Sometimes, this bus’s route is perfect because it’s anything but straight. It winds its way through many distinct, and disparate, neighborhoods in the city—from working class South Vancouver to the industrial part of east Van to historic Chinatown and then frenetic downtown. If I didn’t get off here, I’d eventually ride over the Burrard Bridge, pass through the loveliness of Kitsilano, and end up in stately old Kerrisdale. I sometimes think that the route was pieced together from all the leftover parts of the city that hadn’t yet been serviced with a regular bus. Or maybe the planner who mapped out the route had a sense of humour that day. Or too much to drink.  But the meandering quality is something I appreciate on days when I like to sit and think, and I want to avoid the packed and harried quality of the skytrain commute.

But sometimes, this bus’s route is frustrating, because it’s anything but straight. Of course, I’m only frustrated on days when I’m in a rush, or when I’m tired and looking forward to unwinding at home and tempted by the convenience of taking only one form of transportation (instead of skytrain + bus) to get there. When the route starts to wind and rush-hour traffic is added into the mix, and sometimes roadwork (which seems to be everywhere in the city lately), I sorely regret my choice of convenience over time…and melt in impatience. These kinds of rides are not conducive to thoughtful reflection.

About a week or two ago, I left the house earlier than usual and caught this particular bus to work. I also happened to catch a glimpse of a lovely moment—or vignette rather—en route. I can still see it now, in my mind’s eye…

It’s a little past eight on a lovely fall morning, still early enough for the sunlight to fall in slanted rays on the sidewalk between buildings. The bus I’m on turns left onto the main street in Chinatown. It’s disarmingly quiet, void of its usual market busyness and liveliness so early in the morning. I see an elderly Chinese couple walking on the sidewalk, and they’re holding hands. I think they’ve just gotten off of the bus ahead.  The couple is probably in their 70s and they walk slowly, but there’s nothing particularly frail-looking about them. They make their way down the sidewalk, hands clasped—not, I’m certain, because the woman is weak and needs the strength of her husband, but maybe because holdings hands is the better way to face the world and start a new day.

I think I arrived to work that morning with a goofy smile on my face.

Sometimes, long and windy bus rides have a charm all their own.

I was determined to pursue my first love, to immerse myself in a hobby I had long denied myself (well, since starting post-secondary education), and I had the romantic notion that I would create magical worlds peopled by characters from my imagination.

Then I started to write. And, to quote Anne Lamott, “I wrote terrible, terrible stories.”

Actually, most of them weren’t even stories. They were just beginnings with no middle nor end because I had a hard time figuring out what to do with the characters.

W.P. Kinsella once said that novel writers have to constantly ask themselves, what next, what next, what next? I was tripped up by the very first what next: I simply didn’t know what to inflict on my characters. I think I even penned a story like this once, in utter disgust at myself and cynicism at my so-called love of writing: “Once upon a time, they lived happily ever after.”

After about a year of writing terrible beginnings, premature half-starts that never developed into (even bad) novels, I returned all my library books and stopped trying to write. Clearly, I concluded, I wasn’t meant to be a writer. Because a real writer, I’d decided, was one who could write fiction, who could make up stories at the drop of a hat – without, of course, any torturous agonizing.

(It didn’t dawn on me then that even seasoned fiction writers find writing to be grueling work, requiring a lot of practice and, like any discipline, involving a none-too-healthy quantity of blood, sweat, and tears. Nor did I yet realize that there are many kinds of creative writers out there, not only novelists, including those who write creative non-fiction.)

Well, since novel writing hadn’t worked out, I decided to dust off other passions, one of which was French. As I was working at UBC at the time, I had the chance to take a number of university courses for free. So I enrolled in French 111 in the fall of 2006.

French was one of those courses that I loved in high school. And also one of those courses that my Pragmatic Self said I shouldn’t take when I was an undergrad at UBC – because, well, “What could you possibly do with that?” (I was not very fond of my Pragmatic Self.)

No longer an undergrad preoccupied with student fees nor enslaved to practical coursework, I could now indulge in French courses. And the first one of five that I subsequently took reminded me why I enjoyed learning the language so much.

