My computer chair is no longer suitable for sitting on any more.
The hoodies on said chair have taken it over and appear to have formed some sort of symbiotic relationship with the chair that does not allow me to pry them off. I am currently conducting research into the possible benefits of this phenomenon.
Okay, this isn't actually the reason, but it is true that my hoodies are piled so high on my chair that it makes it difficult to sit comfortably on it.
If you know me, you know that I love wearing hoodies, the immensely comfortable and fashionably questionable sweaters. I wear them almost every time I go to run errands or went to school. Once the harsh Ottawa winter hits they are pretty much my best friend (sorry everyone else, avoiding frostbite is a top priority for me). So I don't see much point in hanging them up in my closet when I'm just going to use them again (again, sorry mom, that sentence must pain you). I guess I love hoodies so much I have unconsciously build a little nest of them around me.
But what is there not to love? Other than the aforementioned warm and snuggly feeling hoodies give you, they also provide a chance, like any clothing, to be original or show your true style and character. They come in all colours, sizes and styles.
Also, since I wear them so often, my hoodies have taken on a major role in my nostalgia department. I look at my maroon and navy blue striped hoodie and remember my 19th birthday, the day I got it as a gift from my girlfriend. I zip up my faded, beat up, brown sweater I wear to the gym and remember all the workouts with friends or peacefully alone. Or I pull my J-school hoodie over my head and flashbacks of the last four years explode in my mind.
So I am grateful for hoodies. I am grateful for their warmth and comfort. I am grateful that they allow me to express myself and let me remember my past and carry the good times around with me. And I am grateful they let me proudly wear this past right there on my chest. And because of all this, I don't mind sharing my chair with my hoodies one bit.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
#72- Rain Storms
There is no activity more humbling than carrying a jerry can full of water up a hill. I can tell you from experience.
It was August, 2008 and I was in Salabwek in Kenya's Maasai Mara region with Free the Children. We were given the afternoon off to go on what was referred to as a "community walk".
At one point in our tour around the village we came to a pond and beside it a tiny stream, a creek with barely any pulse to it. Our guide pointed to the stream, the water limping along over the rocks.
"That is where we get our water," she said, "the pond is for the animals."
There had been a drought, she explained, for months and months and water was already a scare resource.
Now this was a major reality check for a city boy from Toronto who had spent many a gleeful hour filling and refilling water guns and water balloons as a child.
We were asked if we wanted to carry some water in jerry cans for some of the people who had been at the stream when we arrived.
Reality check or not, I still had an over-exaggerated macho streak in me so I ran to the front to pick up one of the faded-yellow jugs.
What no one told me was that it was heavy. Really heavy. Also, the walk was uphill.
While I struggled up the hill, several five year old kids overtook me, carrying, with ease, the very same thing I had trouble lifting off the ground. Seeing something like that does something healthy to your ego; it deflates it, it humbles it, it puts it in its place.
Just when I was coming to the top of the hill, the rain started coming down.
It came down harder than I had ever seen rain fall. It felt like a giant hose had been pointed at me and was dousing every inch of my body.
Our group lugged the jerry cans quickly to where they needed to be and headed off at a trot to find some sort of shelter, like we had always done when a storm hit back home.
And that's when I witnessed one of the most amazing things I will likely ever see; the kids from the village who had gathered around us were going crazy. Some were dancing, others running around, and some were just looking up at the giant hose in the sky, smiling.
The drought had ended.
We all slowed down, stopped and began to join in. We laughed, we slid on the mud covered paths and we walked with the kids, all the way back to our camp in a downpour that didn't really faze us anymore.
That night there were more smiles in our camp than at a synchronized swimming competition. We had experienced pure joy in a burst of rain.
That day made me realize a lot of things. It taught me to stop thinking in a negative, cynical way all the time and about things I couldn't stop. It made me realize the magnificence of things I took for granted way too often. It uncovered the power of life-affirming, refreshing, smile-inducing water. And it made me realize that you can go five days without showering it you get caught in a rain storm at some point in those five days.
