How I survived myself

The sky is fading now, turning slowly from grey to midnight blue. The streetlights flicker on and bathe the wet streets in a warm glow. The pavement sparkles as drops of rain dance with the light. Rush hour traffic plays like the soft crash of cymbals as it slides by. A symphony of rain sounds.

People walk by clutching briefcases and umbrellas. Two men sit protected by the awning of the coffee shop from whose windows I watch the world go by.  I wonder what they are discussing as the one man creates pictures in the air with wide swoops of his hands. The other man nods in agreement-or what I assume is agreement. I discovered recently that in some eastern European cultures the movement of the head to signify yes and no is in reverse of what we in the west are accustomed to. One doesn’t see too many eastern Europeans with handle bar mustaches and denim jackets though, so I think my assumptions are reasonably safe.

  As I observe the characters on the avenue I am reminded of a favourite childhood pastime. When we were young my mother used to take me and my sister on people watching missions. I suppose we didn’t really venture out with that intention, but it became a tradition that whenever we found ourselves on a park bench or at the table of a restaurant we would create stories taken from the lives of the people who walked by.

  The old man shuffling his feet along the pavement, holding the leash of his geriatric dog was a decorated world war two pilot. He had returned from overseas and married the love of his life. Together they raised three boys. His medals lay under a pile of papers in the top drawer of his old wooden desk. His sons grew up and moved away. They draw straws to determine who has to come back for Christmas. The silence at the dinner table makes them uncomfortable. They don’t know the hero who sits sternly at its head.

  A young couple walks by hand in hand. He doesn’t know that she is looking for the words to end it. She is going to leave out the fact that she is leaving him for his best friend. The ring he bought yesterday will remain in his pocket for weeks. Sitting there, weighing as heavy as his broken heart.

  The woman sitting in the corner hovered over her pile of books is studying for her MCATS. Her mother and her father are doctors. Her older sister is a surgeon. As she memorizes the names of each bone in the human hand she contemplates running off to be with the classical guitarist she fell madly for while on her semester abroad in Spain.

  For hours we would entertain each other with stories like these, interjecting new twists and turns in the plot of these stranger’s lives, delighting each other with our wild imaginings. I am sure that had our subjects heard our rendition of their histories they would have gladly corrected us, and gladly we would have accepted the truth. But in our little exercise, imagination trumped accuracy.

  As I sit in this coffee shop at dusk taking in the world around me, I realize how our people watching tradition has shaped me. I did not know as a small child that I would dedicate my life to the telling of stories. To the sharing of both fact and fiction. I feel tonight the storyteller’s blood coursing through my veins. A teenager doodles in his notebook, a middle aged couple silently reads the paper, passing completed sections between them, a man in a suit looks disenchanted with whoever is on the other end of his cell phone.  All of these people a living story. Without even realizing it I give them each names and traits. Fill their lives with plot turns and surprise endings. Each person playing the protagonist (and sometimes the villain) of an epic novel.

  These streets are full of stories. Real and imagined. Each of us a twisted tale under an umbrella, sipping a latte, or pressing  words onto a computer screen on Lonsdale Avenue. And if we are each a story, we are connected by the appearances we make in each other’s lives and our stories become part of something even greater. Sometimes we are entwined by a sentence or a single paragraph, and sometimes we spend whole chapters together, unraveling in unison until the final page turns.

  The world is full of stories, some whose words I know as if they were etched into my own heart, but most that remain a mystery. Blank pages waiting to be filled in. Imaginary lives waiting to be discovered. Waiting to be shared. And in the sharing of stories somehow the old man and his dog, the couple walking hand in hand, become more than just strangers on the street. They become friends. As if  I can glimpse for a moment, beneath the twists and turns and wild imaginings, the truth. It doesn’t matter if the character they play is a hero or a heart breaker or a doctor, underneath it all, each character is simply a human being on a journey.  Our stories started at the same place called The Beginning and in that way we are all the same. We are connected.

 The skies had not stopped pouring rain since my arrival nearly two weeks ago. And yet, my spirits remained surprisingly sunny. Surprising, because I had expected to spend my first weeks here in a wash of tears and that just was not the case.

 Today I woke to the sound of silence, to the absence of raindrops pounding the rooftop.

