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

Be Still, My Heart

Inspiration and insight can at times come from the most unlikely and unexpected places.

When I met face-to-face a couple of weeks ago with the target of my writing/travel/ lifestyle envy (see second-to-last blog entry if you’re mystified), I wasn’t sure what to expect. My new approach to life dictates that I must no longer have expectations of any one or thing, but I was admittedly curious about the pending encounter. I thought it might end up as a sensible and focused discussion (wedged in between her many important writing assignments) over a cup of coffee, whereby I could quick-pick her brain about writing (not that I had any idea what I would ask her) with the hope of gleaning some information that might project me forward one day into the ethereal world of Becoming a Writer.

But it was so much more.

It turned out to be one of those connections that takes on a life of its own; where no one leads the conversation - it leads itself. Time flowed as easily as the sangria and I walked away feeling energized and a touch sad that it was over so soon. We talked about writing, but it ended up being about other very cool stuff, too. I’m not even sure exactly what, and I’m not about to wreck it with analysis. Suffice it say: Man, I really like this chick.

What’s even more exhilarating is that this was the second such encounter of its kind in less than a week. I made another new friend, ironically via a potential freelance writing gig that never materialized. While I was initially disappointed about my failure to secure the contract (why was I disappointed? I am an unpublished, unproven writer), all associated thoughts quickly faded into the background as I realized that the writing project was nothing more than a vehicle; a door for me to walk through and close behind me, as something so much more valuable and enduring was waiting for me on the other side: a new friend.

Life is fantastic in this way. Where we think we’re headed is so often not where we end up.

I believe that keeping quiet and still (I mean this in many ways) since my return to Canada has played an important role in the amazing experiences and interactions that I’ve been enjoying of late. In a recent blog entry I confessed to feeling as though I had no identity; to feeling lost and out of place. I’m now realizing that my current state - one of serenity and acute awareness - is somehow tied to this previous condition; in a way even dependent on it. The two are inextricably intertwined.

Quietness and stillness are challenging and often dreaded states. As I touched on in a previous entry, many of us make sure to keep very busy with other stuff in order to avoid them. If we focus exclusively on the external, on the needs of others, on work and social demands and finances and trips to Wal-Mart, there’s no time to face the really tough questions - the ones that lie within each of us. It’s avoidance at its peak. Giving oneself permission to get lost for an undetermined amount of time is nothing, if not terrifying.

But by giving in to these conditions, by often rather painfully forcing myself to accept them, something new has opened up in me–a channel of sorts, if you will – through which I am inviting and allowing astonishing things to occur.

Peace is arriving; a state of grace is upon me; the living is now.

I am as light as a feather.

Above the Fray

Montreal: Parc des Rapides, Lachine: St-Jean-Baptiste Day. I am nestled precariously amidst the tumble of rocks beside the rapids; the sound of hurried water against stoic stone filling my ears, lulling me with its unrelenting, aggressive rumble. I want to nap, but not on a rock. I want to string a hammock up between the trees like back in Thailand or Laos, next to the Mekong; or like in Indonesia, next to the ocean. Back then. When time had no meaning; when there was no outside world – only the world I experienced every day.

Happy blue-and-white day.

Blue and white: like the flags and the houses of Greece; like my white skin against the icy turquoise waters of the lagoons in Laos; like the white clouds against the cobalt sky against the white sands of Gili Air.

Blue and white.

I feel little attachment to this place now, this province I called home for so long. Perhaps I do need a fresh start. Maybe Toronto, maybe somewhere else. Choice is mine. I am a child of the world, and it is truly my oyster. I live somewhere just above the fray of daily life, breathing in the realization that material things do not define me, do not affect my state of grace. I need a job, so, I’ll get one. But it has nothing to do with who I am. It’s not my life; it’s only my life situation.

