In a little over two months the world will have its eyes on Vancouver. On Canada. It is difficult to forget this fact as I am inundated daily with images of red and white. Olympic anticipation is in the air. The news broadcasts stories nightly about athletes, about security, about the Vancouver, the Canada they want the world to see.

  The other night on my commute home, I spent the hour long trip talking with a young man visiting here from Mexico City to improve his English. After asking what bus he needed to take, he asked me if I was Canadian. “Yup.” I said casually. “Wow.” He replied with a look of awe. He explained to me he had been here one week and was so amazed by this country. By its beauty, its people, and its order. “My country” he said, as sadness crossed his face, “my country is not like this.”

  He went on to tell me about the corruption, the poverty, the fear that robs his countrymen of their joy. I asked him if he planned on staying in Canada. He shook his head. “No, I want to be a journalist. I want to share the stories of my people. I want to open the worlds eyes, how do you say…?” He stopped, searching for the right words, “Bring peace?” I nodded in understanding. “And the food is better there.” He added with a smile.

  We spent the rest of the ride talking about Canada, about Mexico, about music (we both agreed on everything but heavy metal), and about snow. He was going to Whistler in the morning. He had fears that his blood might freeze.

  “Goodbye Fernando.” I called out as he departed. ‘Good luck with the snowboarding.” And in my heart I wished him luck with the peace too.

  As I walked down the safe streets to my warm home with the ocean behind me and snow capped peaks before me, I could see the Canada that he sees.

  But I see another Canada too. A secret Canada that Vanoc doesn’t want the world to see.

   Sitting in Starbucks the next day I try to write words across the pages of my journal. I am angry. I have just read a story by mother about a series of events back home in Calgary. A group of individuals, who happen to be homeless, gathered together to volunteer at a charity event. Their help was refused when the coordinator read their addresses as the Drop-In centre. I am angry. I am stunned. I am without words. Does a person lose their right to help when they lose their home? What kind of world is this when ones worth is determined by a street name? What kind of Canada?

  The man next to me looks up from the Intro to Buddhism he has been reading and asks if he can ask me a question? I don’t point out that he just did and nod yes.

  “Are you Canadian?” He inquires in his broken English. “I am” I say, half expecting “wow” to be his reply. Instead he motions to the street at the man sitting on the pavement with a cardboard sign and an upturned hat set on the ground before him. “Why are there so many homeless?”

   Here, the sadness crosses my face,” I wish I knew the answer.” He shakes his head “It just seems like a pretty shitty job.”  The irony of his earnest comment seems to escape him and he goes on, “Maybe he knows something we don’t. He is like a monk. Very quiet. Very still.”

  “You mean, maybe he’s just meditating?” I smile.

  “It is not like this where I am from. There are no homeless.”

  Minoo goes on to tell me that he is from Korea, here, like Fernando, to learn English. He likes it here. But only when it’s raining. It is too quiet in the sun. We sit in silence for a moment looking at the people on the street pass the man praying for change. They walk by him, heads held high, a glance down only to avoid stepping right on him. He is invisible. A secret Canadian.

   Minoo breaks the silence “Maybe he is searching too.” I glance from his book to his eyes, “Is that why you’re really here? To find meaning?”

  “Your eyes are very brown.” He says, dodging my question. Again he says, “Very brown” as if it is something extraordinary. “Mine are black.” And I look into his dark eyes.

  “Life’s got to mean more than just smoking weed and searching for pretty faces in a crowded bar.” He says, a silent pain lacing each word. “I think I’ll go to Australia next.”

  “It’s very sunny there.” I point out and he laughs.

“Goodbye, Alexis from Canada.”

“Goodbye Minoo. Goodluck on your search.”

  I gather my belongings and head out onto the street. The man is still there. “Hey do you have any change? He says without really looking at me. I stop. I want to say “I see you.” but I don’t have the words. I don’t have change either so instead I offer up the only thing I can think of to give. “I can’t help you in the finance department, but I have a hug if you want one.”

  “Pardon?”

  “A hug.”

