Yesterday, Aram and I took a little trip to Superstore. For those of you unfamiliar, Superstore is something like a cross between Costco and a regular grocery store. That is to say, it’s fantastic. I think we spent pretty close to three hours there. Seriously.

We came away with a carload of stuff, including three adorable and fun sundresses for me, a multi-pack of steaks for Aram, and some delicious 400-thread-count sheets for us both.

We also purchased a pack of that pre-mixed Pilsbury cookie dough. And this is where it gets dicey.

I didn’t plan on purchasing said cookie dough. I did not want to purchase said cookie dough. And yet, somehow, as we were standing in the refrigerated section somewhere between the cheese slices and the fat-free yogurt, I heard myself say “hey, you know what would be delicious…”

Yup. Cookies.

Those cookies for me were not just cookies. They were my saying, in so many words, “Today, is not the day that I focus on doing good for me. It’s not the day I listen to my body and refrain from piling on the crap. Today is the day things stay the same.”

Boo.

Today is also the last day of Bindu Wiles’ beautiful online community challenge #21.5.800. This is bittersweet in my heart. I kind of failed it.

I started out all strong and motivated. Full of will power and gusto, determined to make that simple change in my daily life. To write. To breathe, and to move.

But, after a little more than a week, my resolve slipped. I let a day in without writing, or I couldn’t quite find time for the yoga. The thing about that little slip is, once you’ve opened the door to the breeze of neglect – even just a teeny, tiny crack – the whole damn thing gets blown wide in, letting out all the dirt and dust bunnies that were hidden in the corners.

As soon as we realize that nothing much HAPPENS when we slip up – the world doesn’t stop spinning, Lady Gaga doesn’t all of a sudden slip on some flip flops and sweatpants – it all goes to shit. One day turns into two, and once you’ve missed two, well then what is even the point anyways?

My practices didn’t dry up for good. Either writing or yoga did manage to get squeezed into more days than they probably otherwise would have, had I not had the momentum of #21.5.800 to spur me on. And that’s good.

I am grateful for that.

Around the same time that this challenge began, the World-Changing Writing Workshop got off the ground. I told you about it on the same day I launched my #21.5.800, in fact.

The first speaker was world domination specialist Chris Guillebeau. He totally rocked it. I took pages and pages of notes throughout his talk, but the one thing that sticks with me most strongly, most insistently, was this: No matter what, get in your words.

Chris pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that if you wanted to be a writer – if being a creative, world-changing writer was any kind of priority for you – then you need to actually do it. You need put your money where your mouth is, so to speak, and actually DO the writing. Prioritize it. Get up at 5:30 in the morning if you have to, but stop making excuses. Get your words in.

Clearly he and Bindu have been talking.

Despite that virtual talking-to by Chris and the continuous encouragement from Bindu on her blog, I floundered. I failed.

And then. After a tremendous turn-out and busy 500-strong online community, Bindu announced that she was extending the original challenge by ten days.

Everything would stay the same and you could just do with it as you would. You could let the original commitment stand on its own, and finish at the initial stopping point. Or you could keep at it for ten more days. If you had let things go, as I did, you could recommit.

You could exercise a little kindness towards yourself, and recognize that you had signed up at all – and that that was no mean feat in itself. You had – even if it was just for the most fleeting of moments – recognized what was possible within you, and said that you would work – you would truly work – at pushing through any resistance.

The intention was there.

So. On this, the last day of the original challenge, I am recommitting. I am saying, one more time, that I will push through the resistance for ten more days. And then, that I will continue on creating after that. I’ll heed Chris’s call to action, and make my writing a priority.

Those cookies that I bought yesterday? They were me letting my promise to myself slip. They were the wind blowing open that door again. They were my attempt at mediocrity.

Because when you sabotage yourself from moving forward – from making the changes that you so desperately crave – you’re keeping yourself safe. You’re following the path ALWAYS traveled.

