Montréal

Montréal froze the top layer of my face.  At least one wooly scarf is needed to begin to protect a face from the wet and dry cold air colliding from the prairie and the ocean.  Once out of my brother's apartment, I choked for just a minute on the gentle daggers of air.

As we walked to the ice skating rink, my legs began to numb and the moisture from my breath into my scarf collected nicely around my mouth and under my nose.  Sniffle sniffle pat pat.  My mascara froze and then melted away above my eye shadow when we arrived inside the ice skate rental room, painting the tops of my eyes like a war paint, or eyelid claws.  I took a second to warm up my toes, since they have been known to turn a frightening shade of white in the cold.  My boots were now decorated with sludge from the street and my shoelaces crackled when I untied them.  I loosened the laces on the skates and forcibly shoved my feet into them, using my minimal arm strength to pull the laces as tight as I could which still left a generous amount of space for my ankles to wobble around.

We continued onto the ice, my brother holding my hand as I wobbled around on the skates for a number of laps.  These were soon replaced with superior hockey skates and my brother's faithful hand released.  We ventured out to the natural ice of the river - I shuffled my feet slowly while holding the railing - where we skated for a bit until I gracefully fell down onto my knees.

I scooted elegantly to my feet and glided on.  We skated back to the rink and soon headed inside for a cup of hot chocolate to liven our spirits, fingers and toes.  After ice skating, we walked over to Old Port where I was able to grab a glass of "hot wine" and hug the heater with my feet.

This is all to say, Montréal, that I have fallen for you - time and time again.

Love Bones

Rediscovering New Jersey: Skyline Drive, along the Appalachian Trail

“Our invented philosophy — the self-made scaffold our lives and visions cling to — is harder to speak out loud. It’s hard to even write it down. And yet, we must try! For we hang our very beings on these invisible bones.” Barbara Mahaney, Invitation to December

As much as I would rather be out West hiking around beautiful trails and enjoying the warm dry sunshine, the feeling of community present here has become such a wonderful gift this season.  To get out and see a landscape is rejuvenating, but so are the precious hugs and joyful smiles of people I get to see again.

To be present in a place that has spent years showing me how to love is a gift.  This is not to say that I am in any way perfect at it, but I'm reminded that these are the invisible bones and scaffolding that have supported my soul. These are the people who redirect their steps to give me a hug and ask how I'm doing.  They give me a ride home - even though it is adding 40 minutes to their journey - because they want to catch up with me.  These are people whose "I'm so sorry about your grandmother" mean so so very much, since you know that they know how much she meant to you.  They have given me comfort (and love) in these moments that I have not received from my year of graduate school and moving around.

Love is refreshing; to feel known is relaxing.  If I were to begin to articulate my own invented philosophy, I would have to start with love.  We often talk about compassion in social work - even compassion fatigue - and maybe this is because we don't want to talk about the love you can have for a stranger in a way that comforts them in times of difficulty.  I don't think love ever becomes fatigued, does it?  We talk about boundaries and detachment but what about love?  These are words that carry so much weight and this is one of the heaviest.  Feeling loved - "attached" as they say in psychology - can bring me to tears; it moves me.

As much as I love the West, the West will never love me back.  This is why to be loved in community is a gift, which also comes with its own challenges.  But we must continue to try and to hang our very beings on these good and strong invisible bones.