The Winds of Change

”The ability to be happy is nothing other than the ability to come to terms with how things change.” My favourite blogger, David, writes this in a post entitled “88 Important Truths I’ve Learned About Life” (#87)

It’s a simple formula, and if it’s true then it’s encouraging. No veil of mystery: We each hold the key to our own happiness and it lies in our outlook. Accept that life is cyclical; good stuff will happen and not-so-good stuff will happen. Roll with the punches as much as you are able and happiness will be within your grasp. Expect life to behave in a linear fashion, constantly heading upward at a 45-degree angle towards only the good and the positive, and instead of being happy you will be disillusioned and disappointed. You might even be angry.

I’ve had a summer full of change, spearheaded by a fire in my neighbour’s apartment that has barred me from my home for close to 3 months now. I haven’t had access to any of my things and I’ve invented as many outfits as I am able to from the few items of clothing I brought with me. These were changes I was not expecting.

People often say, “poor you.”

Nah.

Because of that disaster, I’ve spent the entire summer hanging out in an incredible condo with an awe-inspiring view, in one of the most beautiful (and expensive) parts of the city (see previous post re: “It pays to have lots of insurance”). I’ve thrived in the bustling energy of urban life. I’ve enjoyed the novelties of underground parking and central air and strolling to get my morning coffee. I’ve re-joined the swim team and cleaned up my eating habits. Work-wise I am the busiest I have been since I first started this business, one year ago this month.

My old apartment has been painted a happy new colour and the hardwood floors have been refinished. Every item I own - clothing, furniture, everything – has been professionally cleaned and repaired where necessary.

Things keep shifting, life does whatever it wants, and that can be energizing and inspiring if we so choose. It's been the happiest summer I can recall.

As the wind alters its mood and the mornings go dark in response, change is upon me once again. My time in this urban oasis has come to an end; it’s time to go back to my humble old homestead with the sloping floors.

I’m not sad. I’ve come to appreciate its warm character, welcoming balconies and the friendly, down-to-earth neighbours – all of which I missed this summer. There is good in everything.

And I have come to terms with yet another change: This blog has reached the end of its natural life. The name, “I’m Fired”, doesn’t speak to me anymore. That person has said all that she needed to say underneath that banner. To all who followed along, thank you. But I am a different person today, with different things to say.

I’ve been on this extraordinary journey of discovery for more than 2 years now. The adventure continues, but my thoughts, language and behaviour have changed and they don’t fit the shape of this little window anymore.

I will be back, in one form or another, and whether anyone reads along or not.

One thing I am certain will never change: I will always write.

And that makes me happy.

I'm Fired...Take Two.

There’s nothing like a near-disaster to spur us to push the reset button on what really matters in life.

When fire struck the apartment next to mine two weeks ago and I was ousted from my pad with no more than a moment’s notice, I put myself and a few others through days of bedlam, stress and upset. Now that I’m neatly installed in my sleek, furnished condo for the summer and the dust has begun to settle, I can see a little more clearly. I learned a ton of things from the experience, but here are my top ten:

1. What stuff is really important.

Upon realizing that the fire was sneaking from the guy’s apartment next door towards mine, I yelled down to a fireman to ask if I had time to grab my cat. He looked at the plumes of smoke billowing out from between the bricks above my window and said, “Not really.” I did, of course, dragging her from under the bed by one leg and stuffing her into her cage while speaking in that fake hysterical-soothing voice that one tends to use on children and pets when all’s gone to hell yet one is trying to convince them that Everything’s Fine, We’re Just Playing a Game.

I scooped up my purse and left. That was it. A) Fur-child, B) purse with credit cards and other ID-ish stuff. It’s amazing what we put in priority when the chips are down and the smoke’s pouring in. I don’t know if it’s normal but I didn’t think about all the photos (everyone says they do; I didn’t), nor my computer, which is maybe odd since that’s how I make my living. A pair of shoes would have been a convenient thing to pick up. I very secretly hoped all the clothing would go up in smoke. It didn’t, and I was allowed back in later to gather some more stuff before evacuating for good and so grabbed my laptop, a few shorts and tees and toiletries and my insurance papers. And a pair of flip flops. In the 2 minutes I had, I couldn’t think of anything else that really mattered.

I had clothing; I knew I’d have shelter and food (thanks to insurance). My friends were at the ready to support me. And that’s the sum of all I really, truly need. The rest is just stuff.

2.Sometimes, drama increases in direct proportion to how much energy you dedicate to it.

Drama can be like a fire: The more you stoke it, the bigger it gets. When we put a lot of time and energy into recounting / augmenting / building our stories of personal tragedy and hardship, either to ourselves or to others or both, the stories and issues become seemingly more real and more difficult and more insurmountable, and that serves no purpose. The flames become visible from outer space and everyone feels the heat.

Turns out I’m a great fire-stoker (figuratively speaking of course); which is not news to those who know me well, but which is a big realization for me personally. I tend to make situations pretty dramatic.

It’s important to try to keep things in perspective, especially when they’re going awry; and that even when we think we’re doing just that, to look again with a different lens and see if the stories we’re telling ourselves about a given situation are really true, or just that – stories. Flames can get out of control quickly, so be mindful of how much you throw on there.

3.Get over it.

Goes hand in hand with the fire-stoking. Yes it’s stressful and upsetting when stuff goes wrong but once we’ve confirmed nobody’s been hurt, it’s important to try to look at the bigger picture. Things could be a lot worse. I could have been the guy next door, whose fault the fire was and who escaped his burning apartment with only the shorts he was wearing and nothing else. His two cats perished in the blaze.

Lots of us need to throw ourselves a pity party from time to time. Let’s make sure it’s got a short shelf-life, and then move on.

It took good, honest friends to remind me of this. My best mentor for this is my friend D, who has been through a crapload of hardship in recent years but who doesn’t subscribe to self-appointed pity parties, ever.

4.I still have too much stuff.

Since I quit my corporate job and sold my house over 2 years ago I’ve done at least 3 full edits (“edit” is a soft way of saying “sell / donate / toss out”) of all my belongings, if not a few more. Watching the movers pack everything into a billion boxes after the fire, all I could think was Holy crap, who owns all this sh*t? Surely not me?

My things and clothing are now all either in storage or being de-smoked. The condo I’m in for the summer (hopefully longer...it’s so beautiful here!) is furnished with the basics (plus a bit more) of the essentials one needs for daily living. I’ve got jeans and a coffee pot and a desk and music and a wine glass and a bed.

I feel the same now as I did when I first got back from traveling and the contents of my house were still in storage: I don’t really want to see it all again.

A frequent and hard look at what we really need as opposed to what we just want, or perhaps even don’t want but accumulate anyway because we’re scared or bored, is as freeing as it is essential.

When I move back into my apartment, it’s time to purge again.

5.Who your real friends are.

Despite my exaggerated drama, there were those few friends who stood steadfastly by my side for whatever I might need during the ordeal and who continue to do so today. It’s reassuring and grounding to know that they are there.

Who are your real friends, who will be there for you without question, even if you’re standing in a pile of poo? It’s a good thing to know.

6.We are resilient.

As long as we have our health, we can endure a tremendous amount of stress and hardship. Whatever’s gone screwy, we’ll always be ok eventually. Important (but difficult) to remember when we’re mired in the thick of it.

7.Change is hard but builds character.

Being uprooted again was the last thing I had planned right now, but it’s also been an awesome reminder: I’m still mobile. Instead of feeling weighed down by a lease and bills and belongings, I can choose to remember instead that I can still pick up and do what I want, go where I want; life is fluid. Maybe it’s a message from the universe that everything has ended up back in storage.

I’ve had to get used to a new neighbourhood and start to figure out a new routine. There’s always a tremendous amount to be learned from how we react to new situations and new surroundings. If you’ve experienced a sudden unforeseen change in your life, watch and observe your reactions and see what new discoveries you can make.

8.How nice people can be.

People from every relationship level (friend, business, acquaintance, almost-stranger) materialized to offer whatever they could to help out after the fire, from furniture to a place to sleep and lots of things in between. I didn’t need any of it, fortunately, but it was great to feel supported and cared about anyway. People like to help when someone is in need and it’s refreshing to have that reminder. It makes me want to pay it forward.

It won’t hurt any of us to be a little nicer and as my friend Sarah reminded me once, we can all be a little more generous.

9.People have their own crap to deal with (see points 2 and 3 above)

It’s not that people don’t care about what’s happening to you, but everyone’s got their own problems and daily life to tackle. As my friend Deb reminded me, if you could throw your problems into a hat with everyone else’s and then pick out any ones you wanted, chances are very good you’d take back your own.

We shouldn’t expect anyone to feel sorry for us, step in, help, worry, call, text, or visit. Just do what you need to do, keep calm and carry on. Some of my clients barely batted an eye when I told them my story (which perhaps I shouldn’t have done, I realize now); pausing only briefly before saying, “So does this mean I won’t get my document today?”

Life and business go on. Don’t feel wounded or wronged by peoples' lack of sympathy or reactions to your situation. Just get on with it.

10.Life is precious and things can turn on a dime.