Staying safe, staying where things are? That can be even more dangerous than doing something completely crazy – something that could actually cause you harm. Something like riding your bike naked. (Yes, people actually do this. I realize it’s for a good cause and all, but really? You’re on a bike. NAKED. I don’t even want to think about the chafing.) Because at least when you make a really big mistake – when you fuck something up royally or get road rash where you should never, ever get road rash – you’re forced to do something about it. You have no choice but to take notice and change things in some way.

And change is a powerful thing. Change moves mountains and reframes self-perceptions.

Change is good, baby.

Because, sometimes, it just sucks. And that’s ok. None of us are perfect, but we do the best we can. Sometimes that best is rambling mixed metaphors that lack any apparent structure or focus.

Push on. (As a reward, there’s a cute puppy pic at the end. Yes, I’m resorting to bribery.)

I need to write. I haven’t written properly in days. Yes, I have written for 21.5.800, but not of the blog post variety, and I’m feeling a little absent.

(Absent is not actually the word I want there, but I cannot think of the one that I wanted to use. Absent will hold its place ‘till it finds its way present.)

I’m feeling a little directionless at the moment – inspiration for these words is not coming. Perhaps I should start there, yes?

Pulling these words – tugging the rope from my chest, grasping the knots one after the other after the other – pulling these words from my centre is frustrating. I so want to write well. I want to write inspirational nuggets that transcend my personal little life, but that is an overwhelming image.

It confounds me.

So, instead I am going to return to words uttered by real writers who do write well – just write. Make it a priority and get your 1,000 (or 800 as the case may be) words out of your head and down on paper … or screen.

185

That’s how many words I’ve written so far. I’ve a ways to go.

Shackles. Chain gang. Guards. (Thank you, Johnny Cash.) Words of imprisonment and contraction. Words that defy you to push back, because they taunt with their strict rigidity.

Do you feel that? Do words that evoke a loss of freedom – a harsh boundary that you dare not cross for fear of punishment or prison or peril – do they make you feel the need to rise out of your complacency, or do they crush your spirit further? Do they create or do they cramp?

I waffle. I weave my way along that chain gang with alternating inspiration and exhaustion. I dwell in the metal grey region of uncertainty.

Right now I’m feeling a bit exhausted. I don’t know what to do with my writing. I have no outlet for the frustration that I feel from the binding chain that is my current path, because the words that I am counting on aren’t coming.

This is forced. This click clacking on the keyboard is void of flow. It is all perspiration, no inspiration. It’s crap.

Does that mean I’m crap? Or simply that in this moment I am experiencing stuck. My mind is mush and mud and doesn’t want to be brilliant.

No, I’m not crap. I can write well, I can write with conviction and flow and juju. We don’t all have brilliance pouring from our veins day and night. Sometimes you just have to trudge through the marsh until you reach the other side.

442

Pick a topic. At the very least, pick a freaking topic. Focus your muck so that at least it can take some kind of shape. Even if all you manage is a lopsided clay ashtray, by focusing, at the end you’ll have a finished product. One that serves some kind of purpose.

I think that the topic that I appear to have chosen is pushing through the mental block when you don’t feel like writing. Forcing yourself to keep at it.

This post will not ever be brilliant, and it probably won’t inspire others. But, I do think that it may inspire me, when I come back to it, later. Because these ridiculous, rambling, unfocused words will remind me that at least I slogged through it. At least I created something. I practiced.

I exercised self-discipline.

I made writing a priority.

I sweat it out.

When you’re training for a marathon, or a triatholon, or a pie-eating contest, sweating it out is important. Those miles that you logged when you just didn’t think you could lift your foot one more time? They built your base.

As any runner will tell you, the base is key. Without the base, you’ve got nothing. You may be able to run a blisteringly fast 30-yard dash, but you won’t make it in the long haul. If you want to train for speed, if you want to really get better in your training, you NEED that base.

And getting the base? Sometimes, it kind of sucks.

