I love him, a little bit. I think there’s a part of him that believes that my love is parsed out among too many other contenders. I know that I can see the most beautiful parts of people, and as such, it can be very easy to love them. I’ve never told him I love him, (a little bit), because I know he’d dismiss it. It’s not a big deal; it’s a truly manageable kind of love, born out of who he is, rather than what I think I need from him. Every once in a while, I flirt outrageously…
It’s Sunday morning. I wake up slowly, and the apartment is warm and full of birdsong. My big male cat, Taku, is doing the combo meow-purr that tells me he’s simultaneously hungry and itching to get outside. I am neither of those things, so I lay in bed for a little while longer and invite candle-lit flickers of the night before to lull me back into a kind of half-sleep. I wasn’t sure it was a date. We’d done the dating thing briefly, years ago, and the only thing that stopped us from moving forward back then (as far as…
The sun is determined to shine here today, even though the temperature has barely made the double digits. It’s not quite noon, I’m in sweatpants and my hair is still damp. I was hoping it would dry in pretty waves. Half my head cooperated, the other half decided a scraggly, limp situation was all it was going to manage. It’s Saturday, I understand the desire to phone it in. Our restaurants, bars, public spaces, and theatres all continue to be shut down here in Southern Ontario. We seem to be failing at pandemic management, and I’m not going to start…
Do you remember who you were a year ago? I was frustrated. Impatient. I felt like I could see all of my dreams like puzzle pieces, but like a dream, I couldn’t get any of the pieces to fit together. Deep in my gut, I knew how fully I loved, but on the surface a lot of it wasn’t making sense. I kept forcing the pieces together because I wanted the big picture. Now, I am the big picture. The whole thing from start to finish. I’ve lost lovers, friends, co-dependent connections, homes. I’ve moved three times in a year.…
As I’m building my journal therapy practice, a big part of this work has been articulating how I came into reflective writing. With the help of my new marketing goddess, something has really struck me; my whole life has been about creating a safe container for story: My personal story, the stories of the characters I inhabited, the stories of my performers, the stories of our audience, the stories of my imagination, the stories of the authors I work with, and now I’m creating a safe container for the stories of my clients. I’ve accomplished this with a fair measure…
