I hear voices when I’m in Stanley Park. Not every time. But if I get quiet enough and open my heart enough, I hear them.
I heard one of these voices earlier today. I was standing in a wide sunbeam above Third Beach, on the west side of the park. I wore two layers of fleece under my Arc’teryx rain jacket, plus gloves and a fleece hat. Good choices for a mid-November late afternoon. My rottweiler was standing beside me, at just the right height for my hand to twirl his ear. The beach was still and quiet except for the small waves. “Monty, I love this place, just beautiful,” I said. Come every day then. And there it was. I’m sure I miss this voice sometimes, if I’m too busy, too closed. But today, I heard it. My favorite place on earth is fifteen minutes from my house. Yes, why don’t I come every day? I do love Stanley Park. As kids, we visited the polar bears, monkeys and otters in the old zoo. Whenever I pass the overpass entrance to Beaver Lake, I see its image in the oil painting I grew up with and that still hangs in my sister’s house. Together, my mom and I learned to run on the seawall and the James Cunningham Seawall 10K was our first race. Eighteen years later, I ran the seawall and cried, in grief for my mom, during a Guns and Roses’ cover of Knocking on Heaven’s Door. I love the beach sounds of Stanley Park. Crows drop mussels from twenty feet up and gut the insides before I crunch the shells under my feet. The waves, sometimes mild, other times making me wonder if I missed the Tsunami warning. I giggle in Stanley Park. A Chevron gas station floating in the water? That is so damn cute! Or when Monty hears a suspect Chipmunk in the trails and immediately reports for duty, in full rottie uniform. I often stop, abruptly, to absorb the views. The upside-down checkmark stretching Vancouver from English Bay out to UBC. The Planetarium – do they still call it that? -- standing out like a freakishly huge white mushroom amongst the green of Kits Point. And of course, the three peaks, well, more like wilderness lumps, of Cypress, Grouse and Seymour mountains to the north. I love the animals. The seagulls in their one-legged yoga poses -- why do they stand like that? The herons, balanced on branches in deep concentration, like Olympic platform divers. The mallard ducks who gossip non-stop in Lost Lagoon and the swans who don’t give a shit. Yes, why don’t I come here every day? I don’t have the time? Well, that’s not true since I am self-employed with a flexible schedule. I should be working instead? Well, that’s a lie too because I know from past experience that I am much more productive and effective when I am inspired first. Is it self-indulgent? Well, if I think of it as a pleasure-only activity, then maybe, but is that wrong? What if I know that I will be a better person because of it? Going to Stanley Park everyday is a guaranteed way to get inspired, to feel good. And there is no rational reason why I cannot do that every day. That means that the only thing stopping me, is me. What’s up with that? By the time I reached my car at Prospect Point, I was committed to an idea. 30 days in Stanley Park. I will run, walk or cycle around it, or through it. At the very least, I will drive it or sit in it. Then my smile widened in direct proportion to my expanding idea. I agree that the only way to be a better writer is to write. But I only had internal deadlines. No accountability. I loved blogs that committed to 365 days of something, anything. The writer practiced their craft everyday and the blogosphere held them accountable. A year in Stanley Park? Too much. How about a mini-blog? 30 Days in Stanley Park. Explore a story and write it in 500 - 750 words. Every day. I liked it. Oh, and it will keep my inner critic happy knowing that I’m “on assignment” and not indulging in frivolous activities. I can’t sleep. I get to go to Stanley Park tomorrow. Photo bysqueakymarmot I missed the story of the decade today. Ten minutes into my run, I past a guy in his early twenties wearing a black leather bomber jacket, black baseball cap on backwards, baggy blue jeans and skater shoes. The rain came down sideways, hard, so he held his hand like a visor over his eyes. No umbrella. Walking. Alone. Friendly. He smiled and said “hello” and I thought “what are you doing here? Where are you from? Where are you going? Who are you?”
