For myself and anyone else who has ever contemplated time travel seriously there's a question that burns in the heart: not just where would you go, but when. If you had all of time at your grubby fingertips, if you could go anywhere and anywhen, what would the first stop be? This is as vital a question to armchair dreamers as figuring out what to do with that 50 million dollar lottery we're all bound to win someday.
My answer isn't a specific date. It's a bunch of dates and events that no one could possibly know the exact specifications of, since they happened thousands, tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of years before written language was even a twinkle in homo sapiens sapiens eyes...
I want to be there the first time a human ancestor picks up a shell, drills a hole in it, and threads a piece of animal tendon or stretched skin through that hole, tying it off and wearing it around their neck.
I want to be there the first time an animal skin is dyed, and the first time a hominid's living skin is similarly painted.
I want to be there the first time an ape realizes that meat + fire = BBQ.
I want to be there when someone adds the earliest incarnation of garlic to their cooking and gets their MIND BLOWN.
I want to be there when some ancient humanoid beats the first deliberate rhythm, with their hands on their flesh, or with a stick on a rock, mimicking the inexorable heartbeat they must hear sometimes when they lay their head against the chest of their mothers, and later, their lovers, or when they hear their own heart beating in their ears as they try to sleep. Is it the footsteps of giants? Or the pulsing of the earth that they're replicating with their drumming?
I want, more than anything, to stand in a cave, and watch the first brushstrokes of the first cave painting. Did that ancestor of mine feel what I feel when I stand in front of a blank canvas? The crush of excitement and fear and a desperate drive to add color and life and movement to a surface that has been without those things? How many times was that wall approached, instrument in hand while this magnificent being struggled with doubt or anticipation? What glowing, burning thing lit their way?
Was their first stroke done in a fit of pique? Quickly, madly, desperately moving because not moving is no longer an option? Or slowly, cautiously, tentatively, with some hint of inborn knowledge that these marks would mean so much to so many for so long?
Did the finished product bring tears to that hominids' eyes? Like it brings tears to mine?
These are the whens and wheres that I would travel to. Because every time I wear a necklace, I think of the graves of early homo sapiens, littered with shells in graduated sizes, each drilled painstakingly and obviously connected together with a fabric that has long since been reclaimed by the earth around it.
Every time I wear a pretty dress, or put make-up on my face, I think of the ancient evidence we've dug up of dyes from every imaginable (and occasionally disgusting) source on this earth, and all the places we used those dyes, and I think of the obvious attraction we have as a species to color.
Every time I stir a pot of something over a flame, I think of a time when fire was a brand new technology, scarcely understood and terrifying, but how it was nevertheless used to create food that meant more than mere survival.
Every time I listen to music, I think of the long line of ancestors whose bodies must, must have been moved to dancing, and I twirl with my arms in the air pretending I'm under an ancient sky at the dawn of man.
Every time I paint, I cry for the homo sapiens who first knew how to see beauty in the world and add to it through the work of their own hands.
I cannot help but get caught in the idea of the moment that these things first happened. What were these creatures before art? Before rhythm and painting and decoration and cuisine? How did they react the first time? Because there was a first time. Somewhen in time, there is a day, with a sunrise and a sunset. The day before this day, there was no such thing as a drum. The day after, there was music!
And the reaction of the others in whatever homo species this occurred in must have been positive enough, or we wouldn't have music today. Or art, fashion, cuisine. The evidence of the value of these things exists in their longevity, from the dawn of man to today. These are, in fact, the markers by which anthropologists date that dawning.
And whenever I consciously participate in these things, I feel strings connecting me to those ancestors, pulling me backwards in time, but also forwards, since those strings also connect me to every human being that exists today, and that will exist in the future.
Tuesday 14 May 2013
Monday 6 May 2013
A Hike to Remember
For the last three years, my birthday has fallen during the Spring Tour of my choir: the University of Alberta Mixed Chorus. Now, I didn't work up the courage to join this organization until I was already halfway through my Anthro degree, and I didn't go on tour until my second year. Adding in the four year gap between my first and second year of university, I've ended up being one of the older members of this group. Many of them are now a decade younger than me.
This doesn't really bother me, and I don't feel out of place there. Lord knows I've got the sense of humor of a thirteen year old boy, and I don't think anyone could accuse me of being a buzzkill or anything like that.
