I shout this in some unassuming stranger's face. She flinches as I draw near her, my voice barely audible over the sound of the bass pounding through the speakers. She nods and laughs awkwardly, obviously not able to make out what it is that I have just yelled at her.

I was packed shoulder to shoulder with six other girls on a bench 2ft off the ground, each one slightly more under the influence than the next. We moved in time with the rhythm of the music, our movements becoming one in an effort to keep everyone in place. I looked out over a sea of bobbing heads, the red LED lights creating shadows of faces, masks where profiles used to be. If I reached out, it would all fade away, simply a mirage upheld by disco ball reflections and cigarette smoke.

Swept up in the energy of the atmosphere, I must have felt the urge to share in my euphoria by pulling more girls up to join on the already crammed bench. I ignored the frustrated and bewildered looks of those below us and continued to let the solidness of those around me hold up my body, and the music filling the club hold up my spirit. At that altitude, nothing was real, and if I tried really hard, I could almost forget that this was one of the last nights like this.

The arrival of spring brings a tinge of bittersweetness this year, graduation looming large in the future. The impermanence of my current lifestyle is tangible, and as the days pass, it has become more difficult to ignore the impending shift. I wanted to glue myself to this bench with these first-year girls beside me, hoping that if I stayed there long enough, I could defy the laws of time and space and mesh myself back to their lifestyle, their only big decisions revolving around which bar they are going to next weekend.

A week later, my Friday night looked very different. I stood shivering in my roommate’s one-piece bathing suit next to my university’s public pool. A most unwelcome feeling was the warm, squishy overflow collecting on the tiled deck, the sensation under my toes evoked memories of swimming lessons I hated attending as a child. I felt exposed in the harsh lighting and longed for the comfort of a cozy couch, but the rush from the promise of a good night kept me rooted in place.

I never liked swimming; I didn’t like the uncertainty of the water below, not knowing the depth or the temperature. I didn’t like getting my hair wet and smelling like chlorine. I didn’t like getting my ears clogged and then spending the rest of the day jumping from foot to foot trying to dislodge the stubborn liquid. But this day, I wasn’t bothered. I felt silly and carefree, and the usual things I often worried about at a public pool fell to the back of my mind, replaced by giggles, games, and a sense of belonging.

After an hour of swimming, we climbed back onto the deck, teeth chattering. We turned to face the pool, the chemicals drying out our skin and turning our eyes red, clasping each other’s hands in preparation for one final jump. No matter how many times I did this, I still couldn’t anticipate the sensation that accompanied being immersed, the fear of not knowing when I’d return to the top. I could just stay here, I thought to myself, I don’t have to jump, but I knew this was not an option; I cannot stay glued here forever. With the warmth of my friend’s palm against mine, I jumped.

While I know there are bigger fish to fry in the current geopolitical and cultural climate than a thirty-something-year-old white boy expressing how boring an art form is, a jab all too familiar amongst females with any passion, I can’t help but feel butthurt. And yes, those are the only words I can use to describe it. My chest puffed up, and blood rushing to my ears, I feel once again like a kid defending my niche hobby or interest. I would spit back snarky remarks with a shaky voice and sweaty palms, prompting my bullies to run off in fits of laughter, happy to have gotten any reaction out of me. But this isn’t that. There’s something profoundly cutthroat about the comments made by Timmy Shablagoo that have awakened a defensive response from the majority of the opera and ballet community. It’s the ungratefulness of how he treats his success, as if every art form isn’t an intersection of that which came before it and perseveres today.

Ballet and opera may be suffering due to the overwhelm of the digital age, but they are far from dying, and if they are, that is one hell of a 500-year slow burn. As with any art form, they can adapt to the culture they belong to, changing shape as society changes around them. This narrative that ballet is “outdated”, now subscribed to by Willy Wonka himself, fuels the positive feedback loop resulting in less interest and more contempt.

