Losing a Love

I've lost a lot of loves over the past years. Mostly because I've been in many relationships and situations that have ended or I have had to leave. Every time I lose a love it's hard. When you love someone, or something, it takes a piece of your heart and sometimes doesn't give it back. And it's hard to leave. Never let anyone fool you into thinking it's easy. Even when you don't want to care about someone, they are still there. And when their not, you feel the gap so deeply. It can feel like something that is all consuming when you lose something that you love. Even when it hasn't been a part of your life for very long.

Over the past six years of my life, there has been one love who has been completely faithful to me. She has become the closest love of my heart. She's there when I need someone to listen, and knows exactly what I need to hear. Of all the loves that I have lost or left over the years, to feel her pulling away from me is the hardest thing that has ever happened. The gap is more than just a piece of my heart, it is all consuming. For those of you who haven't met my love, her name is Beauty, and she is incredible. I'm not sure which one of us began to get distant first. I just know the outcome of it. We're not connected the way we used to be. She still responds to my hands the way she used to, but the joy she used to bring to my life is not there anymore. Occasionally it is, such as the gala concert last night, which reminds me of why I do what I do. Or I should say why I love what I do.

It's harder than anything to leave a love like that. To feel it slipping away it's terrifying. I have been able to deal with the loss of other loves over the past years only because I have had my one love to fall back upon. I know the saying that if you love something, you have to be able to let it go, and if it comes back to you then you know that it is meant to be. I'm trying to let go and not to hold on too hard because I know if I do that will simply lead to resentment and hatred of what I used to love. I know it will because it has happened in other relationships. Just never one this long lasting.

Losing a love is hard. It's hard when you know that you want to keep it, that it may be the only thing keeping you sane. It's hard when you have nothing to fall back upon because this is your fall back. Maybe it's not the worst thing in the entire world to have nothing else to fall back upon. Right now it just scares me. There will be a larger gap than I have ever felt. I just don't know how much I'll feel it.

And Her Tears Flowed Like Wine . . .

Warning for anyone who talks to me for the next few days: I am weepy. I seem to be unable to locate a specific reason for that right now. I want to be able to blame the hormones that exist in my home, but they shouldn't make me weepy now. It may be the amount of stress I am under, but that happens a lot to me too. So just so everyone is aware, if you are not willing to deal with my tears, I wouldn't suggest talking to me at the end of the day for a long period of time.

That being said, I'm finding it incredibly satisfying to be able to cry like that. I don't think I have cried like that all year. There is very little more satisfying or emotionally cleansing as a deep laugh or a good cry. Sometimes that's just what you need. It can be a cleansing thing more than an emotional thing. It can be absolutely nothing the sets me off, or something major that really has been on my mind for the past few weeks. Sometimes a combination of both.

It's also made me wonder about how people react to those who cry. Crying in public seems to be a taboo event in society. We tend to accept crying only when there is a) serious injury or b) a death, mostly in immediate family. Crying in movies is ok, on the basis that no one can see you in a dark movie theater. That's only alright when the movie is sad. When the movie is remotely happy, or even just slightly emotional, you will get strange looks if you reach for a Kleenex. Which is really too bad. I find that I've gotten accustomed to getting strange looks as I tend to cry in many movies. I still get mocked by my friends who are, inevitably, never as weepy as I am. I don't get it though. Why are we so unwilling accept the extreme ranges of emotion in public? Why have we decided as a society that emotions are something that are best left behind locked doors?

We would be a lot healthier if we were willing to express how we feel in a pure and honest way. If we decided that we would be all right with crying when we feel sad and laughing when we are happy, life would be a lot easier. We wouldn't feel the need to hide how we feel from those around us and relationships would also be a lot less complicated. It may only be in North America that this occurs. European countries are alternately more emotional or less than we tend to be.

At this point I'm becoming more all right with crying. Some people will be afraid of me, I'm sure. That happens. But it's not my fault. I've simply found the place in myself where I am comfortable with my emotions and the display of them. I do apologize for those who have to watch me cry and know that they can do nothing at this point. You'll live. And I will feel so much healthier for letting my tears flow . . . something like wine . . .

