tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496268257824422282024-02-19T07:36:22.121-05:00Dawn PondersThe strange and unedited thoughts of a sometimes bored woman living in TorontoDawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.comBlogger1019125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-45679366851209591622024-02-06T16:07:00.002-05:002024-02-06T16:36:56.562-05:00May You Phish In Hell<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqgeINXP1ev9WXILWYAJrgMrfoRJBQZM7NTG96ItyaJG-_0Ebudrds1FSgjunQE-RsDdILzhDY-AY6rd103VBMJ_Nuo-ifXJ2tgJMt9eW2Dit5-Z43KISGo-KG1JWiK8PijsNQCjjl7LLWi4OfUpvO4v1KydiHSmkudj45gV8OrdvBt8iXGoKMeeUpWM/s759/05cItXL96l4LE9n02WfDR0h-5.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="759" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqgeINXP1ev9WXILWYAJrgMrfoRJBQZM7NTG96ItyaJG-_0Ebudrds1FSgjunQE-RsDdILzhDY-AY6rd103VBMJ_Nuo-ifXJ2tgJMt9eW2Dit5-Z43KISGo-KG1JWiK8PijsNQCjjl7LLWi4OfUpvO4v1KydiHSmkudj45gV8OrdvBt8iXGoKMeeUpWM/s320/05cItXL96l4LE9n02WfDR0h-5.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br />A short story.<p></p><p>My parents, both in their mid-eighties, are moderately technology literate. They understand email, web surfing, Zoom, (as long as they remember to mute), and, God help me, social media. My dad is also reasonably competent when it comes to online banking. There is a limit, however, and as I have discussed in this space before, there is a technology wall whereby we reach the end of understanding the net. Today's experience is a cautionary tale for anybody dealing with seniors and technology.</p><p>Last year, Netflix put an end to password sharing in Canada. My parents had been living large on the back of my Netflix account for several years. After several frustrating discussions with the company, it became obvious that the easiest thing to do would be to add Mom and Dad as additional users on my account, and they could pay me the extra fee in cash. It was the simplest solution to a frustrating problem for my folks who are regular users of Netflix. They were in agreement, and that is what we did. They never had any contact with Netflix, they've never seen a Netflix charge on their credit cards, and they went on with their viewing habits as if nothing had changed. Netflix doesn't even have their email addresses. It all goes through me.</p><p>Today, I walked into my parent's apartment to chat. I asked my dad what he was doing, and he said, "I'm renewing my Netflix account." I was incredulous and told him he didn't have a Netflix account. I reminded him that all Netflix stuff goes through me. He looked at me like I had two heads. I gently reminded him of the changes from last year, but memories aren't always as sharp when we get to a certain age. I asked him if I could see the email he received, and he handed me his phone. The sender came through as @<b>xNetfli, </b>but I can forgive my father for not looking at that. I was fortunate to stop him before he gave them his credit card information. <i>This time. </i>The Husband wondered how many times he might have been previously duped. I can only pray it hasn't happened. I once again warned Dad against these phishing emails and told him that if he gets an email asking for funds from Facebook, Prime, or any other subscription, he is to call me before answering. I also told him again that Netflix isn't ever something he needs to worry about.</p><p>I realize that we live in a world of shitheads. These bastards prey on the vulnerable, hoping to separate them from their cash. They also prey on the fears that seniors have with changing technology. The constant updates and new ways of doing things are really confusing. Is it any wonder that people get scammed? </p><p>Please check in with your senior friends and family and make sure that they haven't taken the bait. There is a special place in hell for phishing scammers.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-42782864127090738022023-12-11T14:21:00.003-05:002023-12-11T14:21:37.191-05:00How Would You Deal This?<p>Last evening, I had an uncomfortable encounter with a man I had just met. </p><p>We had been invited to an intimate Chanukah celebration at the home of a dear friend. My parents were also invited, but other than them, we were unaware of the guest list. I suspected my friend's cousins would also be there, and I was excited to see them again. It had been far too long between visits. So, we packed my folks into the car and off we went. </p><p>When we arrived, I was thrilled to see my old friends. The hostess had also included her business partner, who kept my overly gregarious father busy with her tales of woe, and her 99-year-old uncle, whom I hadn't seen since we shared a Pesach seder over thirty years ago. The man is still as sharp as a tack and twice as witty. Rounding out the attendees were two couples from my friend's building that she is close with; one originally from New York and transplanted to South Florida, and the other snowbirds from Toronto. We shook hands, made our acquaintance, and dispensed with the superficial social conventions. </p><p>I am often shy and quiet in new social situations. I initially listen to conversations around me and get a feel for the people I have just met. Some people mistake this for rudeness. I promise I'm not rude, but rather unsure of my surroundings. Introverted people lay back. We don't jump into new conversations with both feet. More often than not, we take stock and then engage. I absolutely avoid discussions about politics or religion until I can get a handle on how people react. I needn't have worried. Between my dad, who is never at a loss for words, and the other guy from Toronto, there wasn't a moment to participate in the conversations. Have you ever been confronted with a situation whereby you know immediately and instinctively that somebody rubs you the wrong way? That was me with this gent from my hometown. He walked into the house like he owned the place, was loud and obnoxious in his demeanour, and had an opinion about everything, from the Chanukiyot on the table to the choice of which Chanukah songs we would sing. He overshadowed his lovely wife in every way imaginable, including correcting her multiple times during her stories. He was boorish, pompous, and pontificating. I stayed quiet. All Jews are talking about Israel these days, but I was silent. All Jews are discussing the rise of antisemitism, but again I simply listened. I wasn't shocked to hear Mr. Boor and his wife spout long-disputed conspiracy theories about Mr. Trudeau or the CBC, but again I remained mum. </p><p> The Husband and I did that marital glance we do when we want to roll our eyes but refrain from doing so for fear that someone might see us. We were definitely on the same page about this dude.</p><p>Mr. Boor settled in comfortably for the evening. People like him always do. They take command and control of the setting and the people and then proceed to dominate every conversation. Our hostess was gracious and charming. She invited The Husband and me into the kitchen to point out the vegetarian options she had prepared especially for us. She went out of her way for her aged uncle and was attentive to her guests. She even made sure that all of the food was strictly kosher because Mr. Boor and his wife are practitioners. The conversation at dinner was lively and engaging. I offered an opinion on something I thought was benign, but it turns out nothing is benign these days. I decided to shut up for the rest of the evening.</p><p>And then, it happened. I was asked by another of the guests what I did for a living. I told her I was a retired cantorial soloist. For some reason, Jews always find this fascinating. We talked a bit about my career and what it was like for a woman to be a clergyperson. Well, Mr. Boor went off on me like I had two heads. He'd <i>never</i> heard of a woman officiating at a funeral. He told me that Reform Judaism has a different Halacha than his brand. He was condescending and contemptuous. I was firm but polite. There was no way that I was going to disrespect my host by losing my temper, but this fuckwad had grated on my last nerve. I told him that perhaps he hadn't seen a woman officiate at a Jewish funeral in his circles, and I proceeded to tell him that there are many women clergy in Toronto. I had personally officiated at dozens of funerals. I even was so bold as to remind him that the senior rabbi of Holy Blossom is a woman. I suggested that maybe he should expand his Jewish circle and broaden his knowledge. He started to come back at me when I told him that it was perfectly okay with me for him to observe Judaism in any manner that he wished, so long as he afforded me the same courtesy. I wasn't rude and I never told him he was wrong, even though I desperately wanted to.</p><p>I am certain that he went home and complained about me to his wife. I'm sure that he thinks that I am a first-class bitch. It wouldn't be the first time that some arrogant prick thought I was too mouthy, but I am so over caring what other people think about me. As we got into the car to drive home, The Husband and I said in almost perfect unison, "<i>What an asshole." </i>My parents, who were having a perfectly lovely evening at the other end of the table, had no idea what had occurred. I had to recount the entire evening for them. They were stunned and a bit mortified.</p><p>I will never understand what drives a person to be so rude to someone they have just met. We should have been talking about the Leafs or the Jays. Instead, this guy decided to make me a target and I refused to allow it. I am proud of how I handled him, but I never want to be in his company again.</p><p>There is a freedom that comes with aging. I refuse to take shit from anyone. I've spent far too many years swallowing my opinions and my thoughts. This guy had it coming. I hope he remembers me as the bitch who came to Chanukah.</p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-376871875458064902023-12-05T13:30:00.001-05:002023-12-05T13:30:28.789-05:00Is This Odd Or Is It Just Me?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLHWMMkr7vC2mrMu2ZFrHd_3PrY2S6fMvwjaQpnkgVmaEdyipMuFMFyaWALh72LaKDmfVJNIWhK_-k7gsR3bRerZm8CZXq0JiJUKCl1D8PHcRmEwAMOWFsqDVKA9bfFM1v67mzQUilzI0Vc9NB2xn-nHh4JKmJbz5ug3UNlW4qrjunhPBjTCB6rMUAw8/s1400/228b881a5c7cb00ad6a06c7a376cdf03.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="906" data-original-width="1400" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfLHWMMkr7vC2mrMu2ZFrHd_3PrY2S6fMvwjaQpnkgVmaEdyipMuFMFyaWALh72LaKDmfVJNIWhK_-k7gsR3bRerZm8CZXq0JiJUKCl1D8PHcRmEwAMOWFsqDVKA9bfFM1v67mzQUilzI0Vc9NB2xn-nHh4JKmJbz5ug3UNlW4qrjunhPBjTCB6rMUAw8/s320/228b881a5c7cb00ad6a06c7a376cdf03.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Quick story to tell you all, but it is either really odd or I am simply old. You decide.<p></p><p>I ordered some workout clothes from a site on the intertoobs that I have often used. I like their fabrics, the fit is on point, and I have never had a problem with shipping in neither Canada nor the country below. When I went to visit the site on Black Friday, I noticed that they were having a sale, and I ordered two pairs of running shorts and two tops. (This little detail becomes important later.) The cost immediately came through on my credit card, and I was promised delivery via the United States Postal Service in six to ten business days. Weekends do not count in this equation even though USPS delivers on Saturdays. (I am not sure that any of my American friends realize what a big deal this is for those of us from other countries. We haven't had Saturday mail delivery in the Great White North for decades.)</p><p>I received emails from the company advising me of the order, the charge, and the expected delivery date. I was also given a tracking number from USPS. Last Friday, on December 1st, I received a notification from the postal service that my delivery had arrived. The company, taking their cues from USPS, also sent me an email that my package was here. I went down to the front desk of my building to retrieve the parcel, only to discover that contrary to my notifications, nothing had come from the company. I checked our postal box, just to be safe, and it was then that the security gent at the front desk told me that sometimes USPS scans packages as delivered, even though they weren't. It could sometimes take a couple of days for it to arrive. </p><p>I was incredulous. I simply cannot understand why this is an acceptable business practice. I can't imagine how many angry calls and emails USPS must receive from customers searching for their packages, only to discover that the scan and deliver later is standard operating procedure. I decided to give it the weekend before I made inquiries of the sportswear apparel company.</p><p>Yesterday morning, I had a chat with said company. They were very nice and reiterated USPS policy. (BTW...when I went to the USPS website with my tracking number, it confirmed that the package had indeed been delivered and left at the front desk. Truly bizarre.) The company asked me to wait out the day yesterday as it was the policy to give USPS 48-hours during regular business hours to deliver the package. In the meantime, they put a note on the file that informed them that I would be checking back in with them today in the event of a non-delivery.</p><p>Today, I finally had enough. I once again made contact with the company, reiterated my concern that the package was indeed lost, and I required either a new shipment or a credit. After some hemming and hawing, they agreed that USPS had been derelict in the duties and we split the difference. They credited what they could no longer ship because it was now out of stock, AND they resent the remainder of the order.</p><p>Two hours later, I received a notification from my concierge that I had a package. (Come on! You knew it was coming, right?) The Husband retrieved the parcel and, lo and behold, it was my original order PLUS an extra pair of shorts. </p><p>Hoo boy did I have guilt. </p><p>I immediately went back to the apparel company and cancelled the reshipment. I explained what had occurred and they were very understanding. I tried to give back the credit, but they were lovely and told me to keep it. <i>Very unnecessary but very nice.</i></p><p>I am still left with questions about the delivery practices of USPS. Personally, I think it is really stupid. If I get a delivery from FedEx or UPS, somebody has to sign for it. Why is it ok for the post office to tell me something is delivered when it clearly isn't, <i>and </i>I can't track it further nor complain about it?</p><p>Odd or old? Which is it? Am I just not comprehending the new realities or is this just weird? In the meantime, I have three new pairs of shorts, two new tops, and a $40.00 credit. I guess I win?</p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-29346358086717664332023-10-12T11:30:00.003-04:002023-10-12T11:36:05.406-04:00How To Be Better Online In This Difficult Moment<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKfAmWoaNwLJuEBhGYzqU6He1tshDfDauR2i5fq23IMWBkPOIHV7yJBay0nEopRVncf4T23IYP2ebBzKsq86Zt4rhtIW6MaXI62wwHNCNwtVFWzGaia1sDL3SKu_0ndKYlt7nce8qU2qXMrUaaeklORVnSu7-l1B1JjYDoEy-sD3Ydt0-Pwauv-L-a4Y/s1492/Image%202023-10-08%20at%209.06%E2%80%AFPM.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1484" data-original-width="1492" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKfAmWoaNwLJuEBhGYzqU6He1tshDfDauR2i5fq23IMWBkPOIHV7yJBay0nEopRVncf4T23IYP2ebBzKsq86Zt4rhtIW6MaXI62wwHNCNwtVFWzGaia1sDL3SKu_0ndKYlt7nce8qU2qXMrUaaeklORVnSu7-l1B1JjYDoEy-sD3Ydt0-Pwauv-L-a4Y/s320/Image%202023-10-08%20at%209.06%E2%80%AFPM.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Friends,<p></p><p>I wish I had words of brilliance or comfort to offer. </p><p>I have none. </p><p>My emotional reserves are empty, and my exhaustion knows no bounds. I am broken, and I am dark.</p><p>I am not a therapist, nor am I trained in trauma. I am not an expert in geopolitical matters, nor am I interested in decades-old circular arguments. </p><p>We experienced a collective evil last weekend. I am not about to enter into asymmetrical discussions because they are stupid and vapid.</p><p>I have no real expertise to offer you in this miserable moment, save one.</p><p>I have an excellent bullshit detector.</p><p>People far more eloquent than I am I will guide you to prayer. People far more knowledgeable than I will direct you to sources on the ground. My only purpose here is to help you filter through the bullshit. Misinformation and disinformation are the twin cancers of this century. I implore you to not get caught up in their vortices. </p><p>We live in dangerous times and those dangers are only exacerbated online. Some malevolent actors are preying on our vulnerabilities right now in the hope that they can flood the zone with shit and pit us against one another. I am hoping that my little hints here will guide you through your online grief.</p><p>1. My first instruction is to not post anything at all about the crisis. (This is my default right now because I feel so inadequate.) I realize that asking this of many is a fool's errand. Social media can provide a comforting community that aids in healing. I also believe that there are many people doing yeoman's work in providing important context, aid, updates, and human stories. If you must post, for your own sanity and well-being, make certain that the post is your own thoughts or those of someone you know well and trust. </p><p>2. Avoid memes and unsourced photographs. There are a lot of those floating around right now. Be careful. Posting a photograph without checking the source is reckless and dangerous.</p><p>3. Politicians are people who are suffering just like the rest of us. The difference is that most of them have agendas they wish to advance. Read all of them, left and right, even if you hate their politics. It is the hardest thing to do, but I really believe that most of them are trying their best. (Note: <i>I said most. The caveat here is obvious bad actors. We know who they are without naming them.)</i></p><p>4. Avoid posting in haste. If you see something that sounds weird or off, do some fact-checking. Stop your finger from hitting that send button. If you need help or sources for this, ask questions. Posting out of anger, fear, or helplessness is usually a bad idea. </p><p>5. Never post without context. There is a great deal of fear percolating around the world right now, and posting something that will level that fear up without a source or context is simply irresponsible. </p><p>6. Canadians are at a disadvantage at the moment due to social media blocking our sharing of news organizations. There are workarounds to this like cutting and pasting. Please make the effort if you want to share a relevant news story.</p><p>7. Get your children off of social media. It is a truly miserable place right now and protecting them should be a priority. Talk to them. Be honest with them. Letting them see horror is destructive.</p><p>8. Go do something else. Go for a walk. Exercise. Look at pictures of puppies. Read a book. Turn off the computer and the TV. I watched the Mr. Dressup documentary and the hockey game. It helped.</p><p>That's it.