All posts by Jacqueline Markowitz

The Kitchen

Just Posted, Life Is, Muse

The dishwasher was broken. The fridge door couldn’t be replaced. The stove hummed, off key. I’d always wanted a fabulous kitchen. And so, the renovation began mid August and was due to wrap up in the last week of September. Perfect.  I would put my kitchen back together, and cook all weekend to have the family for my traditional Rosh Hashana lunch. The best laid plans. It’s December. Still renovating my kitchen.

Full disclosure. We did add a few things. Now it’s more like a main floor renovation. I kinda feel like the kitchen is on the back burner. “Wouldn’t it be great if we moved the closet…” Then the window turned into a door. The doorways got wider and higher… It will all be beautiful. Eventually. It’s the dream kitchen that wasn’t even in my dreams.  Ideas are glorious, and when renovating… dangerous and expensive. But once you see the space opening up it’s like a treasure box of possibilities!

On the flip side, I’m asking myself why am I doing this? A lot of my friends are looking at condos downtown. I’m at least ten years too late… clearly a renovation late bloomer. I could have taken a trip around the world instead of a new kitchen. Now, though, I fear that my travel dreams are on simmer.

The renovation is all consuming. It keeps me up at night. I wake up long before dawn frustrated that the work seems to be ambling at a snail’s pace. I send myself  e-mails with lists of all the things that still need to be done. My nightly Reno–notes.

Here I am, in the third act of my life. I will finally have state of the art appliances and gorgeous countertops, cupboards that close, and floors that match. Truth be told, I’m not so sure I care about it all anymore, least of all cooking!  In the interlude of main floor living, I’ve discovered the joy of poached salmon from The Avenue Fish Shop, the salad bar at Whole Foods and desserts from Phipps. And, I’ve learned that there are no medals for standing all day and cooking it all from scratch. I have a new appreciation for foods I do not have to cook. Perhaps they will taste even better when plated in my ‘transitional’ kitchen, and served atop those natural quartz countertops that I fell hard in love with. Love, as it turns out, does come with a price…

There are now small glimpses of completion, like carrots dangling before that proverbial rabbit. I can imagine the day when I will have my main floor back, curtains, sofas, chairs and tables…and will have finished washing every dish I own, every knife, fork, spoon, and putting it back in my cupboards and in those lovely drawers with custom dividers – organized, arranged and gleaming.  At which point, I’m pretty sure, I will not want to use any of them – just admire their pageantry!

I must say, lately I’ve been contemplating – what do we really need? Living in the basement with those few essentials for the past four months has been a lesson in simple living. I don’t want any more stuff! Just those few perfect accompaniments.  I want to refine all aspects of my life.  It’s  remarkably similar to the process of editing my novel. Instead I’m editing my space, wardrobe, thoughts, and dreams – Asking myself what is necessary, what makes sense to my personal story; an economy of the stuff of which I fill my life garnered to lay out like the perfect sentence, each element as each word, deliberated and chosen.

It all started in the kitchen, the heart of our home and our soul. We learn about what we need, and the essentials of our living from our kitchen. After all, the perfect omelet has very few ingredients. Fresh farm eggs, real butter, perhaps a hint of sharp cheese, a pinch of salt, a toss of chopped basil, a good quality whisk and a sturdy frying pan. And what do we need to savour it but a table, a chair, a window, and a beautiful plate or two, and those we love.

Paris is Always a Good Idea

Just Posted, Life Is

And in a minute it’s quiet. One went up to her room. The other took the baby outside. And with them, went that dog, and my husband. One is still at work. And, no one seems to know where the recycling bags are kept or how to open a dishwasher. I practice my breathing. Breath – I am breathing in – my mind knows the drill.

Sitting at the kitchen table facing the window, my back to the mess. The late afternoon sun filtering through the trees, they seem to have grown into a jungle from the rain, and just enough of a breeze to present the squirrels a more unreliable trapeze. I must remember to cut the lilac husks off the tree this weekend. Six years, it should have been much bigger, must have bought a dwarf, pretty though. Two white iron chairs angled in conversation at the back of the garden. I took the backrest out when we adopted them from the kitchen of the elderly couple advertising on Kijiji. The pink Swiss dots definitely cramped the style carried off by their charming curvy legs.

I feel the mess glaring at me. The box and cellophane of the organic date and lemon crackers, a plastic wrapper peeled off like a stocking from the cheese, the pile of recycling that didn’t make it to the curb this morning. The foil tin from the Ratatouille that I brought home yesterday so the girls would have something to eat, of which she said, “That was a good movie, remember it Mom?” “Yes, it had the mouse.” I think I have mice.