  His face breaks into a smile. “Really?” He asks incredulously. “Yeah, I’ll take one.”

  And I wrap my arms around his worn coat and for a moment we are both just two Canadians standing heart to heart.

   My grandmother loves Jesus. She also loves his mom and dad and his apostles, and all the dead people who have been made saints in his name. She loves him so much that she has images of the guy adorning her apartment. Paintings of him with his palms up, his sacred heart glowing, little pure white statues with long flowing locks arranged on a make shift alter beside her bed. My nana is the kind of woman who ends each conversation with the words ‘God bless you” and makes a journey to the church to light a candle when anyone gets sick. She is a believer and I know it’s not very Christian of me, but I’m envious.

  I look at images of Christ with his tan and his scruff and I think the guy is kinda sexy, but while I’d be more than willing to sacrifice my Friday night, I’m certainly not about to give up any baby lambs for him, let alone my own life. And when I go to mass on Christmas Eve it’s more for the tunes and less for the opportunity to get a little taste of His body, His blood.

  But I look at my Nana sometimes, and there is a part of me that wishes I had that kind of faith in something. Wishes I could believe that hope is as easy as lighting a flame, redemption as simple as 10 Hail Mary’s and meaning as easy as the sign of the cross.

  I stood in a room recently where we went around in a circle, and each participant was asked to define their beliefs. One by one each respondent answered “I believe in Jesus Christ our savior….” until the question made its way around to me. “Umm…I believe…in…love?” And immediately I felt like an outsider. Like some pagan witch come to cast evil spells on virgins. Now, there was absolutely no reaction from anyone in the circle, after all they were all loving Christians, but I couldn’t help feel that my lack of faith in J.C. somehow set me a part a bit. Like in the fifth grade when all the pretty blonde girls created a club that wouldn’t accept a brunette as a member. I wasn’t not invited, I just didn’t have the luxury of recessive genes.

  Maybe the faith gene is like blonde hair and blue eyes. Its recessive and I’m out of luck because I’m pretty sure my mom is a Wiccan Buddhist and my dad’s an atheist. And if this is the case I’d better just accept the fact that like I will never make an attractive blonde, I will never make the cover of Good Christian magazine.

    When my grandfather (who quite possibly loved Jesus even more than my Nana) passed away I was sent to Catholic school. It was, I think, my mother’s way of making peace with the father who couldn’t be pleased. If she couldn’t catch on to the whole God thing, maybe her daughters could make up for it. So I said my prayers, ate the tiny flavourless wafers and I sang the hymns up to the angels listening in the rafters. It was what was expected of me. And I believed because…well everybody else did. But somewhere along the way, I discovered that the more I tried to live in the image of Christ, the less I felt like me. And I could say my prayers every night but I still wasn’t going to wake up with hair the colour of sunshine.

  Maybe this whole envy thing I’ve got going on is really more about belonging and not really about faith at all. After all, isn’t that really what we all want? To belong? To be a part of something?  To count? Because when it really comes down to it, I am, all hell and damnation considered, at peace with life as a non believer. By choosing not to believe in any one thing I am leaving myself open to all things. There is no wrong or right. Or more importantly, you are not wrong or right. What is just is. And I like that. I like just belonging to this universe and all its options.  And when I leave space for what might be, I have room to cherish what is and to imagine what’s possible. The very real possibility that this moment, this life is all I have fills me with the kind of grace I can’t get from any Testament new or old. Because if this is all I’ve got, then it doesn’t matter which book I’m reading or who I’m reading it with. What matters is what I do. How I use this precious time. And if this Jesus dude is as cool as I’ve been told, he’d probably be down with that.

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.