</p><p>That's all that I have to offer. It isn't much but it might give us some needed perspective. </p><p><i>Here is a prayer for peace from my old friend Dan Nichols <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XV7Efniu0QE?si=GbwQQS6wvnRjncSx" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></i></p><p><i>הַשְׁכִּיבֵֽנוּ, יְיָ אֱלֹהֵֽנוּ, לְשָׁלוֹם, וְהַעֲמִידֵנוּ שׁוֹמְרֵֽנוּ לְחַיִּים</i></p><p><i>Grant, O God, that we lie down in peace, and raise us up, our Guardian, to life renewed. </i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-31547586770793592322023-09-09T12:36:00.000-04:002023-09-09T12:36:06.925-04:00We Be TIFFing Again<p><i><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5EypCOP-bD1Mv6F3NM-ix2Ge8N-u-hSBfDqgjpoMsxIapGiEztu8WBtD3GdflAey_laYcY9HX-7YzZ6qOVNxaaVaqmoFhJdn0oQRZm0E07Wu4oTXl4hwN6_7kFEXRXsjnN2Z0qvWCWW-H4GUOT6uQx5wpMdOsZWv1xuAm7uCZ-kzR3WiRH1BVqPoHBrI/s300/Unknown-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5EypCOP-bD1Mv6F3NM-ix2Ge8N-u-hSBfDqgjpoMsxIapGiEztu8WBtD3GdflAey_laYcY9HX-7YzZ6qOVNxaaVaqmoFhJdn0oQRZm0E07Wu4oTXl4hwN6_7kFEXRXsjnN2Z0qvWCWW-H4GUOT6uQx5wpMdOsZWv1xuAm7uCZ-kzR3WiRH1BVqPoHBrI/w300-h168/Unknown-1.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Editor's Note: For the eighth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans of this madness, they have once again scaled back their viewing opportunities because the TIFF website is STILL a colossal shitshow, unworthy of spending hours attempting to navigate, and because Rosh Hashana will interfere with their viewing time. The roster of films is back up to pre-pandemic levels but is disappointingly sparse this year on digital viewing. The various guild strikes in the United States have played havoc with many of the larger films, as neither actors nor writers will be attending the festival unless they are directors or have waivers from their unions. Therefore, there will only be three films screened. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very short bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.</i></p><p>I will admit I was less than enthusiastic about attending TIFF this year. Part of the energy of the festival is tied up in the attendance of the talented people who create the films. The question-and-answer sessions that follow the screenings give a quick peek into the creative process. Major studios are skipping Toronto this year because of the union strikes and few A-list actors will be attending. I am not a star-gazer, but I cannot deny that having George Clooney answer audience questions following the debut of his latest film, is a major plus for this TIFF attendee. I am about to say something political, so if you want to stop reading now, I will totally understand. We came very close to ditching our TIFF membership this year because of their corporate partnership with Therme Canada, the pirates who are attempting to build a massive greenhouse structure at Ontario Place. When TIFF pulled out of the deal, we decided to go ahead on a limited basis. As I mentioned above, the website for choosing films is the most tangled experience this side of Ticketmaster. We will be dealing with that mess after the festival. We chose three small films this year because of the crash and burn on the site and so that we would avoid as much confrontation with the party-goers as possible.</p><p>Our first film comes from director Michael Winterbottom. <i style="font-weight: bold;">Shoshana </i>tells the story of star-crossed lovers against the backdrop of the British Mandate in Palestine. Shoshana Borochov, daughter of esteemed Zionist intellectual Ber Borochov, works as an independent journalist in the very young city of Tel Aviv. The British, who control Palestine, have sent officers to the region to attempt to keep the peace between the Jews and Arabs as they both struggle to maintain footholds in the land. Students of Israeli history will know of the various Jewish groups that tried vastly different methods to further their cause. The Haganah, which acted as a political wing working toward statehood and of which Shoshana was a part, worked toward a diplomatic solution. Other Israeli groups, like the Irgun and the Stern Gang (Lehi) were more interested in a terror war. It is against this backdrop that Shoshana falls in love with a British officer named Tom Wilkin. While both of them are trying to accomplish the same goals, their affair and eventually marriage, are trying on both of them and their circles. </p><p>It is always difficult to attempt to make a film about the Israeli/Arab conflict. Inevitably, people will find fault. So, it would be a mistake to judge this film by any political position that the director does or doesn't make. Winterbottom is simply using the period to tell the true story of these fascinating two people. He makes no judgements. Some viewers might find that frustrating, but I didn't. The history is there for the research on whatever side you wish to view it. Newcomer Irina Starshebaum steals the film with her performance of the headstrong and fiercely idealistic protagonist. She is simply luminous. The rest of the cast is a mixture of British and Israeli actors who fit the bills nicely. The director adeptly intersperses newsreel footage to give the impression of a between world wars feel. </p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">Shoshana </i>succeeds as a Romeo/Juliet story against the images of a very difficult time. The problem is, that it doesn't go far enough in fleshing out Shoshana's story. She is a fascinating character and I would have liked to learn more about her. That said, <i style="font-weight: bold;">Shoshana </i>was a very enjoyable film and it puts the viewer into the period with great skill.</p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">Shoshana </i>is still searching for distribution so who knows when it will be seen by mass audiences given the upheaval in the industry. You might want to keep checking streaming services in the next few months.</p><p><i>Dawn and The Husband give <b>Shoshana </b>two yups, but they are right on the line.</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><i><br /></i></p><div><br /></div>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-70079055476450447782023-08-03T09:41:00.000-04:002023-08-03T09:41:03.045-04:00To Talia On Her Second Birthday<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEien8OHo8DcoXJFPN6A9m4xYc0-i-ijDE4QmTaVtAK4V08gpL8nKLlxe8tDpViEmi2XIOAGHEGDScag3dirko5iuN14Hpis1_Zyju7fFkAKAxoRC2b3oqpakMWaY3zo52RGODG6uC6IkJ1s-TdYYX0Xd7r_FeQ2jx6OipgLk7ev_4NTb0vMnEKg4G1YIxs/s252/Unknown-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="252" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEien8OHo8DcoXJFPN6A9m4xYc0-i-ijDE4QmTaVtAK4V08gpL8nKLlxe8tDpViEmi2XIOAGHEGDScag3dirko5iuN14Hpis1_Zyju7fFkAKAxoRC2b3oqpakMWaY3zo52RGODG6uC6IkJ1s-TdYYX0Xd7r_FeQ2jx6OipgLk7ev_4NTb0vMnEKg4G1YIxs/s1600/Unknown-2.jpeg" width="252" /></a></div><br />Dearest Talia,<p></p><p>The author Gretchen Rubin once wrote, "The days are long, but the years are short." She was discussing parenting and how, despite so many trials and obstacles, watching children grow and mature seems to happen in the blink of an eye. Two years have disappeared in the blink of my eye. Here you are, on the precipice of two, and I honestly can't figure out how that is possible.</p><p>You were born right smack dab in the middle of a pandemic that was unlike anything anybody had ever before witnessed. We simply didn't know how our lives would recover or change. So much of what we knew before, like bringing a child into the world and raising an infant, was different. We were all so isolated and scared. Previously simple things, like introducing new people into your world, weren't the slam dunks they were for your sister. It imbued within you a sense of caution and care. And while it wasn't always thrilling to have you cry when I came close, I inherently understood how difficult navigating newness was for you. The side-eye glances and quivering lower lip were my cue to abandon ship, and once I put myself into your onesie, I got it. You were determined to take your time with people, and frankly, I think it is a skill that more of us should learn and adopt. </p><p>We started finding our footing during the family trip to Disney last August. Spending prolonged periods with you alone allowed you to find your comfort zone. Disney can be an assault on the senses but you were down for it. Zaidy and I had a wonderful opportunity to have you on your own while Molly went off to do other things. Catching your cues and understanding who you were becoming, allowed us to unlock the beauty that is you. Watching you dive headlong into sampling new foods or ravaging an ice cream, gave me such a sense of the wonder you were experiencing. I had forgotten that children do things on their own timelines and you reminded me that yours was unique.</p><p>The tale of your first steps is a classic example of this. You stubbornly insisted that you simply were not interested in walking. Why walk when you could ride or be carried? As the months dragged on, and all of us saw the strength improving in our arm muscles, you played it oh so coyly. At a doctor's appointment sometime after your eighteen-month milestone, your parents told the doctor of their concerns that you still refused to walk. The doctor asked for a demonstration and they put you down in the middle of the floor. With only a gleam that a toddler could summon, you made every adult in that room look stupid when you walked nonchalantly over to Mommy. And then...you didn't walk again for over a month. A unique timeline, indeed. </p><p>I loathe the word stubborn, especially when applied to girls. It makes us seem negative or nasty. I much prefer dogged, resolute, adamant, or persistent. You definitely are coming into your own in this way. You will not be pushed around by anyone, especially your big sister. You know what you want and are determined to voice your opinion with a loud and definite "NO". It is important to know what you want and how to get it. Tenaciousness will serve you well and soon, you will figure out how to further your goals with the art of debate. (Although, it seems like you are well on your way to that end.) Keep pushing, Talia. This world needs more direct and confident women.</p><p>Stay curious. This is the time when everything seems new and shiny. Delight in your accomplishments. I love that you already know all of your letters, colours, and animals. How did that happen? Nobody seems to know exactly, except that you seem to be a quiet sponge, listening and absorbing. It is all so very matter-of-fact. When asked what letter that is, you look at us as if we are from another planet. <i>"Of course, it's a K. Don't you know?" </i>Never let anyone define your intellect. It is ok to be smart and to show it. The only limitations will be those you put on yourself. I want you to know that you can do whatever you want. Girls <i>are</i> good at math. Girls <i>are</i> good at reading. Girls <i>are</i> good at science. Girls can like Barbie and baseball. Girls can rock and girls can argue. There is no such thing as being "<i>ladylike". </i>Get out there and kick ass when warranted and listen when necessary. Everything is in front of you.</p><p>And I want to be there to watch it all. I want to sing with you, dance with you, read with you, eat junk food with you, and play with you. I want to be able to answer your questions, calm your nerves, dry your tears, and provide what little wisdom I possess. I want you to know your history, your faith, your family, and your heritage. I want to give you the moon, but I will be satisfied to bequeath the stories. You are my heart, my love, my whole being. </p><p>I rarely do this, but I am going to share with you a song that I love. It is sung by Lee Ann Womack and I hope that when you hear it, sometime in the future, you will know that Bubby was singing it to you.</p><div class="xaAUmb" style="caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 16px 0px;"><div jsname="WbKHeb"><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="margin-bottom: 12px;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">May you never take one single breath for granted,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.</span></i></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="margin-bottom: 12px;"><span jsname="YS01Ge"><i>I hope you dance... I hope you dance...</i></span></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="margin-bottom: 12px;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Never settle for the path of least resistance,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Livin' might mean takin' chances, but they're worth takin',</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Lovin' might be a mistake, but it's worth makin',</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Don't let some Hellbent heart leave you bitter,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">When you come close to sellin' out reconsider,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.</span></i></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="margin-bottom: 12px;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hope you dance... I hope you dance.</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hope you dance... I hope you dance.</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Tell me who wants to look back on their years</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And wonder where those years have gone.)</span></i></div><div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="margin-bottom: 12px;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.</span></i></div><div class="ujudUb WRZytc" jsname="U8S5sf" style="margin-bottom: 0px;"><i><span jsname="YS01Ge">Dance... I hope you dance.</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hope you dance... I hope you dance.</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I hope you dance... I hope you dance.</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Tell me who wants to look back on their years</span><br aria-hidden="true" /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And wonder where those years have gone.)</span></i></div></div></div><p>Happy Birthday, Dearest Talia.</p><p>May today and all days be wondrous and special.</p><p>Much love, always</p><p><i>Bubby</i></p><p><br /></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/RV-Z1YwaOiw" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-89360117773082507122023-04-02T12:21:00.001-04:002023-04-02T12:25:14.561-04:00To Molly As She Celebrates Five<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUDLffXygQ1oD44snI2JEiR8-OVKT_UzqXNa6MM5bARUlbR1Szb6E7quYJHQEidv05AJKDzx20TbPT5utIACtiMcUNas7gyrG9XKWAejWZJ5DCjXThmNPIPY44DXrKneIHumX4XkVDGJV2ntrDk0B8Svvb5CLeFJYWH-_SwTMSyTgRMWDfjXtELlr/s550/81BmlmAjsVL._AC_SY550_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="297" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUDLffXygQ1oD44snI2JEiR8-OVKT_UzqXNa6MM5bARUlbR1Szb6E7quYJHQEidv05AJKDzx20TbPT5utIACtiMcUNas7gyrG9XKWAejWZJ5DCjXThmNPIPY44DXrKneIHumX4XkVDGJV2ntrDk0B8Svvb5CLeFJYWH-_SwTMSyTgRMWDfjXtELlr/s320/81BmlmAjsVL._AC_SY550_.jpg" width="173" /></a></div><br />Dearest Molly,<p></p><p>I had a conversation with your mom yesterday when I remarked that not only am I having trouble believing that you are five, but I am also having issues with how quickly five years have passed. The passage of time is a strange thing. For grown-ups, it races by very quickly. We lament how we were stressing about school one day, and in what feels like a blink of an eye, we are waving to our grandchildren as they embark on their scholastic careers. We, adults, are filled with nostalgia, and the future seems like it could very well be an unfulfilled promise. We inherently understand the bargain. We get to revel in our grandchildren and their growth, only to know that time is limited. We won't get to bear witness to the completed product. We get tantalizing glimpses of who you are and who you are becoming, but we can only imagine the entirety. If this sounds slightly maudlin, it isn't meant to be. Over the past three years, I have come to realize that time is among the only treasures that we can't replicate. We can't get back that which we have wasted. As we were all forced to separate for reasons of health, I am not certain that we fully understood the deeper consequences of our sequestration. Not being together challenged our patience, our norms, and our trust. We have seen children who are fearful of new situations and people, and we have seen older folks who still refuse to engage in their social circles for fear of illness. There are no easy answers to regain a modicum of what was lost, but moving forward we need to push ourselves to be with people again. </p><p>You, my darling, don't seem to have any trouble engaging with people. You love being with children and you chat up new folks so easily. We joke that you are so comfortable with people that someday you will probably give some stranger your parents' pin numbers and alarm codes. I think that every single cast member at Disney World had an in-depth conversation with you. I especially loved how you and Merida compared red hair. We are working on teaching you the meaning of the word <i>circumspect.</i> There is an unguardedness to you that is just so pure I wish we could bottle it. There is also your innate strong-willed nature that I am certain your mom would love to see tempered. While it isn't always easy to back down from what you want, the balance between compromise and doggedness will serve you well in the long term, even if Mom doesn't think so right now. And while you are ready and willing to try most things, I am most impressed by your cautiousness. There is an internal understanding that not everything is easy. Some things require work, hard work. At five you seem to get that. I saw it in the pool down in Florida. You want to swim but you know instinctively that it isn't easy. You worked hard to overcome those trepidations and have moved forward in your learning. I am so proud of how you tackled your apprehension. And...now you know just how much fun the water can be.</p><p>Molly, as you enter into the second half of your first decade, I want to impart a bit of wisdom that I have learned as I enter into my seventh. It may not be right for everybody, but I think it will serve you well as you become more involved outside of your family unit and in the general community at large. The world is a big and fascinating place and learning to navigate it well is challenging. Let's call these nuggets <b>Bubby's Bites.</b></p><p><b>Be Kind</b>-Not everybody is and it is my feeling that many people have forgotten how to interact with others. Treat people with respect, dignity, and kindness and they will return the favour. This includes the person who might be holding up the line at the grocery store, the harried clerk, or your sister. Impart kindness and you will be rewarded tenfold.</p><p><b>Be Cautious</b>-Always be aware of your surroundings. </p><p><b>Be Prepared</b>-Do your homework and always be ready with the answers when asked. Never go into a situation without knowing all of the permutations, and try not to "wing it". If you are prepared for what is coming, you won't be caught or embarrassed.</p><p><b>Be Organized</b>-Make sure that you know where things are and can find them when asked. Somewhere down the road, you will be asked to organize your time as well. Learn how to balance things now. The lessons are much harder later.</p><p><b>Be On Time</b>-Punctuality is a sign of respect. It is important to show other people that their time matters as much as yours.</p><p><b>Be Adventurous</b>-Try new things and never stop learning. Do you want to learn music or an instrument? Make it happen. Do you want to rock-climb? Go for it. The whole world is out there. Do whatever interests you. </p><p><b>Be Lazy</b>-Laziness is highly underrated. Spend a day in your pyjamas without guilt. Watch tv and eat some junk food. Just don't let laziness become your norm.</p><p><b>Be Healthy</b>-Some of this is obviously out of our control but learn the habits early. I wish that I started exercising long before I actually did. It is much easier to learn to take care of our bodies when we are young. That said, don't obsess over any of it. Just do what is fun. Go for a walk or a scooter ride, or get outside in the fresh air at the playground. Get enough sleep and don't stress too much. Take care of you.