The white mug on the counter, half full, with the string and tag of the tea bag wound around the handle; the tell tale sign. Her signature. I know who left that cup advocating Paris is always a good idea stacked in lines of cursive. Let’s run away. The curvy legs of two chairs sitting across a round table that’s just big enough for our elbows, small strong cups of coffee, and one plate with pain au chocolat that I try to order with a French accent.  Remember the flower shop we found?  Jacqulines and you took a photograph of me after I had gathered an armful of lilies, roses and peonies. Like a corny film.

                                                             ***

Details of the mundane become relevant in the light of something we cannot control. Last week I was immersed in a writing workshop at UFT. Each night we were to write and send a piece around to the class by 7:00 pm  so we would have a chance to read the work for critique the next morning.  I wrote the above on Thursday July 14th  after school, and pressed send. Then, Lorne and I got in the car to go grocery shopping. We turned on the news, and heard about Nice.

I had just written the words; Paris is always a good idea. It hit me hard. Just minutes ago I was escaping the minutiae, imagining being in Paris, one of the world’s most iconic romantic fantasies. Just moments ago families were strolling along a beautiful street, enjoying the end of a day of celebration. And, then. Life changes. Irreparably. In a moment. And, we cling, to all the silly, irrelevant, lovely annoyances of our lives.

Firefly

Just Posted, Life Is

The moon was full. It lay a path across the lake – a glistening lane in tranquil ripples. A night for travelling on a boat with a billowed sail, for pirate ships, treasure and painted wings, sealing wax and dragons that lived across the sea. It was a night for wonder. It was also game seven with the Cavs and Warriors. Moon gazing would have to wait.

My husband and I had run away from the children for the weekend. Yes, our three adult children. It was a spontaneous decision. I left them on Friday morning. I didn’t make dinner. I left them money. It was entirely against my grain. I did pop out and buy a Challah before we left. We threw our belongings in a case, as if caution to the wind.

My shoulders notched down, like the tin man with a swig from the oil can with each ‘Oro line’ we passed heading to the lake. I needed some space. Some calm. A reprise from all the meanderings in my head – all those should-haves, things to do, wishes for things that are not mine to wish for, contemplations and mingling notions. And the practice of  that proverbial monkey, hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, or some rendition of that. I needed a re-set. A moment to set the dial back to me, to only be concerned with my own happiness ~ who said that our happiness depends on the happiness of our children.

Back to game 7.  My husband was rooting for LeBron James and was wrapped up in the Cleveland story. I will cheer loudest for my home teams, but I do like Steph Curry. Also, I really have a pet peeve about the word deserve. Did the Cavs ‘deserve’ this win because no team had won in 50 something years? Did the fans ‘deserve’ this? Sometimes we do feel entitled, and deserving.

I don’t feel entitled to this time, or deserving of it, even though there could be a long list that would support that notion. I am however allowed to give this time to myself, to maybe be a little selfish. To know that it’s okay at this point of my life to be good just to myself, even though I love spending time with my kids, and doing whatever I can do help and enrich their lives, as they enrich mine.

I am conscious of these days. Aware of the passage of time. The quickness. And, I can sometimes get pulled into ‘the stuff’. It’s really important for me to see the beauty in my life. Find happiness. Appreciate the now. These are the messages I say to myself, that sustain me, create my equanimity and equilibrium.

After the game, we did go outside to look at the most beautiful illuminating moon. The summer solstice was indeed dancing on the warm, dreamy breeze. We went to the road to find the darkness that could see the stars. There in a meadow I saw tiny flashes of light. Fireflies. Remember the nursery rhyme about the Teddy Bears Picnic, “If you go into the woods today you’re in for a big surprise… watch them, catch them unaware….” Well, I felt as if I was opening a storybook to the firefly ball. We watched the flight patterns as they signaled across the sky, between the tall grasses, amongst the trees.

As I closed my eyes that night, and my mind felt clear, as if a kaleidoscope revealing it’s magical configurations and bracketing into a shape. I could see. The moon was full. The water rippled ever so gently. The seven stars that I think must have been the little dipper, and the lights of the Fireflies that enchanted a summer’s eve.

A Day in the Life

Just Posted, Life Is, Love

Thursday morning I went into my youngest daughter’s room. She is home between adventures.  It’s 7:00 am. Phone alarm singing. Of course she doesn’t hear it. Never has.  I quietly nudge, whisper wakes ups, and then rub her back. Purrs as if she’s a kitten. I stroke her head. Steeped in a drowsy tranquility. This doesn’t happen often anymore. The morning can wait. I look at my hand twirling her tangle of curls. It looks like my mother’s hand. I’m getting brown spots.

