure bucket-filling work that feeds me in a mystical way that makes my insides feel like glitter and cool running water. I must have lessons for the week or class will be sad, empty, and boring as hell. But I need to write or my spirit feels sad, empty, and strangled - my own kind of hell.  

The chicken is stripped and tossed in the roux.

I hear a beep. I flip through my phone, check emails and socials while every surface around me is covered in flour, lids and bottles, foil wrapped butter blocks, humming kitchen appliances and bubbling pots.  But the floors are clean.  The dough is finally done so I braid it, egg wash it and chuck it in the oven. Another beep. I check my phone again and get lost in some writers' group posts about how everyone’s projects are coming along. It’s inspiring. Then I remember how far I still have to go to get my book in good shape. Beep again. It’s the dal. Toss that in Tupperware. Make someone lunch. Who though?  My youngest? Or was that yesterday? No - that’s every day. Everyone else helps themselves today.  We move around the kitchen like toy hockey players jerking around on a magnetic table, just missing each other as we glide in and out of the space near the dishwasher. Clean up. Take the bread out of the oven and slice it up. Finish the pastry for the chicken pot pie topper. Clean some sinks. Change up laundry.  Re-stack the magazines. Clean out the inside of the diffuser and check that all the rooms have Kleenex boxes. Lose an hour doing something I can’t remember then change into workout clothes.  Look at real estate flyers, throw out old sticky tack and receipts from the junk drawer, make up some soda stream bottles, and look for leftover seed packets from last year's almost-garden. Look at squirrels in the tree in the backyard. Literally ... squirrel! I notice that I’m in workout clothes and remember I was headed out. Go for my run/walk along the water because if I don’t, a breakdown is imminent. 

I can’t hear any beeping now or see a kitchen appliance. I run the first twenty minutes along my usual route, headed toward downtown, then my knees message me to walk. I avoid eye contact with strangers and work hard to stay distant. I even make audible tsk tsk noises as I pass people stopped on the bridges watching the ducks directly under the signs that say ‘do not stop on bridge’.  I’m that lady now.

As I try to mentally review my to-do list, I cave in and join the rebels stopped on the foot bridge. Screw it. Dumb rule anyway. I look down to see ducks diving, splashing, eating, trotting across chunks of ice then swimming away.  I stroll to the rocky shore and watch the swans bathing and diving. They’re slower and calmer. They preen, eat, duck their long necks under the cold deep waters and float in circles near the rocks.  I watch. It’s amazing.  Ducking and swimming, squawking and floating.  Not once did any of them look up. It’s as if the throngs of people, lost, lonely and dazed, exist on the other side of a one way mirror, invisible to them. Freedom is their distraction, not us. Looking up at people would only keep them from swimming. I stare some more, wondering when I might be distracted by life again. I feel a surprise breeze lift off the shore and chill my shins. The soft looking feathers on the outer layer of the swans in front of me rise and fall gently. The ducks bob in the waves; their beaks and bellies filled with treats from around the rocks, each creature literally swept up in the moment. 

I miss that.

The fitness tracker on my smart watch buzzes, reminding me to get moving again. I stay put. It buzzes again. I let the vibration repeat, ignoring it willfully.

I return home. The alarm is going off upstairs again. I go slowly. I don’t engage with the tiny instructions in the maddening little book. I figure it out. Silence.

If I can’t read instructions, I’m free to experiment. Timed bread, timed soup, a finite set of steps to vacuum. A 60 min workout...okay 40. Follow the steps, get the same results each time. Control. It’s feeding me in all the wrong ways. I have those soul-igniting nuggets on my to-do list that keep getting buried beneath the fine print that I thought mattered. I’m working my list in the wrong direction. I want to float and duck below the surface without looking, or planning ahead, and dig around where it’s murkier but the rewards are juicier. So many buttons, so little life. Distractions at the cost of surprise and wonder. The clock and the birds are both part of my wake-up call - the call to let go. Instead of cooking all day, I will choose to feed myself - write, or walk, or sit or watch birds (I know how that sounds)…or nothing in particular. I’ll buy pasta on my way home from work, a jar of plain old red sauce and we will eat while I read from the new chapter I wrote. We’ll ALL get fed, wrapped up in store-bought steam and time, instead of separated by fog. And the alarm will go off when I tell it to, or not.

By Carol Sloan

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The benefit of being a light sleeper is having the ability to hear the back door close at 7am on a Saturday morning from one floor up. Since all my children are now north of 13 yrs old, my razor sharp ears are no longer needed to hear toddler squeals in the night. I don’t need to be attuned to the sound of little heads getting lodged in stair banisters, or bikes crashing on the driveway. I used to be able to hear a sneeze from a crib or the creak of a mattress as a little person rolled over in the middle of night, with or without a monitor. Not only am I a light sleeper with creepy mommy hearing, I’m just a terrible sleeper in general. For years, I have lay awake at night listening to screeching cat fights echo from all corners of the neighborhood, or yawned for hours under a parade of sporadic headlights that washed over my darkened bedroom. I've had no choice but to resort to a variety of sleep hygiene routines and pharmaceutical concoctions in order to catch a few winks.  But even still, I only manage to float somewhere between sleep and awake - neither one stealing me completely.  Without toddlers to listen for anymore, my nights have seemed increasingly empty, until now. Don’t kid yourself for a second - I absolutely heard that door at 7am.

“Did you hear the back door this morning?”

“No. Maybe someone got up to put the dog out.” Steve answered.

This is a man who leaves his body every night, like a wet suit on the floor of a dive shop, only to return after a perfect 8 hour hiatus.  I knew he didn’t hear a thing.  I also knew none of our children had gotten up to put the dog out.

“I think someone came in the house.”

“Doubtful.” he answered. “Were you up at 7?”

“Not exactly. But I was kind of awake.”

We are still under lockdown, with no sign of Covid restrictions lifting any time soon. Get up, sleep, eat, work; the order of the day is confused and flexible. Why would any of us be up at 7am on a Saturday? Nowhere to go.

Creak.

I know what I heard.

We lost interest in the mystery quickly though and chalked it up to me taking one too many ‘helpers’ at bedtime. So we carried on with our days like prisoners, moving about the same grounds aimlessly; floating as astronauts in our space station, each doing our own work, surviving moment by moment. I made bread and cookies until we’d run out of containers and Steve poured himself into work. I taught my classes, and Steve took calls. We walked trails and waterfront paths daily, sometimes enjoying it, sometimes doing it because it was the only thing that would keep us from staring at the calendar wondering if we had done a ‘Tuesday’ yet this week? 

With the fire on and our feet tucked snuggly under our legs on the couch, we aimlessly scrolled through our evening options on the TV … again.  Two of the boys were parked in front of other screens while Dexter breezed through the room with his dripping winter boots in hand about to head down the stairs to his room in the basement.  

“Hey! Don’t take wet boots down to your room!” I begged.

“I’m gonna put them in the laundry room to dry.” he retorted.

Then Steve jumped in and added, “Oh, and I’ll fix your screen tomorrow.” .

As we settled on a show to watch, Steve let me know that Dexter’s window screen was broken. He had found it on the back patio after putting the dog out. I held on to my thoughts as pieces to a puzzle I didn’t know I was forming began to slide into place. 

I thought back to 8 yr old Dexter. I had recently returned to work and introduced he and his brothers to the world of school and daycare. Not that I needed these structured institutions to confirm what I already knew about Dexter - but it became clearer by the second that rules and common sense were very much the round hole that Dexter’s square peg was not interested in. It would be completely fine if his shenanigans only affected him but at this stage, as mother and son, we were inextricably intertwined. His actions were mine to explain, repeatedly. I remember the day I pulled up to the daycare expecting, as usual, to collect three tired boys with lunch bags wreaking of squashed apple and soggy Bear Paw, wrapped in a wet sock or two.

“Mom, we’d like to talk to you.” said Tina.

Tina was a very matter-of-fact early childhood educator who swore up and down that she just loved my boys, which I knew was not always the case for my bunch. I make Bose cinema speakers, not wall flowers.

“He went out the window.” she said to me, quite matter-of-factly.

“He went out the window?” I asked.

After a raucous snack time, the children in the after school program were saddened to hear that they would not be allowed to go outside to play. It was frigid and the city of Toronto had issued a cold weather alert. They’d be going to the gym instead. Grumble, grumble, foot stomp or two, grab some toys and go. That’s what most of the kids did. But Dexter went to the bathroom. He climbed up the wall to a window, pushed it open and slipped out. Yes, he climbed up a wall. He went outside to play, in extreme cold, in his indoor shoes, with no coat, no toys, no friends, because he wanted to play outside. Needless to say, he was missing for a short period of time before someone spotted him prancing about in the yard. Only Dexter seemed pleased with how daycare went that day.

Dexter dyed his hair because he wanted to. He became a pescatarian because he wanted to. He trashed the playroom at a Good Life gym because he wanted to go home. My membership was revoked. I belong to Vive Fitness now. I used to bribe him (and all of the boys) with jelly beans, or quiet beans as I called them. He would get one bean for every minute that he had been quiet while I made or answered a phone call, because every second my attention was not on him, he wailed and fought. He refused to do ANY work in class but instead ripped up paper and coloured on puzzles. Eventually we discovered it was because he was bored.  He chose to go all Banksy on the room instead of letting someone know he would like more to do or read. This was all just the beginning of Dexter’s long and tumultuous relationship with his omnipotence. Dexter has moved through life going from one box to another, pushing off the lids and kicking down the sides while we followed along behind with tape. 

After another sleepless night during Covid, I did in fact venture downstairs in the early morning to let the dog out myself.  I felt a cold rush of air sting my legs and face as I hit the bottom step. Coming through the back door, in his coat and boots with a bag over his arm was Dexter.

“What are you doing?” I asked sleepily, swallowing my urge to lunge.

“Oh, couldn’t sleep. Just came back from a walk.”

I bit my bottom lip to keep the words “I’m not a total idiot” from spilling out of my gaping mouth in a combative, old fashioned, crazy mom tone. Instead, I opted for the tilted head, raised eyebrow “MmmmmHmmmm.”

“With a bag?”

Okay, I let that one slip out.

I kept my unofficial investigation to myself for a couple of weeks as I studied comings and goings and distant sounds in the house. In lockdown, it was easy to fit this into my schedule. I noticed his TTC pass seemed to auto-refill in the middle of the night.  Bless my husband's dear sweet soul when he said “The TTC probably just has some automatic system and his account must have come up as needing a top-up randomly at 4am.” I bit my bottom lip again to fight the “I’m not a total idiot” urge again. A few days later I hear Steve, for the second time, asking Dexter to just let him know next time his screen breaks so he can fix it right away.

His window screen popped out again? Covid restrictions, daycare, it’s all the same.

I decided to reveal my findings and offer a conclusion to my husband as we retired one evening to bed, my guard lowered due to emotional exhaustion and vodka. As Steve and I performed our little night time routine; fluffed our pillows, turned on our bedside lights, got our books and kicked off our slippers - no, we’re not 111 years old, we just enjoy a nightly routine reminiscent of a bygone era, we chatted. We compared notes on the fact that our teenage son was most definitely sneaking out the window in the middle of the night and taking off on the subway to God knows where. I huffed and puffed. I paced. I was ready to lecture and had in fact been rehearsing my speech nightly as I lay tossing and turning in bed.  I even went to the “You better talk to him, ‘cause I’ll kill him” scenario. Actually, it may have been Steve that suggested he talk to him so I didn’t kill him. Either way, we both wanted to save his life. My memory is foggy from the perpetual rage and fear hangover I seem to be nursing since the changeover from taking care of three lovely children turned to policing three clearly devious teenagers.

At least Steve and I were in agreement.  The screen on his bedroom window wasn’t magically popping out, he didn’t need his boots in the basement (next to his room) to dry out, his TTC card wasn’t automatically renewing in the middle of the night from a glitch in the system, and he wasn’t out for a breath of fresh air in the early morning with a backpack because he couldn’t sleep. And most of all - I wasn’t crazy.  I had heard the door open and shut early in the morning.  We were going to have a serious talk with our son. It would be uncomfortable and we would make sure the other kids weren’t around. I would try not to kill anyone… unless provoked.