Not news to anyone, but it’s always brought into stark relief in these situations. Watching the man from the burned-out apartment sit on the grass, smudged with soot and crying like a baby, repeating over and over, “I would have never imagined. I would have never believed it could happen,” as he mourned the loss of his two cats and everything else he owned, I realized it just as easily could have been - could one day be -me. Everything was fine at 5:45 am. By 6:00 am it was all up in flames. I would never imagine it either. Seize the day.

11.(Bonus) It pays to have lots of home insurance.

I cannot fathom having gone through such an ordeal with no access to extra funds or without any special services to fall back on. Thanks to what some might think is way-too-much-insurance considering what I have and how I live, I’ve barely had to lift a finger throughout this whole process. The insurance people mobilized a veritable task force to pack me and move me and send me emergency money and clean my clothes and furniture and find me a place to live.

Insurance is like a parachute: Better to have and not need, than to need and not have.

“You should treat all disasters as if they were trivialities but never treat a triviality as if it were a disaster.” Quentin Crisp

Shuffle I.D.

I love my iPod Shuffle.

It’s not one of the teeny new metallic ones that seemingly have no controls on them; it’s not even one of the ones before that, or before that. It’s first-generation. You know – the white plastic ones that came with their own Handy Neck Lanyard.


The Shuffle was a pretty revolutionary concept for its time; at least in my very-late-adopter’s mind it was. It was the perfect accessory for the gym; much more convenient than the bulky CD Walkman I had been hauling around in a hip sack up until that point. With the Sleek New iPod Shuffle proudly displayed around my neck, I imagined myself to be cool as I listened to the same 50 songs being randomized over and over again. You could even use it as a USB key!

Despite reports of the eventual demise of the FGIS (First-generation iPod Shuffle) of almost every other owner I knew, mine was a true workhorse. Through years of use and abuse and days of being bullied into service in all kinds of nasty weather and sweaty conditions, it never so much as threw a single hissy-fit on me. Why upgrade to a newer, fancier one, when this one served me perfectly well?
That was, until a few weeks ago.

One day as I was gearing up to go for a nice long run, I pressed the “play” button on my FGIS and....nothing. After all these years of trusty performance and reliability it had quietly decided to launch a first, final and fatal protest. I was devastated.

FGIS forced me to make my first-ever visit to the Apple Store in downtown Montreal. As I glided through the giant glass doors and past the security guard I was immediately surrounded by buzzing hives of high-tech activity on all sides, while beads of We’re-Way-Cooler-Than-You’ll-Ever-Be dripped down onto me from the steel beams high above. Self-consciously I pushed the FGIS deep down into my pocket and tucked away my suddenly-very-antique-feeling Blackberry smartphone (though it was but a week old).

Eventually, of course, I bit the bullet and displayed the source of my anguish. FGIS had fallen ill, and was there anything to be done? The rumply teenaged salesperson stood agape, staring at FGIS. “Thatisthecoolest. Shuffledesign. Ever.” He’d never seen one of the antique ones before and was magnetically drawn to its retro style. I puffed a little with pride.

I was spirited upstairs to meet with a Genuis (an under-twenty Genuis! Right here in front of me!) who, after a quick and efficient diagnosis, reported that FGIS was indeed dead and nothing could be done to revive it. He was very smart.

It was time for a new Shuffle. I trudged back downstairs, stumbling over one of the gigantic acrylic-slab steps on the way. Cool.

As I perused the rainbow selection of New and Improved Teenytiny Shuffles, I felt deflated. I liked my big old plastic retro Shuffle (and so did at least one other person in Apple Mecca). The controls were right there on the Shuffle where I could see them (and not on the cord of the earphones, like the new ones? Puzzlement?) True, it didn’t have so much memory; but to date I’d never once run far or long enough to make it through all the songs it held. Did I need more?

Suddenly I was Charlie Brown at the Christmas tree lot. Sure, the new Shuffles made sense. Smaller size; more memory. Updated design. Cheap. So why did buying one feel like a sell-out?

Rumply sensed my hesitation and approached me to let me in on a secret. “You know,” he whispered, “There is one other option: Apple keeps a supply of the original Shuffle in stock for situations just like this. I could order you one. It will cost you the same as the new one that has twice the memory, though.”

A few days later another Genius called me (I think they just like me) to let me know that my clunky new-old Shuffle had arrived in-store. Back down at Cool Central, a cashier with tattoos and designer eyewear informed me that he had to ask me something before he could hand over my purchase: Why would I buy this old Shuffle when for the same money, I could have the new-and-improved model? I reminded him that the real question is this: Why is Apple charging the same money for an older, inferior product as they are for a new, superior one? He didn’t ask me anything else after that.

I left the store with my overpriced, unwarrantied, unboxed, plain old-new FGIS. And I was happy.

Marching to the beat of your own drum takes moxie. You won’t always feel cool. You’ll most likely feel insecure at times; left behind and a tad out-of-step with what’s going on in the more mainstream sectors of society. You will question your choices and decisions and so will others. Your friends may not understand what that jig is you’re doing and in fact may even move on from you, embarrassed by your funky moves and bewildered by your unorthodox life choices.


If I may give you a piece of advice: Stick to it, warrior. Always go with your gut. It’s never wrong. Keep on marching, even if that kooky drum beat is being piped into your ears via the big foamy headphones of a Sony Walkman.

The only one who truly has to “get it” is you; and while some days it will feel like it takes balls of steel just to put one foot in front of the other on this precarious path of unknowns, keep calm and carry on. Have faith and know that the road you’re shuffling down is full of awesome treasures the likes of which the world has never seen.

You’re a genius.

"What you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it." Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Static Interference. We're Breaking Up.

Dear Blog: I’m beginning to wonder if you and I are truly meant for each other. I want us to be together, but the fact is we don’t really have that much in common.

Good blog updates are supposed to be brief and posted frequently; mine appear once in a blue moon and, as anyone who’s actually taken the time to read all the way through knows, very long.

They’re also supposed to be informative/funny/interesting, so that people want to stick around and read them and then come back later to read more. A huge spike in the graph on the Google Analytics report means that seven people visited my blog on that particular day instead of the usual three, and generally half of those arrived there by accident. Suffice it to say I’m not ranking up there with TMZ just yet.

Still, they do say opposites can attract, and I don’t feel ready to totally give up on you just yet, Blog. I’d like to think I still have something worthwhile to say and that I can still find an effective way to use you. I’m just going to try to be quicker about it.

It’s now officially been a year since I returned from my world travels. I know I use those benchmarks frequently; marking off events based on points in time leading up to, during, or after my Big Adventure. It was a huge turning point in my life, so it’s normal. I’m amazed and grateful that I’m still afloat somehow and that business is starting to pick up. I even had to go out and buy file folders to keep my clients’ projects organized. Very grown-up.

It’s also car jockeying season again, which means the occasional 11-hour, no-break marathon day spent swaying to the soothing sound of impact guns and either laughing at or pretending not to hear the mechanics’ dirty jokes. I’m thinner and exhausted. It held more novelty the first time around, back in the fall. Still, the cash keeps me away from the ATM and I can eat more cookies without gaining weight. You can never be too “rich” or too “thin”. Quotation marks essential there.

Any remaining free time I have is being spent investigating ways to tune out the noise and static that has steadily, stealthily wormed its way back into my life over the last 12 months. I’m so easily distracted and often derailed by all that’s going on around me; not the least being other peoples’ successes, choices and seemingly winning situations, that it’s hard to stay on track towards all that I need to be accomplishing. But, more on that another time.

For now, it’s time to consider a full reboot. Perhaps a visit to my little island paradise? No electricity there, so no static.



“After all this kind of fanfare, and even more, I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of 'thinking' and 'enjoying' what they call 'living,' I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds....” Unknown

All Fired Up

I launched this blog on May 29, 2008, with these words: “My name is Cara. One month ago today, I fired myself.”

There I was, hammering out a (pretty good, in my opinion, for a first try) blog post about being all fired up with the energy, optimism and fear of having taken a gigantic, parachute-free leap into the sweeping canyon of changing my life: Worried I didn’t have the courage to quit my long-time career, I instead sort of handed myself a pink slip.

Despite the end result, firing oneself differs from the act of getting fired by someone else in some pretty significant ways – one of which is the impact on the fired person’s ego. When you quit, it’s your choice. You leave on your own terms and move on for your own reasons, often feeling rather triumphant and maybe leaving others scrambling to pick up the pieces. Getting fired isn’t like that.

Even if you don’t like your job, being relieved of your post unexpectedly is generally a little tough to swallow. I figure it’s akin to never getting a call back from the guy you didn’t like anyway (cue Stanford Blatch in “Sex and the City”, Season 4, Episode 2, upon realizing that bitchy Anthony had taken off after they were introduced: “I’ve been rejected by someone I wasn’t interested in. I hate when that happens!”) Of course if you actually liked your job - or the guy - it can be exponentially harder to take.

We all want to be in control of our destiny to some extent, especially when it comes to things like saying no instead of being told no; but we learn from a very young age that life doesn’t always work like that. This is where many tantrums originate. The ego is denied its spotlight, and it doesn’t like it one bit.

Through all of life’s seemingly negative experiences that I can recall (I’m excluding anything that induced a tantrum prior to the age of 4), I’ve come to believe very strongly that everything happens for a reason. I know lots of people who believe this and lots of others who subscribe to the exact opposite philosophy (including my best friend B) - that it’s all just random; nothing is written in the stars.

