The Seated View

Dear Liam & Morgan, Tuesday, November 29, 2005 was a rainy day. The sky was covered in clouds, shades of grey ranging from pearl to light charcoal. It was raining most of the day, but warm enough that if you’re of Viking/East Coast heritage, you could go out with just a light jacket. Normally on days like that, people get pretty cranky, but I woke up with a sense of optimism and possibility. I had no idea why at first, but then, at 11:35am, your dad called me and told me that it was to be your birth day and then all the hope and happiness inside me made sense. We have talked about when you’d be born, guessing, hoping, thinking of days already with special significance, of how cool it would be if you were born on this day or that. And you showed that already, you are very much an Andersen-Biggs combination of uniqueness and insistence on doing things your way (and as fast as possible). You chose your own day to be born, completely ignoring any requests or urging to stay

It’s been a week of blogmeets. I read about it on knitting blogs all the time, but have never experienced the phenomenon myself. It all started last Wednesday, when I met up with Emma before her big move to Owen Sound. The lovely woman had offered to cut Mojo’s nails for me – or, as she’s often called during nail cutting events, “The Demon Cat From Hell”. Mojo has strong opinions about being told what to do. As do I, which may explain why I’ve always understood her panic at being restrained and having bits of herself cut off. Surprisingly, it went off without a hitch. Minimum trauma to the cat and no damage at all to Emma. After that, we chatted for a while and what I remember most is the laughing. There was a lot of it. Why the woman has to move is beyond me. This weekend was the inaugural TUFT . Although I am no longer a knitter, I do have a somewhat embarrassing tendency to fondle yarn (and occasionally making small satisfied cooing noises while doing so), so

Juno thinks that the first official dumping of white stuff this winter was "festive". And well... in terms of snowfall, it was pretty festive initially and in downtown Toronto, a bit of a non-event. As of last night, though? Holy icicletoes, Batman!! Last night, it dipped down to -22C with the windchill . That's -7F (handy conversion tool here ). Or, in the words of an old friend of mine, FF. That's a polite company/work environment way of saying Fucking Freezing , which is really the only way of describing such temperatures. Welcome to Canada, Juno! Won't you be happy to leave it again? (And yes, I turned on the heat. Dammit) I know it's a smidge early in the season to despair, but I need a reminder of better times. To give me hope.

It’s occurred to me that it’s time to have some fun and these days, I tend to involve The Hen in the fun, either by playing games with her ever-increasing girth or some other sort of interaction with The Tinks. At the same time, ‘tis the season for giving back and although I am already a MSF partner (check it out – easily some of the best bang for your buck anywhere), I like doing a little extra. This year, the recipient is an easy one: the hospital that’s taking such good care of Liam and Morgan (although they could feed The Hen better). So here’s the idea: Guess the date/time of The Tinks’ entry into this world and write it in the comments. One guess per person and if the date/time you want is taken, think of a new one. The person who comes closest (in the immortal words of Bob Barker ), “without going over”, wins. If you win, I make a donation to the hospital in your name. One more rule: the doctors have determined the 34-week mark as the “magic date” where they’d be some

(photo by TinkPapa) Love how The Hen has become a triangle. My Sister The Pyramid! The decapitated pyramid. With hospital jewelry. Very fetching. If we’re lucky, we might get one with an actual head for the next update. The Tinks are fine – still impatient, still staying put. Here’s Morgan in 4 dimensions. Cool, eh? Liam's being reclusive, so we'll have to wait to see him. (I don’t know how that works, as I thought time was the fourth dimension and how can a picture be in 4D, but I’m leaving that sort of thing for people geekier than me, as thinking too hard about it gives me a headache)

If you’re from Toronto, you know what this weekend was. This weekend was the official start of the Christmas season, the weekend that Santa Claus came to town. When I first came here, I wasn’t a fan of the Santa Claus Parade . I’d watch a bit on TV and not understand what all of the fuss was about. I saw it only through adult (European) eyes, with no childhood memories of magic - that float thing's kind of strange and the marching bands? I’m from Denmark. I have no frame of reference. Then I moved to within easy walking distance of the parade route and went to check it out. The first year, I was non-impressed. The second I thought it was tacky and ridiculous, yet somehow started Christmas. By the third year, I’d started looking at people’s faces when Santa came into view and realized that this wasn’t just for children – although, seeing the kids' faces makes your heart grow three sizes, no matter how Grinchy you’re feeling. No, what made me connect all the w