Was he my story of the decade? I'll never know because I never asked. I wasn’t thinking like a writer yet. Well, I was thinking like a writer. I had the inquisitive thoughts. I had paper and a pen with me too. But I was not acting on them yet. “If I pass him again, I’m going to stop and chat with him” I said. I ran ten more minutes and passed two people huddled beside a tripod. The woman fiddled with her long lens, pointed towards UBC. The man wrote in a clipboard. Gore-tex jackets and pants. Hoods up. No umbrellas. Locals. “I wonder what they’re do…” Stop! I stopped. I started running. I stopped. What are they doing? I started running. Okay, well at least you paused. I continued running. Mike McCardell I am not. Not yet. I too believe that everybody has a story. I want to share their stories. I want to find the story in the ordinary. Why was I so hesitant today? I’m not shy. I like talking to strangers. As a police officer, I did thousands of interviews of strangers. As the “good cop”, I interviewed drug dealers and other criminals who got comfortable enough that they opened up and shared stuff, personal stuff. I’ve spoken with victims of domestic violence and abused children. And delusional people who did not hesitate to admit that, yes, the clocks on their walls did in fact, speak to them directly, in latin. These were tough conversations. Why was I scared to chat with bird watchers? But this was different. This was just me. Without a uniform. Stripped down to my most vulnerable self. I was okay with asking the questions. But once my pen and paper came out I would have to explain that well, yes, I, uh, am a writer.” “You’re a writer?” “Um, yes, I am a writer.” “What do you write?” Ugh. Nothing yet. “I, uh, am working on an article, uh, for my blog, um, about Stanley Park. 30 days in Stanley Park.” How could I make them comfortable enough to get their story, their personal story, when I wasn’t comfortable myself yet? Isn't this part of your Stanley Park assignment? “Ah, come on, seriously. The next people I wonder about, I’m going to ask them. Just ask them,” I said A ran to the outdoor pool where I saw two parks department workers, one with a chainsaw, standing next to a chair carved out of a tree stump. I first saw this chair yesterday, a new piece since I last visited Second Beach’s living room. Two teenaged girls had screamed when they saw it. “Oh my god, like you totally have to like, sit in that chair, like I’ll take your picture and send it to your mom” said one. The other girl plopped into the chair and dangled her long, thin arms and legs all over the chair, like spaghetti refusing to get into the strainer after poured from the cooking pot. A classic teenage pose of “hey mom, look at me”. I wonder if those are the guys that made the chair? Stop. Right! “Hi, can I ask you guys a question?” Good, way to go. “What’s up with the chair?” I asked. “We had to take down the tree so we made a chair” said the guy without the chainsaw. “Is it going to stay a chair?” I asked. Not bad, keep it coming. “Yeah, we’re just cleaning it up” he said. “Cool. Yesterday a couple of teenage girls posed for pictures in it,” I said, “they really liked your chair”. Nice, nice, positive words. I then stopped. Next step was paper and pen. That’s okay, good job, you’ve got all month to practice. Both men were quiet too. But they grinned as their eyes dropped and scanned their chair. They were artists now. And people got joy from their work. I didn’t’ get the whole story, but I got enough. Enough to add to my Stanley Park memory file. And when I miss the story of the decade, I’ll be open to the little one right in front of me. It took less than 24 hours to turn my walking meditation experiment into a purpose driven task. I searched for a story instead of enjoying Stanley Park. My brain tried to take control but my humorous heart responded by making me forget my pen and paper today. Nothing to do but walk and ponder.