I've never been huge on yearly evaluations; I don't make New Year's resolutions and I'm probably the type of person who would forget her own anniversary, so my birthday is just a day when I can milk being the center of attention for all it's worth. I've never really used it as a marker of 'how far I've come since last year' and I didn't spend the 3rd of May in deep reflection on the ups and downs of being 27, or the fears of being 28.
But this last year has been a transformative year for me, and on tour, the day before my birthday, something magically delicious happened that highlighted the actual distance between 27 year old Brenna, and 28 year old Brenna, and I'd like to tell that story, if you'll indulge me.
A year ago I was sitting on my balcony, smugly happy with the events that had led to my being there. But I realized that there were other things I wanted that I did not have, and I started thinking about what those things were and what I could do to achieve them. And what I realized I wanted, more than anything else, was to be healthier. "Well," I thought, "That's new." I have wanted many things in my life: I have wanted to be skinnier; I have wanted to be more outgoing; I have wanted to be in a loving relationship, but I've never given much thought to my health. Until that moment.
I started with things that felt little and therefore achievable. I wanted to be able to look in my fridge and feel proud that none of the ingredients on any of the labels included words I did not recognize as food. I started buying more whole foods and baking my own bread.
I wanted to cut refined sugar down to almost nothing and replace it with fruit to assuage my sweet tooth. You have to understand, I got through university without ever drinking a cup of coffee, no energy drinks, no pop, no caffeinated beverages of any kind. My drug of choice to keep myself awake during all nighters was Fuzzy Peaches. So I started going to the Strathcona Farmer's Market every Saturday and bringing home mounds of..well, actual peaches...and slowly, my diet underwent a revolution for the better.
I chose to eat one cupcake a week at work instead of one a day. It is unbelievably difficult to cut refined sugar out when you work in a cupcake shop, decorating cakes, working with icing ALL. DAY. LONG. But I managed it. I developed a mantra in my head that I repeated every time a scrap of cake was in my hand and headed to my mouth, "Brenna, your body is not a garbage can." And eventually, I stopped craving sugar every moment of every day.
I started seriously using the treadmill my mother had given me when it stopped being of use to her. I stopped thinking of exercise as a punishment for the way I was eating and started instead to think of it as a way to achieve a very specific goal: to be able to go hiking with friends.
When I lived in New Zealand, I went on two three-day treks with a couple who were in far better shape than I was. I huffed and puffed and perspired my way up the Humpridge and Kepler ridges and suffered lung and muscle agony. Those six days are still the most painful and embarrassing that I have ever endured. Yet they remain some of the most beautiful memories of my entire life.
When I hear about friends of mine going on hikes, I feel a desperate jealousy, since I would love to go with them, but hate being the one constantly lagging behind, hurt radiating from every pore as I struggle to keep up and fail miserably. Those hikes happened in 2005, and I have not had the courage to do any hiking since.
Gradually, the changes I had made in my lifestyle began to be reflected in my clothes. I've lost 40 pounds, 4-5 dress sizes, Lord knows how many inches, and it all seems a bit surreal, since the weight loss and size decrease weren't really my ultimate goal.
But the point of the story is this: On May 2nd, the day before my 28th birthday, the UAMC was taken on a short hike along The Golden Mile Trail outside the Tinhorn Creek Vineyards in Oliver, BC. What we all thought would be a leisurely walk through a vineyard turned out to be a brisk hike on an all uphill trail leading to a bunch of old abandoned mines and spectacular views of the Okanagan Valley. There were definitely a few unhappy people in the group, some of my friends among them, who wished they'd known what kind of "walk" this would really be.
I was thrilled. I felt energized. My whole body felt like it was saying, "Yes, Brenna. You can do this now. You can walk up a ridge without feeling like you might actually keel over at any minute. Your legs and your lungs can take you all the places you want to go. They can do that now." On the way back, at the end of the hike, I was at the head of the pack, jogging down the hill just because I could.
I cannot express the depths of my joy. I am not happier because I am skinnier, or more fit. I am happier because I finally understood that happiness doesn't come like a winning lottery ticket, only to a small and random few, and meted out by absolute dumb luck. It comes through every little teeny tiny choice that I make, day after day. And if I just keep making the choice to move towards the things that bring me joy and contentment and fulfillment and peace, I can literally come out on top.