My friends – my dear, loving, generous and caring friends – are here. But that’s just geography. Our love melts miles and banishes borders. Never before have my blessings of friendship been so evident to me. These days I am truly a product of their charity. They open their homes and hearts to me; we sit and talk and share and nobody cares that I, who was once gainfully employed and swathed in material success, am now homeless and jobless and broke. They humble me with their generosity and kindness in uncountable ways.

All I truly need is already upon me. This is astounding and it makes me feel at peace.

Life, 2.0

I admit it. Facebook actually is good for more than just playing Lexulous and making drive-by comments on high-school-era photos posted by long-lost peers. Recently I used it to connect with a friend-of-a-friend acquaintance who had something I wanted - a life as a writer. As fate would have it, through our exchanges I found out we have something unforeseen in common: a love of travel. Mine is relatively newfound; hers is quite established. She travelled around the world all through her twenties and continues to do so today, into her thirties. Except that now I think magazine and newspaper people pay her to do it.

She writes. Extremely well. She travels. A lot. Wait – so aside from loving travel and our mutual friends, what exactly do I have in common with this person? Umm.....we’re both female? We both have two “a”s in our first name? We’re both on Facebook? That’s a lot....right?

I am unspeakably envious of her. If I was very psychotic and had evil superpowers I could suggest a movie remake, starring me as the villain and the Writer-Traveler as the hapless victim, and call it “Invasion of the Lifestyle Snatchers”.

All jealousy aside (ahem), it’s therapeutic and comforting to be in touch with someone who understands what I’m going through. We discussed culture shock and social and professional reintegration. In her truly insightful style, she offered me this sage(and, naturally, well-worded) tidbit: “The biggest challenge of all for people like you and I is not the time that we spent traveling and learning about each other, it's the post-travel world that we now have to navigate. We are changed, but the society we have to fit into is not.”

Surprisingly, I’m discovering that this part of my journey is demanding the most courage yet. What compounds the issue and makes it extra-challenging for me is that I am not returning to the same life or lifestyle that I left behind. Many people I met traveling were on a leave-of-absence from work (i.e. a secure job to go back to) and/or had rented out their homes (i.e. a home to go back to) whilst on the road. Post-travel, many of them would return to their former life, or at the very least, to their former address. My old career is gone, and so is my old home. I haven’t had a place to call my own in almost a year now. I haven’t listened to my own music, slept in my own bed, or cooked myself a meal in just as long. And it’s been even longer than that since I last worked and had an income.

Nothing is as it was.

I’m back. I’m still Cara, but I’m Cara 2.0, trying to find my place in the 1.0 version of the world that I left behind so many months ago. I’m a free agent. I don’t know where I belong, or what to do. Frankly, I’m worried. Which is just a less-scary word for “scared”.

Reading through some of my pre-travel blog posts, I came across this from just before I left (chopped up and edited for the purpose of this entry):

“When one teeters at the edge of a precipice of change, between old and new, between the known and the unknown, the fear can be paralyzing. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a job, a relationship, a new school, a tattoo, a different colour of paint for your bedroom, or a trip around the world. It’s all relative to one’s experience and they can all be equally terrifying in their own right.

Just today my fear reminded me how much easier it would be to stay here, in my old bed in my old room, in this city where I don’t have to look at the street names to know where I’m going; where everyone you pass in the street says hello. Where I know the score, every day. It’s as safe as a warm blanket.

But that blanket also acts as an insulator. And while that may feel safe and warm, it’s not healthy in a grander sense. I can’t live like this forever; with no job, no home, no responsibility. Mom taking care of me. It’s been a lovely respite, but it’s not the real world. And to face the real world after the havoc I have wreaked on my own life in the last few months, it’s going to take an extra dose of courage.

Time waits for no one. I’m not getting any younger, and my bank account balance certainly isn’t getting any bigger. It’s time to face the big scary monster.”

I may as well have written that post today. I’m astonished to find myself grappling with these exact same feelings, so many months and so many adventures and experiences later (except back then it was about travel, and now it’s about going back to work, forging a new life).

