Authentic Dani.

As part of the personal journey I'm on that started with this

post

, I'm taking

Brene Brown

's online course that accompanies her book,

The Gifts of Imperfection.

  Each week a reading assignment is provided along with an art project of some kind.  

This week, the topic is authenticity.  Brene says authenticity is something we can all consciously practice - she calls it "

the daily practice of letting go of who we think we're supposed to be and embracing who we really are

."  That really resonated with me after the day I had today.   

First, I should say by way of disclaimer, it was a wonderful day, filled with family and the opportunity to practice my art by performing onstage.   My parents were here to see my show, and we went for brunch.  My nephew Cal was born on Tuesday, and as new grandparents, my Mom and Dad are obviously excited.  My aunts and uncles are excited.  Our friends are excited.  Our acquaintances are excited.  It seems that darling Cal (and he really is darling - I'm not allowed to post pictures yet or OH, I WOULD) is the main topic of conversation and enthusiasm in our family circle and in our extended circle of friends.  It's very hard for me to not imply and internalize a message from that: the message that it's good to be settled, it's good to have kids.  It's very hard for me to not feel like "less-than" because I do not have these things.  It's very hard not to think there's something wrong with the way I'm living when it feels so different from that of my brother, my cousins, my parents' friends' kids, the ones I grew up with, who were my contemporaries.

So this idea to be authentic - to be who I really am and

let go of who I think I'm supposed to be

- felt really powerful to me today.  I think I'm supposed to be somebody's wife.  I think I'm supposed to be somebody's mom.  I think I'm supposed to own a house by now.  Weigh less.  Feel more balanced, calm.  The fact that I'm not, or that I don't,  really does make me feel like I am not a whole person, a lot of the time.  I feel like these are badges of honour that I'm missing - visible signs, that LOOK! SOMEBODY LOVES ME, or I HAVE STUFF - and that the absence of these symbols means something about my worth as a person.

I know it's insane.  It's just how I feel.  And so the idea that I should try to let go of those feelings - the idea that those feelings are WRONG - and that (to link back to Brene's initial lesson) I'm imperfect but still ENOUGH - well, that message was received today, somehow. It might not stick, but it's there today, which is a big deal.  

The art journaling exercise today was to find a photo of myself that reflects who I really am - to wade through old photos to find images that provide emotional resonance for me (rather than photos where I think I look good or cool).  That was a tough exercise, because I self-censor so much - there just aren't photos of me that exist if I don't think I look pretty, or less fat, or cool.  Anything where I think I look weird, goofy, chubby, stupid - those pictures just don't exist.

I won't tell you which of these photos won the contest as revealing my authentic self, but these are the photos that made the shortlist, for what it's worth.  These are photos that remind me of times in my life where I have felt truly myself, felt permission to be exactly who I am, nothing more, nothing less.

(A

pologies Dad for the hungover (?) sleepy Pops picture - and RIP Blue Pierre Cardin Bathrobe, 1979 - 1994

.)

Again, apologies Cathy - but we were

both

making silly faces...

Buy a Megaphone Magazine.

Living and working in Gastown, I've gotten to know, or at least recognize, a number of the homeless (or at risk of being homeless) folks who frequent our neighbourhood.  My living room features a large piece of art I bought on the street from Ken Foster.  I always donate to the "condom lady," who walks around giving out condoms, lube and information on sexually transmitted diseases.  I never hesitate to walk around my neighbourhood, at night or any other time of day and have never felt the need to avoid the colourful cast of characters who form such a large part of Gastown's culture. 

There's one guy in particular who always sits outside the Tim Hortons in the bottom of my office building.  He doesn't say much, nor does he carry a sign of any kind.  He just sits cross-legged, sometimes gently rocking back and forth, and waits.  I've occasionally bought him meals, and have seen other people do the same.  I've always had a soft spot for this guy - I'm not sure why.  It may be because he doesn't ask for help, or demand my attention.  But it may also be - and this sounds terribly judgmental of me - because he looks so much like a regular everyday joe. 

It's easy to demonize some of the scarier people who approach you on the Downtown Eastside, with huge haunted eyes, arms riddled with track marks, clothes in rags, who scream obscenities at you when you don't give them what they want.  That's not this guy.  He just seems like a "normal" person who has been dealt so much bad luck that he's buckled under the weight of it.  In truth, all of these people deserve our attention and compassion, all of them have been the victim of personal tragedies.  All of them are living their own version of "normal."  I'm not saying it's right to judge any of them, or to feel more compassion for one than the other.  What I am saying is that this guy who sits outside the Tim Hortons has not become such a shell of his former self that I can't recognize a bit of myself in him.  I think that's why I feel personally affected by him.  