This is not a story that has an end. I am not finished working on my happiness; I will have to keep making these choices for the rest of my life, through good times and bad.
It took me 28 years to understand who I am and how to make myself happy. I know there are people who come to this knowledge much younger, and I know there are people who will die of old age not knowing, but this is my story, not theirs, and this is the path that I happened to take, and damn, but I am happy with it.
This doesn't really bother me, and I don't feel out of place there. Lord knows I've got the sense of humor of a thirteen year old boy, and I don't think anyone could accuse me of being a buzzkill or anything like that.
I've never been huge on yearly evaluations; I don't make New Year's resolutions and I'm probably the type of person who would forget her own anniversary, so my birthday is just a day when I can milk being the center of attention for all it's worth. I've never really used it as a marker of 'how far I've come since last year' and I didn't spend the 3rd of May in deep reflection on the ups and downs of being 27, or the fears of being 28.
But this last year has been a transformative year for me, and on tour, the day before my birthday, something magically delicious happened that highlighted the actual distance between 27 year old Brenna, and 28 year old Brenna, and I'd like to tell that story, if you'll indulge me.
A year ago I was sitting on my balcony, smugly happy with the events that had led to my being there. But I realized that there were other things I wanted that I did not have, and I started thinking about what those things were and what I could do to achieve them. And what I realized I wanted, more than anything else, was to be healthier. "Well," I thought, "That's new." I have wanted many things in my life: I have wanted to be skinnier; I have wanted to be more outgoing; I have wanted to be in a loving relationship, but I've never given much thought to my health. Until that moment.
I started with things that felt little and therefore achievable. I wanted to be able to look in my fridge and feel proud that none of the ingredients on any of the labels included words I did not recognize as food. I started buying more whole foods and baking my own bread.
I wanted to cut refined sugar down to almost nothing and replace it with fruit to assuage my sweet tooth. You have to understand, I got through university without ever drinking a cup of coffee, no energy drinks, no pop, no caffeinated beverages of any kind. My drug of choice to keep myself awake during all nighters was Fuzzy Peaches. So I started going to the Strathcona Farmer's Market every Saturday and bringing home mounds of..well, actual peaches...and slowly, my diet underwent a revolution for the better.
I chose to eat one cupcake a week at work instead of one a day. It is unbelievably difficult to cut refined sugar out when you work in a cupcake shop, decorating cakes, working with icing ALL. DAY. LONG. But I managed it. I developed a mantra in my head that I repeated every time a scrap of cake was in my hand and headed to my mouth, "Brenna, your body is not a garbage can." And eventually, I stopped craving sugar every moment of every day.
I started seriously using the treadmill my mother had given me when it stopped being of use to her. I stopped thinking of exercise as a punishment for the way I was eating and started instead to think of it as a way to achieve a very specific goal: to be able to go hiking with friends.
When I lived in New Zealand, I went on two three-day treks with a couple who were in far better shape than I was. I huffed and puffed and perspired my way up the Humpridge and Kepler ridges and suffered lung and muscle agony. Those six days are still the most painful and embarrassing that I have ever endured. Yet they remain some of the most beautiful memories of my entire life.
 |
| Hiking the Kepler Trek, 2nd day. This is my all-time favorite of all my photographs. |
When I hear about friends of mine going on hikes, I feel a desperate jealousy, since I would love to go with them, but hate being the one constantly lagging behind, hurt radiating from every pore as I struggle to keep up and fail miserably. Those hikes happened in 2005, and I have not had the courage to do any hiking since.
Gradually, the changes I had made in my lifestyle began to be reflected in my clothes. I've lost 40 pounds, 4-5 dress sizes, Lord knows how many inches, and it all seems a bit surreal, since the weight loss and size decrease weren't really my ultimate goal.
But the point of the story is this: On May 2nd, the day before my 28th birthday, the UAMC was taken on a short hike along The Golden Mile Trail outside the Tinhorn Creek Vineyards in Oliver, BC. What we all thought would be a leisurely walk through a vineyard turned out to be a brisk hike on an all uphill trail leading to a bunch of old abandoned mines and spectacular views of the Okanagan Valley. There were definitely a few unhappy people in the group, some of my friends among them, who wished they'd known what kind of "walk" this would really be.