The next day, as I pretended not to be anxiously awaiting Dexter’s arrival in the kitchen, Steve asked me the question that unraveled my entire plan.  “What were you doing at his age?”  Wrong!  This wasn’t about me - or us, at his age. It’s our son. The little boy genius who had exhausted teachers from 3 schools, scared off multiple babysitters, given the runaround to literally anyone who thought they knew better, been kicked out of play groups, and countless other escapades that shall go unnamed. Then I realized he had a birthday coming up. A big one - 19 years old in a couple of weeks. I was silent as I thought of my friends and I at 19. Then horrified at those memories. I wasn’t even living at home at that age.  The only uncomfortable conversation that was going to happen was going on right now inside my head.

There was no investigation. It was over. I hadn’t noticed that I was still trying to keep a full grown Dexter in a little old onesie. These sides were destined to split in a dramatic fashion. I’d spent years introducing a daring boy to a world made of walls and grabbing his ankles every time he tried to get a look at the other side.  If I could just feed him jelly beans a little longer to keep him doing what I wanted.  

We had a conversation. But instead of, pardon me, ripping him a new one, I resigned. 

Me: “Dexter...you’re almost 19.  You don’t have to crawl out your window.  You’re entitled to a life.”

Him: “I didn’t think that was an option.”

Ouch. That’s on me.

We went over his options - both as I saw them and as he saw them. He was allowed to grow up, and I was expected to evolve.  We have yet to discuss why he was squeezing out the window but coming back in through the door, but I’m happy to save that nugget for another time. It was time for Dexter to stop going out the window. I had no choice but to stand back and open the door for him. Since our talk, I haven’t heard the door in the morning, or found his boots hiding in the basement. Instead, he lets us know when he’s having a rough time with the lockdown and needs to see a friend, and we talk about how to do it responsibly. He’s always gonna find a window. I know I did. We got to honesty. And nobody died.

Now as I lay in bed each night, I can barely hear the screeching cats in the neighborhood, nor do I need to listen for the unexpected creaking of a back door. My oldest is all grown up and I have peace now. Parenting done. I just lie back in my cozy bed and relax. All I need to listen for now is the possible sound of Uber doors slamming, my cell phone buzzing, strange voices, sirens, the police knocking, gunshots, ambulances in the distance … 

By Carol Sloan

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The house smelled of roasting bones. They were boiled clean and spread out on a pan with healthy chunks of garlic and big white onion spears. The oven was on high heat, so high my cheeks flushed red hot when I opened the door. In thirty minutes the bones were crispy brown and brittle, sizzling in the pan. I buried it all, bits included, in a pot of cold water then waited patiently for it to boil. For three more hours, the bones shriveled under the bubbling water. Chili flakes and salt and pepper rounded out the flavor profile in my turkey carcass pot. It was a slightly grotesque mixture but it smelled delicious. The collagen swimming around in the oily brew was going to keep me young forever. I snuggled in on the couch to watch a movie with my youngest, at his request, which was mind blowing from my 13 yr old, while the bones danced and spit on the stove for the rest of the afternoon. There was salt and meat in the air, candles on the mantle, and feet tangled beneath a blanket. The dog snored between us. It was December 31st 2020. The eve before, God help us, a new year.

“Spider-Man: Into The Spider-Verse” was Isaac’s choice of movie for our mother-son afternoon. A new young lad, Miles Morales, is bitten by a pesky radioactive spider and mayhem ensues as he becomes another Spider Man. Miles’ short term pain from the spider bite is replaced by paralyzing confusion and an overwhelming sense of legacy and responsibility: embrace his new spidey powers and save the world from the hideous villain attempting to rip the fabric of time in order to bring back the dead - his dearly departed family lost in another dimension, or shrivel up in disbelief and sit idle in fear. Each moment of this epic adventure was brought to life by its Oscar-winning animation and art direction. The smile on my son’s face and the stillness in his gaze as he watched a young man succeed against all odds distracted me occasionally as I felt the romance of a hero story through his eyes. Isaac spread out further on the couch, pushing me to one side, making room for the inspiration that oozed from the hero’s journey to make peace with the messiness of life.  

Soon the rest of my family trickled in from their solitary activities and joined us by the fire. Steve from his reading (aka nap), Dexter from skating, and Kirby from, hmmmm, I have no idea where he was.  A greyish pink glow spilled in from the windows while the gang took their seats - primary colours from the Marvel Universe exploding in reflection across their faces. The bones sporadically tickled the side of the pot, reminding me something was still transforming in the kitchen, like Frankenstein on the table. The moment was perfect; family, story, food, and warmth.

Before long the sun set and my gang of merry men began to get hungry. Steve elbowed me away from my pot in order to whip up platters of wings and other New Year’s Eve snacks.  My bones quieted down and boiled gently like the obedient little creature they may or may not have once been. As we noshed on our spicy chicken, we began to discuss what our next movie for the night might be. Since we were all still trapped together in lockdown, there would be no socializing with other, more interesting people, just us, and whatever was left for us to watch on Netflix - which isn’t much. It’s been a long pandemic, making this a familiar ritual. Family time is almost a dirty phrase these days, like rash or dentist appointment. Another dry itchy patch?  Didn’t I just get a cleaning? And seriously, more family time? We’ve had more than our share of tobogganing, sing-alongs, board games, hikes, skating, laughing, dressing up for no reason, overeating, fighting over someone’s ‘attitude’, storming out of the room because ‘no one ever listens to me’, or slamming a door because ‘everyone always laughs at me’ or seething with anger because somebody did it; it can’t always be the dog. Never did we ever imagine this much togetherness when we first had kids. They sure grow up fast is a cliche I’m not sure I buy into anymore, now that I’ve had the chance to watch their cellular growth every second of every day. It’s pretty glacial. 

I tasted the broth in between plates of wings. Rich and oily. On its way to perfection.

After cleanup, we settled on the latest Liam Neeson movie. He must have done this one in his sleep. I thought to myself it might be nice if someone flipped the script and he was taken. Sometimes I need a little Qui Gon ‘Gin’ to get through some of his catalogue (not all, just some). As expected, Liam whispered threats into the phone while his adversaries scrambled to see him coming - again. I found the movie hard to watch - at first because it was predictable and then because my eyes were swelling shut. My sinuses were almost completely plugged by the third act and my chest was wheezing and heavy as if quick-hardening concrete were being mixed in my lungs. Instant Corona virus flare up?  An actual allergic reaction to a B-list Liam Neeson movie? 

I blew my nose a hundred times, each time my upper lip becoming more and more raw. I had excruciating road burn on my face from rapid and aggressive honking. Puffiness grew high on my cheeks and a fiery film covered my eyes. I could barely smell my broth anymore let alone take in the necessary oxygen needed to remain conscious. Somewhere in the distance I could hear Liam intimidating bad guys on his fourth burner phone. I bolted upright and started to pump my body full of a variety of allergy pills, sprays and topicals. While I waited for my pharmaceutical knight to save me, I shut the stove off and strained my broth, carefully focusing my blurred and weepy vision on the jars in front of me, expecting the pills to kick in any minute.

Nothing. 

I tried to stop myself from scratching out my burning eyeballs by sitting on my hands. They kept swelling, like sponges in boiling water. Breathing started to tire me out. My liver was going to have to deal with the allergy pill overdose while I hunted down the reason for this reaction. What would Liam Neeson do? How would Spider Man survive? Think Carol, think.  I watched the delicious turkey broth settle and cool in the jars, the smell escaping me. All the care I had put into this broth, without its fragrance, looked back at me like toilet water samples from an abandoned trailer park. No sense of smell, trouble breathing, blurred vision, global pandemic from a respiratory virus, yet somehow I was still optimistic about my condition. The evening was quickly becoming more interesting than anticipated. All day I had relaxed under a savoury cloud, unthreatened, exaggeratedly dissatisfied with the evening's movie choice as though that were an actual issue. What I wouldn’t give to watch “Men In Black: International” right now.

The dog kept snoring and my oldest son had this wisdom to impart before what seemed like my last breath, “You shouldn’t have had ice cream. Dairy.”

Think Carol. If Liam can figure out at the last second which safe house the bad guys are hiding in and Spider Man, basically a child, can suddenly learn to control his webs right before tumbling 100 floors to his death, then surely I can save myself from passing out in my own soup from a momentary invisible attack. I flashed back to several years ago when the news reported on Christmas Tree sickness - tiny mould spores that grow on live trees, infecting the air, causing mild to severe reactions.

“It’s the tree.” I wheezed, blinking through my cloudy vision. Ironically, or not, it felt like my eyes were bathing in murky soup. 

Thankfully my family could tear themselves away from the riveting movie to help me strip all the ornaments off the tree. Kirby pulled the lights down, we unscrewed the trunk from the base and Steve dragged the holiday carcass outside, tossing the much loved Christmas tree to the curb like a hot potato. No one loves Christmas more than I do. I barely had a chance to say good-bye. The ornaments were left splayed out on the couch like toys pulled from a house fire at a crime scene. I vacuumed and swept every last needle from the house and opened the windows to refresh the air, all the while panting like a 20 year old dog. Slowly, I came back. My eyes cooled, my wheeze loosened and my nose gradually opened for business. I should have expected nothing less from the end of 2020. “Don’t get comfortable” its legacy.

In recovery, I placed the lids on the jars of broth and put them all in the fridge, happy again to think of the nourishment I would enjoy tomorrow. Before closing the fridge, the smell gently kissed my nostrils and awakened my senses. By 11:55 pm we headed down to the lake to watch the light show from the CN Tower and catch some unofficial fireworks, everyone secretly excited to see the end of such an onerous year in history. I fumbled to sync my Bluetooth speaker to the channel hosting the light show as I stood in the dark with my gang. The lake shore was already erupting in a display of large and small fireworks as neighbours huddled around the waters black edge.

“Is it midnight yet?” asked Steve.

I looked down at my phone.

“Oh. It’s 12:01.”

It happened without us noticing. Y2K all over again. We kissed and hugged three minutes late then walked back to the house, past the deserted Christmas tree, puddles of green needles marking the path to the porch. I blew out the candles on the mantle and shut off the lights but not before bagging up the used bones and taking them back out to the green bin. I paused on the front lawn beneath the moonlight next to the deserted tree, now bare and sleeping on its side, or back? The vignette reminding me that it was a tree; underneath all the glamour, it was a tree, already perfect. It will go back to the ground it came from now, safe from twinkle lights and tinsel; a dog that never really needed a sweater to be cute.

This day swung from beautiful to fragile to disappointing to over. My favourite time of year was ripped out and ended in under ten minutes. Pills and fresh air rescued me from the edge of disaster and the new year failed to make a fuss just to prevent me from placing any expectations on it that I shouldn’t be placing on myself first. Like everything in life there is good and bad - no different than Liam Neeson movies. And it shouldn’t take a spider bite to get me to accept the messiness of it or my role in its success or failure. Bones can be a reminder of what died, or the base for a whole new recipe or chapter in life. My Christmas tree tried to finish what 2020 started but in the end, just like Spider Man and Liam Neeson, I won. To all the evil and obstacles waiting to pounce in 2021 I say, “No soup for you.”

By Carol Sloan

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‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house

Everyone was online, using a touch screen or mouse

The stockings were dirty and flung on the stairs

Laundry had been halted, because really, who cares?

The children pretended to do schoolwork from bed

While visions of having a life, danced in their head 

Mom was exhausted and dad cursed the wifi

One more minute together and someone might die

While sleeping all hours and waking only to feast

The whole goddamn world starting smelling of yeast!

Banana bread, track pants, and nights of Schitt’s Creek 

The clatter and noise from this new virus was bleak

Trapped in our houses, apartments, and parents’ places

The world watched breathless as each day grew in cases

Hope left the building and Sad locked the doors

The smell of despair floated up through the floors

The virus, it spread, across borders and classes

Because no one would listen and just sit on their asses

The moon kept on shining, over green grass and snow

A light in the darkness that cast a soft glow

Then what did my weary eyes see, but a man!

Who dropped off a sweet package, then left in a van

With stripes and white doors and slush on his wheels

He called me by name and it gave me the feels

Oh magical driver, who comes from far and away

I ask you, “Your delivery job, how much does it pay?” 

