As I drive I imagine a giant white paper cup hovering over the green fences that line the 401. I see myself as a latte loving Godzilla, leaping over the traffic, banging my chest, crushing cars and street signs until I clutch the oversized latte with two hands and purr.

It started in 2001. I worked down the street from Chapters. For years I went to Starbucks every day on my way home from work. It was my way of transitioning from the stresses of the day. I’d sip my chai latte and wander around the store, thinking and dreaming.

Each night I’d pick a different section of the store to explore for new titles. I’d sit and look at children’s picture books or coffee table gardening books or all of the fiction authors’ books whose last name began with “R.” Something about the latte and the books transported me to another place for twenty minutes. It was my Chapters. It was my Starbucks. It was my time to take a breath.

Starbucks guy seemed to work every day. He was at least ten years younger than me. Maybe. He had gorgeous thick chiseled arm muscles. I couldn’t help but notice that. Over the years I learned he wrote songs and played in a band. He knew my drink, grande soy chai latte. He was Starbucks guy and I was soy chai girl for years.

On Saturday I was driving to Ajax to attend the Ontario Writers’ Conference. I had been in town the day before too, but I didn’t have any time to get a latte. Godzilla’s growl echoed across Durham Region, Lake Ontario, the Greater Toronto Area, all of southern Ontario. My weekend was packed, but surely I had time for one latte while I was in the city.

I went to a Starbucks just off the highway. There was no line. I power walked to the counter. I was so close to my precious drink.

I nearly squealed when I saw him. He let out an enthusiastic “oh!” when he saw me. Our eyes lit up. We connected. Starbucks guy!

“Hi!” We both said it at once like cherished old classmates. Joined by years of routine, on Saturday we shared one brief moment of connection, of delight in seeing a familiar face.

“How are you?” he said.

“Great.” I said.

“What will it be today?” he asked. When he smiled I knew he was just as thrilled to see me. It had been years. This was a different Starbucks. We weren’t intended to be more than Starbucks guy and Soy chai girl, but what we had was bigger. Familiarity gave us a sense of community.

“Grande soy chai latte.” I beamed.

He smiled.

“SO good to see you.”

“So good to see YOU.”

As I left with my drink we nodded goodbye across the shop. I knew that I had come home. I knew that as hard as they try social media will never be able to recreate the energy, the depth of connection of running into an acquaintance, of looking someone in the eye as our souls say I see you, I know you.

I always loved sharing stories with my students. Random stories dropped into their day like a rose petal or a parachute or even a stink bomb. I was one of those teachers. I totally cracked myself up all the time. And I talked too much. But I like to think they loved it.

“In good stories, characters change. Always be on the lookout for that. Change.” As I went on to provide examples from Harry Potter and Hamlet students asked questions and offered insights. I remember them as the perfect class, as though they teleported from a Hollywood set into my classroom in Whitby.

“Before we move into our next key point, I’d like you to—” I stopped. I froze dramatically, my hands suspended in midair holding the thought. My eyes scanned the class. Of course the students had all looked up at me in the silence, their eyes wide, curious.

With my right hand I pointed to the air as if it had the answer, I swiveled toward the chalkboard, placing the white nub of chalk on the ledge. I turned to the class, my eyes focused, my hands clasped in front of me. I had hoped my body communicated this is serious folks.

“I didn’t tell you about what happened on the weekend.”

“Tell us!” “You have to tell us!” “What happened?”

“It was my spa weekend. Once a year I go to a high-end spa in Toronto for one day. One day in this spa feels like a two-week vacation. I don’t know how they do what they do but they do it.”

All the pens had been put down by now, the note on the board neglected and nearly forgotten.

“So I had just finished my day and I was in the change room. I didn’t want to leave so I moved in slow motion.” I stopped. “You know, we should probably get back to the lesson.”

“Ms. Outram!” they exclaimed.

I smiled. “I’m standing by my locker, wearing a big fluffy white spa robe. My pants are down around my ankles and I’m working up the effort to pull them up when I hear some whispering beside me.”

I walk to the other side of the room and stand near the window to create a theatrical pause.

