Stranger

Today the glands under my jaw are swollen like golf balls. I have taken the day off to recover from whatever virus I have, resigning myself to reading in bed and puttering at the computer with hot tea in hand.

Perhaps I caught the virus at work this past week, but I've heard that it takes about 10 days for viruses to percolate in one's system. I've also heard that planes are good places to catch viruses. Ten days ago I was on a flight to Yellowknife. So there it is, and I am now processing both the virus from the trip and the trip itself.

There is an old but wise cliché that says it's better to regret things one has done than the things one hasn't done. This trip to Yellowknife has brought this cliché to surface, as I try to remind myself of all the reasons it was good to go back after almost two years of having been away – despite that my heart aches like hell. I don't know if we can benefit from measuring the quality or value of our experiences by how much suffering they cause. Many times we devalue experiences that cause us heartache, when really they are opportunities of major growth and personal insight.

My original decision to travel to Yellowknife, where I had spent 4 years of my life, was predicated on a need to attend a friend's wedding. It was important to me not only to be in attendance of an important life event of a dear friend, but as a person who had witnessed first-hand this woman's ascent into much deserved happiness with the man of her dreams. On the other hand, I deeply needed to see my cats, who I had left behind in Yellowknife a few years ago with my ex in my move to Edmonton from the house we used to own together. Never a day has gone by that I have not missed them, or remembered what it feels like to cuddle them and hold them precious to me like any mother would her children. I did not realize upon crafting my plans to visit Yellowknife how I might feel once there. That I would feel like a stranger, that my friend would not have time to visit with me at her wedding, that I would have to endure heart-break once again at saying goodbye to my cats without their understanding of the situation (where I have been, and that I would once again disappear). I did not foresee that I would feel alienated, that I don't belong – in Yellowknife nor in the life of my cats.

I keep thinking back to my arrival at the Yellowknife airport. I had arranged for a car rental, and so wandered in the airport like the visitor I was (despite that it was often the launching point for many an adventure, and my home harbour for four years), looking for the rental outlet. When I finally got my car, I felt as if I were on wings, and I flew through the surreal landscape of my old neighbourhood with only one thing in mind: to see my furry beloveds. My ex had generously left me the key to the house so that I could visit them alone, and I sped there to see them as a lover to a doomed but exhilarating clandestine meeting.

Walking through the front door was just as surreal as the drive through my old neighborhood to the house. Almost everything looked the same. No walls had been painted a different color, pictures on the wall hadn't been replaced, furniture was in its old place. New things had found their way in, but the old remained, too, lulling me into an old familiarity without the warmth it used to hold for me. Without hesitation, I immediately called Puss and Lumpy like I always did, like I've been yearning to do for the years I've been away. They both came running from the bedroom, attendant but with expressions of curiosity, too. My heart leapt. But where Puss would usually throw herself down before me on the carpet to have her belly rubbed, she only calmly sat, looking up at me without appearing the least amused. Lumpy parked himself close by, half awake and wondering what all the fuss was about. It was all so strange – the same but so different – and time was slipping through my fingers and stealing moments from me as they arose. Those moments I tried to commit to memory so I would never forget: brushing Puss' coat, feeding them treats, putting my head to Lumpy's fur while he lay in the sun and feeling his body rise and fall with each breath. Unfortunately the painful moments are committed to memory too: Puss not letting me brush her, then hissing and growling and running away, just to come back for more minutes later. Though she used to be mine and would tolerate me holding her in my arms like a little baby, things had changed, washed away with the tides. I found I could not hold her like that any longer without looking down at a growling cat that threatens of her growing unease in my arms.

I realize now that the two hours I had spent there, right at the forefront of my trip, was my undoing for the remainder of my visit. To walk away from a house that used to be mine, to cats that my heart has claimed as children, and to all the other nameless things that I used to claim as mine, placed me in a stark and barren realm where I was stranger. I came to Yellowknife as a stranger, and I have now left there as a stranger – even to those I love.

