All posts by Jacqueline Markowitz

The Case of the Missing Glasses

Just Posted, Life Is, Muse

I have lost my reading glasses. They should have been in one of three places. The kitchen table, covered with my notebooks, newspapers, and magazines. The den with the five or so books all of which I have read the first few pages deciding which one to dig in to first. Or, the kitchen counter, where I can guarantee they were as of Christmas day while reading the recipe for the blintz soufflé I was preparing for brunch.

Full disclosure. I do not have the best reputation with glasses. Well, sunglasses in any case. I have lost three pairs. The first succumbed to a wave in the Pacific. The second – you would have thought I had learned my lesson – to a wave in the Mediterranean. At which point I stopped buying designer glasses. The third eventually showed up under the seat of my car. But, I had these glasses, Chanel’s, with the pearl in the side for a very, very long time. My Audrey Hepburn moment. A coming of age. They were my first. The ones I got when my arms couldn’t stretch any longer, and I acquiesced to the first sign of the f-word. (Fifty) I loved them, and just kept replacing the prescription.

My optometrist is on holiday until Jan. 4th. I needed an appointment in any case. So that leaves me with one of my husbands many dollar store readers, scattered everywhere in the house. I can’t keep them on for long, they sting my eyes, and are making the screen a little concave as I write this. Deep sigh. So, today, with the heavy remnants of last night’s snow storm, leaving a wet and grey mess over the city, I will trudge off in search of a pair of store bought glasses that do the trick. I will not be usurped in my plan of curling up with a book. Although, today would have been the day to achieve that…

In case you are wondering what is on my reading list:

The Evolution of an Unorthodox Rabbi, by Rabbi John Moscowitz. Each segment opens up a world of ideas.

A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg, a gift from my editor. I think she is trying to tell me something about what my next book should be…

Life after Life, and A God in Ruins, by Kate Atkinson. My most anticipated reads recommended by my brother.

A Tale of Love and Darkness, by Amos Oz.

Fifteen Dogs, by Andre Alexis. Our Giller Prize Winner.

Footnote:  December 29th. 7:44 p.m. I found my glasses just now when I went to get the oven mitts from the drawer to take the chicken out the oven…

The Man in the Moon

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I love to watch the full moon rise. It amazes me. One moon. One world. One beautiful peaceful moment of hope.

I was in Sedona, Arizona, a couple of weeks ago on a full moon hike. We were surrounded by horizons of mountains, and climbing a red rock trail. Cactus like sculptures against the landscape, the steely leaves of agave plants, the moon had crested above the rocks, and hovered in the twilight sky. A warm autumn night on the verge of winter. The quiet was broken only by our footsteps and the howl of coyote. We didn’t need our headlamps. The moon illuminated our path. It was enough.

When we reached the top, our Native American guide gestured for me to sit on a stone, and bask in the light of the moon. He was seventy years old. George. Not his birth name. Part Hopi. He was a medicine man. Once his ancestors inhabited these canyons. It was theirs – a home, traversed, protected; they slept within the rocks, danced upon mother earth – it still holds their spirit – a feather of the eagle, the burning of sage, an homage. Their faces seem to be naturally carved, infused with a soul in the red rocks. I can feel their presence as he speaks.

The red stars are the ones that are travelling closer to earth, the blue ones further away. We were so high up; I could trace the silhouettes of the moons surface. He told me about the healing power of moonbeams, “ Breathe in to my fears, and exhale allowing calm energy.” He showed me the shadow that stretched out behind – my other self.  He put his hands on my shoulders.

The air was fragrant. I was overcome with the scent. I asked him about it. The aroma of a native plant called the Desert Mariposa, the butterfly plant. Its vermillion flower had gone now, dormant for the winter, yet I was aware of its scent. “You need to break free, allow yourself to be all that you can be, stop holding yourself back. This is why you are smelling the Mariposa.”

I felt remarkably grounded, infused with the quiet beauty of my surroundings and the mesmerizing, intuitive voice of my guide. Perhaps there is something about the moon, and the Mariposa.

Still and Flight

Just Posted, Life Is

When they were young the voice of Barbara Coloroso was in my head; don’t fight with them to put on the mittens. If their hands get cold they will put them on, or have cold hands. And, the day to day decisions of parenting were somewhat ruled by the underlying lesson of that example. Is it going to harm them?

I’m a worrier. It’s true. I was the mother who walked her kids to school and waited by the crosswalk until the bell rang. If they were anxious before they left for school for one thing or another, I was anxious until they walked back through my door. I felt their highs and lows, the joys and tough times in my gut.