I want to make it for the long haul. I want to write for real, but before I can start making that happen, I need to build the base. I need to be confident that I can slog it out in the trenches.

Wow, there’s a lot of crappy, mixed metaphors here. I could probably try and turn THAT into yet another unfocused aphorism, but I’ll resist. (Breathe a sigh of relief now.)

767

A jumbo jet.

Gun-metal grey.

Grasping for straws

this post is pure drivel, drizzle

slurry of sentences, stacked upon slush.

Foundation-less – less than

found

Lost on the grid:

blinking behind bars

baring it bear

naked.

And now, as promised, a pretty damn cute puppy. You’re welcome.

This post is late. It wanted to be written on Friday, at about 11:30 a.m. Of course, at that moment I was sitting at my desk at work, struggling to write work-y words, and unable to devote time to these words. My words.

Inspired by Bindu’s post on fear – and feeling the insistence of her call to write fearlessly about fear, I let the idea ramble around for a bit. I pondered what I had to say about fear. What I thought fear was for me. The first thoughts that came up were the usual, I’m afraid to say.

Fear of loss.

Fear of failure.

Fear of the “I’m not good enough” Ogopogo.

Fear as the enemy.

But then something beautiful happened. I recast fear. Fired the Ogopogo.

I know all those fears – I know them intimately in the dark parts of my psyche. But they don’t have me. They hang out sometimes, and pester my thoughts – plant seeds of doubt where the waters of insecurity run.

So as I was winnowing down my perceptions of fear, these initial thoughts were the first that showed up. And as they knocked on the door, I started to feel heavy. The weight of all those fears began to tug at my fingers, to grip my shoulders and hunch me over. I didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right – it didn’t feel authentic.

Because right now, my heart is not heavy. It is light. It is full of possibility. Heavy fears have no place here, so I didn’t want to court them with my writing. These words, I realized, should fire fear. They should proclaim, for all the world to hear, that fear is not welcome here.

This rejection of fear is a luxury, I realize. I am blessed to be able to say — to be able to truly mean — that fear doesn’t hold me.

My secret is simple, and it’s one for which I can claim no responsibilty. My secret for abandoning fear to the winds is simple: I know that I will be ok.

I was given the true, deep blessing of strong, purely loving parents. Parents that let me know that I was perfect. That there was nothing that I had to fear, because (and here’s the magic) I WOULD BE OK. No matter what, I would not fall.

This knowledge was instilled from the second I was born. Probably even earlier. And it was reinforced every moment of every day. Because of this, I live my life with the knowledge that no matter what happens, everything will be ok. I will prevail.

I will falter, no doubt. I will flail and wander aimlessly from time to time, but I won’t be taken down.

So that’s what I wanted to write. I wanted to give voice to the notion that, in fact, fear doesn’t have to win. And as those thoughts began rise and conquer the Ogopogo, the heaviness lifted. The weight from my shoulders lightened, and my fingers danced freely. And I thought of the gift, the true gift, that I have been given. And how that must be the essence of the power that parents get to instill in their children.

I have many friends — dear, kind, powerful friends, who now have young children. And I know that they too will pass on that secret to them – that they already are passing it on to them. That they will be ok. No matter what. Because they are just loved that much. They are THAT lucky.

Fear comes and goes, as it will. Those deep, dark fears that percolate under the surface, that are a given fact in all of our lives. They will stop by, and they will cause a commotion. But, ultimately, they don’t have the power – they don’t have the final say.

A change is a’coming around these parts. And it is good. strong. filling.

This is my first post of 21.5.800 – Bindu Wiles’ delicious brainchild that is reaching out and connecting folks like me (us?) from across all corners through writing, movement and stillness. Specifically, she’s challenging us to take 21 days, starting today, and commit ourselves to write 800 words each day, to practice yoga at least five days a week, and to share our experiences with one another over the three weeks.

I signed up immediately.