The cracks started showing almost immediately. Upon leaving the house, I tried using my regular car keys to start the rental car, which kept me puzzled for five minutes in the driveway until my ex (who had visited me there over his lunch) came over to help identify the problem. I think I held up well at the wedding that evening, but as the night wore on, I could not bring myself to dance or make any more small chat with people I didn't know. The smiling face that I wore all day started feeling like more of a mask to the strangers around me. The happiness I felt for my friend's good fortune was not enough to bail me out of my imminent sense of loss.

My friend Anne shepherded me back into the light the next day as we lunched together and rehashed, to the best of our ability, the past two years. We laughed, we shared, and we conspired as we had done before for the whole day through. It was what I needed, and I was grateful. She escorted me all the way to the airport, and sat with me some more there, too. She did all this without knowing the loss I was feeling, without being told of the place that I would sink to if left to sit alone in a world that used to be my home. She continues to be an angel in my life.

And so I landed back in Edmonton only a day after my launch into the old world, still feeling a little heavy. For the first time I got lost coming from the Edmonton airport – twice I drove off into nowhere. Maybe it was the dark and lonely part of myself slipping into a greater void, wanting to continue being lost. But a greater part of myself really wanted to be home. To my new home, my new life. And as I pulled in front of the house where this new life takes place, the door opened, and standing in the warm doorway, with the light shining from behind, was my beloved. Inside were candles, roses, and a table set for the meal that he was cooking for us on the stove. I had arrived back into the folds of the new chapter, no stranger to love.

The Family Legacy

It’s that time of year again when all the baking supplies come out in full force and cookie tins abound. My usual Christmas goodie staple for the past few years has been chocolate macaroons (recipe provided in my blog index). But this year I really wanted to go all out and get back to my roots. I wanted to make Peppermint Cookies. But not just ANY peppermint cookies. This particular recipe that I have has been passed down through generations of women in my family, with its origins in old Europe.

The tricky thing about this recipe is that it calls for a particular ingredient that sets it apart from any other peppermint cookie recipe out there. This ingredient is baking ammonia (ammonia carbonate). In Europe, it is sometimes referred to as Hartshorn, which was a derivative of the horns of the red deer. Hartshorn was used in the 17th and 18th centuries in many European cookie recipes, and was a precursor to baking powder. It is a wonderful leavening agent, though specific to cookies – as the thinner mass allows the ammonia to bake off and evaporate (which is why you don’t taste it).

Because I am not living in old Europe, it is very difficult to find baking ammonia. Not many recipes call for it here in Canada, unless they are old fashioned recipes passed down through generations of immigrant families like mine. The only way to get this ingredient - short of hunting deer and rendering the horns - is through a pharmacist, and even then very few have this ingredient accessible to the consumer. I had called close to every single pharmacist in Edmonton today, and no one carried it in stock (which led me to asking myself how my grandmother ended up in possession of her supply). I did end up lucking out in the end: as it turns out, the ONLY pharmacy in Edmonton that carries this substance is Market Drugs. So now I will be able to share my family recipe with friends and colleagues.

These cookies sure bring back memories of my grandmother’s magical place that I loved to go to as a child, as she made these cookies frequently. And surprisingly, the ammonia itself also brings with it some memories. Not only was the recipe handed down through generations of my family: it was also a rite-of-passage to be the unwitting victim of ammonia sniffing. Ammonia in its pure form is a very strong, nasty smelling substance, and sniffing it is indescribably painful.

I recall being 8 years old and watching my uncle Tony removing a small pill container from my mother’s baking cupboard and calling me over. “Hey, come here and take a whiff of this”, he said to me. Because so many ingredients from that baking cupboard are wonderfully palatable, I willingly put my nose right over the container and took a good sniff. Immediately following, I screamed. It felt like fire burning right up through my nostrils and into my brain. I clasped my hands to my nose and ran around the house for about five minutes until the pain subsided. When I told my mother later she couldn’t withhold her snicker, because (being my uncle Tony’s big sister) she had done the exact same thing to him when they were younger. This discovery prompted my decision to share the pain as well: I offered the same experience to my little brother – who reacted precisely the same way that everyone else in the family had.

So not only are these cookies the most amazing, fluffy, minty cookies around, but they also embody a true family legacy of sibling torture that is likely unprecedented anywhere.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I can’t help but want to report on some of my progress as of late. I have become a champion of various titles. The score is now 4:1, me versus the world. The ‘1’ on the world’s side is the incident of getting poodled at a salon a couple months ago.

