Where I Stand

Windsor St, Vancouver, 2013.

It is 2014. Did you realize this? I know that you must have scribbled it a few dozen times by now; writing a cheque to your landlord, or filling in another white form, or scrawling it on the chalkboard so that your kids know that it is a school day, and no you cannot go to the bathroom classjustSTARTED.

But it is. 2014, I mean. Blink blink. It's also February. Blink. You've been meaning to write a post that means something, for quite some time now.

Summing up a year, looking ahead to the one up next-- it has such oracle-like, wisdom-shouldering Shawls that wrap around it. It's always easier to not. And yet-- not doing so is unfathomable, since you have pretty much done one every year since you were an itty bitty newborn in this Internet world. You can't send 2013 to bed without tracing its braille one last time with your fingers.

Meditation rock, Saturna Island, 2013.

So. Two thousand and thirteen. My lucky number, my lucky year. My phoenix rising from the embers of some serious stuff. If I was a life meteorologist, I would see that the ebb and flow of joy waxes and wanes from year to year, season to season. 2013 felt like a whole season of light.

I'm still not good at recaps-- this hasn't changed as I've gotten older. Longer in my soul. The most we will arrive to, will likely be nonsensical to you. Incomplete.

The High Line, New York, 2013.

You were love. Every morsel of you was full of it. Not neccessarily the kind that is sopping with roses and beautiful photos, taken just so. Beyond the portrayal of you on my FB page or this modest project here, which can be so misleading in all its camera angles and edited turns of phrases, you were love. The real kind. The kind that builds itself up, and heals pain, and joins fingers together in friendship. You were a chortling, brimming, 'we did it', 'but i'm exhausted' kind of love. You restored my heart back to its rightful rack; heaved it from the second last rib; elevated it so it could elevate me.

My back deck, Haines Junction, 2013.

You were adventure and power. That's right. That word that I shy away from. Why? Power doesn't have to be connected to greed or wealth or harsh tones. Power is sinew and limbs and nerves and verve and vivre. Power is the ability to stay a course on a rocky sea, or ask for someone else to row you to shore, if it needs be.

The Auriol Trail, Yukon, 2013.

So, I thank you, friend. I will tell my grandchildren about you, how all my memories of you are tinged with the soft glint of a pale yellow. It isn't true that you were the beginning of something, since all my years (even that kick in the shin 2012) began me. But you were a checkpoint, for sure, and you told me that I am running the right road.

The trek behind Rick's Cabin, Yukon, 2013.

2013 in Pictures

Nostalgia.

Some people stay away from it; I embrace it with obsessive fervour.

On a glum day, my favourite thing to do is to put my head on a pillow, and click through old albums of London or the first year we moved up here, or that time we roadtripped all summer throughout BC.

Sometimes, I pretend I'm a stranger as I glance through these photographs, and imagine what I would think of this girl and her boy and their adventures if I really were to be looking through these for the first time. I am aware that this is fairly self-conscious, if not outright vain. I guess I find it intruiging to view my life through the lens of another.

I already know this collection of photos will comfort me in future grey times. The stranger in me agrees that whoever this girl is, she is lucky to have had so much love, ocean, woodland, friends & family and parades this year.

Happy nostalgia-ing and your last days of 2013, everyone.

 ----------------------------------

Today, it was -40.

On the eve of November 30th, I breathed a huge sigh of relief because December was on its way, and with it, a brand new month to spill our colours on.

November was a trying month. Lots of hard moments at school, colleagues losing family members, young people in pain. And it was dark-- you can't forget about the dark. It gets so confusing to leave your house in the morning darkness, only to return to the same inky darkness as you are trudging home, on the slippery ice.

We are now only two more days until the Christmas Break, and I don't know that December fared much better.. it has been a strange semester. And, like with every year, the impending holiday never seems soon enough, even though the days zoom by (seriously, how is it that Christmas is seven days away?), and everyone gets a little more squirrelly in their core, the finish line seeming so far.

But. The end is near. (She says to herself.)

The snow is fluffy, and pristine, and untouched.

