With Friends Like These

What they lack in height, they make up for in awesomeness.

As you may know, I've recently stepped out of the working world in order to recharge and re-prioritize.  In addition to my three main priorities - taking care of my health, spending quality time with my kids, and pursuing a writing career - I'm also actively working toward some other no-less-important goals, one of which is to nurture my relationships with my family and friends, old and new.  

I am a lucky woman for many reasons.  I have a roof over my head, food on my table, and (relatively) sound health and well-being.  I also have people in my life who I love and who love me in return, including some of the best friends a girl could ask for.

I have, at times, bemoaned how difficult it is to make friends as an adult.  I have, at times, told myself that I'm just not good at making friends.  And those things may or may not be true, but that's a whole other topic for a whole other day.  Let's just say that while I'm a generally friendly and, I think, well-liked person, my social awkwardness and some pretty steep walls I've built up to protect my little heart do a damn fine job of keeping people from getting too close.  No matter!  Because what I do seem to be good at is keeping friends once I have them.  I mean, that may be because they can't scale the walls to get back out.  Figuratively, of course.  I don't keep my friends in, like, a pit or anything, I swear.  (Put the lotion in the basket!)

But I digress, in a disturbing direction. 

I am particularly lucky to have in my life the three hotties you see in the photo above.  The four of us have been close friends for over 20 years and in that time we have seen each other through first break-ups and fashion disasters, math tests and marriages, the deaths of loved ones and the births of ten (10!) amazing children, amongst other milestones and hills and valleys.  These ladies have held my hands and my heart, and sometimes my hair, and really, really often smacked me hard on the ass, figuratively as well as so very literally.  I think it's just their way of showing their love?  

When I meet other people and they ask about the friends in my life, they are often astonished that the four of us have remained so close this long, despite the fact that we live four different lives in four different cities.  It is in no small part because we make our friendship a priority: we plan our at-least-quarterly get-togethers months in advance, and drop everything to help each other when needed in between.  

Like all friendships, we came together by circumstance but, unlike many others, we have stuck together by virtue of the great amount of trust and love and fun we share.  And probably because of our shared love of bargain hunting.  And perhaps out of laziness. Did I mention how hard it is to make friends as an adult?  The trick is to befriend people early on who are as socially awkward as you, that way they never leave.  (Also, there's the pit.)

These girls are my family, as are their fantastically well-chosen spouses and incredible, adorable children.  And I know that they always will be, but I don't want to take our friendship for granted either and to that end, I intend to continue to inundate them with my stupidly long emails, advocate for more concerts and cottage weekends and epic Value Village treasure hunts, and leave my shampoo bottles at their houses so they are forced to see me again.

So I guess this post is my small way of saying, Rose, Dorothy, Sophia, thank you for being a friend. I'm looking forward to hanging out with you on our lanai in another 20 years or so (when I'm not too busy with my many, many lovers).

Walk Through The Door

Knock Knock
Who's there?
Opportunity.
Don't be silly - opportunity doesn't knock twice!
(source: http://www.jokes4us.com/knockknockjokes/)

Last week, a friend of mine, having heard that I am pursuing a writing career, introduced me to another friend of his who is an author-illustrator.  She in turn invited me to come out and join a group of writers and illustrators who were meeting at a coffee shop this morning.  "That would be wonderful!" I replied, but secretly I was worried.  I'm new to this whole thing and not that comfortable in groups at the best of times, let alone groups of people I don't know.

This morning came and as the minutes passed before I was due to head out to the gathering, my mind began generating excuses.  Say you're sick, say you had something come up, my mind suggested, seemingly forgetting that (for a drama major who really should have some talent for it) I'm a terrible, and reluctant, liar.  Just before the school bus was due to arrive to pick up my daughters, my little one fell and scraped her knee and I thought, "Well, she'll have to stay behind so I can fix her up and then I'll have to drive her to school and then I won't be able to get to the coffee shop in time" and I'll admit that I was relieved that a legitimate excuse had presented itself.  But then, the bus pulled up and my daughter trotted off undaunted and I was like...well, shit.  Now I have to go.  So I showered and dressed and bucked up and got in my car.

I spent the drive alternating between being calm and collected, and practicing what I would say, how I would convince them that I was good enough to be in their company or, failing that, charm them into accepting my presence as an apprentice eagerly feeding at their table of knowledge and experience.

