Category Archives: Muse

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.

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.

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 Season of Light

Just Posted, Life Is, Muse

Winter has never been my favourite time of year.  A lot of people in my life are away. The nights are dark and long, and the landscape washed in shades of grey, and not the erotic kind… When the kids were small we did all sorts of cool things. Once, with a big box from a new refrigerator, we spent a lovely snowy day, painting it purple, decorating it, making curtains and puppets and putting on a show. As the sky turned dark we were all still in our pajamas and having a glorious, “raindrops on roses” kind of day. Sometimes we spent time with my sister up at her cottage. The annual gingerbread house was always anticipated, as well as peppermint bark, vanilla hot chocolate, and a ski day at Horseshoe. These seemed to be the rituals of our winter vacation.

Last week I attended a ‘Sound Bath’ at a yoga studio. I’m trying to find my Zen. I was immersed in the vibrational sounds of crystal bowls, and meditations about the Winter Solstice filled my mind. It offered insight that was unexpected, resonated with me, and changed my perspective. The mediations reflected ideas that light resides within the darkness; a light exists within us, ours to kindle, a flame to ignite, and a path within our bleakest moments. I learned that winter is our time of contemplation. I discovered that with the solstice is our shortest day and our longest night, the sun is at it’s farthest, but now begins to get closer each day. I love this. I remember my mother reporting the length of days. Her glass was always half full.

Inspired, I found myself reading various writings and quotes surrounding the solstice and will keep this one by Albert Camus, close to my heart. “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” We woke this week to a beautiful winter-scape on the front page of the Globe. A Clear Winter, by Arthur Lismer. We don’t see this kind of winter living in the city. But, we have seen it somewhere, at some time, and know these images in our Canadian bones. As my neighbour, Richard pointed out, ‘we know that we can feel the slight warmth of the sun if we are standing over there in the brilliant aquamarine sky, and the cold in the deeper cobalt blues shaded by the trees’. There is a beauty in the bleakness of winter, there is colour when the sun paints its hues, and there is a light that only exists within the depths of darkness.

Puppet shows have turned to wonderful meals around our table with delicious conversation. The gingerbread, hot chocolate and peppermint bark are still welcome! And this season, I am grateful for my family, for my friends, for the time we spend together at home, for kindness, for the winter, the scarves and candles, and for this time of contemplation and discovering the light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Resume of Life

Just Posted, Life Is, Muse

During a conversation this week, my sister coined a phrase that really made me think.  She said, “Have it on your resume of life.” I love that. It’s such an interesting way to think about how we navigate our lives.

What is on our ‘Resume of Life’? Is it the things we’ve done, the experiences we’ve had, the possessions we own? Is it our roles? What values do we attach to what achievements? What are the categories, significant moments, and accomplishments that would make the page noteworthy to share for our life’s work?

Here are some of my distinctions and musings. I am continuing to think about this idea. It’s a tremendous exercise, and one that really makes you stop and consider your life through different lenses and from various angels.

Mother: Skills include: Academic advisor, driver, nutritionist, sous chef, and chef du cuisine, stylist, consultant, personal financier, sounding board, worrier, facilitator, head of the fan club, event coordinator, director, producer, life coach, chameleon.

Wife:  Marriage of 33 years consisting of: Acceptance, perseverance, love, heartache, loosing oneself and discovering her again, challenges, joys, and passion.

Children: Most worthy accomplishment, and greatest blessing. Three daughters, each having embarked on their tremendous journeys of life because of me, and none withstanding of me.

Friendships: These are amongst my most valuable life achievements. Our friendships are the mirrors of who we are. They challenge us to look at ourselves from various angles, and change and accept, and reach out. To have a friend is to be a friend.  Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh?” he whispered. “Yes, Piglet?” “Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand. “I just wanted to be sure of you.” A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Sister: Being a sister is truly about unconditional love. We share a past with our siblings, our lives are intrinsically interwoven, and we create our present, we unite our families, and hope for a future where the shoots and roots we have so ardently nourished continue to thrive and connect.

I have had many paying jobs along the way, some even significant, some that continue to define me, but my career has been my family.