I watched him take off under the light of my telly

My sadness, it shook me, like a bowl full of jelly

Each country, each city and every backwater town

Looked to find peace in the midst of lockdown

Families and colleagues chat all day by zoom

While naked toddlers and spouses slip into the room

Bookshelves, flowers, and fine art hang for each call

Rude posters, wicker lamps, and other crap, sit in the hall

Toilet paper, handshakes, and hugging grandma a dream

Our heartbreak and loneliness played out in a meme

Monday, Tuesday, Whatever day, who gives a shit

Unemployment, disengagement, the economy unfit

With nothing to do but do nothing inside

People made podcasts and went shopping curbside

Anti-maskers still gather and share their venomous drool

In the end, all they do is keep children from school

With binge-watching sores on both of my cheeks

Hours blend into days and days into weeks

I surrender my brain for a spell on Tik Tok 

And wonder if tomorrow I might go for a walk?

With me in my yoga pants and all of us in masks

I had just stepped out the door, to do what you might ask?

When from the corner of my eye, in the plain light of day

Stood a group of frontline workers, out earning their pay

For those that can’t breathe or need to be fed

There are angels among us, who heal in our stead

Their heroics oft hidden, by walls and workplaces

PPE and exhaustion distorting their faces 

When themed dinners got boring and game nights obscene

Doctors and geniuses pursued a vaccine

All of the planning, and all of the work

It’s to keep us all safe, including the jerks

So I picked up the stockings and sat down on a stair

Thoughts of my family turned into a prayer 

Then I heard it, so soft, but clear as a bell

Humanity whispering “2020, go to hell”!

Hope knocked on the window, and Reason opened the latch

Love poured in from the vents, as a new day was hatched

The orange-faced buffoon in the south got his due

Now political landscapes smell much less like poo

We can do this, we got this, one day at a time

Taking care of ourselves is no longer a crime

A new way of living, more mindful and slow

Quiet nights, less consumerism, and pans full of dough

I’ll remember these times for the changes they brought

Not for the battles we lost, but for the way that we fought

So I in my jammies, all zoomed out and trite

Dragged my laundry upstairs and sat down to write.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

By Carol Sloan

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I watched a seagull fly low over the choppy waves in the blue, blue sky. The wind was so strong the bird simply bobbed up and down on an invisible funnel of air, unable to move forward even an inch. Somewhere in the clouds I imagined a Giant, with hairy fat knuckles, pulling on the strings of the helpless bird, making it dance in place for entertainment and toying with its hunger for freedom. In the vibrant colours of the evening sky, the bird looked like the star of a Pixar animated short; a commentary on the rat race of modern living.  With all our apps and notifications, we make our lists, set goals, accumulate wealth (or some do), all in the hopes of getting somewhere. It’s the dream of reaching a mystery destination that’s just up ahead, beyond the tedium and obstacles of everyday life that fills our tanks and thrusts us into drive day after day. The wind that held that seagull in place was a mightier version of the little voice that whispers in my head, telling me to win and do better on a loop. Once in a while I soar above the noise and drink it all in, coasting in neutral, but sadly, I still spend a great deal of time flapping my wings and pooping in the wind.

This was my bird.

I kept the little creature in my periphery as I sorted myself out on the lumpy grass at the edge of the water. I spread out my mat a few feet from the rocky drop-off and flipped off my shoes. It was almost twilight and the volume on the colours around me was turned all the way up. The gauzy fabric of the sky bled deep blue and orange and the leaves of the trees seemed to be lit from within.  It was just about the end of September, still green but chilly.  My yoga mat was cool beneath my bare toes, sending electricity to all the sleepy parts of me. The wind pounded my eardrums in a stormy rhythm. I’m teaching high school special education again this fall after a two year hiatus, in the middle of a pandemic. The stress of delivering a model of education in the era of social distancing requires me to be diligent about letting off some steam in a healthy way. A deep stretch on a windy evening seemed like a good idea. Beside me, jet skiers, clearly addicted to toddler-like thrills, darted about on the waves, mocking the struggling seagull.  Their engines roared as they chased each other in giant circles, either because they thought it was cool or the circle was the only path they could come up with in their little testosterone jacked brains.  Yes, the sound was irritating me and yes, I got their message; engines rule and nature and feathers are for losers. I shook my head as I tried to get rid of my desire to see an epic wipeout.  Sneaky rage; another reason I need yoga.

I stood tall on my mat.  My fingers joined together as I reached for the sky and leaned over for that imaginary branch to my left.  The stretch in my side opened up like the seam of an old dress. In slight agony, I pulled myself upright then leaned over to the other side, breathing through another dramatic expansion of flesh and bone. The fall air stabbed the warmest parts of my nostrils.  I heard creaks and cracks and swore up and down I felt my lungs shiver.  The bird still hovered in front of me, the idiots circled, and I tipped forward drawing my leg up behind my head. My body dipped down the way a record needle drops onto vinyl.  As my fingertips neared the ground, the wind attacked and toppled me like a stack of empty boxes.  

I was down. Workout interrupted.

I gave up and lay back, allowing the wind to assault me with my own hair. Somebody had to be nature’s bitch tonight, why not me and the bird? I would have laughed out loud if I didn’t think I might choke on a strand or catch some poop in my gullet.  I did a few stretches on my back under the gusts and paused plenty to watch the clouds roll by.  The vertigo was slightly intoxicating and my mat began to feel like Aladdin’s carpet.  More than once, I gripped the side of the mat believing I must be high enough to bump into the seagull. I let go and reached out to hug my knees into my chest and crack my lower back; a favourite stretch of any middle-aged former jogger. I hugged them again. And then again. With nothing but sky and clouds in my view and my arms wrapped firmly around my rickety knees, it was easy to believe that I really was up there, way up there in the sky, giving myself a squeeze in a sort of zero gravity spa.  My imagination drifted further as the wind continued to cut off my connection to reality. I felt the weight of Aladdin, super-handsome-40-something-Aladdin, maybe post-Princess-Jasmine-divorce, no-dad-bod-Aladdin, sitting next to me, my yoga mat now completely morphed into an exotic carpet. My muscles and spine turned liquid as Aladdin and I flew off on our adventure to a whole new world (that line just typed itself). I smiled and mumbled like a kid rehearsing an excuse for a teacher on the long walk to school. Curled into a ball, rolling around in the wind in South Etobicoke, I played at steering myself around the surprise buildings of Agrabah. Maybe this was a new kind of meditative yoga I’d stumbled into?

Or maybe I just didn’t want to fight anymore.

The seagull and its mighty battle looked ridiculous; a small bird fighting a ferocious wind that barely acknowledged its presence. The fight was as fair as red wine versus white linen pants. Six months ago, I may have persevered and let myself teeter and fall, teeter and fall, curse the wind, teeter and fall - my workout a vital part of my routine that must be completed in order for the sun to set and the plants to exhale oxygen. Tick that box and all will be right in my world. Today? Hmph? I didn’t see the point. The world is in turmoil and anxiety grips as many people, young and old, as acne, or spontaneous flatulence. People are gobbling up mindfulness apps like Halloween treats and wrestling to control, or ignore, negative thought patterns by baking bread and adopting dogs. We’re all trying to paint over black with a thin coat of yellow. My workout is a prescription for health and happiness but sometimes, I don’t want to take my medicine.  Sometimes medicine is just medicine; a bitter, random pill occasionally taken out of habit.

What is the cure for difficult? For loss of balance? For uncomfortable? For overwhelmed? Even though my life is quite lovely and richly seasoned with friends, family and puppy, I feel the char of 2020 for sure. Stress has quietly immobilized my shoulders and set fires in the unlit corners of my daydreams. The struggles of the world gnaw at the fringe of my sturdy existence like mice working on a piece of stolen cheese. While yoga is often the elixir that warms my muscles and drenches the dangerous flames, on this night, it was nothing more than a car wash on a rainy day.

My nostrils pulled in cool air and blew out the dusty spaces inside me. I was awake now and just as relaxed as if I had done my little Ipad yoga routine. I lay on the ground - in the same lakeside park beside my house where I have lived for 21 years.  Never had I ever lay on the ground in that park before. Because - why would I? That night it occurred to me, why not?!  In Dead Poet’s Society, Robin William’s character, English teacher Mr. Keating, hops up on his desk and asks his student’s why he would stand up there. When the kids shout back, “to feel taller”, he shuts them down with a swift “No!”. He stands on his desk in order to see the world from a different perspective; a challenge and act that has inspired humanity since the beginning of time. Bill Gates' legendary “Think Week”, that takes him to a cabin alone, twice a year, provides the billionaire with a much needed pause in order to ponder the forest and get his head out of the trees. These think breaks have contributed to the stability and impact of his innovations and charitable foundation worldwide. Siddartha Gautama spent three years in the woods searching for a better life only to discover that enlightenment cannot be taught, but rather comes from within - wisdom that revealed itself in dense quiet. Shakespeare wrote King Lear during quarantine at the beginning of the Spanish flu pandemic - a time when the world once again slowed down in order to save itself. A terrible accident left Freda Kahlo trapped inside a body cast. In her nearly immobile state, she began painting to pass the time. Stillness and a change of perspective has long been the birth of much greatness and clarity.  

CoVid-19 has taken many many lives but I also believe it has given many back. The cure for difficult might just be easy - take it easy. Go easy on yourself. The remedy for losing balance may be to get off your feet, lie down and look up.  Deepak said it best - “we’re all just specks of cosmic dust”.  It’s liberating to be dust from time to time and not the most important thing in the room, or the universe. The cure for uncomfortable may be as simple as seeking comfort - rest, companionship and connection.  Instead of being overwhelmed by a crammed calendar, I hope I can still feel the simple pleasures I felt during quarantine, like the sheer delight of finding a large pack of two-ply on a random supermarket shelf. It should be obvious to me that the antidote to work is play. As Ferris Bueller once said - “life moves pretty fast”. And what did this punk ass kid do? He took a day off! Ferris Bueller really is my hero.  

So instead of my workout, I played ...in the clouds, in the Agrabah of my Disney inspired dreams. 

I ended my half-wit meditation with a sprawling, self-satisfied stretch. When I stood up to roll my mat, the bird was gone and the jet skiers were headed off toward the marina, their laughter trailing off with the fumes. I understood them now, and their silly loud circles.  I assumed the bird had either dipped below the wind and found a place to perch and ponder, or turned back for a more thrilling, augmented ride.  Either way, the bird had escaped the force that held it back. I lost my own fight with the wind, but not without gaining a little insight into how to win the war. The antidote to war is, and always will be, peace. Namaste.

By Carol Sloan

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It was very late. My feet were puffy and my ankles throbbed like gorged fire hoses full of pooled blood. I’d been on my feet for many, many hours. Earlier in the day, I’d swear my black high tops, with their slightly tacky sheen, may have actually laughed at me when I audibly described them as sensible. They pinched my raw, red heels, and continued to bite me even though I was seated and no longer in need of their so-called ‘support’. Film festivals are punishing but rewarding and I love them, blisters and all. At the end of this particular fun-filled festival, our team crashed in the cluttered workroom, ignoring the stale odour of leftover swag bags full of free granola bars and candy. I did my very best to stay chipper and upright so as to ‘fit in’ with my much younger colleagues. To celebrate the successful festival, boxes lined with Shake Shack combos arrived, filling the room with warm clouds of spicy mayonnaise and fry grease. We dove in, gripping droopy burgers in one hand while tipping tiny bottles of prosecco with the other. We laughed, ate, relaxed and as women tend to do, we quickly got weird.

“Want me to read your cards? Anyone?” asked Natalie, reaching for her canvas tote.  

When Natalie smiles, her mouth opens wide, as if to reveal a secret tunnel to you, and only you, that lies behind her sparkling teeth - a tunnel to fun and adventure. Her blonde hair is cascading and reflective, with a perfect shimmer; a colour and movement that also screams of fun and adventure. A life sized pixie full of lightning bugs and sugar.

“Sure!” I replied, slurping back the last of my teeny bottle of bubbles, wondering if next time the swag bag people might consider a bigger bottle and a longer straw. 

“But what do you mean?” I asked.

Natalie, a talented and budding comedic actress, regaled us all with the story of the Tarot, her love of the cards and of course, her gift at reading them. I was in … so in. Late at night in an office full of tired, almost-strangers, amidst a random assortment of leftover gala booze and fists full of meat?  No better time.

