{cue music The Crystal Method Keep Hope Alive}
The Lions Gate bridge was close. Lighthouse to Lighthouse … really? I can make it. Can I make it? Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke. I don’t do speed work at a track. I prefer varying my intensity in nature with fartlek training. Random speed work coached by random fast songs on my mp3. My running tunes are varied. Slow for meditative, relaxed running. Fast for fartlek training. A fast song might be three minutes or a double-extended dance version. Brutal. Twenty-five minutes into this run and my muscles were warm and loose. I ran around the bend of Lighthouse Point and past Totem Park as the first few notes played. It started out slow. Coldplay? Moby? No wait… The Crystal Method. Keep Hope Alive. Extended version. Almost seven minutes. After 35 seconds, the song sped up. My mouth opened as my nose could not keep up. My hips got lower, pushed forward. My spine straightened and lengthened. My shoulders pushed down. I inhaled through the nose. Exhaled through the mouth. Next -- one breath in, two breaths out. The seawall seemed to angle downward, like when you are walking down the hallway of an old building. I whipped around the tight curve at the Beaver Creek overpass like a ball thrown into the roulette wheel. I no longer made eye contact with people. I no longer said or waved hello. I didn’t even smile. I couldn’t. My brain reverberated like a subwoofer. I no longer looked at the few steps of seawall in front of my feet. I looked up. I looked only at the bridge. I looked where I wanted to be. Then, the music slowed. I slowed. Sh*t. I could hear my breathing. But I’m not there yet. Then, wait, a few more notes. Yaaaaa! My knees kicked forward. Inhaled once. Exhaled three times. C’mon lungs…keep up! My fingers clenched invisible dumb bells. My arms pushed forward with the moves of a P90X Tae-Bo workout. My glutes worked their ass off, so to speak. My runners are silent. No plodding up and down. It was all about forward. Huff. Puff-puff. Huff. Puff-puff-puff. I breathed in fire and exhaled flames. 30 seconds left. 30 seconds. 30 seconds. Forever. Like when you bounce around an occupied gas station washroom, waiting, waiting, waiting (C’MON!!!) for that person to open the door. There was that one moment, at around second 21 or so. My gut floated and I risked losing my green smoothie breakfast. And then, it was over. The song was over. I was over. I made it to the gate. A good marker. Not quite at the bridge lighthouse but really damn close. I walked in slow, small circles, hands on my hips. I squinted back at Brockton Point Lighthouse. The Kids in the Hall Head Crusher would’ve squashed that Lighthouse! I smiled. F*cking awesome. And then, a cool down with Coldplay’s A Rush of Blood to the Head. Ain’t that the truth. Stanley Park hosted a mystery today. I'm learning to sit in the perplexity of unanswered questions. But why, exactly, were five hundred black and white Barrow’s Goldeneye gathered in Georgia Straight?
As I stood watching the birds, a man walked towards me. He also watched. He wore a black outdoors jacket, black nylon pants and hiking boots. He looked in the know. “Hi, do you know why there are so many or what they’re doing?” I asked. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said. We both laughed. “I don’t know what they're doing, I’ve never seen so many in one place,” I said. “It is a bit strange,” he said. "Are they feeding?" The birds dipped under the surface and popped up fast, as if they were diving in a cool pool after a day in the Mexican sun. “I just don't know, we’ll both be left in mystery,” I said. About an hour later, on the opposite side of Stanley Park, two women stood at the seawall’s edge. One woman looked through a small telescope (or funky camera?) on a tripod. The other held a clipboard. I had seen these women before. “Hi, good morning, I’m curious, what are you recording?” I asked. “We’re BCIT {British Columbia Institute of Technology} students working on a research project,” the one with the clipboard said. “Ah, the camera is usual, but the clipboard made me curious,” I said. “Are you documenting birds then?” “Yes, mostly the Barrow’s Goldeneye,” she said. “Ninety percent of the world’s population are on the pacific coast here right now.” “Ah, ok, that explains it, I saw four or five hundred of them in the water on the west side,” I said. “Yes, they migrate here in the winter and were probably feeding on mussels,” she said. “And do you guys come out often?” I asked. “Yes, every Wednesday and to various points on the seawall. This research project has been active for over 10 years, we mostly track trends in the population,” she said. Reminder to check if my Beach Chair story, was in fact, a Wednesday. “Well, thank you for the info and good luck with your research,” I said. Mystery solved. Photo by Drew Avery There is something weird going on in Stanley Park.