For me, adopting the belief that things are part of a bigger plan reduces my need or desire to spazz-out when stuff goes awry: Somehow it was just meant to be and will no doubt result in a better experience somewhere down the road. So when I got fired from my very new job a week or so ago, even though I liked said job, my reaction was for the most part kind of neutral. I won’t say I didn’t find myself against the rails for a bit (B can vouch for this, as he talked me through part of the 8-km-long, foot-blistering walk home); but in the end I am taking it for what I believe it to be: the universe pushing me back towards my destiny – this beautiful, mysterious, frustrating thing called writing.

I might have been rejected by someone I like, but thanks to that, I’m back to courting the one I truly love.

“Getting fired is nature's way to telling you that you had the wrong job in the first place.” Hal Lancaster

New Directions

February 1994: It was the dead of a cold, snowbound winter that was a precursor to what I would later discover to be an even colder referendum year. I had been transferred from Toronto to cosmopolitan Montreal to work at my company’s head office. This was my first (and - who could have known then! – only!) corporate job. I had less than an inkling of what it would entail (the person responsible for my transfer, when pressed as to what I might be responsible for in my new role replied, “I have absolutely no idea”), but I was pretty sure it was considered some form of promotion. A basic hotel room served as my temporary address as I waited for the moving van to rumble across the Ontario-Quebec border with my bits of pressboard- and chipped-melamine furniture. It would arrive three weeks later. I had little money, less French, no local friends and no idea of what I was in for.

To date it was the second-biggest adventure that I had ever embarked on, coming in slightly behind the move out of my birth city and the protective nest of my parents’ home just a year before and quite on parallel with the out-of-control stale-dinner-roll fight I found myself and two of my closest comrades in the middle of on the slope of the Big Hill at the King’s College residences back in ’76, at the ripe age of seven.

Adventure often necessitates survival of the fittest. In the midst of such uncertainty there is only one sure plan of attack: protect ones’ buns, stand ones’ ground and duck only when fired upon.

J (head honcho at The Company and the man who plucked me from my life of retail management) was brilliant and funny and he loved to share jokes, anecdotes and books he thought to be interesting. One day, after I had been working at the office for a while and when I assume J could no longer suffer through my unending attempts to assimilate myself into the corporate world and this new life, he passed by my desk and handed me a sheet of paper with a short passage typed on it in plain black font. The title of the passage was “New Directions” and its no-nonsense insights into how to approach life changes grounded me and restored some clarity of purpose.

I didn’t know who had written the bold little paragraph (did he? Impressive!), but I pinned the paper to the bulletin board next to my desk and read it every day.

Years passed, things got more complicated; the responsibility and the stress level grew in tandem with the job title. Cubicle walls shifted, salaries grew and colleagues came and went, including J. Always on my bulletin board was the paper he had given me, now gunshot with push-pin holes. The words didn’t hit home all the time, but I read them faithfully. The tattered paper came with me when I eventually quit that job, and the one after it, and through myriad changes that have surprised themselves upon my life along the way. Its sage message was included in my address to the graduating class of my alma mater almost 20 years after my graduation. New Directions.

March, 2010: I’m going back to work this week after essentially being on vacation for the last two years. For two years, I’ve traveled and met, explored, learned and rested and pretty much done whatever I’ve wanted. All of this, as well as working from home and for myself, writing, doing what I love, collectively has been a dream come true; but it’s also not necessarily sustainable, and the writing part is lonely and it’s not really paying enough just yet. This job opportunity came to me; it found me when I was feeling lost and lethargic and unsure of what my next move would be. It came to me from someone whom I have admired and sort of adored a little bit through the years, and who is brilliant and who will be my boss and whom I cannot wait to learn from. I also cannot wait to shoot him with a Nerf gun, which my office comes supplied with.

The adventure continues, but the vacation is over. I had no intention of this. It’s not how I envisioned things for myself. But we must be careful of that, of the story we tell ourselves about what we should and shouldn’t be doing, about where we should and shouldn’t be at any given moment in our lives, and especially about comparing. There is no right way or wrong way. We are not the story we tell ourselves. I am not a character in a blog or a book. I am just me, doing what I need to do to get by. (Thank you to a different J for reminding me often of this.) It’s painful to think of how far back my next visit to my island will be pushed by this, like in those dreams where the hallway gets longer as you’re running down it. On a more day-to-day level it’s both a little nauseating and humbling to have to dig out all my old Tupperware and make dull lunches again and to have to be somewhere at a certain time every day from Monday to Friday. But if I so choose it to be it’s also another part of my adventure, by which I am charged with excitement and optimism and giddiness at the seeming randomness of life. It is a new direction.

As for the passage typed on that scrap of paper...

New Directions

“Each of us has the right and the responsibility to assess the roads which lie ahead, and those over which we have traveled, and if the future road looms ominous or unpromising, and the roads back uninviting, then we need to gather our resolve and, carrying only the necessary baggage, step off that road into another direction. If the new choice is also unpalatable, then without embarrassment, we must be ready to change that as well.”
Maya Angelou

Winners and Losers

While I was watching the breathtaking Olympic men’s moguls competition last night my television screen almost cracked. Not from all the fist-pumping and arm-flailing I was engaging in as Alex Bilodeau finally took Canada to solid gold status on our home turf with his mesmerizing performance, but from the stinking, miserable, sourpuss expression on Dale Begg-Smith’s mug as he stood on the second-highest podium, sulking about the hunk of silver he had to choke on. I could have sharpened a set of chef’s knives on that face, it was so stony. Nothing says “Olympic Spirit” like showing millions of viewers, spectators, judges and other athletes just how badly you want to shove a bouquet of flowers down the throat of the Best Men’s Mogul Skier in the World, just before you stab him through the heart with your ski pole.

In sharp contrast, Bryan Wilson, a complete unknown from the US, exuded a visible joy over his bronze medal win that was endearing and infectious. He didn’t care that he was on the symbolic lowest of the three podiums. To him, it was a purely golden moment.

Begg-Smith, the undisputed champion going into the race, was the favourite for gold again at this event. Bilodeau snatching it from him was what they call an “upset”. I get that. I can’t fathom how crushed, both in spirit and in ego, the Canadian-Aussie must have felt at the moment of realization that the grandeur that goes with being Number One would no longer be his. Bilodeau and Wilson experienced the thrill of glory. Begg-Smith, the agony of defeat. Part of those experiences is just choice.

There are endless nuances to the emotions tied up in an Olympic experience that I will never be privy to; infinite physical, physiological and psychological factors that come into play for these competitors that I will never know a single thing about. But I, who has not and will never have one bit of the DNA that it takes to be anything even close to an Olympic athlete, do know one thing: Whether you’re a millionaire standing in front of the world at the almost-top of an Olympic podium in the very country that raised you and that you then ditched or you’re Joe Anyone winning a second-place ribbon in the local track and field meet in Nowheresville USA, a little sportsmanship goes a long way.

In the privacy of your own home, knock yourself out. Cry, scream, rave on about how unfair it all is, string together any chain of expletives you want in reference to the person or people who outperformed you; they probably cheated or got favoured by the judges anyway, right? Do, say, think what you want. Nobody’s looking.

But for the six minutes that the cameras are rolling, your character is on full display for millions of people around the world to size up and you just delivered a near-perfect performance and a silver medal to your country (your other country, that is), for crap’s sake at least try to crack a half of a freaking smile. Just fake it. You won a silver medal, dude. The only thing worse than a sore loser is a sore winner.

You think Heil was happy with her silver-medal finish? She thought, we all thought, she had the gold in the bag. Canadians were counting on her for it and she knew it. But she took second place and was still full of grace and toothy grin for us all the way through - at least when everyone was looking.

How well you perform is only one part of what defines you as an athlete, a sportsman and a winner. The other part is how you carry yourself through it all.

Your silver medal performance didn’t shame your countrymen, Dale. Your crappy attitude did.

Proof Positive.

I could compose a curmudgeonly update about the ridiculous (to the point that it’s no longer dreaded by me) Valentine’s Day hoopla that’s going to go on today, but I’ve decided to leave the curmudgeoning to the self-proclaimed master - my friend DJ. You can check out his grumpfest here. I hope he writes about Valentine’s Day because the festival of Hallmark cards and chocolate-filled cardboard hearts will be berated by him with a mastery that I can only hope to one day approach. If he doesn’t, his bellyaching about the Olympics is a great read, so check that out.

Instead I’ve decided to share with you something a little more uplifting - some thoughts regarding a recent stumble-upon, my rather newish friend M.

M is in her mid-forties and very recently separated (by choice) from her husband of 24 years, with whom she has two children. She moved out of their home in the ‘burbs to take over a microscopic but uber-stylish apartment in the heart of Old Montreal, where she always wanted to live. She quit her full-time job and went freelance as an interior decorator and designer of high-end home entertainment solutions - but not before taking off on a dream vacation to Italy, alone. She has completely changed her life.

It goes without saying that M’s got guts. We understand each other pretty well, too. What impresses me the most about her, though, is the unfailingly positive attitude she carries around. All the time. About everything. Whether for a stranger or for a friend she’s never without a smile, a wink and a cheery comment. She’s spontaneous, confident and hilarious and men seem to flock around her.So what’s her secret?