The very first composition assignment that my French 111 T.A. gave us was a simple one: Write about a shopping experience, about something you have to buy and where you would buy it. I think we were learning vocabulary and phrases related to the theme of shopping at the time.

Some people wrote about buying books; others about buying clothes.

I decided to write about buying happiness.

The idea came to me on a bus ride. A girl wonders if she can buy happiness. She sets out on a shopping expedition to find out. The answer is not what she expects. That’s the premise.

The entire ‘plot’ of the (very short) story came to me during the 40-minute bus ride to work, right down to the ending. I started to jot down sentences feverishly on scraps of paper in my bag.  It was a strange experience, because for the first time, I was excited and giddy (instead of tortured and agonized) about a tale in my head, and full of ideas for what might happen next to the main character.

The energy and elation I felt in this context were foreign to me – and made doubly so because of the fact that I was thinking the story through in another language. It was a complete mystery to me – and still is -  why, in my broken, limited French, I wrote with greater ease and had more ideas than I had ever had when I tried writing stories in English.

That evening, I got home and typed up the story.  It’s no masterpiece, just a “petite histoire” that came to me during a prosaic bus ride. But I’ve never forgotten the experience. And I hope that it’ll happen again, one day (preferably in English), when I’m ready to try to write stories again.

This is how the “histoire” went.

* * * * *

Où est-ce qu’on peut aller si on veut acheter le bonheur? C’est une question qu’une jeune femme qui s’appelle Celine pose un jour. Elle va à beaucoup de magasins ce jour-là pour trouver une réponse.

Les vendeurs de ces magasins qu’elle visite sont perplexes quand elle leur dit, “Je veux acheter le bonheur. Où est-ce que je peux le trouver dans votre magasin?”

Certains vendeurs pensent qu’elle est folle mais les autres donnent des réponses créatives. (Ils espèrent vendre des choses chères et ils pensent que Celine a l’air naïve et impressionable.)

La vendeuse dans un magasin de vêtements dit à Celine, “Nous avons beaucoup de robes chices. Si vous les achetez, vous achetez aussi le bonheur.”

Le vendeur dans une boutique qui vend des chaussures lui dit, “Vous voulez acheter le bonheur? Regardez. Ce sont les nouveaux créations de Jimmy Choo. Ses chaussures sont à la mode. Beaucoup de célébrités portent ses chaussures. Ces boites-ci contiennent tout le bonheur dans le monde!”

Même le patron d’une pâtisserie lui dit, “Vous voulez acheter le bonheur? Très simple. Achetez mon gâteau au fromage – il est très delicieux – et vous saurez le bonheur véritable!”

Malheureusement (où peut-être heureusement), Celine n’est pas persuadée. Elle ne dépense pas d’argent. Finalement, elle décide à rentrer chez elle. Elle est fatiguée et elle se rend compte qu’on ne peut pas acheter le bonheur. Mais puis…qui est-ce qu’elle voit devant le grand magasin? Il y a une petite fille d’environ dix ans qui pleure.

“Pourquoi est-ce que tu pleures, ma petite amie?” Celine lui demande.

“Parce que j’ai perdu mon argent aujourd’hui, Mademoiselle, et demain, c’est l’anniversaire de ma mère. Elle est dans l’hôpital parce qu’elle est très malade. Je veux lui acheter un cadeau mais maintenant, je n’ai pas d’argent.”

“Je suis désolée! Qu’est-ce que tu veux lui acheter?”

“Son parfum préféré. Il s’appelle Happy par Clinique.”

“C’est parfait!” Celine s’exclame.

“Quoi?”

“Rien. Je comprends l’anglais aussi – c’est tout. Allons-y!”

“Mais où est-ce que nous allons?”

“Nous allons acheter le Happy.”

“Mais, mademoiselle, j’ai perdu mon argent. Je n’ai plus d’argent.”

“Pas de problème! Est-ce que je peux t’acheter le parfum? Je serai très heureuse de te faire ce petit geste.”

“Oh…vous êtes très aimable! Merci mademoiselle!”

