Summer – Rant and Roll

I wrote you everyday for a year

Hello blogger friends!

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I very much apologize for my absence.

AND!

I very much apologize even more, if said absence lead any of your to believe that some kind of tragedy had befallen either myself or my loved ones.

The truth of the matter is – life happened.

And it happened a lot.

This summer has been one of intense happenings – change, growth, learning, happiness; sadness, athletics, adventure, beauty, love, and, of course, fun.

All the fun has been had.

But I am also at this point where I feel the need to pack a bag, head to YVR, grab Marc’s hand, and buy a pair of the farthest away one-way plane tickets we can afford.

We’ll fly off into the wide-blue yonder with nothing but a change of undies, our running shoes, and a bag of peanut butter M&M’s (purchased from Hudson News. It’s a tradition.)

POOF.

We’ll be gone.

It’s weird.

I often forget about the aging process.

I think much of this has to do with the fact that Marc and I have now been together now for ten years. (August 16 marked this milestone in our relationship.)

I was eighteen when we first got together, and there is a strange little part of me that still thinks that we are still those same people: that I am still that silly and starry-eyed first year undergraduate student, and he is the suave, and self-sufficient third-year classics major.

And sure, there is some truth to that – those people still very much make up a part of our characters, our souls.

But any way you slice, it – we’ve changed.

We are changing.

We are maturing – both inside and out.

And it’s something that is happening every single day of our lives.

And I don’t begrudge this happening.

In fact, I love it.

I like life a heck of a lot more now than I did as that undergraduate student.

It’s just that I don’t ever really reflect on these changes unless I am confronted by this fact – maybe I’ll see someone I haven’t seen in quite a long time; or I’ll start to realize that I am outgrowing older friendships.

Outside of my immediate self, I notice this most when I see the other loves of my life also changing, and adapting.

I see it when people have babies.

When people get sick.

When people get married, and when they get divorced.

When they buy property, when they move away, when they stop eating meat, when they start reading Kant –

And it’s good.

Because without this movement, this incessant striving, this going forward – we just die. We become stagnant and morose; we stop asking questions, we stop engaging in dialogue, we stop progress.

We can’t properly appreciate life.

The only trick of the matter is – how to find a balance between this constant striving and the ability to sit back and enjoy the aging process?

How do I keep moving but not to the extent where I feel the need to run away because life has reached a new level of overwhelming activity?

This is, of course, a topic I’ve written about quite a bit here at Rant and Roll, but seeing as though I have yet to answer this question, it will most likely be something that I keep revisiting as we head into the Autumn months (and no doubt beyond.)

There are so many good things to look forward to: Powell River in the Fall, running the Fall Classic 10k, Nova Scotia in November, playing soccer with Marc, fireside nights with a good book and our beauty cat.

But before we get too ahead of ourselves, I want to make sure that I take the time to appreciate everything this summer had to offer.

And so I present to you –

July and August, by the numbers.

4 Weddings

3 Bridesmaid dresses

1 pair of killer heels

1 half marathon

250 kilometers ran soley for the love of running

1 1000 kilometer drive (in one night)

3 Hikes

5 Inches of hair cut off

10 Amazing books

10 Stand-up Shows

1 New job

2 Radio shows

Countless tears shed

Countless laughs laughed

All the lessons learned.

All the lessons left to be learned.

…

I’m back WordPress.

Thanks for letting me take some time off.

I’m looking forward to it.

I’m moving.

I’m moving forward.

My love for you will still be strong

After the boys of summer are gone.

Friends.

I have been a terrible bloggess of late.

I keep saying that I am going to get back into the regular routine of things – writing, reading, and commenting on the regular – but life keeps getting completely out of control and I find that I have zero time to do anything (like tie my shoes!), let alone sink back into this wonderous blogosphere and get my rant and roll on.

So please forgive my absence – or as it has been of late, my hot and cold presence.

Please know that I am thinking about all of you, and am taking the time (whenever it comes up!) to take pleasure in all of your musings, insights, photographs, and updates.

I miss this place terribly, and am doing my very best to get back to a regular rhythm.

And until the time when I regain my blogger mojo, some snaps:

Bacherlorette.

Wedding hair.

Garden walk.

Ashland hike.

