The Book of Ruth Chapter 21: Round and around we go

We are all shaped by our environment. We are all born somewhere in the world. With a specific way of life. With specific conditions.

Canada. This frozen country, I love it. And yet, I don't love every aspect of how we live. Maybe the cold creates distance. Maybe we are shaped by this landscape, and the cold enters our bones just a little. To help us survive the harsh winters. It’s not our fault. The snowy tundra requires our houses to be fortresses. They are equipped to withstand deep snow and dark days. Our structures stand weather proofed. Like our hearts, maybe. The winter is hypnotic and shivers our spines straight. I hear us all chanting the same mantra come February, “spring will come soon, it has to. Right?”

Parks are buried in snow. Street hockey streets need clearing. Everything is playing the waiting game. We bundle up. Gather hats, mitts, neck warmers and throw every piece of ski equipment in the car. We drive an hour to ski a few runs. Pack it all up. And drift off to sleep early that night. We are lucky.

Winter always feels a bit lonely. It’s slower. It requires coziness. I’ve always been a bit of a lonely sort, so I don’t mind. I enjoy my own company. And even though I socialize a lot I don’t feel good at it. Isolation is freeing in its own way. I can weather the solitude of this chilly culture. I like how winter is all encompasing. Extreme. It makes sense that we’re all indoors when it’s this cold. Separated from the elements.

A former colleague of mine moved here from abroad. They complained about Canadian frostiness…and our lack of cocaine consumption. Mind you, they had never lived in Toronto. They said Canadians were warm on the outside, cold on the inside. "No one invites you over to drink until 2 AM and stumble to a second location." I wonder how different it was where they were born? How do they socialize? Are we so different here? Are we so separate?

Western parenting is all I know. I feel its rigidity. I feel constrained at times. Our schedule with Ruth wraps its hands around us tighter and tighter with every passing year. We rush to school. Rush to pick her up. Rush dinner. Bathtime. Teeth. Stories. Asleep by 8:30 at the latest. Rinse. Repeat. Literally. The routine is militaristic. “Is tomorrow a home day, mama?” she asks every morning. I think it’s getting to her, too.

My mind floats back to a freer time in my life. When I was a semi-employed actor/server/etc. Over ten years ago. Maybe 15…who can keep count? I could just pick up and go wherever I wanted. Thomas and I whisked away to Cambodia one time without planning much in advance. “We’ll figure it out as we go.” That idea is so alarming to present-day me.

************************************************************************************************************************************************

We are on an overnight bus driving from Sihanoukville to Phnom Penh or was it Siem Reap? My memory is a sieve. We ride in abject darkness. There aren’t many if any street lights. The sky is bright and the road is dark. Mist hangs in the air like a gossamer curtain. Our bus trundles along as time ceases to exist. Every so often, we see a light in the distance. As we drive closer, I can make out the figures for a moment before we drive past. There are dozens of people hanging out at the bottom of the stilt houses that line the road. The people dance, smoke, and hang out. I press my forehead against the window and squint to get a better look. They are completely unaware of the Canadian girl peering at them from a Greyhound. It astonishes me. This after-dinner routine. These people weren’t sitting at home watching TV. Paired off like Noah’s ark. I’d be shocked if they scheduled this gathering two weeks in advance after clearing availability with all involved. I gasp each time I see a light flicker in the distance and am delighted each time our ghost bus hurtles through the inky black to happen upon home fires flickering and fading in the distance. Cambodia feels like a lifetime ago. A chapter from a different story.

*************************************************************************************************************************************************

Brisket has been up barfing in the middle of the night for the last four days. Ruth has been waking and staying awake for hours. Thomas’s back is out. I have strep and the house looks like it’s been abandoned. There is clutter, dog fur, and dust everywhere. I imagine trespassers with a bent for abandoned houses traipsing through our threshold and saying something like “the family that lived here seemed happy. It’s so creepy how people can just pick up and leave a whole life behind.” And then we causally walk down the stairs to grab breakfast and freak the shit out of them. Ha!