Ok, that’s a bit of a lie. I hesitated for approximately ten minutes. In those ten minutes, I thought that maybe this wasn’t the right time for me. I thought about the other delicious, exciting projects that have taken up residence in my world for the next few weeks. Projects that are designed to motivate me, teach me and stir my soul – in short, to bring about some change.

It occurred to me that perhaps – because of all those other things — this was the PERFECT time for a challenge like this one. It ties perfectly in with everything else I’ve got on the go.

It started with my Day Zero project. I’m slowly (oh so sloooowly…) making progress on my list. I decided that, what with summer approaching and me being nowhere near bikini-ready, I would make June my month to sweat once a day. Basically, it didn’t matter what I did, as long as I made the time to get SOME KIND of workout in each and every day. Yay, right? Get a workout in, tone up a bit in time for the season of no clothes.

Then, I stumbled upon an online writing workshop that sounded too good to be true. Pace and Kyeli, the ladies behind the Freak Revolution, were putting on a workshop called World-Changing Writing. Basically, the idea is that many of us, as writers, want to leverage owr skill, passion, talent, whatever-you-call-it, to make some kind of difference in the world.

This is a somewhat overwhelming idea. So, lovely Pace and Kyeli came up with this workshop, held online, that brings together writers who want to learn and be inspired with some people who know of which they speak. Folks who have actually gone out there and changed the world with their writing. Brilliant.

WCW starts this week (yay!), and finishes in July. I can’t wait to hear each of the presenters and go through the workbook.

I learned about the World Changing Writing Workshop via Twitter, when I saw that the divine Danielle LaPorte was one of the speakers. This brings me to another of my preoccupations for the minute. Danielle has recently launched an online book/workshop/vook (video-book) based on her consulting services, called the Fire Starter Sessions.

I seriously heart Danielle’s site, White Hot Truth, and was desperate to get my hands on a copy of FSS, but, alas, was short the necessary funds. Then, she went ahead and got crazy generous, and announced that for all day on her birthday, she would sell FSS for whatever amount readers could pay. A pay-it-forward, send-out-the-good-mojo way to celebrate the day of her birth. Inspiring.

I snatched it up, and have been anxiously waiting to dig in and get my fire stoked. The link arrived the other day.

If that wasn’t enough, I’m currently brainstorming a new project. I’m super excited about it, but it is going to take up a good chunk of time. I plan on using all of the world-changing, fire-starting tools I’ll soon be absorbing to make it happen.

And, because apparently my stars have decided to align themselves perfectly for the moment, I get to mine the brain of yet another blog-goddess, Kelly Diels. Kelly’s blog Cleavage rocks the free world. She’s sassy, smart, seductive and can wrap a fine phrase around her little finger. She’s hot.

And she’s decided to spread the love by hosting an afternoon in Vancouver to share her secrets. Oh lordy, the giddiness!

This afternoon doesn’t happen till July, but, clearly, a girl’s got to prepare herself.

You see what I’m saying? I’ve got a bit of a busy couple of months shaping up, what with the full-time job, anniversary with the boy, and the boy’s papa coming to visit for a few days on top of it all.

So, upon reflection, I decided that 21.5.800 might be just what I need to get this shit done.

I signed up immediately.

The deets:

I’ll be writing a variety of things to account for my 800 words each day (as you can see from the list above!) Some will be blog posts here, to share my experiences, others will be journaling, working on exercises from the FSS or the WCW, or on my own super-exciting project.

I’ll be getting my flow on at a number of yoga studios around town. I recently purchased a Passport to Prana, which gives you a free class at a whole bunch of studios on your hometown (available in cities across North America!). I’ve really only practiced at one studio here in Victoria (and I do love it…), MokSana, so this will be a nice way to get out and check out some other studios. I’ll also be practicing at home some days (such as tonight!), and including a couple of savasana sessions.

1. It loves guacamole like nothing else. Seriously. You know the old “if stranded on a desert island” schtick? For me, if provided with no other sustenance for the rest of my days, I would be quite content with a good guac.