I was thrilled. I felt energized. My whole body felt like it was saying, "Yes, Brenna. You can do this now. You can walk up a ridge without feeling like you might actually keel over at any minute. Your legs and your lungs can take you all the places you want to go. They can do that now." On the way back, at the end of the hike, I was at the head of the pack, jogging down the hill just because I could.
I cannot express the depths of my joy. I am not happier because I am skinnier, or more fit. I am happier because I finally understood that happiness doesn't come like a winning lottery ticket, only to a small and random few, and meted out by absolute dumb luck. It comes through every little teeny tiny choice that I make, day after day. And if I just keep making the choice to move towards the things that bring me joy and contentment and fulfillment and peace, I can literally come out on top.
This is not a story that has an end. I am not finished working on my happiness; I will have to keep making these choices for the rest of my life, through good times and bad.
It took me 28 years to understand who I am and how to make myself happy. I know there are people who come to this knowledge much younger, and I know there are people who will die of old age not knowing, but this is my story, not theirs, and this is the path that I happened to take, and damn, but I am happy with it.
Friday 8 March 2013
A Tale of Joy
The night of September 27th, 2013 was slightly chilly (no need yet for a coat, but I was thankful for my shawl) with a beautifully warm breeze. I have no earthly idea what the weather was like on the night of September 26th, as I spent most of that night preoccupied with the arrival of my newest niece, Riven Maru Scott Ignacio-Deines.
Neither the labour nor the delivery had been quite what Aaron and Christina (my brother and sister-in-law) had been hoping for, and while they were performing the C-section, I was sitting in a waiting room feeling my intense dislike of hospitals grow with every passing minute. If anyone has ever experienced any type of claustrophobia, they'll know that the phrase "I felt the walls closing in on me" is not random imagery. It feels like the walls are actually getting closer, physically closer, and soon they will be right on top of you, with no escape route. The result for me is a nausea that sits at the base of my throat and will not be persuaded to just fuck off already.
It finally lifted when I saw my brother wheeling the most perfectly perfect piece of perfection ever created out of the operating room and into the midst of five loving, gushing relatives.
It didn't take long for the nausea to return. In fact, all it took was a good look at my brother's face.
When Christina was finally moved into a recovery room, she was...shall we say...not quite lucid? Certainly not up for entertaining visitors. Her parents kindly offered to drive me home so I wouldn't have to take the bus that late at night (if they were even running at that point...I don't recall how late it was when we left).
I hadn't planned on going back to the hospital the next day, not wanting to overwhelm the new mommy, but a quick call put my worries to rest and I headed to the Royal Alex after work. It wasn't until I was in the recovery room, watching Christina hold Riven, watching my brother moving more tentatively than I've ever seen, brand new daughter cradled in his arms, that the knot of nausea finally eased away completely, to be replaced with utter joy. I realized that this is what I'd been missing the night before: a loving, happy, if exhausted, interaction between the three of them. Just knowing that Riven was a healthy baby and that Christina had made it through her operation hadn't been enough, and I had felt all day the weight of hope and fear battling against each other in my heart.
Later, I bused across the river, then strolled home along Saskatchewan Drive. As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, it was a wonderfully pleasant night for things like strolling, the breeze gently blowing my skirt and shawl and hair around me; just enough to feel the movement, not enough to be annoying. In fact, with the weight that had just been lifted, I felt like I was floating home. Oh, what a wonderful night! What wonderful joyous things exist in the world! Finally, a smile on my face.
About four blocks from home, an older (gentle)man in a boat of a convertible glided slowly passed me, then stopped his car, and reversed until he was right next to me. He leaned over and said, "Miss, you look absolutely lovely this evening." Then he leaned back, and without waiting for my (stunned) response, drove off in what I can only describe as the vehicular version of strolling.
Our culture has built firm walls up where interactions with random strangers are concerned. We can hardly stand to meet the gaze of people passing on the sidewalk, let alone speak to them. What could compel a person to attack those walls with something as intimate as a compliment?
I think he must have seen some measure of the joy that I was feeling. He must have seen it in the gait of my walk or the look on my face. Or maybe he is just the kind of person who spends his late autumn evenings handing out drive-by compliments.