The wind picks up the array of leaves on my front lawn and takes them on a journey from one corner of the yard to another. On the trees, there are a few still desperately clinging to the branches. Holding on as if to say, let autumn last a little longer. In a weeks time they will have joined their friends lying in the grasses, delicately frosted by a layer of November’s snow. In a weeks time the trees will be skeletons. Brown and bare, waiting out the winter’s cold.
But I will not be here to witness this city’s transition from gold to white. As the flocks of birds make their escape, so to do I. In a week’s time I say goodbye to my home of 23 years, goodbye to familiar faces, familiar streets and names. Hello to the great unknown.
And to say that I do not feel a bit like the frightened leaves holding fast to the vine would be a lie. I want to cover it up with the excitement of a new adventure, but I am so scared. And not necessarily for the reasons I expected. People leave home all the time. Migrate to different cities, provinces, countries. I know that leaving this place does not mean I am abandoning the people here that I love. Those bonds are strong and will survive. No, it is not what I am leaving that frightens me. It is the life I’m heading towards. There is no certainty, no security, no sure success. The life I’ve chosen means taking a risk every single day for the rest of my life.
I watched a talk by Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of “Eat, Pray, Love” last night. In it she wondered if people ever say “You’re going into chemical engineering? Are you scared?” “You’re an accountant? That must be terrifying!” In other words, the way people react when they find out someone wants to be a writer, or an artist, or an actor.
I only have to look at my own family to see evidence of this fear. On a recent trip to visit her, my grandmother lamented the fact that I decided not to go back to school to pursue a “real” career. And I can’t help but agree that I often think the same. The times I’ve wished I could have fallen in love with computer programming are countless. But every time I have made an attempt to follow a more even path, something calls me back. And I can’t help but think that maybe what is so frightening about a life of creativity is that it is not unlike falling in love.
Like love, it is a risk. It is called “falling” for a reason after all. It is falling without knowing where we will land, or how hard. It takes a leap of faith. Sacrifice. Commitment. It takes tearing down all the walls we have built up to protect our hearts and letting someone else inside. One must be fearless in their vulnerability, courageous enough to open themselves up, to share their voice, their feelings, their heart and soul. And when we risk all this, allow others to witness our humanity, we also open ourselves up to the sting of rejection, to pain, to heartbreak. Just like we cannot make someone love us back, there is no guarantee that the world will love our art.
And just as lovers, in spite of knowing all the risks, fall anyways, I have to trust the wind to pull me from the safety of the branch, and let me fall.

Something within me is shifting. I can feel it, like tectonic plates breaking away from each other. First there is friction, and then, there is space. A new landscape. A new continent formed.

I have been so lost, so full of questions. Waiting for proof, for evidence that there is something greater. Waiting for this God being to tap me on the shoulder and say, “I’m here.”

In a film I saw a young cynic says to an old Indian guru, “I am not spiritual. I am not religious.” And he replies, “Ah. It does not matter, as long as you are yourself.” The young man pushes back, “But how do I become my true self?” The old man smiles “Get rid of all that you are not.”

I heard these words and I surrendered to the realization that this God I’ve been waiting for has been here all along. Waiting for me to be the one to say, “I’m here. I’m ready.”

And I am.

I am ready to let go.

To let go off all that is not me.

I am ready to shed my clothes.
To strip out of my cardigan.
Abandon my blue jeans.
Rip off my socks, my undergarments.
Tear away all the threads that are covering this body up
And leave them lying on the floor.
I will stand
Naked.
But I won’t stop there.
I will erase all the words from my mouth
All the lies I’ve told to cover up my truth
The things I’ve said to hurt you-
To protect me.
And then the words of others,
All the labels that stick to my skin
I will shed them too.
Watch them as they fall away.
Watch all my bruises
All my pain
Be washed away.
And I will not stop there.

I will unpeel my skin
Tear my muscles from the bones.
Strip away my heart, my guts, my veins.
Until all my matter is scattered
Amidst the socks and the blue jeans
And the dust of my past.
Until I am nothing but light and air.
Until my soul shines so bright
So clear.
And I am back at the centre.
Back home
To the light that has always been
At home in me.

As a little girl I loved colouring books. I loved the pretty black and white images just waiting for my Crayolas to give them life. I loved deciding on the right shade of blue for the sky and what green the leaves should be. It was perfect ecstasy coloring inside the lines. It was safe.