“I look up. But remember I’m in a robe, my pants pulled to about mid-calf and there is Paris Hilton using the locker two down from mine.”

“Omigod!” “No way!” “You’re joking!” “For real?”

“Our eyes meet and I smile, nearly tipping over because my hands are holding onto my pants. And then I think, here I am meeting a celebrity and I don’t have any pants on! So I look away really fast. I mean really fast. Like this.” I act it out.

The class laughs.

“Paris puts a bag into her locker. A spa concierge helps her to secure the lock. I manage to yank up my pants under my robe and I look at Paris again. She is two feet from me. She looks at me too. And this is where I’m surprised. Her eyes were flat. They weren’t even sad, just flat. Empty. Like there was nobody inside her. I’ve never in my life seen such emptiness in a person.

And I felt so sad for her. She was a blank. One dimensional. A shell. I have a better life even though she has all the money in the world. I felt compassion. I felt sorry for Paris Hilton! She was as lifeless as a department store mannequin. And she was so thin. I’ve worked with a lot of tiny teenagers but I have never met anyone so skinny. Her neck wasn’t much bigger than my wrist. In one moment, one look I saw a whole scary world of nothingness, of something worse than loneliness. And then Paris turned as though the moment hadn’t happened, as though I hadn’t been standing there and walked out of the room holding the arm of the concierge.

A small group of private school girls standing by the mirror, adjusting their kilts and smoothing their hair, stopped as she walked by, then turned to me and asked, ‘Paris Hilton?’ I nodded and they pulled out their phones and started texting.

The point is everyone, you have it good. When I look into your eyes I see a whole world. You sparkle. Your life as it is right now is better than Paris Hilton’s. Cherish that. Cherish what you have because you are far richer than she is—I learned a big lesson this weekend.”

The students asked a couple of questions and we found our way back into the lesson. And then twenty minutes or so passed.

I stopped mid-thought, clutching the nub of chalk. “I forgot to tell you about what happened on the weekend!”

And the stinkers pretended I hadn’t just told the story as I told the whole story all over again.

When I reached the end, one bright light said, “Miss, you know you told us this story twice?”

“What do you mean?” I still didn’t get it.

“This is the second time you told us about Paris Hilton.”

“But how is that possible? It just happened yesterday.”

“You know, when we were talking about character you told us the story and then—”

And then I got it. “You mean this isn’t Period Two?”

“Nope.”

“Oops. Sorry!”

The class erupted into hysterics.  You see, at least six of my students were in both my Period 1 and 2 classes. It was a Monday morning. My brain was gooey from my spa weekend.

Or maybe what Paris had was contagious and this was an early warning sign.

Fly and I were matched through one of the more expensive online dating sites. You know the one. The one with the cheesy commercials and the promises of using elaborate questionnaires to find you an ideal mate. The one that searches for matches and screens them based on your personality and wishes.

We had started with the online “wink.” Then we exchanged a series of questions and answers using the structured format of the site. Questions about our philosophy on travel or how often we worked out or the type of match we hoped to find. We passed the initial tests. Then it was time to send personal notes.

I had been single a long time so it was fun to receive little notes throughout the day. They were simple. How are you? How is your day? Can you believe the weather? This was not the whirlwind romances I imagined everyone else was having. Despite our status as a “great match” we struggled to find common ground.

Fly was a divorced accountant in his late-thirties (allegedly). I was a never married English teacher in my early thirties.

After a week of notes Fly asked for my phone number. We talked on the phone a couple times. He told me that his father recently passed. Fly spent his weekends going to the family farm somewhere a few hours east of Toronto to pack and to prepare the farm for selling. I told Fly about my new coffee maker and my favourite radio stations. Whenever there was an awkward silence I filled the space with questions about books, foods, hobbies, Fly’s family.

Two weeks later Fly said we needed to meet. Finally! I thought. It had been more than a month since we had been first matched online. I always preferred to meet as soon as possible.

“Let’s go to Starbucks,” I offered. A simple, easy, short introduction would be best.

“Oh, no. We are far beyond a cup of coffee,” Fly declared.

“Oh, okay.” I was totally inexperienced with dating so I took his word for it.