</p><p><b>Be Interested</b>-Listening is a difficult skill to learn, but if you do it right other people will know that you care about them. Being interested in what other people like is a way of telling them that you enjoy them and want to be around them. Being interested and curious is how we learn.</p><p><b>Be Tolerant</b>-Not everybody is just like you. People are different and that is what makes them interesting. Just because they don't like what you like, doesn't make them less than you. Accept people for who they are and what they are. </p><p><b>Be Good To Family</b>-Family is an odd creature. We love them with all of our hearts and souls and yet, sometimes, we really want to stick a fork in some of their eyes. The thing is, they love you unconditionally. Don't forget that when the chips are down, family is what will hold you together.</p><p><b>Be Happy</b>-Sometimes, it is really easy to fall into the trap of staying miserable. We can't be happy all the time and sadness is a part of life. But, striving for happiness makes our journey a whole lot easier. Try and find the joy in whatever you are doing and if it doesn't bring you satisfaction, move on. Life is far too short to be weighed down by toxicity or ugliness.</p><p>That's enough for any five-year-old to get a good headstart. If the Divine Spirit is willing, there will be a whole lot more of these Bubby Bites. I can't wait to walk hand in hand with you as you discover all that your life has to offer. In the meantime, I will content myself with your giggles, silliness, seriousness, a few games of Candy Land, some more Paw Patrol builds, a few more challah bakes, a lot more songs, tons more family time, and an infinite amount of hugs and kisses. </p><p>Happy Birthday, my darling girl. Enjoy it all and may you stay as fiery as your hair.</p><p>I love you forever and day,</p><p>Love,</p><p><i>Bubby</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-57113799811890410002023-03-11T12:10:00.000-05:002023-03-11T12:10:05.937-05:00Our Sarah Polley Connection<p>Back in September, when we were choosing films to see at TIFF, I remarked to The Husband how much I wanted to see Sarah Polley's adaptation of <b><i>Women Talking. </i></b>I have been a fan of Ms. Polley's work for many years, and I was excited to see how she interpreted a Miriam Toews novel. Her compassionate direction and scriptwriting in the film <b><i>Away From Her</i></b> furthered my belief that she is one of the most gifted filmmakers of this generation. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only TIFF-goer with that idea. <b><i>Women Talking</i> </b>was a hot ticket in Toronto, and we were forced to wait for a wider release. </p><p>In the interim, <b><i>Women Talking </i></b>has been a favourite on the movie awards circuit this season. While Ms. Polley was ignored for her direction and her stellar cast has been shut out from acting honours/nominations, the film is still being talked about with awe and admiration. When it was finally released for streaming this week on International Women's Day (<i>coincidence?),</i> we jumped at the opportunity to view it. We absolutely loved it. It is a fabulous film.</p><p>When I told The Husband that the movie was finally within our grasp, he told me something I had never heard him say before. He told me how much he liked Sarah Polley's work and how much he would like to meet her in person. Now, you need to understand just how unusual it is for The Husband to say something like this. He is a very private and quiet person who has zero interest in celebrities. This is the same man who sat next to Eugene Levy on a plane and didn't say more than "hello." <i>How is that even possible? </i>When I dug a bit deeper, he explained. </p><p>In the fall of 2012, we saw Ms. Polley's very personal and brilliant documentary <i style="font-weight: bold;">Stories We Tell. </i>If you haven't seen it, you really should. It looks at the relationship between Polley's parents, including the revelation that the filmmaker is the product of her mother's extramarital affair with another man. The movie is interspersed with interviews with her siblings, other relatives, and family friends. She reads from Michael Polley's memoir (the father who raised her), and she includes recreations of life events with a gauzy lens and actors playing the crucial roles. It is a fantastic movie, and we both walked out of it in tears.</p><p>The Husband failed to tell me at the time that this film was a catalyst for him. The fall of 2012 was also a hugely important time in his life. His father had just been diagnosed with a catastrophic illness that would ultimately claim his life. It was during that difficult time, my husband decided to dig into long-buried family secrets of his own that he had long suspected but could never confront. Sarah Polley's film prompted him to make a phone call that would change many lives. Without judgment, The Husband went on his own journey to learn about the secrets his dad had been keeping for decades. He desperately wanted answers to questions that had been eating at him for years, and, most of all, he wanted to know if this new-found sister and her mother wanted anything to do with him. It was a complicated unwinding of stories, familial relationships, interviews, phone calls, lunches, and confrontations. These aren't my stories to tell, and unfortunately, all of the principles are gone now, but I will say that it does have a happy ending in that The Husband is so excited to have his sister in his life and is anxious to continue building the relationship. I never knew that Sarah Polley pushed him to make that happen.</p><p>Ms. Polley does live in Toronto and is active in the community both artistically and politically. We don't want to stalk her online, it simply isn't who we are, but if anybody knows how to get a message to her, The Husband would like to say thank you. Me? I am really rooting for her on Sunday at the Oscars.</p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-34653337763618481322023-01-23T13:57:00.003-05:002023-01-23T14:11:35.897-05:00Mel and Carl's Chairs<p>I recently watched an interview with the children of the great comedy writer Carl Reiner. Carl's kids, including the accomplished actor/director Rob Reiner, were speaking publicly about a donation they made to the National Comedy Centre, which is opening a multimedia wing named for their famous father. Along with seventy-five boxes of scripts, articles, and blog posts, the family donated two chairs from Carl's family room. These were the chairs in which Carl and his lifelong best friend Mel Brooks sat. Carl and Mel first met in 1950, when the legendary Sid Caesar brought them together in the writer's room of <i style="font-weight: bold;">Your Show of Shows. </i>The two men collaborated for years on various projects before striking out on their own paths to comedy immortality. Even while pursuing solo projects, their friendship never wavered. After their respective spouses died, Mel would make the short walk to Carl's house every evening, and the two men would have dinner together. Sitting in those very chairs, the two comedy legends would eat, chat, exchange ideas, nap a lot, and critique movies and new comedy talent. They would share memories and bring each other up to date on the family. They repeated this routine every day for years until Covid kept them housebound for some time, ultimately ending with Carl's death in June 2020.</p><p>After Carl died, Mel did something that brought tears to my eyes when I heard about it during the interview. Every single day for the entire year after Carl's death, Mel continued his practice of walking over to Carl's home, sitting in those same chairs, and eating dinner. <i>An entire year. </i>It was Mel's way of honouring his friend.</p><p>There is no doubt in my mind that Mel, knowingly or not, was engaging in the ritual Jewish mourning practices. Jews have a very specific timeline for grieving. The first seven days of <i>shiva </i>are often very intense and observed by the deceased's immediate family. The family receives visitors so they may be comforted and encircled with care and love. The thirty days following the burial, known as <i>shloshim, </i>will see the family return to daily activities but refrain from parties or other joyous gatherings. <i>Here's where it gets interesting. </i>The twelve months after the death are known as <i>avelut. </i>It is traditional for mourners to attend synagogue daily so that they might say <i>kaddish </i>for their loved one. <i>Avelut </i>ends on the first <i>yahrzeit, </i>or anniversary of the death. I believe that Mel's beautiful ritual of continuing his trek to Carl's home for dinner was in the spirit of <i>Avelut. </i>I have no way of knowing what Mr. Brooks' involvement in or adherence to Jewish ritual is. Still, there is no doubt that he needed to find a way to not only honour his friend, whom he called his brother, but to also move through a process whereby his personal grief was recognized and validated. Dinner at Carl's was his approach to mourning.</p><p>Grief is an odd thing. No two people grieve in the same manner and there isn't a cookie-cutter process for acceptance. In all my years of synagogue work, I never saw any two situations that were identical. Judaism offers a roadmap and while it works for many, it doesn't work for all. We attempt to find ways to slog a path through grief. It can be long and arduous or it can be brief and compartmentalized. For some, it never ends.</p><p>Carl's children were so moved by Mel's gesture during his year of <i>avelut, </i>that they recognized the public importance of those chairs and knew that they needed to be part of their donation to the museum. When friends become family and family are friends, we needn't separate by DNA. Mel was immediate family to Carl. The rest as they say, is comedy history.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjmjd9FZeJ_GKf6nkI_Ycaq2YI-CxaOy9i03JZzYx7Di4ivF0m-Ei9eXeh4lrDDGUFWZvLuJg1ef7GilCp6YYZHfcpU46qTliiLmQvEzMfGLygoXdcXmpEdpFYUv2YGkVk79ANTsFAMwADjX44eLcNQZ8W5lTvhWiyqn9qkYPKtDT33rILHsLUcMr-/s640/mel-and-carls-chairs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="640" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjmjd9FZeJ_GKf6nkI_Ycaq2YI-CxaOy9i03JZzYx7Di4ivF0m-Ei9eXeh4lrDDGUFWZvLuJg1ef7GilCp6YYZHfcpU46qTliiLmQvEzMfGLygoXdcXmpEdpFYUv2YGkVk79ANTsFAMwADjX44eLcNQZ8W5lTvhWiyqn9qkYPKtDT33rILHsLUcMr-/w400-h176/mel-and-carls-chairs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-37483945013601802902023-01-02T17:23:00.000-05:002023-01-02T17:23:03.236-05:00Some Jewish Thoughts for the Secular New Year<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaN7HrhKeSxEz0byaCHygUXq2UcopydNcRzwrgGA-N_Lj0PwLwQXeg3-pcQ4ZzQASo6OhfS4RfUQn86l1W7DCy97JzysR4Hr6PHOEpKMuBLhNHkU6VA7VGCK_G__lqo4hYdXjK2mO1A1bfXTNgTyONL08SXCigHllzMB1xq7jf708DDWO-Ov5P_5OX/s2000/happy-new-year-2023-sparkling-burning-text-happy-new-year-2023-isolated-black-background-beauti_1205-12054.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaN7HrhKeSxEz0byaCHygUXq2UcopydNcRzwrgGA-N_Lj0PwLwQXeg3-pcQ4ZzQASo6OhfS4RfUQn86l1W7DCy97JzysR4Hr6PHOEpKMuBLhNHkU6VA7VGCK_G__lqo4hYdXjK2mO1A1bfXTNgTyONL08SXCigHllzMB1xq7jf708DDWO-Ov5P_5OX/s320/happy-new-year-2023-sparkling-burning-text-happy-new-year-2023-isolated-black-background-beauti_1205-12054.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br />I hate the word resolution. Resolutions, by their nature, involve us in remediating a personal shortcoming. When we inevitably break those promises to ourselves, it is very difficult to go back. It is why so many resolutions are broken by the second week of January. We tend to see resolutions as a straight line. <i>I resolve to</i> <i>lose 20 pounds this year</i>.<i> </i> When we inevitably fail, we have to start at the beginning. <p></p><p>Judaism teaches us about <i>teshuvah. Teshuvah</i> means to return. We are invited into the process of redressing a deficiency. We reflect, we learn, we desire change, and we do the work necessary to hit the mark. If we miss it the first time, we can circle back and find it again.</p><p>With that in mind, here are some very Jewish things I'd like to do better for the secular New Year. Some are silly, and some are less so. </p><p>1. Return to a synagogue in person. Three years is a long time to be withdrawn from a <i>Kehillah Kedosha </i>with only a virtual presence. It's time.</p><p>2. Eat some latkes when it isn't Chanukah. Fried foods and carbs be damned.</p><p>3. Make more challah.</p><p>4. Host a Shabbat dinner for friends.</p><p>5. Care more about the trees. (The 800 or so that Premier DoFo wants to remove at Ontario Place for a ridiculous spa is a good start.)</p><p>6. Be more consciously aware of my neighbours and neighbourhood. </p><p>7. Participate in small acts of <i>Tikkun Olam, </i>the restoration of the world, either with my presence or my donations.</p><p>8. Be kinder. Kindness costs nothing and means everything.</p><p>9. Bubby the hell out of my granddaughters.</p><p>10. Find and enable my patience gene.</p><p>11. Attend the GUCI camp reunion in August. Camp friends are forever friends.</p><p>Happy 2023. Find your joy and make it work for you.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-12735013091836028432022-12-07T17:06:00.003-05:002022-12-07T17:06:51.434-05:00Turning Sixty In The Technology Age<p><i></i></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLnnUNVmZrk4gIyYEauVxsus_0EKrMSL8z8XRq-y-A0Nt3bC1R6lF_F5msPpTofv4z_bqytAfI7iCovFBkHcgbH09Akw-0Uc3DcW2XX2JdpDxajn34mKNNeZeuSI1tp3w9vrPqMED3yqSiS7tMYSjeryVW_NbNZc-K061YJe0Sy_zRYhjvHBFlehD/s521/1520167564005.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="521" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLnnUNVmZrk4gIyYEauVxsus_0EKrMSL8z8XRq-y-A0Nt3bC1R6lF_F5msPpTofv4z_bqytAfI7iCovFBkHcgbH09Akw-0Uc3DcW2XX2JdpDxajn34mKNNeZeuSI1tp3w9vrPqMED3yqSiS7tMYSjeryVW_NbNZc-K061YJe0Sy_zRYhjvHBFlehD/s320/1520167564005.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I must stress at the outset of this post that I am not dissing my parents. They are capable seniors living in a digital age that is not fully designed for their needs. The stories I am about to tell you in this missive are true, but I am not ridiculing them. I am simply stating their truth.</i></i></div><p></p><p>I am about to turn the page on another decade, and I must say that I am very stressed at the prospect. <i>Sixty. </i>It is a really big-sounding number. <i>SIXTY! </i>I often roll it around in my mouth and try it on for size, but it isn't fitting. It is like a bra that is two cup sizes too small. <i>SIXTY F***ING YEARS OLD!</i></p><p>Yes, I am aware that the alternative sucks. Yes, I am aware that I don't look sixty. <i>(Yesterday, I was told by someone not that much older than that throat-catching number that she thought I was forty-five. She is my new best friend.) </i>Yes, I am aware that age is simply a number on the calendar and that you are only as old as you feel. <i>(Whoever said that probably only lived to fifty-nine.) </i>Let's be frank. Sixty is a big freaking number. <i>60!</i></p><p>Nobody can claim that you have half of your life in front of you at sixty. When scientists talk about things that will occur by 2050, I do the math and realize that my odds of seeing those things happen are slim. <i>The Divine Spirit willing, Younger Son will be sixty in 2050. Holy Shit. </i>None of this is meant to depress you, dear reader, but I am simply being realistic. Sixty is a big freaking number.</p><p>Many things have impressed this reality upon me over the last eighteen months. Some of them were simply age questions. For example, I couldn't get my fourth Covid vaccination for months because I wasn't sixty. Sixty was that magical age line for the government between protecting older people and those of us not there yet. I wasn't <i>old enough.</i> Sixty is the age when my out-of-country insurance will increase. I was fifty-nine when I left Canada, so the premiums were less. Next year, watch me hit the stratosphere. </p><p>But, nothing has convinced me more of my age issues than dealing with my parents and theirs. My parents are amazing people. They are both in their mid-eighties, live independently, exercise regularly, and handle all of their own banking, shopping, cooking, and medical needs. They both have a decent amount of computer/smartphone literacy in that they have a basic understanding of email, online banking, texting, FaceTime, Zoom, and <i>(God help me) </i>social media. But my octogenarian parents are still trying to learn these skills at an age when the outside world assumes that everyone understands everything and the never-ending technological changes.</p><p>Simply put, technology for people of a certain age is a bitch. We laugh at their ineptitude, but it isn't at all funny. When I tried to explain to my dad that he couldn't actually "call" an UBER, he was befuddled. When I tried to explain to my mom that her cellphone wasn't operating correctly down here in the Southern Home because her service provider was a shitty company, she couldn't understand the difference between a service provider and her actual handset. She asked The Husband to look at her phone as if that would change the problem. When I asked my dad to call said shitty service provider and deal with the situation, he kibbitzed with the operator until they lied to him and told him everything was fixed. I have spent hours lately fixing their cable, internet, and cell phones and updating all of their devices. And here's the thing. I AM NOT MUCH BETTER AT ANY OF THIS THAN THEY ARE. I married a techie and birthed one; I am not one. And don't even get me started on lost and forgotten passwords. <i>Is it all caps or lowercase? Did you use numbers or symbols? Did you write it down anywhere? Did you save the password with facial recognition? Do you use facial recognition? </i>The possibilities and computations are endless. (We are beginning the labourious task of documenting all of their passwords in a notebook. It will take a while.)</p><p>To make matters worse, my wonderful brother bought them new phones before they came south and set everything up for them. And yet, they are still using their old phones occasionally because some critical apps, like my dad's hearing aides, are only useable in Canada and can't be duplicated in the U.S. app store. And...we need access to the Canadian app store from down here which we don't have. <i>Do better, Apple.</i></p><p><i>I am in technology hell. </i></p><p>Last week, The Husband and I spent two hours with a Breezeline technician because the modem in my Other Dad's condo was fried. He has yet to arrive, and we wanted to ensure everything was copacetic before he came. I had spent over an hour on the phone with Breezeline a few days before explaining that the modem was fried. After they disconnected me twice, I insisted on the in-person visit. The technician did indeed replace the modem, but he had to reset all of the network passwords. He wasn't permitted to change the network name or password to something more personal, so he left instructions with The Husband on how to do it. <i>But you can't use an iPhone to do it. He stressed this. It will lock you out of the network. </i>The next day, The Husband and I took his laptop to Other Dad's condo to <i>quickly </i>reset the name and password. </p><p><i>Um...no!</i></p><p>It wasn't possible to do it over the internet even though we were connected to the WiFi. It locked us out of the system. Thanks to the Divine Spirit for my techie. He hardwired Other Dad's desktop computer directly into the modem so that he could access the network. B<i>ut...