Category Archives: Holidays

“Time, time, time…

See what’s become of me” (Simon & Garfunkel 1966). The things one remembers, the things one forgets, in the quick-quick-slow foxtrot of life. Wondering at 30, when the brain feels too full already, how memory can still be possible at 50, but somehow at 50 managing it with ease. And wondering at the selectivity of memories that pop up over and over, when others are forgotten—like the last time I felt truly affronted at being treated like a child. In the hallway of a Spanish hotel, my Dad quickly responding to my choking on a hardboiled sweet going down the wrong way by bodily upending me. The indignity! I was, after all, eight years old, and well past the stage of being picked up by a parent, this stance perhaps embellished by my being surrounded by adults; my parents and older siblings, then about 13 and 15, so adults to an eight-years-old’s mind. This fall, I’ve been reflecting on time quite a bit, and thinking about other writers’ reflections on time too.

I came to Italo Calvino’s Cosmicomics only in the last few years, although they were published in Italian in 1964-65, and English in 1968. Each of this series of twelve stories begins with a scientific fact, or at least something understood to be scientific fact in the mid-1960s. Narrated by Qfwfq, a reincarnated Being who morphs from shape to shape, retaining memories from the inception, the stories follow the development of the Universe from the beginning of Time. Although each conscious form is true to its own nature, the stories offer very human reflections on love, complicated relationships, evolution, extinction, the search for signs, writing, and the urge for immortality.

I read physicist Alan Lightman’s Einstein’s Dreams when it was published in 1992. Told as a dream diary of the young Albert Einstein as he works out the theory of relativity, each of the thirty brief chapters explores a unique conception of time, and its impact on day-to-day life and being. Similarly to Calvino’s work, Lightman brings scientific concepts into his imagined time conceptions, although some may be pushed beyond their known limits. If time stood still, for instance, parents would forever hold fast to their children; if time were circular, we would be fated to return to our successes and failures ad infinitum.

Most recently, I enjoyed psychiatrist Francois Lelord’s Hector and the Search for Lost Time (2012, translated from the French, Hector et le temp, 2006). I stumbled onto the Hector series after watching Simon Pegg as Hector in the 2014 film, Hector and the Search for Happiness, based on Lelord’s Le voyage d’Hector ou la recherché du bonheur (2002). Hector’s examination of time takes him on an adventurous trek across continents, as did his previous searches for Happiness and Love. While Calvino and Lightman based their imaginative explorations, however loosely, on scientific constructs, Lelord focusses on lived and cultural perceptions of time. Lelord counters our current cultural anxieties about pressured time, our sensed lack of time, with alternative cultural constructs of time that encourage an expansion of our perceptions of time, allowing us to take a breath.

At this time of year, when Father Christmas “Did gyre and gimble in the wabe” (or some such, with apologies to Lewis Carroll, 1872), as we ring in the New Year (at least on the Gregorian calendar, 1582), and “settle our brains for a long winter’s nap” (thank you Clement Clarke Moore, 1822), this is a time of reflection, when memories stir. Tonight, I hope you’ll join me in reflecting on the past, as we move into a bright new future. 2017. Bring it on!

Nearly Midnight

©Catherine Jenkins this last day of 2016 all rights reserved

Update from Dr Jenkins

In the last year, I’ve seen nighttime overhead highway signs cautioning drivers not to stop due to high crime risk, and overhead highway signs cautioning drivers to be aware of moose. And I don’t feel like I’ve done much travel either. I did, however, take my first trip to South Africa. I lost a friend, attended a wedding, helped a friend celebrate his first birthday, and gained a cat. I built cat shelters and traps at Toronto Street Cat, attended a series of Graphic Medicine reading workshops, and went to the first Canadian Writers’ Summit and Taste of Little Italy with my long-time friend and fellow writer, Kathy Mac.  I went to Shaw Fest where the 2015 highlight was Peter and the Starcatcher, and this year’s highlight was Engaged. I went to Stratford for the first time in years, where I saw an amazing production of Shakespeare in Love. I attended a lot of concerts, with tickets both bought and shared by friends. I caught up on a lot of quality TV and some movies I’ve missed on DVDs from the Toronto Public Library. I enjoyed some non-academic reading for a change.