Listening to Others

I have considered very strongly in the past few weeks placing a moratorium on blogging. That clearly has not happened. My reason for it not happening (or, I suppose, continuing to happen) is that a few friends who have just begun to read my blog have requested/demanded that I keep writing because they love reading it. I know that what others think of my writing shouldn't matter and for the most part it really doesn't, but I do tend to listen to others. Or perhaps a better way to put that is that I concede or agree to what people request of me.

In Roman times, there was a tradition of slaves riding behind the returning conquerors to whisper in their ear 'You are not a god. You are not a god.' The running joke is that I need someone to follow me around, not to remind me of my own humanity or humility, but to stop people before they ask me to do something for them and strike with a preemptive 'No.' Cutting me out of the equation is somewhat easier. I have known a few friends to not allow me to take on another gig or committment without ever telling me that I was requested. Sometimes this really helps.

The one good thing about my willingness to respond to people also means that I am always wiling to listen. The running joke in my house is that if you need compassion, go to Martha. If you need someone beaten up, go get Sarah. And it's really true. The only bad part of this is my cell phone bill, which I'm sure my parents are slightly less than thrilled with. I kind of like being the one that people call when they need someone to listen to them. It's comforting to know that I can be a source of comfort. The only problem with being the listener is finding someone to listen to you. Somedays it can be very frustrating to not be heard because you are the sounding board and the advice giver, not the one who has made a complete and utter mess of their life. I wish I didn't, but sometimes I do too, and finding people to listen is hard. Lots of people are always around to hear though.

I wonder what it would be like if we took the time each day not to just hear what other people are saying, but to listen to them. How would our days change? Would we care more or less? Would we feel more connected to someone we see every day, but have never really taken the time to listen to? What would we be able to discover about ourselves in other people? Try this experiment for one day. When you ask someone how they are, don't keep walking, but stay and genuinely interested in the answer. When a friend calls to talk, don't continue typing while they talk about their day. Try it for one day. See how much of a difference it makes.

Keeping Time

I read somewhere once that man created time and then became a slave to it. It's true. We created time and then allowed it to rule our lives. We stick to schedules so intently, and get stressed when we deviate from them. I know this because that is definitely my personality. I like my schedules. They keep my life running in a way that works for me. I can fit so much into 24 hours that sometimes it amazes me. It also serves to exhaust me. Those of you who have seen the bags that tend to exist under my eyes on a fairly permanent basis through the school year can testify to that.

My cell phone died tonight. Usually that wouldn't affect me that much, but it left me feeling stranded tonight. I use my cell phone to see the time because I tend to not wear watches. They get in the way when I play. Not knowing what time it was was alternately liberating and completely terrifying. When I don't know what time it is, then I suppose that I don't know where I'm supposed to be. The summer is coming and that will take some serious adjusting. Schedules become so much less important when I'm at work and relationships take first priority. I wonder what it would be like to live every day like that. Not worrying about what needs to be done next, or where I have to rushing off to. Concert schedules are non-existant and my morning take on a pace that doesn't have desperation as the center. Dinner is a time to spend time with the people who you live with instead of choking down some form of sustenance as quickly as possible before running out the door.

I wonder what would happen is I stopped trying to keep time (or rush through it to get to the good parts of my life) and simply let it be. If I was able to enjoy every single moment that I am given, because it really is a gift. And taking it for granted will only make is disappear. Instead of controlling time so desperately, I might try let it wrap itself around me, even though that will mean aging myself even more. Instead of watching the minutes tick by, I can use them to do something I love, even if that is not the most productive thing in the world. Kind of like blogging. I willingly give my time to this although it doesn't help my work get done. I know that I have the blanket of time on my side right now. The funny thing about blankets is how fast they go thin. Especially when you use them a lot. I won't always have the extra time to wrap around myself to act as a cushion, so I need to use the warmth and comfort I've been given to make a difference.

I'll stop trying to keep time for myself and let it go a little bit more. I'll try to have a day that is not completely scheduled. I won't get work done, but that doesn't mean nothing happens. There are different things to accomplish and I want to find them. Even if it means I have to let go of time.

Eating Elephants

I got to eat elephants for dinner tonight. For those of you who may be amazed that I would ever be adventerous enough to eat something exotic like that, I'm not. I went to L'arche tonight for dinner and we had ribs for Annie's birthday. Somehow there was not enough time to make the ribs exactly the way Lisa wanted them to be, so they were a little bit tougher. A lot tougher. It was still good though. Lisa had Jim convinced for a little while for we actually were eating elephant, and then camel, and then zebra. It was pretty good. It reminded me of something that the men in my family are apt to do. I have to admit that for years I would have believed them.

