New York, New York

     I recently took a mini vacation with my mom to New York City. She just retired and celebrated her 56^th birthday. I thought it would be really cool to treat her to 4 days of site seeing, mother/daughter bonding and a little shopping. I was really looking forward to walking through Central Park’s Strawberry Fields during the month of John Lennon’s 70^th birthday.

     I fantasized about standing , gazing at the ‘Imagine’ memorial, allowing one tear to fall. Later, sitting amongst young hipsters, explaining to my mom the different conspiracy theories of Lennon’s death. Talking about the songs and how they inspire me to want to help stop war and stand up against senseless killing and hatred in the world.

     So… There I was, in a very busy department store. Searching for my mother. Floor after floor, escalator after escalator. 45 minutes of searching and panicking because she can’t find me. Her hot flashes testing her temper, the perfume counter triggering a migraine, the crowds inducing a claustrophobia she wouldn’t be able to handle. It plagued me to think of her upset and sad that I lost track of her.
    
     My eyes welled up with tears and I gave up. I had to get some air. I pushed my way out of the door and stumbled on to the street. I took in a breath of cool air and exhaled setting my gaze upon my mother. Sitting. Smoking. Sipping cheap coffee from up the street.

     “You all done shopping Hun?” She asked, smoke escaping her lipstick’d lips. I forced my shoulders down from my ears, cooled down, and requested we return to the hotel as I felt a migraine coming on. She, on the other hand felt great.

     This is it. I thought. I’m the adult. I’m the organizer and the leader. A claustrophobic , uptight daughter who is being told to ’loosen up’. I’m face to face with myself. Gazing at my sensible slip on clogs and my new reading glasses. Minimal makeup and simple ponytail.
    
     My mom butts out her cigarette on the sidewalk with her trendy, purple, high heeled boot and tells me to ’chill out’.

     New York, New York…

Word are so loud sometimes.

It's so funny when I think of writing a blog- I have an overwhelming wave of ideas. Yet- I sit here, in my car waiting for my boyfriend to come out of Rogers, sort of stumped. Writing quickly. My eyes shooting back and forth from the front door of the building to my notebook. If I see him coming, I will quickly tuck my book away and pretend I was doing nothing. Pretending, because he'll ask. 

Why am I so shy to share this writing with him? I even hesitated to tell him I have always been interested in writing a blog. He is encouraging, kind and enjoys my writing. So- why so shy? I enrolled in a creative writing course last year at the University of Toronto. I failed to attend the last few classes as it was time to present our final piece and have them critiqued. I was so beside myself to let my classmates into my head. I failed and never returned. 

So, a year later, here I am, thinking about this. I have confidence in what I write. I speak to people all day. When it comes to family and friends, I shut down shop. It's strange that I worry about the opinions of those who will be gentle with my feelings and dive into the critique of those I don't know. I suppose this may be the purpose of this journey. To expose myself in a cathartic way in order to have stronger bonds with those around me. To tell them how I feel without making a sound... Sometimes talk is so overrated.