Noa asked me on the evening before I left Montreal if I was going to forget her, in it that sweet and earnest way that children do. Hearing her ask it was so unexpected, as if it would be possible for me to forget her that my heart broke as we descended the stairs from my new apartment and made me want to take a drink of cold water and squeeze her tight and take a deep breath of the crisp autumn air that is finally filling this area, wanting to not leave and also leave at the same time, feeling the love of all my surroundings, wanting to come back to this good life before I had even left. I wanted to pause the summer-autumn season and these millenial times in this energetic age, surrounded by a community of family and friends and fellows and laughs and trees and projects and girls, scared that it will be gone or different when I come back but of course it will be different.
Now the sun sets on this bus passing fields of maturing and brown fields of corn then soy beans then corn and corn again then soy and occasionally a field of hay or green winter rye coming up in straight rows oriented North-South. GO trains and busses and planes are aligned heading west towards the setting sun in all it's purple and orange warmth morphing colours and shapes. I don't take my eyes off the horizon for fear that I'll miss the action, wishing for an impossible-bottle that would finally capture the expansiveness of a sunset and the way it swallows everything and reminds you how big the sky is, knowing that the passing of time is and has always been moments beginning and ending with no beginning or end. The late evening now morphs slowly, highlighted clouds drifting over and under each other, the pitch-by-pitch darkening of tree shadows, birch, spruce and pine lining the highway, lights on cars white and red racing towards and away from Montreal into the rest of the night and tomorrow.
It is an absolute privilege to travel, to be loved, to have had the upbringing I've had and to be where I am and able to do the things I do. I want to recognise and honour my good fortune, pour this gratitude into the actions of my hands and feet and eyes and mouth and ears.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
A New Normal
Since I have only a few days left in Montreal before I head out to Ontario then California then Hong Kong, I've been running around saying my farewells to all the good people. I went to say goodbye to Anne, a friend and mother of a friend, while she was coordinating an anti-ageism group. I couldn't stay long but the hour I did get to spend listening was inspiring.
One woman talked about how aging has made her feel like she's losing power and authority. That now when she talks to people, she sees they have more reasons to disregard what she says, due to their conception of her age and associated memory loss and people pay less attention to her. Then Anne talked about how elderly people see themselves as young always, that for example even after needing knee surgery and needing to ask if people remember where you put your cane and oh it's a bother but you don't see yourself as that person with the cane, and that ageism like any sexism, racism, is part internal and about how you view yourself. And then another elderly lady talked about how she gets looks from people when she says she goes to the bar for a drink and she says to them well yeah of course, I been doing that my whole life, I ain't gonna stop now and she takes the bus at 1am to go home and people say hey you can't be doing that and she says well yes I can, why not? and if you want to be treated like you're independent then you have to show you're independent and there's a whole new demographic today of people over 80, it's a new world. There has never been this in the past, hell her mother had the biggest party on her 50th birthday because that was so rare back then, I mean she's coming from the era of the horse and buggy and so today, the older generation is blazing a path for the younger generation, of how to age and how our society is going to view and treat people and see what they are capable of.
One woman talked about how aging has made her feel like she's losing power and authority. That now when she talks to people, she sees they have more reasons to disregard what she says, due to their conception of her age and associated memory loss and people pay less attention to her. Then Anne talked about how elderly people see themselves as young always, that for example even after needing knee surgery and needing to ask if people remember where you put your cane and oh it's a bother but you don't see yourself as that person with the cane, and that ageism like any sexism, racism, is part internal and about how you view yourself. And then another elderly lady talked about how she gets looks from people when she says she goes to the bar for a drink and she says to them well yeah of course, I been doing that my whole life, I ain't gonna stop now and she takes the bus at 1am to go home and people say hey you can't be doing that and she says well yes I can, why not? and if you want to be treated like you're independent then you have to show you're independent and there's a whole new demographic today of people over 80, it's a new world. There has never been this in the past, hell her mother had the biggest party on her 50th birthday because that was so rare back then, I mean she's coming from the era of the horse and buggy and so today, the older generation is blazing a path for the younger generation, of how to age and how our society is going to view and treat people and see what they are capable of.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Another Way to Love
Spring is taking on a different meaning for me now that I've been farming. When the grass starts to show through and you can smell the soil soak up the snowmelt and the birds start making a rowdy caucophony in the still bare trees, I start getting restless and excited. Having spent another dormant winter in quiet snowy spots and doing part-time cafe work and lots of time in front of books and computer, I step outside and listen to spring arrive. Even in this insulated spot, I can hear the warmth, water and wetness soaking into the city. Dripping off banisters, splashing in the street, a moist warmth in the air that gives everything and air of liveliness. Trees and grass are respiring in the wind, emitting a hum that you can hear if you listen.