Eating at L'arche, whether it involves elephants or not, involves a lot of laughter. And giggling. And cuddling. And hugs. And unconditional love. It's strange how all these things can come together so easily in one place. And all over eating elephants!

I had to give the date of my last night there tonight. Jim wanted to know if that meant I was leaving for good. It doesn't. I'm going home for the summer and then coming back in September when I return to school. There is no way I would have been able to cling to the small amount of sanity I am left with at the end of second year if I had not had L'arche to go to once a week. And I really doubt that I will be able to cling to any sanity next year if I don't keep coming back. Beyond the nice and pretty reasons that I think I can make a difference by being there, the people there have gotten into my heart. They have gotten into my soul. And there is nothing that will be able to put them out of it.

Spoiled

I have incredible friends who allowed for me to realize this past weekend how truly loved I am. And they absolutely did it by spoiling me.

My eating habits remain terrible at best and become beyond the last thing on my mind when I am busy and/or stressed beyond my norma amount. Welcome to my weekend. In between the work (that more or less didn't get done) I sent my harp to Strathroy, helped my best friend plan her concert, had a dress rehearsal in Strathroy, attended a CF Benefit concert, performed in Strathroy and got my harp safely back. Those of you who are not musiciancs may not think this sounds exhausting and completely consuming. Those of you who are, know that it is. In this time the only food I ate was food I didn't have to prepare. On Friday my wise man brought me lunch and "Mary" ensured I had dinner. Saturday a friend bought my breakfast and later a coffee and a kind chorister paid for lunch. I ended up at Jack's for lunch on Sunday with the chapel crows and a baritone's mother was kind enough to prepare a feast for us for dinner.

Beyond that, Sarah ensured that I did not perform with sunglasses on my head, after Eric had made an attempt to do the same thing. Sarah's mom made Ice Monkeys for us Saturday night, which was fantastic. All in all, I think I'm very spoiled. All because people really seem to care about me. I wouldn't be so surprised by that anymore. This weekend proved that for me.

Disappearing Joy

I love what I do. I really do. At least, I think I do. Maybe not so much anymore.

Lately I've been losing the feeling of joy that I used to have when I pushed for hours to ensure that two bars of a piece are in every way perfect. I hate the feeling of exhaustion that follows every concert I do, every concert I help organize. I hate the fact that when I do practice, it's not because what I love it. It has become simply something I have to do. There is no joy left in it.

Maybe I need to take some time off. I hope that's really all it means. It's hard to lose something you love so much. It's hard when you still love it and can feel it slipping away from you.

It never works to try and cling to the joy that you have in something. It's like trying to hang on to grains of sand on a beach. The tighter you cling to it, the more it slips through your fingers. It's one of the problems with studying something you honestly love at university. Being totally immersed in something either makes you love it so much more, or totally detest it.

I already know that when I'm done university, my life is taking a different track, one away from music. I really have to. If I don't, then I will really never be able to play again. Even though the joy is disappearing, it's hard to be happy about a new path when I'm pursuing it simply because the joy in my music is gone. I think I have to leave what I love in order to keep it. If I don't, there will never be any joy left in it at all. I'm leaving something in order to keep it. And maybe the joy will stop disappearing.

Relationship Rollercoasters

In the midst of the spring fever that always seems to result when the temperature rises and the snow disappeares from the ground, I saw a few couples who appear to be very much in love, or at least lost in the idea of love. It seems like an unbelievably tempting thing, to get lost in love like that. I tend to see relationships in a different way though. For me, they always seem more like a rollercoaster. And you just need to pick the right one.

Some relationships are like the rollercoasters that you look at, and they look so tempting to try, but as you get closer to them, the feeling of uncertainty and doubt begins to set in. You get really nervous as you get closer to the front of the line, and when you get on, you know that the ride is going to be jerky, shaky and terrifying. Once you get on, there is no chance of getting off until the ride is over. The sense of relief when the ride stops and you are free to get off is incredible. You feel like you have just spend the longest period of your life in less than five minutes and there is no way that you ever want to get on the ride again. Sadly, these rides that leave you feeling shaken and empty can sometimes be the most addictive.