I know how to love because ballet found me first. I learned how to stand firmly on two legs and how to breathe through that which I did not want to move through. I spent countless hours staring at myself in the mirror until my appearance became warped, and only when I resumed a preparatory position did I become soft in all the right places, solid in all the other ones. Finally at peace with my reflection. Because ballet loved me first, I learned to love myself. The way my feet curve and where my bones stick out are reminiscent of a time when we were one entity, ballet and my body. There is no longer a part of myself I see outside the context of my childhood hobby, and as such, I cannot find a part of myself I see without a slight fondness.

I may not end my day with dance class anymore, but it still reveals itself in how I walk, how I hold my arms, and how I adjust my posture until I feel as if it’s satisfactory. It is in moments like these that I am reminded that one does not need to perform in order to be considered a participant in the arts. I often think about an article by Dani Offline where she describes the value of enjoying art, without the need to be the artist. She emphasizes that the point of art is to be enveloped by it, instead of consuming as much as possible in an effort to produce one’s own. I’m still a ballerina even if I am no longer the one in the tutu.

Things die when we don’t love them, and only have the arts withstood the test of time because there have always been people around who want to experience them. May Chalamet’s lamentations fuel the fire for ticket sales and more viewings of Billy Elliot, awakening within us the passion for movement and expression. There are plenty of people who want to keep ballet alive, and Timothée, if you believe there aren’t, I think the poets might disagree.

I recently cut Bangs. My mother calls them Man-Hating-Bangs, and as someone who has navigated their life primarily striving for approval under the scrutiny of the male gaze, I couldn’t help but see this decision as a small act of rebellion. To hell with it all, I will have Bangs, and I will let men hate them! Upon further reflection and daily battles with the blow dryer, I’ve determined that the Bangs bring more expectations than the novelty of their style lets on. Girls with Bangs are mysterious, eyes hidden behind a curtain of fringe, concealing secrets, disguising truth. Girls with Bangs are fearless and clever; a small chop of their hair is no setback, but it instead fuels the fire for fun and freedom of style. My reflection in the mirror seems strange to me now. It is no longer me looking back; all I see are the Bangs glaring with expectation. Undeserving am I of their position on my forehead, taking centre stage in people’s first impressions of me. Girls like me do not have Bangs.

The new year has been accompanied by a series of new endeavours, one of which has involved succumbing to the societal pressures of learning to ski. With a minor feeling of inadequacy, I tackled the slopes, and to my disappointment, I quickly found that my graceful nature did not extend to all athletic activities as I proceeded to fall a handful of times. I endured the same fate when skating on the canal, and after losing my balance, I lay staring up at the clear blue sky, an aching pain starting to form in my upper right arm and my left butt cheek. It was a catfish of a winter day, the sunshine tricking you into thinking that it would keep you warm. I had styled my Bangs in the hope of maintaining a cute, effortless persona, as if to exude the impression that this is super easy! I skate all the time! Instead, they quickly recoiled and tucked underneath my toque, as if they, too, found the cold unbearable. The ice felt hard and sure against my back, and I found myself wanting to remain horizontal, a position that promised more stability than my unsteady upward stance. Children whizzed past with not so much as a second thought as they barrelled over the bumps and divots that had resulted in my tumble. I sighed, questioning my choices in repeatedly seeking out activities wherein I’d most likely land on my ass. To prove to yourself that you will always get up again, a small voice reminds me. Oh, that’s right. I roll over and make my way back onto my feet.

My sole consolation throughout the bitter winter cold has been the promise of sweltering heat at the hot yoga studio I attend four times a week. Promptly at 6:45 most mornings, I suffer my way through the uneven snowy terrain, regretting all my life’s choices in the process. It is then that the studio's glowing lights appear like a beacon of hope in the darkness, promising warmth and comfort. A sweaty workout awaits me, causing my Bangs to cling to my forehead, forming tiny curls that frame my face. I am reminded of my childhood bob, the haircut that I had loved so much, but made me stand out like a sore thumb in ballet class. I battled with the barrettes while all the other girls had long hair that they could secure in a lovely wrapped bun. I did not care then, and I do not care now. While I may sweat out half my body weight and end up lightheaded as I exit the room, I embrace the unruliness of my tresses, letting the high of hot yoga carry me home.