As complicated as her life must be at moments (see “24 years of marriage and two kids”, above), from what I can deduce her everyday philosophy essentially boils down to three simple rules: Stay positive. Smile. Wear lip gloss.

Can it really be that simple?

I was getting ready to head out on my thousandth blind date a few nights ago (surprisingly there is no prize awarded for reaching this milestone number) and – shockingly! – feeling a bit jaded and cynical about it all. M texted me before I left home to make sure I was wearing sexy boots and not frumpy winter ones, and then again as I was en route: “Stay positive! Smile! Are you wearing lip gloss?” Check. Check. Check. It wasn’t a great date (how long can we possibly discuss motorcycles without having a wine refill?), but I left feeling pretty good about myself anyway.

A couple of days later I was rushing to a job interview (!), feeling a mixture of emotions over what I was about to do. Just before I walked through the door, a text from M: “You better be wearing good boots again. Don’t forget to stay positive! Smile! Are you wearing lip gloss?” While I quite naturally would have thought of most of these things in this situation anyway, it was a simple and nicely timed reminder. I followed her “instructions” to a tee. It was a great interview, but even if it hadn’t been, I suspect I would have still walked out feeling good about myself.

I decided to start testing out her undeclared philosophy in everyday situations - after all, it clearly worked for her. While elements of it are not necessarily practical while I’m holed up in my home office (see good boots and lip gloss), it’s all pretty elementary to put into practice when I’m out and about. Smile when I perhaps normally wouldn’t. Pay a little attention to what I look like. And most importantly, think positively (as part of the LuluLemon manifesto states, “The conscious brain can only hold one thought at a time. Choose a positive thought”).

Things started to happen: People smiled back. Men held doors open. The world seemed a little friendlier. And I felt a little happier. How easy was that?

We’ve all got lots of crap going on in our lives. I’m no exception and neither is M. And while we’re all well aware that there are myriad situations that can’t be resolved with a happy thought, a facial expression and some beauty products, in essence M is onto something. Life is complicated enough on its own, so why not control the controllables? Do a little something to make yourself feel good and don’t get mired in the muck when you don’t have to. It’ll happen enough on its own.

So stay positive. Smile. Wear lip gloss.

“Positive anything is better than negative nothing.” Elbert Hubbard

Now Appearing in Print.

Eep! I’m suddenly 41. How did that happen?

I was hoping to toss an update on here before the Big Day but like in many areas of my life, personal-writing time seems to be getting away from me lately. The 12 months since I stood atop Kelimutu in Flores and blew out the candle on my 40th-birthday pineapple have evaporated.

That’s a horribly North American affliction, isn’t it. I don’t even like saying it. I catch myself all-too-often these days at the end of a meal with barely a recollection of whether what I’ve just consumed was actually tasty or satisfying, or arriving someplace in my car and wondering how I’d even gotten there, on complete auto-pilot. I am desperately, painfully far from the days of lazing on my island, watching hours float past me and blend into one another somewhere far off, like mist.

I can protest and deny it all I want but the reality is that my mind is going a million miles an hour these days, in keeping with the pace of the crazy lifestyle many citizens lead here and with all that’s going on in my own erratic sphere. Clearly I’ve got somewhere to be. Can’t wait to find out where that might be, exactly.

Speaking of stuff going on, Lynn Harris is the author of an insightful and informative book entitled “Unwritten Rules: What Women Need to Know About Leading in Today’s Organizations.” The title is self-explanatory. Ms. Harris interviewed me by phone last May just a few weeks after I’d returned from my travel adventures (and was holed up at my parents’ place), with the idea of possibly including my riches-to-rags story in the “Corporate Refugees” section of her very intelligent book. Lo and behold, this rambling, unpolished, irrational journey I’m on survived the final edit, which I think makes her kind of cooler: Evidently she’s concerned with more than just colouring inside the lines, too. Hurrah!

The book is published and out there and I’m trying on the three pairs of black dress pants I kept from my former life to see if I can pull together an outfit that’s suitable for attending the book launch at Holt’s Cafe in 2 days so that I don’t look like someone who’s just been booted off Survivor, which is what I suspect some might be expecting to see, and which is kind of what I look like most days now.

I had the fortune of meeting the delightful Ms. Harris in person when I re-established myself in Montreal a few months ago. At that time she informed me that not only was my story going to appear in her book, but that it was in fact the closing story in the book. And not only was it the closing story, but links to both my blogs were being included.

!

She kindly sent me a follow-up email that included a succinct, point-form list of what the readers of her book were going to want updates on when (not “if,” she said – but, “when”) (really?) they visited my blog. The list looked something like this:

-Did you cave in and go back to your old life or did you continue to explore and pursue your aspiration of becoming a writer?
-What keeps you going on your path to a different kind of life?
-What challenges do you continue to face?
-How does it feel to start to achieve your aspiration of becoming a writer?
-Other stuff you are doing and why e.g. being car jockey
-What's happening with your "little piece of paradise" in Indonesia?
-How are others reacting to what you are doing? How does this affect you?
-What do you think of the book and the other stories?

For starters, greetings to anyone who’s visiting as a result of the bit in the book. I checked the traffic to my blog and there’s actually been some (read: more than 2 visitors) here and there, which leads me to believe that Lynn might have been right. So, hello. Welcome. I think you too are cool.

As to the points above, a few can be knocked off pretty quickly:

I’m back in Montreal and being all grown-up and independent-like and no longer “living with family”, as I was at the time the book went to print.

Check the archive links to the right for lots of blathering on about the car jockeying gig and other interesting jobs I’ve undertaken over the past several months.

The last time I checked, my island paradise was awesome. At least in my mind it is. I’m assuming the fruit trees have been planted by now (lots of assumptions get made when you live a 30-hour-flight away from your vacation property). Sam and my other friends there text me regularly and that makes me remember that it’s not all just a dream. I’ve tossed about the idea of using my line of credit to get the hut built sooner rather than later, but my gut tells me to hold off on that a bit until I can make sure I’m able to pay for a few more essential things back here at home. Sometimes a little rationality has to come into play. I know; it sucks. But Surga Cara is there, rough and hot and perfect and waiting patiently for me, with no schedule of its own.

Now, onto the harder stuff:

Did you cave in and go back to your old life or did you continue to explore and pursue your aspiration of becoming a writer?

No caving! Not yet. I avoid the corporate world like the plague and turn down all job offers that would drag me back into it. When I have to go to meetings in That World, I wear jeans. If f I do eventually “go back” - which I just may have to - it won’t be because I cave. It will be because I need money. So far though, incredibly to me, I haven’t had to visit that notion. I am writing and people are paying me to do it. It’s crazy. Oh, and the random odd jobs probably help out a bit, too.

What keeps you going on your path to a different kind of life?

Great question. Not sure. Often not sure. I guess just knowing for certain that there is a staggering amount of life to be lived and not being willing to give up on it, no matter the cost (and there is one – make no mistake). It’s super-hard, especially alone, but I’ve had the great, great fortune to have a few good friends and a mom who all have my back and who continue to act as supporters and sounding boards and voices of reason throughout it all. There are many moments when I feel as though I want to toss it all and go get me some stability in the form of a regular weekly paycheque, but they eventually pass and the adventure continues.

A friend recently divulged (when prompted by me) that she feels I’m sending mixed messages about my situation. That I talk the brave and adventurous talk but then whine about the hardship and about not having money. She’s right. It’s a rollercoaster ride full of good and bad, high days and low, cheerful and depressing, happy and sad. It’s life and there’s no black and white and I can’t apologize for that. I can maybe only talk about it less to some people.

What challenges do you continue to face?

Hoo boy. See virtually every entry of this blog over the last 10 months or so. Financial stability is obviously the major one. I’ve somehow managed to stay afloat this long and now I can even pay rent and stuff (albeit partly due to said random odd jobs and to the continued, systematic selling-off of my belongings...can that be considered income?) As is true for any new freelancer (and even some not-so-new ones I suppose), that could all change at any moment. That’s terrifying to no end, but also part of what keeps it exciting.

Then there’s loneliness, isolation, insecurity about the quality of my work, self-doubt and continuous second-guessing of my thoughts and actions, to name but a few. I also drink too much coffee.

How does it feel to start to achieve your aspiration of becoming a writer?

Surreal. Every time I get a copy writing contract I want to ask the client, “Are you sure you want to pay? Me? To do this?” But they seem to, so I just keep going and hope that they keep wanting to, too.

Working from home is indescribably amazing. The commute from my bedroom to my office is pretty short, and I live in loungewear every day and listen to jazz and drink coffee until 3 or 4 when I switch to wine. I go to the gym every morning. I push myself out the door at least one other time during the day or evening to combat the isolation and loneliness that comes with working from home. And I run. I’ve got to find more clients and fast, so that’s what I’m focusing on now.


How are others reacting to what you are doing? How does this affect you?

Not sure. Some will probably always think I’m crazy, but to my face lots of people say they think it’s pretty damned cool. The reality is that most people probably don’t think about it - or me - at all, and don’t even know what part of the world I’m in or what I’m doing, exactly.