I pulled up my chair across from Natalie and we cleared the table of junk. A bright, white tabletop lay between us; a blank slate ready to receive my innards in undeniable clarity, through the faces of random cards. She shuffled the deck and I relaxed into the fun, my expectations low. My understanding is this - the Tarot are a deck of 78 cards that represent universal archetypes; all manner of human experience and existence represented on the cards by symbols. Your past, present and future - your true self and state of being in the moment. I let Natalie do an open reading - no goal or question in mind. Tired and tipsy, I surrendered to a little cartomancy. My life for the past two years has been emotional and slightly unstable. While I have a firm grasp of who I am, I often falter at the many forks in the road I seem to travel. If a deck of cards and a peppy blonde from Brooklyn might see through my muddy curtain and make sense of my personal mush, who am I to get in the way?

Slap. The first card hit the table face up in front of us.

The King of Cups. Element: Ruled by Water, but blended with Fire, Keywords: Mature, wise masculine person or energy with emotional, intuitive, and spiritual force. As the King of Cups, you are a natural leader who cares deeply about everyone around you. You have worked hard to build trust with people, through openly listening to the emotions of others, and creating a supportive environment. You have an intuitive understanding of what people need to feel cared for. The elemental combination of “Fire of Water” suggests that you blend the charismatic spark of Fire with the emotional force of Water; as such, the King of Cups may be a poet, dreamer, artist, or writer. You find that expressing your feelings outwardly is not only important, but necessary. 

There is a silence from me for a moment as the words clear the cobwebs from the doorway to my essence and cross the threshold. Writer! I want to be a writer! I am a writer! I left teaching to write. Now, my projects consume me and I have forsaken good paid work to protect the time I need for writing. I fought the yearning to write for many years but finally cracked, unable to ignore the tugging at my core, or the voices in my head that begged for real estate on paper and in story. Well done card #1.  Leader?  Maybe.  Masculine - ok fine. Maybe it’s the shoes. Intuitive? My teaching style is often driven by intuition and instinct and is certainly grounded in trust in order to bring everyone on the journey of learning. I feel seen. These cards...I love them. I want to marry them. I want to buy them bubble tea and hold hands. I want to drink more paper cups full of random booze and just leave it here... at this one card. I want this simple truth to define me, the way a perfect pizza smelling of yeast and tomatoes defines Naples.  Fire, water, intuition and writer?  Bake it and forgetta ‘bout it.

But we have to keep going. Slap. The second card hits the table.

Page of Wands - Element: Ruled by Fire, but blended with Earth, Keywords: Youthful person or energy with confidence, creativity, and passion. The Page of Wands is a messenger - telling you to work with the power of fire. Generally, the idea of potential, energy, learning, and excitement surrounds the youthful spirit of the Page. You may benefit from learning from or serving the ranks above you. Wands are fire which are full of energy and ideas. The Page of Wands suggests that you need to trust your creative vision. You should move forward quickly and confidently, knowing that things will work out. You may not be able to predict what’s in store, but that’s okay. 

Youthful?  Hmmmm. In spirit, yes, for sure. Red Bull helps with the rest. Creativity and passion? Yes! Learning - always. At the time of this reading, I was halfway through writing my first novel. To hear from a stranger ‘trust your creative vision and move forward’ gave me a spiritual tingle that tugged a half smile up the side of my face as if I were having a happy stroke. Maybe I will finish this novel. Maybe it will be okay. Maybe I need to raise this wand to the sky and let my ideas escape freely and take flight; birds to the sky, music to the airwaves, sparks to dry timber.  

Onto a second little bottle of harmless prosecco and a third card. Slap.

The Moon - Element: Water Keywords: Reflection, shadow, intuition - it is the Hermit in the Major Arcana. The Moon represents the Hermit gone to the underworld, searching in the night. There are 13 Moons in a year. 13 is the number of the Death card, so there is the theme of transition. Once seeking truth through a more isolated approach as Hermit, the Moon represents the shadow self dwelling in seclusion. To see the Moon card in a reading suggests that you are entwined within the darker, more emotional aspects of your personality. This may be a time of soul-searching in order to gain clarity. Lunar is also the root for the word lunacy. The Moon cards point out the need to understand the shadows and illusions we create about ourselves and our lives, but to not dwell in their power. If this card is reversed, it can indicate emotional imbalances, or something that you are not seeing clearly. Look at the other cards in the reading (and if the card is reversed) to see whether or not you are working with or against the power of the Moon. MY CARD WAS REVERSED!  The Moon can help us overcome our deepest wounds, but stay in the darkness too long and you may emerge guided by illusion.

I sat with the words death, darkness, isolation, hermit and lunacy. Not to mention wounds and imbalance. Okay cards. I get it, you’re not playin’. 

Only 7 months out from my father’s passing (at the time) I found myself spending hours a day buried in my computer writing, ignoring regular working relationships in favor of imaginary ones. I sat alone in bars, some sketchy ones at that, or coffee shops, or at my desk, and watched my fingers move themselves, revealing my inner thoughts without my permission, a conduit to a pounding voice. My isolation made it easy to evade the sadness and grief, and wait quietly for time to pass, scab over, and heal everything. I submitted to soul searching, questioning my new goals and whether I am the real deal, hiding my work, and spitting on my wounds instead of stitching them up. I thought I had made friends with my shadow and that it would help my work. It’s possible I had only made room for a shadow and I needed to let some light in now.

Slurp. Blink. Slap. Card number four.

IV Swords - Element: Air Keywords: Recovery, Contemplation, Reflection. This card indicates a period of rest. You may have been through some challenging times recently, and you are taking a break to recuperate. This is a necessary period for you. You are mulling things over with the careful, thoughtful qualities inherent in the suit of swords. To see the Four of Swords indicates that you are going through a much needed period of recovery. You are evaluating the past and thinking about how to move forward in the future. You will emerge from this period of contemplation with a clearer focus. 

Recovery. Indeed. My family is missing a key member now and I, we, must recover.  I left a good job in education to approach my future from a different angle, a better version of myself.  “You will emerge…”. No. I must emerge.

Exhale. Natalie is gentle and encouraging as I affirm her reading. The cards could learn a little decorum from her. I found the deck to be a bunch of ‘know-it-alls’. No one likes a know-it-all.

Fifth and final card. I’ve stopped drinking.

VIII (stars) - Eight of Pentacles Element: Earth Keywords: Focus, learning, knowledge. It took a long time to stack those perfect pentacles to make them balance just right. You felt a little obsessive while you were doing it, but you believed in your abilities. Diligence is your name, perfection is your game. You are in the process of developing or honing a trade, craft, or skill. You are excited and involved in what you are working towards. You have been working so hard, in fact, that you may have actually kind of isolated yourself! To see the Eight of Pentacles in a reading suggests that you are very excited and committed to a new direction. It’s likely that you may be on the brink of opening a business, inventing something, or bringing about your beautiful genius into the world. Knowledge, learning, and skill building are very important right now. This card indicates that you will be hugely successful.

Mmmmmm - isolation again!  A perfectionist. Obsessive. Anyone feel sorry for my husband right now? But wait, “on the brink of bringing about your beautiful genius into the world.” That. I will cling to that. I am committed to my new endeavour - good or bad, my novel and a screenplay. Writing has renewed me and made me feel like my once 7 year old self, looking up at my teacher as she smiled and read my first story. ‘On the brink’ is such an exciting way to describe a period of your life - whether it be madness or discovery; the anticipation of an event is always more exhilarating than the result. I’m dizzy with bubbles and the creepy analysis from ethereal Natalie and her cards. I feel like my skin has been peeled back, like a baked potato with fresh steaming human inside. I look at her now with a side eye leer, partially out of boozy bleariness, and partially out of caution at her obvious power.

As it was told to me that night, I am creative and I care deeply about people. I am full of energy and occasionally slip into darkness longer than perhaps I should. Lunacy is never far off.  I am in a state of reflection and recovery, as life ebbs and flows, leaving me battered but wiser with each blow.  Life has made me a perpetual student, always learning and on the verge… of something. 

Sound familiar? Sound human?

It’s possible Natalie gave me a reading that night knowing the information would one day leave my memory and exit onto the screen; a fork in the road that leads to sharing.

Three weeks after my night of Tarot, the world shut down. Schools and borders closed, and the curtain dropped on life as we know it so a pandemic could take centre stage - and change us. We are all in a state of recovery and reflection now. We have to look deep inside ourselves and isolate in order to focus and emerge on the other side anew. This was not my reading, it was ‘our’ reading. We are all fire, water and waving wands, discharging our energy in the air, searching for a way forward. Natalie, with her smile and curiosity, brought the deck to me but the hand wasn’t mine. Six months later I understand. I’m the Page with a message. I’m only delivering it now as I realize it wasn’t mine to keep. If we play our cards right, before long, we will all release our beautiful genius on the world. This is happening. I may be the writer but the story is ours. Let’s make it a good one. Good luck.

By Carol Sloan

Thanks to Natalie O’Sullivan. Find her at @cottontailbandit on IG, or on You Tube at 100% Sweat Pants, https://m.youtube.com/channel/UCViMufRut8l96tMikNlokXQ

Cards and definitions used - https://www.rebeccaschoenecker.com/divination/tarot-cards/

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(And sorry, looks like I accidentally took a month off)

It started with the braces coming off. I sat in the car, in the passenger seat because Kirby has his driver’s permit now, and waited in the rain while he went into the dentist. He donned his mask, CoVid 19 style, and set off for his appointment. I leaned back in my seat and aimlessly went through my phone, waiting. When he came back, he ripped off the mask and smiled a perfect smile, a bigger smile than he had cracked in five years, a grin that changed his whole face from childlike to chiseled. It felt like a light had been turned on in the car, and in his future. His cheekbones seemed higher, his skin clearer and his hands...were on the steering wheel...of a car.  He looked like a young man. Outside the car the rain poured down and the windows began to fog up as we fist bumped and looked a little closer at his face in the mirror; straight on, side view, half smile, full smile. Hmph. The rain kept hitting the windows, splatting like juicy bugs on a country road. The droplets slid down the glass and dropped into puddles around the car. At the same time, this milestone hit me and slipped down the curtain I kept drawn around my feelings until it splashed into the brimming buckets of emotion hidden in my chest cavity where I hadn’t suspected, or been warned, that feelings were piling up - the buckets ready to spill over. He started the car and ignited a series of realizations; Dexter, Kirby’s older brother, was graduating from high school in a week, during a pandemic, and Father’s Day would be coming, the first one without my dad, with his birthday a day later, the first one without a cake, or a kiss on the cheek. We pulled into the driveway and Kirby went in to show off his teeth. I went into the bedroom to sort myself out. My life had been anchored in calm waters for a long while, mostly steady, even during occasional winds, until now. Some deep down bottom feeding shadow had subtly unmoored my raft and I drifted naively into June 2020, head on into an unexpected wave. It was too late to grab my buckets - they were tipping.

I’ve never liked crying. Generally speaking, I prefer to laugh. That’s why I keep those buckets in my chest cavity and not at my feet or on the kitchen table. I don’t care to waste daily life feeling too much other than the good stuff, at the risk of the other, more complicated thoughts and feelings building up to the point of making a mess if I don’t check in. When Dexter got his braces off a year ago, it was a celebration full of selfies, hard apples, kettle corn and text messages to family. And then, shortly after, life carried on. No tears. This time with Kirby was not so simple and it caught me off guard. As an organised mother, teacher and card-carrying Virgo, I don’t do ‘caught-off-guard’ well.

Living and parenting in a pandemic has created its own invisible scars that for the most part I have been able to treat with a salve of fresh bread, gin, board games, bird watching, cottage time and hours lost in streaming services and weekly zoom calls with the girls. I had forgotten to notice that while the world stood still, time had continued to march on, almost aggressively, like an ice breaker across the Arctic Archipelago, tearing through life events, carelessly leaving shards of secret successes and exposing raw moments in its wake. I thought we would wait things out and get back to life precisely where we had left off.  

Wrong.