One of the most embarrassing things that I have come to accept is standing at the crosswalk. I perch at the edge of the curb awkwardly waiting for the light to change, pretending to ignore the cold wind blowing my hair into a middle part, and then a side part, and then back to a middle part again. Surely no one is as unsettled by the war going on above my eyebrows as I am. I can feel my dry knuckles rubbing against the fuzzy inside of my mittens and my ears turning numb against the biting cold. Alas, all I can think about is how I wish I could take my hands out of my pockets to adjust my hair. Maybe a hat would rectify this issue, one might say. And risk hat hair? I should think not; I would respond and trudge defiantly across the street.

Give a girl a haircut, and she’ll have Bangs for a month; give her a pair of scissors, and she’ll never go without Bangs again. This is the life I have fallen victim to. While it may be the year of the horse, for me, it’s the year of the Bangs. The horse symbolizes forward movement and independence, but the Bangs symbolize defiance, determination, and nonchalance in this forward motion. A built-in frame through which I choose to look at the world. This might seem strange, frivolous, or downright vain, but my hairstyles have always been more than surface value. Some days, I may not appear brave or daring or determined. I don’t always need to because, without even trying, all girls with Bangs do.1

I look down at the piano, at my fingers resting in a once-familiar hand position grown strange with the passage of time. A hobby lost within a graveyard of hobbies, their inspiration killed by my precise and sometimes impatient nature. My fingers drift to this spot when I get a creative burst of energy or am distraught over my lack of artistic output. I feel proud when my muscle memory kicks in, and I remember how to read the notes, putting together sounds that resemble a melody.

My fingers are short and stubby; they have never been my proudest feature. My nail beds rest high on my finger’s length, my nails taking the shape of nubbins as a result of my anxious habit of biting them down till they bleed. Today I’ve painted them a shiny purple, something 13-year-old me would have liked. At that age, I had many hopes for my adult self, one of which was that my fingers would grow to be long and dainty, with nail beds extended to allow for a clean French tip to be painted on regularly. They reach a full octave on the piano with ease, permitting the quick and strong completion of scales, the sign of a truly mature adult. Alas, here I am, on the verge of 23, disappointed in my short fingers and my strained pinky barely reaching G to G. Many hopes fall into this category, accomplishments and achievements I had expected would be met once I had the world figured out. As the second day of the first month of the year draws nearer, the world feels more confusing than ever, and the list of unfulfilled aspirations grows longer as I fall victim to another passing year.

This holiday season has had awful weather, preventing us from doing much at all. Freezing rain, followed by sleet, and then, of course, snowmageddon. I’ve often thought it incredibly appropriate that I should be a winter baby, my inner world often reflecting that of a snowy day. My thoughts circle themselves with force, forming their own tempest just like the one outside my window. All my failures and unaccomplished ventures swirl together, forming a snowball containing everything I’ve never been proud of. Visibility is limited, weathermen suggest remaining indoors until the snow squalls come to a halt, and any venture into the blizzard requires adequate preparation. But every few hours, the sun will peek through the clouds, allowing for a moment of relief, a quick source of vitamin D. There is a glimmer of clarity in these moments, and it is then that I’m reminded that storms cannot last forever, no matter how strong.

I’ve been contemplating Newton’s Third Law of Motion: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. By the same logic, for every thought there is an equal and opposite thought, emphasis on the equal. No perspective is stronger than the other. Moving into my 24th year, I choose the more positive force, the one that sees my world through kind eyes. For example, while I might not have the elegant fingers of a world-class pianist, at least they reach a scale, at least they find their position. If anything, my determination to reach that damn octave says more about my character than anything else. But I never wanted to be a pianist anyway, so what is the use in dwelling?