I might be Cara 2.0, but some parts of the old operating system are clearly hardwired and extremely resistant to upgrades.

My soul sister Shauna, who has boldly reinvented herself and re-written the rules of her life not once but twice already (and is still traveling the world, currently eating sardines off a fishing dock somewhere in Morocco), knows what she’s talking about: “Recreating yourself is the most painful thing you will ever do. The beauty is that you will come out on the other side better that ever. But it’s frightfully scary, it’s painful, it’s stressful, and you are without an identity for awhile. That’s the worst part...you don’t really know where you fit in, where you’re going, or how to get there. You are without an identity”.

I am without an identity, yet in some strange way, I also feel as though I know myself better than ever.

When I quit my job, I was a Quitter (and a Freedom Fighter, and a Truth Seeker, and a bunch of other cool names that I could capitalize). Then I added to that: a Seller (my home), and eventually, a Traveler. Now I am back and I don’t know what I am. Aside from “Cara 2.0”, there’s no label for this. I don’t know what to ask of myself or to expect of myself. I am disappointed in the “shoulds” that I have allowed to creep back into my daily thoughts and self-talk. There are no “shoulds” when one is re-writing one’s own life rules, but like weeds, they are stubborn buggers. They weave an intricate dance; intertwine themselves with my imagined social pressures – to work, to succeed, to be something great, to not be hiding out at my parents’ place. They threaten to choke out the courage and adventurous spirit that have fueled my actions for more than a year now.

Despite all of this self-piteous waffling, there is hope and there is faith. I still know somewhere way, way down deep inside that this is the right path. I chose this, and while it might not be clear to me right now, I must have chosen it for a very good reason. My best friend B, who’s going through a major life-revamp of his own, reminds me regularly of how fortunate we are to be in positions where we are even able to make such sweeping choices and changes. So very many people are not; or if they are, simply choose instead to keep busied with day to day life so that they are not forced to look inside themselves and face the really tough stuff. Timothy Ferriss, author of the gutsy book “The Four Hour Work Week”, sums this up perfectly: “What on earth do you do when you no longer have work as an excuse to be hyperactive and avoid the big questions? Be terrified and hold on to your ass with both hands, apparently.”

I don’t know where I’m going or how many more times I’m going to stumble and fall along the way,(oh, so very many), but I will keep exploring. I will grasp on to my dreams, like my little patch of island paradise in Southeast Asia, and protect them with might. I will hold close the words of my amazing, brave friends who have been there and done that and survived and thrived. I will remember the words of French writer Andre Gide each night when I go to bed: “One doesn't discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.”

Now I’ll go post this on Facebook.

Living the Dream

I’ve started remembering my dreams again. I don’t know if it it’s a good sign, a bad sign, or no sign. Does it mean anything when we remember our dreams? Does it mean anything when those dreams are about useless stuff like having a big, loud argument with someone I haven’t seen or spoken to since we spent grade 10 together laughing to the point of tears?

Dreams. A wide topic.



I slept solidly almost the entire time I was travelling, with nary a nuit blanche (unless by often reckless choice) or memory of my subconscious mind’s efforts in the morning. Since my return to Canada I’ve spent several fitful nights tossing and turning; a sadly familiar occurrence that reminds me way too much of my pre-travel state / former life. I suppose it’s normal, given the changes I’m dealing with and the thoughts trapped in my head. I spent months not worrying about anything more serious than where I was going to sleep the next night. I know maybe that sounds like a big worry, but trust me- it’s not.