And now every time I get caught in a rain storm I try to think about that day instead of how wet my socks are or wondering if the bus will be late because of the weather. I try to think of the contagious euphoria of that day in the rain in Salabwek.
So I am grateful for rain storms. I am grateful for the way they nourish the Earth, our bodies and most importantly how they can nourish our souls.
It was August, 2008 and I was in Salabwek in Kenya's Maasai Mara region with Free the Children. We were given the afternoon off to go on what was referred to as a "community walk".
At one point in our tour around the village we came to a pond and beside it a tiny stream, a creek with barely any pulse to it. Our guide pointed to the stream, the water limping along over the rocks.
"That is where we get our water," she said, "the pond is for the animals."
There had been a drought, she explained, for months and months and water was already a scare resource.
Now this was a major reality check for a city boy from Toronto who had spent many a gleeful hour filling and refilling water guns and water balloons as a child.
We were asked if we wanted to carry some water in jerry cans for some of the people who had been at the stream when we arrived.
Reality check or not, I still had an over-exaggerated macho streak in me so I ran to the front to pick up one of the faded-yellow jugs.
What no one told me was that it was heavy. Really heavy. Also, the walk was uphill.
While I struggled up the hill, several five year old kids overtook me, carrying, with ease, the very same thing I had trouble lifting off the ground. Seeing something like that does something healthy to your ego; it deflates it, it humbles it, it puts it in its place.
Just when I was coming to the top of the hill, the rain started coming down.
It came down harder than I had ever seen rain fall. It felt like a giant hose had been pointed at me and was dousing every inch of my body.
Our group lugged the jerry cans quickly to where they needed to be and headed off at a trot to find some sort of shelter, like we had always done when a storm hit back home.
And that's when I witnessed one of the most amazing things I will likely ever see; the kids from the village who had gathered around us were going crazy. Some were dancing, others running around, and some were just looking up at the giant hose in the sky, smiling.
The drought had ended.
We all slowed down, stopped and began to join in. We laughed, we slid on the mud covered paths and we walked with the kids, all the way back to our camp in a downpour that didn't really faze us anymore.
That night there were more smiles in our camp than at a synchronized swimming competition. We had experienced pure joy in a burst of rain.
That day made me realize a lot of things. It taught me to stop thinking in a negative, cynical way all the time and about things I couldn't stop. It made me realize the magnificence of things I took for granted way too often. It uncovered the power of life-affirming, refreshing, smile-inducing water. And it made me realize that you can go five days without showering it you get caught in a rain storm at some point in those five days.
And now every time I get caught in a rain storm I try to think about that day instead of how wet my socks are or wondering if the bus will be late because of the weather. I try to think of the contagious euphoria of that day in the rain in Salabwek.
So I am grateful for rain storms. I am grateful for the way they nourish the Earth, our bodies and most importantly how they can nourish our souls.
Monday, April 30, 2012
#71- $3.99 Breakfast
As my official title has changed from bright eyed student to unemployed and desperately looking, I can tell you that nothing tastes as good as a free meal. But since I'm not getting too many of those, breakfast for $3.99 comes pretty close.
Today I ventured downtown to a local eatery to have breakfast with my girlfriend. Since she will be traveling to Paris in a few days this will be one of her last chances to eat greasy, fried food before the taste of fresh bread, cheese and street crepes takes over her diet. In an attempt to wrestle with my jealousy, I joined her and was glad I did.
Yes there was plenty of butter, too much bacon (I can't believe I'm writing that) and fried potatoes for miles, but it was delicious. Besides, breakfast is an important meal that gets your metabolism working and your brain firing on all cylinders.
The price was also a draw. I mean how can you go wrong with a $4 meal from a restaurant that doesn't have smiles on the menu or spaceship themed bathrooms? You can't, it's simple logic.
But the price was really just a bonus. Having breakfast with my girlfriend was the best part. Eating meals can sometimes be a lonely endeavor, especially when everyone seems to be at work or traveling to the far reaches of the world. But today I was able to spend some time with someone I love.