Date night.

Love.

…

I hope for all of the wonder you and yours.

Always.

These summer nights

I am seventeen years old.

My hair is very long, and its natural chestnut brown fights a never-ending battle against the bottle red I desperately want to be.

My sister is fifteen years old.

She also has long hair, much thicker than mine, into which the sun has burnt beautiful blond streaks, evenly, so that it reflects both a silver and gold shine under the street lamps, at night.

It is the last week of May, and the time of day is so late that it is now in fact early, and I am not sleeping. I haven’t slept properly is many weeks.

To keep the insomnia madness at bay, I am reading in bed, curled tightly around myself, like a croissant. My bedroom door slowly opens, and Jessi tiptoes into my room. She is wearing tight jeans and a man’s dress shirt, oversized on her tiny frame.

Tonight her hair sits tucked under a stained trucker hat that she insists on wearing, and indeed loving.

She looks stunning.

“Let’s go for a drive,” she says, as she crawls over my blankets to lie down next to me. I close my book and turn over, facing her.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask.

“I don’t care.” Jessi pauses as she snuggles down into one of my pillows. She rubs her face aggressively into it, like a cat. “How about the airport?”

“Sure,” I say. The airport is a good choice. It means highway speeds and the opportunity to gawk at the perverse grandeur of the wealthiest neighbourhood in Vancouver.

I sit up and put on my glasses; lean over and pick up the sweater lying on the floor next to the bed.

“What are you reading?” Jessi asks. She gets up and walks over to my closet, absentmindedly flipping through shirts and skirts.

“Dracula,” I respond. After I put on my sweater, I pick up the book and offer it to her. She shakes her head.

“Is it good?”

“Yes,” I tell her.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say. Come on, let’s go get the spare set of keys.”

…

The warm, wet air whips around the car as we trace the lines of the Fraser River. Jessi has her feet pressed up against the glove box, her knees scrunched up under her chin. Tiffany blasts from the CD player and she and I sing as loud as we can, belting out the lyrics with a zealous, almost manic energy.

“OHHHHH, I THINK WE’RE ALONE NOW.”

I know the words much better than she. She mumbles her way through the bits she is unsure of, only to sing twice as loud during the chorus. I call that “pulling a Mr. Bean.”

“It’s not that I don’t know the lyrics,” she tells me as she shifts herself around in her seat, tilting her face up, so she can meet the rushing night winds and the rushing night, head on. “I just like mine better.”

She cracks herself up.

It is in these moments that I feel what can only be described as complete love for my sister. I want to wrap up my soul with hers and drive on, keep moving past the trees, mountains, water, and stars, until we might float up and away. Away from our earthly bodies, gravity-bound, held down.

Growing up, our mother would always tell us the story of how when we were small, she visited a psychic with a friend. The first thing the woman told her during her reading was that she had borne twin girls. When my mother told her no, the woman was confused. Instead of continuing with the reading, the woman reiterated her previous statement. In response, my mother stated that she had three girls. Her two younger daughters, born two years apart, almost two years to the day, who were birthed at the same hospital, on the same floor, in the same room, assisted by the same doctor. The psychic nodded and smiled. She now understood. These were her twins of which she had spoken.

We were her twins.

One of us had just waited a little longer to come out and play.

As we pull up to the international departures drop-off, I look over at my twin, a girl sewn up in a beauty intricate and rare, bronze skin, eyes of onyx, fingernails of jade, and all I want to do is tell her that I love her.

She looks at me, smiling, her voice feverish.

“I never want to go to school again,” she says. “I wish we could just do this forever.”

I put the car in first gear; slowly ease my right foot off of the clutch, while gently lowering my right onto the gas. I look at her and smile back.

“Where to next?”

…

To the night, to the trees

I am eighteen.

It’s summer.

I have just finished a closing shift and am walking home because I have no patience to sit around and wait for the night bus.

My legs are tired after eight hours on my feet, but walking feels good; I am exorcising the ache from my limbs.

The sidewalk is shaded by old elms that whisper to each other in the late-night breeze.

The moonlight is splintered by these long-armed giants, so my path is guided by the soft glow of the streetlamps.

It always feels so much more romantic than I think it should.

I take off my tie, and unbutton the top of my blouse.