In the past, a generally reliable trick for coaxing myself back to sleep was visualization. Time and time again I would conjure up the same image in my restless mind: a deserted tropical island somewhere. There I’d be, lazing in a hammock strung between two palm trees facing turquoise waters with crashing waves, the ocean’s breath wafting its salty tendrils across my face, into my lungs, through my soul. It was the most serene, peaceful, relaxing image I could conjure. Recently, during one particularly relentless toss-and-turn episode I remembered my old standby beach scene and gave it a try. But this time, instead of convincing my hyperactive brain to chill out, my trusty mental prop jolted me wide awake. My eyelids flew open in disbelief and confusion. What had changed? Why wasn’t my trick working anymore? I was beach-bummed.

The surprising answer came to me just before I dropped off into peaceful slumber: The “dream” was no longer a dream – I had made it reality. I’d just spent six weeks on an idyllic patch of paradise named Gili Air in Indonesia, living out the exact scenario that I had previously imagined to represent my ideal state of peace. I could no longer conjure the image without attaching to it all of the sights, sounds, smells, thoughts and feelings that combined to make up my time – my reality - on that tiny island. How astonishing! It’s time to find a new dream.

But as you’ve no doubt realized, I’m talking about two different kinds of dream here. The dictionary defines “dream” in the following (edited for blog) ways: “1) a succession of images, thoughts, or emotions passing through the mind during sleep; 2) an aspiration, goal or aim; 3) a wild or vain fancy; 4) something of an unreal beauty, charm, or excellence.” I’m not convinced there’s such a dividing line between the types. That unkempt, poor, perfect little island, which I now own a piece of, readily fits all of these descriptions.

While it’s true that one type of dream we wilfully create and control and the other we don’t, they’re more similar than one might think. Both kinds of dream take place in our minds. Both can be exhilarating, confusing, scary, fantastical, seemingly impossible, frustrating, inspiring, surreal, enduring. Both can spur us into action, or freeze us in our tracks. Sometimes we wish they’d leave us alone, and other times, we can’t wait to delve deeper into them. Often, components of them can be identical and interchangeable.

What happens when we don’t have dreams of either kind? It’s a dark place. While I’m busy with the sleep-kind of dreams these days, I’m a bit stalled when it comes to the other kind. Life is pretty different now, and I’m not sure where I’m headed or what I hope for, beyond continued peace and happiness and enough money to keep paying for gas and the stupid storage space that houses all my crap in Montreal.
But I do know how important it is to keep dreaming, and how extraordinary it is to find one of those dreams suddenly realized.

I hope that you remember your dreams. And if you can realize even one of them, smile and be proud. It is a gift from yourself.

“Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.” Anais Nin

Blog Slog.

Oh, the visions of grandeur I conjured up about my first blog entry since my return to Canada. Clever, insightful phrases would flow from my pen onto the page (I write my entries on paper before transferring to computer), and you, Faithful Reader, would sit glued to your computer screen, gushing over every sentence that scrolled by. After all, I must have so much to share with you: reflections on my travel, now that it’s behind me; thoughts and feelings about what it’s like to be home, a culture shock follow-up, and of course, a clear and well thought-out answer to the question people love to ask me the most, “So – what are you going to do now?”

Yup, this was really gonna be a humdinger of an entry. Maybe even my best one yet!

After 2 weeks of letting that endless loop of thought run circles in my head, it’s time to face the music: I got nothing.

I know. You didn’t take time out of your busy life to click on yet another Link From Cara, only to discover....that (plus no photos!). Trust me, nobody feels more let down that I do (if anyone else even notices? Thanks, if you do.)

Pretty much all creativity, motivation, inspiration, insightfulness and whatever other reserves I draw on when I write are at a superlow. AWOL. Gone fishin’.

Chalk it up to whatever – jet lag, lack of salt water and 32-degree heat, a huge increase in sugar, fat and sodium in my diet....bottom line is my mojo ain’t working. So, read on, but only if you’re bored.