Volunteer Positions: This is where we learn who we are at our core, and where we stand in the world. Where the idea that one person can change the world is abundantly and astoundingly apparent.

Writer: As the saying goes, ‘If I knew then what I know now’, I would have been a writer. I sincerely hope it is not too late!

A resume requires a statement of intention, a goal, and a direction. My personal statement for my Resume of Life is:  To grant myself the courage and the wisdom to fulfill what lies within, to have conviction, to flourish and be for myself all that I wish for in my children.

What would be on your Resume of Life?

Photo: Passion Flower

Apples and Honey and Bathurst Street

Just Posted, Muse

I was standing in line to pay for my groceries and overheard the woman ahead of me ask the cashier to put some items in a separate bag because they were for her mother. I used to do that too.

It has been five years since my mother passed away. The missing her surfaces in the little moments of day-to-day life. Like buying a Greek salad at United Bakery. That and their potato soup was one of her favourite lunches. Or, passing by Neptune Drive and glancing up to her fourth floor apartment. I can still see her sitting in her special chair, wearing her pink sweater, waiting for me, or my sister to come by, and looking out the window at the stained glass windows of the synagogue.

Bathurst Street is a smorgasbord of traditions this time of year all diverging on several blocks from  Lawrence Plaza to Baycrest creating a vibrant mosaic. Men in black hats with long beards with their quickened pace and an increased sense of purpose. Students sharing pizzas and falafels for lunch at Tov Li. The elderly with walkers shuffling along the sidewalks. Mini vans and sedans vying for parking spots at Hartmans and along Deloraine. Shofars decorating the gift shop windows. Bakeries making crown shaped Challas and apple cakes, the rush to order chicken, brisket and Gifilte fish, and jars of bright gold honey. She loved it. Maybe it was a small town attitude that reminded her of her life in England, and feeling part of the community.

There was a storybook that she read to me, The Mystery of the Missing Challa. I loved it, still do, about a little girl, Bayla who helped her mother get ready for Shabbat, polishing the silver, visiting the baker, the butcher, the toy shop, the shoe shop, the fish market. As a child she would hold my hand as we went to do our holiday shopping, and visit Lolas for her shoes, and Daiters for delicious thin slices of Munchee cheese, blintzes, and a pound of creamed cottage wrapped in cheesecloth. The old man behind the counter at Strolli’s would give us a beef or potato kinish. It is these small details that bring back such sweet and savory memories. They are the things that make me hold my breath to keep back the tears. Later, I would hold her hand.

I miss her in these small moments. It is when I light her Candelabra on Friday nights and feel the presence of her hands over mine as I say the blessing. It is when one of her funny little phrases pops into my head, or I catch myself saying something that only my mother would have said. It is when one of my children reminisces about Grandma. I smile. She was always there for me. Taking my hand, showing me the way. Somehow, she still is.

I always make lunch for our family at Rosh Hashanah. I will make her apple cake. I will bring out her special dishes. And, I’ll do my rounds on Bathurst Street, and she will be in my heart and I will miss her.

Wishing you a Shana Tova. A happy, healthy and joyful New Year, and a time of peace in our world.

Our Greatest Teachers

Just Posted, Muse

The other day I was flipping through the channels and came upon the movie To Sir with Love, and ended up curled up on the couch watching this old classic with Sidney Poitier. This film must have been the first in its genre; the classroom with challenging kids transformed by a gifted teacher.

Our greatest teachers are those from whom we learn more than the curriculum. Bill Clinton says that one of the most influential people in his life was the band director, Virgil M. Spurlin at the Hot Springs High School. Apparently their relationship was the inspiration for him to go in to politics. Spurlin made him feel that he could accomplish anything, organize and effect change. For Oprah Winfrey it was her teacher, Mary Duncan who recognized something special in the insecure fourth grade student, and encouraged Oprah to read out loud for the class to gain confidence. Maya Angelou’s neighbour and teacher, Mrs. Flowers, took her to the library and told her to read every book within the small room. Here, she discovered her love of poetry. Mrs. Flowers had her come to her house and read poetry aloud.