My victories started with a recent conquest of the ghastly perm job from Modern Urban Hair Designers. I walked around the office feeling like a bad rendition of Medusa for six weeks after the perm incident. During that time I had followed up with Dana at the salon, stating that something was very wrong with the job she’d done. That ended with her telling me that I looked really “Boho” (Bohemian), and sending me packing with a different hair product. Well, no more Boho the Clown for me, and it’s not because of the product. I found my hair straightening iron, purchased years ago when all I needed it for then was to tame a stubborn cowlick. Now the iron is taming a jungle. I now have straight hair, despite that I have to do this chore every morning. But still. No more afro.

My next victory came last week at my first Toastmasters session. I had decided that if I wasn’t going to medicate myself every time I give a presentation to our Board of Directors at work, I was going to have to overcome the dread of public speaking. Unfortunately I have had to give my last few presentations at our Directors meetings sporting hair that resembles road kill. However, I now have normal hair, and one Toastmasters session under my belt. Being considered a guest at my first Toastmasters session, I wasn’t required to take part in the impromptu public speaking exercises, but I did anyway. During one of the exercises I had to talk for 2 minutes about a topic in the news that caught my attention that day. I spoke about two gay men who had their house burnt down. Why I chose such a politically loaded topic rather than sports, weather, or any of the other news sections I had reviewed that morning remains to be understood. But I won that week’s trophy for best speaker. I don’t think I was the best speaker, but perhaps it was recognition for bravery. Not only did I recover some pride, but also some faith in the kind-heartedness of others.

Only days after, I found myself co-hosting a party for five 7 year old boys – one of whom was my boyfriend’s son who turned 8 years old. I had asked him if he wanted a store-bought cake or a homemade one, and unlike his sister, he prefers homemade. And I was certainly determined to deliver. So I endeavoured to make him a three-tiered cake with chocolate icing and M&M’s decorating the sides. What I didn’t realize was how big three tiers of cake actually is. Glad I bought extra icing supplies because the cake turned out to be about a foot high (at least) and appeared to dwarf the birthday boy. It was the Eiffel Tower on steroids. Everyone’s eyes were big, as the cake sat like a monument on the table. Candles were blown out, and then came the mission of trying to cut reasonable-sized pieces from it. Even a sliver of the cake looked daunting to eat. Carving the first piece went well, despite its sheer volume. The second piece went a little shakier. But it was the third piece that shook the castle. While cutting, the whole cake tottered. Then it did a giant upside-down face plant in the middle of the table. During that moment no one moved. No one breathed. Time stood still while mouths gaped wide. And in that moment when someone (including me) could have cried, I yelled “FOOD FIGHT!”. Though little Meredith immediately clenched the first fist of food, we calmly decided instead to just continue carving out portions of cake for everyone – some of whom decided to unleash their inner savage and eat without forks. I call this victory.

Last but not least, I won the much coveted trophy for our annual workplace chilli cook-off fundraiser yesterday. Despite being warned of the political heat around the cooking competition, I decided to enter anyway because the event needed more contestants. I came in with my ‘Texas Hold’em Chipotle Chicken’ chilli, and walked out with trophy in hand after the votes were tallied. Despite that I have never won a trophy before, I now have two sitting on my desk (though the Toastmasters one gets recycled back into the group next week). It’s amazing what a little determination and bravery can do.

2010 is wrapping up nicely.

The Perm

Back when I lived on Vancouver Island (the good ol’ days, as I now call them), I had an amazing award winning hairdresser named Edwin Johnston. I never had bad hair back then. Since I have left the island, it’s been hit and miss – with the hits usually being anytime I’m visiting the island and can get in to see Edwin. But even the misses with other hairdressers haven’t been all that bad. Not until now.

My last few haircuts in Edmonton have been okay – as in very mediocre. So I had decided to try a place called “Modern Urban Hair Designers” or “MUD Studio" in Edmonton. Their reviews online led me to believe that it was a very chic place to go, especially if getting one’s hair done by the owner, Dana. Excited at the possibilities for zesting up my thin, lifeless hair, I booked my appointment with her.