“I’m taking you for dinner at Casa Verde. Thursday night. Seven o’clock.”

Casa Verde was a fancy-schmancy Italian restaurant in Pickering Village. I had never been there.

Thursday night I wore a red cashmere sweater with a swoop neck. Fly wore a shirt and tie. He met me at the door.

Fly was taller than me. He had oddly shaped caramel hair. I wondered if it was real. It looked like it might fall off at any moment. His shiny black dress shoes had rubber shoe covers on them. When I was a kid I used to call rubber shoe covers elephant ears. I hadn’t seen elephant ears since I was ten. Fly looked a lot older than his profile. There must have been about twenty years between us.

I decided to have dinner anyway, to give him a chance, to follow through on this date.

We sat down at a small table by a window.

We stared silently at the menus for a long time before putting them down.

“So,” I said.

“We finally meet,” he said. “You look nice. Great colour.” Fly motioned to my sweater.

“Thanks.”

Long pause.

The waitress approached. “What can I get you to drink?”

Fly said, “We will each have one glass of your white house wine.”

Don’t I get a vote?

“And we’re ready to order,” Fly continued. “I’ll have penne matricana. Jessica, which pasta dish would you like?”

Which pasta dish?  “Oh, uh, I’ll have manicotti fiorentina di sidney.” My first instinct was to order the New Zealand lamb dish just to spite him. 

“Whoa. How much is that?” Fly asked. He grabbed a menu and looked it up. Then nodded at the waitress in approval.

My jaw must have hit the floor. One half of my brain screamed I have a job, I can buy my own dinner! The other half of my brain advised stop being so critical, give him a chance.

“Can I interest you in any appetizers?” the server asked.

“No,” he said abruptly. Then Fly somehow dismissed her from our table with a tilt of his head.

I wished I’d had the nerve to leave. But I was in my thirties and this was my first official dinner date–ever. (Dating and I have never been a sunset walk along the beach, but that’s another story).

“How was your day?” Fly asked.

I talked about my classes and the funny thing someone said at lunch in the staff room. I told him about going to the gym after work and meeting with my trainer.

“Whoa. How much does that cost?” Fly’s eyes bulged.

“I don’t know. I bought a package. Maybe $40 an hour. I can’t remember.”

Fly raised an eyebrow. His hair shifted. “What does she do?”

“Guides me through a routine. Weights, sit-ups, the plank. A bunch of stuff.”

“Stop paying her. I’ll do it for $12. Pay me.” Fly was serious.

A gross, icky, creepy shudder travelled up my spine.  Our first (and probably only) glass of wine had not even arrived yet.

“You’re prettier than your picture.” Fly smiled.

For seven summers I worked at a day camp in Oshawa. My camp counsellor self took charge of the date. She identified the fun-gap. We needed better programming. I reached into my purse and pulled out a small black book, If: Questions for the Game of Life. I had used the book at work earlier that week and had put it in my purse to take home.

“Do you want to play a game?”

Fly lit up like a symphony of fireworks.

I continued, “This book is filled with ‘if’ questions. How about we pass it back and forth, taking turns asking each other questions?”

Fly beamed. “You go first.”

“If you were granted one wish, what is the first thing you would do?”

He stretched back into his chair and talked.

We asked “if” questions as we sipped wine, as we ate pasta, and then as we might have had dessert if Fly hadn’t blurted out “just the bill” when the waitress cleared our plates. The questions filled all the awkward spaces and prevented us from having any sort of real conversation. It prevented me from bopping the hair off his head if he told me what to order or how to spend my money again.

The date ended. Thank god. We walked to the parking lot.

“Which car is yours?” Fly asked.

I hesitated to tell him. “One of those,” I smiled. My hand swept the air toward the parking lot.

“This was the best date I’ve ever been on,” Fly said. He took a step toward me. “We have so much in common.”

I took a step back.

“I think you’re the one,” he said. “Can we have dinner next week?”

My entire body screamed NO, but I said “maybe. Gotta go. Talk to ya later.” And I spun around on my heels and power walked to my car. Fly watched.