Roll up my pants.

I like the feel of the light breeze along my collarbones, my bare wrists.

And I think of a boy.

I imagine him saying my name.

When I get home I change into clothes as light as air.

My bedroom is still hot from the now-lost sunshine; the memory of its heat has settled, and nestled itself in every nook.

A phantom warmth.

I open the windows as far as they will reach. I take a deep breath, and smell the sweet scent of night.

My sister is away for the weekend, so I am alone.

In the kitchen I look at the photos taped to the fridge; it’s like my family has been blown far and away by Aeolus’ winds, and my heart tweaks.

I make peppermint tea, and sit in the quiet of the living room. My cat Sophie perched at the window sill, her copper eyes brilliant, but still.

She too is listening to the whispering trees.

I want to pick up the phone and talk.

I would like to talk to the boy.

Feel his hand on mine.

–

Time passes.

My tea cools, and my eyelids start to droop.

I leave my mug, half-drunk on the floor.

As I walk about to my bedroom I realize I have once again forgotten to water the plants.

Tomorrow, I think.

My room is cool, and smells of silence.

I close the window, but not entirely. A sliver of moonlight shines through my curtains – a bolt of lightning etched into the centre of my bed.

Under the blankets I let out a small sigh.

Tomorrow I will eat cherries for breakfast, I whisper.

To the boy.

To the night.

To the trees.

Going to the chapel, and we’re, going to get married

I’m not the best with surprises.

Almost six years ago to this day, on a deserted beach on Oahu’s north shore, my now husband Marc asked me to marry him.

Believe me when I say that I didn’t have the faintest clue that he was going to propose.

I mean, we had been together for four years, so it was inevitable that the topic would come up in conversation from time to time, and I knew that there was no one else in the world that I wanted to be with – I was just never one to think about it.

Growing up, I never day dreamed about weddings, sketched dresses, or play acted happily ever after.

I just hoped to heck that one day I would actually have a boyfriend, and all that practice kissing the back of my hand in the shower would amount to something.

So when this beautiful, kind, brilliant man, kneeled in front of me, and told me “I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” I briefly stood there shocked.

My mouth opening and closing like that of a stunned trout.

And then I burst into tears.

I cried so hard and for so long that Marc actually had to ask me (quite nervously at that) if my tears were a good or bad thing.

“Good…thing…” I managed to croak, before the next wave of sobs took over.

It was a very good surprise.

Marc began to laugh, and eventually I did too (although it was through my tears), and then he took my hand and placed a ring on my finger.

My engagement band has three stones – one larger, framed by two smaller ones. He explained that he choose this ring because the two stones on the outside are meant to signify us, and the middle stone is our life that we will build together.

You can imagine how quickly my tears dried up after hearing that. I’m pretty sure that I severely dehydrated myself standing there on the beach that night.

But it was magical.

The sun slowly setting, melting into the rich greens and blues of the sea; giant turtles watching us as they sunned themselves in the warmth of the white sand.

I told him that I would love him until the end of the world.

When we arrived back at the house where we were staying, we surprised all of our friends by revealing the good news.

Then we phoned family back in Canada, before doing the thing that every good 21^st century couple does – updating our profiles on facebook.

Arriving back in Canada, I remember Marc turning to me and saying, “So when shall we do this thing?”

I was still in such shock over the actual engagement, I hadn’t yet wrapped by head around the fact that that the end result of this whole thing would be, well, an actual wedding.

But as the days ticked by, I eventually came to grips – happy grips of course – with the idea that with engagement eventually comes a marriage, and I threw myself whole hog (for lack of a better expression) into the planning of our wedding.

We agreed that we didn’t want too long of an engagement so after a somewhat surprisingly stressful consultation period with both of our families, we locked down June 28^th, 2008 as the day we would official tie the knot.

We would have the ceremony and reception at Minter Gardens, just outside of Harrison Hot Springs.

As a certified type A personality, who likes things to be just so, I found that once I engaged myself in planning mode – no pun intended – it was terrifically hard to think of anything else.

Everywhere I went, I was thinking about food, and invitations, about bouquets and buffets. I became slightly obsessed with getting the absolute nicest possible things, for the fairest price possible.