Sure enough, the place was very stylish and trendy and I actually felt a bit underdressed for the occasion in jeans and a t-shirt. The hair stylists strutted around in all sorts of flashy attire: orange fishnet stockings and silver shoes, blue and purple streaked hair, tattoos, KISS-style stiletto boots that fit like a glove up to the knee. Surely, I thought, these women know about style, and I knew I needed some.

Shortly after I arrived, Dana came and sat with me on the big leather couch to discuss my hair and suss out what would look good on me. I started out with telling her that I’ve been trying to grow it out but it now just looks thin, shapeless, and boring. To which she replied, “You need a Body”.

“…A…..body?”, I replied, as if I’d never heard the word before.

And so, using her iPad, she showed me examples of what a “Body” was. We perused pictures of Meg Ryan, Madonna, and Charlize Theron while listening to some upbeat, trendy rock music. These were images of wavy, tousled hair. It looked oh so sexy. But wasn’t she talking about a ‘perm’? A small voice in my head (the common sense one that doesn’t always get air time) mentioned that this was, in fact, a PERM she was talking about, right? And so I trodded forth with trepidation.

“…. I’m not so sure…. I think my mom used to get perms….”.

“Oh no, dahling”, she said – with the utmost authority. “We don’t do THAT anymore”. And I thought I had understood what THAT was; the unspoken thing that went out with the 70’s. White chics with frizzy afro-perms, camel toes, polyester bell-bottoms, and ponchos. But I supposed that I didn’t have to worry. There are no perms, not at salons like this.

“I totally think you could rock a Body”, Dana said. And, looking at the celebrity pictures, I thought maybe I could, too.

For some reason, she instilled trust in me. Perhaps it was her confidence, the way she carried herself. She looked like an artist, sporting long black hair in a funky braid, big plump lips, and big knee high lace-up boots that looked like a saucy complement to her 8 month pregnant belly. She was so sure of herself, seemed to know how to handle anything, and appeared so certain of what I needed. A memory surfaced briefly before it sank back into the depths: that Edwin had made one thing really clear when working with my hair for those years back on the Island. That thing was for me never to get a perm. But I said yes anyway to this strangely compelling alchemist who spoke like she could work magic. And besides, I wasn’t getting a perm, I was getting a ‘Body’.

Flash forward to the day of reckoning a week later, at my hair appointment with Modern Urban Hair Designers. I am at the salon, getting my hair shampooed by a new gal there. “So”, she says in a sweet, welcoming voice, “you’re getting a perm today?”. At that point the spell broke and I felt like turning tail. Wish I had. But I wanted to keep believing.

I let Dana douse me with putrid chemicals once the curlers were in. I think it was ammonia but it smelled like 10 cats had shit on my head. Then more chemicals that smelled like some very bad perfume. I was determined to enjoy my time anyway, convinced that I would come out the other end looking hot. Stylists stopped by to chat with us, and Dana started talking about people in Newfoundland where she is from and how they are often stereotyped as being lazy – which she clearly wasn’t. One of the stylists told her she was surprised that Dana was on her third perm for the week, being that Dana recently told a client that she doesn’t really do perms. Uh-oh. I started getting worried.

Finally she rinsed me off and escorted me over to the station, and took the towel off. I saw the wavy wet hair, but it wasn’t until she started blow drying that I thought to myself, “oh shit”. It got curlier, and curlier, and curlier as it began to dry. I just wanted her to make it stop, but the curls multiplied. And my hair stank so much that I’m sure it could have been considered hazardous material. All I could muster to say at that point was, “…when will my hair stop smelling like this?”. I didn’t yet know how to form the words “how long will my hair BE like this?”. She finished it by putting some kind of product in it to tame down the curls and to cover up the stench. I couldn’t hold it in any longer and said that I honestly wasn’t sure I really liked it. “….it’s so….. curly”, I said. Likely I had the I don’t want to pay for this look on my face. And so she launched into a dialogue about how no one wears their hair straight anymore, and men like women with curls. I looked around the salon. Every hairdresser at the MUD studio had straight hair. Dana had straight hair. All the clients had straight hair. I was fucked.

