Calgary- Closer to Halfway Home

It's over. And I'm shaky, from caffeine and adrenaline withdrawal and sitting in the Calgary airport closer to half way home.
I shed those tears weeks ago, and so conversations held were adult, calm, rational. Today though, sitting in the Winnipeg airport, it hit me for one second, and I felt like someone had punched all the air out of my stomach and I curved over, bent slightly forward trying to get air. I think I gasped once, delicately, quietly, and closed my eyes, squeezed out two tears, then recovered. Went back to reading Watchmen and eating my goldfish crackers.
Those times I memorized pieces and articles of chunks of skin, and the way the crease in the corner of the eye met the bridge of the nose, the few faint freckles, the pointed perfect elf ear, the melted mouth so sweet- I wish I hadn't. I want to erase it from my mind. You cannot forgot what you so diligently committed to memory.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, tonight you are mine.

Preparing for Winnipeg

I prepared this morning for flying to Winnipeg by putting on my own version of war-paint, my own special talismans.
I took out my crystal ear studs, and replaced them with the dark grey fresh-water pearls my daddy bought me for my 18th birthday. Every time I shook my head, or craned my neck, or even laughed loudly they swung below my ear lobes and touched the side of my neck, reminding me that they were there.

I removed my flattened bottle cap necklace from Christina Lake and slung my silver St. Christopher medallion around my head instead. My sister and I had made matching necklaces, extra long to hide under our shirts, and we each had attached an anchor charm to the medallion to symbolize hope, steadfastness, and to remind us of the sea and where we had been born.  St. Christopher of course is the patron saint of travellers, and even though we aren't Catholic it's nice to have something to hold on to in the wary, uncertain hours of voyages and adventuring.

Around my wrist I refastened the thin, delicate silver bracelet my mother had given me, which I had taken off for the first time in years when we were working with clay in sculpture class, because the clay kept on getting caught in the clasp and dulling the metal. This was the bracelet that Chris Barlow had always commented on when we were travelling through Turkey, singing that Bob Dylan song, Shelter From the Storm:
"Suddenly I turned around and she was standing there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns,
'Come in', she said
'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'"

And of course, on my finger was my brass interlocking ring that matched with the one K has, from the art gallery in Grand Forks that we had bought a year and a half ago. I only removed that ring for baking and working with clay. Even on excavations I left it on.

Each piece of jewellery meant something special to me, reminded me of those I loved best, and those who had loved me unconditionally. They reminded me that I was who I was, and it couldn't be helped, and to be strong, courageous, and have a backbone, and that the right things to do were often the the very hardest.
They will continue to remind me this week to not take the easy way out, to value myself, and when it hurts to pick myself back up and say quietly, hey world, I am pretty fantastically special and I am going to have a fantastically unconventional life.
I just wish I had one piece that would make me laugh and remind me to not take myself so seriously. To remind me that this too shall pass, and to have patience, and a sense of humour. I will maybe draw something on the back of my hand. That might help. And with laughter, you don't need luck. Though in my case, I would like as much as I can possibly get of both for this week. Please.

November 3

"But for the here and now, where the living dwell..." (Jamie McGlue)

It's always a struggle to live in the present. To not dwell on the past or try to divine the future, but to find your place in every second, to curl up in the tick of every minute and be content to be curled there. I am away this weekend at my friend Linds' family's place, the giant piece of land where last year I helped decorate the 12 foot tree, and it is lovely as always. Wood fire, cathedral windows and ceiling, SNOW, cross-country skiing, beer, good food, interesting people. Out here, 2 hours North of the city, it is easier to be where the living are.
Less impulsive, more patient. That is my mantra, my prayer these days. Patience. Patience. Patience.

The dark is bothering me less these days. It's ok, it's manageable right now. It's kind of thrilling, actually, to sink back into the patterns of wearing layers and never seeing the sun. It's similar to having a near-empty fridge: it's easier to create meals when you have limited ingredients. And it's easier to see beauty when you have so much ugliness around you. So clearly can you see life when death is everywhere you look.

In the sauna last night, after we had bussed and driven for 2 hours, I could feel the layers of slime and dirt coming out of my skin. Sweat, dead skin cells, fatigue, stress, alcohol, greasy food, frustration, loneliness, other stupid people, guilt, anger. And it was replaced with heat, emptiness, water. A tightening of my skin around my bones. A heaviness of my eyelids.

I'm nervous about flying to Winnipeg next week. I shouldn't be; travelling alone is one of the things I'm good at, and I get a kick out of adventure. But I'm scared about the things waiting for me there. I'm scared that it was a mistake to plan this visit to friends. I'm scared that once I go unrepairable damage will ensue and I will be regretting it for the rest of my life.
But I'm too dramatic. I read too much into things. I get feelings about things that never come to fruition. I'm most likely going to have a wonderful week there. I'll let you know.