2. It doesn’t do well when hungry. If I’m hungry, or there is the possibility that in the next ten minutes I will BECOME hungry, your best bet is to back away. Now. Three steps back, do not pause, do not stop at go, do not collect two hundred dollars. (Unless you happen to be bearing guacamole, in which case let’s be friends, shall we?)

3. It is temperamental, and demands to be treated as the temple it is. If it does not get sufficient movement, nutrients, sleep or water, things start to rebel — Fast and furious-like.

When I was growing up – early teen years or so – I was into exercise. Not sports, or physical games really, but exercise. (I know, I was a bit of an oddity). It wasn’t that I was worried about my weight – I grew up on the skinny side of the curve – but I just liked the idea of ritually moving my muscles. It was almost meditative, even then. From a young age I recognized the importance of a good sweat.

A little later, when things started to get thorny, I used exercise as a way to push out my frustrations – I exercised to exorcise the demons.

In a cruel twist of irony, my exercise habit faded as I got older and my body actually required proper care to keep its metabolism revving and prevent things from getting a little lumpy. I still knew that I SHOULD be focused on exercising, and for fits and spurts I would get back into the swing of things and hit the gym on the regular.

Sadly, these spurts did not last. Inevitably, I would revert back to my old ways. And, if we remember from fact number two, eating is kind of a big deal for me. Food has a particular power over my psyche. Its pleasures are exquisitely sensual. I love the texture of a smooth avocado as it melts a little on my tongue. The fresh, slightly tart, exotic scent of fresh cilantro makes my mouth water just thinking about it. And the hearty and warm, earthy flavour of slowly roasted black beans just makes me want to curl up in them and take a nap.

So, yeah. I’m in to food. And intellectually – spiritually, even – I recognize which foods properly nourish my body and feed my soul. And I do my best to consume those powerhouses as much as possible.

You’re sensing a “but…,” par chance?

Good guess. Unfortunately, despite the best of intentions, I also pollute my system with crap on occasion. (Many occasions?) I don’t want to, I promise! I love my body. I’m going to say that again, just to reinforce it here (and if you feel the need for a HELL YEAH, I’m ok with that…) I love my body. She is a goddess and performs feats of fabulousness for me each and every day.

And, I am fully aware that when I eat poorly and neglect to get my sweat on, that goddess  – nearly instantaneously – throws up her hands and cries, “Well if you’re not gonna show me some love and appreciation, if you aren’t going to sit at my feet and feed me fresh grapes, why should I even bother?”

She juts out her lower lip, holds her breath and puffs out all over the damn place. She drags her feet around all day, and she throws dark curtains up under my eyes, blacking out the sun.

I told you she was temperamental.

Fortunately for me, she’s also merciful. If I beg forgiveness, she gives me another chance – without fail and without judgments. And for a while, I behave. I start exercising again, and I focus on eating clean, real food. Immediately, things feel a little brighter. My energy returns, the bloat subsides, and my skin radiates its joy out to the world.

It’s a beautiful thing, the capacity for kindness our physical bodies manifest.

We owe it to them to treat them kindly in return, and pay a little more attention when they’re crying out for respect. Please, by no means take that to mean that I think great sacrifice is needed. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I hate most diet books – the entire concept of diets fails me – and I am no friend of rigidity.

But I am saying, out loud for the world to hear, that I am making a promise to my poor, oft-abused body. I will listen to you. I will take you out and get sweaty with you. I will fill you with delicious AND nutritious foods, and will keep you so hydrated, you’ll nearly float away.

I’ll be as good to you as you are to me.

It’s a Friday night, and I have a really, really big date. I’m talking potentially soul mates kinda date. I’ve bought her dinner, poured a glass of pinot gris, and lit a pepperminty-scented candle. Some soft music is playing in the background, and the lights are low.

See – I’m really laying on this whole wooing thang.