So I am grateful for $3.99 breakfasts. I am grateful for the boost it gives me and the delicious nature of home fries and toast. And I am grateful that I could sit down, have some amazing company and enjoy a side of morning sun with my eggs and bacon without it meaning a bounced rent cheque.
Today I ventured downtown to a local eatery to have breakfast with my girlfriend. Since she will be traveling to Paris in a few days this will be one of her last chances to eat greasy, fried food before the taste of fresh bread, cheese and street crepes takes over her diet. In an attempt to wrestle with my jealousy, I joined her and was glad I did.
Yes there was plenty of butter, too much bacon (I can't believe I'm writing that) and fried potatoes for miles, but it was delicious. Besides, breakfast is an important meal that gets your metabolism working and your brain firing on all cylinders.
The price was also a draw. I mean how can you go wrong with a $4 meal from a restaurant that doesn't have smiles on the menu or spaceship themed bathrooms? You can't, it's simple logic.
But the price was really just a bonus. Having breakfast with my girlfriend was the best part. Eating meals can sometimes be a lonely endeavor, especially when everyone seems to be at work or traveling to the far reaches of the world. But today I was able to spend some time with someone I love.
So I am grateful for $3.99 breakfasts. I am grateful for the boost it gives me and the delicious nature of home fries and toast. And I am grateful that I could sit down, have some amazing company and enjoy a side of morning sun with my eggs and bacon without it meaning a bounced rent cheque.
Friday, April 27, 2012
#70- My New Phone
Before I explain my new phone, I must first take a minute to eulogize my old phone.
It was a good phone. It was a simple phone. It lasted me three, long years and I enjoyed that it was small and had no ability to access the internet or download apps or even turn on properly sometimes. I mean don't be fooled, it was a reliable phone and was always trusty when I needed to text someone or call a source for an interview (as long as it was a shorter than twenty minutes because that's as long as the battery could last). And despite its duct taped backside and the fact that for the last three months I had to open it gingerly and with surgeon-like precision because the two pieces were hanging together by a thin, thread-like wire, it survived a lot and went through many an adventure snug inside my pocket.
But when I saw it tumble to the floor and break in two, I sunk to my knees, put my head in my hands and did a little mental fist pump because, finally, the last chapter on my old phone had been written.
So a week ago I went to buy a new phone and I discovered that these newfangled smart phones weren't all that evil after all. I tried to act the shrewd business man and seem uninterested in the sly selling points the salesperson was throwing at me, determined to get the best deal I could. I lasted all of two minutes until I folded like a kid in a toy store upon seeing that instead of hitting individual buttons on the screen to text I could simply swipe my fingers across the keyboard to spell words.
In all seriousness though, I walked out of the phone store with not only a new phone, but a reopened gateway to friends, family and the world. I could once again hear my girlfriend's voice and make plans with hometown friends I hadn't seen in weeks or months. I could call my grandmother while I was doing errands to tell her I was coming to visit. I was able to wish my brother good luck on his exams. I could receive the non-existent phone calls offering me a dream job. I was able to spell words like actinomycin and pentangle without even trying. I was connected and life was a little happier.
I know I don't need all these things to stay connected and have a meaningful relationship with people (Believe me, two and a half weeks without a phone will teach you that), but it gives me options and as far as I'm concerned options are never a bad thing when it means more interaction with the people you love.
So I am grateful for my new phone. I am grateful not just for the functions it provides, but the benefits that come with them. I am grateful not only because it adds convenience to my life, but opportunity: the opportunity to talk to people I care about, make connections and achieve goals. And I plan to see what sort of crazy journeys these new opportunities will take me on, with new phone by my side of course.