Alors, ce jour, Celine retourne chez elle avec le bonheur dans sa coeur. (Elle sent heureuse aussi parce qu’elle a essayé le parfum Happy par Clinique dans le grand magasin avec la petite fille).

Celine conclut que c’est possible, après tout, d’acheter le bonheur.

This is your dilemma.

For years, you only drink tepid, cloudy water. It does not taste good, to say the least. And sometimes, it even makes you sick. But this water source is the only liquid sustenance that you have access to, that you have ever known.

You have heard, of course, that there is such a thing as clean, bottled water.  It’s basically tap water, filtered, but you have never tasted it. You have glimpsed it once or twice from afar, held in the hands of the fortunate. And you’ve heard comments about its satisfying taste. And the fact that it doesn’t give you a tummy ache. But you have never held a bottle in your hands.

You can only dream about it at night.  Wonder what water free of impurities tastes like. Water that quenches your thirst but doesn’t leave an aftertaste – or an after ache.

You go on dreaming, full of wordless longing. It does not ever seem that things will change: you will go on drinking murky water and looking wistfully at the bottles beyond your reach.

Then, one day, beyond all expectation and hope, the miraculous occurs.

You awake to find that you have access to a better water source. Not just bottled and filtered tap water. No: pure spring water. Fresh from a virgin mountain source. You never even knew that something better than bottled water existed.

When you take your first sip, you cannot believe the taste. How cool and clean it feels on your tongue. How refreshing. You can scarcely believe that something that good exists. It exceeds your imagination of perfection.

You are euphoric. You pinch yourself, until your arms are black and blue, because you cannot believe your good luck. You are humbled by this gratuitous gift from the universe. It all feels very…surreal.

But then, you learn that you do not have eternal access to this water. How long you have it for cannot be told; it could be for the next 30 years or the next 30 days. It could be for the next 30 minutes. Only.

You also learn that you could give up the spring water and the uncertainty that accompanies it for what you had dreamed about just the day before: bottled filtered tap water. A very large supply of it – sure to last much longer than 30 minutes, or even 30 days. Perhaps even longer than 30 years. Possibly for your entire lifetime.

You’ve never tasted bottled tap water. And you’re not given a sample to try. You have to make your decision without knowing. You’re certain it must taste a great deal better than the stale, murky water that often made you sick. But you also know, deep down, that it can’t be as good as the fresh and icy mountain water that you’ve just tasted. Nothing could ever compare.

You have a short time to make your decision:

Trade your uncertain access to pure spring water for a certain supply of bottled water. Or take a chance and hope that you have something longer than 30-minute or 30-day access to the mountain-fresh liquid – even if it means you’ll almost certainly have to revert back to impure water when your access ends.

Could you be satisfied drinking bottled water now that you’ve tasted pure spring water? Could you live with yourself for not taking a chance? Could you live with yourself for taking a chance that, in the end, results in utter disappointment – especially when you could be guaranteed something that, just yesterday, you had dreamed about, had held up as your ideal?

In the end, can you settle for good enough, instead of great? You know that good enough is more than what most people get to begin with, but – you also can’t forget what great tastes like, and you don’t believe you ever will.

What would you do?

I’ve never actually read any books in the Winnie the Pooh series – I just know that the stories were inspired by a Canadian WWI Captain’s pet bear! — though, of course, I had heard of Pooh and Piglet and Tiger and Eeyore before receiving the picture book.

I did not know, however, that Piglet and Pooh were such fast friends.  The little book features sweet excerpts about their friendship, drawn from Piglet’s perspective…such as this touching one, on “Reassurance”:

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.

“Pooh!” he whispered.

“Yes, Piglet?”

“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”

- The House at Pooh Corner

Flipping through this picture book right now brings back my age-old wonder at the talent of those children’s writers whose stories not only delight their primary young audience, but are able to reach out and touch grownups too, often for completely different reasons.  This is enviable mastery: the ability to tell two tales, to evoke different emotions among young and old, to connect with big and little folks at such different stages in their lives  — the latter simply desiring a tale that will delight their senses; the former wishing for one that will confirm or shed light on their experiences, that will make them both laugh and cry.