Another ride that is very similar to many relationships is the log ride. It creeps up the hill slowly and with every notch you can feel the fact that you are getting closer to the top and a bigger splash at the end. It's always something you expect. You want the splash at the end when you get on the ride and the water never leaves any permanent damage. It also never seems to leave any permanent good either.

These examples seem to be the more destructive of the rollercoasters. There is never really any good that comes with them. They can be fun, or they can be terrifying. But neither of them are ever really fulfilling. I'm still looking for the ride that is. Maybe I will find it some day, hopefully soon. Until then, I can live with the splash and the anticipation of that. That rollercoaster I'm willing to live on.

Hitting the Memory Wall . . Hard

Over the past few days I have found myself being overwhelmed by memories I had never thought would have affected me. It all began when I moved around a shelf of my CDs. I found a CD that had been made for me by an ex-boyfriend of a recital he performed last year. I hadn't thought about this CD in ages, probably since around the time he gave it to me. When I put the CD on, all the memories from three months a year ago came flooding back to me. The pride I felt when I listened to him perform the recital, the peace that I felt so often in that relationship, the emptiness I felt when we parted ways. It suddenly hit me, all of it, every feeling I had thought I had left behind was there simply because of some music I found. It was more than a simple collections of memories. It was my own personal wall. And it hurt at some points.

Today I went to run some errands for my housemate and stopped to get lip balm. On a whim, I decided to get a flavor that I haven't used since I was 17. I think there may have been a few reasons for that. The memories that it brought back were more than enough to make me remember why I had stopped using it. They're not bad memories by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, many of them are some of the best memories I have of relationships. And I think the only other person who would remember this flavor would agree. When I licked my lips, the flavor and the texture took me back to a whirlwind of parties and excitement that became an integral part of my life for a few months in my last year of high school. It made me miss a part of my life that I hadn't thought I would miss. At one point it was easy for me to put aside and push away, as a long ago part of my past. It's hard to realize how something as small as a lip balm flavor can bring it all rushing back, so unbelievably quickly, even something I though was buried more deeply than it actually was.

There have been other memories that scents or tastes have brought back to me over the past week. The ones that haven't become part of my wall. The softer, more recent memories that seem to wrap around me more like a comfortable blanket than anything else. The smell of strawberry vanilla tea takes me back to a friends hose in Toronto, and almost makes me want to put on another sweater, as his house is so cold. These aren't so hard to hit. More relaxing than anything else. Perhaps these are my reward for hitting my own wall so hard this week. They soothe some of the sting that comes along with the sweet memories. These are my reward for hitting my wall. And maybe soon, with all these memories, it won't be so bad.

Gradations of Ice

I was mocked yesterday by my housemate. While this is not such an unusual circumstance in and of itself, the conversation was entertaining. She warned me it would be icy when I got out of the car. I saw the ice and made a mental note of it. When I put my foot down however (in Burks with no grip whatsoever) I was astonished at how slippery it was. I had expected ice to be there. I really had. I had simply assumed it would be more like spring ice and less like excellent ice rink ice. I hope I'm still making sense at this point.

Sarah mocking me came after, when I seemed shocked by how icy it was. She had, after all, warned me. My attempt to explain degrees of iciness was met with the reply that icy is icy. And it will be slippery. I'm in agreement with part of that. Ice is indeed ice, but it's not always slippery.

In life there are always levels of iciness whether you are aware of them or not. As you walk the path of your life (both literal and spiritual), there will be places where there is no ice. The ground beckons at you and you can walk with the awareness that you won't suddenlt slip. There will be places of almost ice, the kind that shimmer on the ground, wanting to become ice, but not something to get in your way. The patches of thin ice look intimidating, but they can never really pull it off. It cracks beneath your feet, not able to hinder your step, even though it may seem that it shoudl require calculated movement. Grainy ice seems quite frightening, but provides more of a grip and a better foot hold than anything else. Sheet ice is the fantastic phenomenon that requires you either glide (and look graceful while doing it) or step carefully. There are 3 major problems with stepping carefully though. It makes getting anywhere exceedingly slow, you are always careful, and every once in awhile, your feet just get yanked out from underneath you.