Why, you may ask, do you need to up the cheese factor so high, given that you, Laura-dearest, are so uber irresistible? Well the thing is, I’ve got a super sensitive muse. She’s kind of a tease. Maybe she’s hormonal.

Many a muse can be hard to pin down, I realize. A lot of writers, artists, what-have-yous have been known to do some crazy shit to win the affections of their siren singer, but it can be awfully frustrating when you’re trying to establish a writing practice and find your freaking voice already (which I currently am). It makes motivation as elusive as that junkie on the corner’s next fix.

It would be one thing if she just dumped me altogether – the whole, it’s-not-you-it’s-me song and dance. But no, she sticks around just enough to keep me from moving on, from giving up the whole writing schtick and calling it a day.

I’m getting awfully frustrated. She rings me up whenever I’ve given up for the evening and have tucked myself neatly bed. Then she starts whispering sweet nothings in my ear, throwing around mouthwatering metaphors, knee-knocking narratives, and dirty-talking dialogue like it’s going out of style. Of course, when I’M in the mood for some action, I can’t spark the fire to save my life.

The other day, I was cleaning the apartment, and she started dictating the perfect blog bio in my ear, while I had my hands in the dishwater and could do nothing about it.

So, tonight I’m setting the stage for a twist in our dating destiny. I’m courting her. I figure the candle, low lighting and libations will soften her up. By doing so, I’m also laying the groundwork for a new writing routine.

I’m compromising – and isn’t that the glue that holds any in-it-for-the-long-haul relationship together? In the past, when I was ready to write, I didn’t exactly set the mood. The tv was often on in the background, and I would be casually lying on the couch, laptop in hand. Apparently, that’s not the most romantic setting.

(Gentlemen, take note. I’m giving away trade secrets here in metaphor form.)

My lack of success has forced me to go back to the basics. Back in the good ol’ days, if a suitor had a potential paramour in mind, he’d follow a set of culturally agreed-upon rituals. He’d walk her home, carry her book bag or buy her flowers. Then, because she recognized the signs, his lady love would play her part, batting her eyelashes or holding his hand or whatever the appropriate response was at the time (sorry, my Miss Manners, Young Ladies’ Guide to Landing Your Dreamboat must have gotten lost in the mail).

So what made me think that I could play it fast and loose, just throwing all the time-tested, creativity-inspiring rituals out the window? What road markers was I leaving out on the side the highway for my muse to find her way home to me? Maybe she’s not the one who was being the bitch in this equation.

If she likes it when I turn the lights down, so be it. I’ll turn damn the lights down. She’s not too crazy about getting busy when I’ve got one eye on Grey’s Anatomy? Fair enough – no tv.

The wine is just because, really, when is wine a bad idea when you’re trying to get lucky?

I’ve been standing in my own damn way. Every writer’s interview, every creative writing guide I’ve ever read has explained that all writers have their particular rituals that they need to follow to get into their writing groove. To find their mojo. They need to seduce their muse a little if they want to get past first base. I just need to figure out what my ritual is. Until I do, I’m sticking with the basics.

Oli is seven weeks old, and is the son of my bestest friend. Yes, bestest. He’s her first baby, and when he burst into the world those two months ago, he surprised us all a wee bit – he came almost eight weeks early! I guess he just couldn’t wait to meet everyone.

I learned of Oli’s early arrival via email from his papa on a day that I just happened to be home from work. I had to read the email two or three times before I fully realized what it said – that my dear friend was a new mom (and that she wouldn’t, in fact, be coming down to Victoria in the next couple of weeks so I could see her all round and pregnant and throw her a baby shower!). Once it did sink in, I promptly burst in to tears. Like, full on weeping. Yeah.

I wasn’t crying from sadness – obviously! – but because I was just so overwhelmed and happy for them. See, Megan has been my best friend for 26 of my 28 years on the planet. For the past few years we’ve lived in different towns, so I haven’t gotten to see her as often as I’d like, but we remain close.

