Author: leaving traces

“Gallery la-la”

no, wait…

“Radio ga-ga”

Ouuuu.. that’s the ticket.

This song was playing softly in the back room while he dusted the records. The bell jingled and a customer entered, the first customer of the day. He was in the back, behind the beaded curtain that dangled down from the door frame.

He put Joni Mitchell’s face down, clean face now, after dusting it, and walked to the front room.

This person had never come to his store before, it was his sister. She was flipping through Neil Young’s early hits and fanning through the miscellaneous acoustic section when she caught his eye.

There was something in the way they looked at each other as if to say – a knowing, a cherished moment or series of moments of memories past.

They had used to connect over ranting about their parents – living through constant fighting, a separation and divorce at the ages of eleven and nine – being neglected and abandoned by a mother who had few to no coping skills – her resentment and abusive behaviour would fill so many of the hours they spent at home.

It was as if to say – through the silence, through the gesture of showing up, an olive branch was growing between them. It had always been there, but the soil was stripped – this moment held everything they needed to nurture themselves – to tend to the soil and earth between them – to grow rich, to curl and reach up towards the sun.

Circles in my shoulder blades. Disney movies. Two weasels smoking in an alley. Fantasia and a puff of smoke. Dolphins blow circular bubble rings to swim through as play. Humpbacks blow fibonacci sequences to feed on krill. Bright white circle lights for TikTok sensations.

Cellular level. Calling my DNA on my two-way. The curling of a phone chord – the ones attached to the wall in the kitchen that could uncoil to the living room, the dining room, to the top of the stairs. Downstairs my friends had a party line and call-waiting. We had yelling and patience. Impatience. Running to the answering machine after school to check the messages.

That analogue/digital sound of clicks and tape turning over.

Everything was exactly the same. Just how I left it. The only difference were some dirty dishes in the sink, mucky counters and the remnants of crispy, fried chicken on my favourite coffee table that couldn’t be traced to me, for two reasons, 1) I was away for the past two weeks, 2) I don’t eat chicken.

I wonder how many homes are truly built these days – what care and attention went into the construction? When I returned home or the place I currently live, I honestly felt nothing. I felt no positive sense of returning somewhere with memories crafted into the walls – I felt no negative feelings either – just a sense of vast yet mild indifference.

Like this box was crafted, no, constructed in haste. It was thrown together – only a means to end for the contractors and labourers to make a paycheque. These walls had no tender hands placing them delicately together, nailing them in place like a perfectly patched quilt of boards. These windowsills were cut in quickly – using cheap materials like MDF that has been so heavily processed that the origins of the tree are likely bleached, chopped, glued, waxed and bruised out of its memory long before arriving on site.

These windows get stuck – because the 45 degree angles were more like 46’s and 43’s – straight lines and levels compete for sanity within these walls.

The front door had paint sloshed over it once and once only in five years bearing scuffs and hand marks of greasy fingers, hockey sticks, dog fur and converse treads.

The comings and goings of this house, all attempts aside, are purely utilitarian. To protect from the elements, to land for meals, to pack lunches, wash gym clothes and bodies. To remove stains, keep voices out, down. To spark ideas, keep peace, hold space. To separate family, to bring us together. To curl up, to splay out – to lounge – chasing the morning sun from the back balcony to the front stoop.

I regularly go for walks out my front door, out of the subdivision, down the street, around the corner, turning and continuing up the semi-temporary gravel road, between the road barriers, passed the dead-end cul-de-sac of an adjacent subdivision, up the hill, left at the T, passed the first creek that rushes quickly underfoot – the road was built over it with the standard round metal rail to lean over and look down – off the sidewalk, onto the too-wide road between houses, right at the park – where the second creek trickles between overgrown grass that dips its tips into the water – think of my overgrown bangs flipping over the edges of my frames and bending down to drink – up past the playground, donated by the kinsmen, as many things are in this small town, around the bend, crossing the street to walk properly facing oncoming traffic, passed the few neighbours out on their strolls – for similar reasons maybe, or not at all – up to the intersection, cross the street, this subdivision is newer, more ‘affluent’, larger homes on smaller lots, sidewalks with street trees to beautify the neighbourhood and maintain its value – always attractive – stepping past fallen leaves collecting perfectly formed raindrops that magnify veins and make you wonder, one more bend to the left after a small incline, and there it is, the Malone Road entrance to Holland Creek Park. The pavement ends, turns to chunky gravel and here is where my pace quickens, knowing the exact number of steps until I’m there –

