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An emotional outburst

On September 20^th, only three weeks into blogging, I posted “The Guest House”, a poem by Rumi that a friend had sent to me. Her suggestion being, I assume, that I be open to all emotions during this year of discovery. The poem begins:

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

...

It goes on to suggest that I meet all the dark thoughts, the malice, the shame at my door and invite them in. So I metaphorically dragged over a piece of broken concrete to prop the door open, and jammed a chair under the door handle to ensure that no matter what I was doing, any feeling could wander in.

Much as I present this year of exploration as a chance to push myself beyond my comfort zone, to boost my confidence and perhaps answer some of those existential questions that swirl inside me, it isn’t all snowy treks and silly dates. I realise that as interested and intelligent readers, you would be aware that I have my ups and downs. Most of my downs are due to loneliness, but that’s balanced with discoveries and new experiences as well as a lot of just feeling content.

In the discussion group that I did through McGill university, we spent part of our last meeting looking at the comics rather than articles or stories. Here’s one that I link to the Rumi poem. 

I feel that the guest room inside me would look like this. New emotions ushered in, even the uncomfortable and unexpected, while the old ones hang about in various states of undress and repose, ignoring the new arrivals.

On a regular basis, I feel euphoria and sadness, excitement and existential angst, satisfaction and curiosity. I’m friends with all of these emotions, although as with human friends, some are more fun, a few give me pause for deep thought while others are so intense and worthwhile that I can only handle them in small doses.

A single day can involve feeling bewilderment at a piece of art, apprehension at voicing a contentious idea, satisfaction as I work on a piece of writing, discomfort as I sit motionless at an event wondering if everyone is commenting on my solitary state, pride after an hour of French conversation and finishing with wanting to dance as I walk home from dinner out. I have enjoyed laughter with new friends, felt sadness at seeing Inuit men and women begging far from their northern birthplaces, and been surprised at the kindness of strangers. I am rarely bored, although I can be frustrated, sad, ecstatic, lonely, content, unsure or bewildered.

The mountain of Montreal has seen many of these emotions, including tears. I am never ashamed of my tears. 

My door, surrounded by graffiti and up a steep flight of stairs, has been wide open to emotional discoveries during my three months here in Montreal. Next week, as I push aside the foliage and find a piece of volcanic rock to prop open my door in Costa Rica, I imagine that I’ll be curious about the visitors there.

I am fortunate to have such a dynamic, intelligent, capable mum, who at the age of 89 thinks nothing of climbing on a train in Toronto and traveling five hours to visit me in Montreal. 

She complains that she can’t do as much as she used to (which really translates to ‘as much as she wants to’) but if I look back on how I was thirty years ago, I could say the same about myself. But I CAN ride a bike with no hands. Something I couldn’t do when I was younger!

We’ve had 15 cms of snow recently (see previous post) and so it was a little treacherous underfoot during her visit, but that didn’t stop us from a short walk on the mountain or strolling to pick up wine and a baguette. We went most places by metro or bus, and I even put her to work in the kitchen at Santropol Roulant, the meals-on-wheels organisation where I regularly volunteer. For almost three hours we sliced fennel, portioned out pear tart, carried things up and down stairs to the walk-in fridge and at the end wiped, scrubbed and disinfected all the countertops. It was great fun if somewhat exhausting and we were happy to collapse at my flat with a roast chicken from one of the myriad of Portuguese restaurants in my neighbourhood. 

One afternoon, we visited the McCord Stewart Museum to see an exhibition entitled “Disraeli”. No, not that one. I was puzzled as to why a Canadian history museum would focus on a British Prime Minister but it turned out to be photographs taken fifty years ago in a rural town in deepest Québec called Disraeli. Formica tables and vinyl chairs! Bikes with banana seats and handlebar streamers! Pullover sweater vests! My childhood revisited. The photos were great, so we were surprised to learn at the end that there had been a real backlash in Montreal, and then from the community, at the over depiction of poverty and grime. I feel that the well-meaning literati of Montreal slapped their urban judgement on what were quite lovely and bucolic photos.

From there Mum and I took the bus, two buses actually, along Sherbrooke and then up Boulevard St. Laurent (“The Main”, which used to be the dividing line between English and French Montreal). It was Saturday so the streets were bustling. Our walking was restricted due to energy levels and ice, so we went into Darling, a fabulous bar on The Main. It’s large and bustling yet somehow warm and cosy. We sat at the round bar right at the middle, where two or three bartenders were doing their thing, surrounded by tables and an oyster counter all filled with people enjoying their coffees, drinks and late afternoon nibbles. Outside, the daylight slowly faded. Inside, we were hanging with the young and hip. It was perfect!