I present a short list of equal and opposite thoughts that I have acquired this year to counteract my list of unfulfilled aspirations:

• It is okay to give up on things that don’t feel right. In fact, there is strength in changing your mind.

• I do not have to be anything yet. All I have to be is open to new possibilities. (e.g., I do not have to be good at cooking yet, but I’m open to the possibility of learning, or still being bad by the time my 24th birthday rolls around)

• I have never learnt anything by trying to be perfect; my most valuable lessons were learnt amongst the chaos. Give in to the chaos.

• Short nails are cute, too. And don’t throw away the purple sparkly nail polish.

November is no friend of mine. Too early to celebrate Christmas and too dark to find anything light. I count the days like I’m serving time, one day closer to a break without work to think about or deadlines to meet. My breakfast consists of buttered toast and a steaming cup of tea, spotted with a touch of honey: something to sweeten my taste buds and something to soothe my burning throat. Like the ghost of good times past, I haunt my university apartment, shivering in my thin slippers as I saunter up the creaky staircase. The Nelson Street ghoul, doomed to spend eternity in search of her stolen change. The culprit? The busted laundry machine.

Something strange about that day, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Was it an assignment I missed? No, couldn’t be. Did I have an appointment? Someone to call? None of the above. Maybe I missed rent? God, I hope not. I monotonously proceeded with my daily routine and was stopped in my tracks by a most peculiar sight. Looking back and forth between the microwave and the oven, I noticed a discrepancy. Go figure. The clocks had fallen back.

A week of roadblocks and hurdles awaited me in the form of midterms, an unsuccessful lab session, a midnight fire alarm tripped by the noisy neighbours, and a presentation I completed with a cough drop tucked in the corner of my cheek. Drugged up with cough syrup (I read the instructions as 2tbsp every 4 hours instead of 2tsp every 6), and Advil Cold and Sinus, I peeled myself out of bed every day, hoping that the bare minimum would suffice just one more time. I dreamt of a time when life didn’t look so bleak, and like the drama queen I am, I wondered, how on earth had I made it through Novembers before?

On any given night, you’ll find the kitchen of our house a hub of excitement. The preparation of five dishes leaves the oven overworked and overheated, and the dining table a mess with various cut vegetables and spices. With the window cracked and one eye on the microwave, any one of us is always ready to jump at the sight of it bursting into flame, too common an occurrence to let it run unsupervised. A room full of laughter and chaos, the kitchen is where no topic goes untouched. If you can think of it, it has most definitely been discussed amidst the madness and mayhem of meal prep. Like a dance, we move around each other, maneuvering our way around the small space. A mundane daily task turned vibrant with our combined characters, a time usually dreaded now cherished amongst the five of us girls.

I ended the week in bad spirits, letting the misfortune of my circumstances turn my usual good nature sour. 6 pm looking more like midnight, I walked home from class with a small tear rolling down my cheek.

Just like any other night, I sat myself down at the dining room table, and just like any other night, I left the kitchen in better shape than it found me in. The light of our corner lamp cast a warm glow over our faces, and we laughed about the noisy neighbours and the fire alarm mishap. We laughed about something that happened three years ago, a joke still funny no matter how many times we’ve told it. We laughed about tiktoks that were sent in the group chat, a recap for those who couldn’t stand to watch 100+ of them. We laughed about things that weren’t necessarily funny, but at that point, everything was. I had forgotten that it was dark and rainy outside, and that my nose was still stuffed from the tears that I had shed, and instead I remembered how I had made it through Novembers before. With kitchen parties and movie nights and sweet treat trips to Circle K. Just like the clocks, I fell back onto comfort and good humour, and just like Novembers before, I let that be enough.

Do you believe in luck? Or are you a realist? Someone who understands probability, perhaps. I wouldn’t say I’m superstitious, not until I really need something, and then I pull out all the stops. Wishing on stars, birthday candles, and stray eyelashes; searching for pennies, and carrying around a good luck charm, praying for just one thing that will indicate that there is a higher power who has plotted a great fortuitous event. Just for me.

