On The Road Less Travelled

Winter blues and blushes

lisaontheroad — Thu, 01 Feb 2007 03:40:38 GMT

There are a lot of tired, unhappy people in a five o'clock rush hour. Today, I was one of them. The cold's a force to be reckoned with, a solid mass of air it seems that needs to be pushed back, fought, wrestled, rebuked at every turn. The Queen streetcar was a sardine can and as I made my way down the stairs into the subway, stepping with care so as not to fall, I felt a fatigue so huge it washed tsunami-style over my head. It was a fatigue from the day, from teaching four classes, sleeping poorly the night before, and maybe my immune system which has taken a beating crying out on top of everything else. It's days like this I want spring to come so badly. I am hibernation mode - while my friends delight in snowboarding, skating, skiing, toboganning, I want to hibernate, bury myself in blankets, build forts of cushions, read by my faux fireplace on my faux Indian rug, drink tea, copious amounts of tea, and like the boy in The Neverending Story finding his little nest in the school attic, I want to bury myself in books. Winter makes me an introvert. I need this season, really. I don't hate it. It's a time of introspection. My body is more covered, hence I myself am more guarded, protective, less inclined to take leaps and bounds. But I'm fine with that. I wish people would stop telling me, "You should just get out and enjoy the snow!" I do enjoy it. I like walking down quiet sidestreets looking at the snow on branches and icicles, and the soft drifting kind of snow that makes everyone feel about six years old again. But I enjoy it in my own quiet way, extrovert that I am, at my extroverted job that requires me to be an entertainer more than a teacher sometimes. Much of the time. And this, in turn, this cycle of regeneration, enables me to appreciate spring - my birth season - with more love and appreciation than almost anyone I know. But that's just me.

Burning desires

lisaontheroad — Sun, 21 Jan 2007 18:09:14 GMT

I'm teetering on the verge of a major decision...ready to take the plunge into the unknown and go to my first Burning Man Festival! It's a big scary decision to make. Saving up that kind of money isn't easy for me, and the challenge of the elements, basic comfort and survival all terrify me in way, since I am a girl who loves her creature comforts (I'm a Taurus, after all). So, who else is going? How do you plan on getting there? Who are you camping with? Any advice for a first-timer? Would love to hear advice, stories, recommendations, experiences. Dazzle me, entice me, shock me, warn me, whatever you like!

Poem: Stripping for Rilke

lisaontheroad — Wed, 03 Jan 2007 21:10:17 GMT

Stripping for Rilke When her soul oozed out of her skin, bleeding like a ghost of ink, my mouth stretched wide to catch its taste, its melt, that February day in Montreal, in the bookstore on Milton, she stripped away layers of ice-damp wool, casting off the heavy skins of winter, and a pale bare arm emerged, scattering freckles like grains of wild rice and reaching past my amber face for Rilke’s Duino Elegies she raised her gentle voice and read: "Every angel is terrible, and still, alas knowing all that, I serenade you, you almost deadly birds of the soul." (This poem originally appeared in lichen literary journal www.lichenjournal.ca - Fall 2003.)

You'll laugh, you'll cry...or maybe you'll just PLOTZ

lisaontheroad — Wed, 03 Jan 2007 05:22:51 GMT

You must, must must MUST check out my dear friend James' blog. It is, in his word, "snortalicious": http://www.jamesrb.blogspot.com/

On Natalie Goldberg's "The Great Failure: A Bartender, A Monk, and My Unlikely Path to Truth"