It was a good phone. It was a simple phone. It lasted me three, long years and I enjoyed that it was small and had no ability to access the internet or download apps or even turn on properly sometimes. I mean don't be fooled, it was a reliable phone and was always trusty when I needed to text someone or call a source for an interview (as long as it was a shorter than twenty minutes because that's as long as the battery could last). And despite its duct taped backside and the fact that for the last three months I had to open it gingerly and with surgeon-like precision because the two pieces were hanging together by a thin, thread-like wire, it survived a lot and went through many an adventure snug inside my pocket.
But when I saw it tumble to the floor and break in two, I sunk to my knees, put my head in my hands and did a little mental fist pump because, finally, the last chapter on my old phone had been written.
So a week ago I went to buy a new phone and I discovered that these newfangled smart phones weren't all that evil after all. I tried to act the shrewd business man and seem uninterested in the sly selling points the salesperson was throwing at me, determined to get the best deal I could. I lasted all of two minutes until I folded like a kid in a toy store upon seeing that instead of hitting individual buttons on the screen to text I could simply swipe my fingers across the keyboard to spell words.
In all seriousness though, I walked out of the phone store with not only a new phone, but a reopened gateway to friends, family and the world. I could once again hear my girlfriend's voice and make plans with hometown friends I hadn't seen in weeks or months. I could call my grandmother while I was doing errands to tell her I was coming to visit. I was able to wish my brother good luck on his exams. I could receive the non-existent phone calls offering me a dream job. I was able to spell words like actinomycin and pentangle without even trying. I was connected and life was a little happier.
I know I don't need all these things to stay connected and have a meaningful relationship with people (Believe me, two and a half weeks without a phone will teach you that), but it gives me options and as far as I'm concerned options are never a bad thing when it means more interaction with the people you love.
So I am grateful for my new phone. I am grateful not just for the functions it provides, but the benefits that come with them. I am grateful not only because it adds convenience to my life, but opportunity: the opportunity to talk to people I care about, make connections and achieve goals. And I plan to see what sort of crazy journeys these new opportunities will take me on, with new phone by my side of course.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
#69- J School
I guess if I'm talking about J-school I should probably start off with a nice, solid lede, one that's punchy, but concise, informative, but engaging, one that's... oh, I guess I already dropped the ball on that one. Oh well.
But seriously, I just finished my undergraduate career eight days ago and J-school is already transforming from the thing I cursed every morning, noon and night while secretly loving it to a word dripping with nostalgia and covered in memories.
As I write this I look around my room at artifacts of my J-school career and it feels like I should be a character in a movie; the old man who wonders into his attic trying to find his cane only to suffer flashbacks of his life when he sees old pictures and such. Heartwarming? Sure. Corny? Definitely.
But I can't help it. I can see the pub crawl shirt in my closet out of the corner of my eye, the very same one that has the names of some of the greatest people I have ever had the honor of calling friends on it (although in barely legible scrawl that can obviously only be attributed to the poor lighting in the pubs).
And there in front of me on my desk is my recorder and microphone, the very same ones that I swore at when they wouldn't work properly and I lost half an interview about the pie industry in Ottawa. But also the same ones that hung by my side during the toughest production days that left me utterly exhausted, but indescribably exhilarated.
And what's that on my desk, an assignment from my political reporting class? Plenty of red ink on it, but a decent mark and, even more importantly, encouraging words from my professor (although even less readable to my eyes than the pub crawl autographs). I can't help but smile and remember the lessons I learned from all my teachers and not just about journalism, but about life too.
Yep, as I look around my room I know two things for sure: I really need to spend a day cleaning it up and I'm really going to miss J-school with all its crazy deadlines, early morning classes, mind numbing post-morts, awesome friends, history-witnessing moments and quiet nights doing what I love most, writing. And I would do it all again, the very same, if I had to.
So I'm grateful for J-school. I'm grateful mostly for the people I have met in it, from my girlfriend, to friends who have shaped my last four years, professors who have molded my brain and sources who have challenged, changed and reaffirmed my perspective on the world. I'm grateful and I'll never forget it, but it's time to move on. Peace out J-school.