There's other things to hear when you listen. Like the tension rise and fall in someone's voice when they start to talk about something that affects them emotionally, that strikes close to heart. If you listen, it can help you understand what they're saying, to hear the measured and pained patience and deep breath required to try to explain something so personal to someone outside of their body, their words might not even have anything to do with the message. Sometimes you can just enjoy listening to the click or motoring lilt of their speech, accentuated with Anglo or Franco or Afro or Sino or Euro or Austro or Ontario tendencies.
And then there's things that you have to really really listen hard to hear. Like hearing what the cat is meowing about beyond just being a big fat annoying whiny cat. Or like listening to a person who is saying things that you really disagree with for the 10th time, to try to hear it and understand it and not just subtitle and supplant the image of their talking head with what you imagine they are saying so you can disregard it as soon as you find a way to poke a hole through it since it must be an argument that's going on when two people talk, right?? God forbid it be a conversation. Am I Right??Maybe??Because, well blah blah blah blah blah blah and he didn't even listen to me and I would never talk like that to anyone and they don't know what it's like to be me, never mind me trying to listen to an ignorant thing like that who obviously just doesn't get it because he just won't listen to me...
(Scenes from Occupy Wall Street in New York City)
In 2011, I visited and participated in discussions held at the Occupy movements in Fredericton, Halifax, Montreal and New York City and it really made me understand how hard it is to listen sometimes, even with people who you agree with. Listening is difficult even for those who accuse corporations and governments of not listening. Listening takes practice.
I also attended Sappyfest in 2011, an outdoor music festival in the small and vibrant town of Sackville, New Brunswick, bordering Nova Scotia. It was special because the vibe of the festival is so open, friendly and laidback that you can really call it a vibe. Everyone I met was up for a conversation. On the last day, there was an Improvisation and Listening workshop put on by Jerry Granelli, a 70 year old jazz drummer and a sinewy wise old man (Listen! Here or http://www.cbc.ca/video/watch/Radio/ID=2088250971 ) . It started with a room of us, many of the bands who had performed throughout the weekend, sitting in a big semi circle. Jerry has us do a starter exercise where we just spend 120 seconds, listening and not judging noise but just listening, to the timbre and resonance of the noises we hear, up above us off the ceiling or muffled in the corner or just beyond the wall down the stairs and not judge the noises as too loud or too soft or in harmony or in bad taste or being caused by this or that but just hearing them. You can feel something in the crown of your head being activated.
Then, he continues, if you're into listening or playing music listen for a rhythm in it. But don't be so quick to count out 1, 2, 1, 2 or 4/4 time. Instead, feel out the bigger cycles that are there in the sound, e.g. hear not just three cars passing on the street outside on the wet asphalt, their tires and the motor and the air movement as connected one thing to another but also with the braking noise and other cars going the opposite direction and the squeak of laundry machine downstairs and the steady hum of the laptop and not on counts of 4 or 8 or 16 but rather bigger and bigger time signatures where everything is incorporated into that cycle because ultimately, everything is one big cycle. It's hard to explain the concept with rationality and logic but the idea I offer you is:
(and this is not backed up by scientific research but I doubt I'm the first to make this connection) A place in your head gets activated when you actually listen. Whatever that brain structure is called, I'll call it the Listening Bulb, either inside that or synaptically wired to it must be where you find love.
There's other things to hear when you listen. Like the tension rise and fall in someone's voice when they start to talk about something that affects them emotionally, that strikes close to heart. If you listen, it can help you understand what they're saying, to hear the measured and pained patience and deep breath required to try to explain something so personal to someone outside of their body, their words might not even have anything to do with the message. Sometimes you can just enjoy listening to the click or motoring lilt of their speech, accentuated with Anglo or Franco or Afro or Sino or Euro or Austro or Ontario tendencies.