I ran some errands at lunch today, and as I returned to the office, I saw him.  Standing on the corner - the first time in however many years that I've seen him standing up - was Tim Hortons Guy.  He was up, dressed, and selling copies of Megaphone magazine and also the Hope in Shadows calendar.  I did a double take as I walked by him  - was that really him?  It was!  I was almost in the office door before I turned around.  "How much is the calendar," I shouted back to him.  "Twenty," he yelled back.  "And the magazine?"  "Two bucks."  I dug in my purse for my wallet, walking back to him.

"I don't have a twenty," I said apologetically.  "But I'll take a magazine."  He looked at me quizzically.  "Didn't I already sell you a calendar?" he asked.  "No," I said, "but I'm glad you're selling them!"  He grinned.  I handed him my toonie, took my magazine, and went into the building.  I felt so proud of this guy, so happy to see him standing on his own two feet, in every sense of the word, wishing I could tweet/Facebook/text every single person to go and buy a magazine, a calendar, whatever this guy was selling, now that he'd decided he was worth the effort.  It completely made my day.  

For those who aren't familiar with Megaphone, it's a street paper, that operates much the same way that the Big Issue program does in the UK.  Sellers buy the magazines for 75 cents.  They sell them for $2, which means they make $1.25 for each magazine they sell.  If you see a vendor, pick one up.  There is a "Find a Vendor" function on the Megaphone website that can point you towards sellers.  

Megaphone also released a report this week on homelessness deaths, based on data they had compiled from the BC Coroner's Service.  The average life expectancy for a homeless person in BC is between 40 and 49 years of age, around half the life expectancy for a British Columbian, generally speaking.  There are approximately 16,000 homeless people in the province.  That's a lot of us who are at risk.  If it only costs you $2 to help a person make their life a little better, or a little longer, will you do it?

Take a Breath, Not a Side.

As much as I love Q, I am not going to engage in lamenting Jian Ghomeshi's fate nor will I engage in CBC or victim/accuser bashing just yet.

I completely agree that no one should be fired from their job for their tastes in the bedroom. People must be free to be who they are in their private lives - what happens between consenting adults should stay there.

I completely agree that Ghomeshi is a great broadcaster and his interviews are second to none. I am devastated he is not going to say "Hi there - Happy Monday" to me tomorrow.

However, I tend to think CBC's legal team would have had to tread very carefully here. Give them some credit. Do you think the CBC drops their biggest star, syndicated in 180 markets, without serious consideration? Further, the Toronto Star has just published some very upsetting accounts from multiple sources of a violent and disrespectful pattern of behaviour. Wait until both sides are heard before you pick a side, if you must pick one at all.

Reporting sexual assault, even in the most straightforward of cases, is very difficult for a woman. There are statistics that prove this fact. Now, imagine throwing a celebrity into the mix. Or imagine some of these female accusers (there are multiple according to the Star) really had said yes to some BDSM - just not to what he did. "Well yes officer, I told him he could whip me, but not punch me in the face." It becomes a very grey, very messy, very embarrassing area very quickly. So women stay silent.

I personally want to encourage a culture where women feel comfortable to come forward or challenge those that have wronged them - as I think most of us do. Keep that in mind before jumping to Jian's defence based on his very moving personal statement.

We do not know the whole story. But we do know there are two sides to it.

Letting Go of Perfect.

My name is Danielle, and I'm a perfectionist.

I feel like for those who know me well, this statement is not a surprise.   It is a surprise to me.  I dislike enough things about myself to believe that everyone reading this will scoff, "You're clearly not a perfectionist - look at you!"  

Well - yes.  Look at me.  I am looking at me.  And that voice that criticizes myself, that dark corner of my heart that despises so many things about myself? That's the perfectionist.   It's the perfectionist who loudly declares how RIDICULOUS I am, that everyone can SEE that, what a JOKE.  The perfectionist does not see the lawyer, scholar, singer, writer, actress, world traveller, volunteer, devoted kitty-mama and friend.  The perfectionist sees a loud, ugly, fat, obnoxious loner who doesn't own a house, doesn't have a husband, doesn't have kids, is too old to continue auditioning for musical theatre, and isn't as good a lawyer as she pretends to be.  That perfectionist voice is the last one I hear before I go to bed.  It's the first one I hear when I wake up in the morning.    

