Dear Santa,

I confess to being a bit wicked this year but feel I have paid for that by having the frat boys live above and below me with their bass, parties and yelling at all hours of the night, every night. So with that logic, I think perhaps I deserve something for Christmas. All I'm asking for is that lovely little flat across the way, you know, that beautiful spacious two bedroom (two bedrooms!) one that is quiet and calm. I would really like to have that and move in ASAP. If you could arrange that, Santa, I promise to try to refrain from swearing like a trouper and laughing at people stuck in traffic as we pass them in the carpool lanes.

Oh, and if you feel that somehow a little extra could be squeezed in, there are some books that I've been coveting too as well as some lovely little bits from Anthropologie. But that's all bonus as it's the flat that I am truly swooning for.

xo
Alex

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On Friday night I checked into a hotel, looking forward to a little comfort, peace and quiet. What I got was the noisiest night and no sleep. Saturday morning, dishevelled completely, I rang a friend in town to tell her my tragic tale. She told me I could stay in her guest room and not to worry.

I’d never been to her home before, nor had I seen any photos which made walking into it that more dramatic. It was everything my flat was not; large with walls painted in soft shades of pink, lavender, blue and yellow. There were flowery curtains everywhere as well as little sweet lampshades that could have come from my favourite store, Anthropolgie. Huge, soft, oversized couches, a fireplace, magazines all over, wall hangings galore, dried flowers. It was something straight out of Victoria Magazine and I was in-love. The cosiness of this home felt so much better than my minimalist, Ikea/Danish filled flat that had bold red, brown/green and blue/grey walls and clean walls.

That night, I slept in her guest bed, under a canopy of pink and I thought how shabby my home was next to this. How unspecial it was and how I couldn’t provide such hospitality because I wouldn’t know how to put a home together like this one. Although I adore pink more than any girl I know, I’m not so good at being girly, especially when it comes to decorating and matching pastel colours, flowers and cushions. I started to think less of my home because I knew it couldn’t be like hers.

The next day I headed home and stopped at Angela's, my fabulous friend, to pick up my house keys as she had stayed that weekend to keep my cat company. When I asked her how her stay was her eyes lit up and she told me how much she loved it. She said she was fascinated with my bathroom of all things (I keep a good stash of lotions and potions from around the world. There is where my girly-ness lies) and had used different things she had never heard of. She said she had plugged in the Christmas tree and enjoyed it immensely and loved having her laptop connected to high speed cable as she laid on the bed I had made for her in the living room. She told me how she enjoyed the tea I had left out and basically, had loved being in my little flat. She said she had found it terribly cosy.

It was after that conversation that I realised that the grass is never greener, it’s just a different shade. And my grass? Just a different shade of lovely.

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I just finished up the last of my 32 Christmas cards I’ll be sending out this year. Each one was hand made and a personal note scribbled inside. It’s a tradition I do every year and one I not only enjoy, but look forward to. This despite the fact that I’ll most likely not get more than three Christmas cards back.

Some people wonder why I make such a deal with the cards when I almost never get any in return. What is the value, they ask? The value, I think, is not so much in the giving, but in how I feel in the doing. And I feel very happy to sit, create, write, stamp, address and mail.

A lot of people assume that I must receive a tonne of cards, gifts, notes and so forth but the truth is, I don’t. I think there is an expectation that one does things for things but the truth is there is very little I do that offers a return. If getting something was reason to continue, then I should have given up long ago. However, I keep writing cards, web sites, volunteering, donating, saying hullo to dogs, being kind because I love to do it. It’s my indulgence, my pleasure.

I think a lot of people always ask “what’s in it for me” when they do something and sometimes, this is a very useful thing to ask. But the truth is, there is a lot of things in life one does in which a thanks, acknowledgement or reward are never given. But I think if we do things for our enjoyment, satisfaction and happiness, that is reward enough.

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One day when I was thirteen, my mum decided that she had yelled at me for the last time over the state of my room. She was tired of its dishevelled state; blankets hanging from the ceiling and over tables, mass amounts of string tied everywhere, books covering the floor, forts constructed, coloured paper all around. Despite the fact that I was living in a large attic space in which the entrance was hidden from the main house and no strangers ever attempted to go up the long narrow staircase, she believed the room had to be perfect and tidy and every day that it wasn’t, it was a frustration to her.