So when I found out she’d had her baby, all I could think was, “I have to get my ass to Kelowna right now. Like NOW.” As it turned out, I held off my visit, to allow the new parents some time to get used to their new addition, and for him to grow and thrive in the NICU. We decided it would be better to go and visit when they were back home, so we could actually get to hang out with the baby!

I’m so glad that we waited, because while I was there I got to spend hours just holding Oli, talking to him and enjoying him. Meg and I got to spend several days just kickin’ it in their small town, taking the baby and dog for walks to the lake, and having fun.

She is a beautiful mom. Of course, I knew she would be, but it was just so wonderful to watch her with her son, as she fed him, held him, loved him. The pure adoration that she showed for him – and that he clearly, even at seven weeks old, reciprocated – was stunning. I’m so glad that I got to be there, and spend some quality time with them.

But, now I’m home again. Which is great, but I miss them all. How I wished they still lived here, and I could watch as he gained each precious pound, and make sure he knew who his aunty Laura was. This is a wide world, and while I love that there are so many corners of it to explore and inhabit, I wish we could hold each of those we love closer to us, bring them with us as we made our way each day.

Do you have loved ones scattered far away from you? How do you stay close despite the distance?

Today, I had lunch at Sockeye Sushi, in downtown Victoria. Loved it!! I feel the need to post about this in particular, because I have avoided eating there in the past for two reasons:

1) I really don’t care for their name. I realize that is kind of a stupid reason to boycott a business, but let’s face it — first impressions matter!

2) A while ago I read a review of Sockeye, and it was less than stellar. The gist was that while the food was decent, the service was terrible. I’m a stickler for poor service, so that was enough to turn me off.

I decided to forgive and forget a couple of weeks ago, when I needed to pick something up quickly, and really felt like sushi. I was right nearby, so figured I’d give it a go. I just got a couple of rolls to take out, but it was very, very good! And I’ve eaten sushi at an awful lot of Japanese restaurants nearby.

Given my positive experience, I decided to really give it a go today, and eat in. So glad I did! I only had a miso soup and two rolls — yam tempura and tuna with avocado, but it was so fantastic, that I can’t wait to go back. The tuna was fresh, and the yam rolls were huge — filled with yam! They were even topped with some beautiful fried yam curls.

I’m also happy to report that the service was great. Friendly and quick — just the way they should be on a weekday at lunch. Clearly, they’ve taken the bad review in stride and learned how to be better — another plus in my books.

So, verdict: two chopsticks up! You should definitely give Sockeye a shot. My lunch was just $10, and the menu is large and varied — they have some really delicious sounding “fusion” rolls as well, which I can’t wait to go back and try.

Sockeye Sushi is located on Johnson, behind the Odeon theatre, between Douglas St. and Blanshard. Bon appetit!

This thought preoccupies much of my time. Too much of it, really. I’ve mentioned before how I am a frequent daydreamer. Well, I’m letting you in on one of my most common reveries – what I would do were I to win the Big One.

It’s funny, because most often, this daydream doesn’t change substantially from one day to the next. It’s always the same, small details notwithstanding.

Aside from the nitty gritty financials like paying off debts, donating to charities and putting a chunk aside for a rainy day (yes, those usually make their way into my hypothetical plans as well, so neurotic is my inner voice), the basics are as follows:

We buy ourselves a nice chunk of land, complete with house, barn (um for horses, and whatever other creatures find their way there – duh!), outbuildings for a studio for Aram and a yoga studio for yours truly, as well as plentiful gardens for growing veggies and the like. I’d be able to do all those things that I keep thinking I WOULD do, were I to suddenly have the financial means (and time… oh for chunks of time!) These primarily consist of getting my MFA in creative writing – assuming they actually let me in, no amount of money can buy you talent! – and getting certified to teach yoga. I would then spend my days writing and teaching, naturally!