lisaontheroad — Thu, 28 Dec 2006 00:26:06 GMT

I received this book as one of my Christmas presents from my mother, and it took me all of two days to read it, all 192 pages of it. Natalie Goldberg, author of "Writing Down the Bones" and "Wild Mind: Living the Writer's Life," among others, once again shows herself at the top of her game in this poignant and heart-wrenching look at the lives and deaths of two great men: her father, the gambling, penny-pinching, life-loving Ben "Buddy" Goldberg from Brooklyn, and Dainin Roshi Katagiri, the Japanese Zen Master at the Minnesota Zen Center, Goldberg's spiritual teacher for almost twenty years. Both men taught her invaluable lessons, but ultimately betrayed her trust, causing Goldberg to tailspin into a vortex of anger and self-doubt. Goldberg captures her relationships with these two key figures in her life, interspersed with Zen koans that illustrate "a deeper kind of failure: the great failure, a boundless surrender." Although the betrayals Goldberg unearths in "The Great Failure" would in some people's eyes constitute grounds for depression, or sufficient cause to repress and deny these painful discoveries, ultimately we find greater solace in opening our eyes and acknowledging the truth. Goldberg strives to recognize that failure should not drown us in misery any more than achievement should elevate the ego - they are, in Zen Buddhist thought, one and the same. To rest at zero, present in each moment, is the ideal: "We spend our life on a roller coaster with rusty tracks, stuck to highs and lows, riding from one, trying to grab the other. To heal ourselves from this painful cycle--the severe split we create and then the quasi equilibrium we try to maintain--we have to crash. Only then can we drop through to a more authentic self." Indeed, Goldberg's authentic self reveals itself in the pages of this memoir. She forces her parents to acknowledge the real picture of her childhood, as opposed to the glossy airbrushed version they recall, and confronts former Zen colleagues when uncovering a scandal that shakes the very foundation of her core. "The Great Failure" succeeds in stripping the excess fat away from the bones, and stands in the cold, her naked soul wind-whipped and raw, unflinching as the onslaught of memories charges towards her. Goldberg releases the Pamplona bulls from the corral and faces them head-on, trusting that if she uses her intuition, follows the path of honesty and examines her fears, she will live to tell the story. And what a story she tells. "The Great Failure: A Bartender, A Monk and My Unlikely Path to Truth" by Natalie Goldberg (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2004), 192 pp.

Solstice in the Laurentians

lisaontheroad — Thu, 21 Dec 2006 17:39:08 GMT

Morin Heights, Quebec It's a beautiful day in the Laurentians. The sky's a fierce blue, the river running behind Kelly's house gushing a song over the rocks, flowing under the bridge just down the road and continuing on into the mountains. There are fresh rabbit tracks in the snow and Rocky, half-Rottweiler half-Great Pyrenees, is barking to be let in. A crow landed on a branch just above the deck, which overlooks the forest and river. It's above zero, maybe three or four degrees, amazingly mild for this time of year. Last night Kelly's mom gave us a gift certificate for dinner at a lovely restaurant in the village. We walked along the dark highway up the winding streets into town, careful to walk on the opposite side of traffic. The place was small and intimate and cozy and called "Le Petit Prince" of all things, named for one of my favourite books as a child--hell, even as an adult; we had lamb and mint jelly and red wine and perfect asparagus and squash and fruit dipped in chocolate for dessert and spent over three hours talking and laughing and catching up on our "deals" as Kelly has always called them. Walking home the stars were amazing. Being out of the city even for a night I feel stronger, healthier, more alive. On the bus ride up here, listening to the layered, textured ambient down-tempo grooves of my old friend Michael Thompson (a.k.a. DJ Polyphonic, now residing in Taiwan), I could make out the shapes of mountains in the dark, like the curves of a woman sleeping on her side. Soon, when Kelly gets out of the shower, we will be taking "one of those dodgy Laurentian taxis" to Le Spa Bagni (http://www.spabagni.com/), where for $30 we get to use all the facilities, including the Finish sauna, outdoor whirlpool, Turkish steam bath, swimming pool with sea salt, and if we're feeling brave enough, a quick dip in the river! We went in March and it was divine...oddly enough this weather makes it feel like March too, though more of a lion than a lamb. My digital camera's on the fritz, but we're borrowing Kelly's mom's camera, and I have my little disposable with me, so pics will soon follow. Happy Winter Solstice, Lisa

More grad party fun....

lisaontheroad — Thu, 14 Dec 2006 21:04:37 GMT

The girls from my class! Carmen (Cuba), Moon Jin (Korea), Akiko (very drunk, Japan!), and yours truly....

Dancin' with my students!

lisaontheroad — Thu, 14 Dec 2006 17:35:21 GMT

Last week, we had our annual end of year grad party for all the students completing their language course after spending nine months here in Canada learning English. As usual, good times ensued - it's always a trip being treated like a celebrity ("Teacher! Please can I take picture with you?").

