All posts by Jacqueline Markowitz

Strawberry Fields Forever

Just Posted, Life Is

It was fifty years ago that The Beatles rocked our world on the Ed Sullivan Show. Where were you? I was eight; sitting around the television as usual with the family on Sunday night waiting for the ‘shew’, but there was nothing usual about February 9th 1964. The moment is magnified. The Beatles, well they were the big bang of music.

Their songs became the anthem to all the snapshots of our life, and the soundtrack to a world that went from the four-piece boy band to the dimensions of Sgt. Pepper in a blink. There was a lot going on in ’64; the Vietnam War, Nelson Mandela was sentenced to life imprisonment, President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act, and Martin Luther King received the Noble Peace Prize. We were in a world that was interpreting itself.

I grew up with the influence of the Beatles, first a teenybopper, collecting 45’s, and Beatle cards. We used to play ‘Beatles’ in the schoolyard at recess; groups of four strumming air guitars and beating drums, singing the melodies with mock British accents. I listened to the same songs over and over again on my record player, lifting the needle and placing it on my favourite tunes. I saw them in concert at Maple Leaf gardens. I can remember what I wore, a turquoise pop-top with little white balls that pranced against my midriff, and matching copped pants. I held my brother’s hand tight. I can still feel the pulse of the crowd in my chest. Later, I searched album covers for clues, and interpreted the lyrics, opened my mind to new orchestrations, instruments, sounds, and ideas.

Then, the Let it Be rooftop concert in 1969. Beatlemania ended, but their reach grew deeper and remains, still.  Their songs of love, rallied to calls for peace. Singing along with Strawberry Fields, Hey Jude and Let it Be, Blackbird, All you Need is Love, Norwegian Wood, A Little Help from my Friends, we owned the songs, they flowed through us. They marked precious and precarious episodes in our lives.

We changed right along with them. Grew up. Found ourselves. Created different lives. Experimented with ideologies. Embraced, protested, and loved. We went from the innocence of catchy little tunes like I want to Hold your Hand, to Lucy in the Sky, in a psychedelic explosion of all things possible.

There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed, some forever, not for better, some are dead, and some remain….

Strawberry fields forever….
Peace and love
Jacqui

Writer Within

Just Posted, Muse

Definition of a writer: One who sits alone at a computer for hours on end at various times of the day or night, immersed in words, language, and ideas, questioning at regular intervals about the sanity, and sanctity of such an activity; yet, unable to resist.

Putting ourselves out there in any aspect of life is extremely difficult and wrought with the inner tinkling of should haves, what ifs, exuberance, doubts, and then conviction. It’s so hard to be vulnerable. Is this though, also where we find the greatest gifts? I am clinging to that idea. I do believe that when we allow others into our lives, share true emotions and experiences, we initiate, ignite, and inspire the best in one another.

We are immensely interested in other people’s lives. It has become an obsession. We are glued to the television as the Bachelor kisses and says goodbye; as any Kardashian on any given day, marries, divorces, gains weight, shops, or has lunch with a friend. There does, though, seem to be some distinction between what we see and what we read. Words are powerful. They are emotive, capable of great manipulation and often ripe with subtext. And watching life as it unfolds on the screen gives us the illusion that it is accurate. Is seeing believing?

There are some brave writers. Joan Diddion, The Year of Magical Thinking, is a memoir of grief that is painfully raw. It’s impossible for me to imagine how she could give so much of herself. How can someone be so honest? Certainly as writers, we use fragments from our own lives in characters, or springboards to stories. Alice Monroe in an interview in “The New Yorker” about Dear Life, reflects, “I have used bits and pieces of my own life always, but the last things in the new book were all simple truth.”

Simple truth. I love that. I find these kinds of writers courageous, and liberating. It is breath taking to be able to take the risk of sharing the mechanisms of our lives with the world. The truth is I am always struggling with the ying and yang of how much of myself to give to a story, and yet fiction is from life. It’s not straightforward.

I’ve written a book, and it will be published this year. Conversations for Two is the story of a woman, who in the most serendipitous way comes in to possession of her brother’s box of poetry and journals twenty-five years after his death. The story unfolds within her journey to interpret his life through the words he left behind, trying to make sense of his death, her role in it, and chasing the illusive ‘why’. It has roots in truth and wings in fiction.

Writing our stories is not the kind of voyeurism, the ‘reality’ we see on television, where people sign on to portray their lives for entertainment. When we read a story that reaches inside of us, and takes us alongside the journey, it’s a very powerful trip indeed. And, yes, I do believe, that there is a gift, a silver lining, in collecting our lives and sharing our writer within.