Without braces, Kirby no longer needs to cut up his apples, a real metaphor for all the new things he will soon tackle without needing his mother, the knife, to break things down into palatable chunks. I’m the next set of braces to come off. Let’s hope I’m less smelly and twisted when I’m ripped away. How had I not noticed his foot secretly on the gas long before he ever actually slipped behind the wheel? While I busied myself pretending to manage the family in these uncertain times, he had signed himself up for summer school, changed his own sleep schedule - after realizing this wasn’t just an extra long spring break and living like a vampire didn’t actually feel good, then quit drinking pop in a valiant effort to reduce his sugar intake, hence the clear skin. My sixteen, almost seventeen year old had already out-maneuvered Bridget Jones in figuring out his life. I can see myself now, standing in the corner of the kitchen, wringing my hands, slobbering in self-talk, not unlike Gargamel plotting against the Smurfs, reviewing Kirby’s routines and general conduct for new things to nag him about. He is easing me out of my own job and I have to figure out my last stronghold. Then I remember how he stands at the fridge, staring into the light as if the ring, you know, the ring, were perched on a milk carton in an alternate middle earth. He stands there as if contemplating whether to grab it or not, or text Bilbo Baggins for help, lest he start a war by touching it or anything else in the fridge. Beyond throwing some burgers or peameal bacon on the George Foreman Grill or scrambling a few eggs with crudely crumbled cheese, he remains somewhat needy in the food department - a hungry manchild scratching at stains on his shorts grunting for grub. He’s still mine, for a little while longer. A job and debit card has given him a taste of my own drug of choice, freedom, but there are still many things that require more work than he is willing to commit to. Steaming a vegetable falls well below most things on his to-do list, right after picking up clothes off the floor that smell like ass, even if they were never worn on an ass.  

The wipers worked feverishly to clear the windshield of the downpour as Kirby piloted us home, his new teeth the only light in the dreary skies. I followed his liquid blue eyes as he focused on the road ahead, my well being now in his hands. He gritted his perfect chompers in concentration as sweat formed on his fuzzy upper lip. For now at least, he prefers my debit card and meal plan, but oh how I wished he were still strapped safely in his car seat in the back instead of buckled into mine at the helm.

At home, the rain slowed to a rhythmic trickle and continued to dampen the soggy summer day. I wiped my cheeks then sat at the computer by the window to work on Dexter’s graduation video. The view through the streaked glass blurred the street below and it felt like the house was being pulled through a car wash. The patter of droplets threatened to put me to sleep after my solitary cry but I fought to stay alert and move on from my thoughts of Kirby aging out of my control ...I mean care. It was time to think about Dexter. Turned out, that was about as helpful to my mood as heat and wind on a small brush fire after a 3 month drought. Dexter was crossing the threshold into adulthood. Even if I could brace myself for the cresting wave on one side of my life raft, Kirby with his new smile and driver’s permit, I was still being assaulted on the other side by a storm that forced me to accept my newly minted high school graduate as a grown-up. The kid who used to participate in class debates and mock trials at school could now be called on for jury duty and lobbied for his vote in the next election. This can’t be? He has his whole life ahead of him and I can almost feel the chill from his shadow as I remain behind. The day we urged him to wobble toward our open arms as he took those first steps, we couldn’t possibly have pictured the moment he would eventually walk past us.  

In lieu of a ceremony during the pandemic, I spent hours assembling a surprise video for our graduate. We collected video messages from loved ones and friends congratulating him on finishing high school, layered it all over his favourite songs then topped it off with a montage of photos at the very end. The video ran 14 minutes long and was a ruthless reminder of the passage of time and the transformation of our wee boy from fleshy bundle to slender smarty-pants. Every photo I dug up begged me to dip my toe into a pool of memories until I was swimming laps in our family’s greatest hits. I edited the video at the speed of evolution, stopping constantly to relive each moment; the romance of living in the past far more alluring than exhaling and losing control of the present. Dexter has always been a special kid; a firefly in the dark, a wildflower growing through a crack in the cold hard cement. He has thankfully emerged a diamond, made stronger and more brilliant by hardship and small victories. At the age of two he sat on my lap and asked me to teach him to read, tired of me knowing all the answers - a hunger for the world already grumbling in his belly. From living in Paris to teaching himself Korean and forsaking all the delicious salty, fatty meat of his Costco lovin’ mama to become the lone pescatarian in the family, he’s been on his own path from day one. I only hope I can still see him from my lane when he gets to that fork in the road I know he is looking for.

The weather turned and I hoped my tears had finally dried up with the rain. 

Wrong again.

We picked a day to mark the graduation and gathered our bubble around the table, dressed for fun. We ate a celebratory dinner of greasy take out, on the fine china of course, then fired up the surprise video. I sat in the room with my favourite people, my favourite smells (takeout?), nearly suffocated by my favourite emotion - love (barf, I know). The video played and we watched Dexter laugh and cry, overcome by the faces and messages from his family and friends. The sun poured in the windows, helping us shine a light on our already bright boy. In the final montage, my eyes rested on a picture of my dad holding baby Dexter in his arms and I cracked, feeling far more fragile than our silver accented wedding dishes. I had seen the photo dozens of times before in my life and I sobbed every time I saw it as I made the video, but more than ever, in this moment, that cuddle between grandpa and grandson gripped me. I felt like a grain of jello in a cotton candy machine, swirling, bouncing and blowing up. I know it now - every so often a hand reaches into my life with a great cardboard cone and scoops up people, taking them away, leaving me behind to keep spinning. I loved my children more that day than any other and missed my dad so much I felt like a thousand pound weight in quicksand. He loved to drive and would have marveled at Kirby behind the wheel. He loved to laugh and would have had a good giggle at Dexter’s sense of adventure. And I would have been happy to still wonder if he was proud of me. 

People are leaving me. I always knew they would. I just thought it would feel different. I thought I would feel older when it all began to happen.  I feel no different than the day I graduated high school myself or took my parents Chevy Impala to the store, alone, minutes after getting my license. I’m still in awe of every day that goes by and look forward to the next. Just because I’ve lived more doesn’t mean I’m ready to live any less, or any smarter for that matter. 

My buckets are dry and I finally feel empty of tears, only slightly wary of nature’s cruel intent to refill. It was a long unsteady week and a crazy month. My kids are still far from truly leaving me but I know, the tides are turning. Our thirteen year old and the dog are getting an awful lot of attention these days. From time to time, I look ahead and wonder. I imagine not mothering 24 hours a day will feel like being a fish told to get out of the water and take a walk. How? Where will I go? What will I do?

Where will I go? (smile). What will I do? (bigger smile).

By Carol Sloan

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Friday morning, the sun was shining, and I mean shining - like a heat lamp on an unhatched duck egg.  And I was the egg, soaking it all in.  It warmed my outsides and sparked my insides.  I felt like I had arrived at the gates of heaven after a long drive through hell.  Months of ‘grey skies, cold temperatures and a global pandemic’ drive through hell. I darted over to the garden centre first thing and lined up in the steamy parking lot, vibrating at the thought of flowers and summer.  After a good sized purchase, I raced back home and packed the groceries, kids, dog, husband and flowers in the car and we headed north for a cottage weekend.  It was the kind of cottage weekend that didn’t involve building fires for warmth, but rather for s’mores.  At a fairly unladylike pace, I inhaled the s’mores as if I were on death row, minutes away from someone flipping the switch.  That Friday was my deadline for releasing a blog post.  I’m not even going to tell you which Friday it was - but it was that Friday, some time ago. It’s not that I don’t have my head in the game because I do.  My head is so far up...pardon me, so in the game, I can hear the referee’s heartbeat like a whisper. I have devoted myself to fiction writing lately, mostly because the idea of sharing a personal story right now has felt forced. I still feel quite empty and not totally in control of my thoughts. Of course I know that at times like this a story can unite us, calm us, inform us and even keep us from going insane.  In my bones, I feel the ache to share stories, but my bones have fallen asleep, the ache miraculously dulled.  I struggle with the feeling that I have nothing to say at the moment.  Buying flowers and driving away was a welcomed excuse to shirk my duties.  A few days after that Friday escape, I visited an old work friend who is at the beginning of a long journey through the fog of memory decay and finally, once again, I felt a small ache rise up in my joints - the importance of story and sharing quickly overshadowed my pity party.

As with everyone, my visit with her was spent at an awkward distance, physical and otherwise. I knew immediately that reconnection would be tricky. Her stories and life, that were once a deck of cards, carefully ordered by suit and number, now lay in a heap on her brain’s floor, out of order, with more than a few cards face down.  Many of them have gone missing and I daresay, some of the cards have been scribbled over, with bold marker and secret code.  When I stood on her front stoop, she looked back at me the way I looked at the cashier at the garden centre; pleased to see a cheerful face but quite certain we’d never met before. We talked in circles; I shared memories of our time together and she walked beside me, decades away.  I was ecstatic when I was able to spark a connection or glimmer of recognition in real time - my lighter occasionally hitting the sweet spot in the gas, and lighting up the BBQ of her mind so we could actually be together.  Her husband just passed and the feelings of loneliness, depression and the longing to be back at her cabin in the north with her soulmate has hijacked her ability to process grief.  I could feel her longing for better times the way you can feel a day-old mosquito bite; ignore it and it will torture you with a low-grade but persistent itch, touch it and you risk scratching until you bleed. She’s been scratching. Many of us struggle with a longing for better times right now, but safe in the comfort that it will end.  She is not so lucky.

She and I worked together many years ago at a large school for students aged 14-21 yrs with special needs.  Our paths crossed again seven years ago when I moved to a school in the south where she had become the medical coordinator. She is older than I am and I daresay, I am lucky to have benefited from her experience, kindness and community-oriented perspective in regards to the care and education of students with multiple diagnoses.  She retired a while back and we lost touch. My life still swirling in the child rearing and working stage is the excuse I use for my distance.  I assumed I might have another chance with her.  But you know what they say about making assumptions.  And sure as dirt, I feel like an ass.

We walked her dog and enjoyed the nice weather. The best I could do was listen to her relive moments that may or may not have happened and reassure her that her husband was loved and so was she. She knew her grand kids' names but confused pictures of them with her own children. She showed me her husband's guitars and I told her about all the times he had agreed to bring his truckload of antique instruments into the school and play for restless kids, unaware of the gift they were receiving.  She smiled and talked about their cabin in the north again.  She walked me to my car twice and left the muffins I brought her on the front step.  More than once she asked me who had sent me and was I there to take her away. Living in a world where every day it seems the pictures on the wall have been rearranged and the doors turned to windows, with no way out, paranoia is a cruel roommate I wished I could evict for her. Knowing she was cared for, I left her my number and attempted to say goodbye again. She waved and smiled and I watched her walk back toward her house as I pulled away.

It was hard not to contemplate my previous notion that I had nothing to say or share at the moment - slightly uninspired during the pandemic.  Our entire morning together was spent lost in fragments of stories and sadness.  A few times we laughed at things I was able to recall about a student or her husband.  There were whole stories and pieces of stories. By the time I drove away I was nearly dizzy with ‘story’.  The gift of comedy, drama, mystery and memory suddenly washed over me like a cold shower. I have a terrible memory, that’s the truth, but there is still so much I can recall - even if in pieces.  There are the moments I am creating now, the moments from way back, and the standout tales that live just beyond the lights, ready to hit centre stage whenever I have an audience, or a glass or two of something interesting.  There is shelf upon shelf, full of moments in my life that make up my mental library.  Turning the lights on and booting up the directory is not as easy as I’d like, but I can wander and still know where the door is to my present. 

“Story, as it turns out, was crucial to our evolution - more so than opposable thumbs.  Opposable thumbs let us hang on; story told us what to hang on to.” - Lisa Cron (story coach and author), Wired For Story.

Early on in the pandemic, I remember getting out of bed one morning at the same time as my husband, a rarity in our normal lives.  We looked across the bed at each other as we pulled the duvet up and, slightly tortured at the monotony, I said to him, half smiling, half dying on the inside, “Here we go again.”  In our extreme togetherness now, I notice every slurp, chew, stained t-shirt, repeat joke and added pound of flesh and wonder what I was thinking 21 years ago. I sweep, vacuum, bake and ask everyone if they have brushed their teeth and logged in to school.  I feel like I have been injected with some radioactive toxin that gives me super sight and bionic hearing. My mind is on the brink of meltdown with sensory overload; the sound of sloppy footsteps in slippers, nose blowing and random laughing at computer screens connected by hidden earbuds on a loop.  I half expect a concerned Netflix exec to call us any day now and suggest we get a life. I can only imagine what my family thinks of me during all this.  Does my husband look at me every day and wonder if I have 100 pairs of black yoga pants or has he just given up on me and accepted that his beloved may actually be wearing the same pants, day in and day out?