10 – down the hill

15 – the two paths meet

24 – the bench to the right

29 – down the illegal trail

36 – at the man-made dam

42 – fingers touch down – touching the water – the cool fresh stream carries its energy, its soul, its fairies past my fingers, swirling between, around and through.

I lost the way back to the map of my hand. The end of the fabric was lost from where my mind had imagined it to be. The soft blanket was hard to discern – was it touching my receiving hand or was it not.

Can we trace the lines on our hands to memories we’ve forgotten or repressed? Can we call back our energy through gentle present touch while breathing, seeing, allowing, feeling. Does the receiving hand feel cared for? Does the tool hand feel left out or maybe self aggrandizing for being chosen as the giving hand.

They say that during menstruation the left and right brain are more interconnected and that now is a good time to reflect, rest and evaluate what is going on in your life. Well, I am learning not to push through – I can’t believe how many women today, myself included, push through. Yesterday I slept from 7am to 11am, then again from 1pm to about 6pm. I didn’t leave the house and didn’t leave the couch for almost 10 hours.

My body is draining. Releasing. Carving out. Untethering old wounds attached to patterns that keep me stuck, not able to achieve my next steps – wonting to step softly yet firmly on the unfrozen ground. Mud kicking up from puddles – washed with fresh rain. Sediment catching on raincoats – freckling yellows and blues.

Daffodils are sprouting – this is the season of bulbs. What am I releasing? What is being renewed? How can I learn to love this time? This pain. This fatigue. This weightiness.

She is doing the work. I have time. I have space. How can I support this heavy work?

I woke to heavy cramps and sore legs at 5am. I couldn’t leave the washroom – hot, then cold, nauseous, and pale.

Sticks of sun. The leaves fasten themselves to branches. The idea that the world is created each morning is a beautiful one. It doesn’t feel necessary to ask where it goes at night – just that it is reborn again and again. I believe this to be true.

On my walk this morning, the same walk I did one week ago – the ground was twinkling with buttercups. Last week they were out of sight, rooted. Waiting.

Today they shone their faces skyward – smiling at visitors and passersby.

The birds sing a song each morning to call up the sun. Or if not the sun, the break of day. What is it that birds can see that we cannot? Can they part the clouds with their instinct, singing their song and flying from branch to branch.

While on the balcony, I closed my eyes – this is when the crows came to me. There were two of them. Each in their own tree. One was facing the lake, a wing flapping furtively or mildly – a balancing act was my guess.

The other calmly and quietly broke small branches off in its beak – in her beak – she felt female to me.

At first, I was concerned for the smaller bird’s nest to the right – but this crow wasn’t here for torture…maybe she was snapping twigs to clean her beak. Maybe she was on pest control and working with the tree to remove unwanted bugs. Their eyes, their beaks, themselves – so black – so shiny black. I imagine you can look through time if you stared deeply into their wings.

Did you know it was the Raven who stole the Sun, and found humans in a clamshell?

Here is the land of the coyote. The black bear – Chief of the foods. The fish – swimming inland within these lakes. The root – safe beneath the Earth – tender, satisfying. The berry – tart, sweet, refreshing – for pies, for wines, for colour.

The desert gives life to the meaning of nothing. It is us who cannot see everything beyond this moment.

Flowing. Falling. Chasing. Becoming. Mistaken. Judgemental. Here.

In this moment, I am an omelette.

Her words tuck me in like the perfectly cooked egg folding over a goat cheese and spinach centre. There is time here. Time to settle. Time to sink your feet in the mud. Slow and gooey, pouring up the sides of your shoes like the first bite of a lava cake.