I've been chasing perfect for a long time.  For every A I got, there was an A+ to be had.  For every degree I got, there was another one I had to reach for (I'd still be going if the money hadn't run out).  For every law firm I got a job at, there was another, BIGGER law firm to get a job at.  For every show I got to perform in, there was another one that I really needed to be in.   When I've got a night to myself at home, I beat myself up about not going out.  If the house isn't perfectly tidy and doesn't look like a magazine, no one can come over, and I can't relax and read a book.  If people come for dinner, that better be the most perfect, Martha Stewart-inspired party you've ever seen.   I've falsely confused perfection with being loved, and being loveable, even to myself. 

My perfectionism doesn't come out of some extreme self-love, a desire to strive for the best because I'm worth it.  I know this because the flip side of my perfectionism is shame. I strive for perfection to outrun the shame, but because I can never achieve that perfection, I spend much more time mired in the quicksand of shame than celebrating my successes.   For everything that I  have "failed" at, whether that was true failure or just failing to meet my own ridiculous standards, I feel a deep, deep shame and dislike for myself.  My weight yo-yo's are the perfect example of that.  Gained a pound?  Well, I'd better give up then, because I failed.  Pass the cookies, it's all over.  I'll punish myself by eating another one.  And maybe another.   The vicious cycle continues.  I hate myself for not being perfect, so I eat another metaphorical cookie, I become further away from perfect, I hate myself some more.  Dating, too.  I've put up with horrible treatment from horrible people that I would never introduce to my worst enemy, because I think that's what I deserve, because I'm so horribly flawed.  I have not dared to let myself love people who I think I do not measure up to.

Criticism, even from people who have no business being critical, or whose opinions we should not care about, becomes deeply wounding to perfectionists like me, because we attach a sense of shame and blame to having "failed" to measure up to some real or imagined standard.  

I don't know where this idea that I had to be perfect came from. I do not blame my parents for some deep dark wrong they did to me as a child.  I was a difficult kid - I hear those stories a lot - but they also loved me so hard it hurt.  And yet somewhere along the way, I heard and internalized the message that to be loved by myself and others, I need to be perfect.  I love other people whole-heartedly, flaws and all, but myself, no.  

Perfectionism is an insidious thing.  It means that when I accomplish, I must accomplish more.  It means when I fail, I feel a shame so deep I feel embarrassed to be around others, and would gladly avoid myself if possibly could (that's not a suicidal thought, mind you, just a desire to not be me).    

But lately, I have started to ask myself, what is the end goal of my being perfect?  What's at the end of the rainbow, that unattainable goal that I keep striving for?   Where am I killing myself to get to?  What is it that is so worth being so terribly hard on myself every step along the way to obtain?

It's love.  Being loved.

I'm not talking just romantic love (although that's always nice).  I feel loved by my friends, and my family.  I have felt loved by romantic partners.  But the key ingredient that's missing is loving myself.  Not only do I keep thinking I need to be perfect so someone else will love me - I need to be perfect so I can love myself.   

And that's the tragedy of it.  I will never be perfect.  And unless I seriously start thinking about how I think and feel, and changing some of these damaging thoughts and behaviours, I'll never love myself.  And that's a really, really sad place to be.  

So I'm letting go of perfect.  I have to.

I have zero idea how to do this. Honestly, I don't.  I have no idea how you put aside something that you feel in the very core of your being and choose to feel something else.  We as a society cannot explain what makes us fall in love with other people, how the hell can we explain or teach how to fall in love with ourselves?  So I know this is going to be a long, long, difficult, sad, frustrating process full of demons and discomfort and roadblocks. I don't know where the road even starts, but I know that much.  I also know that I am so very very tired of aiming for perfect, and failing miserably, and feeling such shame at my own existence.  There is so much beauty in the world, and it is so, so sad that I don't let myself be part of it.  

It's a big thing for me to be this honest on my blog.  I have always limited myself to humorous, witty posts about "perfect" moments in my life - world travel, cooking adventures, theatrical endeavours, and other accomplishments that make me appear very together, a real whole person living a fabulous life.  I have a lot of fear around putting these words out into the world, admitting that Oz the Magnificent is nothing but a facade.  But I also feel like I have to give voice to some of the things I'm struggling with, so that I can benefit from the wisdom and understanding of the people in my life who have maybe been in the same place.  Or the people who are already able to be their own best friends, who can teach me the tricks of the trade.   I'm committed to living with the discomfort.  There's really no other choice.

