Thanksgiving. No picture today, sorry. New camera's memory card broke. Stupid new camera. :)
Went to Winnepeg this weekend for one of my best girl's weddings. As the plane lifted from the runway on Friday afternoon, I was overcome with love, and pangs of premature longing for this city, Toronto, that I was about to leave for 4 days. It was very similar to the feeling I used to get when I was leaving my long-distance lover at the airport after an always too-short visit; sad, but fulfilled, and fizzy with anticipation of the next reunion. Which by the way, was sweet, this afternoon when we taxied back into Pearson airport. I waited at the TTC stop (post C28) with a big smile on my face, in the warm, fall sunshine, and then practically sighing with happiness as the Spadina streetcar glided me south to Kensington Market, my hood.
What I realized, over the course of this weekend is that it's not so much that I am in love with Toronto (though I definitely am) it's that I am in love with my life. I love every bit of it: the stress, the school worries, the coffee highs, the lovelows, the bike rides, the proximity of friends, the smiles of my neighbours, the frowning lady who lives downstairs, Stampy who lives upstairs, the Market squeegee hoodlums that dress and look scary but that are actually kinda sweet, the constant threat of failure, the music, the depressed days that provide songwriting fodder, the bakery, the 6 extra pounds I've gained since I moved here, the guy who rides the recumbent bike with the softest Jack Russel poking out of the back basket, the 2 minutes it takes me to get to school, the fact that i know so many of the people in this neighbourhood by name, or at least by sight.
In Winnepeg, I spent the weekend with a family, who despite all their quirks and claims of disfunctionality, love each other to death, and welcome me as a family member wholeheartedly every time I go there. And tonight I sat in Sarah and Jesse's warm kitchen, with 20 other friends of the music/yoga variety, with a belly full of delicious homecooked food, seat-dancing to the kitchen boombox that was tinny-ly belting out all our favourite tunes amidst stimulating, relevant, spirited debate with a room full of awesome people. Some of whom I've slept with, cried with, swam with, sang with, drummed with, written with, danced with, dog-walked with, gossiped with, and now all of whom I've had the lovely fortune to eat with. I left there, like I left Winnepeg, feeling warm, loved, satisfied.
Sarah's sister is a chef, so the food was delicious, and they asked only for everyone to drop a donation to the
Daily Bread Food Bank into a jar before they left. On the way home, She lovingly packed me a margerine tub of left-overs that I was looking forward to eating tomorrow. But something about the red-rimmed eyes of the young guy with the big, sleeping dog at Dundas and Bay made me give it away. I hope he ate it right away; it was still warm. I felt sad after I gave it to him, as if I hadn't done nearly enough. And also guilty beyond belief for coming from such an incredible place and spewing what might have been depressing amounts of light and happiness to this guy as he huddled under his sleeping bag as I pulled up for the stop light. I hope I am wrong. He said "God Bless you," which used elicit a knee-jerk Atheistical scoff, but these days I take purely for its intent.
So, Happy Thanksgiving. How lucky I am. How lucky we all are, in our North American bubble of abundant food and easy friendships.