</i>his wireless mouse and keyboard were dead, logical after a hiatus of several months. So, he had to plug them into the wall to charge. Three hours later, we were back in his unit to change the password and network name. Without The Husband's knowledge and skill, we would have been fucked.</p><p>My brother sent me an email last month warning me that my parents' email verification would change in December. All that we needed to do was input their passwords for their email. That and update all their devices to the latest iOS and find all those passwords to access them. My dad last updated his iPad 45 weeks ago. <i>I'm fucking serious. 45 weeks. </i>The updates took a while.<i> </i>So far, their email is still working. <i>Pray for me.</i></p><p>I have an excellent idea for a business. Tech support that is specifically designed for seniors. Not the Geek Squad, which expects you to understand the basics and employs less than adequate people. I'm talking about a tech support who will come to your home and deal with everything, from password retrieval to how to program your digital TV recorder. Don't tell them how to do it, just do it for them. Don't offer them explanations and instructions; order that UBER for them. The employees' prerequisites need to include Job's patience, a love of people (my dad will make them coffee, and my mom will ply them with chocolate chunk cookies), an aversion to judgement, and an understanding nature. We expect our seniors to be able to navigate new apps and phones every month. It is a loser's game. Let's find a way to make things easy for them. They are twentieth-century people living in a twenty-first-century world. Only some people have access to a techie.</p><p>I see myself in my parents. I fear the day when I fear technology. I am scared that there will come a time when it is all just too complicated. I don't want to burden my techies any more than my parents wish to burden theirs. Every time something goes haywire, I hear the exhaustion in my mother's voice. <i>"Two years ago, I could do it all," </i>she says. She's right. But two years is still two years. We don't get younger.</p><p>Sixty is a big freaking number. I'm not expecting sympathy. I'm blessed. But I need to acknowledge the fears before I embrace the excitement. That post is coming before the end of the month. The fears are real. This, too, shall I overcome. </p><p><br /></p><p><i>. </i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-37408165752664592032022-10-23T14:41:00.005-04:002022-10-23T14:41:50.313-04:00Go Vote<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPPs8CoTphj4jT0fcnelUkb5micLCCnDOPJwZVWh0DlhWvt9CmZv74F8VboQTvARy9cAaoF4tRzf_o_-QXyCG1sgxh-gR5SXXUtv_-ODcyIP4s5-182DUrR394tMAt67FXummR8XxEfPKMzd7v6EX9KrS-2UKl7dBI_D4qkHUp3zwprj8ye02XQBA/s995/8d81-DS220038ElectionsWebBannersSkyline995x330.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="995" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPPs8CoTphj4jT0fcnelUkb5micLCCnDOPJwZVWh0DlhWvt9CmZv74F8VboQTvARy9cAaoF4tRzf_o_-QXyCG1sgxh-gR5SXXUtv_-ODcyIP4s5-182DUrR394tMAt67FXummR8XxEfPKMzd7v6EX9KrS-2UKl7dBI_D4qkHUp3zwprj8ye02XQBA/w400-h153/8d81-DS220038ElectionsWebBannersSkyline995x330.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Tomorrow is election day across Ontario. Tomorrow we choose the leaders involved with our most personal municipal decisions over the next four years. Tomorrow, we citizens choose our mayors, councillors, and school board trustees. It is democracy in its purest form, yet it is a right that too many of us take for granted. In 2018, only 41% of Torontonians chose to exercise their franchise. That number was way down from the 2014 vote, which saw almost 55%. (In fairness, that was the year we turned out to turf The Fords.)<p></p><p>By all accounts, this mayoral election is a slam dunk, so says the media, which has pretty much abdicated its responsibility to hold the current office-holder to account for his record. John Tory hasn't held a single news conference during this election cycle, and he has only participated in a paltry two debates, both held on weekday afternoons. He has spent most of his time campaigning for friendly and vulnerable councillors who will continue to support his agenda. (Whatever that might be because he hasn't laid out a single new policy initiative, nor has he pointed to a single accomplishment after eight years in office.) That said, his most involved challenger is Gil Peñalosa, a city planner with zero political experience and a raft of great city-building ideas but no real thoughts on how to implement them. We Torontonians are poorer for the lack of a strong challenger to the mayor and a proper debate about our city, and it has allowed him to probably coast to an easy victory tomorrow.</p><p>This ridiculous coronation is our fault. We have allowed ourselves to buy into the idea that the man who saved the city from another disastrous term of Ford is indeed a good mayor and city manager. He is a decent man and was a decent manager during Covid, but his failures are everywhere, from overflowing garbage bins to a white elephant rebuild of the Gardiner. Simply put, John Tory is a terrible politician, but that isn't the point of this post. This post is designed to inform you of what you accept if you choose not to vote.</p><p>If you choose not to vote...</p><p>* You are saying that you are perfectly fine with the homeless situation in our city.</p><p>* You are comfortable with the state of our roads, transit, and parks. </p><p>* You are ok with the lack of a strong Vision Zero plan to address the carnage on our roads that claims the lives of pedestrians and cyclists on a daily basis.</p><p>* You are fine with police abdicating their traffic enforcement role and allowing the police budget to balloon out of control.</p><p>* You think essential services like garbage bin collections, broken water fountains, shuttered public bathrooms, pothole repair, tree limb collection, and pruning are functioning at a high level.</p><p>* You are content with the shuttering of city programs because of staffing shortages and poor compensation.</p><p>* You are happy with the province turning the Ontario Place grounds into a luxury spa rather than increasing our downtown greenspace and not having a mayor express his opinion.</p><p>* You are perfectly content with a stormwater management plan that doesn't exist. </p><p>* You thought that the clearing of snow from city roads and sidewalks during the mega storms last season was done efficiently.</p><p>These are just a few of the things that you are abdicating responsibility for if you skip voting tomorrow. </p><p>I can't make you go out and vote. I can only hope that if this post moves you, you will rethink your apathy. </p><p>Vote in whatever municipality you live tomorrow. Vote for your city. Vote for a better quality of life for everybody.</p><p>We are all in this together. </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-63925595100718452492022-10-15T12:00:00.000-04:002022-10-15T12:00:11.401-04:00We Just Ate Our Way Across Paris<p>Can we talk about food?</p><p>I am not a foodie. I have lived a vegetarian lifestyle more often than not for more than forty years. I have tremendous problems with dairy. So many things cause my digestive tract to revolt. But, early on in this trip, I decided to eat the foods I wanted, swallow copious amounts of Lactaid, and let the chips fall where they may. I mean, after all, this is Paris. How can one walk through the winding neighbourhoods and NOT stop at a boulangerie, a fromagerie, or a simple café for chocolat chaud? </p><p>As The Professional Volunteer stated, "<i>When in Paris, all the rules are out the window." </i></p><p><i>And so...</i>I ate the cheese. <i>And it hurt. </i>And I ate the croissants and the pain chocolat. <i>And I suffered. </i>And I ate the pain perdu made with croissants and tons of butter. <i>And I farted. </i>And I luxuriated in the baguettes slathered in butter. <i>And I didn't care about the calories or the carbs because it was delicious. </i>And I ordered an apple clafouti to delight in. <i>And I finished every single bite. </i>And we splurged on macarons because it is a moral imperative.<i> </i>And I drank champagne at the Moulin Rouge. <i>And got a bit tipsy. </i>And I ate a charcuterie board filled with cheese and fruit. <i>And my lactose intolerance was very angry with me. </i>It is simply impossible to come to Paris and not eat. If you can come here and stick to your diet, you are better humans than I am. But here's the thing. <i>Why would you want to? </i>I am in one of the world's great food capitals, and I'll be damned if I am going to let Jewish stomach issues or eating plans based on carb deprivation stop me. I figure that we are walking our asses off and that exercise is helping. My clothes still fit, and I am happy. I think that counterbalances the crazy snacking. My doctor may have something to say about my food porn excursion when I see her on Wednesday for my yearly physical, but I'll take the hit. "Come to Paris," they said. "Eat your way across the city."</p><p>Much has happened since I last posted, but I will hit the highlights at the bottom. Tonight is our final evening, and I just wanted to say how beautiful this trip has been. The weather has been close to perfect, except for a miserable rainy day yesterday, and even that didn't deter us. How can one go wrong on vacation with good friends, good food, and wondrous sites in one of the most beautiful cities in the world? I will count myself amongst the very fortunate.</p><p>A few random thoughts.</p><p>* If you plan on coming to Paris, play the tourist. It is really fun to do it that way. We went to the Moulin Rouge and had the best time. It is so kitsch and goofy, and yet, it was a blast. <i>And the food was </i><i>surprisingly good. </i> </p><p>* I can't imagine coming here and not visiting the galleries. Every single one was spectacular. We capped off our art tours with a visit to Giverny and Monet's house and gardens. The Husband figures he took at least one-thousand photos there. The rain stopped and was glistening in the gardens. I can't adequately describe it. It is a must-see. Monet did what most of us would love to do. He created his ideal space, then took that inspiration and put it on canvas. Simply stunning. We then drove to Auvers-Sur-Oise to visit where Van Gogh spent his final summer. We ate in the same café that he did and visited his room upstairs. We walked many of the same fields that acted as his muse in those final seventy days. He was incredibly prolific during this period, painting eighty canvases in seventy days. We stopped by the cemetery where he rests on our way out of town.</p><p>* I am less than enamoured by churches, but I must say that Sainte-Chapelle is a wow. The stained glass windows are off the charts. The chapel is small, but the windows left me breathless. The depictions of familiar bible stories had me searching the panels. I was less enthused by the illustrations of Moses with horns, but I cannot change some things. </p><p>* As of last night, we had walked close to ninety kilometres. Add in a few more for today, and I am truly exhausted. I feel good about my exercise between the stairs and the uneven streets. Not a bad trip for activity.</p><p>* I loved Montemarte and the Jewish quarter. Rue de Rosiers was simply lovely, even in the rain. Every store seemed to have a <i>mezuzah </i>on the door, and we had terrific falafel. There are several memorials to the martyred Jews of France, and somehow we stumbled across them all. We even saw plaques dedicated to children at a school who didn't return from the camps. My heart was in my throat. We climbed to the top of the mountain and were gifted with a lovely view of the city. The Jews of Paris have done an excellent job of keeping the flame alive.</p><p>* As I said earlier, the weather has been near perfect. The rain yesterday was kind of yucky. We didn't let it stop us and managed to get to Sainte-Chapelle, Place de Vosges, a parfumerie for Twin Son's Better Half shopping, and Victor Hugo's house. The Husband and I were so tired last evening we came back to the hotel with a baguette and butter and ate dinner on the floor of Twin Son and His Better Half's room. Worked for me.</p><p>* I sometimes think that certain things are done explicitly for the tourists. In Montmarte, I saw an older gentleman playing <i>La Vie en Rose </i>on the accordion. <i>Touristy but effective. </i>I gave him a few Euros.</p><p><i>* </i>This is an expensive city. Don't kid yourselves. There are ways to do it without breaking the bank, but it is costly. There is a refinery strike ongoing here, and it is pushing gas prices to crazy heights. The lineups for gas remind me of the 70s. If you think inflation is bad where you live, you should be in Europe now. It is off the charts.</p><p>And so, Paris 2022 draws to a close. We head to the airport tomorrow with too many calories in our stomachs and songs in our hearts. </p><p><i>Au revoir. A bientôt.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3vn-O9ZCORp0ydloz5b1gq5L2xyfXvGQFIzUbAxAxViCyVBTc38iNEgC6P8WQKzRO_FXFKHY8VtdiZ_NgldkCApk0JaJYlQcQHh4PRkoPZE8srMlG_F38mPnSRdhMQBalHXRO4iOwSk1YBXV5ced-aFM_6BoiyMKDVDk1py5uf5OkbM6aBaF0NG2T/s1472/D25954E9-9A9B-4117-850C-2E37572B6024.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1472" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3vn-O9ZCORp0ydloz5b1gq5L2xyfXvGQFIzUbAxAxViCyVBTc38iNEgC6P8WQKzRO_FXFKHY8VtdiZ_NgldkCApk0JaJYlQcQHh4PRkoPZE8srMlG_F38mPnSRdhMQBalHXRO4iOwSk1YBXV5ced-aFM_6BoiyMKDVDk1py5uf5OkbM6aBaF0NG2T/w225-h400/D25954E9-9A9B-4117-850C-2E37572B6024.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Salut!</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjqyiaDmy782CkDaX_Za5YFwQBYzdk5hgq5udC0ewaoQ2ZYCcCXmSdG3j_scmzXIxoeHfxqXm3FYkexHnutKZIjI0wu7y2nLchBBfMVWxAxE06QcqnqdnySynBSNCUNIJpz0NHQ0ZHCnFX5nm_zP2_mF8oto12Z-AzPCJc5ZTNEId3wNLbOJ4kIJz/s1795/DF66ED42-CC5B-4857-9BB2-4B1573CC9472.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1795" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjqyiaDmy782CkDaX_Za5YFwQBYzdk5hgq5udC0ewaoQ2ZYCcCXmSdG3j_scmzXIxoeHfxqXm3FYkexHnutKZIjI0wu7y2nLchBBfMVWxAxE06QcqnqdnySynBSNCUNIJpz0NHQ0ZHCnFX5nm_zP2_mF8oto12Z-AzPCJc5ZTNEId3wNLbOJ4kIJz/w321-h400/DF66ED42-CC5B-4857-9BB2-4B1573CC9472.jpeg" width="321" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Monet's gardens<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlT5_S8XSqoDHVYM27h3zXCGwrsjvnqBbCe2gMYYWAygQkvLo5PFC-Eo6BujZHd3yfkR24cV9EKlxSkgTWVZLIWh6KdcQrjb8uBqIc6QdgnjHYJM3QcRH_cPQLwhZ1iAt5IY6Mh4zcN6EHTUt4WcdEzeof6Nx-aCQDaZIg9O6qmdgcC6HCOkJI0wc/s1776/BD3FBEF4-3921-4BFB-89BB-A5460013E543-30166-00001F80C10D86BB.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1776" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlT5_S8XSqoDHVYM27h3zXCGwrsjvnqBbCe2gMYYWAygQkvLo5PFC-Eo6BujZHd3yfkR24cV9EKlxSkgTWVZLIWh6KdcQrjb8uBqIc6QdgnjHYJM3QcRH_cPQLwhZ1iAt5IY6Mh4zcN6EHTUt4WcdEzeof6Nx-aCQDaZIg9O6qmdgcC6HCOkJI0wc/w400-h266/BD3FBEF4-3921-4BFB-89BB-A5460013E543-30166-00001F80C10D86BB.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sunflowers are a nice touch.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwa6MvO6kEuB3-NRdtOJUzv1Ws8QLWD_IrX_rMey05QUIMhvqGJ_9nuKgfqg16qBIEUWbl33rmHASGScMAIpJTqoOewuVCAybmVB1KZnlilkpZzimU0XrqAxIdjALxB5e2cevYXK_Q0clPEjfWEaqn8l_mzF3Jw9Tm-kWown72cdXEriydRW0ZlAo/s1472/FB7C1C41-815F-4ADF-A467-69A65278EA69.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1472" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxwa6MvO6kEuB3-NRdtOJUzv1Ws8QLWD_IrX_rMey05QUIMhvqGJ_9nuKgfqg16qBIEUWbl33rmHASGScMAIpJTqoOewuVCAybmVB1KZnlilkpZzimU0XrqAxIdjALxB5e2cevYXK_Q0clPEjfWEaqn8l_mzF3Jw9Tm-kWown72cdXEriydRW0ZlAo/w225-h400/FB7C1C41-815F-4ADF-A467-69A65278EA69.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB5hm-dBushmRSiydMKLkjqZN03CRYqN1osIrLOnc_H_fuBDjBTh6LIoUhR6rkAJQCP6mrsSm6ghjOSHQ8o2TsIOpThF0GfP4nKG1vvP5XhSkzlEGcu2OKTnKKMgzLkkfZ2Ei_H5MSM-drPQd1FEaP5O-HpGNrogibhx1kcw07qDS7wktnYzuJsIQ8/s4032/IMG_2398.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB5hm-dBushmRSiydMKLkjqZN03CRYqN1osIrLOnc_H_fuBDjBTh6LIoUhR6rkAJQCP6mrsSm6ghjOSHQ8o2TsIOpThF0GfP4nKG1vvP5XhSkzlEGcu2OKTnKKMgzLkkfZ2Ei_H5MSM-drPQd1FEaP5O-HpGNrogibhx1kcw07qDS7wktnYzuJsIQ8/w300-h400/IMG_2398.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9r-z8skJrahkiZUFEhoHULEV2Y3b1qnkRUX2H_rjM2X58LPv4xmaUQH4DJ6mwedI1SQkxQkazHK4rXkv1vZrou55il148KmlyzFvjrc5kXlETbCEvW6K5OOTzKER1lY_hlf5xseSCsZA2bJqeYuU54brnZUC2Qlv8hBwwLixs2yGuqiM0gy11qLkD/s4032/IMG_2420.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9r-z8skJrahkiZUFEhoHULEV2Y3b1qnkRUX2H_rjM2X58LPv4xmaUQH4DJ6mwedI1SQkxQkazHK4rXkv1vZrou55il148KmlyzFvjrc5kXlETbCEvW6K5OOTzKER1lY_hlf5xseSCsZA2bJqeYuU54brnZUC2Qlv8hBwwLixs2yGuqiM0gy11qLkD/w300-h400/IMG_2420.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stained glass at Sainte-Chappel</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWNANYi401EPF9SksEnqRrXGzh5Ok1iWmEMHJKk9g5TCLCsaufHwlDQlNU4kD_mE4BXHMqTN46K2tGOvfHIZIZ_ziqIwWNKxPMopwuQ0OUFBCiqWGLFx91zu8b3DNYagknb342dcXRbFmmiGgPyv59xZqcS10kaWeLKZuzCIUjDUDw-N7sAAgP7px/s4032/IMG_2422.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWNANYi401EPF9SksEnqRrXGzh5Ok1iWmEMHJKk9g5TCLCsaufHwlDQlNU4kD_mE4BXHMqTN46K2tGOvfHIZIZ_ziqIwWNKxPMopwuQ0OUFBCiqWGLFx91zu8b3DNYagknb342dcXRbFmmiGgPyv59xZqcS10kaWeLKZuzCIUjDUDw-N7sAAgP7px/w300-h400/IMG_2422.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is pain perdu made out of croissants</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOF_glE-OK3tnjsCKcqv6rmolP0E3DJNyjILnPweF_o36nKzP2_xUkv0jTb9pr_smhkEbXyzvlci7PPBEmUpBpq_Y9o7OBvsRG5h872HG722jHKxZBQ-83jutOcmPnamVcH5D_pFP81z1KC9nPO3JJnA-FMl7F2A1K40PgHSaaqup9A9n5E4uNgyT/s4032/IMG_2444%202.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOF_glE-OK3tnjsCKcqv6rmolP0E3DJNyjILnPweF_o36nKzP2_xUkv0jTb9pr_smhkEbXyzvlci7PPBEmUpBpq_Y9o7OBvsRG5h872HG722jHKxZBQ-83jutOcmPnamVcH5D_pFP81z1KC9nPO3JJnA-FMl7F2A1K40PgHSaaqup9A9n5E4uNgyT/w300-h400/IMG_2444%202.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZJk9gELdReDIJm_3Tk_VMuo7GshlIOqasKihwP1haZDdvzcpFmFLtj6DIRe3h4p0W1fuVz6oU_dVqt8uwZVmsXONdnsiO99zGX4VdwwgnQXZBiOtCHS5cpJ_ijKyQb1mGJbUXd-1e0bBe4LGKmUIal9wQsKGA-1cPLLnMpGaxKVyKEm3aLJOUV89/s4032/IMG_2445.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZJk9gELdReDIJm_3Tk_VMuo7GshlIOqasKihwP1haZDdvzcpFmFLtj6DIRe3h4p0W1fuVz6oU_dVqt8uwZVmsXONdnsiO99zGX4VdwwgnQXZBiOtCHS5cpJ_ijKyQb1mGJbUXd-1e0bBe4LGKmUIal9wQsKGA-1cPLLnMpGaxKVyKEm3aLJOUV89/w300-h400/IMG_2445.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7P5UKnZu0FAqtq9qOiMf7Z5JVFlYPGZs0J_UmV1eq6U5OjGNSz88ySwup4SGVF51VHEXq_zPt7-033mCrWXB_vcqOJxa8u61XgBZPAPXJXd2FtxkGEA1xetcarf0LfsER2xUldV-GBOeoLUIaMpmjqdFZl5b-OJ8Ls0FMbKbZb9jhXeDPGUwQ5cAS/s4032/IMG_2446.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7P5UKnZu0FAqtq9qOiMf7Z5JVFlYPGZs0J_UmV1eq6U5OjGNSz88ySwup4SGVF51VHEXq_zPt7-033mCrWXB_vcqOJxa8u61XgBZPAPXJXd2FtxkGEA1xetcarf0LfsER2xUldV-GBOeoLUIaMpmjqdFZl5b-OJ8Ls0FMbKbZb9jhXeDPGUwQ5cAS/w300-h400/IMG_2446.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmIGYu3p5ldcOw1m8S-jG7XSBf86T26hXMzVuiN0r2xh7qiMQxpj84i9DokLgKGM7UN6xhORgb_fOsD7SsvGW0Zbefh4G83-aokyyocfu67wIWWmM_kti37pDgPcu6MiPCFOQ4AWEXtRnWDnB6WjOsKQ4q_Xa7xZDTO3e_zGx4EdRkbp9M50YfyR7/s1776/4303CA26-DA11-4F26-9709-9287D2721972-31430-00001F9AFB99CEF7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1776" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmIGYu3p5ldcOw1m8S-jG7XSBf86T26hXMzVuiN0r2xh7qiMQxpj84i9DokLgKGM7UN6xhORgb_fOsD7SsvGW0Zbefh4G83-aokyyocfu67wIWWmM_kti37pDgPcu6MiPCFOQ4AWEXtRnWDnB6WjOsKQ4q_Xa7xZDTO3e_zGx4EdRkbp9M50YfyR7/w400-h266/4303CA26-DA11-4F26-9709-9287D2721972-31430-00001F9AFB99CEF7.