Safe. A word I know too well. I have spent my entire life so far keeping safe. I have stayed off the grass, fastened my seatbelt, looked both ways, worn my helmet, washed my apples before eating them, worn the right clothes, done the right thing, protected my body and protected my heart.

And all along I have been harbouring this other world inside of me. This world in which I defy all my natural instincts. This world that requires me to leap from cliffs into the great unknown. I have dreamt of this life that promises to be anything but safe. It is a dream that I have spent many years avoiding. Trying, in vain to find something, anything else that makes more sense. Something practical. Solid. Safe.

I have run from it, screamed at it, and stuffed it down. But in spite of all my efforts, the dream remains. This world inside of me remains.

And I am beginning to think that maybe it is the truest part of me. That it is what’s real. And I don’t want to let that go.

It is frightening to realize that the majority of my acting has not been in a rehearsal hall, or on a stage, but in my own life.

A couple of days before our inevitable end, my boyfriend turns to me and says, “You know the most real I have ever seen you, was on stage. There was light in your eyes. You were alive. You were you.”

And his words shake me. I know he is right. All the masks I’ve hidden behind, all the costumes I’ve worn to stop the audience of the people in my life from really knowing me. All the roles I’ve played, and the lines I’ve spoken out of fear, have all been played out here.

And I know too, that I cannot avoid the world inside of me, the truth, any longer.

There is a quote in one of my journals, I’m not sure who said it, but it reads, “In choosing to be actors you did not choose to live safely.”

There is something about those words lights this spark inside of me. I am choosing this life, or it is choosing me…or something, but either way, I cannot colour inside the lines anymore. And all of a sudden I have this overwhelming desire to buy a colouring book and scribble all over its pages. Messy, Bold, beautiful scribbles. And when I’ve completely desecrated it, I want to race through the grass in bare feet, and swim in the deepest part of the ocean, and eat an apple right from the tree, and fall recklessly in love, and run with the bulls, and find a cliff and dive!

Naked.

No safety gear or parachute to break my fall.

Straight into the great wide open.

Sailing fearlessly into life.

I read the news today and across its pages flashed images spanning the globe of pain, of destruction, of war. Of broken hearts, broken spirits, broken dreams. I read the news and want to paint over its print. Want to set the world in brighter colors. Where there is hatred, reach in with my brush, dipped in the color of love, and erase the darkness. Where there is discord, draw in a little harmony. Where there is sorrow, sketch a picture of hope. In the shadows, I want to paint a little light. I read these stories and feel helpless that I cannot hold all these heavy hearts in my arms and carry them with me to my little corner of the world. For in my little corner of this earth there is so much beauty. So much love. So much to be thankful for.
In this home filled with people I love, in this city by the sea, in this heart, there is peace. There is kindness. Generosity. It is a safe place. A free place. A warm place. A place filled with laughter. There is food. There is forgiveness. And I am filled with gratitude so deep it runs through my very bones. Gratitude running through time in the hearts of my ancestors, right through to me. And I will carry it forward. Each moment I paint, a collage of all these blessings. Each new day a chance to create a little more love, a little more joy, a little more light.
Today and everyday I have such gratitude that I have had the chance to swim in the sea and taste the wild air. That all my dreams are within my sight and that I am blessed with people in my life who will lift me up to reach them.
Today I stand in gratitude for all the sunshine in my life. And ask that I may gather up a little of its brightness and give some to you. So we may share it.

I have a confession to make.
I am so grateful that you don’t love me anymore.
I know.
Crazy.
But I am absolutely over the moon
Completely relieved
That I will never hear you say “I love you”
Again.
Today I wanted confirmation
That I am beautiful
And vibrant
And kind
And smart
And you weren’t there to tell me so.
So guess what?
I said it to myself.
And for the first time
Ever
I believed it.
And I get it.
I
Get
It.
All the love I’ve wasted
Waiting for you
And everybody else
To prove it to me.
I get it.
No words
No actions
Could ever have provided me enough evidence
To convince me
Of my value
Of my worth
Until now.
Until you stopped loving me
So I could love myself.