Many Lives

Just Posted, Life Is

We go to retreats, ashrams, and on pilgrimages to find the parts of ourselves that we feel we have lost along the way, and to find meaning and joy in our lives. It makes me wonder, do we have to go away to find ourselves?

I always feel like getting away! I’m not so interested in plopping down on a chair with an umbrella and a margarita, rather, having adventures, exploring the landscape, and discovering what lies within. Is it soul searching? Absolutely. Am I running away from my life? For sure, and why not! Do I think contemplations and conundrums will be different if I go somewhere else? No, as it’s said, ‘it’s just geography’. We follow ourselves wherever we go.

I asked Vivian Saffer, an integrative coach what her thoughts were on this. She says, “That’s the illusion. That the ‘thinking mind’ believes we will find ourselves somewhere else! Well, it’s true that being in a new environment, we do turn off some of the mental noise that’s triggered in our usual space, and yes we may become conscious of some our unconscious patterns. But, the truth is, we take ourselves, and our mind patterns wherever we go! So, we can never escape. The practice is finding the peace that exists right here, right now. Our true essence is always within us; it takes awareness to connect with it.”

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. These days I am taking the time to explore my beliefs and attitudes, to take risks, make different decisions, and empower myself to create.

I think there are many stages, degrees and ways of unearthing what lies beneath our surface, and that this expedition is ongoing, and ever changing. Being ready to answer the big questions comes with time. Our early forays are more like treasure hunts, later they become part of our journey, and find their succinct ways of expression. Are the things that I counted on as tangible still the ideals and lifestyle I cling to? No doubt, a sojourn can put us in touch with our thoughts in a way that we find hard to access at home, at our desk, or with our family, but it is true, we still have to come home to ourselves. But, in any case a walk along the beach collecting shells sounds exquisite.

My mother used to say she had “many lives”. Now I understand that it wasn’t just geography. It wasn’t only about immigrating to Canada from England, starting over, raising four children with roots in one life and buds in another; or about health, money, grief, or finding happiness. It was also about who she was at these intervals, how she had to change or adjust her thinking to accommodate and navigate all these passages of her many lives.

As women, we intuit the diversities, challenges, blessings and joys of our family and find paths of compassion and adaptation. We have to figure out who we are in the light of the many facets of our relationships. We come to crossroads more often, and there are decisions to make, directions to turn. And, we have to peel off the layers of our complacency and release our core, be true to ourselves, and travel in our hearts, souls and on planes to territories yet discovered.

Are We Reading the Signs?

Just Posted, Life Is

I was rummaging through plastic storage containers where I keep an assortment of memorabilia. The kids first artistic scrawls, report cards, letters to the tooth fairy, photographs that never made it to an album, letters, Beatle fan club trading cards, remnants and nick knacks and such. I sat on the floor surrounded by these bits and pieces and details of the past for at least three hours early on Sunday morning. I was enthralled.

One box in particular was a treasure trove of things past. It was an arbitrary assortment of keepsakes. There were drawings and paintings from the children, and when I looked at them I noticed that although they were done when they were quite young, their personal style is there. In each of their creative pursuits as adults I can see the roots of their childhood expressions.

As for myself, the treasure hunt was very telling. I found a book of poems I had written in high school. I was absolutely blown away by the ideas and style of language, both of which mark the cornerstones of my creative writing now. Certainly then it was a stream of consciousness. Now, I rein the ramblings, and attempt to convey the emotions with intention. Sometimes, I succeed.

The other night I went to see the film “From nothing, something; A documentary on the creative process.” Interestingly all the creators interviewed; writer, architect, artist, scientist, political cartoonist, musician, fashion designer all understood what it was that made them tick at an early age. This passion drove them to their personal careers and success. What struck me the most was the belief they had to have in themselves to make it through. Keep going, against the odds, against the critics, and against that little rascal that perches on the creative shoulder shaking his head in disapproval.

I have had varied careers and expressed my creativity in numerous ways. It seems though, at the core of all of these expressions, is writing. It makes me wonder. Do we read the signs? Did I spend thirty years chasing my tail and coming back to the part of me that was intrinsically my essence in the first place? Just like there is said to be one great love in our lives, is there one overriding idea that nurtures us, that we are meant to spend our lives exploring or interpreting?