I can draw upon pieces of my education from primary school all the way through university and my continuing studies now, and there will be moments, phrases, ideas and lines that resonate, pierce or make everything fall in to place. Who are our greatest teachers? Perhaps it is those who help us find our purpose, from which we learn the lessons of forgiveness, or discover the parts of ourselves that can soar. It could be an author who connects the dots of understanding, fear or passion. There are those who make us believe. It is the brush stroke of an artist, and how the play of light provokes sadness or love. It is often our children who by their own extraordinary, or commonplace actions make us stand back in amazement, recognition, astonishment or delight.   I think our greatest teachers are those who reach us in a small, intricate way, sometimes serendipitous, and with whom we are able to experience a feeling unlike anything we have before.

Who are your greatest teachers?

Don’t Worry George Clooney

Just Posted, Muse

Is the Trivago guy really the new object of affection for middle-aged women? What happened to the Marlboro Man? Has that rugged, sexy, smoking icon has been replaced by, (musical cue – bom, bom, bom) the Trivago guy?

As an advertising campaign it’s clearly working! Maybe not the stats of Marlboro where Leo Burnett turned a filtered cigarette with a feminine psyche into a testosterone buzz in just a few months; but I can’t seem to turn on the TV without seeing the ‘Trivago guy’. He’s become an Internet fuss, has been featured in Rolling Stone, and Sarah Hampson in the Globe and Mail gave up a quarter page to discus whether or not he is being objectified. There is now a contest to determine his new wardrobe, and women are weighing in. What am I missing?

Well, I guess there is ‘something’ about him. Polar opposite to those cowboys! He’s the soft-spoken, rumpled guy who constantly needs his shirt tucked in. There has been lots of talk that he needs a belt! Really? He’s just that guy. I guess he does have that ilk of boyish charm that is totally appealing as long as you’re not married to him.

Maybe it’s the summer. Maybe it’s likened to a beach read. Okay, I admit, I watched The Bachelorette.

Am I a victim of pop culture? Yes, I suppose I am!  It’s the flip side of my coin. On one side I am swept away by literary fiction, captivated by the banter of indie films, and enlightened to spirituality; and on the other lured by a great leading man, a latte, and the ‘who wore it best’ column of In Style magazine.

Truth is, it took me years to find my inner coffee at Starbucks, the ‘grande low fat decaf latte’. And, now that I have given up coffee (and gluten… I am so on trend…), mint tea has become my staple at any coffee shop. I must say that I still prefer tea at a cozy, busy, coffee shop to a trendy tea café. Why is that? Well, even though I haven’t had coffee since February, I still dream of it, and love the aroma. There are just so many great scenes that play out at a coffee shop. It’s the essential movie moment in our voyeur lives, a kind of Meg Ryan minute, with that cute, covert smugness, if you know what I mean. I’m definitely a RomCom kind of girl.

But the Trivago guy….really? Don’t worry George Clooney.

Beautiful

Muse

I have never really considered myself as beautiful. I knew I was pretty, had a kind of confidence that goes along with that, I like fashion, at least my hippie-esque brand of it that seems to have followed me along the years. Once, we were at a restaurant for one of my daughter’s birthdays with my mother-in-law and she told me I should cut my hair, that I looked like an old hippie. Hmmmph. I took it personally, and channeled early Kate Moss.

For the most part though, I never really put too much attention on myself or considered my beauty. That is, until now. I do like my hair blonde and long-ish. I like my green eyes, but think that wearing eye make-up at my age makes my eyes look older, so I have adapted a less is more attitude to make-up in general, splashing on a little on occasions. I am crazy though about cleansing and using natural products, believing what goes on my skin goes in my body. I admit to looking in the mirror lately and pulling back the skin and seeing how it brightens my face, but do I want distorted lips. I really can’t afford Botox, nor do I like needles or pain, or the thought someone cutting the skin off my face for a lift and tuck. I mean, this is a woman who had three natural childbirths because she was scared of the epidural…  But, I am more and more conscious of how I look, and how I want to look, and that I want to feel beautiful.