My daughters have grown up. They wear their mittens in the cold weather. My eldest is pregnant. She will soon understand. I take comfort in that. And, knowing that she will see me in a softer light, for some of the decisions we butted heads about. Motherhood is like that.

I still feel the angst of their choices.  Mittens were easy. Cozy. Now the scope of things for me to worry about has broadened. Even though, I know they are smart and independent. Even though, I know that it is their lives, and their decisions to make. Their choices of who to love, careers to navigate. Those of us who parent adult children understand that we are not at liberty to direct their lives. We can encourage and support, we can be honest, and we can talk. It is their choice to listen, heed, agree or deny. Even so – I still feel it all in my gut.

But.  A mother knows things. It’s instinct. A bird senses danger and hides amidst the branches, the balance of still and flight. Our instinct is extremely powerful. I believe this. And, I think it’s a power we have to listen to, not always act upon, but to weigh, to balance.

Instinct. We need to understand and covet its mystique and know when to take cover or take flight. And, always when it comes to those things that fall outside the mitten metaphor, we should, I believe, listen closely. Toss rational thought, and the opinions of others to the wind, and follow our gut.

Every Word

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As the years went along, and I found myself still, writing my book it felt like everyone else was already publishing theirs. What was the matter with me? Why was it taking me so long? I was embarrassed to keep telling people, that, yes, I am still writing my book.

When will it be published? Before I’m too old to write another, I sincerely prayed. Or, worse, that my kids will find it in a drawer long after I’m gone, and bemuse that Mom never did finish that book.

And the dreaded, what’s it about?

I sent it out once to a handful of carefully chosen Canadian publishers and received a handful of very praiseworthy rejections. I admit that I did not submit to any publishers that required a synopsis.

But, this book had a mind of it’s own, and despite my best intentions of burying it, and getting on with my life seemed to gnaw at me demanding attention.

I managed to muster up the wherewithal to dig in to the novel one last time. All in. No excuses.

I worked around the clock. I sat at my kitchen table through breakfast, lunch and dinner. Saw the snow melt in patches, and that morning when the leaves suddenly appeared on the trees, like they had been there all along. I slept – I think. In the middle of most nights a line came to me or a mistake struck me, and I made my way back to the computer, let the dog out, and saw the moon had circled to my front door.

Now I understand what it takes to write a book. This was a whole new level of commitment to writing. Every word, each sentence, became a critical strand of a web so intricately woven and interdependent that I was mesmerized and driven to completion. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s actually true. And one day, that was that. I had dredged every piece of myself and there was absolutely nothing left. There were no more changes I wanted to make. No more words to query. No ones approval to seek.

I know that I could not have done more. And that is about as good as it gets for an author. Because, not everyone will like it, and that feeling of vulnerability is terrifying. And, I’m sure that when I read it again as a physical book, I might cringe and wish I could change things. But, for better or worse I am done.

My novel, Conversations for Two, is a story about a woman who serendipitously comes across a box of her brother’s writings, twenty-five years after his death, and through his poems and journals discovers his life and the love that rocked his world. And this book talks about how we remember someone, and how we peer through a crack in the window of grief and somehow see the flowers bloom again.

I surrounded myself with book people, but more specifically those who love the craft of the book. I am grateful that they all put up with me, as my fixation to every detail translated to every aspect of the work.

It’s being published by, The Jam Press, a very exciting new independent press in Toronto. It will be available on October 22nd.

For more information please check out www.thejampress.com

Mornings are like this

Life Is

Here is my morning. I woke up at 5ish with more thoughts going through my head than I could cope with, so I dragged the dog, sound asleep at the bottom of my bed and brought him up beside me for a cuddle. He was annoyed and wriggled away, resuming his perfect circle of dog at my feet. I tired to practice full body mediation. Finally I just got out of bed. Paid a parking ticket that my daughter forgot about. Looked over the Rogers bill that they still haven’t got right, and decided I just don’t have the strength to spend another couple of hours on the phone with them. Sent some e-mails, showered and looked at the clock – it’s already nine. Threw some apples, cheese and crackers, a banana in a bag, stashed everything I could possibly need in my briefcase, picked up the returns to The Bay and Banana Republic that have been decorating my front hall, and left the house.