I pretty much don’t care what anyone thinks about it. But it does make me feel good and rejuvenated when someone tells me they were inspired by my story, which just happened again recently.

I’m still thinking about writing a book and still considering doing some kind of public “talk” or presentation about my adventures. If nobody comes I will just talk anyway.


What do you think of the book and the other stories?

I loved reading the stories in the last chapter Lynn’s book about other women who have chucked it all in their own ways to search for something more meaningful and fulfilling. It reminds me of the messages contained in the life-changing encounters I had with courageous people from all over the world so very many times during my travels: we are all connected, and bravery and lives worth exploring abound across this planet, and women rock.

Good book. You go, girl.

"Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.” Angela Monet

New Years Present

One year ago I was holed up in a dusty, nowhere town in the middle of Laos, musing about an impending 2-day trek through the Phu Hin Bun NPA. I was worried that if nobody else signed up for the trek I’d be spending the last night of 2009 sitting around a campfire at my guesthouse with a few other disconnected backpackers who also hadn’t planned their agendas quite correctly, feeling awkward. (As it turned out the trek was a go and the evening was spent playing dominoes and drinking with the locals of a tiny, poor village, followed by sleeping on the floor of a simple hut in said village with the only two other travelers who had signed up for the trek: Jane from Australia and Sophie from France. It was purely delightful. If you’d like to read more about it, visit my travel blog . The entry is entitled “Happy New Everything”)


New Years Eve 2008: Me, Aussie Jane and Frenchie Sophie in village in Tha Khaek, Laos

I remember what promise and hope I felt for the year ahead as I lay tucked under my mosquito net in the ink-black night. How could I feel anything but pure optimism? In the space of 12 months I had spun my entire life in a dizzying 180: I’d left a 15-year career plus another job to boot; sold my home, put my stuff in storage and was now four months into the adventure of a lifetime with no end in sight. The world was truly my oyster.

Flash forward one year. My name is on the lease of a cheap, crooked old apartment in a somewhat disadvantaged area of Montreal. I am surrounded by my “things” again – a huge chunk of which I have gladly divested myself of through several more rounds of charitable donations. (You know those teeny, tiny, useless closets those old apartments have? Two of them are actually enough to house the bit of my clothing that’s survived the endless edits. ) Occasionally I get paid to write, which is still incredible to me; but I also work odd jobs to cobble together enough money to cover rent and all the other expenses one doesn’t have to worry about when in a high-end career or on a world tour, like cable and car repairs. I am going through a difficult and bewildering transition where many of my friendships are concerned, and it’s isolating and lonely and tough on the self-esteem. I don’t know what’s happening. My orbit has changed and I wasn’t prepared for that. And to top it all off, I’m still single.

So to sum it up: I have a ramshackle home in the same city I left behind, no career to speak of, no money, no boyfriend and some wonky friendships. Given all of that, it wouldn’t be hard to look upon the last half of 2009 with feelings of disappointment, disillusionment, depression. Of my adventure people seem to like to say, “Play time is over. Back to the real world, now, Cara.”

I say, go tell it to someone else.

Sure there are difficult days (and weeks. Occasionally even months.) How could there not be? No adventure comes without fear, risk, unknowns, and, yes - failures. That’s why so few embark on them.

But as I write this on the last day of 2009, I am at my sister’s home near Calgary, witnessing dawn colour the tips of the Rocky Mountains a pastel pink outside my bedroom window. I spent Christmas week here with my family, playing with my little niece and nephew and visiting with my parents and siblings. I had 2 unexpected and glorious days to reconnect with my soul sister Shauna (whom I first met on my island) at her parents’ home in Edmonton. We spoke of everything. She has gone back out into the world now, where she belongs, and where we will surely meet again; out there, somewhere.


Me, Shauna and a fully Canadian reunion: December 26, 2009


Tomorrow I will head home to Montreal and continue setting up my home office. I will not dread going back to my desk job in the corporate world, because I don’t have one of those anymore. I haven’t had one for almost two years now.

I will find some new odd jobs. Maybe at another garage. Maybe at a cafe. Maybe both.

I will exchange emails with Sam, my dear friend and the caretaker of my perfect plot of land on Gili Air, as he updates me on the progress of the fruit-tree-planting on my island paradise. Soon I will have succulent mangos, papayas, and avocados growing outside the door of my hut that I am going to build there. He will tell me about the rain.

I will continue to dream of future travel destinations - maybe trekking through New Zealand with Shauna?

Listen to me. I’m telling you.

The adventure continues.

Life is not about the knowns. Not for me; not anymore. It’s not about the security of a desk job and a paycheque and a house full of belongings and two weeks at Club Med once a year, as comforting as those things can be and have been. Comforting, but - and I must remind myself of this frequently - not the real world.

The real world is out there. It’s in the leaves of the seedling mango trees growing on my land on Gili Air. It’s in the creases in my worn map of Bangkok. It’s in the dirty hands of the children of the village in Laos who clung to my leg on New Year’s Eve 2008, begging for nothing more than attention. And it is in the faces and hearts of the people that I will meet in the odd jobs that I will do, have to do, to make money to survive.

As it should have always been, it is about the search. It is about the struggle, the desire and indeed the demand to discover and feel life in every moment of every day. To question, to seek, to find and then to seek again. Life is not in the comfort, but most certainly in the discomfort. It is not in the standing. It is in the stumble, the fall, and the getting up again.

So as I trip and stumble my way through the last day of a fantastical, difficult, transformative year, I wish you not comfort and security but life, in all its tangled glory.

Happy life. Happy New Year.

"The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul.” G.K. Chesterson

A Charlie Brown Christmas

Christmas week, 2008: I was navigating my way down the Nam Song River in a sea kayak in Vang Vieng, Laos as the sun beat down on my curls from high above the karst mountains. Later I got lost/trapped while caving with sweet Bretchje from Sweden, who had fallen out of a moving bus onto a highway just weeks before; we then rewarded ourselves for surviving our respective brushes with disaster by rope-swinging over a teal blue lagoon at the cave base. I mountain-biked through rugged and dusty terrain, searching for and finding nothing and everything. I discovered Luang Prabang and reconnected with Charlotte and Erwan from Paris, quickly knitting the warm fabric of a lasting and dear friendship. I swam under the waterfalls with all my newfound friends. I rose before the sun on Christmas Day, shivering as I knelt on the sidewalk, waiting to give alms to the monks.




Christmas week, 2009: Small wonder the season, like so many other things around me, feels so awkward this year.

Once upon a time not very long ago, you would have been hard-pressed to find a bigger die-hard Christmas fan than I. I felt and acted “Christmassy” from the first day in November that it seemed socially acceptable (and admittedly much earlier than that within the privacy of my own home. What’s wrong with playing Bing Crosby’s “The Christmas Song” in October?) Lights were dripping from every window and doorframe of my home; a riot of garland was coiled around the stair rail outside; weeks were spent writing and revising gift lists until I was sure I had the perfect thing in mind for everyone. And of course, cookies, cookies, cookies.

The gift-giving part started its descent down the slippery slope of meaning a few years ago. My grasp began to falter. The commercial nature of it all; people lining up outside Best Buy in the middle of the night to make sure they were the first to get their hands on the door-crasher specials; everyone stressing over what to get for whom and how much to spend on it...I asked myself with greater and greater emphasis each passing year: Why? What does any of it have to do with the meaning of Christmas? Or – a depressing thought - has this become the meaning of Christmas? I felt like Charlie Brown when he went to the tree lot with Linus and was bombarded with all of the fake multicoloured, multi-material, artificial trees: “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?”

Ask any kid in a Spiderman costume what the meaning of Halloween is and you’re likely to garner an incredulous glare as the little one peels off his mask just long enough to shout, “DUH.....CANDY!!!” I’ll venture a guess that nary a one (nor any adults, for that matter) would have a clue that its roots lie in the Christian holiday of All Saints and/or the Celtic festival of Samhain, with the name Halloween deriving from a 16th-century Scottish term.

Has the same thing happened to Christmas? (“DUH....PRESENTS!!!”)

Traditional gifting for me eventually morphed into a combination of making home-made treats (some of you will remember, hopefully fondly, the Irish cream and the chocolate truffles) and donating to worthy causes and organizations on behalf of others. At least these were things that made sense to me.

Last year while backpacking, my material gift-giving amounted to the mailing of five hand-painted Christmas cards made by a Bangkok artist depicting Santa chilling in a hammock in front of a traditional Thai beach bungalow. The cards astonishingly arrived at the homes of my family and friends on none other than Christmas Eve.

“Giving” last Christmas meant something different. Sticky rice to the monks (who don’t celebrate Christmas anyway). Time, sharing and caring to my new travel friends. The journey of a lifetime to myself.

Things are – I am - different now. There are no lights in my windows this year. No garland on the balcony railing. No list of gifts to buy. (There is, however, Bing Crosby still singing “The Christmas Song”, because it will always be pretty and perfect.)

You must understand I’m not being a Scrooge. This is not “bah-humbug”. More like, “bah... huh?”

I’m just quietly watching. I believe if one wants to learn and understand something old in a new light, one should try to do so from a position of neutrality and objectivity. And so I float above the fray of North American holiday madness, observing it like I observed the Muslims celebrating Mawlid in Indonesia: Something foreign, unrelated to me; curious and often confusing in its traditions and customs.