My friend recently had a run-in with bad luck. Like, really horrible luck. The kinds of situations that could only happen by random chance and leave you wondering how on earth they occurred simultaneously.

“Wow, that sucks,” I had said, “that really, really sucks”.

A great source of comfort, I know.

Then by some marvellous twist of fate, his luck turned around, and these two situations reversed themselves entirely, as if they had never even happened. I am not the type to say things happen for a reason; all in all, I don’t think most things do. I believe that things happen, and it is in our human nature to need to make sense of them. With no rhyme or reason for the cause of his near misses, in this scenario, I had to wonder, is it just dumb luck?

If luck is a lady, she’s sly and she’s quick. 

She teases and mocks, always down for a trick. 

No note on the dresser, no promise to call. 

From one to another, was she even there at all? 

For as long as I can remember, I have felt uneasy at the sight of a black cat crossing my path. I have shied away from broken glass, and instead of “good luck” I have chosen “break a leg”. No opening umbrellas indoors, and god forbid you utter Macbeth in the theatre. I don’t know why I do it; I don’t necessarily believe that disaster will befall me should I have one misstep. Yet here I am, stuck in my ways.

We spend our days at the mercy of some unidentifiable power that governs our actions. Whether we know it or not, we are tethered to the unwritten laws of existence, repeating silly rituals and performing sacrifices to an indefinite being, hoping that they will fend off bad misfortune. Some call it karma, while others might attribute it all to a more supreme being. God, maybe, but who’s to say. Perhaps if we do the right things and perform the right tasks, the universe will reward us for our top-notch behaviour. The cynics and critics might argue their stance, claiming that they would never be deceived by the fallacy of fate, but whether you’re superstitious or not, I can guarantee you wouldn’t leave a four-leaf clover behind.

I had a meeting with my research supervisor the other day, and my nerves were getting the better of me. I made sure that everything was in its place. All my notes were in order; I rehearsed what I was going to say, and every question was equipped with a well-prepared answer. For good measure, I clasped an evil eye bracelet around my wrist, regardless of whether I believed in its lore; at least it was pretty. I put on my best shoes and, with my head held high, I assured myself that whatever happened, I would be there. Butterflies tossed and turned in my stomach, and my mind somersaulted with all the ways this could end in disaster. In that moment, a ladybug made its way to my hand. Shocked by the tiny creature and its significance in this instance, I took it as a sign. Surely nothing could go wrong now, not with Lady Luck on my side.

I left his office with a glow of pride and a newfound belief in the power of the universe. With an air of importance, the sun shone from my face, for this small milestone held great value to me. Luck, fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, had my back once again. God is good, and so are ladybugs.

A pedestal reserved for kismet and her clan, while I take the role of bystander, a participation ribbon gripped tightly in my grasp. How silly it feels to let luck take the praise, where was she during the late nights sitting at my desk, the frustration-filled hours when I had to scrap and restart? So to hell with her games and her opportunistic ways, if she wants a win, then she can come play. It’s time to give credit where credit is due, cause if I’m giving credit to the universe, aren’t I part of the universe too?

For every time I thought things just worked out by chance, I discredited all the times I showed up, all the choices I made that led me to that point of great fortune. All the times I ran over those notes, talked them over with my friends, and read paper after paper to come up with an idea. At the end of the day, it was me who made the plan, me who determined the feasibility, me who shared it coherently, and me who achieved something I had worked for.

My luck is me and she’s not always a lady. She’s not often graceful, she frets and she worries and inevitably falls into something that works out - not by chance but by choice.

And when you want something, all the universe conspires to help you achieve it.

- Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

It’s me, I’m my universe.