Searching for a story is about digging up the truth, finding the answer and getting to the bottom of it all. The exact opposite of what I want to learn. There is no bottom. Yesterday, I wrote that “I too believe that everybody has a story. I want to share their stories. I want to find the story in the ordinary.” Do I believe that everybody has a story? Yes, absolutely. Do I want to share their stories, their personal stories? Sometimes. But that doesn’t have to be all the time, every time. I do want to make a connection though. But a connection can happen in a few words. Was I really scared to chat with those people or did I just not want to, preferring to lose myself in my run? Do I want to find the big story in the ordinary? No. I simply want to tell the ordinary. The ordinary IS the story. The four ordinary Bradley Cooper-esque men that were shoulder to shoulder across the width of the seawall today. Single-knotted cashmere scarves around their necks. Unzipped straight-cut leather jackets. Dark wool pants and … who-do-I-smile-at-I-want-them-all! And with nowhere to go, I stood in awe as a massive invisible butter knife spread delicious European men over me, and beyond. Or the ordinary harbour seal that dined on a pink and white sea creature like a piece of taffy, while a seagull floated five feet away. “I would love to peak under the water,” said a woman who also paused to watch, “but the seagull makes a good marker to know where he’ll surface.” Or my ordinary reaction during my rainy day solo run yesterday, when my gut crushed into a ball of sudden, intense joy as my eyes filled with tears while Love and Rockets’ Dog End of a Day Gone By played on my mp3. Or the ordinary after-effects of spending two hours in my favorite place. How I could bang out two awesome webinar proposals, something I had been procrastinating for a month, and then receive immediate news that they’d been accepted by my professional trade association. Do I want, or need, to know the in-depth back story of the creators of the beach chair? No. Their grins said it all. I just need practice writing what I see. And hear, taste and smell. And feel. Maybe I stopped asking questions because I did get the whole story. Ernest Hemingway said, “My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way.” My job is to practice, practice and practice. Write. Trust. Let go. Repeat. Or maybe: trust, let go, write. Repeat. Or even better: let go, write, trust. The audience who wants to hear my stories will find me. It’s either that or me and that butter knife are moving to Europe. Photo by Robert S. Donovan There are secret spots in Stanley Park. I found one today. Monty and I walked west along the road from Prospect Point and took the first right onto Merilees trail. It dipped down through the west side of the park and into the sloped area that was destroyed by a wind storm five years ago. As soon as the park re-opened, I had walked through this area with tears in my eyes. I didn’t recognize it. The views across Burrard Inlet to West Vancouver were wide open. Although beautiful, it was only possible because more than 10,000 trees had been knocked down. I cried. The trees sounded like they cried too due to the wind that now so easily whistled between them. The area has improved but the old trees left standing are scarred. Chunks of bark are missing like wounds from a midnight rumble between the hemlocks and the cedars. We continued along the trail and instead of taking my normal left, we took a right into an unnamed trail. After fifteen minutes of more dips and turns and hills and curves, we arrived at a look-out, high above Siwash Rock. This sea stack has long been a marker to signal the ten minutes left in my circular seawall run. But I had never seen Siwash Rock from this high angle before. How long had this look-out been here? I gotta start looking up more. As we stood at the edge of the lookout, the two trees in front had been sliced off to preserve the view of Burrard Inlet. I glanced straight down and saw pennies and dimes and quarters resting on one of the flat-cut trunks. A little secret discovery, like when you travel and stumble upon a funky café that’s not in any guidebook. I knew we were alone, but I glanced back anyways, just in case I could share my excitement. Hey, d'ya see this? Was it a wishing tree? Or the group of lucky coins from a game of toss? "Monty, ya dare me?" I immediately tossed a penny and ting! it hit another penny and both jumped off the tree, like when you scare somebody and then from their reaction, you get scared too. I grabbed another penny from my pocket and tossed it. It fell short. Next, a dime. Argh! I wasn’t willing to sacrifice a loonie and had only one penny left. Stop! Breathe. Breathe again. Focus. “This penny. Is going on. That tree,” I said. Fling! Got it. Photo by Kimba My 9-year-old rottweiler, Monty, can no longer run six miles on asphalt, so I run alone. Sometimes with music. Sometimes in silence. Today’s a music day. Mp3? Check. Running shoes? Check. Gloves? Check. And because it’s a music day, I would also need Kleenex. Check.