A long time ago – a very, very long time ago – I had my tarot cards read. I’ve had them read since, but none were as memorable as that day in February some 17(?) years ago. It wasn’t that the psychic was particularly good, in fact, she rather sucked. Except for one moment which changed the way I think. She turned this card, the Five of Cups: and told me that it meant “look at what you have, not at what you don’t have”. Fairly earth shattering, no? I tend to forget at times. Often, actually. Especially when the pain is hunting me or when I forget that it’s all a process and that patience and perseverance are the keys to getting where I want. And then at some point, it comes back to me. Look at what you have, not at what you don’t have. It’s a hard lesson to live - the temptation to rail at what has stopped you from being where you think you should be, is so much louder than the quiet reminder to look, really look at your life. And that’s the other thing. That l

I’ve been reading “ A Sudden Country ” by Karen Fisher. Based on a spare journal by one of the author’s ancestors, it takes place during the 1847 Oregon migration. One of the main characters is Lucy Mitchell, a re-married widow, who is reluctantly following her second husband across the country, leaving the civility in which she was comfortable. The other main character is James McLaren, a Scottish Hudson’s Bay trapper, who has lost his Nez Perce wife to another trapper and his children to smallpox and who eventually becomes a member of the Mitchell party. It is a gorgeous book, a very sad book. It moves with the slow rhythm of grief and the measured pace of travelling across the plains in wagons drawn by oxen. The author paints with language – indelible portraits of people, animals, feelings and landscapes, densely detailed. Each sentence is a gem of poetry, dense with imagery and emotion, making the story come alive in your mind. In the words of a friend of mine, it ma

Pain makes me feel like a dog. One dog in particular – the one in the Seligman experiment . The one that had learned that nothing it did would prevent the shocks. First you roll with it – just a set-back, no biggie. Then you start losing your sense of humour about it a little, which leads to fighting it and that’s when you start to lose focus. That’s when the pain starts filling the atmosphere with static and worry and tension and blocks access to part of my brain that knows that this is a journey with ups and down, that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be and all that other Zen stuff. Fighting it leads to more tension, which leads to more static, which makes me deaf to the voice that says “let go and just trust it ”. You can only be Chumbawamba so many times. After getting knocked down again and knowing you have to get up for what feels like the gazillionth time, it gets a little daunting. The temptation to have a rest, a wee lie down on the (metaphorical) cool til

I was talking to The Hen the other day. ( The Hen being my sister, who’s nesting in The Chicken Coop and although that might only be funny in my head, it is funny enough that I’ll continue to use it and be somewhat grateful that there isn’t internet access in the hospi... er, Chicken Coop) So, I was talking to The Hen and she mentioned how she and John had taken a stroll outside for some real oxygen, her in a wheelchair. On the way back to the Coop, they’d gone into the giftshop and it had struck her: “this is how Lene sees things. Weird”. Several years ago, my partner (now ex) and I were dancing in my livingroom. Although it was an intensely romantic moment, I was having a hard time getting lost in it – I was too busy looking around at the world from a 6’1” vantage point, stunned at the change in perspective, the unfamiliarity of the the familiar (and the dust on the top shelves).

Before I get to the grovelling, I have to tell you this: yesterday, I ate lunch in the park. “There is no evidence of global warming”, my arse. When you live in the second-coldest country in the world, eating souvlaki in the park while you’re reading a good book (and not dressed in a parka) on November 3 is plenty of evidence. Hated it in July, but I have to admit, right now I’m sort of liking it…. About a year ago, Stephanie wrote about growing a glacier in her inbox. I find myself in a similar predicament. I wanted to respond to every comment, but then downgraded to responding every now and again. My mother taught me to do things like that and although I wasn’t always great at it when I was younger, I find that the older I get, the more good manners matter to me. I’m probably going to start using the term ’whippersnapper’ any day now. However, due to the ever-present injuries (are you as tired of reading that word as I am of writing it?), my responding is woe