sanctuary

Our balcony is resembling a tree house more and more each day. Sitting out there, wine or chocolate in hand, is quickly becoming an instant escape from the rush of city life.

onward!

I'm currently in the process of selling most of my furniture via Craigslist. I'm hoping this will make for an easier (lighter!) move, and give me some breathing room for new design ideas. Even though I am moving to an apartment in the same city, I am looking at the move as a fresh start.

My present apartment has an unbeatable view and central location, but the beige cement walls often feel oppressive. It may sound crazy, but I really believe that living in a high rise has got to have some kind of squishing effect on the psyche. A three-storey walk-up will be a welcome change.

I'm also looking forward to a fresh start after these relatively isolated 2 years of grad school. Sometimes I think the main reason I chose to do my masters was as an exercise in self-discipline — a way to force myself to focus. Now I'm getting that restless feeling we all get when we feel we've gotten the gist of the lesson, and it's time to move on.

So I've been idealizing the move as this big turning point, when my life will suddenly become exciting again.

Each step in life has its own perks and pitfalls, I suppose. This pros now are the incredibly flexible schedule, and self-indulgent writing sessions. The main con would be the isolation this kind of writing necessitates.

So, inspired by a comment I've received on this blog, I am going to go with the flow and write short, frequent entries about my day-to-day progress, rather than waiting until something "big" happens to blog about it. If I'm honest with myself, and with you, I will write what I feel and what I truly believe. Then this blog can change as my life actually does.

I think reading and writing SO much about blogging FOR my thesis has made me feel a little zany and, I think, has had a negative effect on this blog. Studying aspects such as privacy and readership has made me extra cautious about what kind of info I share, especially (to be brutally honest) given the amount of strange people I have met, and who might very well read this blog. But to be a great writer, you have to take risks. It feels like a risk for me to keep writing here, and sharing myself when I feel the compulsion to shy away.

So I am going to suck it up, and keep writing.

below the surface

Writing, over the last few months, has felt a lot like swimming. I am using all of my energy to make it through the water, only taking the occasional breath. The last few days of every chapter has felt like diving to the bottom of a deep pool, swimming to the top, taking a huge breath, and diving under again.

While I've been writing (and finishing another chapter!), so much other stuff has been happening too. I need some time to actually talk to people about things, before posting on here. Especially since lately, I have become more careful about what I'm sharing and with whom. I have always been a very open person, but lately it's been catching up with me.

If my friends mainly learn about the state of my life through things I've posted online, that doesn't seem right. Out of respect for them, I want to keep some news for certain ears only.

But I'll be back, with new photo shoots and big plans to show and tell.

to remember

On quieter days, I remember. There are moments when fragments come back to me, and the memories resurge as lucid visions.

The heaviness returns when I remember feeling outside a society before I started to learn one of its languages. I felt beside myself with restless frustration being there, and being willing to help, but not knowing where to start. The heaviness sets upon me when I remember the light touch of children's fingers, reaching out to me from floors of school classrooms, and from crowded clinics. I remember being led over dry, red earth through villages where mothers and daughters pulled small buckets of water out of the community pond. I remember marveling at the hilltop views of families whose house would be decimated the following week by the government . I remember little girls running around in tattered 1980s party dresses from the Western world (hand-me-downs from the "developed" world), and being disturbed by the different contexts in which these girls, and the dresses' original owners, would have been living. I remember the twisted irony of a young girl living right below the city's biggest hospital, but unable to access its services.

The lightness returns as I recall walking through the dry season fields every morning, waving at the little faces peeking out at me through school windows. I remember being invited to sit down to tea by mama Rajabu and Ana, the ladies who ran the small tea stand under a black tarp for the workers who bundled coal for stove fuel. I remember the night markets lit up by candles, with women selling sweet, baby bananas and roasted corn by the roadside. I remember taking my watercolours outside and painting quietly, until half a dozen neighbourhood children shyly appeared and asked me if I could paint them into my picture of the street. They taught me the words for all my surroundings, which I included in the painting as a Swahili lesson for myself. I remember singing together with Mama Joyce's children and grandchildren, in their impeccably clean living room. I remember taking crazy buses all day with Pendo, to go up to the hills of Mwanza to visit her mother, who showed me her beautiful rug designs and her ducklings. I remember smiles, and hands reaching out to hold mine.

And in these moments, I am overwhelmed with guilt for forgetting, even for a moment, the feeling of being in Tanzania, the feeling that I vowed I would keep close to me at all times. Why does the relative luxury of our lives cause us to forget? Should not the stark contrast between my lifestyle and the disparate conditions of other parts of the world be a constant reminder? I take these moments to sit down and remind myself, lest I forget.

green daze

After a week of snow, melting slush, street fires, smashed windows, and humiliating myself in class among other such events, a weekend-long St. Patrick's day celebration was certainly welcomed. Saturday/Sunday stood as the last couple of freedom-filled days before delving into all the year end madness. How is the school year already coming to an end? Seriously, what have I been doing?

Alas, St. Patrick's day was spent sipping creme de menthe with Bailey's on the rocks, and drinking convenience store beer on the streets in the snowy weather, while waiting in line at the crowded pubs, playing my Irish tin whistle for adoring fans, and bashing my knee into a parking metre while jumping to grab icicles. Sunday we dragged ourselves out to watch Montreal's famous St. Patrick's Day parade to marching bands, giant St Pats on wheels, dogs dressed in costumes, and for me to have my foot essentially puked on by a small child.

After the parade, we had some guests over, and I cooked a large "Irish" brunch of soda bread, cooked cabbage, scrambled eggs with brie, breakfast sausages, and shamrock shakes. I was full for the entire day after that spread, let me tell you.

I find it kind of ironic that my academic research entails the use of blogs for sharing human rights and world health issues, and here I am detailing my Sunday menu to you. That's something I gotta work on--you know, not being a giant hypocrite. But life is about balance, isn't it? My brain is full of school stuff by the time I come to write here, so all I have left to share is a mundane collection of thoughts and events. But that's going to change over time.

Also, it's driving me crazy that all of the funniest, juiciest things I want to share don't seem appropriate for such a public realm. You know, the best stuff that spills out like beer on a bar table (or due to it), or the legion of characters I've been meeting. However, rest assured that a tell-all book is on the way. Those of you who might think grad school is only about dusty books might be interested to hear the tales I've been observing, experiencing and collecting. I'll find a way to share, somehow.

Right now the promise of spring temperatures have me hoping wistfully that the rest of the week will seem less dismal.