She decided one day that if she couldn’t tell me that my room was a mess and was in need of a good clean that she would show me. Without my knowledge, she took a picture of my room, took the film to the store, and waited anxiously for the messy photo shot to develop. She was certain that when the photo was ready and she showed it to me, I would instantly want to make my room over into something from a glossy magazine.

But it never happened.

The photo did get developed but the image that my mother expected to see never appeared. What she saw was this beautiful array of colour everywhere. She saw creativity, youth and joy. Somehow all those ribbons looked amazing the way they were tied all over the room; the forts had a special magic to them and the paper all around seemed to have purpose. She looked at the photo and for the first time ever, thought my room was beautiful.

She didn’t show me the picture that day or tell me what she had done. She wouldn’t do that until thirteen years later when we could laugh over it, our differences, and the magic of seeing something another way.

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Been doing a little snapping; might even do a little more.

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Yesterday I was busy running errands all over and as I was leaving one place for another, I decided to stop into a café for a latte and piece of cake.

As I sat down to devour my afternoon treats it suddenly struck me how grown-up it was that I could decide I wanted something and could have it. As a child, my wants and needs were only met if it coincided with that of my parents. If we ran errands and I was in need of a little pick me up, getting it would only happen if they felt there was time or money for such a thing. Now, however, I have the luxury of choice.

I think about a few weeks ago when, for dinner, I made a pink cake. The freedom to do that is almost absurd. How luck am I, as a grown up, to not only have choices, but to recognise that? I think it sometimes becomes rather easy to think how hard it is to be responsible or grownup but that’s because I think one forgets all the benefits, the biggest being that of making our own decisions.

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In the fifth grade I was given an art assignment to draw any picture I wanted for a calendar project. At the time I, like most eleven year old girls, was fascinated with unicorns and drew a spectacular scene involving one.

When I showed it to the teacher the next day, she told me to stand in front of the class so that they could see what a cheat looked like. She went on to say that I must have traced it all because I had no talent whatsoever. She told me that I was wicked, a liar and could never, ever do any good artwork. She ripped up my picture in front of the class.

For the next seventeen years, that day would affect me. I would always believe that other people were artists, not I.

After a few years of being in a high level, corporate position, I knew that pantsuits and meetings weren't my passion. I wanted to do something else, but didn't know what to do. I wanted to find my heart, my passion.

With great, great fear, I purchased a small watercolour set for $5 (I didn't want to spend a lot, too scary to invest!) and for the first time in seventeen years, I attempted to create. I sat down, let go and painted how I felt. The result was this:



Afterwards, I sat in shock. Shock that not only had I painted, but that my fifth grade teacher was wrong. I could do something.

I posted that image on my web site later on and to my surprise, people started to ask to buy it. I hesitated. I wasn't an artist. I wasn't someone who could sell artwork. I wasn't real. I kept saying no.

After awhile of inquries I asked myself, who is to say who is a "real" artist or not? Who is to say who can or cannot sell artwork? If someone loves it, if they find value in it, who am I to make excuses and reasons why they shouldn't? The nerve of me.

So, I made a limited set of prints to sell and a year later, I have sold almost every single one. This has amazed me. It makes me smile. It makes me forget about that fifth grade teacher.

I think everyone of us has something we want to do, to be, but have held back because of someone saying we couldn't. I say, prove to them, to yourself you can. Because if I can sell artwork after failing art 3 times, anything is possible.


PS: You can help me complete my goal of selling all my prints (Only 5 3 left oh my!) by purchasing an 8X11 print here. Thank-you!

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There are a lot of writer’s who write the same way; they follow the rules to a t, use the same language, and cover the same subjects. They write in some voice that isn’t truly their own because they think that’s what they have to do to be published or accepted.

At first, the reader doesn’t notice because it’s new, but after awhile, the writing becomes dull for the reader and they question the writer’s authenticity and intent. After awhile, they’ll become bored with the contrived, safe, pretty writing and move on. The writer is left wondering what they did wrong and so they try even harder to become something they think they should be, instead of something they are.