Why do Jewish holidays always conflict with cool events?

lisaontheroad — Wed, 13 Dec 2006 00:22:34 GMT

This Friday night is the first night of Hannukah. I've never been religious, at least not in the traditional sense, but it's family time and I get a little sentimental about that every year. I only wish the eight days of presents thing were true! Anyway, if I weren't busy doing the holiday thing with my mom and sister, this is where I'd be. Who knows? Maybe we'll finish up early enough so I can get my first skating of the year going on! I suck at skating, but I always manage to have a good time without breaking my neck, which for me is quite a feat (as anyone who bore witness to my rapids incident at the Boreal festival or heard about my numerous bike accidents over the past year will attest to). So this is where it's at: DJ Skating Night at Harbourfront Centre Presented by: Harbourfront Centre Strap on your skates and hit the ice to House, Tribal, Breaks and Funky Techno beats. The Natrel rink is your dance floor with DJs Simon Jain, Phantasm and Tommy Gunners spinning the tunes. Skating under the stars on the edge of Lake Ontario to DJs – this transforms the Toronto winter from cold to cool… All ages are welcome to this free event, the first of four DJ Skating Nights at Harbourfront Centre’s Natrel Rink. This event is brought to you by Harbourfront Centre and Nocturnal Magazine.net. Featuring DJs Simon Jain (House & Tribal), Phantasm (House) and Tommy Gunners (Breaks & Funky Techno). Harbourfront Centre also offers skate rentals and sharpening, changing rooms with lockers, heated and fully licensed restaurant and Free Natrel hot chocolate. Runs: Dec 15, 2006 At: Harbourfront Centre, 235 Queens Quay West, Toronto Playing: Friday Times: 8 pm - 11 pm Cost: Free Getting there: Spadina streetcar to Queens Quay For more information contact: Cary Mignault Phone: 416.973.4655 Email: cmignault[at]harbourfrontcentre[dot]com

The Weight

lisaontheroad — Sat, 09 Dec 2006 18:01:20 GMT

I love this song. Something about The Band always inspires me, fills me with a nostalgia that's sweet but not too sweet, like chocolate that's a little on the bitter side, and good for you because of it. And it reminds me that everything's going to be okay. I'm in transition right now. I'm struggling to find balance in my life, and keep things real. The Band is good for that. I like Robbie Robertson's voice telling me to take a load off. It keeps me grounded. Where I want to be.

"Life shrinks and expands in relation to one's courage."

lisaontheroad — Thu, 07 Dec 2006 02:42:10 GMT

These were the parting words of Johan, tall and erudite lead singer of Mr. Something Something, a deep rich and juicy Afrobeat band that rocked The Gypsy Co-op hard and solid Saturday night. He was quoting Anais Nin, one of my favourite writers - for her touching, piercing and poignant erotic short stories as well as insight-filled journals. I was standing - well dancing non-stop actually - in front of the stage, so close to Johan I could see the beads of sweat dripping off his forehead as he breathed these words into the mic. It was intense, this moment - feeling the love of Sarah and Jonathon dancing beside me. They came over after having dinner Saturday night, and were lounging around trying to decide what to do, just go to Future Bakery for tea and cheesecake or pursue the rumour of live music that would be dance to spread by the truly amazing Mr. John Grecco, documentary filmmaker and drummer and local visionary community-building activist. We were all feeling tired but we took a risk and talked Jonathon out of going home and going to bed. He initially just volunteered to drive us down to the Gypsy, but once inside and dancing to the wickedly funky beats he was hooked. We all were. We were there together, three close close close friends, in that moment friends with everyone else in the crowd, and the energy just soared and flowed and grabbed and squeezed me, enveloping me in the kind of embrace normally reserved for small children and their pets. It was a feeling of safety, of real and true and dynamic and loving nurturing, being in that moment, knowing that I had taken a tiny step in going down to the Gypsy that night, despite all the overdue work I had put off doing till the next day, and it paid off - handsomely.

Hibernation

lisaontheroad — Sun, 03 Dec 2006 03:50:04 GMT

Wind wrecks me with the slice of its tongue. In this cave I have caved, given into the whirling dervish song of its ghostly moaning, morning still a black cloak pulled taut around the sun, bitter; I am waking and feeling the insistent tug of sleep, as if nothing that may be seen once the light snakes in will be worth remembering, as if in dream I have known waterfalls of deep unadulterated now-ness, the cornerstone of the galloping season's gait. I am tempted by the raw, tempted by the rain and the rocks and the ruins of splendid cities growing fat with waste and green with vine. Sunrise and sunset within my line of vision feel over-exposed, as if I should not be privy to view something so intimate. The clash and gnash and grind of urban transit groaning its gritted pain. The scalpel is ready, I hold it above the portrait of soot and slime, make the first slash, and slowly, with infinite and mindful grace, something akin to blood seeps through, the sweet silk of daylight pinkening my skin as it falls in beads of morning and flushes the room with rose.

