There isn't much to dislike at the beach. Any beach. In Toronto, we call them "The Beaches" because there's more than one along the vast north shore of Lake Ontario and people do have their favourites.
I have my favourite thing about each of them. At Hammersmith Beach, it's the name I like. At Balmy Beach, I like just about everything. The texture of the sand on my bare feet, the volleyball courts, the deep shade the trees provide for the boardwalk just after midday.
I sat in that shade yesterday, feeling conflicted while I gently brushed the sand from my feet after that warm walk. I performed my ritual. I said hello to the lake as I stood in the beach break. I visited my hands upon the warmest part of the water and called out names of family, names of friends. All people who would have wished to have been with me. Well, people I wished were so.
I sat back in the shade with my bicycle at rest and the sand falling from my feet. And I thought about what the beach meant to me in that moment. I thought about the water's edge. The place that calls me, captures me like a dear friend in a dream.
I thought about the air and water and the place where they come together. I thought about sun and sky and the light and dark that defines the gentle ripples. I thought about the land and the people and the children and the games and the rest. And the laughter, quiet conversation and hands held together. And I thought about the fire that lights our minds.
It's the edge of the water where all of us come together. On a sunny day like this. And on every other day, with the right kind of love in our hearts.
-Meghan
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
I Still Dream of Flying
I just know there’s a jet pack with my name on it.
I’ve been thinking that thought for 40 years.
The space program, the only program on TV when I was a kid in 1969, promised me, promised everyone, a jet pack. You know, something you could strap to your back and ride the skies to work, or the corner store, or the playground. The only other thing I wanted out of the space program was glass after glass of yummy Tang. I drank the Tang. I’m still waiting to fly.
It tells me something about promises. And expectations. And all those articles in my Dad’s Popular Mechanics magazines that insisted I could do it myself. I could build my own jet pack.
But I sometimes wonder if flight is necessary. If it will be as pleasant as I dream it is. Or maybe it would be better to soar with the mind’s own wind rather than scream, jet-fuelled, across the sky.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I don’t allow myself to rest here.
Promises won’t get me where I need to be. Most promises are lies that haven’t been spoken. And most expectations are constructed of imagined promise and glasses of Tang.
Popular Mechanics told me everything I needed to know about these things. It said, I had to do it myself.
-Meghan
I’ve been thinking that thought for 40 years.
The space program, the only program on TV when I was a kid in 1969, promised me, promised everyone, a jet pack. You know, something you could strap to your back and ride the skies to work, or the corner store, or the playground. The only other thing I wanted out of the space program was glass after glass of yummy Tang. I drank the Tang. I’m still waiting to fly.
It tells me something about promises. And expectations. And all those articles in my Dad’s Popular Mechanics magazines that insisted I could do it myself. I could build my own jet pack.
But I sometimes wonder if flight is necessary. If it will be as pleasant as I dream it is. Or maybe it would be better to soar with the mind’s own wind rather than scream, jet-fuelled, across the sky.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I don’t allow myself to rest here.
Promises won’t get me where I need to be. Most promises are lies that haven’t been spoken. And most expectations are constructed of imagined promise and glasses of Tang.
Popular Mechanics told me everything I needed to know about these things. It said, I had to do it myself.
-Meghan
Intersections
I don’t enjoy spending a lot of time thinking about what might have been. I do it anyway.
I did it Saturday. I thought about how all of us move among ourselves.
All the pleasures and all the pain of life come from being connected to each other. Not just sharing the same space at the same moment. But having a real influence in each other’s lives.
I used to think of these as little things. But that’s because I wasn’t experiencing my own life. These things only seem small from a distance. But not when you’re in them.
I changed my Saturday plans for traveling to a beach party in Port Stanley with a dear friend to remain in Toronto. I wanted to attend a march to celebrate the unique gifts of psychiatric survivors. I met a friend there who might have walked alone if I hadn’t joined her. There was drumming and singing. I loaned my voice to an old Bob Marley song. I put my hands together and smiled at people I knew. And I smiled at the people I didn’t know. I was loud.
Many people recognized me, because I helped to open the Mad Pride celebration with a speech a few days earlier. I was still receiving love for the speech.