I taught a lot (and I mean a lot) of students, did a lot of grading, and had the joy of watching a few of my students gain awards or entry into grad school. I presented papers at conferences in Kingston (Queens) and North Bay (Nippising). I submitted a few things to peer-reviewed journals. I defend my PhD dissertation and convocated, so now it’s official and school truly is out.

This last year I breathed out, I walked, I observed, I took photos, I pondered, I cottaged. This fall, I’ve signed up for a wine course and an Italian course, because I finally can. I’m back to working out and I’m decluttering my apartment. I’m writing inventive academic work and applying to conferences in more exotic locales. And I’ve got six non-academic book projects to pick up again, now that I actually have the time and energy and focus. Stay tuned…

Meditation from a Hammock

This is my favourite place in the whole world. When I feel stressed, this is where I picture myself to relax and calm: lying in the hammock, gently rocking. It’s slung between two oaks, trees that I remember my older siblings jumping over, so these trees must be about my age. And as I lie resting, relaxing, I feel myself suspended between twin sisters, gently rocking me. I look up through their entwined branches, and realize that these trees’ roots must be similarly entwined, extending into the earth to similar depths though soil and past stone, that their branches extend into the air. And here am I, nestled in the hollow, between their branches and roots, caught in the air between. This is a safe place, a quiet and nurturing place. A place where I can relax, rest, read, a gentle smile on my lips. Where the day is timeless.

View from my Hammock

View from my Hammock

From here I can watch Loons and King Fishers, territorial Blue Herons quibbling over shoreline, and an Osprey with a clearly silhouetted fish caught in his talons. Nuthatches explore the ample branches and trunks seeking bugs; finding none, they move on.

Bluebottle casts a long shadow

Bluebottle casts a long shadow

Bluebottles sometimes alight on the canvas, soaking up the sun and casting long shadows. These trees are part of the Red Squirrel highway between the lakeshore trees and the trees in the woods. Sometimes, a Red Squirrel stops, puzzled by my presence, and stays a while looking down at me trying to figure me out.

When I was a kid, we didn’t have a hammock, so I’d go over the hill to my uncle’s cottage and lie in his. It had a yellow floral pattern with a fringe on the edge, and was strung between two trees near the lake. At some point in early adulthood, it occurred to me that I could have a hammock of my own. I purchased one for $8 at a local surplus store. It was a string affair, barely big enough for me, and required ample rope to suspend it between trees. Nothing fancy, but it worked.

A few years ago, a friend donated her canvas hammock to the cottage after an essential tree in her Toronto backyard collapsed quite spectacularly. This is the hammock I’m lying in now; it’s much nicer and bigger and firmer than my previous hammock. The yellow twine I used to tie up the old hammock has given way to tree-friendly webbed ties that offer support without damage. The new hammock is big enough to hold a whole day’s worth of reading, and has spurred me to master the fine art of sipping wine while suspended.

Reading and relaxing

Reading and relaxing

Catherine Jenkins 2015 all rights reserved

Summer in the City

Spring has given way to summer with a sudden shock of heat and numerous street festivals. While Toronto’s Pride Festival has grown over the years, this year we’re hosting World Pride (June 20-29) and expect to entertain over a million people! Some years, the popular Taste of the Danforth (August 8-10) has drawn over a million! Personally, I can’t handle crowds this big (unless I’m onstage!), so I get more enjoyment from smaller festivals. While festivals shut down roads, they make pedestrians (like me!) very happy. They offer an excuse to wander about, camera in hand, enjoying the day. During June, I’ve hung out at three such festivals.