New poem: Falling In (November 11, 2006)

lisaontheroad — Sun, 12 Nov 2006 22:17:55 GMT

Falling In Afternoon falls grey and wet outside his window. On his mattress on the hardwood floor that registers age and forgetting the light is grainy as old black and white film, a newsreel from the forties incarnate. Entangling smelling of sweat and perhaps the slightly dank and verging on rank fume of our youth. I am sixteen, he is seventeen, and our bodies are rubber and clay, our bones silt. We latch tongues and say little, breathing in the distant traffic of Yonge Street like a menthol vapour, breathing out the noise of this flesh-toned wanting, this need, a green sap lurking in the wet black trunks of Novemberish city trees. Piled high around the mattress are his comic books, poetry books, books his professor parents must have given him, books that smell of attics and mild soggy Sundays. This is just the beginning of what we know will soon or someday end, but we do not speak of it—and refuse to look at the falling, fall-soaked leaves outside. Lisa R., November 11 2006

Testimonials

lisaontheroad — Sun, 12 Nov 2006 21:35:35 GMT

This is a shout out to all those who know me and have stuff to say about me to stroke, bruise, crush, inflate, deflate my ego by adding a Testimonial...

Lisa, Unplugged - Week Two

lisaontheroad — Fri, 10 Nov 2006 21:06:21 GMT

During my week off from work two weeks ago, my Mac iBook G3 laptop curled up and died. More specifically, the screen kept freezing, and after much hand-wringing and dismay, I took it into a local trustworthy Apple dealer to investigate the problem. The prognosis was not good: it was in need of a new "logic board," a term which being the hardware-illiterate that I am made me think of a team of Cartesian philosophers sitting around a long boardroom table in heated debate. The cost of the part plus repair of my laptop would surmount to more than I originally paid for the machine itself when I bought it second-hand two years ago. After I steadied myself and picked my jaw up from off the floor, I considered my options: either pay a small fortune to repair the existing machine, or buy a new one. The latter seemed the only reasonable choice. And so, I am now in the surprisingly pleasant state of unplugged limbo that comes with having no internet access from home - no MSN, and just the occasional stolen moment while I'm working my weekly token reception shift at work to update my blog (I sounded so...hip....so wired when I wrote that just now, didn't I?). I look forward to having my own laptop again, and am in the process of finding one that suits me - so if anyone reading this is selling a Mac or PC laptop under $800, let me know!

The hazards of working with international students

lisaontheroad — Fri, 10 Nov 2006 20:47:46 GMT

On Halloween, anything can happen. I hope no one calls the Worker Safety Board over this!

Hallowe'en and costume madness

lisaontheroad — Tue, 31 Oct 2006 21:08:49 GMT

Every year I get unbearably and inexplicably stressed over what to "be" for Halloween, scouring the racks of Value Village and every thrift store in sight for thte perfect costume - pulling musty children's clown suits, stuffing the long thick tangles of my hair into monstrously moppish Cher/Vampira wigs, eyeing sequinned bustiers and velvet princess dresses in hope of inspiration. And yet, no matter how ambitious I get every year, I inevitably end up at a party where the sheer simple ingenuity and creativity of its guests never fails to humble and astonish me. At the Promise party this year, a woman came as a "play on words," erecting a black-painted carboard cut-out stage around her head, above a dress covered in...you guessed it, words. The pressure to be something nameable and identifiable seems to diminish if not completely obscure the spirit of the holiday - to go in disguise, to masquerade, to release yourself from the chains of ego and identity and lose your Self in the cloak of an Other. Why do I necessarily have to give a name to what I choose to disguise myself in? "What are you supposed to be?" my co-workers ask as I come into the staff room Tuesday morning, unveiling a green t-shirt with silk flowers pinned over it. I gesture to my head - my hair is back-combed, teased and sprayed into a wild updo spiked with fake flowers. I've smeared my face with cheap drugstore Halloween white face paint and blacked my eyebrows, painted my lips and eyelids black. "I'm a dead rainforest," I say, a little too gleefully, a little too proudly. There are uncomfortable nods of recognitions, nods, "Ohhh." No one knows quite what to say - they want to laugh, sympathize, support my costume, comment on its prettiness, but it's a little too somber in theory - unlike the zombie bridesmaid costume I donned at the weekend party, in which I could easily garner the most delightful and satisfying shudders of horror at my ghoulish white-powdered hair, horrible make-up and fake blood-caked chin. Here, there is prettiness and yet the sad and sinking reality of environmental destruction. It is way too political, far more than I had intended. If only I didn't have to "be" something. If only what I'd chosen to be was a bit lighter, somehow, a little less jarring. But that's also the point, isn't it, to shake things up a bit, push the envelope and make people think. The moment passes. Life speeds up, resumes. We all scurry off with our photocopies, class folders, dictionaries and markers as we slip into the roles we put on everyday: teachers.