I got there, walked in, and introduced myself to the loveliest, most welcoming group of people I may have ever come across.   

I expected to be there for an hour at most, to listen quietly as others talked around me and lay low absorbing their words, as I do, but three hours later I found myself in awe of and in deep conversation with the man next to me, a well-known, award-winning (like, Governor General's Literary Award winning) children's book author and illustrator.  He recommended links I should check out, publishers I should talk to.  He advised me to walk away from any naysayers in my life, noting that we're all critical enough of ourselves already.  He talked about how he'll notice the one thing he doesn't like in his illustrations while everyone around him points out what they love, and I practically shouted Yes! and commiserated, marveling that even Governor General's Literary Award winners doubt themselves.  This was revelatory and reassuring.  I told him, with some hesitation, that I had quit my day job to pursue a writing career, quickly adding (in order that he not think I'm crazy) that I have no delusions that I'll be a published author by the end of the year.  To which he replied, "But you could be."

I had a thoroughly enjoyable time chatting with everyone there this morning and left feeling inspired and with a strong sense that I had finally found my people.  And could maybe even consider myself one of them.  

This morning, I nearly let my self-doubt and a bad mood talk me out of an opportunity that turned out to be more impactful than I can fully express.  Over the past two months, as I've prioritized my dreams and spoken them out loud, I've been inundated with the support of encouraging friends who have gone out of their way to throw doors open for me.  It's not easy, but I'm learning to say yes, shake off the fears and doubts clinging to my legs, and walk through them.  

Because more often than not, the other side is a warm place full of smiling faces, and more open doors.  And sometimes it's the place where four short words change your life.

But you could be. 

Jump for Joy: Literally. Into Puddles.

Go ahead and jump.

On the way home from the park one afternoon a few weeks ago, it started to rain.  The girls and I picked up the pace, dodging raindrops as we giggled our way home.  Approaching the house, I turned back intent on urging those little legs to move quickly and get inside before we got too wet, inconvenient repercussions foremost in mind.  But I stopped short before I said a word:  There, in their sweet faces, turned to the heavens, I saw the pure joy I'm always banging on about.  They were fully in the moment, alive, drinking in every sensation, open wide to the experience in every way.  They were having the time of their lives.

"Can we stay out just one more minute?" they implored, likely doubtful that their too-often by-the-book mama would sanction such an activity.   

I took a breath, letting go of thoughts of carpet-drenching footsteps and muddy laundry.  There was no lightning.  It was bath night anyways.   

"Yes.  Yes, you can."

I stood in the doorway and watched every stitch of their summer dresses soaking through, every inch of their arms and legs and cheeks basking in the glory of the summer rain, squeals of delight bursting from their gorgeous souls.

After a few minutes, breathless and glowing, they came inside, shedding their clothing at the front door mat and, at their mother's suggestion, flinging it full force down the basement stairs (extra points if they hit the bottom with a satisfying, soggy smack), before jumping into the bubbliest of baths.

Since that time we have twice now ventured out post-rain (having missed the rain itself) in search of the biggest mud puddles we could find to jump into with wild abandon, laundry be damned.  I've seen tentative hops and "Really?  We can do this?" glances quickly escalate to full-on running leaps designed to displace the most water and mud possible (extra points for splashing mom).  I've heard the most beautiful, joyful laughter.  And I've heard myself, the one who only a few weeks ago would have admonished "Get out of the puddles!  Watch your dress!", shout "Come on!  You can get muddier than that!" 

And last night, I jumped in too.  (They know what it's about, those kids.  So much fun!)

Life is short, and these moments are what life is all about.  It's not about the laundry.  It's about all the mess and joy and fun that creates the laundry.  And if you're lucky, you'll have piles of it to do. (Once you peel it, sopping, off the basement floor.  And scrub the mud off the ceiling.  And teach them better aim.)

Jump for Joy is a new series on JTTG about small, simple ways to boost the joy in your life. 

There is No Magical Cupboard

I don't know about pots, but a watched kettle does boil. But then it attacks.

One morning during my recent trip to Vancouver (no, I'm not done talking about it), I was the first one awake and thought I'd make myself a cup of tea.  I picked up the metal tea kettle and the handle popped out.  I stuck it back in, thought "Note to self: Remember that the handle pops out", then carefully filled up the kettle with water and placed it on the stove ring to boil.  Several minutes later, I heard its whistle and went to pick it up.  You may be able to guess what happened next.  I had forgotten that the handle was broken, which means I poured boiling hot water all over the kitchen floor (fortunately not all over myself).  What's more, I did this twice.