The moment I can feel from that day, the most important one, happened when a woman I met an hour earlier offered me a deep hug and whispered in my ear, using words from my own speech, assuring me that our pain, my pain, wasn’t just a cry in the wilderness.
When Saturday’s march was over and the musicians were seated, I stood and worked my way through the crowd of people, some of them dressed in hospital gowns. I touched my new friend on her painted shoulder and returned all the love in her hug from days ago. I offered her a gentle kiss on the cheek. I didn’t have a lot to say. Maybe I said it all. I thanked her for, everything. And she thanked me again for getting the week’s events started.
In that moment, I couldn’t help but feel that the things that brought me to experience those useless years of despair and profound loss were the same ones that guided me to so deeply touch a woman I don’t even know.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to shake the terrifying image of something I experienced as the afternoon began. I watched an elderly woman cross the street against the light and into the path of a large cube van. The screech of the van’s tires called my attention to what she was doing. She went down with such force that her tiny body was carried at least three metres into the intersection, like something was pulling her along the ground and away from the pain in the van. I grabbed my keys and ran out my door. I was the first one at her side. The distraught driver joined me in my helplessness. He repeatedly called out to God. He began to move the woman and I told him to stop. We were soon joined by others with cell phones and the intersection became filled with cars and people, all keeping some distance as they called for help. The driver and I just stood there, mouths too dry to speak, hearts strangled.
A nurse took over until an ambulance arrived. I stood at the corner watching the progress of something I’ve seen too many times before. A police officer took my statement. Then he apologized to me for having to witness the accident. I immediately dismissed it. I didn’t want to contribute any sorrow to what I saw. But I thought a lot about it. He was right. I needed that moment of kindness. I held onto it as I tried to escape the terrible image in my mind.
I realized something else. I wasn’t helpless. The driver was going to move her. It was life’s own gesture. He just wanted her to stand, to say something, to give us a sign of herself. He wanted to reverse the flow of life and death and try to do something differently. Anything. But he may have hurt her by moving her. I said no and he stopped. I wonder now if speaking for her made a difference. It was little enough. I wanted to do something too. Maybe I protected her. It was what had to be. I think of it now as a moment of love for someone I don’t even know.
There are so many intersections in my life. Little ones. Big ones. Sometimes I don't feel part of them.
But today, because of words and music and drumming and the healing power of hope, there's a little more joy in one kind woman's heart. And in mine.
Sadly, for another woman, there are flowers at the side of the road.
-Meghan
I did it Saturday. I thought about how all of us move among ourselves.
All the pleasures and all the pain of life come from being connected to each other. Not just sharing the same space at the same moment. But having a real influence in each other’s lives.
I used to think of these as little things. But that’s because I wasn’t experiencing my own life. These things only seem small from a distance. But not when you’re in them.
I changed my Saturday plans for traveling to a beach party in Port Stanley with a dear friend to remain in Toronto. I wanted to attend a march to celebrate the unique gifts of psychiatric survivors. I met a friend there who might have walked alone if I hadn’t joined her. There was drumming and singing. I loaned my voice to an old Bob Marley song. I put my hands together and smiled at people I knew. And I smiled at the people I didn’t know. I was loud.
Many people recognized me, because I helped to open the Mad Pride celebration with a speech a few days earlier. I was still receiving love for the speech.
The moment I can feel from that day, the most important one, happened when a woman I met an hour earlier offered me a deep hug and whispered in my ear, using words from my own speech, assuring me that our pain, my pain, wasn’t just a cry in the wilderness.
When Saturday’s march was over and the musicians were seated, I stood and worked my way through the crowd of people, some of them dressed in hospital gowns. I touched my new friend on her painted shoulder and returned all the love in her hug from days ago. I offered her a gentle kiss on the cheek. I didn’t have a lot to say. Maybe I said it all. I thanked her for, everything. And she thanked me again for getting the week’s events started.