Home at least and feelin' good

lisaontheroad — Wed, 23 Aug 2006 03:03:12 GMT

Life is slowly starting to return to normal. Being in my own spaces helps a lot; I painted this apartment colours that I knew would uplift and soothe me, bring me back to the equilibrium that my spirit thrives on. The living room wall around my white brick faux fire place is a sumptuous dark pomegranate red, flanked by other walls the colour of those succulent ripe golden mangoes that come into season in May, the colour of saffron monks' robes, of newly harvested butternut squash, or autumnal gratitude. Simultaneously, it's a summer colour, the sun god, the lying on your back with your eyes closed on a warm wooden dock that rocks slowly back and forth in the rhythm of womb waters. I made a conscious decision to clean and organize tonight, but not just to clean, but to cleanse. What is the difference, ultimately, between cleaning and cleansing? It seems more than just semantic; cleaning might be a superficial de-cluttering, cleansing is purifying, squeezing out the dust and grime, a physical as well as spiritual shift in the order of things. My apartment's been in a sorry state of affairs; in a way it's reflected the internal space I feel I've been in: cluttered, sprawling, random, living short-term day-to-day, month-to-month, paycheque-to-paycheque, with little to no regard, nor chance given to pause and reflect on the future; having little energy in which to clean, to cleanse, to purify, to shift the order of things in such a way that the energy expended in the short term will not only add to but magnify and free up the energy reserves available in the future. Also, my mother is doing magnificently in rehab. She sees this opportunity as a gift; rather than allowing herself to be frustrated by her limited range of mobility, she is inspired by the meditative and mindful aspects of it: each movement requires conscious effort, which in turn moves her to consider the absolute joy and freedom of such small pleasures as being able to swing her legs over the side of the bed and rise from it, even if she has to lean on a walker for support. She tells me, her voice a dazzling lake of amazement, how liberating it is for her, as a woman who lived on the myth of her own invincibility, who rushed through life trying to get things done, to accomplish things slowly. Her occupational therapist tells her, "If you get something done that takes fifteen minutes and feel you have more energy to do the next thing, just stop, and rather than do that next thing, just take a moment to sit back and enjoy that energy." The lesson is to enjoy and celebrate being, as opposed to doing; that achievements that are small (like today, filling up my bike tires with a pump by myself for the first time, like clearing away all the clothes that were lying on the chair in my living room, like wiping the excess grease off the stove to make dinner for my friend Sarah) are in no way less miraculous than earning a doctorate, a living, the respect of your peers. The lesson is: slow down. Relax. Take time to notice. And enjoy.

North York, North York - Day One

lisaontheroad — Sat, 19 Aug 2006 20:44:00 GMT

I've always found the term "mentally challenged" to be a bit of a misnomer. My sister faces challenges, indeed, but her disability, which is inscrutably hard to define, often feels more like a series of obstacles to overcome, primarily, her tragically intuitive knowledge of her limitations, her learning disabiltiy, her fine motor skills, her inability to perform basic life skills. She sings operetta and wants to be a Broadway actress when she grows up. She is thirty-one years old. This weekend, while my mom recovers from hip replacement surgery at a rehab facility nearby, I am Caroline's caregiver, which means cooking for her, giving her meds, spending some time with her, making sure she gets some exercise and entertainment, washing and detangling her densely curly hair. She is lovely but difficult to deal with, often delusional, and very easily upset. This vulnerability is both touching and heartbreaking at times, and leaves me wondering how I could ever manage to do what my mom does, in being her permanent, full-time caregiver. I also wonder what lessons I have to learn from my sister, and how I can learn to better appreciate her unique gifts.