That night when I got home I told my landlord, who lived in the adjoining house, that if a guy named Fly came to the door to please oh please pretend I didn’t live here. Then I called Fly a few nights later and gently told him I didn’t want to see him again. He was angry. I heard him cry.

Since that night I’ve learned that dating can be all about “if” questions. If he hadn’t said this or if I hadn’t said that. If only he had been younger and less creepy. If only I had been more assertive about what I wanted. If only we were truly a match…

And I never took the “If” book on a first date again.

We had arrived in Port Hope just after lunch. Everyone was assigned a duty from unloading the truck, to setting up the scaffolding, to prepping the costume tent, to raising and securing the set’s walls. It usually took just over two hours in the hot summer sun to turn whichever park we visited into a theatre.

The show started at 7 pm. People sat on blankets and lawn chairs, our audiences in Northumberland always robust and enthusiastic.

Someone in town had offered to throw us party after the show and then invited us to stay over night. Then, tomorrow we would be performing in the neighbouring town of Cobourg.

This couple had a gorgeous house. It was within a couple blocks of downtown. Bright leafy murals decorated the sitting room walls. Exhausted, our group of about fifteen or twenty slouched into couches and chairs, some stretched out on the floor.

After the show we had disassembled the set and loaded everything into the truck. It was a summer of 12 hour work days. But we didn’t care. We loved it. We loved each other. We loved Shakespeare.

In the kitchen, this generous couple had filled tables with snack foods and drinks. It was a feast to us but we were so tired, few had the energy to walk across the room to get chips or a beer.

Someone pulled out a little black book. “If…Questions for the Game of Life” by Evelyn McFarlane and James Saywell. If you were to be granted one wish, what would it be? If you could dine alone with anyone from any period from history, which person would it be?

We took turns passing around the book and asking questions. We blurted out answers all at once, voices cutting into and through each other. Some people had sharp, witty responses. Others were totally hysterical. Some were predictable or insightful. We gave each other nicknames and new lives and last suppers. We were silly and deep. The collective energy in the room moved from a wilted plant to a vibrant tropical rainforest. If questions brought us closer together.

I found the book a few weeks later at a store near Yonge and Dundas in Toronto. I bought it.

Soon I started teaching English in Whitby. One dreary Friday afternoon I looked for something fun to do with my class. I remembered the book. If you could change one thing in the world right now, what would you alter?

Playing the if game is one of the best ways I’ve found to get to know people, to build community.

And so I thought I would try it on Facebook and Twitter, hashtag #IFgame. With so many old friends, acquaintances, and colleagues held together by the threads of social media I wanted to feel more connected.  I wanted to feel closer to everyone. I wanted my status updates to go beyond what I am thinking and feeling to learning more about my friends, to finding out which song they would listen to if they could only choose one–forever.

The game has begun. Three questions posted so far.

If….

Tonight my dreams have started early. I imagine I am in Rome wandering through Piazza Navona in the evening. Guido walks beside me, the glare from his shiny dress shoes twinkling in the moonlight. He hums “On an Evening in Roma” just a little off tune.

I can’t help but laugh at the shoes, the song, and the way he tips his hand at all the other couples strolling past the fountain. You can see ‘em disappearing two by two on an evening in Roma.

Guido pulls my hand in the air and guides me into a twirl. I close my eyes. He sings. I twirl. I let go of his hand. I twirl.

I wish I had opened my eyes sooner.

My bare legs feel the cool stone too late. I twirl into the fountain, my eyes opening just as my belly slaps the water and my face follows. I try to push myself up and out of the water, but my hands and feet slip on the coins. I crash into the water again, giant splashes rising and falling over the statues, the sides, the polizia’s whistle.

Two strong hands reach in and pull me from the fountain. I cough. I wipe the hair from my face. I open my eyes.

I notice the warm rain. I see waves rolling over the sand. I hear cracks of thunder and see flashes of lightning. I am in Hawaii at Waikiki Beach. The man who stands by me looks so much like Elvis. A wet Elvis. He pulls me to my feet and takes my hand. We run along the beach in the rain. The water is loud, rain pelting waves. We run until we are at the base of Diamond Head.