I am the daughter of a wonderful mother, and the mother of three amazing daughters. I am blessed to have these connections in my life, even as the relationships change over the years. Or perhaps the evolution is part of the charm.

SNOW DAY! Except that this is Montreal so life went on as usual. Five minutes, it seemed, after they shut down the urban cycle scheme snow began to fall and by the time I woke up last Wednesday morning we had a solid 10 centimetres on the ground with more coming throughout the day. It was fantastic, and I switched from a somewhat grumpy and cold survivor of wind and dropping temperatures to an excited adventurer ploughing through the untrodden drifts on the mountain.  

On the way to the mountain park I ran across Louis, the neighbourhood singer with his snow-bedecked spaniel Cookie. We had a little chat, all bundled up against the elements, and he told me that he only sings love songs. It is his offering to a world that seems beset with sadness. How lovely is that?

Please be reassured that Cookie was as happy as could be, even with the snow clumps hanging from her ears. She kept bouncing off to play with other dogs. Or perhaps to show off how fantastic she looked.

Here are some other photos from that snowy day

Urban streetscape

 My most recent favourite photo

When I finalised plans for my three months in Montreal one thing I did was sign up for an online dating website. I figured that at the very least I could have some conversations over coffee with people who weren’t too dreary and didn't show signs of being a serial killer. 

It was more than disappointing, then, to discover that after an initial burst of connections with men who seemed remarkably good looking and rugged and outdoorsy, nothing happened. It turned out they lived in Mississippi and were only visiting Montreal, or they were monosyllabic in their text conversations or, depressingly, they didn’t see how fabulous I was and just didn’t respond. Obviously not well raised. So I stopped swiping left and right, and turned my focus back on writing, market shops and searching for the best boulangerie. I felt no angst. Perhaps there was also relief.

Last week, however, returning home mid-evening, walking past the bustling shops and tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants on Blvd St Laurent, dodging couples and groups of women all buzzing with energy and purpose, I decided that I needed to make one last attempt. I examined my profile. “Rented my place in London, returning to the land of my birth, looking to make Montreal my home. Cyclist, writer, looking for intelligent man for coffees, meals, blah, blah, blah.” All quite ho hum.

I rewrote my profile post: “Three weeks and I’m gone. Will I return in the spring, like the swallows? Loving Montreal, even as it gets cold. Are you active, with emotional depth, into hiking, cycling, film, books, live music, who is up for a last minute connection? If yes, let’s explore. Life’s short, we need to embrace it.” Not overly chaotic or ribald but I thought that the time limit might appeal to those commitment-phobic guys. 

Boom! Responses flooded in and I was having conversations left, right and centre. I discovered that online dating is actually quite time-consuming, hence the delay in posting this, and also on Sunday, my usual day for blogging, I had two coffee dates. Not one, but two!

I met Philip* up at Café Henri by the Marché Jean Talon. He’d mentioned where he lived, and I decided to opt for two birds with one stone: if the “date” was a washout, I’d at least return home with a bag full of cauliflower and onions and tomatoes. He was quite nice. Hmmm, that’s damning with faint praise. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that they talk a lot because they’re nervous, but no. Not this time, and boy, does mansplaining get dull quickly.  

Over the course of an hour stroll, I had those fabulous outdoor Montreal staircases explained to me, the dififerent neighbourhoods, how a company works, how Fairtrade isn’t terribly fair, and then the minutae of the Québec election last month was examined, even though I’d suggested that I didn’t have an interest. I stopped trying to add my own opinion because it only delayed the end of his story. I liked his boots, his leather bag and his pea coat but unfortunately the man inside was only interested in himself. The upside was in the actual market, as it was quite fun strolling past the stalls with someone who held my bag so that I could add the lettuce and scallions. But I think I’m grasping at straws here. In reality, he made no suggestions, bought nothing himself, had no interest in all the fantastic quebecois produce on display. I climbed onto my Bixi bike, a slight mist falling, happy at least with my purchases.