These forms of ice are predictable though. You can see them and know how to react to them, either with a spirit of cautioness, or one of carefreeness. The hardest form of ice though is black ice. This is unpredictable and blindsides everyone at some point. It can knock your feet out from under you and spin you off the road. There is no amount of wind-milling that will keep you on your feet. The great part is that you can get back up and find your sense of balance once again.

So ice is really not just ice. It's more of a form of adventure.

True to Your Heart

There is something about giving blood that I absolutely love. I'm not entirely sure why since most of the times I have given blood, something bad has happened, or I get really sick afterwards. Yesterday was the latter. I think it was still worth it though. I have a relatively rare blood type, and I think it's important to give blood as often as I can because I know it can help someone. I wonder if there is a time when altruisim does become bad though. Maybe when it becomes harmful, not to others, but to you.

It is so easy to live a life trying to please all the people around you, to tiptoe through every day, trying to step on the smallest number of toes possible. I have to admit that many days that seems like the easiest way to get from dawn to dusk. It's always nice for everyone around you, the ones who get to watch the contortions of your body as you bend over backwards to please everyone else. It's easy because you never have to look at what you really desire for yourself. Or try and go out and get it.

When you have the feelings of others to use as an excuse to not seek what you know is best for you, what you really want in your life, how are you living your own life? Are you? Or are you living the life others want for you, or worse yet, want for themselves? It can be so easy to not try and get another job a little farther away from home, although you know you would love the challenge, because you think your parents might miss you too much. Or not get into another relationship because you worry that someone else you care about might be hurt. It is only too easy to put your life on hold until you are convinced that your actions won't hurt someone else, that no one in your life will feel left behind or pushed aside in order for you to get what you want. In the end though, that doesn't leave you your own life. It leaves you a second class version of someone else's.

A friend sent me this poem when I was discussing this with him:

~It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.~

More than simply encouraging me to follow my own heart, it reminded me that when I'm not true to myself and I am not willing to follow my own heart, then I am not trustworthy. I will constantly put the feelings of others before what I feel and I will always be in a state of betrayal to my own soul. If I am so willing to betray myself and my own feelings, doesn't that then make me willing to betray others, regardless of how inadvertently?

It is truly important to consider the feelings of others, and how much good your actions will cause, as well as how much hurt. I truly believe that and I do my very best to follow that. Somedays though, even in such mundane actions as giving blood, I need to consider the repercussions in my own life, how heavy that betrayal is to myself and if I can still possibly remain true to my heart.

Pack Rat

Hello. My name is Martha. And I am a Pack Rat.

I admit it. I am the one who cuts out interesting things from the newspaper and finds them months later, wondering why I had ever found them interesting. Even when I can't entirely remember, I hesitate to throw them out. There's a tiny voice in my head that grows ever louder as I reach for the recycling bin, reminding me there could be a day when having this piece of newsprint might be useful in my life. There are a few occasions when I have been able to silence that voice and throw out what I have hoarded, but not very often. I'm reminded of this more and more when I go back to my home in Aurora and various memories threaten to crawl out of many of my drawers in the form of concert programs, show tickets, movie stubs, newspaper articles, letters and whatever else I have managed to collect and not part with yet. It's nice to have the memories there. It can also be a little bit stifling after awhile however.

The other major things in my life that I seem to be unable to part with are my books. This may not seem like a major problem to most people, but my parents are at the point of condemning my room at home as a fire trap. There are few surfaces books have not laid claim to, and the few that are left are simply waiting to have literature resting on them. I love my books. I love the memories that I have tied up in them. The smell of the cottage that falls from so many of the pages, the dedications for birthdays, the notes I've tucked into the pages. I know in most of my mind that they are only things, objects that have no bearing on who I am, and yet at the same time they are an integral part of who I am and how I have come to be that way. They show how I have grown and some of the choices that I have made. So while I continue to hoard my precious pages with memories embossed on every page, they will never really make me feel like a rat.

It's hard to be a pack rat when you really want to be able to move. And actually moving is ever harder. Packing too much of the stuff you have collected is painful, and there is never a place to put when you do rest your feet for awhile again. I seem to be finding that as I move parts of my life around on a regular basis. I'm getting better on a few levels. At least I think I am. In London, I'm more brutal when it comes to saving things. What I don't need now, or in the next few weeks, I tend to throw it out. There are few surfaces without books or music in my room, but the floor remains clear of my literature . . . my bed doesn't though.