-30-
But seriously, I just finished my undergraduate career eight days ago and J-school is already transforming from the thing I cursed every morning, noon and night while secretly loving it to a word dripping with nostalgia and covered in memories.
As I write this I look around my room at artifacts of my J-school career and it feels like I should be a character in a movie; the old man who wonders into his attic trying to find his cane only to suffer flashbacks of his life when he sees old pictures and such. Heartwarming? Sure. Corny? Definitely.
But I can't help it. I can see the pub crawl shirt in my closet out of the corner of my eye, the very same one that has the names of some of the greatest people I have ever had the honor of calling friends on it (although in barely legible scrawl that can obviously only be attributed to the poor lighting in the pubs).
And there in front of me on my desk is my recorder and microphone, the very same ones that I swore at when they wouldn't work properly and I lost half an interview about the pie industry in Ottawa. But also the same ones that hung by my side during the toughest production days that left me utterly exhausted, but indescribably exhilarated.
And what's that on my desk, an assignment from my political reporting class? Plenty of red ink on it, but a decent mark and, even more importantly, encouraging words from my professor (although even less readable to my eyes than the pub crawl autographs). I can't help but smile and remember the lessons I learned from all my teachers and not just about journalism, but about life too.
Yep, as I look around my room I know two things for sure: I really need to spend a day cleaning it up and I'm really going to miss J-school with all its crazy deadlines, early morning classes, mind numbing post-morts, awesome friends, history-witnessing moments and quiet nights doing what I love most, writing. And I would do it all again, the very same, if I had to.
So I'm grateful for J-school. I'm grateful mostly for the people I have met in it, from my girlfriend, to friends who have shaped my last four years, professors who have molded my brain and sources who have challenged, changed and reaffirmed my perspective on the world. I'm grateful and I'll never forget it, but it's time to move on. Peace out J-school.
-30-
Thursday, November 10, 2011
#68- The Singing Bus Driver
It all sounds like the plot of a corny movie from the 1950s.
The happy-go-lucky bus driver who sings on the job is told to button it by city council after years of serenading public transit riders. Of course the public valiantly rallies around the driver with the golden pipes, flooding councillors with letters and emails demanding them to stop the ban.
The happy ending, though, may not be coming. Mayor Jim Watson seems adamant about turning down the driver’s; whose name is Yves Roy, volume.
While it heartens me to see how Ottawa is standing up for Roy, council's decision very sad.
I have had the pleasure of hearing Roy sing on many occasions and on dreary, cold days when riding the bus is the last thing you want to do (which happens often in an Ottawa winter), hearing the crooning driver has brightened my day.
Listening to the joy this man has for his job, for life, for music, is invigorating and I would bet you everything I have that no one could keep a smile off their face after his contagious good spirits hits you on a wave of knee-tapping song.
After seeing videos in the last week of bus drivers swearing at riders and illegally talking on a cell phone while driving, hearing Roy's optimism and passion restores my faith in city drivers and makes me more attentive to the smiles, nods and thank you’s I get every day from OC Transpo employees.
So I am grateful for Yves Roy, the singing bus driver. I am grateful for his joy in life that everyone should strive to achieve. I am grateful for the simple, but hugely important, gift he gives hundreds of people every day with his voice. I am grateful for everything he stands for and for the people who stand for him. So Jim Watson, if you happen to stumble across this post, please don't make Roy stop singing, write the last scene in this movie, make that happy ending.
The happy-go-lucky bus driver who sings on the job is told to button it by city council after years of serenading public transit riders. Of course the public valiantly rallies around the driver with the golden pipes, flooding councillors with letters and emails demanding them to stop the ban.
The happy ending, though, may not be coming. Mayor Jim Watson seems adamant about turning down the driver’s; whose name is Yves Roy, volume.
While it heartens me to see how Ottawa is standing up for Roy, council's decision very sad.
I have had the pleasure of hearing Roy sing on many occasions and on dreary, cold days when riding the bus is the last thing you want to do (which happens often in an Ottawa winter), hearing the crooning driver has brightened my day.