My neighbour, Richard was outside and after I dumped my belongings in the car, we had a chat on the driveway. It’s a gorgeous fall morning. They are doing a ton of landscaping. We are not. I have a wedding to make this year. The lease of our car is up. I am feeling overwhelmed. Yes, I would be happy to talk to the tree guy, but I’m not taking down any trees. I have committed to a volunteer project that I feel a huge amount of pressure to come through on. There will be a thousand people at the event. I am spearheading the creative. Did I mention that I have a wedding to plan. I want to get this blog out of my head and on to the screen…live. I really need to make some money…. Breathe….

In any case, back to Richard. He went to Cindy Lauper’s, ‘She’s so Unusual’ concert. She started the show with a rendition of Money Changes Everything that went full out, finale like full out, and that was the opening. She ended, with True Colours, acoustic, soft and personal. Interesting huh. She started with what people would normally consider the epiphany. Then Richard says to me that he likes to live each day as if it was someday…. Seriously, who knew I would find inspiration this morning from Richard, and Cindy Lauper.

So, I find myself wondering, why hold back? Why not jump in to the pieces of our lives as if this is our moment, our big moment. Knowing full well that there is also magic in the small moments; like Cindy’s acoustic rendition of True Colours That song is about finding out who you are at your core, and being true to yourself. And, in many ways this is what I am doing with the Recipe for life Club, exploring my spectrum of colours.

The Season of Light

Just Posted, Life Is, Muse

Winter has never been my favourite time of year.  A lot of people in my life are away. The nights are dark and long, and the landscape washed in shades of grey, and not the erotic kind… When the kids were small we did all sorts of cool things. Once, with a big box from a new refrigerator, we spent a lovely snowy day, painting it purple, decorating it, making curtains and puppets and putting on a show. As the sky turned dark we were all still in our pajamas and having a glorious, “raindrops on roses” kind of day. Sometimes we spent time with my sister up at her cottage. The annual gingerbread house was always anticipated, as well as peppermint bark, vanilla hot chocolate, and a ski day at Horseshoe. These seemed to be the rituals of our winter vacation.

Last week I attended a ‘Sound Bath’ at a yoga studio. I’m trying to find my Zen. I was immersed in the vibrational sounds of crystal bowls, and meditations about the Winter Solstice filled my mind. It offered insight that was unexpected, resonated with me, and changed my perspective. The mediations reflected ideas that light resides within the darkness; a light exists within us, ours to kindle, a flame to ignite, and a path within our bleakest moments. I learned that winter is our time of contemplation. I discovered that with the solstice is our shortest day and our longest night, the sun is at it’s farthest, but now begins to get closer each day. I love this. I remember my mother reporting the length of days. Her glass was always half full.

Inspired, I found myself reading various writings and quotes surrounding the solstice and will keep this one by Albert Camus, close to my heart. “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” We woke this week to a beautiful winter-scape on the front page of the Globe. A Clear Winter, by Arthur Lismer. We don’t see this kind of winter living in the city. But, we have seen it somewhere, at some time, and know these images in our Canadian bones. As my neighbour, Richard pointed out, ‘we know that we can feel the slight warmth of the sun if we are standing over there in the brilliant aquamarine sky, and the cold in the deeper cobalt blues shaded by the trees’. There is a beauty in the bleakness of winter, there is colour when the sun paints its hues, and there is a light that only exists within the depths of darkness.

Puppet shows have turned to wonderful meals around our table with delicious conversation. The gingerbread, hot chocolate and peppermint bark are still welcome! And this season, I am grateful for my family, for my friends, for the time we spend together at home, for kindness, for the winter, the scarves and candles, and for this time of contemplation and discovering the light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sharing our Stories

Just Posted, Life Is

We are all storytellers at heart.  We are always recounting the events of our day, the people who touched us or irked us; we listen to our children’s joys and tribulations, and provide advice from our collection of wisdoms. Our foundations are built from the experience of our mother’s and father’s and their stories. What have been the stepping-stones of our lives? What junctures were significant? What changed us? There are moments, places and details that set our lives upon various paths. It may be an innocent conversation, look, touch that otherwise might have gone un-noticed.  Or, perhaps a complicated instance with layers upon layers of fact and innuendo that are seemingly relentless; a tragedy, a joy, an implication, an unexpected surprise, a twist of fortune, a turn of events, a time of great happiness, a period of deep sorrow. These are all pieces of our stories.

Natalie Goldberg, author and writing advocate, says in her book, Writing Down the Bones, that she believes we “all have a dream of telling our stories – of realizing what we think, feel, and see… Writing is a path to meet ourselves and become intimate.” She is talking about the idea that we can all write, we may not be interested in creating the next best seller, but it is an intrinsic form of our expression.