Whatever his reasons, I found myself imitating him today, when I passed a woman on the sidewalk after work. It wasn't merely that she was a beautiful woman with impeccably styled hair and clothing. It was the expression on her face (joy) that had me breaking out of my cultural comfort zone to look her in the eye, smile, and say "You look stunning today!"
Regardless of what causes real joy in a person, small everyday nothings or huge life-altering somethings, that joy can occasionally be so effusive that it seems to radiate out and touch people around you...even perfect strangers. And that is awesome.
Neither the labour nor the delivery had been quite what Aaron and Christina (my brother and sister-in-law) had been hoping for, and while they were performing the C-section, I was sitting in a waiting room feeling my intense dislike of hospitals grow with every passing minute. If anyone has ever experienced any type of claustrophobia, they'll know that the phrase "I felt the walls closing in on me" is not random imagery. It feels like the walls are actually getting closer, physically closer, and soon they will be right on top of you, with no escape route. The result for me is a nausea that sits at the base of my throat and will not be persuaded to just fuck off already.
It finally lifted when I saw my brother wheeling the most perfectly perfect piece of perfection ever created out of the operating room and into the midst of five loving, gushing relatives.
 |
| Riven, minutes out of the womb. |
When Christina was finally moved into a recovery room, she was...shall we say...not quite lucid? Certainly not up for entertaining visitors. Her parents kindly offered to drive me home so I wouldn't have to take the bus that late at night (if they were even running at that point...I don't recall how late it was when we left).
I hadn't planned on going back to the hospital the next day, not wanting to overwhelm the new mommy, but a quick call put my worries to rest and I headed to the Royal Alex after work. It wasn't until I was in the recovery room, watching Christina hold Riven, watching my brother moving more tentatively than I've ever seen, brand new daughter cradled in his arms, that the knot of nausea finally eased away completely, to be replaced with utter joy. I realized that this is what I'd been missing the night before: a loving, happy, if exhausted, interaction between the three of them. Just knowing that Riven was a healthy baby and that Christina had made it through her operation hadn't been enough, and I had felt all day the weight of hope and fear battling against each other in my heart.
Later, I bused across the river, then strolled home along Saskatchewan Drive. As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, it was a wonderfully pleasant night for things like strolling, the breeze gently blowing my skirt and shawl and hair around me; just enough to feel the movement, not enough to be annoying. In fact, with the weight that had just been lifted, I felt like I was floating home. Oh, what a wonderful night! What wonderful joyous things exist in the world! Finally, a smile on my face.
About four blocks from home, an older (gentle)man in a boat of a convertible glided slowly passed me, then stopped his car, and reversed until he was right next to me. He leaned over and said, "Miss, you look absolutely lovely this evening." Then he leaned back, and without waiting for my (stunned) response, drove off in what I can only describe as the vehicular version of strolling.
Our culture has built firm walls up where interactions with random strangers are concerned. We can hardly stand to meet the gaze of people passing on the sidewalk, let alone speak to them. What could compel a person to attack those walls with something as intimate as a compliment?
I think he must have seen some measure of the joy that I was feeling. He must have seen it in the gait of my walk or the look on my face. Or maybe he is just the kind of person who spends his late autumn evenings handing out drive-by compliments.
Whatever his reasons, I found myself imitating him today, when I passed a woman on the sidewalk after work. It wasn't merely that she was a beautiful woman with impeccably styled hair and clothing. It was the expression on her face (joy) that had me breaking out of my cultural comfort zone to look her in the eye, smile, and say "You look stunning today!"
Regardless of what causes real joy in a person, small everyday nothings or huge life-altering somethings, that joy can occasionally be so effusive that it seems to radiate out and touch people around you...even perfect strangers. And that is awesome.
 |
| A life-altering something, in her Auntie's arms |
Sunday 10 February 2013
Happiness is Out on the Balcony, Having Tea
Do you ever find yourself betting your happiness on some future event or circumstance in your life? If I were just doing this, or if I were just living there, or if I just met 'The One' or if I just had x amount of money, then happiness would spring up in me and all my troubles would melt off into the ether! Right? I can't be the only one who has ever done this.
Unfortunately, this kind of thinking doesn't always (or even usually) pay off. And when it doesn't, we think to ourselves how foolish we were to pin our happiness on future things instead of present things. The present is much easier to manage, since we know more of the variables. The future is a wrench thrower.