- Grace Michelle

The end of August. The rightful end of the year. Time to buy party hats and flip the calendars. Every midsummer, like clockwork, my body recognizes the switch. It’s subtle, and only after twenty-two summers have I become attuned to the change in the light or the smell of the air on a late July night. August is coming. Its lazy heat lies a cover over all beings, allowing the days to seep together into one. I lose all sense of time and logic; all that tethers me to the passing hours is the different phases of the moon, reflecting light from the persistent sun. It's the ripening of the year, when all events that have occurred since last September come to a head. I recall my achievements and my downfalls, my proudest moments and those in which I’ve fallen short. The latter often taking up more space in my mind. August feels like forgiveness, a cushion for my shortcomings, a time when my flaws are rinsed clean and only that which I want to bring forward into the school year is filtered through. Here I am again, at the cusp of all that’s new and fresh. A renewal. A rebirth. The baptism that is August. As fast as it came, August went, and suddenly it’s September, and I am hopeful.

Somewhere lost in the space-time continuum, there is a girl about to start high school, excited for the promise of this new phase of her coming of age. While she awkwardly dresses herself in the kilt her mother swore she’d grow into, she falters at the slight nerves that somersault in her stomach. The typical worries that occupy a young teenager’s mind as they face the horrors of high school halls don’t take up quite as much space in hers, except for in these fleeting moments. What if no one likes me? What if I’m not smart enough? What if it’s too much to handle? I am just a kid after all. I know this girl still exists because her eagerness to buy new pencils and sticky note her fresh folders lingers in my adult body. Before I know it, I will pack my bags full of back-to-school buys for one last time, my last first day for the foreseeable future looming ahead of me. The drive to school is no longer five minutes but instead six hours. Two slices of bread glued together by a slab of honey tucked in a sandwich box, now replaced by an expensive trip to Costco. The air is crisp with the promise of autumn, cicadas singing the chorus of my farewell, and I look to the trees to signify the beginning of the next shift. Before long, the colours of the leaves will change again, and I will change with them, my animal body, forever in tune with the seasons.

Now here I am, on the eve of the first day of school. My 14-year-old self lays out her outfit and packs her breakfast, and my 22-year-old self is filled with the typical worries that occupy a young woman’s mind as she faces her fourth year of university. Having been hit by the realities of living away from home and with three years of post-secondary education under my belt, I have borne witness to the trials and tribulations that lie ahead. As such, I find myself more cautious and slightly more concerned. I feel like once again I’m putting on my kilt that’s a little too big for me, as if I’m not quite enough to fill the expectations and responsibilities of a university senior. I’m just a kid after all. But where there is caution and concern, a little wisdom is never far behind. I am reminded that based on my track record, I’ll persevere.

I put my thoughts and ponderings on hold and hope that with the new year, they will find their resolution. In the meantime, I quietly toast to the year ahead, cheers to hope and renewal, and to no longer wearing kilts to class. My 22-year-old self is forever grateful for that.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne

- Grace Michelle

It’s late on a summer night. I’m tucked in my bed, the warm wind blowing through the blinds of my open window, and while this time should bring a sense of comfort, possibility, and excitement for the summer ahead, all I feel is tired. Tired in my bones. But I’ve been tired. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t. Is this burnout, I wonder? The word, being so overused and misunderstood, feels meaningless when it hits my ears and sends a rush of frustration to my head. Burnout is for other people, not me. I don’t get tired. Rest and peace are for other people, not me. I was meant to push. Push boundaries, push limits, push my limits. To have limits and comfort zones is weak, or so has been implied sporadically throughout my upbringing. But I feel as if I’ve been out of my comfort zone for so long that I am numb to the joy of accomplishing whatever it was I left it for. So here I am, out of my comfort zone, desperately uncomfortable, exhausted, and discontent, longing for a soft place for my head to land. And I mean my metaphorical head because in reality, most days I find it too difficult to get out of bed. Where is my metaphorical pillow and soft duvet that might absorb the weight of my thoughts, allowing me to melt into la la land? But I am not meant for that; peace and enjoyment are meant for others, not me. I am meant to try, to fail, and try again. Ah, yes, the fate of the burnt-out gifted kid. My body produces new aches and pains daily as a product of my perfectionism, my mind so jumbled with new ways I can be better at everything, that I miss what is going on right in front of me. More stress ensues. “I don’t want to miss my life for this”, I think desperately, a constant loop that plays over and over in my head. I want to savour in the small moments, cherish details in the silence, but instead, I constantly wonder what’s next while proceeding to point out my shortcomings, gnawing on them until my teeth are worn out and my jaw is sore.