The cold heart has been chilled in the cooler – the walk-in freezer – “Christopher Walken”, she giggled and taped his picture to the door.

Serving this dessert, plated perfectly – the spoon cracks the hard chocolate shell and a caramel cream filling pours out, or is it cherry or pistachio mousse.

I think this is my new favourite poem – her placement, her attention, her care. The cadence, the sequence, it is life – it is everything at once.

I heard on the radio that Jeff Besos thought his dick looked small in his spacesuit while he was launched into his shiny cock-rocket into space.

Wow! He wouldn’t understand this poem. He has all the things and yet he would never see a starfish smile. He would never recognize that the growth pattern of the buttercup fields mirrors the constellations in the sky. With all his fame and fortune the only thing on his mind is his package – a piece of junk. No filter dewey enough to quell his ego.

At what point did Mindi take a screenshot of us?

At first I couldn’t stop laughing, I can still feel the teardrop hanging on my eyelashes from bursting into laughter so hard I cried.

This was wonderful. I’m the kind of person who laughs at moments that are suppose to be serious. I remember in one of my Geography courses at UVic during my undergrad we were learning about cemetery planning – like how do you fit all these dead people into a beautiful ‘park’ within the city. There are urban planners that look specifically at this issue.

So we were on a field trip, my friends and I were joking about something and just as I stepped off the bus, in the cemetery, immediately adjacent my professor, I burst out laughing.

My professor gave me a bit of a side-eye – I ensured him that I wasn’t laughing at the dead people but pointed to my friend who I could blame for my outburst.

My prof. had a twinkle in his eye and said, “I get it, I would’ve laughed too”.

Larry McCann was the reason I got into planning (urban planning) – I realize I have to qualify that for those who don’t work in or near the sector.

We were almost always out of the classroom.

My mom would make us turkey soup when we were sick. At first, this was something my sister and I would turn our noses up at – but now it is the first thing I make when my family is unwell. I’ve never tasted a turkey soup like this before – I think maybe it comes from her mother or grandmother. Black peppercorns are a key ingredient as are bay leaves, turkey carcass, star anise and other secret family ingredients. When you taste this soup you just know it is treating you well – its warmth, flavour and spice coat your insides with a restorative and protective layer of home-cooked love past through generations. How many wars has this soup seen? Did it ever bend depending on the ingredients available? Is chicken a good enough substitute when turkey can’t be found?

My mother didn’t cook much with us, but she did cook amazing meals for us. Both her and my father were focused in the kitchen and got frustrated with us underfoot.

I think I had a curiosity for cooking when I was younger but I don’t really remember being welcomed into the kitchen to cook. We weren’t present for the preparation and would only show up when called for supper.

Another favourite meal my mom made on the weekends for my sister and I was a really good curry dish with chicken thighs and tortillas on the side or roti. I thought the chicken thighs were too gamey but would devour bowls and bowls of sauce, the white meat part of the chicken avoiding the red stringy tendons…

The gut. The throat. The thyroid. Walked into a bar….

Is there a connection between the lump in the throat and a constriction in the gut? My mother had her thyroid removed as it was hyper-active, my cousin has Hashimoto’s which I believe is a form of hypo-thyroid… my throat and thyroid speak louder to me than my gut I believe.

Maybe they are the indicator that is most familiar to me when something isn’t quite right – externally and/or internally.

My gut. My belly. I’ve got this pretty secure ring around my belly that may be muffling my gut feelings being communicated to my brain.

You know that feeling when your stomach or your gut goes up to your throat when you are driving down a winding, hilly road – if you aren’t paying attention as the passenger that woozy funny feeling will come out of nowhere.

Is my instinct in my gut? If my gut could write a story – what would it like to say? I’m noticing a bit of judgement coming through now, telling me I’m not writing a story, just a series of disjointed thoughts and questions – will I really want to hear myself read this aloud?

A tingle on the back of the neck. A bubbling tummy. Anxiety or instinct – the complexity of humanness can distort our knowledge and sense of ourselves so easily. We are unique because of our minds but need to work so hard to connect to instinct.