I'm letting go of perfect, and settling for loved.  Let the journey commence.

Secret Allies.

I'm in Orlando for work, and heading to Atlanta tomorrow.  As I was heading to my hotel room tonight, I passed a teenage girl with the same green hair as me.  We gave each other the secret cool-green-hair-girl salute.  Her mom gasped and insisted we take a picture together.   Afterwards, I told the girl a secret: "I'm a corporate lawyer.  Please remember, you can be whatever you want to be, it doesn't matter what colour your hair is."  I hope she remembers.  She promised me she would. 

Dinner Time: Spaghetti Squash Pad Thai

I love, love, love this recipe from

My Fitness Pa

l.  This spaghetti squash pad thai is satisfying and tasty, and under 300 calories a serving.  I don't miss the noodles at all!

Spaghetti Squash Pad Thai

Ingredients

• 1 pound Skinless, Boneless Chicken Breast
• 1 large Spaghetti Squash
• 2 large Carrots, grated
• 1 Red Bell Pepper, thinly sliced
• 4 Green Onions, thinly sliced + more for garnish
• 3 Garlic Cloves, minced
• 1/4 cup Cilantro, plus more for garnish
• 1/3 cup chopped Unsalted Peanuts
• 2 tablespoons Extra Virgin Olive Oil

For the sauce:

• 1/4 cup Chicken Broth
• 1/4 cup Rice Vinegar (or substitute White Vinegar)
• 2 tablespoons Lime Juice
• 3 tablespoons Honey
• 1/4 cup Tamari (gluten free soy sauce)
• 1 teaspoon Sesame Oil
• 1/4 teaspoon Pepper

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cut spaghetti squash in half lengthwise and scoop out the seeds and guts. Drizzle the flesh side with olive oil and place face down on a baking sheet. Bake for about 45 minutes, until you can stick a knife in easily.

When squash is done, remove from the oven and let it cool for about 5-10 minutes. When it is cool enough to handle, use a fork to scrape out all of the spaghetti squash, until all you have left is the skin. Set the squash in a colander for about 10 minutes to drain all of the excess moisture.

In the meantime, make the sauce. Put all of the ingredients for the sauce into a small saucepan and whisk to combine. Put over medium-low heat to warm. Don’t let it come to a boil, just keep it warm while you are cooking the rest of the meal.

Now cook the chicken. Cut the chicken into small pieces and season with a pinch of salt and pepper. In a large skillet over medium-high heat, add the chicken with 2 tbsp of olive oil, stir occasionally until chicken is lightly brown.

Add the peppers, carrots, green onions and garlic, and saute for about 3-4 minutes, until vegetables are tender-crisp. Add the drained spaghetti squash and the sauce to the skillet and stir until evenly distributed.

Remove from skillet and put the squash mixture into a large bowl. At this time, add the peanuts, and cilantro. Stir.

To serve, garnish with a few more peanuts and cilantro.

Nutrition Information

Serves: 

 6 |  

Serving Size: 

3/4 cup

Per serving: 

Calories: 290; Total Fat: 13g; Saturated Fat: 3g; Monounsaturated Fat: 5g; Cholesterol: 43mg; Sodium: 801mg; Carbohydrate: 23g; Dietary Fiber: 4g; Sugar: 14g; Protein: 21g

Nutrition Bonus: 

Potassium: 174mg; Vitamin A: 97%; Vitamin C: 56%; Iron: 13%; Calcium: 6% 

London Theatre: Once

In 2007 I fell in love with a little Irish film called

Once,

starring Glen Hansard as a heartbroken musician-cum-vacuum repairman, who meets a young Czech immigrant, played by Marketa Irglova, and strikes up an intense romance, mostly unspoken and unfulfilled, except for the music they create together (which was written by the two lead actors themselves).  The song "Falling Slowly" won the Oscar for best song, but a number of tunes from the film have been in regular rotation on my playlists for years.  When

Once

 was adapted for the stage, I was skeptical, despite the 8 Tony awards it eventually won.   I'm weary of the trend that turns hit movies into musicals.  The latest: The Bodyguard? (???)