That’s the easy narrative to tell and one that I now know is void of reflection.  While I still long for a few moments in a sensory deprivation tank, I am also aware of the story behind each slurp and dirty dish.  When Steve takes that first sip of hot coffee every morning, forgetting to blow on it and sucking it hurriedly down his gullet, he’s really just letting me know he’s still here - with me, after all these years. The audible swig is a signal for me to remember that first time he reached back to hold my hand as we walked through a crowd after leaving the Royal Alex Theatre on our third date and to never forget that he’s still holding on. When my kids drag their feet in their slippers and smash plates into each other as they load the dishwasher after wolfing down a slice of cake that took me two hours to make, they’re letting me know they are lost - lost without the opportunity to be out in the world laughing with friends, talking about the future and making mistakes. When they smile at me or brush past me in their rumpled clothes, they are really just pressing play on a memory for me. I am reminded of the time Kirby took a cup of water, one after the other, from the kids pool to the adult pool, for hours, in the scorching heat on a trip to Spain, loving the sun, the colours, and stopping to smile every time we wanted to take a picture of the curly haired kid who needed nothing more than a measuring cup for a good time.  I remember Isaac walking the dog on his leash around the kitchen island in a saggy diaper dozens of times in a row, constantly looking over his shoulder to see if the dog had somehow given up and wormed out of his collar, giddy each time he realized the dog was still with him, playing the game.  I can easily replay in my mind the memory of Dexter as a toddler, sitting on his father’s lap, barely able to breathe or blink with excitement as he attended his first ever concert, hypnotized at the sight of his singing purple pal, Barney, in the ‘flesh’.  After a couple of songs, he broke his silence and turned to Steve, his chubby cheeks glowing pink with happiness, and said “Thank you dad.” as if he had just been given the power to fly instead of a seat in a crowded arena.

Right now, these stories and memories live and breathe in front of me, no matter what is happening in the world, like trees in a forest.  I can look past them and ignore their life and shade, or climb them and sit in their branches for a different view.  I am so sad to see someone whose company I enjoyed be lost in her forest. I hope in time, the stories that visit her and inhabit the air around her are happy ones, with less grief and more joy.  As the sounds around me trigger the impulse to get in the car and keep driving, or bury my head in a pillow, I also know they are the sirens alerting me to the stories of my life that are stacked beneath me, holding me up, brick by brick, so I can see over the wall and into a future.  Every day that I have the privilege to shirk my duties, inhale s’mores like a hog in a slop bucket, or contemplate life in pieces with an old friend, is a day worth remembering and maybe sharing. I can hold on to monotony or reach for richness.  Once in a while I may need to escape to the garden centre and be selfish, but mostly, I hope I’m able to stop and smell the roses. 

By Carol Sloan

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I love to walk.  Scratch that. I used to love to walk.  Now I walk because I have to; for my sanity and for reassurance that my lungs are still working at full capacity.  When I walk now, I feel like Andy Dufresne in “The Shawshank Redemption”, circling the prison yard, planning my escape, and dreaming of freedom - freedom after COVID 19.  I am beyond fortunate to live by the lake and next to a long path that winds along the water in either direction for miles. I can walk in some semblance of nature and hear the sound of waves in my ears whenever I choose.  The nature I see on a daily basis straddles two worlds as it struggles for real estate in the surrounding city. There are well fed, garbage hungry seagulls and squawking geese that own pieces of the shoreline, clearly marked by poop and feathers. Bricks from far off construction sites and broken down chimneys have found their way to beaches filled with smooth rocks, bleached out driftwood and surprise fire pits built out of nowhere, like Inukshuk’s on a quiet highway - signaling under-age drinkers to a new world, free of adults after dark.  Shimmering green glass hides in the pebbles; evidence of an emerald city underwater with trident wielding mermaids, or a local lad with an affinity for Heineken. There are birds and turtles and swans, blue waters and even bluer skies, not really prison at all, but lately, the walks have been prescribed and policed. On one of those walks, my husband and I came across a growing display of painted rocks with messages of hope, warning, humour, sarcasm, sadness and pop culture references that either make you laugh or scratch your head. People are talking to each other in strange ways these days - through memes, Tik Toks, YouTube videos, Zoom calls, and even, painted rocks. 

As my husband and I stood in the rain, about to leave the path, we watched a family walk up carrying a massive rock; a father and his three girls, the dad doing the heavy lifting.  They seemed excited to add their artwork and words to the line of scripted stones. Social distancing prevented me from running up and reading their note or congratulating them on participating in this primitive coming together.  The messages are all over the map in their sentiments - ranging from ‘stay strong’ to ‘speaking moistly’ painted in cheap pastels on jagged rocks.  It’s perfect, and messy, and colourful, and smart, and stupid.  Exactly how life seems to be these days and totally representative of what is happening in my brain and in my house on a daily basis. I feel Iost in a constant vomiting of thoughts, emotions and ridiculous behaviour.  A single day during this pandemic can feel like a month trapped in a fun house full of mirrors and trick doors that lead nowhere.

At home, after our first visit to the rocks, I took a moment, or ten, to begin an inventory of all the things I have done in the last 5 weeks in isolation.  While I try to spend most of my days writing, I still have loads of time for arbitrary activities, which has left me drowning in a cesspool of conflicting emotions.  Some days I feel accomplished. Other days I feel useless and void of motivation. Getting dressed is now a typical agenda item that involves a weighing of both pros and cons. I look at jewelry now the way a caveman might have first looked at the wheel - I push it around a bit and wonder what I might use it for. The other day, I vacuumed the top of our headboard.  Because that’s important. And then I realized, I’ve never seen the top of our headboard before. It’s nice. It’s a soft fabric, a linen-tweed, and now, it’s very very clean. I scrubbed the tub - once. I cleaned out all the half melted Tupperware and started to count the empty spaghetti jars I’ve kept over the years, assuming one day I would make something and need them. Then I stopped counting and got the recycle bin.  I found multiple jugs of vinegar and combined them into one, that I have since lost during a subsequent cleaning. Good thing all the bread and buns I’m baking don’t call for vinegar. I contemplated piercing my own ears with an ice cube and a sewing needle, then realized it was the boxed wine that’s more into piercing than I am. Be careful who, or what, you talk to in isolation; I find I’m getting more and more responses lately.

I’ve baked a cake on a Tuesday and finally used up all the half empty containers of frosting that were hiding behind gourmet condiments no one liked. I pulled one off the back wall of the fridge that was suspended by a super glue made of maple syrup, or congealed steak sauce, either way, it explained why the stack never fell, no matter how many times I rammed it with new groceries. Imagine the thrill when I found one last whipped vanilla in the meat crisper!  Enough time has passed in quarantine for me to have made as many unsuccessful batches of soup as I have made successful batches. For the most part, my soup is just an excuse to eat salty crackers and homemade bread shaped like baby Yoda. I’ve enjoyed long stretches in front of the mirror, individually combing out the knots at the back of my head; a part of my body so low on my beauty priority list now since it’s in the out-of-zoom area.  Most days I just leave it, knowing it looks like a beret made of rat hair has slipped down the back of my head. I trimmed shrubbery in the yard that had grown over the fence and climbed a ladder to do it.  Do you know how long it’s been since I climbed a ladder? It’s great up there. My youngest son and I made a bird feeder and hung it outside one of our windows. It’s the first time I have ever directed Steven-Seagal-like aggression toward a squirrel.  I raked and scraped up wet grass that wasn’t ready to be raked; planned trivia nights, and taco nights where a poncho-only dress code was in effect, and forced uninterested kids on drives through neighborhoods in the city they’ve never seen before. Drake’s place is a-ight, if you’re into mansion-y type living.  We’ve made ourselves sick on homemade flatbread and cheese, over-indulged on Easter chocolate and arranged for FaceTime performances of newly practiced magic tricks.  I took down a set of window blinds, briefly believing I could successfully clean them myself. They are currently being re-purposed to make face masks instead while I wait for the new ones to arrive from Wayfair.  ‘Love Is Blind’ seemed more important than washing window coverings in the bathtub. 

I watched from my window as my husband took a phone call in the car and later listened to a podcast Brene Brown recorded in her closet because space, and peace, is at a premium in some households.  I realized how many times I have shopped in a sparse, post-apocalyptic looking grocery store surrounded by strangers in masks and wondered if I would find flour today, rather than wondered if we were all going to be okay. I’ve let my toenail polish chip off and my roots show their darkness.  I’ve made friends with my Instant Pot and enemies with personal hygiene. I have hidden away sweaters that are now tight on my arms because … I have become prone to making cake on a Tuesday.  

Somewhere in the middle of this quarantine, early in the evening, I accidentally took one of my son’s ADHD pills, a terrific stimulant, instead of my allergy pill.  I spent an ENTIRE sleepless night reading and I didn’t even care. With nowhere to go the next day, spending the night lost in a book while my family slept, and the streetlights kept me company, was a surreal experience that made me feel as though I had been given a super power, allowing me to stop the world and examine it at my leisure.  Not surprisingly, by 7:30 pm the next night, more than 24 hours and one whopping glass of red wine later, I embarked on another solitary adventure; a swift and embarrassing tumble into dreamland. In the haze of COVID-19, time seems to be a construct I have begun to play with. Or some would say, obsess over.  Each day, I struggle to get my older kids out of bed so they can engage with daylight. It is the worst sort of parental Groundhog Day imaginable. 

Me: “Hey, it’s 12 o’clock.  Get up.”

Son: Silence.

Me: “Hey buddy, it’s 12:15.  You gotta get up.”

Son: More silence.

Me: “It’s 12:20 now.  You’re really pushing it.  Get up please.”

Son: Grunt.

Me: “Are you kidding me right now?  It’s 12:30!! I’m gonna dump water on your head.”

Son: Grunt, roll. Grunt.

Me (changing tactics, singing gently):  “Good morning to Kirby it’s nice to see you. Good morning to Kirby, it’s nice to see you.  Good morning, good morning. What a wonderful day! Good morning to Kirby, let’s sing and play.”

Son: Bad breath exhale that makes me gag.

Me: “OH MY GAWD! Enough already, it’s 12:45!”

Son: (eyes closed, sitting up, cobra pose) “What are you, Father time?  Ok - I’m up. Now get out.”

So now - I’m Father Time.  Repeatedly unhinged by noon. Once, this Father Time used pots and pans to wake up the teenagers.  It was a fun day. Later that night, with just the older boys (16 and 18 yrs), cozied up by a fire, not quite able to muster the courage to watch “Contagion”, we settled on watching “The Shining”.  The reality of a high school teacher turned writer (you hear what I hear?) turning murderous during endless isolation made it all the more fun when I stuck my head through the banister that night and yelled at them “Here’s mommy!”.  I will win this battle in quarantine and out-crazy these kids, no question.

With little outside structure imposed on me, I don’t know from one day to the next if my time will be spent watching movies and discussing it over drinks on Zoom, or spent looking for ways to be charitable, cheering up a friend, crafting the perfect sentence in that still-to-come novel, or weeping for the walls that I feel closing in around me.  Images of military trucks transporting the dead, play alongside endless family dinners and lazy cuddles. Laughter, fear, sadness, and homemade cookies are all a part of this mixed up COVID experience. I can only see my mom from a distance now, and yet I have my children so close I can barely remember what it was like when they were out in the world without me.  To experience such closeness during a time of extreme separation is a twisted irony I think the Universe may have taken too far, but that’s just me. While the gas tank in my car remains full, at very little expense, my emotional tank is struggling to stabilize; with the mental cost of a refill changing daily. There is so much loss around the world and exhaustion for those charged with the front line fight that I can’t help but feel sharp pangs of guilt and helplessness, like a stomach ache of the soul.  Thankfully, most days I feel gratitude.

These rocks on the path, with their hope and poetry, are nonsensical yet inspiring.  A tiny RA strand has brought the world to its knees and communities back to scrawling communication on rocks. There are Tiger King conspiracies and mad Presidents assaulting our fragile brains and in the wake of it all, we have chosen, in this community, to fight back with humour and daring messages hand painted by resilient children.  No printers, no wifi, no software. Just fathers carrying big rocks with heartfelt messages surrounded by his children in the middle of the day, like Moses down a mountain, hoping someone will read their message and feel something. If I could hang on to time and wring out the minutes like water from a rain-soaked beach towel, I would drink in the goodness, spit out the horror and remember this piece of history for the opportunity it has given me to slow down, take care, and figure out what my role is in the world.  Maybe ‘multi-tasking’ is a fashion we can finally see for the ill-fitting bridesmaid dress that it is. And the status the word ‘busy’ once bought us, can now be acknowledged as a bankrupt code for directionless. The amount of time it took to search for a rock, clean it, paint it, write on it and deliver it to this space, makes it far more valuable and charged than any momentary thought shit out on Twitter. Fewer people will participate in this activity and consume its messaging than can probably fit on a couple of streetcars but, it feels like a tangible social network that is far more thoughtful than any other.   