I am now more aware of myself. Maybe because I can’t believe that I am crazy close to sixty! And the reconciliation of how I feel inside and the reflection in the mirror are somewhat hazy. I had a very weird experience when I went to see the James Taylor concert.  I looked around me and exclaimed to my daughter, everyone is so old here. And she replied, well Mom you are going to be sixty in a few years. It was a shocking. Honestly until that moment I had never really considered that I looked, well middle aged!  I was just one in a sea of the over fifty set. Really, what was I expecting, he’s an old man, yet still playing his guitar, still writing music and still having a blast on stage. I got the impression though, that he was acutely aware of the passage of his time, but immensely grateful for this audience, and our well travelled roads. Or, maybe that was just how he made me feel.

I have beautiful friends, seriously. If this is aging then bring it on! We have grown in to ourselves, know who we are, what we like, how to live, we are more open, honest, better friends, and compassionate. Life’s trails have brought us wisdoms that seem to infuse with the layers of our skin, and emanate a simmering, sultry kind of beauty. The kind of beauty that has a presence if you know what I mean.

Pondering beauty comes with questions. What does it mean to age gracefully? How do we see ourselves and how do others see us? I think these days in general I take more consideration in how I look, but am also so much more conscious of how I think. Does beauty come from within? I truly believe it does. Our skin is a shell, our body just our shape; it’s how we are packaged. The Beatles wrote, “How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people? Now that you know who you are, what do you want to be?” That is the gift of our age and our beauty. We get to decide.

Sweet Dreams and Blues

Just Posted, Muse, Uncategorized

I was seventeen lying on the grass outside our basement window looking up at the sky and watching the clouds. Led Zeppelin was filtering through the screen from the record player turned up as loud as possible. In a little while I would be leaving for the airport to visit my family in England for the summer. I was struggling with lots of emotions. Leaving my Mom, my friends, traveling to see people I had never met before; a teenage tangle of anticipation and uncertainty. I can feel that moment as soon as I hear, Jimmy Page’s iconic guitar and Robert Plant sing, “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold, and she’s buying a stairway to heaven…”

I can remember moments in my life because of the association with a song that I loved. I think we all can. Music is a powerful elixir. It strums along with loves, woes and dreams. I catch a feeling in my heart even in the opening bars of songs and just that much can drop me in a time or place.

If there was a soundtrack to my life, here are but a few of the tunes that would be featured.

You’ve got a Friend; by Carole King; the perfect antidote to the bumps along the way.   The opening notes of California played on the Dulcimer by Joni Mitchell resound within me. There is a kind of happiness with a twinge of melancholy that is the joy and heartbreak of her songs.

The Circle Game over the years has become part of my melody. The words renewed with my children. It sang them to sleep, and the markings of childhood to adulthood have a kind of reverence that I’m sure even Joni couldn’t have imagined in the 70’s. “We’re captive on a carousel of time, we can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came and go round and round and round in the circle game…”

John Lennon. “Because the world is round it turns me on….”

Crosby Stills and Nash, the Dejavu album. I bought it at Sam the Record Man at Bayview Village with my Dad. He drove me there in his red Pontiac convertible. Came home and played it over and over again on my green portable record player that sat on the side table in our living room with the blue lamp. If I am on a train, traveling, Simon and Garfunkle’s America becomes part of the syncopated rhythm of the rails as the landscape distances itself in a rush out the window. And, Van Morrison’s Moon Dance, “the night’s magic seems to whisper and hush…”. Well, it’s always in the back pocket of my faded jeans, in the rising of the August moon, and in just holding hands.

This month I’m going to see James Taylor with my daughter. My husband doesn’t get it. He can’t understand why I would want to go to see him playing the guitar and still singing ‘at his age’. It’s not looking back or living in the past. These are the sounds of my life. Me and James and the music, have all gone down the road together. I hope he plays all the songs I love. “Dreaming the dreams I’ve dreamed my friends, loving the love I’ve loved…”

Here is a link to Stairway to Heaven live in Madison Square Gardens New York 1973
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Q7Vr3yQYWQ

And, James Taylor live at BBC studios, 1970
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EEcsp9AIQzY