My eldest daughter is at the hospital waiting for labour to begin. Her first child. I’m going to be a grandmother. I remember holding her in my arms. Tick tock, the hands of the clock, gingham rocking horses, round and round, rhymes, prom dresses, butterfly kisses.  Raindrop tears, hers and mine, over the years. A river flows between us.

My middle daughter is sleeping in the room next door. This too is a moment. She doesn’t live at home. I go in to say good morning. Light coming through the childhood curtain, single little bed, still the ruffled white linens. A ladybug is crawling across the cover. Like a picture in a storybook. Ladybug, ladybug fly away…  Make a wish.

The baby came after eight in the evening. Morning to night. Life changes. Love happens. Something shifts. A miracle. He rests his perfect tiny hand on my daughter’s chest. We leave the hospital three hours after he is born. She can no longer remember a life without her son. Life begins again.

Friday evening. Baby had not yet been in the world for twenty-four hours. We gathered for dinner in her new home. It’s Shabbat. We light the candles, share Challa, drink sweet wine. Welcome to family. I sit at my daughter’s table. Look at what can happen in a day. What we can create. How much we can love.  Sometimes we think that a day is not enough, we complain of all the reasons this or that cannot be accomplished today; or we never get around to doing what we want to do, no time, too busy, another day.

A day in the life. A day can change everything.

The Art of Seeing

Just Posted, Muse

Seeing the Turner exhibit for the second time I began to notice things in his work that I had completely missed the first time around. It made me think about the way that we see things – the everyday in our lives, the people, and our surroundings. Mostly, though – what we don’t see, and how we rarely give consideration or inquire what lay beneath the surface.

My initial trip through the gallery, I was taken with the breadth of Turner’s work, the saturation and delicacy of colour, the incredible light, the journey of the waves. I was awed by the idea that he had painted these through seeing, not by snapping a photograph, but by the experience of noticing and feeling the diversities and intensities of the water, the light, the danger, and the beauty. His paintings are so sensory in that way.

But, Light and Colour (Goethe’s Theory) – The Morning after the Deluge – Moses Writing the Book of Genesis captivated me on my second visit. I stood before it. Others came, looked, discussed, and contemplated. I was planted. My eyes roving the painting following the story of the flood – discovering the layers expressing beliefs that both spiritually and artistically swirl in impressions and hues of yellow, red and blue. It was actually worship. It had impact. It reached me. It had the intended effect – transitioning me from the bursts of hope and prayer in the brilliance of yellows, to the melancholy and anguish of blues.

This morning, as if a painting out my window I notice the yellow brick of the house beyond the iron fence now visible through the architecture of naked trees at the back of the garden. A bulb still on from the night. A raccoon, misplaced, edging down the rain stained bark like an engorged inchworm. The grey sky hanging still, like a hand placed across my back as I am walking.  Who is the woman that rolled up her blinds? I knew that she had opened her fridge from that white light that fanned a triangle across her windowpane – probably milk for cereal or coffee. My own red teacup with doodled flowers and dots, the brew already cold, I’ll have to put it in the microwave.

This is what Turner does. He inclines us to notice – to challenge our assumptions, to experience the story of his paintings and turn it back on ourselves – our view, perceptions, and deceptions.

Did Jack Bush influence Pacman?

Just Posted, Life Is

I’m taking a social media course at the AGO using the exhibits as food and fodder for our foray into this foreign land of communication. Those were a lot of unintentional ‘f’s’ in one sentence, although it works somehow. Somewhat how I feel about the social media.

We learned Twitter. Opened an account, added our headshot, a background banner, and spoke our first tweets. It took this class of ‘over 50 something’s’ two full hours to get this far.  Then we went to the gallery to explore the Abstract Art exhibit and experiment with how to see things in an interesting way. How to photograph the works of art, making them intriguing, perhaps taking the piece out of context, exposing the underbelly, predicating a social comment, or finding humour etc. Who knew that gaining an ‘online presence’ was such a calculated enterprise.

I mean, I’m sure it’s not that complicated for everyone – like the people who like to ‘share’ with their ‘friends’ every meal, coffee and cat. But, for those of us with general indifference for Facebook, and a flippancy to 140 characters of dribble, welcome to this ‘30,000 leagues’ of what to us is the same as an ‘under the sea’ exploration of communication. And, by the way, we may as well embrace it for all of its irreconcilable charms.