My favorite excerpt in Love, Piglet is, well, the one that made me choke up the most.  (Yes, it’s ironic: I am fearful of pain, yet appreciate its sad beauty when I come across it in literature.)

Here it is:

Piglet got up early that morning to pick himself a bunch of violets, and when he had picked them, it suddenly came over him that nobody had ever picked Eeyore a bunch of violets, and the more he thought of this, the more he thought how sad it was to be an Animal who had never had a bunch of violets picked for him.

- The House at Pooh Corner

Have you ever known an Eeyore in your life?  I have.  A few actually.  And I’m ashamed to say I never picked violets for any of them, that violet-picking was the furthest thing from my mind.

One of them was a girl whom I will call Cindy.  She went to the same high school as me.  I would often see her sitting cross-legged by her locker, facing inwards, the curve of her back indicating that she preferred to withdraw from the world rather than interact with it.  I had always considered myself quiet and shy, but next to Cindy, I’d probably have been taken as an extrovert.

I don’t think I ever saw her speak to anyone voluntarily – and, for that matter, I don’t think I ever saw anyone speak to her voluntarily.  I remember thinking, as a tenth or eleventh grader, keen on doing “good works” (and therefore not quite motivated for the right reasons), that I should talk to her.  Stop by her locker one day during lunch and try to start a conversation.  But – I never did, and her lonely form in the hallway was always something that made me feel sad and bad, and slightly guilty.

The summer after eleventh grade, I had a chance to redeem myself.  I was doing a one-week career prep placement at a local research institute (those were the days when I still thought that I was going to be a scientist and find a cure for….something), and it turned out that Cindy would be doing a placement there the same week in July as I was.

Things went well the first day.  She was very timid of course, but as it was just her and I in the office, and I was not – I think – the overly intimidating sort, she opened up a bit.

“This girl can talk,” I thought. “And she has interesting things to say!”

The second day, we talked some more as we worked, and I felt Cindy become a bit more relaxed.  When the lunch hour rolled around, I asked her if she wanted to eat in the cafeteria, as I had found out that another classmate of ours (whom, I will confess, I had a silly school girl crush on) was doing his career prep hours the same week as us and knew he’d be there.  She looked terrified – but consented.  It was an awkward lunch hour: while I and the other student chatted about our experience, Cindy sat, nibbled on her sandwich, and did not utter one word.

The next day, she didn’t want to each lunch in the cafeteria.  I tried to convince her, but to no avail.  So, I sat in the office and had lunch with her.  But I did it grudgingly, thinking of how much more enjoyable it would be to be in the cafeteria with my secret crush than here, with a painfully quiet girl.  And I was getting tired, too, of trying to make conversation with Cindy, who was receding into her secret self again and who did not seem to understand the good intentions of the ‘advice’  (I cringe now at the memory of it) that I had given her about attempting to be more sociable.

By Thursday, I was ready to stop making any efforts – and I did.  I had lunch with the boy classmate in the cafeteria and I didn’t try any longer to draw Cindy out when I worked with her in the office.  I was simply waiting for the awkward week to come to an end, when I would have no more to do with her.

Well, the week did come to an end.  And I didn’t, after that, have another conversation with Cindy, ever, even though we went through our final year of high school together and walked across the same stage at convocation.

I’ve always felt bad about my conduct during that week in July; it revealed sides of myself that I didn’t wish to see, such as how quickly my empathy dissipated, empathy that I had always thought would be in great supply because, having been “shy to the point of aggravation, ” to borrow Joan Didion’s words, as a teenager (and young adult), I thought I could connect easily with someone like Cindy.

Instead, I had simply expected that my good will would make her conform, in a few days’ time, to what I thought a “normal” 17 year-old should be; I certainly didn’t try to see the situation from her perspective or respect her for the person that she already was. I think I had good intentions – but, in the end, I cared more about my own comfort level than Cindy’s.  And when things became difficult and required more effort on my part, I chose the safe and sociable space of the cafeteria rather than the awkwardness and effort of the office.