I started my run out of Ceperely Park and warmed up with Third Eye Blind’s I Want You. I cruised past Lost Lagoon to Citizen Cope’s My Way Home. I thought I’d be pinballing around thousands of people for such a sunny Saturday. But, no, it wasn’t crowded. I ran under the Georgia Street overpass and popped up onto the beginning of the seawall at Coal Harbour just as my third song started. [cue music] Dear Prudence … won’t you come out to play-ey-eh Dear Prudence … greet the brand new day-ey-eh My chest tightened. Already? Right out of the gate, eh? I ran around the Vancouver Rowing Club and the sunshine widened to hug the marina, the glass buildings, the harbour and sea planes. And me. I knew the next few lines were going to do it. I kept running. The sun is up, the sky is blue, it’s beautiful, and so are you. Dear Prudence … won’t you come out to play? Yep, here we go! Behind my sunglasses, my eyes filled with tears. As my chest continued to tighten, I could no longer breathe just through my nose. I opened up my mouth and gasped to choke back the tears. I breathed in. It’s like every happy memory of the Beatles, the sunshine and the seawall got funneled down into my heart all at once. Hell, maybe it was every joy-filled experience I've ever had, ever. I kept running. Dear Prudence … open up your eye-ah-eyes Dear Prudence … see the sunny skie-ah-ies The wind is low, the birds will sing, that you are part of everything Dear Prudence ... won't you open up your eyes I don’t remember exactly when I started to tear up during a run, sometime in the last two years. It happens in the rain too. Usually with music but sometimes without. It doesn't happen every run but when the spontaneous elements all join together in perfection, it comes. I welcome it and I'm grateful for it. Look a-round round {round round round}…. Look a-round round round… look a-round {ahhhh-ahhh-ahhh-ah} I did wonder why though. And when I saw Dr. Brene Brown’s TED seminar called the Power of Vulnerability, it started to make sense. She talks about how when faced with difficult negatives feelings like fear, disappointment or grief, we don’t want to feel them and often choose to numb them. Her research shows that we cannot selectively numb. So if we numb the hard feelings, she says, we also numb joy, happiness and gratitude. Dear Prudence … let me see you smile Dear Prudence … like a little chi-ah-ild The clouds will be, a daisy chain, so let me see, you smile again Dear Prudence…won’t you let me see you smile? This made sense to me. I don’t think I was aware of my feelings in my 20’s, numbed them in my early to mid-30’s and learned how to explore and feel, especially subtleties of fear, in my late 30’s and early 40’s. Do shit that scares you and you'll feel more joy. Who knew? Dear Prudence ... won't you come out to play Dear Prudence ... meet the brand new day-ey-eh The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful, and so are you. Dear Prudence ... won't you come out to play I felt the joy. And then I blew my nose. This was going to be a great run. Photo by Gobierno de la Ciudad de Buenos Aires "The word, block, suggests that you are stuck, when the truth is, you're empty" -- Anne Lamott, author of Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life
I read this quote a few weeks ago and I liked it. But tonight I got it. Due to early winter darkness and a 7am til 6:30pm workday, I didn’t walk or run my seawall. But I drove home through Stanley Park, parked at Lighthouse Park, and sat. Just sat. Although I haven’t worn a watch since I completed my Timex Rehab, I estimated about 15 minutes. I drove home and I’ve been sitting at my computer ever since. It is now 11:45pm. Blocked? You could say that. About as much as a … nope, I don’t even have a good analogy. Or is it a metaphor? I had wondered if sitting in silence in Stanley Park would be enough to inspire me to write. Well, I have my answer. No. Nope. Nada. Not even close. I have started and started and started and started. And deleted and deleted and deleted and deleted. I knew if I called it a night, I could always write two articles tomorrow, but I wanted to push myself through this writer's block. I had a deadline! And then I thought. I knew what I wanted to write the moment I sat down. I knew what I wanted to write at 9pm at 10pm and at 11pm. Why am I fighting this? Maybe I'm not blocked. Maybe I am just empty. And maybe being empty is good sometimes. In Woody Allen's, Midnight in Paris, the Ernest Hemingway character said, "writing is good if it's honest." So this is what I wanted to write because this is all I had to say: I sat in silence for 15 minutes in Stanley Park and it was lovely. The End. Photo by: bidrohi When a belief is challenged, the mind fights back. What is my challenge? A belief that spending a few hours in a park everyday is self-indulgent. And then writing about it is even more so.