But you have to understand, there are lottery winners in the world. Every once in a while one of those "If" bets has to pay off.
I pinned quite a bit of my happiness on an apartment balcony.
Living in a basement suite with roommates while going to university was economical and convenient, but it didn't take long for the lack of natural lighting to suck me into a vortex of inner darkness. Melodramatic, I know, but true. The place was decorated in all matching beige IKEA standards, and was actually very nice for a rental, but it wasn't MINE. It wasn't my furniture, my space. And it didn't have a balcony.
I don't know why the thought of a balcony was so important to me. I think it was because it's a space in the city that is outside but doesn't run the risk of neighbours popping their head over the fence. Maybe that doesn't sound very sociable of me, but I grew up surrounded by nothing but forest. When I went to play outside, I went alone, and that is how I like it. So a balcony! So isolated! So insular! If you want to join me in my outside space, you have to first be invited, so there is no risk of unwanted visitors!
When I finally found my current apartment, complete with balcony, I was concerned that I'd put too much emphasis on this little corner of the world, and that it couldn't possibly live up to my expectations. In truth, when I first moved in I almost never used the balcony, afraid of what would happen if my bubble should burst.
Eventually, when I got things set up with a chair and table and plants and BBQ, I started venturing out, and in 2012, I spent almost every summer evening out there. I thought I would do more reading, but it turns out I just like to sit outside and daydream, wondering about the lives of the people walking, biking, driving past me. I particularly enjoyed smelling my tomato vines. Don't judge me! It's a marvelous smell!
I moved in September 2011, but it wasn't until summer 2012 that I really owned that space and found the happiness there that I'd been hoping for, betting on.
I've been getting better about centering my happiness in the right now instead of the someday. I've started doing things because they add to my present joy, not because I think they might pay off later. I've started placing the onus for my happiness on my actions alone, not on random events or people that I have little to no control over. I've changed my perspective a lot and come out, not just happier, but more content than I ever was before.
But still, the fact that this particular bet paid off for me? Feels pretty damn sweet.
Unfortunately, this kind of thinking doesn't always (or even usually) pay off. And when it doesn't, we think to ourselves how foolish we were to pin our happiness on future things instead of present things. The present is much easier to manage, since we know more of the variables. The future is a wrench thrower.
But you have to understand, there are lottery winners in the world. Every once in a while one of those "If" bets has to pay off.
I pinned quite a bit of my happiness on an apartment balcony.
Living in a basement suite with roommates while going to university was economical and convenient, but it didn't take long for the lack of natural lighting to suck me into a vortex of inner darkness. Melodramatic, I know, but true. The place was decorated in all matching beige IKEA standards, and was actually very nice for a rental, but it wasn't MINE. It wasn't my furniture, my space. And it didn't have a balcony.
I don't know why the thought of a balcony was so important to me. I think it was because it's a space in the city that is outside but doesn't run the risk of neighbours popping their head over the fence. Maybe that doesn't sound very sociable of me, but I grew up surrounded by nothing but forest. When I went to play outside, I went alone, and that is how I like it. So a balcony! So isolated! So insular! If you want to join me in my outside space, you have to first be invited, so there is no risk of unwanted visitors!
When I finally found my current apartment, complete with balcony, I was concerned that I'd put too much emphasis on this little corner of the world, and that it couldn't possibly live up to my expectations. In truth, when I first moved in I almost never used the balcony, afraid of what would happen if my bubble should burst.
Eventually, when I got things set up with a chair and table and plants and BBQ, I started venturing out, and in 2012, I spent almost every summer evening out there. I thought I would do more reading, but it turns out I just like to sit outside and daydream, wondering about the lives of the people walking, biking, driving past me. I particularly enjoyed smelling my tomato vines. Don't judge me! It's a marvelous smell!
I moved in September 2011, but it wasn't until summer 2012 that I really owned that space and found the happiness there that I'd been hoping for, betting on.
I've been getting better about centering my happiness in the right now instead of the someday. I've started doing things because they add to my present joy, not because I think they might pay off later. I've started placing the onus for my happiness on my actions alone, not on random events or people that I have little to no control over. I've changed my perspective a lot and come out, not just happier, but more content than I ever was before.
But still, the fact that this particular bet paid off for me? Feels pretty damn sweet.
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