I'm sure I will continue to be a pack rat for much of my life. It's only been in the past few years that I've begun to see the value in being able to pack and move quickly. The memories that I create aren't tucked up in the drawers of my room, but live all around me. I also don't feel the need to live in a world of memories. Whenever I try to around here, I find I miss a large part of the exciting life that exists here. I'm beginning to connect my memories not to things, but some part of myself that only I know how to find. And it is beginning to cut down on the clutter. Maybe in a few years I will be able to say "Hello. My name is Martha. And I am a recovered Pack Rat."

Giving for the Glory

I had an interesting conversation last night with a friend, mostly about where I work over the summer and the various people he has known who have spent time in the community. Over the summers I work at the L'arche community in Richmondhill which was founded by Jean Vanier in the 1960s. It's a place where people with disabilities can go in order to make a life and be appreciated for the incredible things that they have to offer to the rest of the world. For me, the reason why I work there is the incredible joy that I receive for being there. And it is incredible. The time I get to spend there doesn't only fill my heart, but causes it to overflow.

At a party on Friday night, someone praised me for what I do. I don't think I have ever been more uncomfortable in my life. It felt to me that the work I do is done in order to gain praise. And for some I suppose that it is. Somedays there can be the appeal of being able to gain attention because you are such a good person. That attention will not ever be healthy for anyone involved. It means that you are deceiving yourself and also those whom you are caring for. In order to give to get glory, you diminish what you are giving because you are counting it. While counting what your gifts, you hold back all that you have give. And in my life that is entirely unacceptable.

When you give all that you have, then you tend to find you get so much more in return. A heart that is open is never empty. Those who are able to count and measure what they are willing to give will never truly have an open heart, but always one that will always be partially closed. Giving to get glory will always be giving in order to earn something and then it will never be a free gift of yourself. It is only giving without counting the cost of what you give that the glory is in the right place. It shines around you and will never fail to reflect on you.

While some do give of their time and energy in order to gain glory for themselves, they will always be focused on the glory they may receive. It is only with an open heart and no desire for recognition that giving is truly good. The incredible part of giving in this way is that, in the end, you receive so very much more than you could ever have given.

The Responsibility of Love

Many people seek love. We feel the gap of love in our society and try and find it in order to complete ourselves. When we can't find it in our own lives, we seek love in external source such as movies or novels. We need to know that two people can spend their lives together, happily. We want to see the ties of love that bind us to each other, for better or worse, through love.

When we consider how deeply our society is pervaded with the images and ideas of love, it's unsettling to realize how many of us avoid love. It's not that we don't want love, or we don't desire love. We like the idea of Hollywood love. The no-consequences, no-responsibility kind of love. The kind of love that's easy to find and just as easy to leave. That's the kind of love we want to find. Because that's the kind of love that's easy to leave.

The only problem with desiring this kind of love is that it will always be superficial. When it's only superficial, when it's easy to leave and comes without responsibility, then it's not love. Not real love.

Real love must be both offered and received with no conditions. There are no conditions, but love does come with responsibility. And that's what so many of us avoid. The bond love creates to another person and the responsibility that bond creates. It means we can no longer leave whenever the wind changes. It means we now have someone who cares and worries about us. And it means our actions have the power to hurt them, more than ever before.

Hollywood love is very nice and very pretty, but it lacks the power to change us. Real love gets under our skin and changes us in ways we never expected to be changed. And as frightening as it can be accepting the responsibility of love it is entirely worth it.

Making God Laugh

I hear the saying a lot that is you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans. I think I used to do that a lot.

I seem to be one of those annoying people who enjoys making plans, knowing where her life is going to be in five years, ten years, twenty. I just want to know. I like surprises on some level, but not on others. Or at least I used to hate surprises. Now I enjoy taking off on tangents. I would still be called predictable and cautious for the most part. And I would say the same about myself.

My plans were close to those of many woman raised after feminism went out of vogue. A white picket fence, a nice husband, 2.5 kids, no dog though. I don't really like dogs. I thought I would go to university, get a degree in something, find a job for a little while, get married and stay home raising kids for most of my life. In the past few years plans, or I suppose the presence of plans, have changed in some ways.