Over the years I have attended many writing workshops. They open me up to possibilities. It’s like a trip to the spa for my mind, soul and imagination! I am infused with ideas, and often walk away with  something that is refreshingly new to me. It’s because during those hours I completely give myself over to the process, and my focus is intensified. Surrounded with like-minded people, their energy and sincerity is compelling. I discover parts of myself that I wouldn’t un-shelve on my own.

Next month I will be teaching a writing workshop, alongside two inspiring women, Vivian Saffer, an Integrative Coach and Michelle Katz, an Iyengar Yoga Therapist and Mediation teacher.   We will discover how to deepen our awareness, embark upon meditation practices, and immerse in contemplative writing. Through writing we find our intimate selves and dare to dream of telling our stories. Sitting around Vivian’s reclaimed table in her beautiful and welcoming kitchen we will provide a safe space to take a chance on writing, to laugh, feel, and share in a meaningful and unique experience.

I have known Michelle for a very long time and our paths keep intersecting. Her grace, spirituality and wisdom are such that I feel grounded and peaceful in her presence. When we discussed the possibilities of this workshop we connected on the transformative power of combining meditation and writing. She says, “ My passion as a teacher for the past twenty years has allowed me to pursue my life’s work in helping others nurture their dreams, and nourish their bodies, minds and souls through the physical awareness of yoga, meditation and Jewish spiritual tradition. Meditation directs our awareness to an object of focus, and is a way to nurture the creative aspects of our life.”

Vivian is my sister-in-law, a gift for which I am very thankful to my brother! She has taught me so much over these years. Gratitude, acceptance, awareness have become the tenets of my daily life. I am deeply grateful for these lessons. They have served me well, and carried me over many hurdles. Anyone who attends our workshop will be touched by her compassion, insight and knowledge. She says, “Deepening our awareness deepens our feeling of peace. This peace is always there but is clouded by emotion and judgment. When we are present and aware, we have the ability to choose. This is where our true power resides.”

Our life journey is our greatest teacher. Self discovery does not have times and places, it is ongoing, and takes detours, maneuvers in surprising ways, hits obstacles and sails smoothly into the sunset; all at any given moment.  Join us for an extraordinary evening where we will deepen our awareness, engage in inspiring conversation and write and share our unique stories.

Thursday November 6th from 7-10. RSVP before October 31 to Jacqui@recipeforlifeclub.com to secure one of our 12 spots.

Resume of Life

Just Posted, Life Is, Muse

During a conversation this week, my sister coined a phrase that really made me think.  She said, “Have it on your resume of life.” I love that. It’s such an interesting way to think about how we navigate our lives.

What is on our ‘Resume of Life’? Is it the things we’ve done, the experiences we’ve had, the possessions we own? Is it our roles? What values do we attach to what achievements? What are the categories, significant moments, and accomplishments that would make the page noteworthy to share for our life’s work?

Here are some of my distinctions and musings. I am continuing to think about this idea. It’s a tremendous exercise, and one that really makes you stop and consider your life through different lenses and from various angels.

Mother: Skills include: Academic advisor, driver, nutritionist, sous chef, and chef du cuisine, stylist, consultant, personal financier, sounding board, worrier, facilitator, head of the fan club, event coordinator, director, producer, life coach, chameleon.

Wife:  Marriage of 33 years consisting of: Acceptance, perseverance, love, heartache, loosing oneself and discovering her again, challenges, joys, and passion.

Children: Most worthy accomplishment, and greatest blessing. Three daughters, each having embarked on their tremendous journeys of life because of me, and none withstanding of me.

Friendships: These are amongst my most valuable life achievements. Our friendships are the mirrors of who we are. They challenge us to look at ourselves from various angles, and change and accept, and reach out. To have a friend is to be a friend.  Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh?” he whispered. “Yes, Piglet?” “Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand. “I just wanted to be sure of you.” A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Sister: Being a sister is truly about unconditional love. We share a past with our siblings, our lives are intrinsically interwoven, and we create our present, we unite our families, and hope for a future where the shoots and roots we have so ardently nourished continue to thrive and connect.

I have had many paying jobs along the way, some even significant, some that continue to define me, but my career has been my family.

Volunteer Positions: This is where we learn who we are at our core, and where we stand in the world. Where the idea that one person can change the world is abundantly and astoundingly apparent.

Writer: As the saying goes, ‘If I knew then what I know now’, I would have been a writer. I sincerely hope it is not too late!