The Annex Festival on Bloor was a neighbourhood street festival held between Spadina and Bathurst on the afternoon of Sunday, June 8. While there were food and craft vendors, demonstrations, music and kids’ events, it seemed a bit lack lustre. The late-afternoon rain probably didn’t help. No idea what attendance numbers were, but it’s a relatively small neighbourhood event.

Kids playing in the bouncy castle; Annex Festival on Bloor

Kids playing in the bouncy castle; Annex Festival on Bloor

Superman kneads dough at the Annex Festival

Superman kneads dough at the Annex Festival

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Taste of Little Italy was held the weekend of June 13-15 along College. I wandered its length from Bathurst to Shaw and back again early Saturday afternoon. It was notably busier on the way back, but I suspect it’s craziest in the evening. While I haven’t found attendance numbers, I suspect that over the three days attendance is in the hundreds of thousands, but it’s spread out both geographically and temporally, so it doesn’t feel particularly crowded. Similar to the Annex Festival, Taste of Little Italy has food and craft vendors, music, and stuff for kids; it’s simply more plentiful and splendid. Numerous restaurants along the strip extend into the street with portable kitchens, so cooking smells pervade the air. Bands play at four different venues throughout each day and evening, with music ranging from traditional Italian to rock; sometimes traditional dancers add to the festivities. At each end of the festival, away from the crowds, kids’ rides and amusement activities are set up. Because this year’s festival coincided with the FIFA World Cup, event organizers also constructed an enormous video wall inside a large licensed beer tent, so fans could come down and watch Italy play. Team jerseys were in evidence and clearly this year’s festival attracted lots of soccer fans. The highlight of my day was relocating Dolce Gelato so I could enjoy two scoops, one of cioccolato and one of pistachio Siciliano, a taste sensation I discovered with my Dad when I was seven and we were living in Rome.

Traditional dancing at the Taste of Little Italy

Traditional dancing at the Taste of Little Italy

Little Paco--an Italian soccer fan

Little Paco–an Italian soccer fan

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steam on Queen was the afternoon of June 21 at the historic Campbell House on Queen at University. As well as attracting vendors and entertainers, what I love about this festival is that it also encourages grown-up dress-up in vintage or steampunk fashion. While some of the vendors are local, many travel from out of province to sell their wares. Some sell vintage or handmade clothing, others sell jewellery or other trinkets handmade from repurposed watch parts and found objects. The entertainment is somewhat esoteric, including acrobatic rope work, belly dancing and a theremin player. Inside Campbell House, was a display of the inventions of R. Phinius Bodine (aka Russell Zeid, an educator from the Ontario Science Centre). Also on display inside Campbell House were some props and rushes from a remake of the 1927 Fritz Lang silent film Metropolis (at least that was my understanding… I might be wrong).

A dashing steampunk gentleman

A dashing steampunk gentleman

Very glad that this steampunk insect is caged!

Very glad that this steampunk insect is caged!

 

 

 

 

 

Not sure what mischief I’ll get up to in July, but I’m on the look-out!

Dr Zeid  accosted by one of his own weapons (by me!)

Dr Zeid accosted by one of his own weapons (by me!)

© Catherine Jenkins 2014 all rights reserved

Recovery, Reflection and a Bright New Year

In mid-August, my head cleared. One morning I woke up feeling normal again. Just like that.

In September 2012, the car I was driving was T-boned by a cabdriver on his cell phone. In seconds, I had a complicated whiplash involving my neck, shoulder and pelvis, and I had a concussion. I didn’t hit my head; I wasn’t knocked out. I had what I have come to refer to as brain slosh. My brain, one of my favourite organs, had been bruised against the inside of my skull. The injury wasn’t immediately apparent. In retrospect, I used the language people use when they have a concussion; I said I was shaken up, dazed. I was able to function, but I wasn’t fully functional.