I see a small cave. Elvis motions me to go ahead. I go inside. It is so dark. I can’t see anything. The sound of the waves muted by the rock, I feel like I am lost. I step slowly, one foot reaching out and testing its step, then another. An hour passes. Then two. Or maybe it was ten minutes. I realize Elvis is gone.

I sit down and start singing the soundtrack to Wicked. Then Les Miz. My voice sounds velvety travelling in and around the darkness. I fall asleep.

When I wake up I am at home in my favourite, old brown chair in the rec room, fully reclined. The television plays. My iPad rests in my lap. I turn it on to check for new emails. It’s locked on a Words With Friends screen. Two words intersect: fountain and diamond.

FYI: Tonight I closed my eyes and wrote, going wherever story would take me. This is how I wrote as a child. I started with one line and then another, trusting that the process eventually would lead somewhere. Free-writing is a useful tool for mining new ideas and practicing craft.

Many of my childhood stories ended with “and then she woke up” too. I remember my grade 8 teacher giving me a personal lesson in denouement because I would string together elaborate stories and then get stuck.

I’ve learned that free writing and story planning may be two separate processes but they go hand in hand. Where does your free writing take you?

On Facebook a friend posted a picture of a small fallen snowman. Pencils, knives, and other sharp objects piercing his body. The caption read: Die, winter, die.

Yesterday it felt like the 71st of February. Even the news had winter storm warnings posted, not spring storm warnings. We are losing our sense of place, our sense of time. We have winter-lag.

So it’s time to bring out your inner teenager and rebel against mother nature! Pack away the boring parkas. Wear short sleeves and bright colours. Stomp around your yard until the ice melts and the grass starts to green. Bang your head against the air to the beat of local birds singing in town. Tattoo sunshine on your ankle. Pierce your  yard with do-dads. Break your winter curfew to go for an ice cream cone. When/if the snow starts to fall, look it in the eyes and shout: “No! You can’t make me! You’re not the boss of me! Gawd!” Then roll your eyes.

Mother will just have to stop with all this weather-that-shall-not-be-named. She can’t ground us all, can she?

If you listen closely you will hear the geese honking for spring! April in Britt, ON.

I ran into a colleague outside Shoppers Drug Mart.

“I need to rake this weekend,” she said.

I imagined the prongs of the rake crawling along the drowsy grass, gently inviting life. “Oh! I didn’t realize we needed to rake in the spring. Is this something I should do?” I bought my house in November and moved in January.

“Only if you didn’t rake in the fall, but I think it might be a good thing for the grass. We didn’t rake in the fall.”

When I got home I noticed my front yard was clear of leaves, but my backyard was sprinkled with small brown curled up leaves with larger clumps formed around the bases of the shrubs. So I must rake. I go to the garage. Then, I remembered I do not own a rake. My subconscious had assumed that if I needed a rake, the house would provide one for me. I added rake to the list for spring purchases.

A short work week. New alarm clock stopped and the old one returned from retirement. Star 93.3 energized my morning routine at 5:30 am. Chocolate teas and sun-filled, silent morning drives. Each day felt like a new game of “52 pick-up.” Issues thrown up into the air and spread throughout my office, the school. We worked to have the deck in order by the end of the day. Conflicts resolved. Paperwork orderly. Re-engagement plans ready.

My great uncle passed away. Peacefully. And I thought about the farm and the sound of his voice and the strength of his kindness. He looked so much like my grandfather.

Dinner with a new friend. Lunch with old friends. Children laughing in my home.

And I wrote.

I didn't notice the leaves before.

I thought about religion. About church. I searched online.

I played Words with Friends, WordOn, Jet Set Go. I read the Globe and Mail, all the flyers, Northumberland News, Facebook. Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn.

I listened to Serena Ryder and Mumford and Sons. I talked on the phone. I scheduled days to paint and a date for a housewarming party. I avoided my taxes.

A visit to an art opening. Inspired by light. Although the artist is an acquaintance, I got the sense that we are kindred spirits.

I watched Smash. Twice. Imagined my life on Broadway as a playwright, walking home along the streets of Manhattan holding hands with Jesse L. Martin. Swooned.