The answer is probably yes and no. I’m not at all sorry that I have explored art, film, photography, dance and writing. I think that we all crisscross, and it makes us interesting. The creators in the documentary were all multi-faceted, and it nourished their work. But they did have a single focus. And, isn’t it wonderful to imagine or experience  the ideas and opportunities  that we encounter along the way.

Certainly, the pieces of my past have influenced my creativity. If, at the end of the day, the written word is my culminate expression, I believe it will be richer because I have dipped my toes in many waters. Maybe I have come full circle, but maybe I couldn’t have gotten here without the detours.

Light

Just Posted, Life Is, Muse

I am in a tree house. So it seems. I can look out three walls of windows to the back garden. I am high up. It’s the way the landscape goes, sloping down from street level to the ravine. It’s been raining. Now it gets dark so early. There are exterior spotlights from the house beyond and I can see their reflections on the slice of wet driveway that anchors the hill sloping down to the stream. The windows of the house are stacked one on top of the other for three stories. I can’t see inside but I can tell that there is a lamp casting a red glow as well. Maybe it is on a side table beside a chair. Someone just turned it off.

I wonder if they can see me sitting at my kitchen table, looking, and typing on my computer? The chandelier is from my mother’s house, hanging over what was also her dining room table. Her table is much more casual now, and doesn’t get wiped with vinegar and water once a week by the cleaning lady who came on Tuesdays. Now it sits here covered with daily newspapers, books, a cup of tea with honey, place mats, scattered. The chandelier is reflected five times in the black of the windows. Actually more. Each of the reflections has echoes. It could be a ceiling of magical lights above a dance floor at a very fancy party. There is no music, but I can hear a guitar somewhere, perhaps. There is one leaning against the wall in the other room. Maybe someone will play it. I can see myself as well. Black top, black pants, hair haphazardly tossed in a clip, framed in a dark window, sitting on the very edge of the chair, hmmmmm, like my mother did. She never sat all the way on the chair. Always ready to attend to us at any time, her apron tied with a bow. She tucks her hair tucked behind her beautiful little ears and leans in. One foot curved around the mahogany leg of the chair like a ballerina. There should have been diamonds, and an organza skirt swirling across the dance floor. And, oh, those rows of glass baubles and bulbs in my windows… reflections.

The trees are now almost bare, a few leaves hanging on. I can just see dark branches in the night and the trunks like stoic sculptures, standing in rows of silhouettes because of the windows and their light. There are two buildings and a drive in between and through this nighttime path I can see the yellow-white headlights and the red tails passing by in either direction. A car is coming down the drive. The headlamps flare. A dragon.

Big drops of rain coming now, like the unlikelihood of a platypus readying to jump off the flat roof in to a puddle. There is a scene in Hitchcock’s, Rear Window. Remember? James Stewart. Broken leg. In a wheel chair watching the domestic scenes play out through the windows of the surrounding apartments, as he concocts their stories. What else could he do? I am looking out the picture windows too, at the life stories that are my border. Christmas lights trailing along the trees of a backyard, shifting focus like the turn of a kaleidoscope. I would have chosen all white. Another house illuminated. A party. Lit for royalty. I heard that somewhere. A siren rises and falls. I sense him before I hear the key in the door. Prickles, like the childhood rhyme, ‘criss-cross, applesauce, spiders crawling up your spine, cool breeze, tight squeeze’…. The mandarin patchouli cologne still on his sweater. We bought it together one afternoon. On an afternoon that felt something like love; the body remembers.

I know these windows well. I have observed the passages of light across the day. In the morning the light will break, white before it turns to blue, and although the sunrise is blocked I can feel it through the windows, and a white circle pokes from the trees at some point. It’s as if this lamp that glows at night has been turned on during the day and is projecting, white on white. I can almost hear it; like the buzz through the electrical lines. To my left there is a birdhouse knocked in the bark of the tree with a nail. No birds there. Mostly squirrels. Having a rest or playing hide and seek.

The birds wake with the light as well. Instinct. In the summer the red cardinal starts on the tree. Sits on the iron back of the chair, and perches on the stone seat. Catching the light on its red feathers. Never in one place for very long. It does the same thing everyday. I have learned to watch the light as it passes over and through the garden so that I know where to plant things. I can imagine all this through the dark of the window. The stalks of lavender, peonies in May, hydrangeas turning from green to white, as if the garden is lit, but it’s not lit now; no candles in the lanterns. It is winter, after all, and the chandelier reflects in the dark windows.