We left our own rocks in the cue and stood back to watch others read, laugh, and cover their mouths in sadness as they worked their way down the line. I’m curious to go back and see what the father and his three daughters crafted together.  Will it be funny? Will it be a farewell to a lost grandparent? Will it be a poem? Will it be surprising? What is the truth they are living during this global pandemic? It may be random and unexpected like much of life is these days. They walked away, smiling and drinking in the precious moments of fresh air, leaving behind a giant rock, like a piece of their own personal wall come apart, lighter for having reached out, more resilient for having written something together, and ready for another day knowing they are not alone circling the yard, clinging to hope and waiting for freedom.  If this is what it means to be stuck between a rock and a hard place, at least we are stuck together, and have something to read.

By Carol Sloan

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I had just arrived in New York and was super excited to get out and about.  No doubt my family would be expecting an awkward selfie from me to mark my arrival and I didn’t want to disappoint. It was bright, sunny and crisp in Morningside Park, Harlem.  This time of year, almost everything under foot sounds like potato chips; leaves and sticks are dried out and dead after being frozen all winter. Heavy-footed pedestrians crush the leftover bits of nature and haphazardly kick it all back into circulation.  Trees look desperate and brown, grass is bleached and soggy, and garbage is left exposed on muddy mounds, as if a tide has just gone out but instead of shells left behind, there is a winter’s worth of junk food wrappers.  I walked through it all to the mossy stone steps that lead up a steep hill and out to the other side of the park.  The sun had found a few green buds on the trees to focus on and several purple crocuses had broken out of their soil graves and stretched up to catch some rays. I was here for the Athena Film Festival; a film festival dedicated to fierce and fearless women – in front of and behind the camera.  I cut through Morningside Park to get to the campus of Columbia University and across to Barnard College, the women’s college that hosts the festival.  I paused at the steps and looked around sheepishly.  Smiling into my hand, I snapped a quick selfie, hoping not to be seen.  I was here on my own, working the festival for a second year because I believe in it, and because I love New York.  Just in from Toronto, I had no idea I had just taken my selfie right where she died.

I noticed when I arrived at my Airbnb, which was at the edge of Morningside, on West 117th street, that there was quite a police presence in the park.  There was an actual security guard in the old gatehouse, police vans with their cherries on were parked along the edge of the road, and solar powered portable lights had been wheeled onto the path that snaked through the trees.  It’s New York.  I didn’t think anything of it.  I didn’t remember this from last year, but then again, I can’t remember if the door to my local convenience store is push or pull and I’ve been going there for 20 years.  I walked as I did last year, through the park, and across campus to work, sheepishly taking selfies in the quaint old park, embarrassed at my narcissism.  I should have been embarrassed at my insensitivity.

After grabbing a bite and doing a quick walk around campus, checking out the food trucks, and listening in on conversations at fruit stands, stop lights and diner counters, I headed into the Athena office.  There were some familiar faces on the team along with a few new ones.  I was excited to get to work.  Opening night is always a good time - with a meaningful film and a great party.  It’s often a task for me to connect with new colleagues on a short term gig but as we all headed over to the party, walking in the cold night air, we began exchanging stories about our lives, closing the gap as strangers.  It’s easy to talk about yourself but I’ve learned over the years, it’s often far more rewarding to listen.  In these women of all ages, I happily found fresh perspectives, depth of experience, and in some, a thick skin and sharp wit born out of survival and determination.  The stories came at me in accents that melodically swung from Queen’s, to Long Island, to Brooklyn; each personal experience was music to my ears, plucking a different string on the same guitar that blended our lives soulfully together in one anthemic song dedicated to the feminine spirit. The younger ladies were dangerously charming and seemed to have the bar staff under some kind of spell – a trick I haven’t been able to do for years.  Drinks flowed freely from behind the bar into their hands, and mysteriously, down my throat.  I was only being polite. A Canadian never turns down a pretty cocktail.

When my politeness ran out, and I teetered on the edge of becoming a sloppy mute, I took my cue and decided it was time for me to leave.  My usual plan for getting home had been derailed earlier in the day.  Through casual conversation, I had been advised, in no uncertain terms, to not cut through the park – at all. A cab or an Uber would be a must. The apartment I was renting was literally just on the other side of the park – a hop, skip and a few steps away.

“But I always cut through the park?” I said. “I did it every day last year?”  The desperation in my voice was slightly sad.  I just wanted to be as cool as a New Yorker and walk around freely like I belonged. I spoke like a teenager being denied the car for a night out.

“Just, don’t do it. Promise me you won’t?” Cailley urged. I pushed for more, but she didn’t say much else.  She is a gentle sort and clearly not prone to gossip or hysterics and I respect her very much for this.

“Ok,” I surrendered, thinking she just wanted the out-of-towner to be cautious.

 Throughout the day, I heard more of the same advice but with a few more bread crumbs: “Please don’t cut through the park.”, “You haven’t heard?”, “It’s been a dark time here for us.”, “Just take a cab, it’s not worth it.” And the most potent, Josie, a fiercely intelligent and wise soul - looked me straight in the eye and bluntly added, “Don’t be a cliché.”

Each time I was urged to avoid the park, I promised obediently but willfully pressed for more.  It wasn’t until I was in a smaller group that anyone dared to speak in detail. In hushed tones, Lauren, a senior at Barnard, and Jasmine, a no non-sense force from the Bronx, told me about Tessa.  We stood in the main floor office at Barnard College.  The sun poured in the long windows and I stood shuffling my feet among the swag bags and signage as they talked. It was hard to know where to look.

Tessa Majors, a young Barnard student was walking through Morningside park at approximately 5:30 pm, December 11th, 2019. As she got to the steps, three young men approached and attempted to rob her, but very quickly, things turned violent.  One of the attackers had Tessa in a choke hold while the others rifled through her pockets.  When they demanded her phone, she bit one of them and screamed for help.  One of the three assailants stabbed her several times during the escalating struggle.  Her wounds were inflicted with such force, feathers flew out of her down jacket and floated through the air.  After being abandoned, Tessa managed to crawl to the top of the stairs and call out for help. One of the stab wounds had fatally pierced her heart. She passed away later in hospital.  Tessa Majors was an 18-year-old freshman at Barnard, originally from Charlottesville Virginia.  Her alleged attackers were three young boys from the neighborhood; two fourteen year-old’s and the third, just thirteen years of age. The youngest boy was apprehended the next day.  He confessed to his involvement in the crime and named the other two boys, describing in detail how the robbery went horribly wrong. The age-old wound of class tension between Columbia University and the surrounding neighborhood of Harlem, ivy league privilege too cozy to the inter-generational poverty, sliced wide open again, as raw as a paper cut across a sunburn.

Violent crime has gone down significantly in New York City in recent years so this murder shocked and saddened the city, dredging up old fears and sending communities into mourning – for the loss of Tessa Majors as well as the lives of the three young boys that now hung in the balance.  At the time of the murder, the thirteen-year-old alleged assailant was living with his uncle, who is in poor health with diabetes, after the death of his mother, and had admittedly fallen in with the wrong crowd.  The New York Times compared the case to the Central Park jogger rape case from 30 years ago, and the wrongful conviction of five young African American men. The governor has urged 26 Division to tread lightly and prosecute with care.  I couldn’t imagine the pain and confusion this community is experiencing – a neighborhood increasingly being squeezed by gentrification while young people fight for opportunity and survival just steps away from one of the most privileged academic communities in the country; mere steps. In the 70’s, the area surrounding Columbia University that lies at the top of the stairs from Morningside Park was referred to as “up the hill” and Harlem, at the base of the steps, was referred to as “down the hill”.  The park is the steadfast and poetic link that connects these communities. The playground and tree lined paths are more than a place to spend a few moments of leisure time – they are part of a green space that whispers of hope in its winds, while fighting classism in its weeds. 

I let the story wash over me and shamefully, my immediate reaction was for my own safety, wondering why the owner of the Airbnb hadn’t warned me to not walk through the park? I was very clear to her why I had chosen her place – proximity to Barnard and the allure of the short cut through the park to get to and from work.  Me. Me. Me.

As the girls told me the story, sadness and horror choked their words and their voices remained respectfully low.  Dark times was a term I heard more than once. Barnard is a school that aims to offer a superior education to women in liberal arts with a focus on social activism, both local and global.  This had hit hard – as many students study the plight and struggles of women around the world on a daily basis, the death of one so young, so close to home, had brought so many issues to the forefront. Violence against women, with frightening global statistics, was now an immediate experience for their very own freshman class.  The painful notion that Tessa wasn’t the only victim was another heartache difficult to ignore.  The young boys had risked and lost so much as well; just children who had inherited circumstances and history that repeatedly painted them into a corner and hoped they would find their way out with often fragile and fleeting resources. For the women of Barnard, creating ‘period packs’ for girls in developing countries is an act far easier to tackle than the social and class unease at their doorstep.  To stop the spread of fear and blame, it will surely take more than a tampon.  Real leadership, open dialogue, and compassion must emerge.   

As the day progressed, the story faded to the background and the festival took precedence.  Female filmmakers, writers and producers from around the world descended on the campus. Panels, masterclasses and screenings took over rooms and theatres across the storied campus. I did my job and stopped asking questions.  At lunch, I made sure my Uber app was functioning.

By the end of the opening night party, I leaned unsteadily against the bar, listening to conversations get swallowed up by a whiskey train that echoed down a tunnel somewhere in front of me.  I felt the alcohol suddenly take control of me, like a puppet abruptly passed to a new puppeteer. This was my cue to take out my phone and order that Uber.  I slipped outside into the frigid night and sat on a patio bench, hoping the fresh air would act as a defibrillator to my fuzzy thoughts and reflexes. Yellow taxis whizzed by amidst the hurried traffic, and the lights from curious neighborhood establishments, coffee shops, vegan restaurants and college bars, danced on the cold pavement at my feet like Christmas ribbon blowing off a fan.  Chatty pedestrians, in all their cool confidence, moved past me in waves, intent on getting somewhere and having a good time along the way. 

I waited for my car and watched the activity.

The first Uber cancelled on me.  I promptly ordered another one just as my phone battery flashed red. The next Uber cancelled on me only five minutes later.  I ordered again and called this time to make sure he knew exactly where I was and to ensure that he was coming.  I felt cold.  And impatient.  I waited some more.  I looked down as my phone battery warned me again; the red battery line looking smaller still. I knew the park was behind me and I could be home in minutes if I just walked.  I swear at that moment, the moon got brighter as if to keep me alert and thinking clearly.  I stayed put. 

“There she is!” I heard Gabrielle say in her gorgeous, throaty tone as the doors of the bar behind me swung open.  “You made an Irish exit.  Well done!”.  Her laughter filled the night air like hot air in a balloon, lifting my spirits. I joked with the girls and assured them I was waiting for my ride and not the slightest bit tempted to walk.  The group dispersed into vehicles and subway stations. I stood up with only a faint 2% battery left on my phone and stepped toward my Uber that had finally arrived.  A 6-minute Uber drive around the park and I was home, safe and sound. The bright lights and hum of the generators that powered the portable lights in the park held my gaze as we circled the park.  The path was lit up like a runway – a runway that was eerily empty.  This time I felt it; the slight hopelessness and pain in the abandoned park where children had been lost.  My forehead on the cold glass of the car window was as close as I could get to this no-man’s land at night and it felt sad. 

The rest of the festival played out as it was meant to. I sat in on a powerful panel where victims of Harvey Weinstein spoke about rape and a culture of protection for powerful men in Hollywood. I listened to a master class where an accomplished writer described how she handled life in a writer’s room full of men. I escorted filmmakers to their premieres where they showed their art to hungry audiences. Film after film told stories of women fighting, sometimes succeeding and sometimes not, for political rights, reproductive rights and services for the unhoused. I heard stories of trauma recovery and motherhood on the fringe.  For days I watched and listened to the voices of so many women from different corners of the world.  But still, my mind wandered repeatedly back to the voices in the park.