I’m not a particularly religious person, but I am spiritual... yet the spirit of Christmas eludes me. Curious to understand more, I googled “Christmas spirit” and “definition”. Wikipedia offered up this gem: “The Christmas Spirit is a Christmas album and seventeenth album by country singer Johnny Cash, released on Columbia Records in November 1963 (see 1963 in music). It contains four original Christmas songs written by Cash and eight tracks originally penned by other artists, including "Blue Christmas", "Silent Night" and "Little Drummer Boy".

Sigh.

In a few days I’ll be boarding a plane out west to spend the holidays with my whole family. It’s the first time in ten years that we will all be together on Christmas. I will catch up with my sister and my brother; I will play with my niece and nephew and watch the magic of the season fill their eyes and take over their little bodies; I will get up to silliness with my mother, as always.

I think that there, amidst the crumpled paper, commotion and cookies, lies what I might come to understand to be Christmas Spirit. My sister's home is good that way.

Although I am 13,000 km from where I was a year ago geographically and as a person much farther away than that, this Christmas is identical to last year’s in one important way: I will give with my heart.

Wishing you all a Christmas full of spirit and meaning.

“To perceive Christmas through its wrapping becomes more difficult with every year” E.B. White

The Wanderer

I realize now why everything feels so wonky and weird around me - my space, my friends, my skin...

Travel is the answer.

I am not meant to sit still. I am meant to travel.

I am not of this apartment, of this street, of this city. My heart and mind live out in the world now, and there is so much of it yet to discover. I have taken but a tiny bite of a corner of one sliver of a pie of unfathomable proportions, and it has left me famished. I need more.

I think I finally understand that this is why I can't get comfortable with anything since my return. It's like trying to wear someone else's skin.

For now, I will put my head down and work; do what I need to do. Save what money I can.

And then, I will leave again.


“Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quiestest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.” Pat Conroy

Marching Onward.

“Life is a series of experiences, each of which makes us bigger, even though it is hard to realize this. For the world was built to develop character, and we must learn that the setbacks and grieves which we endure help us in our marching onward.”
Henry Ford

Yup, Hank, it’s pretty hard to realize this alright. If your musing has any truth to it, then I’m a giant marchin’ fool right about now. It’s been a character-building few days.

But seriously, now– he’s got a point. Too often our disappointments and feelings of disillusionment stem from our own overblown expectations or egotistical assumptions that when we’re riding a wave, it’s got a responsibility to keep on carrying us right to shore. Here, one of my favourite Isak Dinesen quotes comes to mind: “God made the world round so we would never be able to see too far down the road.” Ride that wave when you can, but never think for a second that it can’t or won’t dump you head-first into the sand whenever it wants. Be happy when you’re happy - but never let yourself get too cocky about it.

No unspeakable tragedy has befallen me. No horrifying setback has occurred. It’s more the re-crystallization of an understanding that had maybe liquefied and slipped away from me a little recently.

I was unexpectedly and unceremoniously released from my car jockeying duties on Sunday, seemingly mere milliseconds after I blogged about how much I love the job. Just not busy enough, plain and simple. Rush is over. We strolled to the accountant’s office, the cash was counted out into my palm, and off I went. No chance to say goodbye, as half the guys don’t work on Sundays. It has happened to countless others on countless occasions before me. There was nothing special or personal about it. But this was me it was happening to. One small world, removed.

Once, not very long ago, I had four jobs. Then it was down to three. Then two. Now I have one. Who am I now, in this new reality? What do I do next? I must strip away the ego and regroup once again.

In this life we are jolted and jostled about like so much space junk; cosmic commuters on a crowded subway platform. There is little control; you go where you are pushed, though it may well not be where you were aiming. The best you can do is hang on, hope to make it through in one piece and reorient yourself when you’re spit out on the other side; a strange new orbit to explore.

And eventually, the universe corrects itself again. I baked up a storm and took the boys in a ton of treats during their break on Tuesday, ensuring we had a proper farewell. My boys; my friends, who quietly and without ceremony took up a collection amongst themselves so that I could join in on the go-karting fun with them last weekend.

Then, shockingly and with uncannily perfect timing, Revenue Canada dropped pennies from heaven into my bank account; the result of an overlooked T4 slip somewhere. Thanks to them I need not worry so much about 3 weeks of lost revenue from the garage. I can rustproof my car so that it might hang on through a few more obnoxious Montreal winters. I can buy my little niece and nephew an activity book for Christmas.

And where a few days ago I was faced with the awkward reality of spending my first Christmas alone in Montreal, my sister and brother have now graciously offered to fly me out to their home in Big Sky Country so that our whole family can be together for the holidays, for the first time in forever.

I am humbled by it all.

Up and down, back and forth. Elastic souls stretched so often to the point of breaking, only to be released with a relieving yet painful snap at the last second. We are astonishingly resilient.

In this life, there is good and bad. Lightness and dark. Yin and Yang. We are foolish to forget, and more foolish to grasp hold too tightly of only one truth or the other, ignoring the inherent grace or furor that will surely be bestowed upon us.

And we must march onward, with characters brimming and hearts anew.

It is written in the stars.

What I Love About Being a Car Jockey: By Cara Vogl

“People enjoy chopping wood. In this activity one immediately sees results.” Albert Einstein

This isn’t the first time I’m using Al’s wood-whacking musing in my blog. The first time, I had just fired myself and taken off to the deep woods of northern Ottawa to help my then-boyfriend renovate his ramshackle cottage for a few weeks.

I reflected upon that time with simplicity:

“There is nothing like manual labour to tax the body, clear the mind and free the spirit. When I went to bed each night, every part of my physical being was exhausted. I was using my body in the way it was designed to be used. More, after years spent sitting at an office desk spinning my wheels wondering what the point of it all was, to engage myself in something that quickly produced tangible and measurable results was supremely gratifying. It was a glorious experience which I repeated often over the next several weeks. It was my yoga.”

Little has changed since then with regard to my feelings about manual labour, except that I think I feel even more strongly about it now. That, and... I’ve traded my tool belt for tires.

Yup. In addition to being a public relations consultant (currently under contract!) and an unevenly employed freelance copy writer, I, Cara Vogl, am a car jockey. (I took a permanent recess from teaching a few weeks ago. Long story; right decision.)

What’s that you say? You don’t know what a car jockey is?

Well, I’m thinking you know what a car is. So here’s the definition of a jockey:

n., pl., -eys.
Sports.
1. One who rides horses in races, especially as a profession.
2. Slang. One who operates a specified vehicle, machine, or device: a bus jockey; a computer jockey.

So, in a nutshell: I take these cars over here, and I put ‘em over there. When the mechanics are done fiddling with all the wingdings and slapping new tires on them over there, I take ‘em and I bring ‘em back over here.

I’m fine with having one of my jobs defined by slang. I think I even like it. It’s befitting.

It was all pretty serendipitous how the job came about and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that here I am, four or five weeks in, and I love it.

It’s possible you might wonder what there is to love (or even what matters) about moving cars around from one place to another for 18 or 20 (lately, 24!) hours a week.

Two of my three jobs are rather isolating, as I work for myself and mostly from home. True, this is one of my dreams realized – but it is not without pockets of loneliness. Jockeying provides me with some important social interaction for a few hours every week....and what an interaction it is: Me and thirty-odd mechanics, tire jockeys, other car jockeys and front-office staff, slinging back as much microwave-reheated Tim’s and canteen crap as our pocket change permits while we think up an endless creative ways to torture, tease and otherwise pull hijinks on each other in between fixing cars and serving customers. It is a true riot, and it is the only time during my week that I don't really have to think. I smile and I laugh; and I smile, and I laugh.

Aside from the owner’s wife and the part-time cleaning lady, I am the only female on staff. The boys have nicknamed me Halfday, in reference to my skidding out of there at noon each day to head off to my contract job. For a while it was Mitsy Halfday, as I’ve taken to wearing mittens in the often cold garage; but that sounded too much like...well, some other kind of profession. They have done a graceful job of striking a balance between ensuring that they treat me with respect and including me in the good-natured fun. Jokes told in my presence never quite cross the line. They call on me specifically when the hot little sport cars need to be moved and then rate how I look in each one as I pull out of the bays (and rib me in equal proportion when I go lurching out in the junkheap jalopies). I bake them chocolate chip cookies to help get them through a busy Saturday. This weekend we’re all going go-carting together. I can’t afford to join in on the actual four-wheeled fun, so I’ve offered to be the pit girl. You know - change a few tires, possibly fix some troublesome mechanical issues....that sort of thing. The point is that I am included. They have accepted me into their close-knit, greased-up world. Or maybe it was just the cookies. No matter. I look forward to every shift.

Car jockeying also provides me with a unique and uncommon viewpoint from which to observe and study intricate aspects of human nature and the human condition. I am dismayed at the level of disregard with which most individuals treat the second-largest purchase of their lives. I take mental note of how few listen to classical music, and how many listen to talk radio. I know which of you eat in your cars (and unfortunately, sometimes, what you eat). I know who pretty much lives on the road and who only ever drives to the corner store and back. I most definitely know if you smoke or have a dog or kids. I sometimes even know if you have a mistress....but I will not tell you how I know.