Sometimes, in the brief instants when my thoughts come to a halt, I hear the words of Mary Oliver whisper in my ear, “You do not have to walk on your knees…you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves”. I feel a tug from somewhere deep within my stomach, a tug so subtle it is almost imperceptible. This constant torture I put upon myself to strive for greatness, for perfection, what value does it have if I am not present to enjoy my sheer existence? I get so caught up in the what-ifs that I begin to wonder, but what about right now? There is no promise of tomorrow, and no amount of my worrying or desperation to grasp at some semblance of control can make it so that some idealized future is guaranteed. So what if I stopped? Stopped pushing, stopped trying, stopped gripping onto everything so tightly my knuckles turn white. What would happen then?

Perhaps my comfort zone is not so bad as it was made out to be, and I’ve since proven countless times and with valiant effort that I can get out of it. But maybe it’s there for a reason. Maybe my comfort zone is the place where I am allowed to get up off my knees and take in my surroundings. To look up at Mary’s wild geese, harsh and exciting. Perhaps I do not have to force upon myself these grand expectations; maybe I can just enjoy the process of discovering what I already possess. What I already am. My resting state does not have to be striving for excellence; it can simply be being.

I let the sensation return to my hands and feet and allow my parasympathetic nervous system to quiet my instincts of survival, as if the body has always known how to return itself to the comfort zone. An evolutionary adaptation. Ah, to let the body breathe and be. Breathe and be. To take its place among the family of things.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Mary Oliver

Wild Geese

What’s your favourite horror movie? Probably the one where I run into an old high school peer at the grocery store or attend any large family event and am inevitably faced with the dreaded question: “What are your plans for the summer?” The answer always being the same unsatisfying response, I try my best to muster through a version of “Oh, just working”. Little do others know that my full-time serving job causes me sufficient stress and throws a wrench in the majority of the fun summer activities that people my age are involved in, and as such, I don’t find myself with time or energy to participate in anything else. The feeling of inadequacy still lingers as I scroll through my phone and find people in my field conducting research, going on volunteer trips, and furthering their education. I feel stagnant, like a swamp in the summer where nothing grows but indicators of age and the trees that surround me. Nothing moves except for the bugs that inhabit the swamp and the branches in the summer breeze.

“What’s up with you?”

“Oh, nothing new.”

I ran into a childhood friend at the one pub in our small hometown, someone whom, at one point, I knew everything about. We discussed what we were up to, where our lives had taken us since the last time we’d seen each other. He told me he was back at our old dance studio, taking modern classes once a week. I cringed at the concept of returning to somewhere so deeply rooted in my childhood; the thought of it made me feel claustrophobic in the dimly lit bar.

“Well, what else would I do?” he had said, “I don’t know what else to do with myself”.

I tripped over his comment. The slight glimpse of vulnerability felt out of place in the dirty, sweaty bar rife with self-conscious post-grads trying to be someone they’re not. Almost unsuitable for the setting of its verbalization. I nodded with understanding while mentally pocketing his remark for further inspection.

When nothing else is new, nothing left to turn to for anything more than a dopamine kick, maybe the key is the old; that which made us us when we were twelve. It struck me how, after six years of his undergraduate degree in a faraway city, having met new people, experienced new things, been provided with every opportunity to explore new hobbies, my friend returned home and decided to pick up his childhood extracurricular and the thing that brought him joy in his youth. Not just because he thought it might be a fun pastime, but because he couldn’t possibly think of what else to do with himself. As if it were a last resort. The brutal honesty of this revelation made me realize the same thing about myself: I needed to face my last resort. In my stagnant state, immovable by any of the external pressures weighing down on me, I felt crushed, one might even say suffocated by the heat of my summer swamp.