It was a blur after that. I recall her continuing to try to convince me that it looked good. She told me that when she “had her lips done”, she thought she looked like a duck at first, but a week later went back because she wanted “more duck”. She then began selling me some products that I would need for upkeep of my new pet. I was put through the register. I think I tipped her, too, because she accommodated me on a Saturday when she doesn’t usually work. I had no reasoning ability at that point. I was holding in the shock. I walked back to my car, emotionless. All I could think was “I let a pregnant Newfie with fake lips perm my hair”. I looked in the mirror and it didn’t look any better than it did in the salon. I felt like a poodle. A very smelly one.

I drove home and I think I may have cried. I had a presentation to give on Monday morning to a federal board of directors. I had also promised my boyfriend that I would look ever so sexy that evening with new hair, and he was going to make me a special steak and crab dinner for our romantic evening. But now I had a stinky afro. I went from having thin, lifeless hair to having hair that has a life of its own. An entity. A planet with it's own orbit.

My boyfriend saw the hair, and said amicably, “it looks good”. He smiled encouragingly. But I knew that look and I know he would never want to hurt my feelings. Through salty tears I told him that I had a presentation on Monday morning and couldn’t give it looking like Crusty the Clown. He laughed – hard enough for me to see that there was some truth in the comparison. He tried to stop and insisted that it wasn’t like that. I went upstairs and cried in the bathroom, and then proceeded to think of strategies to tame the afro. But it wasn’t going away. I would have to live with it.

I assaulted my hair with various concoctions of hair products. It wasn't going to be okay anytime soon. It is kinky and frizzy, and at its very best, looks like I crawled out from under the tires of a bus. I kept telling myself it’s just hair. Just as some of the good hair I’ve had has come to pass, so will the bad hair. So I moved on. I was brought flowers that day by my lover, who also had cleaned the house and made me the most amazing dinner. The hair didn’t matter. And the next day we walked in the park and saw some buffalo, enjoyed the autumn air. I caught some bugs in the perm. The perm caught wind. But everything was going to be fine.

This morning rolled around, and it took me a while to tame the perm. Thoughts of “holy fuck what are people going to think” went through my head. But in reality, no one really noticed the perm during my presentation. I thought I imagined people looking at me a bit more, but not like I was strange. Maybe because I looked different. Whatever it was, people pretended not to notice that my head had sprouted like a Chia Pet.

And life goes on.

The Teacher

Autumn is my favorite season. A time to reflect, withdraw, and begin the hypernation. This fall, I have complemented these natural seasonal inclinations with a meditation course that my boyfriend and I have both taken interest in.

The course is 6 months in duration, and attendance is required 5 nights a week, Monday to Friday. It is a unique style of meditation that goes for an hour in duration. The unique part about it is that the first half an hour is ‘walking meditation’. It is really quite simple, technically. Meditators are organized into rows. Each person has a two-tile width space for walking, which stretches about 15 feet long. We walk from one end of our marked space and back again. There is a pause after turning around. That’s the walking exercise, combined with our meditation technique.

But I am distracted by pretty much everything around me. Sights, smells, noises, personality quirks. Thus, being put in a room with 40 other people and trying to meditate while walking back and forth, my eyes being caught by strange socks and even stranger walking habits, is already quite a challenge for me. So far in my third week, I have walked beside people who look like they’re trying to walk a tight rope, or play hop-scotch at their turning points, or sneaking up on someone. Despite these idiosyncrasies that go on around me, I am the one who seems to have been singled out by the teacher for conformity. The first time was my initial evening, because I had missed the previous class that explained everything, and no one instructed me on how the walking areas worked so I wasn’t walking within the allotted lines. The teacher scooted me over onto my track. Okay, no problem. But then, after I had taken maybe 5 steps, she tells me to walk a little faster. Um….okay. I was still trying to make sure I was focussing my mind properly. I told my boyfriend that night that I had been talked to, and he said that he had never seen the teacher say anything to anyone else before. This lead me to feel special, but in the ‘special bus’ kind of way.