When I first started 30 Days in Stanley Park, I emailed friends and added a request. “And I’m not too proud to ask for external motivation and support”. But that wasn’t true. I didn't need motivation -- I needed permission. If I got permission, it was as if I had evidence to show my mind. “See, I’m not the only one who thinks it’s okay to do this, so-and-so said I could go to Stanley Park everyday. And they’ll read what I write too. So there!” And I didn't know how to work with my mind without being over-the-top. “Back off you mean mind or I'll beat you senseless with a stick." Being aware of these mind tricks is good but fighting them off is draining. I no longer wanted to fight. I wanted to let it all go. So today, I was open to try a new tactic when my mind revved up. “Stop being so hard on me, I’m trying. You be nice to me!” If I sought kindness, could I give it too? I continued running. When The Dandy Warhols’ Bohemian Like You came on near the end of the hour, I first thought, “Man, I want to keep on running.” “What?” said my mind. “But you have work to do!” I put my stick away and tried kindness. “I know, thanks, I’ll do it when I get home” I said. Uh-oh, I’m getting close to the path that takes me back to the car. “But you’ve got a lot of work to do,” said my mind. “Uh-huh, I know, thanks,” I said. Don’t look at the path. Look at the seagull doing his one-legged yoga pose just ahead. “But your hip is going to hurt,” it said as I got closer to the path. “Uh-huh, maybe, thanks,” I said. Almost. Look at the seagull. “But you might get a ticket on your car if you’re late,” said my mind. It knows me well and it’s hitting lower. “Uh-huh, maybe, thanks,” I said. Look at the seagull. Look at the seagull. Almost there. Look at the seagull. “But, but …” said my mind. I ran past the turn-off and kept right on running. And then, there was quiet. My mind was silenced. I barely remember the second hour of running. Songs came and went in the background. There was only silence in my head. Peace. Space. This, I like. About mile ten, I passed two young women on rented bikes, purple with wicker baskets. One was taking a photo of the other. “Hey, would you like me to take a photo of you both?” I asked. “Oh, yes please, that would be great, thank you,” said the one with the camera. “Sorry for wrecking your run.” “No, no, this is absolutely my pleasure,” I said. And it was. It makes me happy to help tourists with their photographs. I offered and yet she apologized. Why do we feel the need to apologize, justify and make excuses for everything? Ok, here goes... I love Stanley Park. I am going every day and I'm writing about it too. Period. Said. Done. Yikes! Twenty-three more days to practice believing it. Photo by: wirecanvas When I run in Stanley Park, I connect with myself. But when I walk, I connect with my dog, Monty, nature, animals and people in the park.
Today, I parked at Prospect Point and Monty and I hiked down the steep switchback trail to the seawall. After the first turn, Monty dove into a large pile of maple leaves collected under a fern. He rolled around in bliss, like when you’re exhausted and finally slide under your down comforter and revel in how amazing your bed feels. Then he did it with the next fern. And again and again. He was like a chocoholic in the Hersey museum. What’s going on here -- did some new botanical drug hit the trails? A border collie ran around the curve and pulled Monty out of his elated state. “Does this trail go to Prospect Point?” the dog’s owner asked. “Yep, straight up these switchbacks,” I said. Then a cyclist appeared and asked, “hey, does this go around the lower trail?” “No, it goes up to Prospect Point, that one there goes down to the seawall,” I said. Maybe I could be the official Stanley Park ambassador, like a Walmart Greeter for Vancouver’s first park. Monty and I hit the seawall and walked clockwise, not our normal way. It felt like we were walking up a down escalator. I watched how the birds reacted to Monty. The crows flew away. The seagulls held their positions. And the Canada geese looked over their shoulders as they moved slowly away, like a pack of cool, teenage boys that are terrified by a horror movie but refused to admit it. We passed a middle-aged asian man, standing beside his bicycle, fishing. “Good morning, what are you fishing for?” “Fwanda,” he said. “Fwanda? Do you eat that?” I asked. “Yeah yeah,” he nodded and laughed. “What kind of fish again?” I asked. “Fwanda, fwanda, you know?” he asked. No, I didn’t know. “How do you spell it?” I asked. “F-l-o-u…” “Oh, flounder!” I said. We both laughed. “How many will you catch today?” I asked. “Nothing,” he said. “You already know that? How long will you be here?” I asked. “One hour,” he said. “You’ll try for an hour, knowing you won’t catch any fish?