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifk7WOmHjRb9wSwcFJGdVwzvkv2HSrxJFsiNIBqg0pqBxgJhzuLxsk9nkOAP0-ym2xlWBKglDvGtru1nkB9UHDMJSteB39_F9oVdbucYarHiPaHjZQUWW_CZx80GSCh-JSnVKW_v6TGboBfZACghN5qZHwXKky4zLH9dHdRUecTSMR8krXc4Itd8j1/s1776/410C2074-ACE7-46E8-B3BF-E176C52BB44D-31430-00001F9AA109C7A5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1776" data-original-width="1184" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifk7WOmHjRb9wSwcFJGdVwzvkv2HSrxJFsiNIBqg0pqBxgJhzuLxsk9nkOAP0-ym2xlWBKglDvGtru1nkB9UHDMJSteB39_F9oVdbucYarHiPaHjZQUWW_CZx80GSCh-JSnVKW_v6TGboBfZACghN5qZHwXKky4zLH9dHdRUecTSMR8krXc4Itd8j1/w266-h400/410C2074-ACE7-46E8-B3BF-E176C52BB44D-31430-00001F9AA109C7A5.jpeg" width="266" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-64293995731326652402022-10-12T14:59:00.002-04:002022-10-12T15:37:30.919-04:00A Few Stories From Paris<p>We have done a great deal since the last time I wrote. Museum visits, a trip out to Versailles, a creepy tour of the catacombs, and a hike up Montmarte. At the bottom, I will give some highlights in my quick thoughts portion of the post, but for now, I wanted to tell a few short stories of human interest.</p><p>A couple of days ago, while we were touring the Louvre, The Husband and I happened upon an elderly gentleman who was taking a breather in the Dutch Masters' rooms. Twin Son wanted to view some Rembrandt paintings, so after we had pretty much exhausted our initial tour with Carinne, she took us to the other side of the museum to see the great man's work. While we were there, The Husband nudged me as he wanted me to look at the older gentleman sitting next to him. The man had to be in his eighties with a face that looked like it had seen a lot. Upon a closer look, it was evident to both of us that he wasn't in very good shape. He was slightly stooped, and while he was making a concerted effort to look his best, his jacket had definitely seen better days. There were tears under both sleeves and across his shoulders. He sat quietly in the Dutch room, dozing. None of the docents bothered him as he took his afternoon siesta, and I wondered if he was a regular visitor to the museum. As Carinne explained some of Rembrandt's work to us, I was captivated by the old man and wondered aloud to The Husband what his story might be. This old man's face stuck with me as we departed from The Louvre. </p><p>Yesterday afternoon, we met up with Carinne again for our private tour of Musée D'Orsay. We were terribly excited to get up close and personal with The Impressionists and Post-Impressionists. Honestly, this tour has been circled on my calendar for months. The brushstrokes and vibrant colours simply jumped off the canvases and did happy dances on my retinas. I absolutely love this period of artwork. The great works of Manet, Monet, Cezanne, Pisarro, Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Gaughin, and Toulouse-Lautrec are so plentiful here that I was experiencing a type of sensory overload. I honestly didn't know where to look first. I was like the proverbial kid in the candy store. I was recounting a story about my grandfather and a Degas copy (I'll tell you that story below) when I looked up and saw him again, the same gentleman in the same torn jacket. The coincidence was striking. Once again, he was just sitting in Impressionist Room, taking in the art and the people, and nobody bothered him. As we were leaving the museum, The Husband pointed him out to me for the final time. I have made up a dozen stories about this old dude in my mind. Does he spend all of his days in the museums? Who pays for him? Is he a senior art historian? Maybe he is a retired professor? Perhaps he is a widower and remembers happy days spent in the museums with his dear wife? I honestly have no idea, but I cannot get this gent out of my mind. The odd thing is that I believe that if I went back to one of those two museums today, I think we could find him. A small story from our time in Paris.</p><p>A few random thoughts.</p><p>* I promised you the story of my grandfather and the Degas. My grandparents had a large painting in their living room that looked like a copy of one of Degas' ballet scenes. It was a recreation of a ballet master holding court during a rehearsal. It was over their sofa, and the memory of it was embedded in my cerebral cortex. Many years later, when The Husband visited my grandfather for the first time, he saw the painting and noted it was done by a cousin of his who had survived the concentration camps. He must have been influenced by Monsieur Degas. I would have loved to have been able to keep that painting, but a surly aunt descended on my grandparents' house after their deaths and absconded with it. I have no idea where it is today. Seeing Degas' paintings of the ballet school in Musée D'Orsay left a large lump in my throat. </p><p>* I forgot this little tale of our visit to Monet's Water Lilies. As we sat in the room breathing and taking in the atmosphere in silent contemplation, a guy sitting next to The Husband was scrolling through his phone, watching cat videos. I have nothing else to add to that atrocity.</p><p>* The Palace at Versailles is the definition of opulence. Every room is more garish than the last. I wonder if Agent Orange got his sense of style from Louis XIV. The gardens, on the other hand, are breathtaking. I could spend weeks there.</p><p>* We took a jaunt over to the catacombs, and I will admit to being more than a bit freaked out. I don't do bones well. Over six million souls are entombed down there; honestly, it is a really cool place to visit. I just felt like a voyeur disturbing the dead. As we made our way to the surface, one of the security people checked my backpack for any bones that might have been absconded. <i>Why would anyone think to do that?</i></p><p>* The Pantheon was a bit more my speed. Death with dignity. The tombs of great French writers, thinkers, scientists, and politicians are laid to rest here. I got more than a little excited seeing the graves of Marie and Phillipe Curie and Josephine Baker. </p><p>* We have had excellent guides on this trip. Carinne, who The Professional Volunteer encountered during an online experience, was truly incredible for the art museums. If anybody is coming this way and would like a private tour through any of the many art museums of Paris, contact me offline for her information. Today, we arranged a private tour of Versailles and Bertrand, our guide, was funny, knowledgeable, and a real character. I have taken tours worldwide, but I think doing it privately is the way to go if you can make it work. We have learned and seen so much.</p><p>* The Professional Volunteer spent part of her youth in France and has many warm memories. Thanks to The Divine Spirit for her and Twin Son's Better Half's ability to speak French. Things would be far more difficult without the two of them and their language skills. While she was here many years ago, The Professional Volunteer had a portrait of herself done in Montmarte. With a photograph of that picture in hand, she found another sketch artist in the same area to draw her today. It was a charming nod to a memory of her parents.</p><p>* I am not usually a sweets eater, but eating French macarons in Paris is a must. The shop windows at the boulangeries are art. </p><p>A few more days to come with a couple more posts to enjoy. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwUm-TQriOYYDO9tWqMoyvi9aL6rZ7YXlHlRFpc_f8YZ9NVsN64v2-HO4mvQVnGQWZxZAziCKQHQr5933prRUIu4boVHs6LHaYuoKmvrEcAnPII2EfU9mUtM6gn3maJ8IaErJi9i6ekHRFYUzsVVPdnEtK23-qf20sW-2WTDI048AZPvElfRssuIy/s1776/3CA57CF1-67B5-49EF-A7E4-D94CCA1904CB-27089-00001C1B367E80EC.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1776" data-original-width="1184" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiwUm-TQriOYYDO9tWqMoyvi9aL6rZ7YXlHlRFpc_f8YZ9NVsN64v2-HO4mvQVnGQWZxZAziCKQHQr5933prRUIu4boVHs6LHaYuoKmvrEcAnPII2EfU9mUtM6gn3maJ8IaErJi9i6ekHRFYUzsVVPdnEtK23-qf20sW-2WTDI048AZPvElfRssuIy/w266-h400/3CA57CF1-67B5-49EF-A7E4-D94CCA1904CB-27089-00001C1B367E80EC.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old gentleman</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPqHR_KZEft5HxS7oziyRvrcIqYb9iEQvp3SoWm7UZJn1S0wXAtOG5ElHzdxWYdd2-fjK6-IRZs3DHzld3QOEQ9I4EWOqD7k9q2M7aaoL0EmVyBlFp_5gaqLFXWVkzekgDSuLUPLpA-OsVHjJDU_d4uU7z8XbnCka9cMiMyFCeXo24XxneVmVfmsf/s736/B54420A7-0869-4FC6-AE2D-4BBCF9788356.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="414" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPqHR_KZEft5HxS7oziyRvrcIqYb9iEQvp3SoWm7UZJn1S0wXAtOG5ElHzdxWYdd2-fjK6-IRZs3DHzld3QOEQ9I4EWOqD7k9q2M7aaoL0EmVyBlFp_5gaqLFXWVkzekgDSuLUPLpA-OsVHjJDU_d4uU7z8XbnCka9cMiMyFCeXo24XxneVmVfmsf/w225-h400/B54420A7-0869-4FC6-AE2D-4BBCF9788356.jpeg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Van Gogh Self Portrait</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMnU8hHfDSTqzqhUYLjyP3HNeXBupvURvXxkHcgPTETuNgAlvkFQqhU7mGY_F7Y5Q5EGXHDRQgtz_DcdTNbtc000Nr4tk6zYztaLVMEOmaMIU2c0owI9h0Z9FZ5YSMv87KPudQmBDP5JvgPFm8a2GgDKUaf9OHgSHcXHv9rHtX0EOsOzUu9EO1Nhi/s4032/IMG_2336.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMnU8hHfDSTqzqhUYLjyP3HNeXBupvURvXxkHcgPTETuNgAlvkFQqhU7mGY_F7Y5Q5EGXHDRQgtz_DcdTNbtc000Nr4tk6zYztaLVMEOmaMIU2c0owI9h0Z9FZ5YSMv87KPudQmBDP5JvgPFm8a2GgDKUaf9OHgSHcXHv9rHtX0EOsOzUu9EO1Nhi/w300-h400/IMG_2336.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Degas' dancers</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgah6x4dqu3zci9V39nfGosNz6MzpkoeJ1cniJHJoVRCnWfMl5hz10Jzx0D0XAgLG2BTpqcsQWPfndCwEHTTGdwTMiD77RqYb50uyURShLwqkWkbccq2WWqCyRTXkJyaT4TSTZ5SGDvMEJ3XLXSEWVym6_LqgOV2AgTwC7wvMGWdjBPzNroiAyGgntC/s4032/IMG_2344.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgah6x4dqu3zci9V39nfGosNz6MzpkoeJ1cniJHJoVRCnWfMl5hz10Jzx0D0XAgLG2BTpqcsQWPfndCwEHTTGdwTMiD77RqYb50uyURShLwqkWkbccq2WWqCyRTXkJyaT4TSTZ5SGDvMEJ3XLXSEWVym6_LqgOV2AgTwC7wvMGWdjBPzNroiAyGgntC/w300-h400/IMG_2344.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paris at night</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikK6kMpotqWaXql_OATr6vl7IHHbmRvyM8qOxh2_ww7UIW5IE-_WaejqCd1T3fHT_4HBBaCCOLflAg-288xLznsEP4z4EPmJsN0dMZMkxgJkyyk4xnyY9AnOk62riOc8KXYMCjS2HNHqrnWJ1AgOLeRLVojkP8zHzb4i3Cn9EoFjML9OoJmUrFzX8E/s4032/IMG_2361.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikK6kMpotqWaXql_OATr6vl7IHHbmRvyM8qOxh2_ww7UIW5IE-_WaejqCd1T3fHT_4HBBaCCOLflAg-288xLznsEP4z4EPmJsN0dMZMkxgJkyyk4xnyY9AnOk62riOc8KXYMCjS2HNHqrnWJ1AgOLeRLVojkP8zHzb4i3Cn9EoFjML9OoJmUrFzX8E/w300-h400/IMG_2361.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Versailles</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9nD_U6T5aE2zIdtQsa5qUKVx4efzVLr4p6HyD-FuKUWBWL4st5UnNOSbJk7NTspVfZeb5f1gFhuCCQDH90QseHdBMlDEcQj8OotlbSH0iJBx0_zDDPx2JfVelnm42ppAF2icKOHZDw4wGlDcFvtsuzq0VLfz-7DjjWSJIYtXjchiS4oLWL79nWwuc/s4032/IMG_2362.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9nD_U6T5aE2zIdtQsa5qUKVx4efzVLr4p6HyD-FuKUWBWL4st5UnNOSbJk7NTspVfZeb5f1gFhuCCQDH90QseHdBMlDEcQj8OotlbSH0iJBx0_zDDPx2JfVelnm42ppAF2icKOHZDw4wGlDcFvtsuzq0VLfz-7DjjWSJIYtXjchiS4oLWL79nWwuc/w400-h300/IMG_2362.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the 100,000 acres of gardens at Versailles</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36fjNsUC77efAVV_DHKfQ6v-vhIXaCZ0j1ZWSUoAogHjgFef9O3hH4NzF8Th8JppywDaVgfPD-BqqRdNBzJGtp_7hsG2On3ye79Z91zlkreEGkaSSz9JGiOjGYAOEoAHwPpDUN65AMxER61J0Yo7x4C2SVBY2VE3GKnUBIFe6__25ycEIWy7S8X56/s4032/IMG_2367.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36fjNsUC77efAVV_DHKfQ6v-vhIXaCZ0j1ZWSUoAogHjgFef9O3hH4NzF8Th8JppywDaVgfPD-BqqRdNBzJGtp_7hsG2On3ye79Z91zlkreEGkaSSz9JGiOjGYAOEoAHwPpDUN65AMxER61J0Yo7x4C2SVBY2VE3GKnUBIFe6__25ycEIWy7S8X56/w300-h400/IMG_2367.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Retrieving a memory</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-50142886925955489002022-10-10T16:48:00.001-04:002022-10-10T16:48:11.568-04:00Art Touched by God<p>People often ask me if I believe in God.</p><p>Aside from it being an extraordinarily personal question, there is never a simple answer to deliver. I have spoken in this space about finding God in the natural beauty around us. I see God in my granddaughters' faces. But today, I remembered that there is something in a talented genius that makes me believe they had been touched by something divine.</p><p>We have spent most of the last two days here immersed in the power of artistic inspiration. We were awestruck by our visit to the Eiffel Tower. The intricacies of this engineering marvel had us wondering how somebody came up with an idea like this. Designed initially as an artistic icon, a gigantic piece of street art, if you will, there is really no other possible use for the tower. And yet it has become <i>the</i> cultural touchstone of this city. The interlocking beams and gears made me think of those K'nex sets my boys used to play with. As we ascended to the top and looked over the thriving city, I understood what Monsieur Eiffel was going for. He wanted the citizens of Paris to look upon their home and remember how they all fit together as one community. When they see the tower, they know that they are home.</p><p>It is difficult to imagine Paris without its historic and thriving art scene. Visitors come from around the world to observe some of civilization's most significant pieces and works. During our visit to the Rodin gallery, I posed the question, "<i>Am I moved by his masterpiece Le Penseur because it is iconic, or is it iconic because I am moved by it?" </i>In other words, has pop culture so profoundly appropriated some of these works that we have misplaced our sense of awe when we see them? I felt the same way when we squeezed in at the Louvre to view the Mona Lisa this afternoon. Does she deserve her status as the "world's most famous painting?" Carinne, the private guide we hired for our afternoon at the Louvre, posited a theory. She believes that Mona has become so famous not because she is Da Vinci's best painting but because she was stolen in 1913 and disappeared for more than three years. When she was finally recovered, her story was widely covered in the press, making her far more famous than she deserved. Carinne steered us to a few other of Leonardo's works, and when she pointed out his use of brush strokes and light, it was far easier to imagine how his gift might have been divinely inspired. And while I loved Rodin's Thinker, I was far more captivated by his busts of Victor Hugo and Clemenceau. It is fascinating to realize that what we think we love isn't that which is most popular.</p><p>I never doubted how I would feel at Musée de L'Orangerie. This is the place that houses Monet's <i>Water Lilies. </i>It is difficult to articulate how I felt sitting in the two rooms accommodating the eight massive canvases. Offered to the French state by Monet following the Armistice in November of 1918 as a symbol of peace, the <i>Water Lilies </i>are considered to be one of the seminal works of the twentieth century. The rooms were designed to Monet's specifications so that the viewers would have a contemplative environment to view the work. I could have spent days there. Every time I looked at a different part of the painting, I saw something different. I was drawn into his colours and natural beauties with a soothing calm that almost frightened me. I have always been drawn to the Impressionists and have seen many works in person, but this experience was life-affirming. There is beauty in the world, and God certainly touched the hand of Claude Monet. </p><p>A few random thoughts.</p><p>* We have walked our feet off in these first four days. According to my wildly inaccurate Apple Watch, we have logged about 45KM on foot. After hours in the Louvre this afternoon, I thought I might require a foot transplant.</p><p>* I have still not gotten over the thrill of sitting in an outdoor cafe on the streets of this city. I don't suppose that I ever will.</p><p>* Quiche, crepes, and clafoutis taste better when eaten in Paris.</p><p>* I was shocked at the mall at the base of the Louvre. There were times when it felt like Yorkdale. Welcome to the twenty-first century. </p><p>* Nobody does public space and green space like the Parisians. Watching people sitting in properly maintained parks, reading newspapers, having coffees, and just generally enjoying the outside makes me long for what Toronto has yet to discover. </p><p>* I love the multiculturalism of Paris. People from all over have made this place their home. I have heard many languages. I know that France has had issues integrating immigrants, but it makes me happy to see them try. </p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgHYmCIp1VCCMNEihHxdIhftyDwwjSGZa5xAMZ3tKT0WNZ2RIGpV2hCKOU9HApgXmBtgKAxrtAlwyCKuSUVjbUWTcoIzXv4iJFqtJ_y3c4tKwEudrljziD4ViUX07adLUJ3YRmEfodZYR8k0hJCIC8dbMw1TlloYxrpsQLGhyIa3VSCQicvYhYNTN/s1776/5DA116D4-6F35-43B0-9528-EC8F46943E82-24854-000019E401403C6F.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1776" data-original-width="1184" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgHYmCIp1VCCMNEihHxdIhftyDwwjSGZa5xAMZ3tKT0WNZ2RIGpV2hCKOU9HApgXmBtgKAxrtAlwyCKuSUVjbUWTcoIzXv4iJFqtJ_y3c4tKwEudrljziD4ViUX07adLUJ3YRmEfodZYR8k0hJCIC8dbMw1TlloYxrpsQLGhyIa3VSCQicvYhYNTN/w266-h400/5DA116D4-6F35-43B0-9528-EC8F46943E82-24854-000019E401403C6F.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4mkeozKDnkk3X8WATkNOBxaJ_ns9ufwMJ35moMnnYLlTeCTohDLZyJhNjP93Y1IjARuXXKZ4h4SVuyuj9FNMyBEmfzwcRbii6jD968e2BQSvXfgDt-cOl-EzHYpTUuzPfhe6K1jsDjj6ya4mR-0a11UypciyPO45yB4TrooJoWE-gfP_NNK9w_qz/s1776/6BC03D8E-56DE-4C08-9B09-9012286FAD45-24854-000019E4534D032E.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1776" data-original-width="1184" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl4mkeozKDnkk3X8WATkNOBxaJ_ns9ufwMJ35moMnnYLlTeCTohDLZyJhNjP93Y1IjARuXXKZ4h4SVuyuj9FNMyBEmfzwcRbii6jD968e2BQSvXfgDt-cOl-EzHYpTUuzPfhe6K1jsDjj6ya4mR-0a11UypciyPO45yB4TrooJoWE-gfP_NNK9w_qz/w266-h400/6BC03D8E-56DE-4C08-9B09-9012286FAD45-24854-000019E4534D032E.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Venus de Milo</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXOnuYdwc1DHNvdaSpMx1aqdVLS1WuHMoRWRxPC7MCegcDvaoy8v1QcsFVJ0lf8qdJ8Cx1a5gNJpkeicK6ngCWih-wXZNF761ETpi7wQ4zRgBFWAaYABc_tKJrZ9g-G6SCqUPJ-S4kksrie130hXX6NIYoykA7rpRAra5aeAjXcIJ0bVsJWoaA8v3q/s1776/040A09BA-468C-476D-8432-5DBD3FCE8B5A-23684-000019E1F5A5BEC7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1776" data-original-width="1184" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXOnuYdwc1DHNvdaSpMx1aqdVLS1WuHMoRWRxPC7MCegcDvaoy8v1QcsFVJ0lf8qdJ8Cx1a5gNJpkeicK6ngCWih-wXZNF761ETpi7wQ4zRgBFWAaYABc_tKJrZ9g-G6SCqUPJ-S4kksrie130hXX6NIYoykA7rpRAra5aeAjXcIJ0bVsJWoaA8v3q/w266-h400/040A09BA-468C-476D-8432-5DBD3FCE8B5A-23684-000019E1F5A5BEC7.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadIlBfHGbhgjqATlDLg-qMquLeb2Cluq182caWSz3E-xCCjvQ_Z4bjzPdh6GfjNaE1n0em7uio1ArItiRY2uEA16EvPtVtE-Pme0anJfmGQAmEt9HHot3iUJVGmu7tdv46qL1M1ZsBGgzog-CBiITLcA8YeGrZwkQjlSmNiLeoG9b33F23QnT5T8y/s1776/69A63978-BBD2-4C03-8375-52943EBD0214-24854-000019E51C527287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1776" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadIlBfHGbhgjqATlDLg-qMquLeb2Cluq182caWSz3E-xCCjvQ_Z4bjzPdh6GfjNaE1n0em7uio1ArItiRY2uEA16EvPtVtE-Pme0anJfmGQAmEt9HHot3iUJVGmu7tdv46qL1M1ZsBGgzog-CBiITLcA8YeGrZwkQjlSmNiLeoG9b33F23QnT5T8y/w400-h266/69A63978-BBD2-4C03-8375-52943EBD0214-24854-000019E51C527287.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX4FGBjKHPR9PdJFLHtPinNoEmhDNA6ua3bG_NdNuoc-94dMVfNjwcKpyKGnT8gNMr8XglRlSpGUDuHq8SJCPO_KuwcRLd-WLHpxGe9o2L7ktd9UUAOP28jZKGpASraItlNvhCPsU-QnLz5TEM5FbGNUL8R4yqZ9dxZdFitnCztTFqerIq5Di-FaYD/s1776/B61AEBCB-4731-4755-B15A-A8956864A4ED-24854-000019E55F743754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1776" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX4FGBjKHPR9PdJFLHtPinNoEmhDNA6ua3bG_NdNuoc-94dMVfNjwcKpyKGnT8gNMr8XglRlSpGUDuHq8SJCPO_KuwcRLd-WLHpxGe9o2L7ktd9UUAOP28jZKGpASraItlNvhCPsU-QnLz5TEM5FbGNUL8R4yqZ9dxZdFitnCztTFqerIq5Di-FaYD/w400-h266/B61AEBCB-4731-4755-B15A-A8956864A4ED-24854-000019E55F743754.