Things progressed, though, and I thought over subsequent weeks that maybe I had properly conformed to the exercise because I was left alone for a while. I did wonder, however, that the teacher was NEVER to be seen when I had freaks beside me doing their freaky walks. They would have been so busted. Instead, I had to somehow shut out their hop-scotching, or their tight-roping, or their sneaky-like paces. But I persevered, for the most part. I managed a few moments of focus in my half hour stretch of walking meditation. Then last night, I was busted again. Taken down. Apparently this time I was pausing too long after my turn. Again, I struggled with trying to refocus my mind after that. Why is it that no one else gets corrected? This was the pressing question that stayed in my head in place of the mantra I was actually supposed to be focussing on.

Later, the wise voice in my head (that has answers which are so hard to heed) tells me that I need to learn to focus and calm my mind, which is why I am there. What better opportunity to learn how to focus and calm, than in absolute chaos and injustice? By virtue of being one of the meditators closest to the door, I have been inadvertently selected for honing my skills to perfection, while all the freaks that she never catches get to continue being freaks and doing it all wrong. But somehow, despite reason, I just can’t muster up the gratitude for having been hand-picked for perfection.

I guess there is always next time.

Autopsy

In regards to my previous post "Phoenix", and upon conclusion of eagle autopsy results, Phoenix was a girl.

Phoenix

For the past few months, I have been watching a little eagle hatchling grow via a live webcam on Hornby Island. His name was Phoenix, and he lived high up in a large nest overlooking the ocean, carefully tended by both of his parents. He was born from one of two eggs - the other which never hatched. Unfortunately I never got to see Phoenix hatch himself, but shortly afterwards was daily witness to his life from a wee hatchling.

It was quite something watching him grow from a little grey piece of fluff with a black beak, barely able to stand, to a large, black feathered, gangly teenager who began to take up the entire nest while stretching out. As a hatchling, he would hunker down underneath mom or dad, and be protected by the elements which the open nest was so exposed to. As he grew bigger, he would stagger around like the most unmajestic bird one could ever see, almost threatening to fall off the side of the nest with one clumsy step. My boyfriend and I used to joke that perhaps his mother mated with a buzzard, for all the grace he had. When Phoenix would sleep, he was most un-bird like. He would lay on his side, stretching one wing across the span of the nest, and his two feet as far out in front of him as possible. I have never seen a bird sleep like that. And his feet grew so big and yellow, and we would joke about them as his 'yellow sneakers'.

Thousands of people across North America - and likely beyond - watched little Phoenix. The day was near when he would make his first flight, as he was beginning to hop up on the camera box and stretch his wings in the air. He had begun spending so much time on the nest parametres, looking out at the awaiting world beyond. It seemed only a short matter of time before he stretched those wings and let the wind carry him into the next stage of his life.

And so I was shocked and saddened to learn last night that little Phoenix was suddenly sick. Apparently Doug and Sheila Carrick, who own and operate the camera equipment, noticed his condition and tried to get an experienced eagle handler up to the nest to save our little friend. Hearing this news, I tuned in last night to the webcam, and there was Phoenix, taking laboured breaths. I felt helpless as I watched his little black body move up and down in heaving movements. I hoped someone might get up there to help the little guy, and quickly. But at 8:15 p.m. last night, moments after I logged out of the cam, Phoenix collapsed in the nest, took one more look at the ocean in the distance, and died.

Apparently the parents were keeping vigil in the surrounding trees. I later witnessed footage of the removal of Phoenix's body from the nest, which included a clip of the mother in a nearby tree. As his body was being taken away, the mother extended her neck and opened her beak a few times as if to give a good-bye shrill, or a protest, but no noise ushered forth. Then she flew away.

Posts have been pouring in from everyone on the Hornby Eagles Facebook forum. Just today there have been hundreds of comments from people about how horribly sad they feel, that they feel like they've lost a family member. These people, like myself, would tune in every day to see this little eagle grow - to witness his first glimpse of the world, his first steps around the nest, and the growth of his first feathers. A friend of mine told me that her dad, who viewed Phoenix daily on his big HD TV, will be heartbroken. "He spoke of that eagle like he was my brother", she said. For many of us, he was like a brother.

Despite that death is an intrinsic part of life, there is nothing more sad to me than an eagle who never got to feel the wind under his wings. But this is, for reasons unknown to us, as nature intended. I resign myself to the burden of acceptance, and say some prayers for a little eagle I once knew.

RIP Phoenix.