Listening to the joy this man has for his job, for life, for music, is invigorating and I would bet you everything I have that no one could keep a smile off their face after his contagious good spirits hits you on a wave of knee-tapping song.
After seeing videos in the last week of bus drivers swearing at riders and illegally talking on a cell phone while driving, hearing Roy's optimism and passion restores my faith in city drivers and makes me more attentive to the smiles, nods and thank you’s I get every day from OC Transpo employees.
So I am grateful for Yves Roy, the singing bus driver. I am grateful for his joy in life that everyone should strive to achieve. I am grateful for the simple, but hugely important, gift he gives hundreds of people every day with his voice. I am grateful for everything he stands for and for the people who stand for him. So Jim Watson, if you happen to stumble across this post, please don't make Roy stop singing, write the last scene in this movie, make that happy ending.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
#67- Chai
Forget the DeLorean; my nose is the only time machine I need.
My shnozz can take me back to any time or any place. All I need is the smell of something that opens the gate on a memory and the sights, sounds and feel of the some of the best, worst and ordinary times of my life play on the screen in my head.
The smell can be anything, from a whiff of cardboard that makes me think of my summer at the box factory or the harmonious odors of gasoline, tobacco and popcorn that fling me back to my childhood at the Canadian National Exhibition.
Today it was the smell of Kenyan chai.
Chai is the Kiswahili word for tea and when I smelled it wafting through the event I was photographing, my trip to the wonderful East African country of Kenya played itself out like I was there again.
Chai was the morning wakeup call when I was in Kenya. It was there every morning, freshly made from scratch by the Kenyan staff at the camp. The warmth it gave, the energy it instilled, the simple joy it brought was amazing.
Even before those things, came the smell. It was mesmerizing, comforting, even inspiring in a way. Chai was my alarm clock in Kenya (along with the bird that loudly chirped outside my tent every morning) and it signaled a new day in the country I had fallen in love with at first sight. I came to associate the amazing memories I had with chai. The friendships made and strengthened, the lessons learned, the showers missed, the awesome people met. These all came during or after a nice cup of chai.
So I am grateful for chai. I am grateful for taste that leaves my taste buds in awe. I am grateful for its warmth and its comfort and its enchanting smell. I am grateful for the people who grow the ingredients and the people who make the tea. And most of all I am grateful for the way chai can take me back and help me relive some of the best times of my life with some of the greatest people I've ever met and look forward to the day when I can do it all over again.
My shnozz can take me back to any time or any place. All I need is the smell of something that opens the gate on a memory and the sights, sounds and feel of the some of the best, worst and ordinary times of my life play on the screen in my head.
The smell can be anything, from a whiff of cardboard that makes me think of my summer at the box factory or the harmonious odors of gasoline, tobacco and popcorn that fling me back to my childhood at the Canadian National Exhibition.
Today it was the smell of Kenyan chai.
Chai is the Kiswahili word for tea and when I smelled it wafting through the event I was photographing, my trip to the wonderful East African country of Kenya played itself out like I was there again.
Chai was the morning wakeup call when I was in Kenya. It was there every morning, freshly made from scratch by the Kenyan staff at the camp. The warmth it gave, the energy it instilled, the simple joy it brought was amazing.
Even before those things, came the smell. It was mesmerizing, comforting, even inspiring in a way. Chai was my alarm clock in Kenya (along with the bird that loudly chirped outside my tent every morning) and it signaled a new day in the country I had fallen in love with at first sight. I came to associate the amazing memories I had with chai. The friendships made and strengthened, the lessons learned, the showers missed, the awesome people met. These all came during or after a nice cup of chai.
So I am grateful for chai. I am grateful for taste that leaves my taste buds in awe. I am grateful for its warmth and its comfort and its enchanting smell. I am grateful for the people who grow the ingredients and the people who make the tea. And most of all I am grateful for the way chai can take me back and help me relive some of the best times of my life with some of the greatest people I've ever met and look forward to the day when I can do it all over again.
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