In that moment, I couldn’t help but feel that the things that brought me to experience those useless years of despair and profound loss were the same ones that guided me to so deeply touch a woman I don’t even know.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to shake the terrifying image of something I experienced as the afternoon began. I watched an elderly woman cross the street against the light and into the path of a large cube van. The screech of the van’s tires called my attention to what she was doing. She went down with such force that her tiny body was carried at least three metres into the intersection, like something was pulling her along the ground and away from the pain in the van. I grabbed my keys and ran out my door. I was the first one at her side. The distraught driver joined me in my helplessness. He repeatedly called out to God. He began to move the woman and I told him to stop. We were soon joined by others with cell phones and the intersection became filled with cars and people, all keeping some distance as they called for help. The driver and I just stood there, mouths too dry to speak, hearts strangled.
A nurse took over until an ambulance arrived. I stood at the corner watching the progress of something I’ve seen too many times before. A police officer took my statement. Then he apologized to me for having to witness the accident. I immediately dismissed it. I didn’t want to contribute any sorrow to what I saw. But I thought a lot about it. He was right. I needed that moment of kindness. I held onto it as I tried to escape the terrible image in my mind.
I realized something else. I wasn’t helpless. The driver was going to move her. It was life’s own gesture. He just wanted her to stand, to say something, to give us a sign of herself. He wanted to reverse the flow of life and death and try to do something differently. Anything. But he may have hurt her by moving her. I said no and he stopped. I wonder now if speaking for her made a difference. It was little enough. I wanted to do something too. Maybe I protected her. It was what had to be. I think of it now as a moment of love for someone I don’t even know.
There are so many intersections in my life. Little ones. Big ones. Sometimes I don't feel part of them.
But today, because of words and music and drumming and the healing power of hope, there's a little more joy in one kind woman's heart. And in mine.
Sadly, for another woman, there are flowers at the side of the road.
-Meghan
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tough girl
I often think you're tougher than I am.
People say I'm so strong and courageous. They say that all the time. And it means something.
But I'm fond of thinking that if I had an ounce of strength or courage I would have stayed where I was and done what was expected of me and been miserable all my life. Lots of people do that. I finally didn't have the strength.
So, are you tougher than I am or am I just weaker than you?
Not that I would mind either one of those. I just want to know.
Maybe I would be strong and courageous (or not) anyway, never mind the circumstances. But nobody ever told me that I was strong, or that I had courage before I started living my life as a female almost three years ago.
It's just another one of those things that seems to separate me. I mean yeah, it's a compliment. And I know I'm conducting a master class in gender studies here. But the last thing I want to feel is separated.
Strength and courage are probably some things that should be assigned a lot more to a lot more people. Then I might feel good about it being assigned to me.
-Meghan
People say I'm so strong and courageous. They say that all the time. And it means something.
But I'm fond of thinking that if I had an ounce of strength or courage I would have stayed where I was and done what was expected of me and been miserable all my life. Lots of people do that. I finally didn't have the strength.
So, are you tougher than I am or am I just weaker than you?
Not that I would mind either one of those. I just want to know.
Maybe I would be strong and courageous (or not) anyway, never mind the circumstances. But nobody ever told me that I was strong, or that I had courage before I started living my life as a female almost three years ago.
It's just another one of those things that seems to separate me. I mean yeah, it's a compliment. And I know I'm conducting a master class in gender studies here. But the last thing I want to feel is separated.
Strength and courage are probably some things that should be assigned a lot more to a lot more people. Then I might feel good about it being assigned to me.
-Meghan
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Hiya!
Oh, not another one!
And please don't say you want me to write about it.
Uh, how am I doing so far?
I feel like I'm writing a ghost. Is it me? And I wonder why some of the things I say are of such interest to people. And why is writing so revered when most people don't read? And what becomes of my words when they are read? Do words have a destiny, a spirit? Do they create? Do they age? Are my words really any different than yours?
Well. We'll see.
Meghan
And please don't say you want me to write about it.
Uh, how am I doing so far?
I feel like I'm writing a ghost. Is it me? And I wonder why some of the things I say are of such interest to people. And why is writing so revered when most people don't read? And what becomes of my words when they are read? Do words have a destiny, a spirit? Do they create? Do they age? Are my words really any different than yours?
Well. We'll see.
Meghan
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