That Kiss

Just Posted, Love, Muse

I love watching movies. There are those scenes that project on my inner screen, and songs that inseparably accompany key moments. Almost Famous; the bus scene singing Tiny Dancer – I was right there. There are nuances that feel like they write my life, and characters I could step in to. And, of course great style cues, Audrey Hepburn, and significant good hair days, Meg Ryan. If my life were cut as a movie trailer it would have to include a segment or two from the chronicles of my filmography.

When I was a girl we had an Admiral television set. You know the kind that was housed in a mahogany cabinet like a piece of furniture and was the focal point of any upstanding side-split it the sixties. The Wizard of Oz played once a year with an introduction by Danny Kaye. It was truly event television. On that night we ordered a pizza and got the blankets and pillows ready to camp out on the carpet in front of the TV to watch the film. This movie is noteworthy for me, not just because of the forever enchanting story, or the magic of black and white turning to colour, or every unforgettable song, but because as cliché as this sounds, it made me believe and ignited my imagination.

I simply adore Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Each scene has a moment that captivates me. One of my favourties is when she is sitting on the window ledge at the fire escape, wearing her signature cropped pants, flats, and a scarf around her head, playing the ukulele and singing Moon River. All the trimmings of Holly Golightly are stripped away here and she is at once so vulnerable and at peace. If my life had a sound track it would be Audrey Hepburn singing Moon River. Here is a fun fact. At the first screening of the film at the preview, the head of the company at that time, said “Well we can get rid of that song.” Audrey stood up at said “Over my dead body.”

Silver Linings Playbook, It’s Complicated and Something’s Got to Give are my ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ of recent chick flicks. At any given moment I can be Jennifer Lawrence in a dance competition, Meryl Streep smoking a joint in the bathroom, or Dianne Keaton, living in what I imagine to be my natural habitat – white beach house, and collecting white stones and shells along the shore. Not to mention she is a writer. Aside from the dance, sand and weed, at the crux of each film is that angst of heartbreak, disappointment interwoven in charming and serendipitous ways of dealing with the pain. If I see myself as a character in a film, it would be in that way. Stumbling upon the kinds of experiences we create or fall in to as we discover who we are, and how to get through the day. And, just like the dance scene in Silver Linings, each piece, each step of our journey collaborates and culminates in the acceptance and embracing of the life we have.

The secret is out. I am a hopeless, wearing my heart on my sleeve, romantic. So, I will close with Cinema Paradiso because the cinema of our lives should most definitely end with ‘that kiss’. I can still remember being in the theater mesmerized. It’s a small film and packed with so many beautiful little cinematographic intimacies. Here is the montage of kisses that closes the film with the stunning love theme soundtrack by Ennio Morricone

And also a photo montage with the names of the almost fifty iconic kisses that appear.

Fini

“Which way do I go from here…”

Muse

The sun is setting in musty red clouds. The trees have shed their ice and are mostly upright again. The crystalline palace of ice that petrified our city has melted, like giant sobs relinquishing the tress. It feels like a miracle. The year has come to a close and there is the tendency to reflect and make resolutions and determine how we will change our lives in the coming year. I’m done with lists, losing weight and promising to exercise more. Suffice it to say that I have ticked an all-inclusive ‘yes I should’ to accommodating, changing and rectifying any pieces of my life as required.

The past few nights I haven’t sleep much. How am I going to get everything done? How am I going to accomplish my dreams, create income, grow Recipe for Life Club and get my book published? My daughter is getting married in 6 months… I have a fundraising event that is coming up in May and needs much attention. My mind is filled with different scenarios, and what ifs and plans, and dreams. Somehow one minute it is January and then it’s May. There is so much to accomplish. But, most of all, in order to put all these pieces together I need peace of mind, balance and clarity.

Sometimes I feel like Alice opening doors, changing sizes and directions, and sipping potions along the road of happenstance. “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’ said Alice. ‘That depends a great deal on where you want to get to,’ said the cat.” (Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland)

I am blessed to have the worry of such things. In these precious first days of a new year, of a beginning, I want to take the time to be still and allow my mind and body to come in to focus. To find a way to believe that all my aspirations are possible and that I have the power within me to succeed. For me, it’s a matter of keeping going, moving forward, not getting too muddled by the multitude of thoughts and ideas that are vying for my attention, and practicing the art of perseverance.

My wish for 2014 is to find that inner peace and clarity that translates to the kind of focus that makes dreams come true. “…as long as I get somewhere.’ Alice added as explanation. ‘Oh you’re sure to do that,’ said the cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.”