A resume requires a statement of intention, a goal, and a direction. My personal statement for my Resume of Life is:  To grant myself the courage and the wisdom to fulfill what lies within, to have conviction, to flourish and be for myself all that I wish for in my children.

What would be on your Resume of Life?

Photo: Passion Flower

Apples and Honey and Bathurst Street

Just Posted, Muse

I was standing in line to pay for my groceries and overheard the woman ahead of me ask the cashier to put some items in a separate bag because they were for her mother. I used to do that too.

It has been five years since my mother passed away. The missing her surfaces in the little moments of day-to-day life. Like buying a Greek salad at United Bakery. That and their potato soup was one of her favourite lunches. Or, passing by Neptune Drive and glancing up to her fourth floor apartment. I can still see her sitting in her special chair, wearing her pink sweater, waiting for me, or my sister to come by, and looking out the window at the stained glass windows of the synagogue.

Bathurst Street is a smorgasbord of traditions this time of year all diverging on several blocks from  Lawrence Plaza to Baycrest creating a vibrant mosaic. Men in black hats with long beards with their quickened pace and an increased sense of purpose. Students sharing pizzas and falafels for lunch at Tov Li. The elderly with walkers shuffling along the sidewalks. Mini vans and sedans vying for parking spots at Hartmans and along Deloraine. Shofars decorating the gift shop windows. Bakeries making crown shaped Challas and apple cakes, the rush to order chicken, brisket and Gifilte fish, and jars of bright gold honey. She loved it. Maybe it was a small town attitude that reminded her of her life in England, and feeling part of the community.

There was a storybook that she read to me, The Mystery of the Missing Challa. I loved it, still do, about a little girl, Bayla who helped her mother get ready for Shabbat, polishing the silver, visiting the baker, the butcher, the toy shop, the shoe shop, the fish market. As a child she would hold my hand as we went to do our holiday shopping, and visit Lolas for her shoes, and Daiters for delicious thin slices of Munchee cheese, blintzes, and a pound of creamed cottage wrapped in cheesecloth. The old man behind the counter at Strolli’s would give us a beef or potato kinish. It is these small details that bring back such sweet and savory memories. They are the things that make me hold my breath to keep back the tears. Later, I would hold her hand.

I miss her in these small moments. It is when I light her Candelabra on Friday nights and feel the presence of her hands over mine as I say the blessing. It is when one of her funny little phrases pops into my head, or I catch myself saying something that only my mother would have said. It is when one of my children reminisces about Grandma. I smile. She was always there for me. Taking my hand, showing me the way. Somehow, she still is.

I always make lunch for our family at Rosh Hashanah. I will make her apple cake. I will bring out her special dishes. And, I’ll do my rounds on Bathurst Street, and she will be in my heart and I will miss her.

Wishing you a Shana Tova. A happy, healthy and joyful New Year, and a time of peace in our world.

Our Greatest Teachers

Just Posted, Muse

The other day I was flipping through the channels and came upon the movie To Sir with Love, and ended up curled up on the couch watching this old classic with Sidney Poitier. This film must have been the first in its genre; the classroom with challenging kids transformed by a gifted teacher.

Our greatest teachers are those from whom we learn more than the curriculum. Bill Clinton says that one of the most influential people in his life was the band director, Virgil M. Spurlin at the Hot Springs High School. Apparently their relationship was the inspiration for him to go in to politics. Spurlin made him feel that he could accomplish anything, organize and effect change. For Oprah Winfrey it was her teacher, Mary Duncan who recognized something special in the insecure fourth grade student, and encouraged Oprah to read out loud for the class to gain confidence. Maya Angelou’s neighbour and teacher, Mrs. Flowers, took her to the library and told her to read every book within the small room. Here, she discovered her love of poetry. Mrs. Flowers had her come to her house and read poetry aloud.

I can draw upon pieces of my education from primary school all the way through university and my continuing studies now, and there will be moments, phrases, ideas and lines that resonate, pierce or make everything fall in to place. Who are our greatest teachers? Perhaps it is those who help us find our purpose, from which we learn the lessons of forgiveness, or discover the parts of ourselves that can soar. It could be an author who connects the dots of understanding, fear or passion. There are those who make us believe. It is the brush stroke of an artist, and how the play of light provokes sadness or love. It is often our children who by their own extraordinary, or commonplace actions make us stand back in amazement, recognition, astonishment or delight.   I think our greatest teachers are those who reach us in a small, intricate way, sometimes serendipitous, and with whom we are able to experience a feeling unlike anything we have before.

Who are your greatest teachers?