I am in university now, and I plan on being in university for at least another two years. Probably six more years in order to get a Masters degree. I think that's the only part of my plans that remain from my high school days. A part of me desperately wants to cling to the dreams I had at sixteen, regardless of how childish and immature they may have been. Somehow, regardless of how childish they were, how unedcuated about life those dreams may have made me seem, they were mine. They were what I could hang on to, the plans that I felt would get me through.

Now I don't have the safety net of plans. I have the comfort of dreams, but no safety net of plans. Every day I get the feeling that I'm stepping off the edge of a cliff. I don't know how far the drop is going to be and I'm never entirely sure that there will be someone at the bottom to catch me. The upside to this is that the ride can be one truly great time.

While I may not be amusing my Creator quite as much as I used to, I am learning to take the steps away from what I know and what I planned. Some days it can be more difficult than I had entirely expected it to be. It's hard to take the step off the edge when there isn't always someone there to catch you. Even when there's not though, the thrill of falling is enough to override the fear of not being caught!

Haunted By Phantoms

Tonight I watched one of the most beautiful, heart-filling, and heart-breaking movies that I have watched in awhile. Cinema Paradiso tells the tale of a young man who left his small hometown in Italy to seek his fortune in making films in Rome. His mentor tells him to leave and never return. He doesn't for 30 years. A phone call from his mother brings him back for the funeral of his mentor, Alfredo. At the end of the film, when Toto has recalled all the reasons he left, all the ghosts that continue to haunt him, his mother tells him that she does not blame him for leaving because she knows that he has his own ghosts. And she knows that is all he can see when he is there. The ghosts, the spectres that have haunted him, tormented him for thirty years are still there because he has run away from them.

It's easy to say that the ghosts remain because he is not willing to confront them. And maybe he's not. Perhaps he isn't willing to go through the struggle it takes to make the ghosts go away. Sometimes they can be all too painful to confront. It's easier to just avoid them. Even if that means running to the other end of the country, or beyond.

Even distance doesn't always separate us from those that haunt us. They can come back to us so quickly - a scent, a face in the crowd, a familiar melody. Occasionally there are distances that we can't run, no distance that will ever be great enought for our piece of mind until we turn and look at the phantom. When we can truly see the phantom for what it is, the meaningless meaning that we have forced onto it, that is the moment when we are truly free from the ghost. That is when we can stop running. That's when we are truly free from the phantoms.

Some phantoms are those that we wish to keep. Not the ones that we wish to flee from, but those that we cling to, like a comfy blanket on a cold day. They can be the only thing that keep us warm on the cold nights when we feel so alone.

A TV series I occasionally watch proposed there is a place where spirits remain and can touch those they have left behind, if only for an instant. The smell, the feeling, is all that remains. They cannot touch us and neither can we reach them. But we can feel them and know that they are there. Maybe that's what it feels like to be haunted. To know that someone is there and is watching you. To feel a touch, for the briefest second, and know that you are not alone. Those are the phantoms, the ghosts and the spectres that we keep in our lives.

The Magic of Memory

It's interesting some days to think of what we remember. Some days it may seem that memory will freeze something in our minds exactly the way it was. The smells, the colours, the feelings will all remain the way they were when we experienced them. The interesting thing is that memories never remain exactly the way we remember them. Once we have pushed something into the realm of memory there is something magical that seems to happen. There's a film that shifts over the memory, which makes them either seem better, or worse than it was.

It's interesting to think like that though. What changes when we try and remember what it actually was like? Do some things seem smaller than we have made them in our memories? Do the memories feel better or worse when we remember what it actually was like?

Over the past few months I've been attempting to take the veil off somet of the memories in my life, to take the memories back to the way they occurred. Some times it hurts too much to go too far, and other times it just feels strange. In remembering those who have been lost throughout my life, it's hard to look at those memories in a non-biased way. I want to remember them in the best way possible, but I also remember that they were human. As much as I can want them to have been entirely perfect. They weren't. A great deak of things weren't. Somehow allowing them to be relegated to the realm of memory makes them bearable, and occasionally even enjoyable. To be able to remember those who have been lost to my reach with a the special magic of memory is something comforting. Other times, when the memories have worsened, it can be terrifiying.

Regardless of the outcome of the memories, having the magic in our minds to change things is always worth it. So however the magic of memory has treated them, most days it's easier for the memories to be transformed by the magic.