Peace and joy to all in 2014.

Image from Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Carroll – chapter 6.
Found at http://en.wikipedia.org/?title=Portal:Cheshire/Selected_picture/Archive

Perverse Beauty

Life Is, Muse

I hear the ice storm from the open window in my bedroom. The pellets sting the roof and assault the already frozen ground. In the light of the street lamp I can see the trees turn to crystal. A perverse beauty. Then the boughs cry and crack as they peel and fall shedding droplets of ice like glass shards shimmying to the ground and spraying as the branches crash. All night long.

In the morning, it’s still raining ice. The twenty-foot evergreens that line the side of our property are broken and bent in mercy of the storm. My birch is arched. The trees are covered in ice, articulating their branches and forming little ice buds that would have been spring. The sky is white. The fallen warriors of the night are strewn over my driveway and yard. It’s a massacre of trees. The maples that stand stoically close to the house are precariously bowed over the roof and suspended in frozen time.

Our house resembles a set from a Tim Burton film. It’s the house that people slow down to look at as they drive by or walk their dogs. I am grateful for my neighbours who came to the rescue, dragged the branches from the drive, chipped the shell off my car, and then carefully removed the branches that were hanging from the hydro wire, strung above my car. Because of them I have power and mobility, food and wine.

Last night the half moon lay horizontally in the sky, as if a table of ice was weighing it down as well. In my garden, the black iron lawn chairs lay still under the glass branches. The white chair with the curvy legs has become a still life against the landscape. The lanterns wait for a candle to be lit. It is hard to imagine blooms will come again.

And now, another day has passed. The third morning is breaking after the storm to frigid cold and a dusting of snow. The street lamp is still on.

(Toronto Ice Storm – December 22, 2013)

Julia

Life Is, Love, More Posts

My mother-in-law used to close her eyes as if by doing so she could close out anything that was weighing on her mind, or unpleasant in her life. Confrontations she didn’t want to have, realizations that were too late, the Cancer that in the end would claim her life. Next month will mark a year since her passing and she is very much on my mind.

For most of my married life we would speak almost every day. We shared a lot of secrets. I miss her. There were so many details of her life that I know she still wanted to tell me, and much I wanted to talk to her about. That is the pain of loss. Those missed moments. Those are hard to reconcile.

The other day I closed my eyes to shut out some things I didn’t want to deal with and I understood her. She was an intensely private woman, and rarely would allow anyone to see what lay beneath the surface. Julia was in every explanation of the word a ‘remarkable’ woman. Her particular passion for life was born from the hardships of being raised in a tight walk up in Toronto’s Harbord village in the 1920’s. Her parents were immigrant Jews and she the eldest of three; and the one with the absolute yearning for her own bed, heating and beautiful dresses. She married and moved to the same situation in her husband’s small family home. She worked hard and created her way out.

Her particular gift was her vision. And with that she orchestrated and navigated the voyage from shoes distributed in the basket of her husband’s bicycle to the flagship store on the best retail corner in the city. He might have had the charisma to charm his clients and suppliers in New York, Florence and Milan, but she had the foresight. She understood what branding the store was before it became a catchword in the industry. She knew it in her bones.

She was our Jackie ‘O’, with her small frame, beautiful features, legs that could enchant a sailor or president, and a flare for putting herself together that honestly deserves a coffee table book. This was very much a big part of who she was and the image of the public Julia, but there was more to her. I knew the intellectual woman who was open to far-reaching ideas, incredibly well read, interested and interesting, who loved art and science and was deeply inquisitive. And I loved how she felt at home in my home. And, the whimsical side of her, that sat at tea parties with my daughters, and kept the soft bunny we bought her on her bed.

I thought I would have more time with her. In her last days, she would rest her head on my chest as I tried to stroke the pain from her forehead and shoulders. I can’t tell you how that feeling of her releasing any façade to me, the softness and the love that I felt from her in that small moment resonates through all of me.

I understood the things she locked away in her heart when she closed her eyes. I think that is why I feel her so profoundly in my chest, as I write this. In some ways it has connected us like a locket, with both our pictures on the inner sides and closed.

Something from the Heart

Muse

Share a recipe from a kitchen that is tried and true and your story too. A recipe you love and a story about yourself, a friend, mother, sister, grandma, father, husband, anyone in your life. Tell me about the person who gave you the recipe, or an occasion where it was served, a funny, charming or irresistible moment, an anecdote, a detail of life, a memory, or those indispensable words of wisdom that will remain in your heart forever.