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwUTXPHCuwKMVpcEzrf8U52XzQVOmnk5ZRGSNqj4Mbfj6Na1oNsMiz5Hwvk62QGBaCFbnJL1eTcMF4jLEisVyn9AlsuYOD7iC4LYOpzd1CkujXEM6WmzueGYpZxmxYO7oFAHm4qd2uQhylYPmIX45Ty_Wgb4Jt0dFWBzpoj122UuaRP3nKwqa_K-O/s1776/666FDEBE-5238-435C-8CC2-862778918C3B-24854-000019E48B9C8FE7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1776" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbwUTXPHCuwKMVpcEzrf8U52XzQVOmnk5ZRGSNqj4Mbfj6Na1oNsMiz5Hwvk62QGBaCFbnJL1eTcMF4jLEisVyn9AlsuYOD7iC4LYOpzd1CkujXEM6WmzueGYpZxmxYO7oFAHm4qd2uQhylYPmIX45Ty_Wgb4Jt0dFWBzpoj122UuaRP3nKwqa_K-O/w400-h266/666FDEBE-5238-435C-8CC2-862778918C3B-24854-000019E48B9C8FE7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrRO8Aa4otf57TXnWIVQu8dzzUtvk44uGudFvl3pWUhdM_1Egq--I_Oc41jnsi8Dur_yeXMJjTGyDLkOewPgyP0-wrokE8VS5C4BCCfxs7nAIHuIE4mVlYiT9QKky6p1lO_QyWXcKPLgsll3ADbfHmRCaBPmYcsVPY_6V_8xVZgY9hSrlHyzx0Nt-V/s736/B31F4E32-2999-4111-9362-6A3C2B5B42A2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="414" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrRO8Aa4otf57TXnWIVQu8dzzUtvk44uGudFvl3pWUhdM_1Egq--I_Oc41jnsi8Dur_yeXMJjTGyDLkOewPgyP0-wrokE8VS5C4BCCfxs7nAIHuIE4mVlYiT9QKky6p1lO_QyWXcKPLgsll3ADbfHmRCaBPmYcsVPY_6V_8xVZgY9hSrlHyzx0Nt-V/w225-h400/B31F4E32-2999-4111-9362-6A3C2B5B42A2.jpeg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Le Penseur</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-27455151934011381752022-10-09T11:43:00.001-04:002022-10-09T12:10:21.592-04:00I Love Paris In The AutumnThere is an exhilaration that comes with travel. The excitement of seeing new things, the tastes and smells of foreign delicacies, and the sheer power of willing oneself to try the once considered ridiculous. <div><br /></div><div>There are also tremendous hassles with travel. The cattle call of airlines, the sleep deprivation, and the inability to remember overpacking for a trip is never a good idea.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a mantra when I travel. <i>Go with the flow</i>. If you expect to sail through customs, you probably won't, so breathe, wait patiently, and <i>go with the flow</i>. If it is your wish to not hit rush hour traffic in Paris, you absolutely will, so <i>go with the flow. </i>If you expect a smooth ride to the airport and then get rear-ended on the Gardiner Expressway, well...what choice did we really have? </div><div><br /></div><div>I am chalking up the limo accident as an omen. If this is the worst thing that happens on this trip, I will take it. Nobody was hurt except the car of the moron behind us, and the driver was so sweet that we volunteered to be witnesses for him should he have issues with his boss or the insurance company.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other little hitch in our travel has been the presence of this virus that just won't let go. The coughing and headaches have been persistent, but neither of us is letting them stop us. Like I said, <i>go with the flow. </i>(in this case, a nasal flow.)</div><div><br /></div><div>We arrived in the City of Lights at daybreak, and after a bit of kerfuffle at customs, we were off in a taxi to our hotel in the very funky and happening ninth arrondissement. (The Follies Bergére is around the corner from us. We can hear the excitement through our windows.) We couldn't check in until three in the afternoon, so rather than risk sleeping on a park bench, we headed out to a corner cafe to grab some breakfast. The weather was perfect, so we sat outside, ordered a baguette and a beverage and soaked up the atmosphere. It was really enticing to think that the six of us were having breakfast on the streets of Paris. There is nothing, and I mean <i>absolutely nothing, </i>like a French baguette with butter. I have been off most carbs for a long time now, but what is the point of being here if I'm not going to indulge in some of the best food in the world. Of course, my French is stalled at a grade thirteen level. My Spanish is far superior, but it is easy to confuse the two languages. I ended up ordering a <i>petit dejeuner para dos personas. </i>My embarrassment knows no bounds.</div><div><br /></div><div>We walked our feet off. We wandered through dozens of Parisian streets and neighbourhoods on little more than a few hours of sleep. The architectural marvel that is Haussman's design leaves me breathless. It is easy to get lost on the narrow streets and the crazy curves, yet I can't think of a better way to pass a day than getting lost in Paris. I am enamoured with the white stone and marble and the wrought-iron balconies. The nineteenth-century cobblestones are still evident in many areas and have been melded together with modern asphalt. Paris is an extremely modern city that maintains its old-world charm. That first day, we simply meandered through town. We found ourselves down by the Seine, and I half-expected Gene Kelly to pop up and dance with Leslie Caron on the left bank. There is a reason why so many songs and movies have been written about Paris. It is simply a city that charms. As the Professional Volunteer remarked as we strolled down the Champs-Elysees, "I am walking on the Champs-Elysees, eating a pain-Chocolat, on a warm October Saturday, with good friends. What could be wrong?</div><div><br /></div><div>A few quick observations.</div><div><br /></div><div>* For a city known for its food, we are having some issues finding good vegetarian cuisine. I feel the need to explain to people that vegetarian doesn't mean tofu cooked in beef broth.</div><div>* I am desperately seeking a Diet Coke. They seem to have gone missing in Paris. They have regular and Coke Zero, but the manna of my existence is awol. The habit may be kicked.</div><div>* It is unseasonably warm and sunny. I am not complaining, but I didn't pack for summer. That said, autumn in Paris is <i>trés magnifique. </i>The leaves are starting to turn, and the parks are all dressed. I am writing this with the windows open and a warm breeze wafting through the room. What a lovely time of year. </div><div>* The Batobus is a marvellous innovation. For the price of twenty Euros, you can hop on and off a boat down the Seine, stopping at points of interest, all while viewing Paris from the water. We could see the construction of Notre Dame from an angle not visible on land. The entire back side of the cathedral is missing. It is impossible to describe the devastation adequately on television. It needs to be seen. That said, the reconstruction is well underway, and it is massive. It could take decades.</div><div>* My friends indulged me and trekked a bit to find Shakespeare and Company, the first English language book store in Paris. It was founded in 1919 by American Sylvia Beach. It attracted some of the great literary ex-pats of the time and became a kind of salon. Ms. Beach was the original publisher of James Joyce's <i style="font-weight: bold;">Ulysses </i>in 1922 when no one else would dare touch the controversial novel. I felt like a visit there was a bit like visiting Mecca.</div><div>* This is one expensive city, and yet, so is Toronto. But I feel like Paris has earned it and Toronto hasn't yet. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_m4GqD2pbgVD_qx-bv3DyAOoO3VLuotRW_aUBNZVsH8iBU-VVjBmVWr04So3v_MYg3y7pFtjEt7l4KJmeeGeJiChlyM2ceWtzcTfF35w5atQEEXtnrI7uIrFpWb2RNU-ptpj5I-I8nD9andz-Z_ZXtgURFgZ4y_ixuA6BvhiO0Ys_7HqotJlLKMvg/s1776/80D3A248-7A15-471E-AE99-17F390832A58-21349-0000187796FFFE83.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1776" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_m4GqD2pbgVD_qx-bv3DyAOoO3VLuotRW_aUBNZVsH8iBU-VVjBmVWr04So3v_MYg3y7pFtjEt7l4KJmeeGeJiChlyM2ceWtzcTfF35w5atQEEXtnrI7uIrFpWb2RNU-ptpj5I-I8nD9andz-Z_ZXtgURFgZ4y_ixuA6BvhiO0Ys_7HqotJlLKMvg/w400-h266/80D3A248-7A15-471E-AE99-17F390832A58-21349-0000187796FFFE83.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5AciRg4GAaTb8H0Y2H3ADXqUw0AETaIx9XXUlmhQPFuL-nPd6LBugIoYzQPzlAsFVkJbvLm00NOLjsaYvgqdTQ-sua958mx-S5LOc3V_dT3G2TruRx1fZsjPhjHlQOaqHHoqZS90CJqB9IZOKwRmpV6GN5_YaWtSfTFXt_ZutIIBmMGejUE5hI3-d/s1265/424DE304-D34F-4569-BBED-E8D5DEE7D77E-23339-00001879A9206032.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1265" data-original-width="843" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5AciRg4GAaTb8H0Y2H3ADXqUw0AETaIx9XXUlmhQPFuL-nPd6LBugIoYzQPzlAsFVkJbvLm00NOLjsaYvgqdTQ-sua958mx-S5LOc3V_dT3G2TruRx1fZsjPhjHlQOaqHHoqZS90CJqB9IZOKwRmpV6GN5_YaWtSfTFXt_ZutIIBmMGejUE5hI3-d/w266-h400/424DE304-D34F-4569-BBED-E8D5DEE7D77E-23339-00001879A9206032.jpeg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9byCzQ286us4m3Ppatyqatf7wKjAL8UuMAB3ZtolcWJL4A476O3adJK0IHA5Bv07FFKIDQdyfmQPhZGsU4mvFTThRiCdezXc993aEGKdVl-evL0jup1xJqH1JjsTRuRIkX8xrb6ZxN6NeTawkc38Ppix_arrQb7Bx7Lyv1CknzYgdePMQo2WcNdGN/s1776/1409D389-F42F-4BAD-BB57-8ACC78E39416-21349-000018776AFBA5D3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1776" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9byCzQ286us4m3Ppatyqatf7wKjAL8UuMAB3ZtolcWJL4A476O3adJK0IHA5Bv07FFKIDQdyfmQPhZGsU4mvFTThRiCdezXc993aEGKdVl-evL0jup1xJqH1JjsTRuRIkX8xrb6ZxN6NeTawkc38Ppix_arrQb7Bx7Lyv1CknzYgdePMQo2WcNdGN/w400-h266/1409D389-F42F-4BAD-BB57-8ACC78E39416-21349-000018776AFBA5D3.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlDhhPbP0oU49rm-sMzI2SyzsFmEzKBi9m28Vd1JSPQvKRBBoRuAn3InDSWRwvd3rEE9rpv_ckFQa0oBNQPbgSUEKVVGlSfTl0RqzrycTPvyo1FH4uAXA_uJMq29zwoklUsyL5Z0lpXK6-GTJvF6-5tYlATk4UQkSiWlnBXWkyjm9boZ_LK8SPNH8/s1776/FEA3D803-8317-472B-9522-F4757C6FF792-23339-00001879F10EE319.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1776" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlDhhPbP0oU49rm-sMzI2SyzsFmEzKBi9m28Vd1JSPQvKRBBoRuAn3InDSWRwvd3rEE9rpv_ckFQa0oBNQPbgSUEKVVGlSfTl0RqzrycTPvyo1FH4uAXA_uJMq29zwoklUsyL5Z0lpXK6-GTJvF6-5tYlATk4UQkSiWlnBXWkyjm9boZ_LK8SPNH8/w400-h266/FEA3D803-8317-472B-9522-F4757C6FF792-23339-00001879F10EE319.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-77685875138520251162022-10-06T14:09:00.003-04:002022-10-06T14:09:42.293-04:00A Return to Travel<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuz55xy2tfQMlAI1lI2IuXQHExPCVjsCDBlyt7B426qerQpUyD0FhXQEL0OKwfOrHSCjRu5sjGCpKFoIvEGzW_45iqGSh_db5RE-5Tuu38TKSyigfg5g9sF1CNfcXY8AqdQgeFDsyhBUA93BfKRbVNP218LDl4D2K4uq70QoY0vtkAl01lSD--XRQx/s259/images.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuz55xy2tfQMlAI1lI2IuXQHExPCVjsCDBlyt7B426qerQpUyD0FhXQEL0OKwfOrHSCjRu5sjGCpKFoIvEGzW_45iqGSh_db5RE-5Tuu38TKSyigfg5g9sF1CNfcXY8AqdQgeFDsyhBUA93BfKRbVNP218LDl4D2K4uq70QoY0vtkAl01lSD--XRQx/s1600/images.png" width="259" /></a></div><br />Are there people out there who still follow this blog/journal?<p></p><p>It feels like a long time since I wrote anything that didn't involve a movie review or a letter to a granddaughter. Covid has been a viral writer's block. <i>Is that oxymoronic?</i> I mean, how many times do you need to hear me bitch and moan about science deniers, politics, or the general malaise I feel. But I hope to address that dearth of writing over the next ten days. </p><p><i>Why you ask? What has me in a writing mood again?</i></p><p>Travel!!!</p><p>Yup. The Husband and I are finally on the move again. Aside from a quick jaunt to Walt's Happy Kingdom with the kids that managed to infect us all with Covid, we are embracing the vagabond lifestyle again. I won't spoil the destination just yet, and for those in the know, please don't ruin the fun for other readers. I will post a picture or two upon our arrival. </p><p>I will say a few preliminary things. We are going to a place where my language skills are suspect and probably will get me into trouble. (It has been a long time since I used this language.) I hope to keep the barf/motion sickness stories to an absolute minimum. In other words, no ships. We are once again travelling with Twin Son and His Better Half. It has been more than four years since we all vacationed together, so we are excited to rejoin our favourite travel buddies. And...we have added to the band. I have thought long and hard about some pseudonyms for them, strictly for blogging purposes. Everybody give a hearty DawnPonders welcome to The Professional Volunteer and Her Curmudgeon. I am so excited to welcome them to this space. Also, The Husband and I have been battling colds for the last week. (NOT COVID. MY MOTHER HAD ME TESTED!) The amount of medications we are lugging is obscene. Hopefully, flying won't be painful.</p><p>So, we broke out the big suitcase, organized the packing cubes, found the converters (a tiny destination hint), grabbed our passports, and we are off. The rest is yet to be written.</p><p>So, tell your friends that I am back amongst the bloggers. I hope that you will follow along, but I will understand if you don't. Watch your social media feeds for updates and for The Husband's photos. He is the second-best photographer I know, and his work is phenomenal. </p><p>In the meantime, enjoy your Thanksgiving, Canadian friends. Chag Sukkat Sameach, Members of the Tribe. And...</p><p>GO JAYS! #nextlevel (and for my Cleveland family, GO GUARDIANS!) Cheer loudly enough so that I can hear you. (I can't believe that I am missing the first round of the playoffs, but we booked this trip months ago. I will follow along at a different time zone.)</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-15368251792581841412022-09-18T10:37:00.003-04:002022-09-18T10:38:03.467-04:00Darkly Irish at TIFF<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8ql-DmSI4W8Yh1XCGT7Fq2XCajdcJO3wCM9JBY1XSPJtQT_jkT8FPKUgWguU8Xx_rBzcMJ7alkoG29oTc61L_8G0Xq9D66-7J0v1RXaShyEcBrIQxPUR5kGVhxEE5oSQQ15Au1_Pjy5ll_hU-hEVjEIP5Iw7LL9GEh5WAdzdipv42VzFR2pmRAMm/s400/Jh_lhkjw_400x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8ql-DmSI4W8Yh1XCGT7Fq2XCajdcJO3wCM9JBY1XSPJtQT_jkT8FPKUgWguU8Xx_rBzcMJ7alkoG29oTc61L_8G0Xq9D66-7J0v1RXaShyEcBrIQxPUR5kGVhxEE5oSQQ15Au1_Pjy5ll_hU-hEVjEIP5Iw7LL9GEh5WAdzdipv42VzFR2pmRAMm/s320/Jh_lhkjw_400x400.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Editor's Note: For the seventh consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans of this madness, they have scaled back their viewing opportunities due to recent bouts with Covid and the fact that the TIFF website is a colossal shitshow, causing them to totally screw up our package. The roster of films is back up to pre-pandemic levels but is disappointingly sparse this year on digital viewing. Therefore, there will only be three films screened. Sitting through a two to three-hour film while masked is not ideal, but we do it in the name of normalcy and entertainment. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very short bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.</i><p></p><p>A caveat. I love Ireland. It is, most assuredly, one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited. I love Irish theatre, literature, actors, and films. I believe the Irish create some of the most original and innovative art in the English-speaking world. So, knowing my quirky love of the Irish and with great excitement, we chose our final film for TIFF 2022, <b><i>The Banshees of Inisherin. </i></b></p><p>Writer/director Martin McDonagh reunites his <i style="font-weight: bold;">In Bruges </i>costars Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson in one of the strangest and darkest comedies of the year. Set on a fictitious island off the coast of Ireland against the backdrop of the Irish civil war, McDonagh sharply examines the contours of friendship and how relationships can rapidly devolve. Farrell's slightly dim Padraic simply cannot fathom why his lifelong friend, Colm, doesn't want him in his life any longer. This is a career-defining performance from Colin Farrell. He imbues Padraic with such pathos and likeability that it is impossible not to feel his pain. Gleeson is his equal in every way, and as the relationship descends to its depths, it is Gleeson who maintains the equilibrium. The rest of the cast is spectacular as well. Kerry Condon is phenomenal as Padraic's worried sister, who can't wait to flee an obviously bizarre situation, as is Barry Keough, a troubled kid who simply cannot fathom the weirdness around him. There isn't a misstep in the entire film.</p><p>Whereas McDonagh's previous film <i style="font-weight: bold;">Three Billboards in Ebbing Missouri, </i>was frenetic and tough, <i style="font-weight: bold;">Banshees </i>relishes a more languid pace and environment but with no less sharpness and bitterness. The film really does belong to Mr. Farrell, and his win for Best Actor at the Venice Film Festival portends a busy awards season for him. </p><p>TIFF 2022 was an abbreviated one for us, but we hit home runs with all three of our films.</p><p><i>Dawn and The Husband give </i><b style="font-style: italic;">The Banshees of Inisherin </b><span style="font-style: italic;">two enthusiastic YUPS.</span></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-6432972646833895592022-09-15T10:54:00.004-04:002022-09-18T10:11:48.779-04:00TIFFing with The Fabelmans<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOq5oYPw6cLYlkF8qACV0YNvwpyWh-LdvnbjLC9FqANWwa1T5VT5SwIfTsmDIQ2H7PNh9at3ouX-MpHi9yTdrT-6hal4DPqbQ69p1bwpZ7tJaieeOqo6lAdHjBQOdXjSQNwICcATdAOMoOJmgKzJ0rmhHlSnIjO5aMMmF65NarWiykqBGRBS-JEDK/s400/Jh_lhkjw_400x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvOq5oYPw6cLYlkF8qACV0YNvwpyWh-LdvnbjLC9FqANWwa1T5VT5SwIfTsmDIQ2H7PNh9at3ouX-MpHi9yTdrT-6hal4DPqbQ69p1bwpZ7tJaieeOqo6lAdHjBQOdXjSQNwICcATdAOMoOJmgKzJ0rmhHlSnIjO5aMMmF65NarWiykqBGRBS-JEDK/s320/Jh_lhkjw_400x400.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Editor's Note: For the seventh consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans of this madness, they have scaled back their viewing opportunities due to recent bouts with Covid and the fact that the TIFF website is a colossal shitshow, causing them to totally screw up our package. The roster of films is back up to pre-pandemic levels but is disappointingly sparse this year on digital viewing. Therefore, there will only be three films screened. Sitting through a two to three-hour film while masked is not ideal, but we do it in the name of normalcy and entertainment. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very short bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been warned.</i><p></p><div>When was the last time you went to a movie after 8:00pm? How about even later than that? When selecting our films for this year's edition of TIFF, we were dismayed by how many of our favourites were limited to late-night viewings. TIFF has evolved over the years, but no change seems as pronounced and noticeable as limiting many daytime screenings to industry and the press. We used to be able to attend a screening at noon; now, many of those times are severely curtailed to the public. I don't know if this is a product of returning to a post-pandemic festival or if it is a natural outgrowth of the industry, but I am less than enamoured by the policy. TIFF has become less the "People's Festival" and more an industry standard. I'm not impressed.