This was, perhaps, an easy mistake to make (twice).  It just slipped my mind (twice).  But there are other times when I know full well that what I'm doing is stupid and I still do it anyway.  

Case in point: I exiled a face moisturizer to my bathroom cupboard a few months ago because it made my face feel like it was burning off.  A few days ago, I pulled it back out and thought, "Maybe I should give this another try."  I'm very frugal, you see, and hated the idea of throwing out something I had spent 20-ish dollars on, and I genuinely thought that maybe, just maybe, I had been crazy back then, those other five or six times I had tried it (I'm a slow learner), and perhaps it was actually really amazing!  Somehow, squeezing out a dollop and smearing it on my face seemed like a good idea.  It was not.  I may have lucked out with the kettle, but this time I definitely got burned.  

Why do we do this???  Why do we not learn from our mistakes???  Did I think that the cupboard was magical?  Did I think that maybe having a time-out had made the moisturizer come to its senses?  So, so very stupid, but we do this sort of thing all the time.  Don't we?  Please tell me I'm not the only one.

You know that you are allergic to sugar and wheat and eggs and dairy but you specifically choose to go out to a crêperie for breakfast where you order and devour not one but TWO gigantic crepes, which include ALL of those ingredients, causing your tummy to be so very mad at you.

You know that you have a two drink maximum before you become less-than-charming and more-than-nauseous, but you have another cocktail anyway and then it's 3 a.m. on your 37th birthday and you are hoping someone will give you the gift of sweet death.   

You know that he's a jerk who once disappeared on you while on a date, leaving you alone in a bar for 45 minutes, to go back to his place and have a beer with his buddy, but you liked the same music and had fun in bed and maybe they didn't have that kind of beer at the bar and he totally meant to bring you back one too and you should probably give him a call, right?

No, no you should not.  Back away from the phone.  Man, based on the above, I'm going to have to say that you are an idiot.

There is no magical cupboard that will turn that jerk into your knight in shining armour.  (If I'm wrong and such a device does exist, please write up my order immediately.)

There is no third cocktail that will allow you to have a wonderful night's sleep and wake up refreshed.  (Wait, there is, it's called a mocktail.  Order a mocktail next time, genius.)

There is no delicious crêpe the size of your head that will leave you satisfied and stomach-cramp-free.  (I regret nothing.)

According to the Internet, which is never wrong, Einstein once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  We need to stop the insanity and start learning from our mistakes, people.  The chances that he'll change, that she'll see the error of her ways, that those pants will suddenly fit, that that sweater will no longer be itchy, that the job you hate will get better, that that one more drink/crêpe/chocolate/box of chocolates/late-night-hour-of-Amy-Schumer-clips-on-YouTube will be a good idea come morning...are slim at best.

And even if there is a chance, don't you deserve a 100% cramp-less, itch-free, well-rested life shared with those who respect you 100% of the time?  I'm here to tell you that you do.  So throw the moisturizer in the trash (and that face powder that's in the cupboard too...it's not going to suddenly become the right shade for you).  Delete his number from your phone.  Choose the oatmeal.  Have a Shirley Temple.  And listen to me.  Clearly, you need my guidance. 

Live in the Now

Wisdom, dockside.
Burlington, Vermont, May 29 2015

When I was packing for my trip to Vancouver a few weeks ago, I faced a dilemma:  Pack my moderately beastly but beloved Canon DSLR camera and face lugging it around in its cumbersome bag, with both my wide-angle and telephoto lenses in tow, or leave it behind to lighten my load and rely solely on my pretty-good-but-no-DSLR iPhone camera to document my trip.  I know.  A First World problem if ever there was one.  But I was so conflicted!  My trusty Canon has accompanied me on all trips and documented all of my major life events since it was gifted to me 10-ish years ago, and the idea of not taking it just seemed ludicrous.  Photography is a major crush of mine and I was going to a gorgeous city by the ocean surrounded by mountains, for Pete's sake, so how could I leave it behind, in favour of taking photos on my phone no less?  But it's so damn heavy!  And I knew that we would be walking the length and breadth of the city.  But the pretty pictures!  So agonizing was my torment that I texted my friend a photo of the bag to ask her opinion, and the reply came that I should leave it behind.