I kept hearing that it would be a year before I fully recovered. I kept not believing that. I kept kidding myself that I was fine, although I wasn’t. Recovery from the physical injuries took some time and work, with physiotherapy, daily exercises and massage. Of course, healing takes energy, so I was chronically exhausted.

I didn’t have time to be injured, so I carried on. Of course, trying to do something challenging, like a PhD dissertation, is that much more challenging with a brain injury. I did the best I could, but every time I sat down to work on this rich and complex document I’d started, what came out was at the level of a first-grade reader; Dick and Jane visit Vesalius for a lesson in medieval anatomy. Even though I was the only one who saw that work, it was embarrassing.

And there was the terrifying thought that this was it. That I wouldn’t recover, that I’d never be able to write again, that the books planned in my head would stay trapped there, unable to get out. After a few months, I was able to write more successfully, but it was much harder work than it had ever been.

I couldn’t think clearly. It was as if there was a cloudy veil over my brain. I could detect the thought, but had to tease it out of a haze. I was working through some kind of early film dream sequence gossamer fabric special effect. The work seemed to float. It never fully clarified. Even now, when I edit sections written through that haze, I can’t quite grasp them. They’re blurry and I’m still unsure if they work.

My memory was also affected. Routine information would suddenly evaporate. I spent three days trying to remember the name of someone I work with, someone I know. Bass lines I was relearning for the band reunion would quietly dissipate, even though I’d nailed them with practice. I said things that I couldn’t recall later. Someone would kindly follow up on some concern I’d expressed, and I would have no memory of verbalizing it or even thinking it.

But forty-nine weeks after the accident, three weeks shy of a year, I awoke one morning and my head was clear. By then, I’d come to accept the murkiness of my thoughts. I’d accepted this new normal. I’d accepted that I was never going to be fully functional again, that I would never function as well as I had. To wake up suddenly feeling normal again is a wondrous thing. But I couldn’t quite trust it at first. I didn’t know if it would last. To my relief, it has.

Last fall, it was as if my brain was re-checking its circuits, or maybe rewiring some connections. I experienced intense, lucid memories. Things I hadn’t recalled in decades would suddenly spring up with great clarity, sometimes with associated sensory cues. I recalled the taste of cocoa quickies from grade school home ec. I inhaled the scent of the bath beads I used to get in my Christmas stocking. I recalled, with great longing, the red mohair sweater my Mum knitted me that I practically lived in through high school. I felt the impact of reading the two column inches on a back page of the Examiner about Jim Croce’s death. These recollections didn’t have the faintness of normal memories; it was as if I was reliving them or verifying their veracity, checking that they were still intact.

The fatigue I’d been carrying had also become my new norm. I often felt too exhausted to work, like I was dragging myself around. I managed to stay on top of things, but not get ahead, and the bare minimum seemed an inordinate effort. I often felt swamped and overwhelmed, like I was barely managing my life. Again, I’d adjusted to this new reality. I rationalized that because I was getting older, I should expect to have less energy. I’d accepted this new state, telling myself that I just had to hang on a little longer, work a little harder, to get through the PhD.

It wasn’t until the Christmas holiday that I bounced back, again having assumed that I wouldn’t. I started the New Year with a renewed energy and vigour that I hadn’t felt in about fifteen months. And that’s exciting!

People often say that they have a good feeling about a New Year, but I’ve rarely felt this ecstatic in January. Although it had some wonderful moments, I’m very happy to put 2013 behind me. It was one of the tougher years I’ve lived. I felt like I was treading water, trying not to drown, rather than making progress. Now I feel fully recovered, as if I’m back on top of things, as if I can move forward in my life. And what an exciting life it is! I’m making good progress on the dissertation and expect to finish this year. Once that’s done, I can resume revising the new novel. I’m enjoying teaching university communication. I’m back into music and knitting (more on that in a future post), I’m using my time and energy efficiently, I’m sleeping well, I’m socializing more, etc. Life is good.

© Catherine Jenkins 2014