what I learned in whistler, pt 2 (life)

While recently in Whistler at the Writers Fest, I purposefully attempted to quiet my mind and listen to what the universe was trying to tell me. As I said in an earlier post What I learned in Whistler, Pt 1 (Work), these few days were a pivot between one reality and the next and I was eager to find something positive to think about and move toward.

I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains

On a sunny fall day, there is perhaps no better place to clear your mind than Whistler. There is a three-dimensional, pixel-sharp quality to the air that is sublimely refreshing. It’s like drinking a perfectly tepid glass of water, it becomes part of you, as if it belonged in your throat. Your breath becomes liquid and tastes of ice crystals, fallen leaves and alpenglow. The mountains feel more welcoming than formidable and—catching the light—are streaked with stands of golden trees that look as if applied by a finger-painting toddler. It is truly magical.

After a decadent afternoon at the Scandinave spa, circuiting the hot baths, cold plunges and warm chill out rooms, my brain felt suitably softened to receive all degree of manna from heaven. Being completely by myself to explore was at first intimidating, then strangely serene. I had no one to answer to but myself, so I walked at my own pace rather than accommodating others, stayed up late in the dark, explored the art gallery I’d been wanting to visit, and drifted through every store without feeling rushed. Throughout the subsequent days I attended numerous workshops, readings and cultural events that blended words with music, politics, comedy and community. I listened to poets painting the air with their words; I learned about matsutake mushrooms; the terrifying reality of the ‘pyrocene’ age; how a journalist balances the morals of telling a story that might not be perceived as theirs to tell; and how authors structure their writing time for success. It was rewarding to listen to educated, impassioned people talk about what they’d studied or what they’d imagined. It was also soothing for my restless mind to have new things to think about. To consider, possibility.

Here’s what I learned:

Language is a living thing.
Acclaimed poet, polylinguist and altogether imposing personality, Robert Bringhurst read from his recent publication of poetry, titled The Ridge, which among other things, features a 60 page ode to his home of Quadra Island. With a James Earl Jones-like quality to his voice, it was a lusty, bracing thing to hear him read. In general I am not a fan of in person poetry readings. I find the responsibility of witnessing someone “perform” their intimate work quite uncomfortable, and much prefer the act of reading the words and interpreting them myself. For me, it is hard to hear the words when spoken, if that makes sense. But for others, listening to poetry read aloud is the ultimate expression of the form. 

In my experience, a strange dynamic develops when people talk to poets, or about poetry. Everyone gets whispery and dramatically reverent, as if talking to some reclusive conjuror of wisdom. This creates an awkward, sycophantic quality to the conversation which feels inauthentic and makes the work itself seem overly precious. I believe that many people are quite afraid to engage with poetry. Perhaps they don’t feel they can find their way through the metaphors and creative expression, or their experience with it has been limited to old fashioned classics taught in school. And that’s a shame, because poetry can be very rewarding. It is about being alive enough and open enough to find and speak the truth. To give life to an emotion, or an observation, that elevates normal transactional communication and asks the reader to lean into their own life to find meaning. 

There is nothing more powerful than words; and nothing more alive than language. It changes every day: new words; new meanings; new interpretations. Words that no longer capture our world are becoming lost, to make way for different words that help describe our current reality. Despite my own eyerolls at the LMAO BRB future ahead of us, that changeability shouldn’t be mourned … if we are all constantly evolving, why shouldn’t our language too?

While at one of the events someone asked me if I was a writer, and I started my usual self-sabotaging answer filled with qualifications … “well, I’m trying to be”, or “I’m not published, but I have a website”, and then I heard myself and, annoyed by my passivity,  purposefully bore down; “Yes”, I said, “I am a writer.” 

That stranger will never know how important that complete sentence meant to me.

Being alone is different than being lonely.
If you’ve read some of my earlier postings, you’ll know that our move last year to a new community has been emotionally difficult for me. Despite best laid plans and assumptions that moving back to our hometown would provide a ready-made community, it hasn’t proven to be easy. Yes, there are people that know me, lots of friendly hellos-in-passing, but very few people seem inclined to take that next step toward actually being in my life on any kind of day-to-day basis. People are friendly, but I have very few friends. To me, friendship is an ongoing conversation, sometimes with words and sometimes with presence or with shared experience. But my current reality includes very few texts, calls, emails, or drop bys and so my world feels small and unnaturally quiet. If you’ve got no one to ask about today’s Wordle or to share a stupid joke with, then life starts to drain of colour.

I’ve tried really hard not to take it personally … I get that I don’t have the connective tissue of kids or workplace or common activities to build rapport, and that people are busy with their own lives that up until 18 months ago, didn’t include me. But to have people consistently stand in front of me and say “It’s going to take time” and then walk away as if it was someone else’s concern, is hard to take. The disappointment is palatable and my normally confident and buoyant personality has been deflated. Maybe I’m not as much fun to be around as I thought? Doubt is a hungry beast and loneliness is a state of mind, which is particularly cruel when your mind is in a state, and therefore less able to react with positivity.

In Whistler, I had no expectation of seeing people I knew, and so being alone didn’t hurt in the same way. Yes, it was nice when the silence was broken by chatty strangers, but the solitude was OK too. Perhaps I’m getting stronger, or perhaps my Stress-FX supplements are working, but being OK with just me seemed like a good thing to remark upon.

Love is a place. 
I’ve thought a lot about love these past months … what it means to have it, how it feels to have it withheld, the responsibility one holds to others you share it with, how it can be misinterpreted and most of all, how it can hurt. So what is love? Historically speaking I’d always understood love to be both a noun (a thing) AND a verb (an act). “My children fill me with love.” and “I love that song.” Lately I have been thinking about love being a place—imagining a metaphorical structure that contains you, like a rib cage to your heart—providing space to house something sacred. And in that space is belonging, truth, acceptance and protection—shelter from the storm—you know? Like Hermione’s magic pouch that had the Undetectable Extension Charm in the Harry Potter stories, this place can expand and contract as needed, it can have multiple rooms, multiple realities, multiple doors in and out that reflect the variety of relationships you have in the real world.

I feel that I have a high capacity for love. I am an enthusiastic communicator of love to those I care about. In words, actions, thoughts and physical touch my innate nature is to be demonstrable, not to tamp it down or squirrel it away for a select few. I try really hard to show up for people I love, to not ever have them doubt my feelings. I believe that you can have different kinds of love for different people, but that the beating heart within us all responds to the warm glow of attention and connection epitomized by ‘loving someone’. So I love, generously, perhaps naively … because I want that same feeling to be returned to me.

While staying in Whistler I was a solo guest at the home of good friends, who were out of town the days I visited. Their beautiful home provided me a cozy, familiar space to stay, and in that welcome embrace I felt loved, seen, remembered. It wasn’t just the perfectly laid out gin & tonic supplies left ready on the counter but the deeply comfortable memory of time spent with them, both there in that space, and elsewhere throughout our friendship. The physical structure of the home embodied the relationship I have with them and it soothed my melancholic soul. 

It was love itself, and it made this tender-hearted lady both smile and cry with gratitude.