And then there's things that you have to really really listen hard to hear. Like hearing what the cat is meowing about beyond just being a big fat annoying whiny cat. Or like listening to a person who is saying things that you really disagree with for the 10th time, to try to hear it and understand it and not just subtitle and supplant the image of their talking head with what you imagine they are saying so you can disregard it as soon as you find a way to poke a hole through it since it must be an argument that's going on when two people talk, right?? God forbid it be a conversation. Am I Right??Maybe??Because, well blah blah blah blah blah blah and he didn't even listen to me and I would never talk like that to anyone and they don't know what it's like to be me, never mind me trying to listen to an ignorant thing like that who obviously just doesn't get it because he just won't listen to me...
(Scenes from Occupy Wall Street in New York City)
In 2011, I visited and participated in discussions held at the Occupy movements in Fredericton, Halifax, Montreal and New York City and it really made me understand how hard it is to listen sometimes, even with people who you agree with. Listening is difficult even for those who accuse corporations and governments of not listening. Listening takes practice.I also attended Sappyfest in 2011, an outdoor music festival in the small and vibrant town of Sackville, New Brunswick, bordering Nova Scotia. It was special because the vibe of the festival is so open, friendly and laidback that you can really call it a vibe. Everyone I met was up for a conversation. On the last day, there was an Improvisation and Listening workshop put on by Jerry Granelli, a 70 year old jazz drummer and a sinewy wise old man (Listen! Here or http://www.cbc.ca/video/watch/Radio/ID=2088250971 ) . It started with a room of us, many of the bands who had performed throughout the weekend, sitting in a big semi circle. Jerry has us do a starter exercise where we just spend 120 seconds, listening and not judging noise but just listening, to the timbre and resonance of the noises we hear, up above us off the ceiling or muffled in the corner or just beyond the wall down the stairs and not judge the noises as too loud or too soft or in harmony or in bad taste or being caused by this or that but just hearing them. You can feel something in the crown of your head being activated.
Then, he continues, if you're into listening or playing music listen for a rhythm in it. But don't be so quick to count out 1, 2, 1, 2 or 4/4 time. Instead, feel out the bigger cycles that are there in the sound, e.g. hear not just three cars passing on the street outside on the wet asphalt, their tires and the motor and the air movement as connected one thing to another but also with the braking noise and other cars going the opposite direction and the squeak of laundry machine downstairs and the steady hum of the laptop and not on counts of 4 or 8 or 16 but rather bigger and bigger time signatures where everything is incorporated into that cycle because ultimately, everything is one big cycle. It's hard to explain the concept with rationality and logic but the idea I offer you is:
(and this is not backed up by scientific research but I doubt I'm the first to make this connection) A place in your head gets activated when you actually listen. Whatever that brain structure is called, I'll call it the Listening Bulb, either inside that or synaptically wired to it must be where you find love.
Monday, February 13, 2012
One Way to Love
I love the different outdoor rinks across Montreal that you can go to. Against the backdrop of downtown skyscrapers and the cross on Mount Royal or a majestic old church and tobacco factory or nestled among inner city apartment blocks, I can just practice if I want; learn to drive to the net and protect the puck, pivot better, use the outside edges better, work on my wrist shot listening for the crisp loud ring of the puck off the iron of the crossbar. PING! I love that sound. Work a little harder each time and I improve, my body remembers and I feel rewarded. Sweating freely at -13C, I'll stop for a moment to watch my breathe steam in the cold winter air and look up at the jet black sky that seems even more infinite by the contrast of the outdoor lights beaming down illuminating all that is snow and ice. Then I join the game, chase the puck with everyone else like a pack of rowdy dogs, shout and call for the puck in some bilingual hockey pidgin, watch all the skating styles from makeshift shuffles to efficient and crisp strides mix it up, swarm the ice like a flock of birds, up and down the rink. I love outdoor hockey, the fact that it doesn't require a huge refrigerated building to make the ice, that it's natural and rugged and free and outdoors and brings people together. I love it and whether or not it loves me back is beside the point.
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