In the end, I agreed, although not without some regret once I saw just how beautiful Vancouver is (hella-beautiful, guys).  Ultimately though, other than a few moments of longing for my telephoto lens, such as when a REAL LIVE BALD EAGLE flew past me, I realized that leaving my camera behind had not only lightened my load but had allowed me to stay present.  With camera in hand, I often get caught up in capturing every moment, every scene, and it can take me away from actually experiencing the beauty around me and the joy of that moment.  As an anti-social photographer ("You go ahead!  I just want to take 300 different shots of this flower!"), it can also take me away from living that moment with the company I'm keeping.

I came home with 114 photos on my iPhone, which may seem like a lot but I was there for 6 full days, making that an average of 19 photos per day, a HUGE cutback from my usual haul.  Most importantly though, I came home with an abundance of memories of time spent with my friend, which was the whole purpose of the trip.  

That experience of staying in the moment was really eye-opening and, without realizing it at first, I came out of it changed.  Last weekend, I went to Vermont with a friend and as we were packing up to go home, she pointed out that I hadn't used my DSLR camera once the whole weekend.  I haven't been clicking away with my iPhone much either.  Yesterday I attended my daughter's school concert and her part was over before I realized that I probably should have videotaped it or something.  Or maybe I shouldn't have.  Without camera in hand or iPhone in front of my face, I fully lived in and loved every moment, marveling at the pride and joy lighting up my little pride and joy.  I saw every smile pass her lips with my own eyes instead of through a lens.  I wouldn't trade that experience for a secondhand version on film.

This is not to say that my camera will be collecting dust.  Photography remains a passion and will continue to be an outlet for my artistic expression and a means for collecting memories.  But moving forward I intend to use my camera as a tool to serve and express who I am now, instead of playing the frantic documentarian trying to bottle up every ounce of now to enjoy "some day", to serve a future that is not promised to any of us.  

On the shores of Lake Champlain in Burlington Vermont, a graffiti artist after my own heart said it best: Live in the now.  I snapped that photo (or, okay, four or five versions...quickly) and then stood in that now, breathing in the hot summer air, gazing at the green mountains and the glistening water.  As nows go, it was pretty marvellous, but you know, so is this one, sitting on my couch typing on my iPad, watching the sky darken on a warm evening, overhearing the Two and a Half Men theme song coming from my neighbour's TV.  Even this now is pretty great.  And I don't need photographic evidence to prove it.

(I would be remiss, though, if I didn't share a carefully curated few of my Vancouver and Vermont photos.  Please enjoy them as part of your now.) 

Vancouver: (1) Granville Island giants (2) Hipster instructions (3) Retro decor at Nuba Restaurant (4) Oh hello! (5) The ocean! (6) Ripples in the sand (7) Vancouver is super pretty (8) Heron (9) Siwash Rock with obliging goose (10) BALD EAGLE! (11) Bridge, obviously (12) Fountain, obviously

Vermont (Burlington and outskirts): (13) A pretty building off Church Street (14) Lake Champlain (15) Dock (16) And more of it (17) Horseback riding! (18) Horses! (19) Beautiful countryside (20) And more of it (21) Graffiti (22) And more of it (23) Incredible mural in progress

On Being Seen

Photo by Ada Wolters
Vancouver BC, May 17 2015

"Here!" she shouted, excited.

We were walking along Industrial Avenue in the Mount Pleasant neighbourhood of Vancouver when inspiration struck.   As a first-timer in beautiful Van City, I had left my holiday's itinerary entirely in the hands of my dear friend and had not been disappointed.  We had by then, my fourth full day in the city, already explored nearly every corner, mostly by foot, fueled by frequent stops for sushi and sorbetto and noodles and curry and falafel and... ohmygosh we ate so much.

We were in fact on Industrial Avenue primarily to visit an incredible chocolatier, Beta 5, and had been busy stuffing our faces with the most amazing dark chocolate when we came upon this place.  I had been forewarned that at some point during my visit, there would be a photo shoot.   An avid (and supremely talented) photographer, my friend was happy to have a new subject and, for my part, I thought it might be fun to be in front of the camera for a change and to perhaps come out of the experience with a nice photo of myself.  I didn't give it much more thought than that, until suddenly she scrambled across the weed-woven gravel and glass, overturned a plant pot (discarding its unloved contents) and instructed, "Sit on this!"