I first discovered the mangled green tennis ball as a white German shepherd's stared at it over the seawall, like it was the canine equivalent of a message in a bottle. {read Crossing Paths in One Thousand Acres} Then, I spotted it again last week, floating ten or twelve feet off the seawall's edge. Was it a different one, dropped by an overzealous border collie this time? This is open water between Beaver Creek and the first bend of the seawall towards the Lions Gate Bridge. During the following days, I scanned the area as I ran by. Today, there it was. Same place. Same ball. I'm sure of it. It's not there every time. Where does it go in between sightings? While I am sure there was a logical explanation, such as it getting pushed and pulled and swayed in the current and tides of Burrard Inlet. But unsolved mysteries are more fun. Photo by Derrick Coetzee The Beach Chair pulls people in. Today, it was a forty-something asian woman who sat in the sunshine.
“You’ve got the best seat in the park,” I said. “I know, hey, can you take my picture?” she asked. “Absolutely,” I said. Only a handful of tourists have asked me to take their photo. I like offering to take photos for tourists. You know they wanted to ask, but didn’t. Why did this woman have the courage to ask for what she wanted? “I’ve never seen anything like this chair, sitting at a beach, it’s beautiful,” she said. “I know. I chatted with the guys who made it and they said that they had to take the tree down, so they made a chair,” I said. “Oh, that was so nice,” she said. Monty and I continued on our walk and when we returned there was nobody in the chair. We stopped. I sat in it for the first time. The sun wrapped around me like a down-filled sleeping bag. A breeze floated by my cheeks. Sawdust sprinkled the grass like powdered sugar on a chocolate dessert. Ahhh, fresh-cut wood. The chair was wide enough for two -- nature’s club chair. My head rested on the high back in a perfect angle towards the sun. My legs dangled off the seat diagonally, and in perfect height for the foot stool. My arms relaxed on the foot-wide chair’s arms. The 3pm sun was directly in front of me and everybody on the seawall were silhouettes. “That’s a cool chair,” a voice said. I opened my eyes and smiled at a woman pushing a stroller up the path beside me. My hand hung over the side to touch my dog and I closed my eyes. Photo by Kimba “It’s been 4 days since your last post….are you having technical difficulties?” a friend emailed.
Busted. I didn’t know she was even reading my blog. I didn’t know if anyone was reading my blog. I had gone to Stanley Park everyday. I wrote everyday, a first draft anyways. I did not post these stories on Friday December 9th, Saturday December 10th or Sunday December 11th. But the difference was I had no inner battle. My inner critic was quiet. No excuses of why I had no time. No justification why I didn’t post a story. No guilt. No pressure. No two-way conversations at all. I had simply chosen my actions with intention. I went to the Park. I wrote my stories. And for a variety of reasons, I gave myself permission to take the days off. I was at peace with my choices. See? I don’t even feel compelled to explain my reasons. I only laughed when I got her email. Father I have sinned, it’s been 4 days since my last post... While I originally sought outside accountabiity, the accountability I needed was to myself. What a difference of thought from a few weeks ago in Two Conversations. I have since posted Day 24 Beach Chair Part 2. I’m going to keep Day 25, 26 and Day 27 as a long weekend off. This was Day 28. This was a good day. Check out the next story in the series, Day 29: On Writing. Photo by PeterCastleton I’ve written more in the last month than I have in the previous year.