I spent the first 2 weeks in Canada pretty much just sleeping and shuffling around my parents’ house in my pj’s, trying to get/keep warm and trying to get/keep my skin from cracking like a croc. Oh, I also managed to delete all of my travel photos*, so spent a little time (days) manually fishing all of those from the Recycle Bin and returning them to their previously-very-well-organized file homes. Fun times, and all in all, just way too much reality for me, from every angle .But, more on reality in a bit.

I could go on a big tear bout how much I miss traveling and in particular Indonesia and Gili Air, but I figure you already see that coming, so, not very interesting for either of us. Besides, it puts little cracks in my heart every time I think about it.

Not that I expected it would be, but it hasn’t been an easy transition, coming home. Aside from the usual suspects – i.e. no longer tripping happily around the world with my backpack, not going where I want when I want (my driver’s license is expired), having to wear socks and shoes and a coat, frigid temperatures (when you’ve spent 3 months living next to the equator, 10 degrees is frigid), blah blah – there is a whole host of other (stuff) bugging me that I didn’t predict: an excess of (read: more than zero) motorized vehicles, radio, TV, billboards, a ridiculous amount of shopping centres with ridiculously large stores carrying more product than anyone could ever need, noise, prices, fashion, sales tax, processed food (I can’t believe how much salt is in our food, in general), people being rushed, stressed, concerned with appearances, pressed for time and generally not very cheery (thinking the current economic meltdown might have something to do with this)....the list could go on but it just sounds whiny. And maybe it is whiny. I might be wrong, but I don’t think I’ve done an exorbitant amount of complaining in the last 12 months. So I’d like to think I’ve earned a few minutes on centre stage at my own whine and cheese party.

Life is just so much simpler where I was.

I suppose the biggest creativity-stifler at this point is the fact that I need to think about working again, and fast.

I don’t want to work. Not in the old traditional sense (office; schedule; stress; outfits that require thought and coordination; mascara). But (and I hate saying this) I need money, and as much as I dream of writing for a living, at this point it’s still just that – a dream. Some people seem to like to interject here with, “Welcome back to reality!” I don’t really subscribe to that way of thinking. A few weeks ago, my reality consisted of living on a tiny island. How is that any less “real” than this? I came back for all sorts of reasons, but I also could have stayed (albeit with several complications). Reality is what each of us perceives it to be. Nothing more, nothing less. That being said, my reality is that I’ve got to reverse the direction of my cash flow. But it doesn’t mean that I have to do it by following the standard model (see “mascara”, above). I busted through the walls of my desperate reality a year ago. Why stop now? It would certainly be a lot easier to grab whatever job might come my way and ultimately I just may have to, if (when?) the bank starts calling; but I’m sure not going down without a fight. (Brief flash of inspiration here as I think how cool it would be to be able to Google-Map my career options; clicking and dragging the little interactive career path line, exploring all the possible routes, avoiding the non-scenic and under-construction ones, dead ends, etc).....good to know there’s still a scrap of creativity hiding in me somewhere, anyway.

I’m hoping a quick jaunt back to the old haunt will spark...something. A connection, a lead, an idea I hadn’t thought of before. I love Montreal in the spring and I’m excited to see my friends (and get my driver’s license back). Fabien’s there now too, so it’ll be a kick to show him around my city a bit (he’s already seen my island in Indonesia!) I wish I could stick around longer, but I gots no home, and I can only inconvenience my friends for so long. (Update: I'm here, and it's great! I love Montreal!)

That’s all I have for now, Loyal Readers. I’m back, in body if not in spirit. I still have no idea what’s next for me. I’m a totally free agent, which is scary and stress-inducing, but also pretty freaking cool when I manage to think about it the right way (thanks to BK for helping me with this part). If I can travel the world for a couple hundred days and manage to come back in one piece, I can probably figure this out, too.

Note: As far as I know, blogspot doesn’t have a feature that automatically sends you an email when I post an update. Some of you will be very happy to know this. If you are not very happy to know this, sorry, but I believe the only option is to check in to the site once in a while to see if there’s anything new.

*I hate Picasa.