Lynn Crosbie is teaching the course. Lynn – poet, journalist, author, pop culture aficionado. First class. She intuitively has her finger on the pulse of what’s going on, what we are or should be interested in, and what is current before we even know it is. For example, when we were photographing the art she took a picture of Claes Oldenburg’s ‘Floor Burger’ and tweeted about it. Only a couple of days later, on Saturday morning there is the burger on the front page of Globe Arts, as this pop masterpiece returns to the floor of the AGO.

If I were a work of art on display at the gallery, I would probably put myself amongst this exhibit of Abstract Art of the 60’s and 70’s. There is certainly more historic and current art that I relate to, but, I am a product of that time period. It influenced my life, and continues to resonate. So, it is with a giant step that I embark on my moonwalk to social media.

I only have 5 followers. It makes you feel bad about yourself. So, follow me. I’ve posted 8 tweets, and even used hashtags, although still not exactly sure what they are, but I can  #JacquelineMarkowitz #recipeforlifeclub # AGO and  #JackBush …

I’m a work in progress.

The Case of the Missing Glasses

Just Posted, Life Is, Muse

I have lost my reading glasses. They should have been in one of three places. The kitchen table, covered with my notebooks, newspapers, and magazines. The den with the five or so books all of which I have read the first few pages deciding which one to dig in to first. Or, the kitchen counter, where I can guarantee they were as of Christmas day while reading the recipe for the blintz soufflé I was preparing for brunch.

Full disclosure. I do not have the best reputation with glasses. Well, sunglasses in any case. I have lost three pairs. The first succumbed to a wave in the Pacific. The second – you would have thought I had learned my lesson – to a wave in the Mediterranean. At which point I stopped buying designer glasses. The third eventually showed up under the seat of my car. But, I had these glasses, Chanel’s, with the pearl in the side for a very, very long time. My Audrey Hepburn moment. A coming of age. They were my first. The ones I got when my arms couldn’t stretch any longer, and I acquiesced to the first sign of the f-word. (Fifty) I loved them, and just kept replacing the prescription.

My optometrist is on holiday until Jan. 4th. I needed an appointment in any case. So that leaves me with one of my husbands many dollar store readers, scattered everywhere in the house. I can’t keep them on for long, they sting my eyes, and are making the screen a little concave as I write this. Deep sigh. So, today, with the heavy remnants of last night’s snow storm, leaving a wet and grey mess over the city, I will trudge off in search of a pair of store bought glasses that do the trick. I will not be usurped in my plan of curling up with a book. Although, today would have been the day to achieve that…

In case you are wondering what is on my reading list:

The Evolution of an Unorthodox Rabbi, by Rabbi John Moscowitz. Each segment opens up a world of ideas.

A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg, a gift from my editor. I think she is trying to tell me something about what my next book should be…

Life after Life, and A God in Ruins, by Kate Atkinson. My most anticipated reads recommended by my brother.

A Tale of Love and Darkness, by Amos Oz.

Fifteen Dogs, by Andre Alexis. Our Giller Prize Winner.

Footnote:  December 29th. 7:44 p.m. I found my glasses just now when I went to get the oven mitts from the drawer to take the chicken out the oven…

The Man in the Moon

Just Posted

I love to watch the full moon rise. It amazes me. One moon. One world. One beautiful peaceful moment of hope.

I was in Sedona, Arizona, a couple of weeks ago on a full moon hike. We were surrounded by horizons of mountains, and climbing a red rock trail. Cactus like sculptures against the landscape, the steely leaves of agave plants, the moon had crested above the rocks, and hovered in the twilight sky. A warm autumn night on the verge of winter. The quiet was broken only by our footsteps and the howl of coyote. We didn’t need our headlamps. The moon illuminated our path. It was enough.

When we reached the top, our Native American guide gestured for me to sit on a stone, and bask in the light of the moon. He was seventy years old. George. Not his birth name. Part Hopi. He was a medicine man. Once his ancestors inhabited these canyons. It was theirs – a home, traversed, protected; they slept within the rocks, danced upon mother earth – it still holds their spirit – a feather of the eagle, the burning of sage, an homage. Their faces seem to be naturally carved, infused with a soul in the red rocks. I can feel their presence as he speaks.

The red stars are the ones that are travelling closer to earth, the blue ones further away. We were so high up; I could trace the silhouettes of the moons surface. He told me about the healing power of moonbeams, “ Breathe in to my fears, and exhale allowing calm energy.” He showed me the shadow that stretched out behind – my other self.  He put his hands on my shoulders.