I was surprised by the wave of self-consciousness that hit me.  I was with one of my closest friends, someone I trust who loves and accepts me as I am, and yet I felt exposed.  Although I'm fairly introverted by nature, I'm comfortable in my body and somehow escaped adolescence without the souvenir of body image issues that haunt many women.  But for some reason in this moment, I felt unsettled. 

I didn't know where to look.  I didn't know what to do with my hands.  I took my hair down from its bun for some security.  The sunlight was reflecting off my glasses so I removed them and at once became aware that as much as they had become a part of a personal style that makes me feel good, they also serve as a piece of armour.  She asked me not to smile and another piece of armour fell away (as visions of my horrendous drivers license photo danced through my head).  I posed awkwardly, but not unhappily, for a few minutes before we continued on to further adventures. 

My friend sent me this photograph a few days ago, upon my return back home, and as soon as I saw it I realized what the source of my discomfort had really been.  Those few minutes on Industrial Avenue.  Those few minutes sitting on an overturned flower pot.  That was the longest anyone has looked at me, really looked at me, in years.  And I had forgotten what it felt like to be seen.

This experience and this photo have sparked much revelation in me, insights I'm still unpacking. 

I've realized that I can't recall the last time, before this, that someone took a photo of me. It's possible I'm in a group snapshot or two and there may be a few family photos from Christmas, but I have no recollection of anyone taking a photo of just me, all of me, in maybe the last decade, at least.  Maybe they have, but this is certainly the first time in a long, long while that I've seen a photo of my whole self. 

Really looking at myself, and noticing the thoughts that come up in doing so, has been illuminating.  I see, in this photo, how closed I am (hands clasped, shoulders hunched...I'm sure any body language expert would have a field day here).  I wish a little of what's on my thighs could be relocated to my chest, but I like that I can see my grandmother in my cheekbones, my grandfather in my eyes.  I look every bit a Finn.  I like my outfit.  My hair has gotten loooong.  It was still wet from my shower that morning.  I sort of like that, because it's accurate; I probably walk around with half-wet hair most of the time.  I like the wisp of hair at my temple.  It's a part of who I am.

This is also the first time in a long time that I've seen myself through someone else's eyes.  I can see in this photo not just myself, but how much the photographer cares about and accepts me.  I can see my beauty through her.  I can see my value through her.

Because here's the thing: there's a difference between being looked at and being seen.  What was most revelatory about that moment, about that whole trip in fact, was the experience of being with someone who gets me, who really sees me as I am and loves me for all of it. I had forgotten what it was like to be the centre of someone's attention, the full focus of someone's time and energy.  I had forgotten what it felt like to be in the presence of that kind of friendship, that kind of love.

This experience and this photo have also sparked revolution in me, intentions I'm still defining. 

I want to open myself up to the world, unclasp those hands, pull back those shoulders, lay down my armour.  I want to allow myself to be seen.  Wet hair, Finnish cheekbones, cute outfit, flat chest.  Compassionate heart, sharp wit, nagging fears, bold ideas.  All of me. 

I want to stand in the frame more often, throw my camera into someone's hand if need be, so I'm not surprised by myself, and the shape I make in the world, another ten years from now.

I want to look up and truly see the world around me and, most importantly, the people in front of me.  I want to take the time to not only look at but really see those in my life - both loved ones and strangers - and give them my full attention and time and love.  I want more of all of the above for myself, and I want to give more of it away.  And I want the same for you.

My purpose in sharing this photo and this story is not to fish for compliments or praise (although please feel welcome to heap praise on the talented photographer).  My purpose is to urge you to join me, to lay down your armour and praise yourself, and to surround yourself with those who lovingly praise and appraise you, who not only take the time to look at you but to see you.  We all deserve to be seen like this, to feel the presence of real friendship and love.  We all deserve to be made the model, whether or not a camera is present.  To feel loving eyes looking at us, loving hearts seeing us. To be seen as beautiful, and to see it in ourselves.  To be seen as worthy, and to feel it in ourselves. 

And if you need a reminder of that feeling, might I suggest a walk on a warm, spring afternoon?  Most anywhere will do - there's beauty and sunlight to be found even amongst the glass and gravel - but it's best to travel light.  All you really need is a camera, eyes and heart wide open, and a friend who knows where to find the good chocolate.