I hope that someone has picked violets for Cindy.  I sincerely hope that.  And not just violets, but a bunch of other flowers too – daisies and gerbers and tulips and lilies.

Valentine’s Day is just around the corner.  It’s so easy, I think, for us to give gifts and offer words of love to those to whom it is appealing for us to give such things and offer such sentiments (sometimes, alas, unrequited!).  But the people who need it most, who require kindness and affirmation and genuine friendship – rather than occasional charity, no matter how well-intentioned – are often the very ones that are forgotten…

I hope I do not miss a chance again to pick violets for the Eeyores in my life.  Or rather, when the chance comes – for come it will – I hope I will have the strength of character to pick violets with humility and to offer them without any expectations and for no other reason than that everyone deserves to have a bunch of violets picked for them now and again.

We were gathering at a mutual friend’s new apartment.  She lives about a 10 minute walk from some lovely, well-traveled trails that open out to various parks situated along the edge of Burrard Inlet.

Begin on any one of these trails and you feel like you’re wandering amidst a pristine forest – now and then broken by the sounds of happy dogs and children and mothers and fathers, of course – flanked by tall evergreens on either side, with dappled sunlight sneaking in between the branches, lighting up the path in sporadic bursts. 

Emerge from any one of them and you’re rewarded with a breathless view of glassy water set against a tranquil backdrop of the northshore mountains.

I love Port Moody.  I love that from the noise and busyness of city life – I live 20 minutes by car from downtown Vancouver – there exists such a picturesque and peaceful place into which I can withdraw, in the company of good friends, and at such an easy distance from where I reside.

My close friends and I are a rather bookish lot who have spent (way too) many years funding the business of higher learning.  There’s a social worker, a lawyer, a children’s writer, a public librarian, an academic officer, a research specialist, and a public historian among us.  But don’t let that fool you into thinking that we’re an entirely serious lot.   There’s much, I’d say, of the silly and frivolous and giddy in us that defy the typical stereotypes associated with those who are in school for a long, long time.

What, for instance, did we do on that late-afternoon December gathering?  I could say that we “engaged in art and in admiring art” – but that is just a grandiose way of saying that we painted each others’ nails and picked our favorite pair of earrings from the impressive jewelry collection of our host. Which we did – with much mirth in the process!

The girls also, of course, complied to my crazy requests to shoot photos of our painted nails and favorite earrings. They know I cannot resist the impulses of my shutterbug tendencies.  A penchant, I call it.  (An obsession, they might say.)

We had a great deal of fun doing all this – and why not? It’s so neat to be among kindred – and intellectual – spirits who do not mind giving in to their silly side when the opportunity presents itself.  It’s nice to be able to cast aside the rigidity of social conventions and be just plain child-like again when we want.  I feel very fortunate.

Of course, we also took a walk along one of the trails by my friend’s apartment and properly talked about serious and introspective things, the kind that a gray-filled evening might inspire.  There is something about early-evening light, and the way it plays with water, trees, and mountains, that can put one in a reflective, melancholy mood.

The freedom I have to share about the weightier, serious things in my life with my friends – without fear of judgment, insensitivity, or disclosure – is something else for which I am very, very grateful.  And I feel so privileged too, to be privy to their lives — to share in their struggles, their successes, and even their sorrows.

One of my friends right now is facing a great deal of uncertainty; she does not know what new sorrows the next day will bring.

“Things fall apart,” Yeats once wrote, “the centre cannot hold.”  In times like this, when the world seems to have fallen away, I’m grateful to know that there are helping hands to hold me up, and that I too have the opportunity to reach out and lend a supportive arm of comfort to someone in need.

What is life but to know and be known, to love and be loved? What a splendid privilege, what a saving grace.

It is, after all, the season of resolutions.  And after the (guilty) indulgences of December – from gift-buying to truffle-snacking to wine-sipping, all done in the spirit of generous abandonment because “it is Christmas after all!”  – one is that much more apt to resolve to do something or other on the first day of a new year without seriously thinking through what it might actually entail.

Of course, I don’t commit to a project this January 1st.   Of course not.  That wouldn’t do.  No,  I decide to commit to two.  And I did it while fully sober.  Sigh.