I keep thinking I’ll get to the clutter tomorrow. But tomorrow turns into tomorrow. I look at Ruth and she’s so tall. “When you were a little baby, you were the length of my forearm” I tell her. “And I would say goo goo gah gah because I didn’t know how to even talk!” she squeals at me. It’s so cliché, but you blink and they’re almost five. The most intense developmental years are wrapping up.

They say not to lose yourself to motherhood. But…I dunno, man, this shit is pretty all consuming. Someone asked me about proper singing technique awhile back and for a moment I thought ‘why are they asking me?’ and then I remember my undergrad in music performance. Ad school was eight years ago. How? We live so many micro lives inside this macro one. I feel time differently having lived awhile. I can say 'oh, this or that was twenty years ago' which feels weird becuase I'm only twenty years old. My mind feels fuzzy and I am not sure what will spark joy when everything I read is filled with dread.

So, I decide to pick up a hobby. That should help. I think.

A few of us friends/wives/professionals/aunts/sister-in-laws take up pottery. It’s very this-is-my-next-chapter/I need a hobby/let’s live the movie Ghost irl. But more than anything, it keeps us off our phones for two hours straight. Which is a modern-day miracle. I’ve gotten existential about this pottery proclivity. Everything turn turn turns.

I am not good at this.

I hate this.

I suck at this.

I'm medium at this.

What is good in this context?

I release myself from caring about this.

I find my real-life hang ups play out on the wheel. My ability to get stuck in a loop is now physically manifesting. My habits show up in the clay. As they show up in my parenting. As they show up in my marriage. As they show up in the lines on my face. As they show up in the throwing circles on my pots.

My inability to centre clay aligns perfectly with my general feeling of off-kilterness. It took three courses and one teacher physically showing me how to do it. Few words were involved, I had to feel it. I’m a bit tired of words these days. Once it clicked, it clicked. Now, I can centre consistently. For me, progress isn't about repetition or the amount of time spent learning something. Because I will often just do the same wrong thing repeatedly without progress. For me, intention, comprehension, and focus are more important than time spent. You can absolutely spend 10,000 hours attempting to fix mistakes without improvement if you’re stuck doing the same wrong thing over and over.

After much frustration, some things start making sense. I learn to anchor my arms to my legs and push the clay into centre instead of letting it wobble in the wind. Instead of being thrown off balance by everything and everyone around me, I gently guide my thoughts to a more centred place. Another skill I struggle with is pulling even walls. One side is always thicker than the other and the rim is always uneven. Teachers have watched me, furrowed their bows, and said ‘huh, that’s weird. I don't know what's wrong here. Everything looks right but the pot.” Confusing people with my wonkiness has been a constant theme. Directors would give up. Singing teachers would leave me to sort it out. And I wouldn't blame them. I was frustrated too.

I centre the clay. I drill down. I open it. I compress. I tell myself to pay attention. Focus. And yet, I freeze at the same time every time I try to pull the walls of my pots. It’s like my mind blanks and everything goes offline the second after I start trying. When I come to, my hands are in the same position, and everything is a little bit off. I tell myself to be patient. That I will learn it eventually. And admire my imperfect creation. We can still be useful in our lopsidedness.

Seeing these patterns play out on the wheel is helpful. It’s a physical manifestation of mental blocks that you can see and analyse outside yourself. I’ve never been willing to be bad at something in quite this way before. I am giving myself the grace to learn. Everyone around me seems to catch on quicker but I find myself cheering them on instead of using their success to diminish my own. We are full of so much possibility. It’s just a hunk of clay spinning on a wheel, after all. It's not that deep.

Winter is long. Parenting is exhausting, and the routine can feel like a merry go round. Every time I take a step off the ride to take a breath and look around, years have passed. Hobbies have changed. And despite my dizziness, I can see light on the horizon. So, for now, the task at hand is learning how to find my centre as the world spins around me.