 And as I sit eating my breakfast, looking out at a patch of blue trying to break its way out of all the grey, I am torn between encouraging its plight and wishing for its disappearance.

 I found something in the rain. Or perhaps more accurately, I discovered its absence.

 Going over the Lion’s gate bridge on my way into work yesterday I looked out over the expanse of water and realized that for the first time in so long there was space in me. As if all weight and doubt and indecision had suddenly lifted like the morning fog.

 As if in leaving things behind I had suddenly made room for happiness to sink in.

 The joy of seeing a brilliant palette of leaves painting the gutter with red and gold. The blissful sound of mud being squished beneath my running shoes as I push myself through one more kilometer of hail. The way I cannot help but feel alive as tiny droplets sting my face and numb my fingers.

  I am taking my time to adjust to all this change. Learning slowly the names of streets, the locations of shops, and which bus goes where. Learning which shoes allow the water to seep in, which sweaters just aren’t warm enough, discovering how to maneuver through a sea of umbrellas threatening to take my eyes out.

 Today as I sit and miss the rain, for the first time I feel the longing for all the familiarity I’ve left behind. Without the rain to fill the empty spaces, there is just silence. And words, to faraway to touch over the telephone.

 I know that this is only a moment. Like the rain, they come and go. The passage of time as unchangeable as weather.

So I choose to accept the blue sky today. Embrace it. Let it fill me up and prepare me for the rain tomorrow.

   I sat looking out the window of a corner Starbucks for a few hours yesterday. Taking in the rain, the multitude of characters parading down Robson Street, and the other Starbucks located directly across from the one I happened to be sitting in. Placed there for the caffeine addicts to have something to be grateful for in the case of a dire emergency like a do not walk sign taking too long.
  

I had not wanted to be sitting in Starbucks, but after a fruitless hour long search in the pouring rain for a quaint teahouse, preferably one that served vegan delights, I finally cut my losses and entered the nearest establishment with the familiar green symbol on the door. It didn’t take long to find.
After reluctantly ordering my grande apple chai infusion and low fat cranberry muffin I found an empty bar style stool, laid my bag on the chair beside me and pulled out my journal to reflect on the events of the past day and a half.
  

The first words that make their way onto the page; I am scared. But then I change my mind. Yes, I am scared, but that’s probably not useful right now. Right now I need another word. Courageous… Hopeful. ..Fearless… my thoughts are interrupted by the words “excuse me” coming from the lips of a very attractive young man. He smiles at me as I jump a little at the shock of the interruption. “Is this seat taken?” I smile back, move my bag and think of another word for my journal when I notice that there are an abundance of available chairs in the near empty cafe. Single. He pulls off his varsity hockey hoodie and takes out his LSAT preparation books and I go back to looking extremely interested in my writings. I realize I am being more than judgmental as I ignore his constant glances in my direction.
 

I am…coming up empty handed. I look out onto the street and see a man with a ragged beard and worn jacket rummaging through the garbage can on the corner. A broad smile crosses his face as he pulls out a bottle to add to his collection. Gratitude lives in unexpected places.
 

I am…grateful. My fear is invisible. But my gratitude can be seen everywhere.
 

It lives in the golden leaves swirling through the wet air. It lives in the sweet warmth of my tea, the chipped red paint on my fingernails, and in the colourful pattern of threads in my scarf. It is in the images on the billboards that advertise abundance, in the umbrella of the little girl dancing as she waits for the lights to change. It is housed in the memory of childhood dreams.
 

Gratitude is spelled out in the pages of my book, in the smiles of strangers, and in the wool of the sweater of the man who searches for gold amidst the remains of empty coffee cups.
 

It is sung by the man on the radio, by the drops of falling rain. It lives in the tires of the bicycle waiting patiently for the return of its rider. Waiting to roll down these slick streets. Ready for joy.
 

It is in the anticipation of moments to come. In the stillness of this moment and in the beautiful tangle of stories that are my past.
 

Gratitude waits for me under a roof back home, in the hearts of the people I love, and here in the newness of change, in the arms of this city by the sea.

 I close my journal, and put on my jacket as handsome stranger looks up at me. “Good luck on your LSATS” and I make my way out into this great big beautiful world.