It’s called Project 52 actually.  I had heard about it through Twitter and was immediately entranced by the idea.  It’s a simple one: participants pledge to write one article each week for one year.  That’s it.  Of course, what’s key is that each participant is pledging to do so publicly.  There’s a mechanism (or will be; the site is still under development) to keep track of the posts of everyone who signs up their blog or website and to reveal who the slackers are.  Publicly.

The justification for such a measure?  It’s best expressed by the organizer, Anton Peck:

Total accountability. Letting yourself down is far less stressful than letting an audience down. If someone misses a week, it should be public.

Of course, the rationale of Project 52 is not so much about scaring procrastinating would-be writers (like myself!) into writing by brandishing the possibility of public embarrassment before them (though, hey, if the stick method works in producing more content…), but more about creating a sense of community and membership among participants.  I think we’d all agree that it’s easier to do something when you’re part of a group striving collectively towards the same goal than when you’re alone and trying to do the same.  Somehow, knowing there are others up at, say, 2:00 am on a Monday morning writing away in order to fulfill their pledge, keeps me motivated to forge ahead with my writing goals (and, more particularly, to finish this inaugural post!).

I just wish, perhaps, that I had been a teeny bit more realistic on January 1st when I decided to sign up not only this blog but my history-related one as well.  Instead of Project 52, it’s more like Project 104 for me.  Oh boy.

But, might I add, in my defense, that it is very, very hard to be realistic when resolving, on January 1st, to do more (or less) of something?  I’ll be certain to think twice before making any commitments on such a day!  But, in the meantime, I’ll do my best to fulfill this pledge.  (And yes, this first post is already late!  I confess that here and now, publicly.)

On the bright side, even if I fail miserably and write only, say, 10 posts for this blog over the course of 2010, that’s still 9 more than what I wrote in 2009 – which means 9 more occasions to practice the often elusive, sometimes frustrating, but always rewarding, art of writing.

A hungry kitty

A sleepy kitty

A prowling kitty

In the chapter, Dillard begins with a story about how, as a child, she would hide pennies in random places and then leave chalk-drawn arrows and notes on the sidewalk directing passers-by to the secret treasure. It gave her a lot of pleasure, to give these precious pennies, and to anticipate the reaction of the fortunate recipient: “I was greatly excited…at the thought of the first lucky passer-by who would receive in this way, regardless of merit, a free gift from the universe.”

Reminiscing about these childhood thrills, Dillard reflects on how she’s learned to see copper coins everywhere – “the world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand.”

Annie Dillard’s observation resonates with me this season. My cat is part of those “unwrapped gifts and free surprises” that are evident all around us, if we take a moment to look. A one cent coin may not add much to our coffers, but, as Dillard writes, if we generate an attitude that values these pennies from the sky – “so that finding [one] will literally make your day” – then we have, ironically, bought “with [our] poverty…a lifetime of days.”

When I look at Penny, I marvel that she never tires of the same food everyday, or the same toys, or even of me. And I marvel that watching her eat, or sleep, or prowl about, is enough to make my day. I’m glad for these pennies of simple pleasure from above, “cast broadside from a generous hand.” And I’m relieved that, bit by bit, I’m learning to see the world in a new way.

If I had written a week ago, I would have been bemoaning the fact that the trees outside my apartment, and also around campus, have been quickly losing all their glorious foliage.  I’m not sure where autumn has gone, is going.  It seems that it came in fiery orange glory, but, like a candle near its end, is flickering in and out, today warm and pleasant; the next, cold and sharp.

This week, for instance, was one of remarkable contrast: it snowed lightly Tuesday evening and it must have resumed in earnest overnight.  I woke up Wednesday morning to a world that was white and sparkling and cold; there must have been 4 to 5 inches of snow that fell.  In October!  Then today – or actually, what had been today – it is now past midnight, so it’s November 1st already! – it was unseasonably warm.  Students milled around with just a t-shirt on, or a light jacket; yet there were mounds of unmelted snow everywhere.  If one ignored these glittering heaps, it seemed like spring was upon us.  I felt ridiculous walking around in my down-filled winter jacket, when only the day before, I had mourned its “threadbareness”, having been worn through three winters already, and had concluded that I had better get a proper jacket soon, if I wished to survive the Ontario winter.