And I see the way some of you look at me, sizing up what you think my life is about in 15 seconds, based on the job I do. You are the ones I give the biggest smiles to.

But of course, the ones I get to know best aren’t the customers, but my workmates. I am reminded daily that we can become intricately woven into colourful human tapestries we never knew existed, simply by forging connections with individuals that we would never normally have the opportunity to connect with.

There is C, the handsome and hilarious gentleman with Tigger-like energy and optimism who lives in a world that’s a cross between the Dukes of Hazard and a live Elvis concert from the 50s. M, who is heartbroken after his wife of 17 years went back to Mexico with their two children, and who is counting down the days until he too can return to the homeland. As he slings tread-bare tires onto the discarded pile, he proclaims with a crooked half-smile and a heartbreaking measure of sarcasm, “Papa would be so proud.”

R, who at the tender age of 25 already has a wife and three children under the age of 3 at home, and who happily and willingly stays after hours at the end of a long and tiring shift on his own time and on his family’s time, to fix my cranky car at no charge.

Tall and lanky P, who hops into his perfectly polished little red sports car with music blaring full-blast every day at 10:30 to make the run to Tim’s for the mid-morning re-fuel.

There are of course so many more. There is every letter of the alphabet; every colour under the sun. Every personality trait, the good and the not-so-good. There is Greek, Trinidadian, French Canadian, Philipino, Mexican, Italian, and more.

It is a world. And I am all about worlds.

I already miss my new family, though there are still a few weeks left before I’m laid off for the quiet season.

We are all doing what we can to make our own ways. We work hard and we have fun. We smile and we laugh; and we smile, and we laugh. If you can say the same about how you spend your days, then you are as lucky as I am.

“The heights of great men reached and kept/ Were not obtained by sudden flight/ But they, while their companions slept/ Were toiling upward in the night.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Home.

Tomorrow is the day.

For the first time in 456 days, I will have an address. A place to call home.

I suppose it’s a rather monumental moment and there’s no doubt that I should be blogging about it...I just don’t know what to write. Maybe in part because I‘m not sure how I feel. I suppose some might imagine that there would be nothing but happiness, relief, joy at settling in again and benefiting from some stability after months of adventure and change. And it’s partly true.

I’m absolutely excited about seeing my things again, but not for the reason some might imagine.

Mostly I can’t wait to send another huge honkin’ load of it to the Goodwill.

Over the last year-plus I have edited, and then edited, and then edited my edited edits of belongings. Still, tonight when I stood gaping at the stockpile of cardboard boxes full of perplexing heaps of mostly-unwanted clothing and shoes in my storage space, I kind of wanted to take a flamethrower to it all. I have lived without all of it for more than 10,000 hours and I am absolutely fine. Finer than fine. I partly hate that I have to do anything with it at all. That it even exists. Can I tell the movers to load up the truck and just keep on going?

Yet, I do look forward to sleeping on my space-age Tempur-Pedic mattress (after a year-plus of sleeping on everything from straw mats in Laos to fold-out futons in friends’ basements); I can’t wait to curl up with a glass of wine in my gigantic, squooshy Montauk chair; I visualize what my bookshelf will look like when it is once again populated with my favourite books.

I do miss some of my things, but my wants are diminished now. My needs are few. I have changed my life, and as a result, I have changed. Or perhaps it’s the other way around.

As much as I look forward to getting re-acquainted with an elite selection of my stuff, it brings a certain sense of sadness with it as well. That storage space, the steel box that represented my freedom and my mobility, will be no more. I will once again be the keeper of my keepsakes, paying a monthly fee for essentially just a different kind of storage place...one that has windows and Wi-Fi and cable TV.

The adventure isn’t coming to an end, but it’s definitely about to take a different direction, and change is always scary.

It is said that home is where the heart is, and my heart belongs to the world now.

504 Osborne is just the next stopover.


"I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself." Maya Angelou

Give a Little Thanks

Every night when I snuggle down into the bed (I can’t say “my bed”, as I haven’t actually slept on my own in over 14 months), just before dozing off I mentally say a quick little prayer of thanks: Thanks for the purely safe, warm and delightful feeling that that pocket of time between wake and slumber unfailingly brings and for how lucky I am to be able to experience it every night (save for a few nights of dodgy accommodations and situations whilst on my world travels); thanks for making it through another day in one piece and without causing anyone else too much harm, either, hopefully; thanks that I get to close my eyes and check out of the world for a few hours in the form of that most awesome of states, sleep; thanks for the knowledge that I’m most likely going to wake up in the morning with a chance to start over. It’s a simple and innocent little exercise that makes me feel good; like I’ve taken care of business, no matter what shenanigans might have taken place in my day.

What I’m not sure of is why it makes me feel that way.

Where does the power of gratitude come from? Is there one? Does saying “thank you” feel good simply because it forces us to get out of our own way for a minute, to realize that we’re pretty damned lucky just as we are despite our constant soundtrack of self-aggrandized woes?

There are endless writings dedicated to gratitude: the essence and power of it, how to practice it, what can manifest in your life as a result of said practice and so on. I’ve read some on it, listened to one mind-bendingly complicated CD book on it, dabbled around with the concept from time to time. I do believe there’s something to it, but suffice it to say you won’t find any inspirational plaques or posters on my walls attesting to the secrets and miracles I’ve discovered about it.

I’ve never gotten anywhere particularly epiphany-worthy with the concept of gratitude beyond the simplified knowledge that it makes me feel good and present and alive and humble and yes – out of my own way - when I do it. Whether the universal laws of attraction and all that really do come into play, I don’t know. I just know that it feels right.

Interestingly (at least to me), the most powerful moments related to my own personal gratitude occur completely unexpectedly, at random times and places. I think I like these moments even more because they are unscheduled, unforeseen, and thus incredibly powerful – a feeling similar to when you’re in the ocean and a wave sneaks up from behind you and catches you by surprise, taking your breath away. Except the gratitude moments are less salty.

Full moons, out-of-place rainbows, the riotous colours of the leaves on the trees that stand ragged sentinel along my route to Ontario. When I run. When I write. When I work out, when I walk and talk with my best friend, when it rains, when I think about my island paradise. At the risk of getting too wall-plaque-ish-sounding, there really are countless random moments and things that I find myself grateful for.

Naturally, as is also the law of the universe, it’s not always that easy to be grateful. Struggling to find work was a tough one to be thankful for, until my best friend reminded me how lucky I was to have had 18 months off to do essentially whatever I want with. I haven’t dreaded a Monday morning, yearned for 5pm on Friday, sat in a boring meeting or had to wake up with an alarm clock since May 1, 2008. Fantastic, and for the vast majority of people, unattainable.

And now, the pendulum has swung in the complete opposite direction. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew work-wise taking on not two, not three, but count ‘em, FOUR jobs - and am quite frankly terrified to get back to Montreal and try to hit the ground running. I’ve got two months of nonstop madness ahead of me, and I’ve no idea how I’ll get it all done without pissing anyone off or having some type of breakdown myself, or worst of all, getting canned from one of said four jobs. Here too I must constantly remind myself to be thankful instead of freaking out and whining. A little more than a month ago I had no job at all, no money coming in, and no certainty about what I was going to do or where I was going to go next. Now suddenly I’m being paid to write – my dream come true – and with the other three jobs I’ve still somehow managed to avoid the corporate world and its capers (although I’m not allowed to wear jeans when I teach, which I silently but eternally protest).

So far, I’ve done it. So far, so good. I must learn to be thankful for the bags under my eyes that will appear, for the lack of sleep, for the pressure and the stress that are coming. It means I’m working hard. It means I’m working, period. It means I can finally afford get a place to call home (can I? I feel short of breath even writing it); it means I am contributing again.

It is in those moments, more than all others – when I want to quit, give up, cry, hide under the covers – that I - that all of us - must remember to say thank you.

I’m home now, in my old room and my old bed again. It’s my last day of hiding out from the big crazy world, tucked away safe and sound here under mom’s nurturing wing where nobody can get me. In a few hours the smell of roasting turkey and pumpkin pie will fill the air and we will raise a glass of wine and toast each other and this will be all that counts for a brief while.

It’s a nice tradition, having a day set aside to remind us how much we have to be thankful for. But the secret I’ve discovered is, when you remember to show a little gratitude, every day can be Thanksgiving.

Thanks for reading.

Cough. Rumble. Wheeze. Grumble. Protest. Sputter. Quit. Repeat.

It’s woefully evident that I haven’t been inspired to blog much lately: Some re-marketed thoughts on materialism and a half-assed back-to-school update are all I’ve haphazardly chucked on here through most of the summer.

Although, maybe “inspired” isn’t the correct word choice. I’m wondering if I’ve just lost focus of, and faith in, the point of medium.

What is a blog? Why do we keep one? Most importantly...WHO’S READING THIS THING, ANYWAY??

Loads of people say that blogging should be undertaken first and foremost for oneself and not for others. Wikipedia offers this gem: “Personal bloggers usually take pride in their blog posts, even if their blog is never read by anyone but them.”

Eh. I’m not buying it.