The air was fragrant. I was overcome with the scent. I asked him about it. The aroma of a native plant called the Desert Mariposa, the butterfly plant. Its vermillion flower had gone now, dormant for the winter, yet I was aware of its scent. “You need to break free, allow yourself to be all that you can be, stop holding yourself back. This is why you are smelling the Mariposa.”

I felt remarkably grounded, infused with the quiet beauty of my surroundings and the mesmerizing, intuitive voice of my guide. Perhaps there is something about the moon, and the Mariposa.

Still and Flight

Just Posted, Life Is

When they were young the voice of Barbara Coloroso was in my head; don’t fight with them to put on the mittens. If their hands get cold they will put them on, or have cold hands. And, the day to day decisions of parenting were somewhat ruled by the underlying lesson of that example. Is it going to harm them?

I’m a worrier. It’s true. I was the mother who walked her kids to school and waited by the crosswalk until the bell rang. If they were anxious before they left for school for one thing or another, I was anxious until they walked back through my door. I felt their highs and lows, the joys and tough times in my gut.

My daughters have grown up. They wear their mittens in the cold weather. My eldest is pregnant. She will soon understand. I take comfort in that. And, knowing that she will see me in a softer light, for some of the decisions we butted heads about. Motherhood is like that.

I still feel the angst of their choices.  Mittens were easy. Cozy. Now the scope of things for me to worry about has broadened. Even though, I know they are smart and independent. Even though, I know that it is their lives, and their decisions to make. Their choices of who to love, careers to navigate. Those of us who parent adult children understand that we are not at liberty to direct their lives. We can encourage and support, we can be honest, and we can talk. It is their choice to listen, heed, agree or deny. Even so – I still feel it all in my gut.

But.  A mother knows things. It’s instinct. A bird senses danger and hides amidst the branches, the balance of still and flight. Our instinct is extremely powerful. I believe this. And, I think it’s a power we have to listen to, not always act upon, but to weigh, to balance.

Instinct. We need to understand and covet its mystique and know when to take cover or take flight. And, always when it comes to those things that fall outside the mitten metaphor, we should, I believe, listen closely. Toss rational thought, and the opinions of others to the wind, and follow our gut.

Every Word

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As the years went along, and I found myself still, writing my book it felt like everyone else was already publishing theirs. What was the matter with me? Why was it taking me so long? I was embarrassed to keep telling people, that, yes, I am still writing my book.

When will it be published? Before I’m too old to write another, I sincerely prayed. Or, worse, that my kids will find it in a drawer long after I’m gone, and bemuse that Mom never did finish that book.

And the dreaded, what’s it about?

I sent it out once to a handful of carefully chosen Canadian publishers and received a handful of very praiseworthy rejections. I admit that I did not submit to any publishers that required a synopsis.

But, this book had a mind of it’s own, and despite my best intentions of burying it, and getting on with my life seemed to gnaw at me demanding attention.

I managed to muster up the wherewithal to dig in to the novel one last time. All in. No excuses.

I worked around the clock. I sat at my kitchen table through breakfast, lunch and dinner. Saw the snow melt in patches, and that morning when the leaves suddenly appeared on the trees, like they had been there all along. I slept – I think. In the middle of most nights a line came to me or a mistake struck me, and I made my way back to the computer, let the dog out, and saw the moon had circled to my front door.

Now I understand what it takes to write a book. This was a whole new level of commitment to writing. Every word, each sentence, became a critical strand of a web so intricately woven and interdependent that I was mesmerized and driven to completion. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s actually true. And one day, that was that. I had dredged every piece of myself and there was absolutely nothing left. There were no more changes I wanted to make. No more words to query. No ones approval to seek.

I know that I could not have done more. And that is about as good as it gets for an author. Because, not everyone will like it, and that feeling of vulnerability is terrifying. And, I’m sure that when I read it again as a physical book, I might cringe and wish I could change things. But, for better or worse I am done.

My novel, Conversations for Two, is a story about a woman who serendipitously comes across a box of her brother’s writings, twenty-five years after his death, and through his poems and journals discovers his life and the love that rocked his world. And this book talks about how we remember someone, and how we peer through a crack in the window of grief and somehow see the flowers bloom again.

I surrounded myself with book people, but more specifically those who love the craft of the book. I am grateful that they all put up with me, as my fixation to every detail translated to every aspect of the work.

It’s being published by, The Jam Press, a very exciting new independent press in Toronto. It will be available on October 22nd.

For more information please check out www.thejampress.com