The other night I had a hankering to see a show and I found a cheap ticket to

Once,

playing at the Phoenix Theatre, so I swallowed my fears and bought the ticket.  It was a great deal - I paid 19.50 but was upgraded to the 37.50 ticket - and when I got to the theatre was upgraded once again to the Dress Circle - so I ended up paying about 1/3 of the face price of my ticket.  Yay!  I figured I could suck up even a horrible show for that price.

I actually loved it.  When I entered the theatre the entire cast was on stage (which is a pub that doubles as a number of locales) jamming, playing Irish and Czech folk songs (all of the cast play instruments throughout the show - guitars, violins and even a cello), while they were surrounded by some of the audience.  The set had become a working bar.  They played a few numbers, and then as the audience was shown off the set, the music trailed off, until eventually only one actor, the unnamed male lead, credited only as "Guy" (played by David Hunter), was onstage.  He launched into the heartbreaking "Leave" as the lights dimmed, and the actual show began.   The conscious acknowledgement of the audience, and of the deliberate artifice of the performance, made the theatre nerd in me smile, but soon I was engrossed in the characters enough that I forgot it was a performance - and was caught up in the love story all over again.

There are significant differences in the book for

Once,

by Enda Walsh, that make it a completely different work than the film.  Supporting characters are fleshed out and given story lines - in particular Billy, the music store owner who lends "Girl" his piano - becomes an outrageous rocker and the comic relief of the show, with an unrequited crush on "Girl," and a hilarious one-night stand with "Girl"'s sexpot roommate, Reza.  We met "Girl"'s mother and Czech roommates, whose immigrant stories give a sense of what modern, post-EU life in Dublin must be like.  The romance between "Guy" and "Girl," ever-so-understated in the film, is definitive here, developed to a point that makes it clear to the audience what each is feeling, even if their circumstances mean they cannot act on the emotions.  

The music is woven into the story in a clever and interesting way - unlike a traditional musical where characters simply burst into song, and we the audience are expected to understand that they aren't necessarily aware they are singing - the characters in Once are all musicians.  They sing because they love the songs, and the music.  It's not a storytelling tool here - it's part of the characters' expression of themselves, something they consciously engage in.   

There are a few parts of the musical that I didn't think quite hit the mark.  The story is always very clear that "Guy" is talented - "Guy" is going to be a big hit - "Guy" needs to go to New York (London in the movie), not just to win back his ex-girlfriend but to be a successful musician.  He needs to be "un-stuck," as "Girl" puts it.  And all of this, is achieved.  The show ends when Guy makes it to New York.  But what about "Girl"?  Her relationship with her estranged husband, her own musical ambitions, her love for "Guy" - nothing is resolved for "Girl."  I found that to be a weakness in this story - "Girl" seemed to exist merely to admire, help and pine after "Guy."  I didn't feel that the imbalance between "Guy" and "Girl"'s story lines was so marked in the film.  In fact, there is a moment in the first jam session in the movie, where Irglova harmonizes with Hansard for the first time, where his eyes light up in recognition of a fellow artist.  It might be too subtle a moment to capture in theatre, but I felt the absence of that artistic kinship in the musical.  Yes, "Guy" is attracted to "Girl" - her sheer force of will and her drive to push him forward seem to be the attraction, though, not a musical connection.

The musicianship of the entire cast made me envious (unless my violin vastly improves, I ain't getting cast in this show).  David Hunter as "Guy" was a talented guitarist and had a fantastic pop voice, bringing his own energy and interpretation to Glen Hansard's songs.  It didn't hurt that he was kind of dreamy and had a great Irish accent.  Jill Winternitz as "Girl" played the piano beautifully (although I must admit I found her Czech accent to be a bit heavy - and she never lost it, even when singing), and brought a humour and spark to the character of "Girl" that was entirely new to the character that Marketa Irglova played in the film.  The rest of the cast doubled as band and chorus, singing and playing on chairs (a la productions I've seen in recent years of

Sweeney Todd, Company

, and

Sunset Boulevard

- this especially seems to be a thing in the West End), and were uniformly strong as singers and actors.  The set design of the "pub" - which through lighting cues became various other settings, including a seaside cliff outside Dublin - was fantastic, with strategic mirrors placed so that even when a character was facing upstage, their reactions could be seen.  I wasn't surprised at all to read in the program that the original workshop of

Once

 had been scene-specific - in a pub - and they've managed to retain that sense of a site-specific piece nicely, even in a conventional theatre setting.  