The way I see it, if these screenfuls of boundless pontificating, far-flung ruminating and general waffling-on were truly intended for an audience of one, the resulting amalgam would be referred to as a “journal” (one of which I’ve faithfully kept since the age of about 14) and no matter how hard they searched nobody would ever be able to find it (although I’m 100% confident that my mom and my sister found mine on more than one occasion over the years. Completely by accident, of course.)

So the lined paper journal (with its useless little golden lock and key, back in the day), full of our innermost private thoughts, clearly has its place. On the other hand, it seems to me that we blog because we have something to say that for whatever reason, we think or hope others might want to read about. Little doubt that this holds true for a select list of celebrity gossip, tech info and recipe blogs. But what about the billions of us other unknowns who hopefully and often hopelessly hit the upload button every day, week, or in my case, season?

Am I the only one that gets excited when someone comments on my blog post – because it means someone actually read it?

I was coming perilously close to giving up completely on the blogging idea when a lovely meeting with a smart woman in a Parisian-style cafe yesterday changed my mind.

Damn her!

The elegant and charming L wrote a book about women in the corporate world (yes, that’s an intentionally-vague description on my part) that’s being published in a few months and I’m in it. Not only am I in it, turns out I’m the CLOSING STORY in it. And not ONLY am I the closing story in it – but she informed me that she’s also included the link to this blog in it.

!

To calm me down (and no doubt out of a sense of responsibility to her own readers to some degree) she was kind enough to send me a list of the subjects that readers of her book will want to be updated on when (not if, but when, according to her) they visit my blog. The list includes (but not exhaustively): Did I cave in and go back to my old corporate lifestyle? If not, what am I doing now? How am I coping and what are the challenges I’m facing? What’s the latest on my little island paradise in Indonesia? And of course, the timeless and ever-popular: Do people think I’m crazy?

So. My blog apparently is going to get some visits. As a result I feel a newfound and slightly overwhelming sense of responsibility to try really hard to populate this space with interesting fodder, and certainly on a much more regular basis. How I’m going to accomplish that will be a feat of miracles in and of itself, as I’m quite literally on the cusp of being busier than I’ve probably ever been in my entire life.

They say if you want something done, give it to a busy person. If the adage holds any water, my little space here in the ether is about to spring back into action. Guess we’ll (or I’ll) see. (ARE there any of you out there who are actually reading this? Drop me a comment to let me know. Thanks.)

Time to dust this relic off, turn the crank a few times and see if I can bully it back to life again.

Cough. Rumble. Wheeze. Grumble. Protest. Sputter. Quit. Repeat.



“Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but in the ability to start over.” F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ink Wells and Alarm Bells.

The school supply aisle at my local office equipment store is a bewildering place. From what I recall of my own college days (close to 20 years ago, ahem), selection was nowhere near what it is today. Back then you showed up on the first day with more or less the same binders, notebooks and writing utensils as all your mates (and then quickly proceeded to express your individuality through Napoleon-Dynamite-ish pen tattoos, teeth marks and other cool, destructive actions).

Now? Binders: skinny, fat, medium, transparent, zippy-kind, flexible spine, iPod pocket, bullet-proof. The writing utensil aisle (not “section” – a whole aisle!) which one might think would have dwindled down to a couple of pegs of plastic Bics with the proliferation of the computer, instead makes me positively swoon with its riot of colours, ink types, opacities, grips, highlighters and nib sizes. The passing of two decades seems to taunt me at every turn: “Of COURSE you should consider acid-free page protectors! Recycled paper, natch! And don’t forget an external hard drive to back up your homework!”

Or maybe I’m just feeling overly-sensitive.

After all, I’m going back to school.

Getting the correct schedule and course outline, wandering around lost trying to find my classroom, figuring out how I’m going to get everything done that needs to be done under impossible time constraints, a million new faces, all-nighters – there are some things about school that never change.

And I suppose this year, like all the years before, things will eventually fall into a natural rhythm. First-day jitters will fade away; a few faces will begin to look familiar; the cafeteria coffee will start to taste not-half-bad; the work will miraculously get done on time.

The biggest difference this time around is that I’m not a student. I’m the teacher.

“To be a teacher in the right sense is to be a learner. I am not a teacher, only a fellow student.” Soren Kierkegaard

The Ties That Bind

While in India last year I went to Birla House, the place of Mahatma Gandhi’s 1948 assassination. It was an unexpectedly sombre and moving day; walking in the humble, bare-chested man’s final footsteps, following the last few hours leading up to his demise. What affected me more than anything was the display of Gandhi’s worldly possessions at the time of his death. There behind glass on a wall in his austere room lay a careful arrangement of his belongings: a pair of wire rimmed spectacles, pocket watch, prayer book, sandals, a brass bowl and plate and a couple of other small, modest items.

That was all.

Gandhi led an ascetic life, living well outside the confines of personal possessions; a man of the world and of the people. He left behind nothing material to speak of; only a legacy of nonviolence and moral leadership that will last forever. As he himself said, “My life is my message.”

It begs the question: how much does what we have, have to do with who we are?

I’m ruminating on this as I’m driving over the bridge to the South Shore of Montreal. I snap back to consciousness and look around me: to both sides, cars and trucks headed out of town crammed full to the top with vacation and camping gear, bicycles strapped to the back, Thule storage bins tied to the roof, trailers in tow.

I think more: Wallet, purse, duffle bag, tote bin, shopping cart, backpack, car, truck, trailer, moving van, locker, rented storage space, house, safe, safety deposit box, coffee can buried in the back yard.

We all seem to have a tremendous amount stuff to carry around with us and a bunch more stuff to stash away in various ways and places, for apparent safekeeping. There are entire companies dedicated to our ever-growing storage needs, offering a full range of containers we need to buy in order to stash away all the things we already bought but don’t need at the moment.

What is it all? What are things? What do they mean to us, and why do we feel the overwhelming need to hang on to so many of them, inconveniently hauling them with us wherever we go?

Up until very recently, every time I’d visit my storage space my body would begin a series of subtle, negative reactions. As I approached unit number V2208 with its robin egg blue, corrugated metal door standing quiet sentinel over the lifetime of accumulated belongings inside, I’d get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach and start to break out in a bit of a sweat. The process was always the same: I’d fumble with the lock, wrestle the door up in a clanging rattle and then stand there for a moment in the jarring aftermath of silence, staring, getting my bearings.

I’d feel a sense of hopelessness and ambivalence as my mind skittered through a barrage of questions with seemingly no answers: What is all this stuff, and does it really all belong to me? When will I ever see these things all unpacked and on display again, and do I even want to? Where? How many more months can I continue to let a fat sum be charged to my credit card for keeping all my belongings safe in this lovely climate- and humidity-controlled environment? And why are there heavy boxes piled on top of my fragile antique table when I specifically told the movers not to put anything on it?

Eventually I’d suppress the feelings and get down to the business at hand, which generally amounted to bullying the boxes around until I found whatever article it was that I felt I needed to retrieve that day. Pull the clattering door back down into place and lock up, leaving my stuff behind, divorced once again.

Perhaps we believe that material things are what connect us to this world we live in. If we own things, we have a semblance of stability; a place where we belong on the planet, where we’ve set down roots. An identity. For certain we are led to believe that things enhance or help define our personality – for example, the kind of car we drive or the clothes we wear. This often then develops into the inexplicable and excessive accumulation of said things.

Is it due to boredom? Do we buy things simply because we have time and money and we can? Do we discover needs that must be filled, needs we somehow never had before, created by clever marketing? Or perhaps it’s the tyranny of choice: We simply have too much of everything to choose from and therefore choose it all (I think there’s definitely something to this last point – alas, for another blog entry). Are we afraid that the trinket we finally decide to surrender to charity is the exact item we’ll have a need for the very next day – even though we haven’t so much as looked at that item for the last 5 years?

Susan Sanders Wansbrough offers this: “We overvalue what we have. Whether it is the price we paid for it or the effort it took to obtain it, we find it hard to let something go for less than what it took us to get it in the first place. Even if we no longer need it or like it.”

The last time I paid a visit to my things it was to try to cobble together a suitable job interview outfit. Ever seen what a blazer looks like after it’s been crammed into a cardboard storage box for a year?

This time, my outlook was different. My body wasn’t reacting the same way. As I went through the familiar motions with the lock and the door, I felt a faint flutter in my heart and broke into a smile. These four walls still house far too much stuff. Clearly I haven’t yet been enlightened to the point that I can be content owning nothing more than a pair of reading glasses and a spoon. But in sharp contrast, I gradually came to realize that this also represents my freedom. As hard as it’s been at times to be a vagabond, to continuously search for the next place to sleep, the next friend to take me in, I now understand what a rare and amazing opportunity lies before me.

So what if this overpriced locker has cost me the equivalent of a couple of weeks at Club Med?

It’s the price to pay for having wings.

Never before in my adult life have I been so utterly mobile. I’ve got stuff, and a lot of it – but it ties me to nothing. I can go anywhere, at any time. I can start anew. I can settle or I can roll. I am a drifter, a wanderer, a shape-shifter and a life changer; I am fluid, and I am free.

In choosing a year ago to live without my things, did I change who I am? And if I continue to live without them, does it change who I will become?

If Gandhi were still here, I would find a way to ask him.

“As long as you derive inner help and comfort from anything, keep it.” Mahatma Gandhi