I don’t think I’ve ever been as emotional as when I was reading Running Like a Girl by Alexandra Heminsley. Considering I read it most frequently on public transit to and from work makes admitting this even more embarrassing (I’d often wear sunglasses to conceal any eye watering). In all fairness, I believe that anyone who is either a) a woman, b) a runner, or c) both, would have a similar reaction. Continue reading
In an attempt to revitalize my passion for… my passions, I’ve started to revisit the past. Moments in time where I was exceptionally inspired and content, to counteract any overwhelming anxieties from my current reality.
The past few months have been tough. To think that only a year ago I’d returned from India after experiencing a life changing journey, and felt as if my whole world had opened up to limitless possibilities… well, it stings. Because I found myself back to where I’d been before all the soul-searching, mantra-chanting and back-bending. It’s a hard blow to take when you realize that after trying so hard to change, you haven’t really changed anything at all.
I had a rough spell. A very real health scare that I’d pretended was no big deal even though I was terrified, incredible difficulties at work that led to chronic spells of anxiety, and old habits that stifled progress I’d spent the past two years cultivating. So I’m going back to the basics. I recently unearthed the homework I’d been assigned during my YTTC course in Goa, India, and knew I needed to reconnect with the person I went there to become. The following is the “yoga manifesto” we were instructed to write for one of our teachers, explaining the reasons how yoga had inspired us in the past, and what we wanted from it in the future. Thankfully, it still applies. Continue reading
Today I bought a plant named Peter. Rather, I bought a plant and then named it Peter, but regardless: I have a plant and his name is Peter. He is the newest addition to my home, and will be joining Stephanie, my other plant. Looking at my track record, however, it will be a miracle if I manage not to kill them both by either over-watering, or complete neglect. Despite the fact that I sport an infamous brown thumb, I figure it will take a whole lot of gardening ineptitude to kill a succulent. At this point though, I am lonely in my new 600 sq. ft. no-pets-allowed, one-bedroom West End apartment, and need as much company as I can get. Which I guess is now inclusive of any living organism at all.
So that is one update slash excuse for my blog inactivity and marathon training abandonment. As of last Saturday, I am a downtown dweller in the highly unaffordable but extremely beautiful city of Vancouver. I am in the centre of everything – English Bay, Coal Harbour, Stanley Park. I’m surrounded on all sides, max 4 blocks away, by four of my best friends. I am a quick sky train ride from virtually anything, and – possibly most importantly – I am no longer living with my parents. Or anyone else, for that matter. Continue reading
Last night I had an epiphany. Like all epiphanies, it was something I’d been trying to tell myself for a while now in the wake of a failed “relationshit,” but had just not been able to digest. It hit me hard when one of my good girlfriends – we’ll call her T – and partner in single-gal crime had a pseudo epiphany herself. For the past few years, she’s been entrenched in her career, and most of her goals have revolved on growing within her industry. When it comes to her career objectives, she’s a strong woman in a man’s land: stubborn, passionate, and no-nonsense. But having been close friends with her for over 5 years now, I also know that she fears vulnerability. As a result, she has cut herself off from the possibility of exploring relationships with men by simply not having them. In fact, whenever she did inevitably “catch feelings” for somebody, it was as if she couldn’t entirely process what was happening, and she would fall into an exhausting cycle of denial-anger-indifference that would repeat a number of times on the same man in question. This is not to say that I have been any better. Continue reading
Portland, Oregon. Ahhhhh. Just saying the name makes me warm and giddy. Portland, the City of Roses. Where hipsters from all over the nation migrate and are able to find creative employment to sustain their lifestyle of craft beer, trimmed beards, and thrift store finds. Where people crossing the street will overhear that you’re lost, and walk with you the whole way until you find your destination, all the while giving you local tips about the best breweries in town. Where at a crappy college football game they give away free cars with every touchdown (although that could just be America), and where you can spend all day perusing used books and/or eating your body weight in gourmet donuts.
While I will always have my heart in Honolulu, sometimes I wish I lived in Portland. It’s like Vancouver but warmer, cheaper, and more socially and gastronomically stimulating. The street blocks are shorter and the roads remind me of the old-timey cobblestones and brick buildings of Gastown, but without the yuppie suits and gutter needles. Yes, people are incredibly weird and sometimes scary – but for the most part, I never feel weirded out or scared, and feel much like I do in Vancouver, which has been my home for 25 years.
I’ve usually visited Portland with my parents (at least 4 times now), although two of my most influential trips were without them. I may be at my quarter-life mark, but I’m not yet embarrassed by the fact I still very much like travelling with my parents. Even though my dad is super neurotic and at times makes me want to scream into my complimentary hotel coffee, and my mom’s nonchalant nature can be infuriating, not only do they spot me when I’m short on cash (yes, I can be a single child brat), but my dad is obsessed with food, books, and whiskey, and my mom is obsessed with shoes and shopping. We can all agree to disagree, and we definitely all agree that we love Portland and all it has to offer.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start with the Portland experience that inspired the fuzzy-in-the-belly, good-feelings mind haze I’m enveloped in whenever anyone mentions this city. Keep in mind that this is long before my days running 5ks during my 9-5 lunch breaks, and back when the concept of vegetarianism seemed to be a topic of solemn condemnation for me and my crew. Nostlagia’s a bitch.