Even though I knew what would happen, I found myself sobbing my heart out at the finale, and was so glad I had seen what really was a unique piece of theatre, that is still, like the film, about the connections we make that change our lives in an instant.

The only thing missing?  My friend Linda saw the same show on Broadway on the same night - and Glen Hansard made a surprise appearance to celebrate the 1000th performance of

Once

on Broadway.    I think she wins.  

UK Update - GISHWHES and Snowdon

Last week I participated once again in

GISHWHES

- the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen.  Created by Misha Collins (an actor most famous for his role on

Supernatural

), and raising money for the charity

Random Acts

, this video-and-photo hunt challenges people to move outside their comfort zone, attempt the impossible, and also perform random acts of kindness along the way.  I participated last year and this year, since I was going to be away from my team, I roped some colleagues in the UK into helping me.  It made for a fairly busy second week in Southampton, as I was arm wrestling movie theatre employees for tickets to

Guardians of the Galaxy

, creating art installations out of dishes (complete with artist statements), creating monuments to the founder of Rubber Gloves, Harris Packard, and dressing up co-workers as fish, the Flash and Batman for various ridiculous things.  

One of the major challenges on the list was to climb one of Table Mountain (South Africa), Mt. Fuji (Japan), Mt. Sinai (Egypt), Mt. Kilimanjaro (Tanzania), or Mt. Snowdon (Wales).  Being only a 5 hour drive from Wales, my paralegal Indy and I decided to give it a go, and got up very early last Friday morning to make the drive to Wales.

Wales (what I saw of it), was everything I hoped it would be.  Beautiful, idyllic, friendly, with sheep running everywhere...and don't forget the delicious, delicious Welsh cakes.  Snowdon was breathtakingly beautiful and we met up with several other teams at the summit, who we then walked back down the mountain with.  Without GISHWHES, I would never have gone to this beautiful place, or made new friends.  Plus it gave me like, 28,000 steps on my Fitbit for the day, which was rad.  

I wish we had stayed overnight, but instead we undertook the drive home, after getting down off the mountain at 9 pm or so.  We arrived home in the very early hours of Saturday morning, and I spent most of the weekend recovering, binge-watching Orphan Black and chilling out.  The remains of Hurricane Bertha hit Southampton last weekend, and you've never heard anything like the wind and rain that whistled around the flat all weekend. At one point the skylights in my flat, which is right on a pier, blew open and hail started pouring in.  I stumbled around the apartment on stiff-post-Snowdon legs, pushing the skylights back in with a pole, only to have them blow open again minutes later.  It was probably a comical sight, but I felt like I was in some sort of carnival game, trying to anticipate which one would blow open next.

I'm up in London now, which is obviously much more familiar turf.  I'm making a list of all the sights I was too lazy to see when I lived here, thinking I'd have all the time in the world, and am determined to check them all off before I leave in just over two weeks.  I am getting very homesick and lonely and at least this will give me something to do, rather than wallowing in those feelings.  I've also been asked to be a reviewer of submissions for some of the GISHWHES video tasks, which will keep me busy watching some of the craziness other GISHWHES teams around the world got up to.  So, lots to keep me distracted.  16 days until home.

I texted my brother to let him know I was in Wales. He made a joke about needing to get Welsh cakes and I was pleased to be able to text back this photo, saying, "Oh you mean THESE?"

Just breathtaking views on Snowdon, and so different from our BC landscape.

Indy and I at the summit of Snowdon.

First Week...Home?

I've been back in the UK for a week now.  It feels like I've been here longer than that - and also like I haven't been away from here for that long (I was last here in February).  That's the funny, and I guess reassuring, thing about feeling like you are at home in a few different places.  Although it's sad that I don't feel that novelty of a new place when I come here anymore - that feeling of wonder and discovery - it does help with the homesickness.  If only Curriecat was more amenable to travel, I'd be set. 

I'm spending the first few weeks of my stay in Southampton, where my company has an office.  I'm staying in our company flat, which is perched above our offices on a quay in the middle of the port, literally in the ferry terminal where you can catch a boat to the Isle of Wight.  I can hear ferry safety announcements from my bed, and have glanced up a few times while in the living room to see a very large cruise ship sail perilously close to my window.  I've been up to London a few times, both for work and for pleasure, but have largely been spending time getting to know new co-workers and exploring Southampton.  I thought I'd give a little update on what I got up to this week:

This is a funny little monument I found in Southampton's High Street dedicated to some citizens who fought a fire in a local church.  Typically Victorian - desperately in need of an editor to cut out a few adjectives.