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is how we found ourselves in a theatre for a 9:00pm showing of Steven Spielberg's semi-autobiographical <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Fabelmans. </i>This film is Spielberg's first ever shown at TIFF and is definitely a hot ticket. There is no hiding the highly personal nature of this film for the great director. He takes us back to his childhood and adolescence and shows us, in muted detail, the influences of his art. It is a love letter to his parents, siblings, and the movies. While we weren't fortunate enough to be at the screening he was at, Mr. Spielberg felt it essential to have his three sisters in the audience at the premiere on Saturday. I suspect he mined their memories as well for this film. I am pretty sure he couldn't have made this film while his parents were still alive. His father died in 2020 at 102, while his mother died at the ripe old age of 97. He probably needed some distance from them to make such a personal piece of art. </div><div><br /></div><div>While it is fun to surmise how Spielberg came to many of his ideas and film techniques, this movie is really Michelle Williams' tour de force. She plays his flighty and fabulous mother with such conviction that I almost felt like I was witnessing Leah Spielberg through Mitzie Fabelman. She imbues this highly complex character with so many layers and subtleties. Ms. Williams will undoubtedly be recognized during awards season, and I won't be surprised to see Judd Hirsch with a nomination as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Spielberg doesn't shy away from his Judaism or the antisemitism he faced as a young man. It obviously informed his character a great deal, and the importance of his place as an outsider is sprinkled throughout his films. That said, there was one bit of Judaica that really bugged me. At the film's beginning, the Fabelmans are lighting a <i>chanukiyah, </i>and they are doing it wrong. They are lighting it from left to right rather than from right to left. It was a raspberry seed in my Jewish tooth. I realize this is picayune from a Jew, but I guarantee it will be noted by many upon the film's release. Is there anybody out there who can get word to Mr. Spielberg so that he might remedy the problem?</div><div><br /></div><div>It seems almost cliche to say that a Spielberg film is fantastic, but <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Fabelmans </i>is fantastic. It is a character-driven film that gives tremendous insight into one of the greatest artists of his generation. I just wish that I could have seen it at a more reasonable hour.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Dawn and The Husband give The Fabelmans two enthusiastic YUPS.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-22309348867013815232022-09-11T12:46:00.002-04:002022-09-11T13:01:07.455-04:00We Are Back In Person At TIFF<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGG3gdjPRlddL2G6fIybRTj31zMhzT1oHdAe--mTPZ7kmpapLiOHZGbFBaxqKlv-DqOdvmaIB5q-GHrH-iFxHSd78qjdVufuqsOBrATYeHHyocTgBnsoYutcODsOCTmRVxtuiV4dC0fsx0tso-1xQbqqnUnZfhD2UwnX5pk3ltPGom95HW6DS4d_tb/s400/Jh_lhkjw_400x400.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGG3gdjPRlddL2G6fIybRTj31zMhzT1oHdAe--mTPZ7kmpapLiOHZGbFBaxqKlv-DqOdvmaIB5q-GHrH-iFxHSd78qjdVufuqsOBrATYeHHyocTgBnsoYutcODsOCTmRVxtuiV4dC0fsx0tso-1xQbqqnUnZfhD2UwnX5pk3ltPGom95HW6DS4d_tb/s320/Jh_lhkjw_400x400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;">Editor's Note: For the seventh consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans of this madness, they have scaled back their viewing opportunities due to recent bouts with Covid and the fact that the TIFF website is a colossal shitshow, causing them to totally screw up our package. The roster of films is back up to pre-pandemic levels but is disappointingly sparse this year on digital viewing. Therefore, there will only be three films screened. Sitting through a two to three-hour film while masked is not ideal, but we do it in the name of normalcy and entertainment. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills and allows for some much-needed escapism during these tumultuous times. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very short bullet point reviews for the movies seen. You've all been </i><i style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;">warned.</i><p></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery </b>is the most fun I've spent in a movie theatre in three years. It is also the only time I have spent in a movie theatre in three years. Rian Johnson's sequel to his 2019 sleeper hit <i style="font-weight: bold;">Knives Out </i>is a loving homage to Agatha Christie with a touch of Monty Python thrown in for good measure. I will not spoil it in any way except to say that the cast is first-rate, the story is wonderfully entertaining and Daniel Craig is marvellous once again as the loquacious detective Benoit Blanc. To say more would be to ruin the fun and the numerous surprises that pop up throughout the film. </span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;">Netflix is the producer of this movie, so my guess is that it will have a debut on the streaming site within months. Rush to your televisions or computers to watch it and <i>please, please, please, </i>refrain from reading any press or spoilers. It will destroy the film. I don't even want to tell you who is in it. Enjoy it as a <i style="font-weight: bold;">Glass Onion </i>virgin. And, if you haven't yet seen the original, what the hell are you waiting for. Movies like these are rare these days.</span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><i>Dawn and The Husband give <span style="font-weight: bold;">Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery </span>two enthusiastic YUPS!</i></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><br /></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><br /></span></p><p><i style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.199999809265137px;"><br /></i></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-36676211309277227212022-08-04T18:48:00.021-04:002022-08-04T18:52:00.535-04:00A Letter To Talia On Her First Birthday<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9TaFUUvcYkLH8FfDLQlTthrJxnLKKSWStXNU41hOkmwQ_XWtA9bD09z2WXRj5L67hVsgvfn8RT4qChWJArcHLrgIuWf-ZcyhsGRjsNsc3krXc7rzdmY78fSIY57zyQuEPF39E6oH9jeI__wDvzejInQHZLAhKfz7HjrToB65Ox-YQshgM-GU0__W/s1588/il_1588xN.3817122329_i6s2.jpg.webp" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1588" data-original-width="1588" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-9TaFUUvcYkLH8FfDLQlTthrJxnLKKSWStXNU41hOkmwQ_XWtA9bD09z2WXRj5L67hVsgvfn8RT4qChWJArcHLrgIuWf-ZcyhsGRjsNsc3krXc7rzdmY78fSIY57zyQuEPF39E6oH9jeI__wDvzejInQHZLAhKfz7HjrToB65Ox-YQshgM-GU0__W/w283-h400/il_1588xN.3817122329_i6s2.jpg.webp" width="283" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table>Dearest Talia,<p></p><p>I have started and erased this letter so many times now. I have committed to writing to you and your sister on birthdays, and I have been successful. I haven't missed one yet. But, for some reason, this year has felt different, and the writing hasn't come with ease. Perhaps it is because the world around us feels very broken, and I want these letters to have a modicum of hope. The generations in front of you have certainly messed things up with great flair, but I need to believe that there is a phoenix in the embers of our collective pyre that will rise with you and the promise you hold.</p><p>I think there is another reason that writing this year's letter has been far more arduous. Milestone birthdays can be really joyous, as is this your first. This past year has been filled with touchstones for you; your first smile, your first giggle, your first strawberry, your first babble. Each one is a barometer of your growth and a measure of the person you are becoming. I simply melt while watching the gleam you get in those big blue eyes when Molly comes to play with you. I love watching your curiosity spark while trying to figure out a new toy. I adore that you growl like a baby raptor when you are <i>"hangry." </i><i> </i>I am amazed at how you eat anything and everything, and you never seem to be sated. <i>Seriously. Where does it all go? So much food in such a tiny human. </i>Milestones. Each and every one of these deserves commemoration. There are so many more to come, and I can't wait to cheer them all. Turning one is a tremendous milestone. May it be the first of many. </p><p>But, milestones can also be a time of reflection and contemplation. As it happens, I, too, am celebrating a milestone birthday this year. Last week, I had a conversation with someone dear to me. This person was incredulous at the idea that turning sixty might bother me. I explained that while I am not upset at the thought of getting older, this particular birthday feels different to me than previous "big ones." It somehow seems more ominous and finite. Now, don't misunderstand. My health is good, and I am not complaining, except for the various minor aches and pains that seem to be on permanent rotation through my body. I am forever looking in a mirror and seeing new lines and creases that didn't seem to exist yesterday. And while these don't perturb me all that much, they are a tangible sign of aging. Aging for a one-year-old is the excitement of impending first steps. Aging for a sixty-year-old is the realization that changes can be ominous. I'm taking a few more medications and sleeping far fewer hours. I have parents who require more assistance and children who need less. </p><p>But, if the pandemic and its inherent isolation have taught me anything, it is that we should celebrate whenever we get the chance. So, I look forward to turning sixty with a bit of trepidation and a whole lot of excitement. I will never forget that I've been blessed with the presence of both of my parents well into their golden years and that they, in turn, have been blessed to know their great-grandchildren. I have a partner who adores me, and even though you might have suspicions about him, your Zaidy is the best. My sons are good men, and they love their families. Positive male role models are at a premium these days. Your daddy, your uncles, and your grandfathers are genuinely five-star. Look to them when men confuse you. Your mommy has become my daughter in all ways. She will be your rock, and, if you allow her, your confidant. Finally, your sister reminded me that teaching and bequeathing are sacred responsibilities. She is blazing the trail for you. She is your best friend and your best teacher. The two of you are my everything. My milestone birthday may be a bit more daunting than yours, but I never lose sight that I am grateful to be celebrating it. <i>So, cupcakes for everybody.</i></p><p>Talia, you have much learning and growing to do. I am so excited to watch you unfold. Your name comes from Hebrew, which means <i>"dew from heaven," </i>and that is precisely what you are. You have been a bit of "<i>mayim chayim," </i>water of life, to all of us this year. While the world around you has been a bit chaotic, you have been the calming influence. You observe before you react. You study and then decide. You speak with authority even though you are speaking your own language. You are gradually finding your place in this crazy family. I have a sneaking suspicion that it won't be at the back of the line. </p><p>Happy First Birthday, נכדתי היקרה, <i>mi</i> <i>nieta, </i>my darling granddaughter. You are a milestone. May the coming year bring you health, joy, excitement, wonder, and peace. Learn, grow, be strong, be wise, and be happy. I love you with all of my being.</p><p><i>Love,</i></p><p><i>Bubby</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-74762981161115176992022-05-17T11:46:00.000-04:002022-05-17T11:46:45.083-04:00An Update From My 60s Project. <p>Depending on my mood, I promised you a series of posts that would celebrate or lament my upcoming milestone birthday at the end of the year. In typical Dawn fashion, I have found dozens of things far more essential to occupy my time and writing has become an afterthought. And while surfing the intertoobs for comfortable socks was a massive priority during those many months of lockdown, reconnecting with friends and family has taken precedence over fiddling around in this space or <i>any </i>space online. There are people to see, places to go, and celebrations to attend. We do so with great caution, masks, and lots of testing, but off we go. This brings me to how lovely it has been to see all of the happy pictures on social media over the last few days. Photos of newly minted graduates, happy couples celebrating engagements, weddings, new digs, and brand new babies have filled my timelines. It is a happy reversal from the usual doomscrolling, and with the improved weather, my disposition has definitely shifted. To facilitate my reemergence into the land of human interaction, I was in desperate need of some new clothes.</p><p>I can't possibly be the only person on earth who spent significant chunks of the pandemic clad in yoga pants, sweatshirts, and Crocs? It was almost as if my lifelong fashion choices had been validated by seven billion people. Every few weeks, I would slip on a pair of jeans to make sure that they still fit, but comfort was definitely the watchword of the lockdown. And now I find myself in a crisis of conscience. What does an almost sexagenarian wear to a wedding these days?</p><p><i>An aside. How great is that word? Sexagenarian. I am all a flutter at its provocativeness. I realize that its roots have absolutely nothing to do with erotica, but I very much like the idea of a sexy sixty.</i></p><p><i>Where was I? Ah yes...clothing.</i></p><p>I have never enjoyed clothes shopping. It is the furthest thing from a passion, and I have always been far more about functionality and comfort than style. Also, I loathe trying on clothes at a store with the fiery passion of the seventh circle of hell. One simply hasn't lived a full and complete life until one has had a salesperson remark on the size of one's breasts or the glaring lack of one's butt. These are encounters that have been imprinted on my psyche, and a lifetime of positive affirmation statements won't diminish them. In addition, trying on clothes that countless others have already squeezed themselves into seems unsanitary right now, but accepting social invitations means dressing in something more than a tank top and workout bra. Knowing that several weddings and functions were coming up this spring gave me the "dry heaves" when figuring out an outfit for my figure. So, I did the unthinkable.</p><p>I surfed the intertoob waves. </p><p><i>I can hear the screams of derision coming through the screen. </i></p><p>Yes, I shopped online for a dress for my nephew's and almost niece's wedding. And, here's the kicker.</p><p><b><i>I WAS SUCCESSFUL!!</i></b></p><p>I am as stunned as you must be. It isn't like I'm an easy fit. The options don't exactly overflow when you are under five feet tall, have short legs, a long waist, and big boobs. Standard sizing has been one of the banes of my existence. But, I was running low on options. Omicron was everywhere, and I was extraordinarily uncomfortable venturing into a store. I don't sew. <i>(The Mother of the Groom/aka The Yin to the Lil' Bro's Yang, is the artsy one in the family, and she is making her dress. I have no doubt it will be of Vera Wang quality.)</i> So, I was left with the intertoobs or sackcloth and ashes.</p><p>In February, I was in the Southern Home and was taking a cursory peek at some online dress shops. I was looking more for the style than an actual dress. I was stunned to find a shop that carried a variety of appropriate petite outfits that 1) didn't make me look like a dowager, 2) had a variety of colour palettes, 3) were made of fabrics that were both easy to keep and very forgivable in all the right places, and 4) wouldn't make me feel as though I was mortgaging my grandchildren's future education. I closed the computer and said no. This can't be possible. But, Jeff Bezos and internet cookies changed my mind. </p><p>The site followed me around the web to Amazon. It seems as though this shop also has an Amazon shop that carries the same merchandise. They were willing to ship the dress via Amazon Prime with a one hundred percent refundable return policy. And on Amazon, it was thirty percent cheaper. I hovered over the keyboard for a while before hitting send. I figured that I would simply return it when it came and was wholly unsuitable.</p><p>The next evening, the dress arrived at my door. The Husband was incredulous.</p><p><i>"You know you'll hate it, don't you?" </i>he said. <i>(Everybody needs a supportive partner.)</i></p><p>I went into the bedroom, slipped off my sweats, and tugged on the dress. When I tell you that it fits as though it were made to measure, I am not exaggerating. It doesn't require hemming; it covers my problematic body areas; it's comfortable; I can wear a regular bra, and it has a bit of bling on the hip. I walked into the other room to show The Husband, and his reply was,</p><p><i>"How did you do that?" (SUPPORTIVE!)</i></p><p>Still totally flabbergasted, I made my way to my mom's to show her. I was confident that she would have some concerns because moms are trained to see the big picture. </p><p>She stood stunned, and her only question was, <i>"Do you have shoes?"</i></p><p><i>I DO!</i></p><p>The dress is now hanging in my closet, awaiting the chuppah this weekend and two other functions later this spring. </p><p>A lifetime of shopping trauma had led to this moment. It was the most accessible and least miserable retail experience in my almost sixty years. </p><p>There is a moral to this story. Clothing can look great and be comfortable. There are ways to dress without torture and expense, and we women shouldn't have to wait until we are sixty to figure it out. So, <i>fuck </i>standard sizing, <i>fuck</i> hating our bodies, <i>fuck</i> overpaying for an outfit you will only wear once, and <i>fuck </i>others telling you what is fashionable.</p><p>Here's the dress. I promise to post a photo of me in it after the weekend. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohvNTzA4qyBIyy36-6Ut9zuEGwVF4QYJe4XDJhv029bJxRv06fqC_QPreVnDVuOixKAG6LVNWVoAFkPOjHPKQqom3nGD_LDwR-AMXwZDp5EM_I_a2mClxHEUkBtJNFNVQtiVIEW4m4oSC00TpuQaNR5S_CYi74gBZA9VoG7AHa2e3XHLps9yL7mA1/s4032/IMG_1681.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohvNTzA4qyBIyy36-6Ut9zuEGwVF4QYJe4XDJhv029bJxRv06fqC_QPreVnDVuOixKAG6LVNWVoAFkPOjHPKQqom3nGD_LDwR-AMXwZDp5EM_I_a2mClxHEUkBtJNFNVQtiVIEW4m4oSC00TpuQaNR5S_CYi74gBZA9VoG7AHa2e3XHLps9yL7mA1/w300-h400/IMG_1681.heic" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-26696698704904037212022-04-04T09:16:00.001-04:002022-04-04T10:12:58.993-04:00A Letter To Molly On Her Fourth Birthday<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNzbqO9DoE73Tsg78zCkChR3MSD_QVyfeV45QjX5srLPLQ2l4XXa6W2ifSMPosM1i_Fper9LUrqwJ9_f-KtlNxN-pIF27yHQYnzYxgMEd6AC0HnaHZqrfGkh9v8ZAYbNRMxn7kOTrhOpqTshrfZBGxikKSWnPvT_-UwwxHuOz5EIRRX7_0D2q3waW/s839/IMG_7582.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="839" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNzbqO9DoE73Tsg78zCkChR3MSD_QVyfeV45QjX5srLPLQ2l4XXa6W2ifSMPosM1i_Fper9LUrqwJ9_f-KtlNxN-pIF27yHQYnzYxgMEd6AC0HnaHZqrfGkh9v8ZAYbNRMxn7kOTrhOpqTshrfZBGxikKSWnPvT_-UwwxHuOz5EIRRX7_0D2q3waW/w320-h264/IMG_7582.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <i>My Dearest Molly,</i><p></p><p>I wrote the first of these missives a few weeks after you were born, and I have continued to post them annually on your birthday. As you approach your Flashy Four, I find it difficult to gather my thoughts into coherent sentences. The world is a really shitty place right now. (<i>Yes...Bubby cussed. It is something that Bubby does, and I rarely apologize for it.)</i> I wish it wasn't, but I promised that I would never lie to you. Sometimes, things are difficult. Occasionally, we all feel overwhelmed and exhausted. It isn't weak to admit that we are tired, need help, and need to lean on others. How I wish I was turning four like you, and the only care I might have is whether Mommy and Daddy will let me watch Paw Patrol after dinner. I hope that when we talk about this miserable era one day, you will only have snatches and glimpses of memory. I hope you recall how hard everybody worked to keep your life as normal as possible. I hope you remember how you readily accepted wearing a mask and how it became a mantra for keeping you and your friends healthy. I hope that you remember how wonderful your preschool was and the outstanding teachers that put joy in every day for you. </p><p><i>I hope...