But I think I am digressing.

If I had written a week ago, I would have mourned the view of increasingly bare trees.  But over the last few days, I’ve come to appreciate – again, as of old - the beauty that I once called “the bare branch look,” the outline of a tree, in its essence, without leafy adornments.  I recall waking up early one morning this week and seeing the outline of dark branches against a sky that was only just awakening, a background of deep blue criscrossed by the silhouettes of the trees outside my window.  There is something so simple and stark and…severe about this kind of beauty.  I appreciate it.

Somehow, it is easier to bear and even appreciate the sight of a tree completely devoid of leaves, than one that has some or most of them still left.  I suppose it is because a tree that has not shed its foliage completely is a constant reminder of change, of inevitability, of one season giving way to the next, of the utter impermanence of time.  But one that has already lost everything – and can lose no more – carries with it some sense of permanence and resilience…the idea that the worst has come; nothing else is to be feared; and, in fact, the redemptive is possible: beauty can be found, even when all is lost - or not all, only the superfluous.  The essence still remains, and, however stark, is still a beautiful thing to behold.

That was the quote that the professor in my Digital History class shared with us on the first day of the course, back in September. I scrawled it down in my notes dutifully. We’re aiming for the good, he said, in regards to the year-long group project we’d be working on for the course.

The good, I told myself. The good. I underlined the word twice in my notes.

I am a perfectionist. I don’t mean to be, but I am. It’s a really poor way of living, frankly. It often means that I won’t do something, or start something, because I don’t have the time to do it well (often because I’m working too much on trying to perfect something else).

Take this blog, for instance.

I’ve been meaning to start it since my move to London, to the other London, the lesser-known one in Ontario, Canada, back at the end of August. Numerous ideas for blog posts have flittered across my mind, little vignettes asking to be written, to be remembered. Because that is the point: to remember this experience.

It’s a luxury to be a student again. I am aware of the privilege almost every day. I graduated with my B.A. back in 2003 and worked a typical (and sometimes soul-withering) 9-5 job (or 8-6 sometimes!) for the last four years. I’ve missed the intellectual life. And, as a History student with, not surprisingly, a chronicler’s heart and, frustratingly, a writer’s aspirations, I wanted to write about my experience and I wanted to write regularly.

But “the perfect” has gotten in the way. I was waiting for that tranquil Friday afternoon or Tuesday morning or Sunday evening to sit and reflect and spin out a witty or wry or, at the very least, well-crafted story. That tranquil block of time has not come, in the supreme busyness of graduate student life.

Meanwhile, summer in London has given way to fall. The view outside my window, before just a profusion of green – I live in a fifth floor apartment and am almost level with some tall, tall trees – is giving way to yellows and reds and oranges. Beautiful, yet a little sad. The branches are becoming more bare. I can make out the view now beyond the trees, glimpses of cars and building, where before there was only a mass of foliage.

The change – at least as I looked outside the window this morning – is a poignant reminder that I don’t want to be a perfectionist.

So, before fall gives in to winter and I ask myself where my first semester in London went, this is my attempt at the good: to take a few minutes to record some experience, or observation, or reflection, rather than waiting perpetually for that two hour block that may never present itself. The waiting is what has made it even harder to begin too, because one has to accept imperfection: I missed out on September; thus the account will be incomplete - is there even a point to start this blog?

A non-perfectionist in search of the good would say, “Yes”. =)

It’s a car that zooms down the street, glimpsed only in the peripheral.

It’s a view of the world from the seat of a swinging tire, pushed round and round.

It’s existence within an Impressionist painting that refuses to be still.

All encounters, images, moments are but a blur of memory, the edges frayed, the shapes strangely stretched, streaks of colours bleeding one into another.

I’m dizzy from all this unfocused movement, overwhelmed by the speed with which the days come and go, its inevitability, like a fistful of grasped sand slipping between the cracks of one’s hand.