This is the monument.  The clock tower has a funny little cuckoo clock kind of apparatus, where two little male figures appear and beat a bell on the hour.

Sunset from my balcony.  Southampton is a working port, with huge shipping vessels as well as cruise ships and ferries to the Isle of Wight passing by regularly.

The Titanic sailed from Southampton.  There is a museum on the subject that I have yet to visit, but on one of my nightly strolls I found this monument to the Titanic's engineers.

I'll be going up to London once a week or so while I'm in Southampton.  This past week I took my boss (also visiting) to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street - the oldest pub in London and still an OK place to grab a pint.

I've been doing a lot of walking, because the weather has been uncommonly nice in England, and well - you make the most of that while you can.  On Tuesday I went to London and got home to the quay quite late - looked like my neighbour (Red Funnel Ferries) took my parking spot for the night.  Good thing I walked.

I found this hilarious graffiti in the women's toilets in a pub in London.  It made me giggle.  

I told you I was walking a lot.  My FitBit scores have been through the roof.

East Park in Southampton.  Right in the centre of town, and a nice place for a walk after work. 

Our office here allows dogs to come to work.  This is Chalky, who I babysat on Thursday.  He lost a tooth (baby tooth!) on my watch!

He's no Curriecat but he'll certainly do.  What a handsome and cuddly guy.

On Friday I had the pleasure of attending a dear colleague's wedding in Birdham, near Chichester, in Sussex. An English church wedding means fascinators/hats required.  Here's me, my boss Ben and his wife Jana waiting for the ceremony to begin.  Jana and I's fascinators are suspiciously similar...

St. James' Parish in Birdham.  Just what we foreigners imagine an English country parish to look like.

The Bride and Groom's getaway car.

A lovely country parish.  I didn't have a chance to walk around the little cemetery outside to see how old some of the burials were.  The church was restored in the 1860s so I suspect most of them date from after that time period.

Parts of this tower were built in 1545.

A reception followed at a converted barn, which had great indoor and outdoor space, so guests could dance inside, or relax outside and get some air.  I danced.  A lot. 

My ridiculously good looking (and delightful) pals, the bride and groom.  They threw an amazing party.

No travels ever seem complete without catching up with Pearson College folk.  Here's (from left) Dorota, Mike, and Gavin, some 17 years after we met, along with Gavin's wife Sanya and his sister Kimberly.  We caught up for a very leisurely lunch in St. Christopher's Place in London on Saturday.

I *think* I've kicked the jet lag now.

The weather has been amazing so far.  This is England people! Look at that blue sky (taken in Trafalgar Square, Saturday evening)!

I love me some movies, and I happened upon this great little cinema in Ocean Village in Southampton.  I've been twice so far - to see Richard Linklater's

Boyhood

(

worth the hype), and

Guardians of the Galaxy (

not so much).

Any cinema where you can wait outside on the patio overlooking the ocean while enjoying a cider is just A-OK in my books.  In fact, I paid to become a member of the cinema, which entitles me to free tickets and discounts on popcorn, that kind of thing.

So, that just about wraps up my first week here in England.  There was quite a bit of actual work thrown into the mix as well, and today was a leisurely day of strolls around the neighbourhood and a late-night solo dance party for one.  The week hasn't been without its tribulations - the travel from Heathrow to Southampton after a red-eye flight nearly killed me (a train, then a train and train and a taxi, with a few detours just for fun), and a train cancellation last Sunday meant I missed my friend Alex's sold out show in London - but it really wouldn't be England without those weird hiccups, would it?

On Belonging.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes us feel like we belong.  As a single person, it's often easy for me to fall into the trap of thinking that I need a significant other in order to not feel alone.  That I just need to belong to one person, and that'll be enough.  It's common that I find myself reflecting that "If I just had someone, I could…(fill in the blank)."  But I've had to start speaking to myself sternly about this, because there is so much evidence in my own life that this idea is incorrect.  There are so many other ways for us to belong: to our families, our co-workers, our friends; to theatre companies and sports teams and charities and churches.  I think that if I choose to feel alone (which I admit, I do often), it is because I am not actively reaching out to those communities that I actually do belong to, saying, "I feel lonely," or "What are we up to tonight," "I could use some company," or, and probably more importantly, making things less about me: "How can I help?"    "How are

you

doing?"  "Can I pitch in somehow?"