</i></p><p>Last week, you and I sang some of our favourite songs from <i style="font-weight: bold;">Encanto</i>. Unsurprisingly, you know all of the lyrics and most of the choreography. Daddy says that you are a sponge. You hear or see something once, and it becomes a part of you. I asked you if you had a favourite character. Your answer was typically long and winding, as you named off the entire Madrigal family. I asked you if you could guess who my favourite Madrigal was. Excitedly, you yelled out, <i>"Luisa!" "How did you know that?" </i>I asked. And you said, <i>"She's the strong one."</i></p><p>You were absolutely correct. Luisa is the strong one. She can move mountains, and she takes responsibility for everyone else in the family. But, I also told you another reason why I love Luisa. Luisa is strong, but sometimes she cries. You asked me, <i>"Why does she cry?"</i> I told you that sometimes everybody feels sad, and it is absolutely ok to cry when we do. You knowingly nodded your head. It was like I was having a mini therapy session. It was an intense and philosophical conversation to have with a four-year-old. You then showed me your Paw Patrol pups, and the universe was in total balance again. You gave me permission to cry that day, and I will be forever grateful. </p><p>Four is such a magical age. Four-year-olds are the "in-between," not really babies or toddlers but not quite ready for the prime time of memory-laden childhood. <i>But, oh, the things you can do and the things you say. </i>Four-year-olds speak their minds without the filter that comes with age. Oh, how I wish I could utter some of the things you do and get away with it just because I'm four. There is a purity to your thought that is marvellous. It is yet to be tainted by rules of civility and propriety. Only young people and old people can live their lives without any shits to give. Those of us in the middle are stuck dealing with decorousness and etiquette. Enjoy it while you can, dear one. The decorum police will soon be on your doorstep.</p><p>You are a whirling dervish of imagination and chatter. There are times when I am sure that your parents just turn on the TV so that you will stop talking. I love it! I love listening to your stories. I want to crawl inside your brain and watch it work. I am in constant awe of everything that comes out of your mouth. Don't stop talking, Molly. Keep expressing yourself in ways that get you noticed. Tell the world how you feel and never hide your emotions. If someone calls you a chatterbox, tell them that you are loquacious. Words matter, and how we use them matters. Never allow yourself to be defined by somebody else's negative perception.</p><p>Are you stubborn? No, you are strong-willed<i>. </i>Are you picky? No, you are discerning. Be yourself, but be kind.</p><p>Kindness is in such short supply these days. People have forgotten how to interact and behave. And yet, I see it in you all the time when you comfort a friend who is having a difficult day at school or in the gentle way you treat Talia. Kindness matters so very much. We often forget that we need each other, and if we forge a bond of compassion and empathy, we can get through the difficult times together. Always return to kindness, Molly. There will be times when anger takes over, and your words might be sharp, but trust your kind heart. It will not fail you.</p><p>I have been so impressed with how wonderful a big sister you are. Talia is still so new and still learning so much. I love how you make it your mission to make her smile and laugh. Nobody makes that baby laugh harder than you. She adores you. I watch her face light up when you come close. She trusts you implicitly and wants so much to be like you. Sisters have a bond that is unlike any other. She will be your best friend, biggest fan, and best confidant. She will probably also be your biggest nemesis, aggravation, and irritant. Remember the good stuff and minimize the bad. Your relationship with your sister will be your most important and enduring. Cherish each other and work together. Always be there for her. </p><p>You have grown so much this year. There is some wariness, and that is normal. I believe in caution, but it is essential to never let nerves overtake your desire to try something new. There are so many exciting adventures awaiting you this coming year, and it is my hope you dive in with both feet and embrace all that is offered. </p><p>I am in constant awe of you. I love who you are becoming and am fascinated by what fascinates you. You are in ceaseless motion, and I wish I had a tenth of your energy. Keep dancing with joy. Continue to help with the cooking and baking because they feed both body and soul. Keep trying new things and embracing fresh escapades. Never stop asking questions and never settle for the easy answers when you feel them lacking.</p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">Happy 4th Birthday, Molly. </i>Celebrate it with dance and cake because life is always better with cake. </p><p>I love you to the moon and back.</p><p><i>Love,</i></p><p><i>Bubby</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-28878127207054280372022-03-03T15:32:00.000-05:002022-03-03T15:32:06.571-05:00My 60s Project<p>I haven't written a great deal lately. You might consider that a hidden blessing, depending on your perspective, but the truth of the matter is that I haven't had anything all that interesting to say. It would be so easy to comment on every ill and injustice that is happening right now but screaming into an empty void isn't really my style. If you all are anything like me these days, you are exhausted. <i>I mean, "fall on the floor ten minutes after you've gotten out of bed because the world is a flaming pile of pigeon dung" exhausted.</i> It is my guess that you are probably even more stonkered by amateur hacks like me spouting bullshit from every corner of the internet. My malarky metre pings actively these days. I have wearied of friends, family, and mere acquaintances posting whatever brainfart they conjure and I have yet to figure out if that is a product of my advancing age or the first real signs of my own personal apocalypse. For the sake of my mental health, I am going with the "getting old" theory and I have decided that after more than two years of stunted personal development and growth, I am ready to re-engage with society. I pray to whatever deity who is listening that I don't bore the crap out of my tens of readers. Rather, I wanted to embark upon a year-long project of essay writing. You see, I have a pretty big and round-numbered birthday approaching at the end of this calendar year. I am hoping to record some of my thoughts about where I have been and where I see myself going as I climb that mound of advancing years and slip quietly into dotage. My goal is to find something worthwhile or trivial to examine in pixels every month. As it is now March, I am obviously already behind in this quest. Chalk that up to the aforementioned soul-crushing exhaustion. I promise to catch up so that hopefully, there will be a dozen or so essays at year's end. Don't feel obligated to read or to follow along. I am simply sending out a fair warning of my upcoming intellectual masturbatory tendencies.</p><p>As that decade of doom rapidly approaches, I really don't feel all that different from when I entered my thirties, forties, or fifties. Many of my old anxieties still haunt me. I still feel a roiling discomfort in my own abilities that I am certain to never fully shake. I don't want to suggest that I haven't evolved at all. I have definitely mellowed and the shit doesn't hit the fan nearly as often as it did twenty years ago. I have suffered loss and change and I have been witness to great joys. I have come to terms with the realities of life and have found most of them to be pretty damn good. If the past two years have taught me anything, it is to live every day as if there might not be another. It has been tough to do when fear and disease are everywhere and the boredom of isolation has fully ingratiated itself into my psyche. I will admit to thinking about death far more often than I ever have before. When you have lost people to this disease, pondering one's own mortality is an inevitable by-product of the process. I am not trying to be morbid but rather existential. How do I want to live the rest of my time? How do I wish those days to unfold? Nora Ephron once said, "<i>Eat every meal as if it's your last; when the last one comes, you probably won't be very hungry." </i>Do I really want my last meal to be a bowl of All-Bran because it aids in my digestion?</p><p>Lately, I have been giving thought to some of these questions. What do those next days and years hold? And so...I am answering one of the many niggling issues confronting me right now. There comes a point in every woman's life when she looks at herself in the mirror, sees the image before her and asks that age-old question, <i>"Colour or grey?</i></p><p>The pandemic has made this question moot for so many. Allowing the grey to flow freely has been a wonderful side effect of the lockdowns. Those roots that cost so many of us thousands of dollars to eradicate are now liberating hues of silvery-white. And age has nothing to do with it. I've seen women in their thirties who are embracing the natural. I am fascinated by their serenity and the ease with which they have welcomed their new shades. They are so beautiful, each and every one of them. I see that shimmering halo of grey around my own crown and as I hope to embrace my inner Gloria Steinem, I yell into my reflection at the top of my lungs...</p><p><i>AH, HELL NO! I'M NOT READY YET! </i> </p><p>I still feel the need to look in that mirror and recognize myself. Call it vanity or call it insecurity. I am going to continue to embrace the colouring bottle for a wee bit longer. Does it make me weak? Maybe, but the greatest part of feminism is being able to choose how I deal with my own body. This week, I watched a wonderful contestant on Jeopardy who was coming out of her last course of chemotherapy. In that first episode, her hair was long and flowing as she discussed her recent diagnosis and recovery. In the next three episodes, we discovered that she had been wearing a wig and that she wanted to show herself with her new growth post-chemo hair. She talked about how sometimes, cancer patients will wear a wig not only for themselves but for the comfort of others. She was insistent about removing the stigma and being seen for all that she is and all that she had been through. I admire her and her authenticity so very much. </p><p>Maybe when that birthday creeps up on me in December, I might try on a new colour. What do you all think of fuchsia?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2CYcHXjT1JzLPGzPOT8KCgqmPSli7pPSkoF_yjhsdhXSTyBq9XyPrVBSGvXzyCdBrGiwq8Kkk2T78Pyh_6LoVvX7wmDd29np96E4IKsqjC7aUmt42B0VSpZjxDpv26RwWMLGrfBKCxENRnXXEkiKVZAEa1XTC3OLgclICgxq3_B0Lm0QPUn7LUDj_=s1255" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1255" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2CYcHXjT1JzLPGzPOT8KCgqmPSli7pPSkoF_yjhsdhXSTyBq9XyPrVBSGvXzyCdBrGiwq8Kkk2T78Pyh_6LoVvX7wmDd29np96E4IKsqjC7aUmt42B0VSpZjxDpv26RwWMLGrfBKCxENRnXXEkiKVZAEa1XTC3OLgclICgxq3_B0Lm0QPUn7LUDj_=s320" width="275" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149626825782442228.post-76526217130166147962022-01-01T14:40:00.003-05:002022-01-01T16:31:18.688-05:00The Learning Curve of 2021<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGEy_p3K1-6ZhhLLVA7VL1X-SRziYrCHC0OBTN3ozMfd9vFSrK34fCCrNWHrMHtzq8yEcyThP3GryItJp5EOeEFOVeO8g1TG_5HoHwXlYqqMGNbP6b6Zh2WXjN9lRiQafYbgC2drDejTXucx3UsI0yqS9cvC8_iofjx20ziLjTBiKbf9F2syX0XjwD=s800" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="800" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGEy_p3K1-6ZhhLLVA7VL1X-SRziYrCHC0OBTN3ozMfd9vFSrK34fCCrNWHrMHtzq8yEcyThP3GryItJp5EOeEFOVeO8g1TG_5HoHwXlYqqMGNbP6b6Zh2WXjN9lRiQafYbgC2drDejTXucx3UsI0yqS9cvC8_iofjx20ziLjTBiKbf9F2syX0XjwD=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />I went for an early morning walk today. I saw a lot more people running, walking, doing yoga, or tai-chi than I would on a typical day. I chalked it up to New Year's Resolutions and probable new personal commitments to exercise. I wonder just how many of those intrepid runners will still be at it come February? Because that's the thing about resolutions. They are usually doomed to fail unless one has a constitution of steel and a mind ready to bring on change. Most of us simply don't have either.<p></p><p>It is why I rarely start fresh on January 1st. Other than Betty White no longer walking this planet, what has really changed since yesterday? Change can only happen with true fidelity to the cause and real change comes from growth, experience, and education. I am a big believer in the power of knowledge and learning. And so it was, that I asked some friends to share with me one thing that they had learned throughout 2021. <i>One thing</i>. It could be a thing that led to something positive in their lives or it could be a realization that something toxic needed excising. <i>One thing learned. </i>It seems so simple when the question is asked but for some, it required a bit of soul-searching. I was impressed by the answers and the generosity with which they were shared. </p><p>Some took the opportunity to have tangible and hands-on learning experiences.</p><p><i>"I have started to learn to paint in acrylics. A new hobby that can be done at home. I took a TDSB adult education course online to get started--an opportunity not usually available."~Janice S.</i></p><p><i>"I learned to use Squarespace to set up my new website. Definitely a learning curve."~Sandee S.</i></p><p><i>"After years of painting in acrylic, I am learning to paint in oil."~Karen P.</i></p><p><i>"I learned that I love plants, that 10K+ steps per day are great for the soul, and that a little TV is relaxing.~Kim A </i></p><p><i>"I've learned how to use an industrial leather sewing machine. (I help my wife realize her creations.) Working on learning leather tooling and carving."~Scott M.</i></p><p>Last year in this space, I remarked how important new hobbies and ventures had become to me during the early days of the pandemic and that continued into 2021. Baking, cooking, and online classes have continued to stimulate my mind and feed both body and spirit. I am in awe of people with artistic abilities and can't wait to see the fruits of their labours. </p><p>But...there was more. Friends who continued their educations in far more formal settings.</p><p><i>"I learned that you can go back to school after 50 and earn a new diploma."~Zoe S.</i></p><p><i>"I've learned that I can still rock the cap and gown."~Larry T.</i></p><p><i>"I've learned/got better at controlling my patients' diabetes with newer medications."~Ellen G.</i></p><p>I love my friends who understand and have committed to lifelong learning. We are better humans when we realize that we don't know everything and then open ourselves up to expanding the reservoirs of knowledge. </p><p>There were happy posts that shared milestones...</p><p>"<i>I learned, not surprisingly, that I love being a grandparent."~Kathy S.</i></p><p>And the painfully honest and understandably angry and fed-up posts...</p><p><i>"I never want to experience another pandemic."~Francine</i></p><p>I think that she speaks for 7+ billion of us. </p><p>And then some dug deep within themselves and had no difficulty sharing self-actualizations and realizations. I appreciated how profoundly personal these were and was honoured that they felt comfortable enough to make them public. I think that I will remove names at this point because they aren't friends of the entire intertoobs. If you are my Facebook friend, you can read them for yourself.</p><p><i>"I learned that I cannot control life. I'm not even talking about my life, bigger than that. I am truly just a player in this thing, so I need to focus on enjoying and surviving, not on anticipating or predicting. That's just so big for my mental health journey."</i></p><p><i>"I learned a great many things, but most of all who really matters."</i></p><p><i>"Stress is not something someone hands you on a platter, you "serve" yourself. So, choose your stresses wisely!"</i></p><p><i>"I learned that I am stronger (emotionally and physically) than I thought I was."</i></p><p><i>"I learned that although I love my job/profession, I cannot work 7 more years until retirement. Life is short, so I am working on retiring in 3 years." (This came from a healthcare professional.)</i></p><p><i>"I am learning to always be true to myself. Life is too short to settle and/or to allow anyone to make me feel any less than what I am."</i></p><p><i>"I learned that I LOVE being a homebody. Shocked the hell out of me."</i></p><p><i>"I learned אם אין אני לי מי לי This is a quote from Rabbi Hillel in Pirkei Avot which translates to "If I am not for myself, who will be for me." (This is Dawn speaking now. The rest of the quote is instructive too as it reads, "And when I am for myself alone, what am I? And if not now, then when?")</i></p><p><i>"Remember to tell people how much they mean to you because you might not get a second chance."</i></p><p>During a time of so much pain and suffering, people found ways of coping, learning personal truths, and coming out stronger. It hasn't been that way for everybody and so many are still struggling but I am giving standing ovations to those who are living authentically.</p><p>It wouldn't be fair to ask you all to share and for me to merely act as observer and stenographer. Here are a few things that I learned this year. Some are difficult to hear and the Canadian in me wants to apologize for them but...well...here goes.</p><p><i>I learned that in the name of actively listening to every voice we tend to give credence to stupid and dangerous ideas.</i></p><p><i>I learned that I only have so much bandwidth.</i></p><p><i>I learned that my exhaustion sometimes explodes at inopportune times and at the wrong people.</i></p><p><i>I learned that giving in to that exhaustion isn't selfish.</i></p><p><i>I learned that what is "normal" to me might not be "normal" to you.</i></p><p><i>I learned that as a society we have elected the dumbest motherfuckers on the planet to lead us. This is irrespective of party or political ideology. </i></p><p><i>I learned that a long walk with a good book in my ear can be soothing.</i></p><p><i>I learned that watching the world through the eyes of children can be soul-cleansing, especially when those children are grandchildren.</i></p><p><i>I learned that while I can't control people or their stupid behaviour, I don't have to let them into my life. </i></p><p>And here's the toughest of all...</p><p><i>I learned that cutting off toxic people, even if they are family or formally close friends, is a mental health imperative. </i></p><p>I want to leave 2021 on a positive note and enter 2022 with hope and so, I will give you a few more from dear friends who are obviously far better people than am I.</p><p><i>"Be kind every day."~Naomi C.</i></p><p><i>"Being an empty-nester isn't as bad as I thought it would be"~Kim A</i></p><p>And...this...my favourite of all...was attached to Scott's comment above.</p><p><i>"I learned that I love my wife of 30 years more than I thought possible."</i></p><p>Me too, The Husband. More than I ever thought possible.</p><p>Onward and upward 2022. </p><p>Let's go.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: #f0f2f5; caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-size: 15px;"><span style="color: #050505;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p>Dawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13377990352000842532noreply@blogger.com1