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. I wondered if he was a glass-is-half-empty type of fisherman? Or did he just cast for relaxation? As we continued our walk, I saw a white German shepherd mix who kept gazing over the wall. As we passed him, I looked too -- a mangled green tennis ball! Did he drop it in the ocean, like I once did with my Sony Discman? Or was it the canine equivalent of a bottle with a note tucked inside? “Monty, don’t look,” I said. We ducked into the woods and strolled to Beaver Lake. I wanted a photo of Monty, “wait, waaait, waaaaait” I said. This man in track pants, a rain jacket and toque stepped out of the woods behind me, “wait?” he asked with a smile. “Jeesh, people are literally coming out of the woodwork today,” I said. I always seem to get busted when I am impatient with my dog. We chatted and he said he used to come to the park a lot when he trained for marathons. But today, he took photos. We compared the difference between a moment captured with photography versus writing. “Do you incorporate photos in your work?” he asked. “Not really, I’m trying to write the story that the photo would show,” I said. He showed me a stunning macrophotograph of a grasshopper with frost on its wings. “There’s three seasons worth of story in that photograph, how do you explain all that in less than a thousand words?” he said. “Exactly. That is the challenge that I’m exploring” I said. Beaver Lake is quiet. I heard only the occasional horn honk amongst the chirp, tweet and quack of the resident birds. Lily pads were everywhere, but no frogs’ croaks. Four foot high reeds stuck out of the water like dropped pick-up sticks. And of course, the lone beaver dam in the middle of the lake, like a scoop of chocolate ice cream in a root beer float. I exchanged hellos with runners, photographers and tourists. Our silence was interrupted by a panicked guy, Mike, who asked if I’d seen his lost pitbull, Phoenix. “She got scared and took off last night,” he said. “Sorry, I haven’t seen her, but let me take your name and number, I’m in the park for the next few hours,” I said. Okay, Phoenix, come out, come out, wherever you are. We looped around the one kilometer path and then obeyed the green, divided overpass that crossed Georgia Street, equestrians to the left, pedestrians to the right. We passed the red fire hydrant where my mom’s adolescent standard poodle first raised his leg to pee. And where a guy exposed himself to me during a run many years ago. Huh. Was this some sort of task marker, like on a car rally? “Yep, displayed my penis at the red fire hydrant. Check.” The hello exchanges continued as six, forty-something runners raced by in silence. One raised his hand “hello” as if he was swearing an oath in court. I do this too if I’m wearing my headphones and I pass others on the seawall. As we walked the final twenty minutes back to Prospect Point, Monty picked up a four inch diameter stick that was wider than he was long. He soared along the trail like a five year boy with airplane arms. Everything I experience becomes a part of who I am. Today, in one thousand acres of park, I crossed paths with people, plants and animals. I connected with each for only a few seconds but perhaps, affected for a lifetime. Photo by: shimelle It was going to be a fast, quiet run since it was already dusk. I hit the seawall -- and the detour gate. Okay, alright, another backwards run, no problem.
I liked new. I liked different. But for twenty years of running the seawall, I always ran counter-clockwise. I hesitated. I fought the urge to turn around. Let it go. Welcome the change. And a change it was. The Girl in a Wetsuit statue looked like she was sitting on the edge of the seawall, and not in her usual resting place a hundred feet out in the water. The floating Chevron gas station appeared to be landlocked at the base of Chilco Street. And I had so many more people to say hello to because the cyclists all rode towards me on their one-way route. I resisted the temptation to run on the right-hand side of the seawall, like I always did. There were no usual landmarks to tell my body when to be tired. Change awakened my brain. Thoughts cleared. Insights appeared. Problems solved. Excitement grew, about, well, everything. Anything seemed possible. I actually high-fived a maple leaf that reached out to me, like a spectator’s hand at the finish line of a marathon. Was this “runner’s high”? Probably. Was this also the result of living life according to my heart? Absolutely. I knew one thing. I wanted more. Photo by: kennymatic Stanley Park is peaceful at night.
A group of runners passed Monty and I in silence, except for heavy breathing and slapping of shoes in the shallow puddles. One wore a headlamp that looked like the white bouncing ball in a sing-along movie. As another group of five runners rocketed past, a man’s voice yelled out from the dark, “8:26! 8:27! 8:28! 8:29! 8:30!” I didn’t know what was being timed but it sparked a desire to join them. I couldn’t stop thinking of the night scenes on the Orca in Jaws whenever I heard the “clang, clang, clang” of sailboats moored at the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club. Live-aboard sailboat resident I will never be. I watched as the illuminated SeaBus sailed away from the bright Waterfront terminal, like a chunk of ice breaking off from an iceberg. Monty stared, and I laughed, as the waves agitated the shore rocks which grew long necks and legs and floated off to join the other Canada Geese already in the water. And I got followed as leaves flickered across a spotlight and moved the eyes of Red-Cedar Bark Man, perched on the top of the totem pole, like a Victorian portrait photograph. I inhaled Stanley Park for forty-five minutes and exhaled my ten hour work day. Photo by: m0rph3us0 |