I accidentally watched PBS. The PianoGuys radiated happiness, showed the joy of art-making, and reminded me about what it feels like to perform. Now when I think about creating, about writing, about being in the moment I will think of the cello. The way Steven Sharp Nelson played each song as though he was discovering the energy of music for the first time. I know that feeling.

A friend visited with her family. I gave her a tour of my new house. She spotted the yoga DVD sitting by the television.

“Do you do that video?” she asked.

“Well…”

“I missed the sign-up for my yoga class. I thought about maybe getting a video…”

“It’s a great video. I used to do the VHS version. Rodney Yee is great.” I replied.

“Thanks–”

“But I haven’t actually done this video yet. I thought if I put it out I would think to do it.” Then I felt like the person who buys literary classics not because she loves to read them but because she likes to stage great books in her home. It is time to stop looking at the DVD. It is time to go downstairs and do it! The yoga mat I bought in November rests in the corner by the television, not yet used. It’s not right, the mat whispers.

Today I look forward to spending time writing and planning for the Master Class I will be presenting at the Ontario Writer’s Conference in May.

And of course, yoga. A walk. Preparing the house for another week.

How was your week?

Connected to now, then, and later I know what it is.

This is one of my favourite dreams. It starts out as a dream about running and then I am flying. Soaring. Invincible.

Every one in Sydney seems fit and healthy

I am always running toward something wonderful. In the dream I know that if I run fast enough I will fly. Dreaming about flying is liberating. I always wake up invigorated and energized from these dreams.

When I searched for this dream’s meaning online many sites suggested that to dream of flying means to dream of a release from life’s daily pressures.

Lately I’ve been craving exercise. Just the thought of exercise gives me the feeling I have in this dream. I look at an empty sidewalk and imagine myself jogging in a blue suit, my lean body slicing through our April windchill, my iPod cranking out warm beats of the Gypsy Kings.

I see the rolling hills between Grafton and Colborne as I drive to work. Riding a sleek new bicycle while wearing hot pink cycling gear I ride the hills at top speeds without breaking a sweat or losing a breath.

I hear the lyrics of a song in a random phrase someone says at work. I pick up the tune and sing, dancing down the halls in perfect time. Passing students join in as though we are in a scene from Glee.

I take stairs five at time. I leap over cars in the parking lot. I swim to the horizon line of Lake Ontario.

And then with a blink I notice that I’m sitting in a recliner watching TV. I’m unwrapping a chocolate bar from the stash in kitchenette at work. My pants are tight and my socks leave a wrinkle in my skin. I’m reaching for another sip of tea as I yawn, then stretching my eyes wide to keep them open as I drive. My running shoes wait frozen by the front door. The carrots and fruit go uneaten in my lunch bag. Compared to the dreams, real life seems like a carnival cartoon.

When I think about what freedom means in 2013 I think about health. Living in North America we have so many privileges and opportunities. We are blessed. And yet we throw so much of our freedom away by making poor lifestyle choices. We spend more time at work and less time outdoors. We type notes to 400 acquaintances (all at once) rather than pick up the phone to call one. We reward ourselves with take-out and dessert and wifi time and movies rather than walks and sunshine and art-making.

For many of us, good health is the ticket to freedom. But rather than feeling light and strong and happy we let stress pull us down so that we feel weighted and sluggish and disappointed.

When I was in Sydney last month, the people inspired me. The city exudes healthy living. People jog to work with their suits clipped to backpacks. Meals in food courts focus on lean choices and fruit. I was rarely caught in a cloud of cigarette smoke or smog. I noticed because I was on vacation. When I came home I saw that healthy living was just as easily accessed in Cobourg. Sometimes we need to go to other side of the world to gain perspective.

This weekend I plan to think about my health, about how I can make small changes to move closer to feeling the strength of the self in my dreams. Is health a priority in your life? What’s your secret to making it happen? How does feeling healthy liberate you from some of the pressures of every day life? What does a healthy lifestyle look like to you?

Poetry is here...

It is poetry month. You will find poetry events all over North America. You will find poets staring off into space at random moments of the day. They try to find the perfect phrase for a poem they are working on to fill their promise of writing a poem a day.