With my writing, I don’t follow the rules; my language use is different, I tend to write on subjects that aren’t normally discussed because they’re seen as trite and I accept that I’m neither sexy nor sassy. But yet, I get published, I have people enjoying my work and most of all, I feel satisfied at the end of each day.

I think there are a lot of people whose way of doing resembles that of a writer. People try so hard to be some idea of perfect so that they will be liked. They say the right things only, they do everything for everyone and they worry constantly if what they do will be accepted and if it’s not, what they could do more.

I think this creates a barrier not just between people, but between the person and their real self. For me, I value/understand/trust honesty, directness and messiness in a person far more than some illusion they’re trying to create. With the real person, I know where I stand, I know what to expect and I know how to appreciate. With an illusion, I always wonder.

I think some people who fear not being perfect equate being real or honest with being rude and hurtful, which I don’t think is it at all. Being honest doesn’t mean you walk up to some stranger and declare, “My, you’re rather fat and ugly, aren’t you?” I think honesty means sharing your real view when you need to, in a way that’s comfortable with you. I think it means acknowledging when you’re angry, frustrated, sad, scared, happy, excited and eager either with yourself, or a friend. I think it means trusting yourself first and your close friends second. I think it means not worrying so much if people will like you because you know the right ones will for real, honest reasons.

I’m a shy girl by nature but because I don’t try to be some ideal of perfect or wonder if I’ll be liked or accepted, I have an easier time of talking to people, doing things and living as I need to. I can say what I need to without worry if it’ll be offensive because I speak my truth in a way that is of use instead of in a way that is hurtful. And I know that those with whom I’m honest with trust my intent.

Being authentic, being real creates less worry than trying to be perfect does.

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My father always seemed to be able to do anything. He was larger than life and I adored him for it. I was his 'mini-me.' His sense of adventure, his love of life, and his youthfulness kept me in awe of him.

Yet, the last couple of years, I began to recognise my father less and less for at 69, he had become solitary, bitter and old.

His language had changed as well; he talked about how, when purchasing a new car, it would be the last one he would ever buy. How he wouldn't see something that would happen in ten years and how all he had left to do was grow old.

I could understand his line of thinking as he was the last one in his family left; everyone else had passed away. He comes from old stock where 69 is a very old age indeed. Also, his lifestyle had been hard I could hear him think to himself, "How do I eradicate the past to give me a new future? What is the use?"

One day, out of the blue, I wrote him a letter. In that letter I told him how much I adored him, even during the years when we weren't on speaking terms. I told him how he always amazed me with all that he could do; politics, real estate, fishing, navigating, travelling, reading, pretending, laughing, dancing and so much more. I told him how I listened to everything he ever said to me and remembered it all - even the bits he didn't think I listened to. I told him he was the most amazing man I had ever known. I told him he was my rock star.

My father is a Frenchman; tough on the outside but completely (and silently) meltable on the inside. I didn't expect to hear from him on the letter I had written. I thought he would somehow work it into a conversation one day such as, "I got your note. Your writing is getting better."

But he didn't. In fact, he wrote me a letter back.

He told me how much the letter meant to him, and how it made him emotional. He also told me how he decided to look after himself, finally. He had gone to the doctor for a physical, he had found a homeopathic doctor to get healthy with and also, he had started a new diet, started to exercise and started to look for adventures.

I was shocked beyond belief. This sturdy, intense, quiet on personal things man had let out some emotion and also changed things in his life I never thought in a million years he would. I realized that he realized that his life isn't over until he's buried. That he still has use, even if it's just in being my dad.

Most people give up when they think they have no use, but I think people give up when they forget how they are useful because they forget the true meaning of being of use. They sometimes think the meaning of being useful is by trying to obtain a million dollars, a large TV in a big house, slim hips or fame. Sometimes people forget that being useful happens in small, but important ways and so they distance themselves more and more from being of use.

In the last five years, my father had started to think that being of use would be to work as hard as he could in a job that left him bitter so that he could make a lot of money. When that didn't work he didn't think he had a purpose anymore. It took a little note from a daughter to tell him that his usefulness was in just being there, on the other side of the phone, laughing, giving advice, and talking. With that, he is more useful than he'll ever know.

PS: Please don't email me about your dad; write him instead.

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