It is true, writing everyday has made me a better writer. I have struggled to write a few paragraphs of anything and I have enjoyed the inspired flow of words that almost wrote themselves. I have felt the difference. I wrote stories that I planned out before I went to the park. And I wrote stories that came to me when I forgot about the outline and just noticed details. I wrote stories that started as one topic and ended up a completely different topic by the end. I loved re-writing the first draft. Editing and tweaking and re-writing again. Loved it. Titles are challenging. The opening line and the ending line were the next toughest. I could always cut down my word count by another ten percent. I sometimes told the story rather than showed the story. I changed that if I found it. If I had trouble starting, I simply typed. Anything. And on every occasion, except once, it developed into a story. The most personal stories were the easiest to write. And I enjoyed re-reading these stories too. I may be the only one who does. I figured out that small index cards work well to write down details. And I found it easiest to write the story on the day it happened, when the details and emotions were fresh. If I remembered to read the story out loud, I would catch awkward flow, repetitive sentence length and words that didn’t make sense. I still have problems staying in one verb tense. I am proud of what I wrote and how much I wrote. I know these were essentially first drafts and it excited me to know what the stories could become with more editing. I can't wait to take another class and learn more, improve more. "What am I trying to say?” is the question that kept me focused. Writing every day was an absolute mental drain. And I loved every single minute of it. Photo by rahego {cue the Waterboys’ This is the Sea}
I’ve obsessed about Ireland for the past year. The island. The sea. The music. The films. The accent. The history. And the beer. Photos of coastal roads are on my bedroom wall, my fridge and my car’s visor. But excuses got in the way. Time. Money. The usual. After hanging out daily in Stanley Park, I got good at hearing my heart. Ireland's beautiful coastline. Ireland. Ireland. Near the end of my 30 Day Writing Experiment, I was surfing online and landed on KLM’s website. Seatsale. Vancouver to Dublin. $940 including tax. I called my friend. “I think this is it,” I said. We bought tickets that night. April 10th to the 19th. Yes. A few days later, I thought of the Waterboys, a band of Irish and Scottish musicians. My heart swells in an autonomic response to lead singer and songwriter, Mike Scott's music. {see Selectively Numb}. It is my music of choice for runs and road trips. It had never occurred to me to check their tour dates. What would be the odds of them performing in Ireland while I was there? I scrolled down the dates -- Brussels March 18. Liverpool March 24. Bristol March 29. Manchester March 30. Dublin April 1st. After 42 years, I was going to miss my favorite band, in their adopted home city, by 9 days? Uh-uh. I think I have to go early. I think I have to see the Waterboys in Dublin. “It will cost you to change your ticket,” said my mind. “Not to mention the extra money for 10 more days.” I wanted somebody else to help me decide, tell me what to do. But I have learned that is not the best way. I had the answer I needed. I just needed to get quiet. I needed to hear my heart. I went to Stanley Park. I walked along the seawall with my dog. Ireland. Ireland. Ireland. “You can’t board your dog for 3 weeks,” said my mind. "He'll miss you too much, it will be too stressful." I continued walking along the seawall. The music... Waterboy's Fisherman's Blues. The Whole of the Moon. U2's Red Hill Mining Town. Bob Geldof's Dazzled By You. When it got quiet, my heart spoke. Say yes. Go. “But you don’t have the money, the change fee on the ticket is $250 and the boarding bill will be huge,” said my mind. Show kindness. {see Say Goodbye Limiting Beliefs} “I don’t need to figure out the money right this minute,” I said. "I’ll figure it out. “What are you talking about, you’ll figure it out?” my mind asked. I’ll figure it out. I got home and called my friend. She laughed. It is funny! “Is the band that good?” she asked. Yes, yes they were. But it wasn’t just about the band. The band was the emotional connection, the push, that made everything else okay. It meant that I would spend 22 days in Ireland instead of 10 days. It meant I would get to explore Northern Ireland. It meant that I would rent that motorbike and ride the Causeway Coastal road. It meant that I would spend some of the trip on my own, practicing writing. All of these things that my heart had wanted to do before my mind had argued the reasons why I couldn't, or shouldn't. I slept on it. I again went to Stanley Park. The films... In Bruges. The Wind That Shakes the Barley. Perrier's Bounty. Ondine. Say yes. Go. It will work out. And this time, my mind did not even show up. My heart smiled. Okay, I hear you. I took a leap of faith that the money would work out, and changed my departure date to March 29. I bought my concert ticket for the Waterboys for April 1st. I will explore Northern Ireland first, then meet my friend back in Dublin on April 10th. Yes. Yes. YES! The next day I got two phone calls from people in two different organizations. I had committed to volunteer for their projects -- or at least I had thought it was volunteer. Both had called to work out the details of payment. Huh? “This isn’t a volunteer position, you get paid for this project and in fact, you’ll get on-going royalties throughout the year if all goes well,” one said. Yes. Stanley Park. You are a beautiful park, but so much more. You are a place where my heart spoke. And I listened. Photo by mozzercork |