I remember standing in Ikea in front of an entire shelfing unit of glass bowls, agonizing over whether or not they were too expensive for our center pieces. I then did the exact same thing at Superstore, before driving back to Ikea, and then back to Superstore, where I eventually purchased the bowls.

But more importantly, I wanted our wedding to be an absolutely joyous, fun, and exciting day – for not only Marc and I, but for everyone involved.

I wanted all of our guests to feel like those sea turtles on that beach in Hawaii – witnessing, but also taking part in something wonderful, kind, and magical. (And most likely watching me cry my eyes out the entire time.)

By the time the big day rolled around, I had planned every little thing, down to the minutest of details.

Everything was under control. Everything was going to be perfect. There were going to be no surprises.

The day before, Marc drove out to Langley, where he would stay over with his best friend Matt, while I drove out to Harrison that afternoon, with my my two sisters, long-time best friend, my sister’s partner, and my mother.

In our hotel suite, we ate sushi and drank diet coke. My sisters gave themselves pedicures in the bathroom, and I practiced putting in my contact lenses.

That night I slept, but the butterflies in my stomach and the persistent buzz of a malfunctioning air conditioner ensured that I slept little.

The morning of the wedding broke absolutely beautiful. It was to be a hot, sundrenched day, perfect for a garden ceremony and dinner.

The first person to arrive was our photographer, my soon to be sister in-law Vanessa.

“Getting here was crazy!” She exclaimed. “There’s this crazy burnt-out semi-truck taking up space on the number 1! Traffic was moving so slow, I didn’t think I was going to make it on time!”

A burnt out semi-truck?

I immediately phoned the woman who was coming to do my hair and makeup. My sisters twittered in the background, telling me that I had nothing to worry about.

“Don’t worry Vanessa,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “We’re on our way. We’ll be a little late, but we’re almost there.”

For some reason I truly believed that as long as my hair and make-up got done, everything was going to be okay.

And everything was okay, until around twelve o’clock, when I began to get more phone calls.

First, from my friend Jake, who was supposed to be one of our ushers.

“Yeah…I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but the highway is completely backed up. We’re stuck just outside of Langley and we haven’t moved in a long while so…”

I told him not to worry. Guests would be able to find a way to get to their seats. I just hoped that he would be one of those people sitting in a seat.

He told me he hoped that too.

Next, Kristy, my bridesmaid’s parents phoned. Same message.

Then Marc’s sister and brother in-law.

“I don’t know what’s happening but…”

Phone call after phone call. From friends, relatives.

My father.

I still get a sharp pang of guilt when I remember that phone call because a tiny voice inside my head immediately shouted out: “BUT HE’S THE ONE WHO HAS OUR CAKE!”

We tried to push back the ceremony as far as we could, but in the end we had to start. Our justice of the peace had another wedding, and there was another ceremony happening after ours.

Out of 140 guests, we were missing 40.

This was not in the original plan. This was a HUGE surprise to me.

As I walked through the gardens, up to our beautiful ceremony site, I tried to hold back my tears.

Was this actually going to happen? We were actually going to let this happen?

As we convened at the start of the pathway that would lead us to our ceremony site, and right as a fresh wave of tears was about to crash over me, my older sister Kate took my hand, looked straight in my eyes and said: “How much do you love Marc?”

“With…with all of my heart,” I answered.

“Then that is all you need to know” she said. “Today will be perfect.”

Right at that moment, the bagpiper began to play, and she and Marc’s groomsmen locked arms and began to walk together. I watched as the next pairing did the same, and then the next.

And then it was time for me. Little old me, walking as I had actually mean to walk, alone, approaching the man I was meant to marry.

After making it to the front of the aisle, I caught out of the corner of my eye, our bagpiper absolutely hoofing it out of the gardens, eager as he was to make it to his next gig. I’ve never seen a man move so fast in a kilt.

Which made me laugh, albeit through my tears. Just like on that beach in Hawaii.

In the end, we redid our vows at the beginning of our reception for all of those who couldn’t make it to the ceremony. And the most amazing thing was, no one complained, or remained sad about missing out on the start of the day.

The only thing anyone said to us was how much they loved the day, how much they loved us, and how much fun they had celebrating our marriage with us.

Which in the end, was the best surprise I could hope for.