Cobourg is planning an amazing Poetry Festival for the weekend of April 19-21. From poets visiting local schools to a gala featuring Jane Urquhart to ongoing readings throughout the weekend, this event looks like a fabulous celebration of poetry. Click here for ticket information.

In February I shared some poetry at my old high school for a 50 year reunion focusing on the arts–an ArtsFest. To celebrate poetry month today I’ve included one of the poems I read at the event in this post. It’s about balancing writing and working and life.

Balancing the arts with life is so much easier as a teenager when we can be immersed in a program dedicated to the arts. As we grow up we often find that a distance emerges between us and our art. It becomes harder to justify spending time “creating” just for fun. This is so wrong.

Maybe you think about writing poetry. Maybe you wonder when you will find the time. Maybe you struggle to see where your art fits as life overflows into the empty spaces of your days.

For a long time I wondered how I could be a writer and a teacher. I felt that I had to choose, that it would be impossible to be both. I wanted to be a good teacher and a good writer. I learned that with patience, scheduling, and time it was indeed possible to dedicate myself to doing my best work as a teacher and a writer. It is not easy, but it is possible.

Poetry can be personal. Poetry can be healing. Reading or writing poetry can help us work through the big questions that keep us up at night.

On Arriving

By Jessica Outram

The dragon of decision

breathed fiery chaos

when I first came to the hills,

stuck on

either,

unable to see both:

teacher and

writer

blinded by sunshine

on snowflakes.

One choice, two children

love triangle of selves

crying freedom from the nightmares,

ghostly panics in church pews of false gods.

School bells passing light;

night by the white

of my changing laptop

words

gushing freely as an old friend

where time between meetings is

inconsequential 
creativity calling

vice poet

craving and saving words in small

packages slid between

big rocks and long sleeps

songs of bullies and teachable

moments until arriving

finally

I am.

1. TimTams. Oh please stop me now. I can’t just eat one. Or two.  How can something so simple taste so good? Our Australian guide told us we needed to try biting off alternate ends of a TimTam, dipping it into tea, and sucking the tea through the TimTam until it reaches our mouths, and then quickly biting into the now tea-filled TimTam.

2. Apicare. I bought a night serum at the recommendation of a sales clerk at the Polynesian Spa in New Zealand. Every time I use it, I wake up looking younger and more fabulous! In fact after using it for a week, I was mistaken 4 times as a teenager (and I’m 38)!! Three women from our group bought this and we are all enjoying it–although we are not big fans of the smell.

3. TS14. Australian designed, colourful plus-sized clothing brand. It captured my artsy-fartsy heart. I am now a card-carrying member and they deliver internationally. Yay!

4. Surfers and surf culture. It’s more than just beachwear and athleticism. It’s a state of mind. Shaka! Hang loose!

I've named him Buff Manly.

5. MindFood.  Stylish, intelligent Australian magazine for women. Sadly, it’s very expensive for an international subscription. But the good news is the iPad subscription is much, much lower. Check it out. I was impressed by the scope of the content and quality of the writing. For all the magazines in North America, why can’t there be one like this?

6. Pineapple.  I used to think pineapple was too sweet and decadent. It tasted like candy. It still does, but one juicy bite brings me back to the beaches of Hawaii. After some research into the health benefits, I learned it’s not candy at all.

7. Compression socks. By wearing compression socks on my many long flights I felt no leg pain. I had no swelling. I could easily walk for long distances when we arrived. I will never travel without them. Tip: Be sure you buy the correct size.

8. Collapsible water bottle. Since I was in safe drinking water countries, this bottle saved me a lot of money. It was easy to find places to refill throughout the day and easy to tuck into my purse when it was emptied.

9. New Zealand sunscreen. On my flight to Australia from NZ my Canadian sunscreen was confiscated so I bought this brand in the airport. Amazing stuff. And proceeds go to the New Zealand Cancer Society. Brilliant fundraising idea. If the Canadian Cancer Society sold its own brand of sunscreen at Shoppers Drug Mart, I would buy it!

10. BurgerFuel.  Best chicken burger ever. And they have clever cardboard burger holders so you don’t make a mess while you eat.

Cardboard burger holder in NZ