When I met Marcel*, later that day, my heart somewhat sank as he said 'Bonjour'. A full québecois accent. But hey, in for a penny, in for a pound, and at the very least I’d get in some language practise. We headed towards the mountain but then switched to a café as he was worried that I’d be cold (temperatures dropped to zero Sunday morning). What began feeling rather trite and difficult, especially coping in French with that accent, actually ended up being quite fun. I mean, we’re not running into the sunset. Spoiler alert: I’m unlikely even to see him again, but our conversation ranged from ageing parents (can we ever escape that topic?) to holidays to retirement plans (in his case) and my year of exploration (in my case), and onto camper van trips, topless sunbathing, Cuba, cycling in and around Montreal and the trials of empty-nesting. 

What did I learn from my dates? 

1. There is an epidemic of loneliness out there. 

2. Any future online dating will only involve men with children. There’s more hope they would understand priorities, possess a certain degree of empathy, and might share the joy and wonder of watching a child grow up.

 

3. I don’t know how to date. Even before my 28-year marriage I had the same boyfriend for too long. Perhaps when I was 12, when as giggling adolescents we’d jostle each other, vying to dance with that cute boy, who would then ask his friend to tell my friend to ask me to be his girlfriend. It was still fraught but somehow more straightforward. 

* Names have been changed to preserve anonymity 😳

Wonder. I know that it disappears with childhood, but it slips away without acknowledgement unlike the awareness we have of growing out of the nail-biting habit or the need to assert ourselves or our innocence. Cynicism lays a protective layer across our emotions. 

In many ways we thrust wonder away in our determination to grow up and get on to the next stage, without realising that some magic disappears in the process. These stages that we move on from are actually not the stepping stones to a purpose but rather pieces of the mosaic that make up our life.

So I feel fortunate to have rediscovered this world of wonder. It’s light and airy and surprising, and I wish I could sprinkle fairy dust on everyone so they could catch a glimpse of the joy I feel when I see the full moon through autumnal leaves or the contentment that runs through me after a French chat with an elderly man in a wheelchair to whom I’ve just delivered a delicious meal from Santropol Roulant. 

My engagement and awareness comes from stripping away the tangled layers of domestic routine. I did this fairly brutally, by literally packing up my home and going to a distant city where I knew almost no one, and I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. But I don’t mind being solitary. It allows space for ideas and exploration, surprises and unplanned encounters.

What I didn’t expect was to feel that same sense of wonder when I returned to London last week for a whirlwind visit. My short-term tenants had moved out with longer term ones arriving four days later, and my home needed to be stripped back from an Airbnb set-up to a more basically-furnished rental. So I had to pack up all my books, linens, small electric appliances, plants, decorative items and irreplaceable items like my resin-encased shell found on a beach in Indonesia or the square plate I bought in Brittany.

I delivered Fiona's aloe, raised from a tiny plant 

and now the mother of a few litters, to a friend 

Even with the lashing rain, the severely-delayed tube lines and the wind, I felt happiness when I came through the underpass to my road of terraced houses, the willow tree hanging over the river by the little green, the impromptu breakfast with my neighbour while I waited for the inventory clerks to arrive chez moi. There was a sense of belonging that had eluded me before, as if I had to go away to really see the place again. I loved having a chat with someone almost every time I went out my front door, being invited to a casual supper, gathering friends for dinner at the little Italian deli/restaurant just 100 metres from my house, and to realise that shared histories, no matter how recent, are the threads with which we weave the tapestry of our lives. 

I don’t have that community in Montreal of course, as I’ve only had two months in the city. And I’m quite aware that my sudden reappearance in London was a novelty for my friends, and that in fact, it can be hard to gather people there. Everyone is busy, or lives at a distance, and it used to frustrate me to no end that in spite of spending lovely times with friends, two months or more could go by before we could “get another date in the diary”.  

I enjoyed so much laughter over my few days in England. Some of it at the expense of the government, but also the silliness of so many things being delayed or cancelled because of “leaves on the line”. Is there any other country that grinds to a halt because of snow, heat and wind? I laughed with the man at the Hammersmith town hall when I went in to pick up recycling bags and ended up getting my fourth jab. I left with three rolls of bags and a sticker. 

I even laughed when, having loaded up my rental van and driven out through the chaos of the lane-reduced A4, I arrived at my storage facility by Heathrow airport to discover that whilst I’d remembered the access code I’d forgotten my keys to the unit. I laughed less hard when I discovered that the A4 going eastwards was also delayed and the whole mistake cost me an extra two hours on the road, but then I grabbed an umbrella and ran through the rain to Hammersmith bridge so that a friend could pick me up on the other side and take me to theirs for supper. It was all unexpected and joyful. 

I returned to a 22-degree Montreal. Which in itself is extraordinary. My heart is full.

My life, all packed up.