The four minute walk to school lights my hair on fire, turns it white, and I can't think about anything except for the present moment because it's so cold.

This Friday, if I collapse in a heap of adrenaline that has exhausted itself, at least it will be in the company of friends.

We feed our woodstove lots of food, and in return, it licks our haunches back from the brink of hypothermia.

48 hours left between me and the rest of it. Wish me luck.

The Swell Season

I've written this before (notably, here), but Autumn is just the most incredible season in the Yukon. It was my first taste of the North when I came up on a whim for a 11 day visit. Yes, it lasts for approximately two-and-a-half weeks, yes I hardly have time to keep my leather jacket on before colder temperatures leads me to dig out my winter puffy-- but it is yellowglorious. One day, when we move away from this beautiful country, that brief window in September will be among the top things that I sorely miss about our time here.

A couple months ago (I am finally 'catching up' to the backlog of photos and thoughts rattling around in my head post-wedding, oi), we reached for sleeping bags and camping pots, and spent a weekend tromping around Haines, Alaska. We've been to Haines a zillion times now (read, 6), but never in the Fall. Usually, as we go through the Pass, it is winterwonderlandwhite, and outrageously beautiful, and stark, and void of colour. Mountains jut out against the grey sky, and everything is various tones of the underbelly of a Magpie.

What We Eat

   My first food fantasy as a child comes courtesy of a moment in the book, "The Midnight Fox", a novel study Ms. Vibert assigned in Grade Five.

I don't remember what this book is about; never mind what part the fox plays into the story.

All I remember is that, at some point, the kids in the book decide to make something in the kitchen. Their mom hands them some leftover bread dough and tells them they have free range of the contents in the fridge. They grab jars of pickles, different kinds of cheese, and leftover chunks of sausage from the night before. They press these ingredients into the ball of dough, and work it with their hands until they are all safely housed within, and the whole thing takes the form of a sphere.

It is the description of what it was like when it came out of the oven, that has stayed with me for nineteen years. A "golden football": hot, flaky, oozing with the melding juices of the briny pickles, the spicy sausage, and the salty cheese. It must have been a well written passage,  because that singular moment when the mom slices the orb in half for the children, and they bite into this piping hot, calzone/meatpie invention.... it literally remains the most delicious thing I have ever read.

-----------------------

NYC: Lunching at Jean-Georges

Yes, that is a chocolate bow on my head. Read on.

For this last post about New York, I'm not going to let too many words get in the way. I might save them for something else, like having a conversation with a friend, or dreaming about euromoon '15 with the husband, or reading a book.

We'll let the photos do the talking, and merely say that by the end of our trip, we more or less really enjoyed being spoiled at fancy restaurants, and having servers in penguin suits pull out chairs for both of us and wipe our mouths.

On our second Friday in the city, we treated ourselves to a Thai massage, a stroll around Central Park, and a leisurely, sophisticated lunch at Jean-Georges (3 Michelin Star status).

(Before you start feeling envious of our lives, or judge us for how decadent we were on our honeymoon, I would like to tell you that I am currently sitting on my lumpy couch, eating cashews that are resting on my chest (I don't like doing unnecessary dishes). Also, the nearest grocery store with fresh nutrients is 2 hours away.)

-------------------------

NYC: Tocqueville & Magic Show

    

Sometimes, I fantasize that one day I will have a blog recognizable enough that restaurants will invite me to gorge my face for free, in exchange for some pretty photos and a review. My momma does this, you know. I can't read a lick of it, as it is in Chinese, but she has gone to places like Tojo's a zillion times, never paying the $$$$$ price point for the fanciest sushi in town. (Gourmet Vancouver : I would highly recommend taking up google's offer of 'translating' the page into English. Always good for a head scratcher.)

But then, I reflect on my dim photos and my severe LACK OF MEMORY at what any of the food consisted of, and I realize that it is a good thing that I am actually a really good school counsellor and English teacher. 

In this second last post on New York (are you sick of these yet? I find it slightly amusing that it is starting to be icicle season here in the Yukon, and I'm posting pictures of bare arms), you will get a glimpse of what might be a great date night idea: dinner & a magic show.