It's tough sometimes, though.  It's tough to always feel like I'm the only one to make the effort, that my social life is at the mercy of my much-more-important friends with spouses and/or families.  It's easy to retreat into my own solitary world, look at my phone longingly to see if someone has texted or called, hunker down with Curriecat and commit myself dramatically to a solitary existence.  This despite having wonderful friends, family and colleagues.  I can't walk two blocks in my neighbourhood without bumping into a friend to say hello to.  

So, yes -  I realize that the only reason I feel like I don't belong is me.  Because I do belong.  I care about people and they care about me. And it's up to me to reach out and ask for what I need and to more importantly ask what I can give back.

I belong to this crazy, loving, sometimes infuriating family. As the only "out of towner," I forget that sometimes, and feel left out, but it only takes 5 minutes (and a matching apron) to remember.

Vancouver has some really great community events, including the Dragonboat Festival, which I've missed since I moved to London.  I've decided next year I'll have to put a team together - I miss paddling.  Yes, even early morning winter practices where your hands can barely hold the paddle, you're so cold.  So it's definitely time to get back into it.

Events like Streetfood Fest really show that Vancouverites do have a desire for community, to get together and hang out.  Every Sunday we bask on this little astroturf "beach," play pingpong, and line up 30-deep at the food trucks circled at Olympic Village.

Even when I'm alone, I'm not really.  As I type this a grey cat is curled up with her tail on the computer screen.  

To London. Again!

Oh, life changes so much from moment to moment, doesn't it?  My life now hardly resembles itself one year ago.  I spent most of 2013 head down, in back to back shows from January to August.  It was a wonderful, exhausting, fulfilling experience.  This year, I've had the stability of working with one client, at one job.  Although I was so happy (and continue to be so happy) to have made the choice to move in-house, I traded my flexibility in terms of working hours for that chance, and I haven't had the same opportunities to be onstage.  But in place of performing, I've had travel.  So. Much. Travel.    

And now - more!  In July I will be heading back to my other home, and spending the summer in Southampton and London, working in my company's UK offices.  In fact, today I've sorted out all my accommodation: our company's seaside flat in Southampton and a cute Brixton studio with an outdoor pool (!) in London.  And I won't be back until September.

This is exciting, of course.  Connecting with friends, having the luxury of time to fall back into my old routines - an opportunity I didn't have when I visited in January/February - it really will be in some ways like coming home.  I'm excited, I really am.  This week I bought my first theatre tickets, to see Carey Mulligan and Bill Nighy in David Hare's

Skylight,

which opened last week to rave reviews.  

I'm also anxious.  I'm sure I sound melodramatic and silly, but I'm leaving Curriecat behind.  For the whole summer.  I have trusted friends who will be staying at my apartment with her, but she and I will be apart for longer than we have in her. whole. life.  We haven't spent more than 10 days apart in 8 years.  Just thinking about it makes me tear up.  I know, I'm a schmuck, but she's my baby. 

I'm trying to be positive and focus on the exciting part of this amazing opportunity I've been given, but it's difficult to leave behind the little animal that has been my immediate family for almost a decade.  Any suggestions on how to keep in touch with my kitty while I'm gone gratefully accepted.

I'm going to miss this face.  Amazing Curriecat portrait copyright Michal Russell,  luvUpets.com.

My Earliest Memory.

I carry a very vivid recollection with me:

A split-level house in Richmond.  Spring sunshine is streaming through a crescent-shaped window in a white front door, falling on golden wood floors.  Footsteps echo loudly; the house is empty.  

I am sitting on the front stairs in the hallway, sticking my short stubby legs out in front of me to admire white sandals.  I smooth my pink bunny - a combination of blanket and puppet - over my knees, touching the soft satin of his ears.  An adult, whose face I can no longer remember, sits on the stair below, and asks me how old I am.

I hold up two fingers, and pronounce proudly, "Two."  Then I correct myself.  "Two and a HALF."

There are other snapshots that are linked to this memory: of dancing on the wood floor, to hear the clatter of my own feet.  Of staring at blue and red wallpaper in an empty bedroom, printed with the smiling faces of Raggedy Ann and Andy.  

This is either my first real memory, of our move from Richmond to Victoria, where I grew up, or it's something I've imagined, based on stories I have been told.  That's the funny thing about memory, though - it can feel as real as right now.  And maybe that's all that matters, is what feels real to us.