Had my battery died and my Uber cancelled on me one more time, I might have headed to the park, at least taken the long way around on foot.  Chance, circumstance, and available options steer our decision making every day.  Combine that with historical inequity and lack of opportunity, and the choices we have get narrower and infinitely riskier. My circumstance could have been different that night but my privilege, my phone and credit card, saved me. That’s not an outcome I want to take lightly.

I decided to take those steps every day of the festival – but only in the light of day.  Climbing the steep steps made my calves burn and my chest heave as I fought for deep breaths. Those stairs are a challenge.  It’s a short cut yes, but not an easy climb – literally and metaphorically. I wasn’t afraid of the stairs until I was told to be and seeing the park abandoned at night, with harsh lights exposing the steps and path like an empty film set waiting for a voice to yell action, felt like a test.  I didn’t want to think of this park as falling silent. This is not my home and perhaps not my place, but I think for everyone’s sake, I hope people keep walking these difficult paths.  Without constant footprints, they will get buried by unforgiving growth and hurt.  The stairs will fall into disrepair, and before long, no one will think about who or what is on the other side of the park. 

By Carol Sloan

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Edited version published in the Globe and Mail on December 15th, 2020. https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/article-skating-solo-gives-me-time-to-study-everyone-else-on-the-rink/

When the sun disappears for the day, tucked into darkness, and the streetlights cut through the grey like a hot knife into ice cream, there is a bewitching calm in the air.  In February, that calm is powerful; hollow and mysterious. There are no birds calling in the night, only dogs howling to get back inside. With early nightfall, most people have tucked themselves in as well, cocooned under TV light, firelight, or nowadays, the blue-ish white glow of a device.  Some are still on the road, in a hockey rink or counting reps at the gym. When my kids were younger, this time of night felt more witching than bewitching. I remember running baths, turning down beds, washing dishes and secretly praying that everyone would fall asleep after a shampoo and half a book. The temptation to rub Wild Turkey on everybody’s gums sat like a sinister bandit at the forefront of my thoughts. Instead, I did the responsible thing and only rubbed a little on my own gums, and maybe my wrists. Those days are gone now and I am simply a taxi to my teens, with an occasional gap between pick-up times to fill.  Recently, I decided to use this time for good. Instead of going home, I hit the skate trail. Like a thirsty traveler to a fountain, I drink in the trees, the moon, the chilled air, and disappear into a podcast. After only one week on the ice, I have made a curious discovery; the skate trail is a mystical place that has the power to expose our true selves - the good, the bad, and the seriously irritating.

The first night I went out, all I saw was the moon, the silvery path and the bare, bony branches that came out to cheer me on.  As the winter weather got milder, more people caught on to my secret rejuvenation plan and before long, there was a crowd. I had to navigate the skate path the same way I navigate any given day - carefully and with a keen sense of who I am dealing with.  Sometimes people get nicer at a funeral, sexier in high heels, or braver on twitter but, in the short time that I have been skating, I can tell you with some certainty, people do not change when they put on skates. Like Wonder Woman’s lasso of truth, skates hug your feet and squeeze your true self up and out into the world, demanding honesty in exchange for balance.  The way we handle ourselves on ice holds a striking resemblance to how we handle life. 

The ones who challenged my skills the most were the kids.  They were as unpredictable as firecrackers in a barrel, changing direction on a whim, and letting loose exploding limbs - giving you an elbow in the back, a skate in the shin or depending on their height, a helmet in the pelvis; which feels rather like falling, legs akimbo, on a metal slide.  The most alarming were the boys who played games on the ice that no one knew the rules to; a game of tag where no one is it, and everyone is it. These will become the guys in your office with the inside jokes who say things like “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” or swear it’s called the “16th chapel” and believe there must be others, named 1 to 15. These guys require patience, now, and then. They must be allowed to skate freely, feel important, but be reminded that when they want to slow down and ask questions, they will be heard - without judgement. It’s often guys like this, and massive games of tag, that hide the lone boy skating on his own - moving in the opposite direction of the crowd; the wind freezing his eyelashes and the thrill of facing everything head on fueling his drive.  This is the boy who will grow up to imagine a different way of doing things. He will actually go to the Sistine Chapel and look up.

As the boys carried on, like dust in a tornado, I met a wall of young girls, who skated arm-in-arm, like one long creature.  No one else in the world existed but the friends in their grip. They laughed, tugged on the line, hip bumped, yelled at their friend three arms down, then laughed again, never letting go.  Every couple of laps, they broke into song. When one lost a hat, they all stopped, arms still hooked together, and bent down, one at a time, like links in a chain, until someone was low enough to pick it up. This is the beginning of the rest of their lives.  This is what friendship among a group of women looks like at the beginning and metaphorically, at the end; arm-in-arm, picking up the pieces together and singing for no reason. I waited until the path widened to go around them. I knew they needed to stay in formation - for reasons they have yet to realize.  Just beyond the human chain of young ladies was the oddball pair of girls, barely moving, and holding up the flow. They took a million tiny steps in their skates, click clack, click clack, while they talked at a breakneck speed. They had traded a glove with each other so they could each wear an identical mismatched pair. They chose speed of thought over speed of foot.  Their chatter was higher level thinking, full of “what if’s” and “could you imagine…”.  I skated past them slowly wondering where their vision and collaboration would take them.

Then - booof!  I was hit by a blond bomb. Our puffy winter coats collided and stale air escaped our jackets on impact, like a high jump mat when an athlete lands. The boisterous skater cut me off as she tried to take a shortcut and shoot across the centre of the figure eight path. Instead of knocking me on my ass, she reached out and grabbed both my arms, pulling me in tight.  Instinctively, I held her just as tight - nose to nose, we drifted sideways together. She was laughing so hard, she couldn’t even speak let alone apologize for dragging me off course. I was clinging to her like a plastic bag to the front of a transport truck. Laughing, I went along for the ride until we slowed down and she released me.  As I changed direction, she yelled back to me, “Sorry!” and laughed some more, with a “Whoa!” and a “Yikes!” as she continued on her path of near misses.  She’s the woman you find yourself with on an impromptu road trip to Graceland or screaming with in pain at a late night tattoo parlor in Montreal while a pink poodle gets inked on your calf.  Her enthusiasm, zest for life and proclivity for messy impulses is infectious and sucks you in every time.

Still laughing and watching her hand prints re-inflate on my poofy jacket, I slowed my speed and ducked in behind ‘the couple’.  Oh the couple!  The girlfriend skated just a few paces ahead of her beau, and periodically looked back over her shoulder, flashing a million dollar smile and tossing her wavy hair over her shoulder.  Her designer toque was perfectly placed on her head just low enough to show off her eyelashes and keep the locks in place. Hand knit mittens and a long coat gave her a ‘just-styled’ look.  The boyfriend, feverishly snapped photos on his phone and directed her when to look back. And then, they did it. They stopped, reviewed the photos, re-set and started again. The day my husband spends an afternoon outdoors taking my photo as I skate is literally the day hell freezes over and there is nothing else to do but skate.  They might be the ones who get bored often in life and spend too much time creating happy instead of feeling it.  But damn they were cute. 

While they stopped and looked through their phones, I gracefully pushed past them.  For about two seconds, I had some room with no one directly in front of me, then whoosh! The jersey buddies flew past , their hockey skates cutting the ice like helicopter blades slamming into concrete.  Two guys in their mid-twenties raced along like lost NHL players, weaving in and out, taking sharp corners, talking loudly over people, and swearing at the top of their lungs as if they were in a club “Fuck yeah, did you see that shot?”.  Children, distinguished adults, and good christian skaters all looked up as they passed, emotionally absorbing the shock of the earth-shaking F-bomb that just dropped around them. The over-sized jerseys the guys wore were all they had to keep them warm - that and their speed.  I suspect they hadn’t worn a hat or gloves since grade school, and even then, had probably ditched the outer wear in the playground for fear of showing weakness. Cold is a state of mind in their world. These are the guys who are always looking two moves ahead, making bold choices, but in the end, are loyal to a fault and leave no person behind. For them, actions speak louder than words - except today.  Their words were pretty loud. The rest of their conversation eluded me as they disappeared, like the DeLorean in ‘Back To The Future’; speed carrying them off to another dimension. 

I spent the rest of the week continuing to observe and pass judgment (I wish I were better).  It was a few days before the drinkers showed up; a nice group of gen-something-or-others that had beer hidden behind a tree and after every lap, pulled over for a swig.  Life is a party wherever they go. Some of them will have a hard time growing up; others will have to leave the group in order to reach their potential and friendships will be fractured. Been there. I particularly loved the teen boys who skated like cool guys with their hands in their pockets, and their ears freezing red, sans hat, trying not to look at the girls but inevitably crashing into toddlers the one time they couldn’t look away.  This won’t be the first time their false confidence fails them. I wanted to skate alongside the two men with their fabulous sunglasses, as they gabbed about TV shows and balsamic vinegar. As their hands brushed against each other from time to time, the learned subtlety of their relationship revealed itself . These are the people who define bravery and will stay up with you all night to get you through a tough time because, they know a thing or two about how to weather an emotional storm.  And then I studied the dads. I could have melted in the cold every time I looked at the dad’s who skated happily, unnaturally hunched over, holding their children up as they went from stumbling to stable on their first pair of skates. That first day of college will be hard on these men and they’ll remember this day like it was yesterday. I watched the mom’s constantly adjusting hats and mittens and knew immediately, they would be the moms who ask their adult children if they’re eating properly, and follow that up with an invitation to dinner.

But my favorite - God bless the toddler who sits in the middle of the ice because - they want to sit.  A future champion of self-care for sure. I have no beef with the show-off who does a triple salchow in a recreational setting.  I’m not afraid of feeling inadequate and anyone who’s worked hard enough to be able to do that, deserves a little space. Success is not for the meek. Although I fight to swallow a chuckle, I also love the full blown adults, out in borrowed gear, learning to skate for the first time; wobbling and grabbing at their partner as if they were teetering on the edge of Niagara Falls.  These are the people who may be late to the game but they will always show up and relish the process over results.

There was only one group that drove me from fascinated to irritated.  Skate-rage bubbled up in me at the gaggle of parents that stood in the middle of the skate path, chatting with their cups of coffee, oblivious to the whereabouts, activities, aggression’s and salty language of their little darlings elsewhere on the rink - forget their complete disregard for the traffic that had to move around them!  I wanted to pay the jersey buddies in premium beer to bust them up like bowling pins, but instead, I took a long whiff as the laid back pot smokers drifted by and decided to let it go.  These might be the parents who brag about the children they hardly know, ignore their struggles, and blame the teacher.  

All week, I skated around like a ghost - disturbing no one, only watching.  If someone were judging me, what would they see? I wondered for a split second if I had become the invisible middle aged woman, still finding my way in the world, unseen; on my way out, and not exciting enough to matter. I wasn’t with my husband, my friends, my drinking buddies; boys weren’t giving me the side eye anymore and no one needed me to hold them up while they learned to glide.  I had been skated into or around, but had not been part of any group.  I felt sad for a moment then let this stereotype blow away in the cold February wind.  I pushed past everyone, lap after lap, contemplating my role in the world. I watched my time as it came closer to when I had to pick up my son from basketball… then it hit me.  On ice, as in life, I am a woman on the move - always circling the present and future simultaneously. I am not on the ice to be seen. Out in the world, I juggle, I work, I care for others and I create. At this point - I am only halfway in my story. My “things-I’ve-yet-to-do” list is longer than any skate path and pushes me toward experience now more than ever. The meter on my taxi is always running, so when I am on the ice, weaving in and out of other people’s lives - it might not be that I am invisible, it might just be that I’m unstoppable. When I get the chance to get out on the ice - I’ve earned the right to just chill out.

Note 1: The Wild Turkey smell that may or may not have been detected on my person while I skated, was coming off my wrists, not my breath. Skate safe.

By Carol Sloan

Your comments below are always welcome!

Note 2: With winter on our minds, remember the comfort of warm feet this time of year. Sock Footage, founded by Marisa Sheff, donates one pair of socks for every pair purchased on sockfootage.com. Socks are the most needed and least donated item to homeless shelters. This is a wonderful 1-to-1 giving model.
Check out Sock Footage on:
http://www.instagram.com/sockfootageco
http://www.facebook.com/sockfootageco
http://www.twitter.com/sockfootageco

Go to: https://www.sockfootage.com/ for information on their charitable sock vending machine (currently located at Ryerson University) or for news on upcoming pop-ups around the GTA.

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