I began to slowly, sheepishly, with my tail between my legs, pick back up my childhood activities. Reading, writing, listening to music, and watching movies that my younger self would have liked. My creative side that I had so meticulously concealed from the world as a survival method to make it through my gruelling university program was reawakened. Every aspect of my life became more enjoyable as I continued to do the things I had once loved.

As we grow up, it is increasingly implied that our value is dependent on what it is we produce, how well we are excelling in some competitive field, or what we are contributing to our capitalist culture. In the face of this propaganda that constantly reinforces the importance of more! more! more!, it becomes nearly impossible to get out of the swamp. My prescription? That colouring book tucked in the back of your desk drawer that you loved when you were eight. It won’t resent you for letting it rust and dust.

I recently took a ballet class and was shocked to find that my body easily fell back into every position. From first to fifth. I stared at my body in awe in the mirror, recognizing every curve and divot with each shape that I took. I moved with the music effortlessly, letting my strong legs carry me, my core hold me stable, and my feet push me across the room. As I returned to dance, it welcomed me back, like a warm hug, or more accurately, like a suit of armour being fitted back to its wearer. I remember as the class came to an end, the girl in the mirror stared back at me, smiling, a smile I remember looking at for many years as I grew up. She was 6, and she was 10, and she was 13, and she was 19, all wrapped in one person defined not by what she produced, but by all the things she had loved before.

- Grace Michelle

And when the days are warm and the air is heavy, we think of you. When the world wakes up from a long winter’s slumber and the colours are vibrant, your memory pierces through. I think of the things you would have loved, and I find myself trying to savour their beauty on your behalf. My friend’s pink high heels she wore to drinks last week. A new perfume. The Chicks’ Gaslighter album. Day of the week underwear. Every one of Carrie Bradshaw’s many outfits. A portrait of a sailboat on the horizon, while the sun’s reflection glimmers off the surface of the water. It’s June again, and your memory is always at the edge of our thoughts, it’s like you’re sitting right next to us, but just out of reach. The warm summer wind blows, bringing with it the smell of fresh peonies and maybe, if we listen closely, the whispered echo of your laughter. Even when grief sits heavy on our hearts, the fondness of your memory helps to lighten the load, like a breath of fresh air. As time passes, I feel lucky to feel so sad. Lucky to feel longing, lucky to feel at all.

Things have changed in five years. My not-so-baby brother has since graduated from high school, and I myself am closer to graduating from university than to my freshman year. Babies are being born, new friendships are being made, and there are new people I wish you could have met. As I grow older and what feels like debatably less wise, I wonder, does time really heal all wounds? Or does time just change our perception of pain, change its form? Where there once was an all-consuming feeling of despair, there is now just hints of longing and sometimes a little reminder that, unfortunately, yes, it will always be like this. Things will continue to change, and we will continue to wish you were here to witness them. Then on days when this fact is particularly hard to bear, my explore page will show me a Snoopy meme or Blackbird will play on the radio, and I’m reminded that you’ve been here all along.

It’s June again, and I am no longer so mad at my grief. I have since learned that she never meant me any harm. She is not so all-consuming as she once was; she just sits beside me. Some days she is small. Some days she is large, and I am forced to pull up an extra chair. Her darkness is not a symbol of struggle and loss, but a reminder of the light. She no longer governs my body and my actions, but hands me the tools to move forward, gives me hints. She tells me how to speak to my friends and my family. How to laugh with them. She nudges me to relish in every moment, a little “hey, this is important”. There are days when I long for my childhood innocence and the wonder that came along with it. Then I remind myself, I didn’t lose the joy I had before my grief; they live simultaneously now, like a pas de deux, they move gracefully with each other every day. I have since developed the ability to balance the fleeting reminders of a love and joy I once had, and the overwhelming emotions that accompany the loss of that same thing. They were never meant to be experienced separately; it’s as if we were meant to feel it all.

- Grace Michelle