This is of course just an overview of a fantasy that can play out in my head for hours at a time. Ok, maybe not HOURS, but a good while, anyhow! Silly, n’est-ce pas? How much time we can spend wishing things would happen, and planning out exactly how we would react, were they to actually come to pass.

Do you have a similar train of thought, or is it just me? I doubt I’m totally alone in this (though my obsessive tendencies may not be quite so common…).

I’ve decided that it would be foolish to completely ignore what this voice is telling me. Yes, it may be silly to spend so very much time daydreaming, but I should not disregard the message that those daydreams convey. Especially since they are so frequently repetitive.

Instead of focusing on how I WISH I could get my Masters, and how I WISH I could get my teacher training done, I should work to incorporate what I can from those dreams now, sans lottery winnings. Instead of daydreaming, pick up a pen (or open a keyboard) and actually write! Grab my yoga mat and work on my practice. Hit up a class, put on a dvd, or read about yoga theory. I can even incorporate the gardening aspect into my everyday life now – at least to a small extent.

What would you do if you won the lottery? What can you take from those dreams, and incorporate into your everyday life now?

While daydreams are fun escapes, they can also be useful to our real, immediate lives – if we just open our eyes to what they are telling us.

(Namaste!)

Today is pink shirt day – a day to take a stand against bullying by proudly wearing your best pink shirt (not such a big deal for us ladies, but a bit more significant for most guys, I reckon). I was a spaz and forgot about this while getting dressed this morning (I did coincidentally wear pink shoes though — do you think that counts?). To atone for my neglect, I feel the need to write this post.

Several times a year — or so it seems — we hear stories in the news about kids who have tried (and too often succeeded) taking their own lives because they were bullied so brutally. And of course, with the rise of cell phones, Facebook, Twitter, and online communities, bullies are able to reach into the lives of their victims well after they have left the schoolyard.

I am lucky in that when I was a kid I was never really bullied to any extent. There were of course the regular fights that friends get in, but I was never targeted and bullied the way far too many kids are. I managed to sail under the radar! I can’t imagine how difficult it is for kids and teens who are picked on (equally, I can’t imagine the pain you would feel if it was your child who was being targeted).

There have always been bullies and I expect that there always will be. It seems to me, though, that the stakes have risen. I don’t particularly know why that is, and I don’t know where it becomes necessary to take action. Is it a regular rite of passage for kids to get picked on by their peers?

Part of me wants to say, well, probably. As they go through school, kids are figuring things out. Figuring themselves out. Part of that is establishing who they are in relation to their peers. Where do they fit in? Does that mean that others must not?

On the other hand — that feels like a cop out. It can’t be ok to just say that “kids will be kids” and hope that they will all come through without ugly scars. Clearly that is not the case.

I don’t have kids. I’m not a teacher. This makes me feel like I don’t really have the right to offer my opinion on how to help your kids — whether they are the bullied or the ones doing the bullying. But whatever. I’m going to anyways Are you ready…?

Today, on pink shirt day, give them a hug. Yup, that’s it. My guess is they won’t particularly want to hug you back (especially if they are old enough to know how terribly uncool this is). Too bad. Hug them anyways. Hard. Then tell them that they rock the free world. That they are beautiful, and smart, and kind. And funny as hell. (Because really, what kid doesn’t make you laugh out loud at least once a day?)

They may protest, and say that you HAVE to say that — you’re their mom (or dad, or sister, or uncle, or third cousin twice removed). Fair enough. Then tell them that there is this chick, Laura, and she thinks those things too. She thinks them like crazy. If they still protest, you could even tell them to call me and I’ll tell them myself. In fact, do that. It would make my freakin’ day.

So there it is. Hug your kid. Bully or bullied. Tell them how awesome they are, and that everyone knows it. It’s not going to fix everything. There will still be bullies and there will still be the bullied. But maybe it will be a nudge towards lowering those stakes back down to manageable levels again.

Also, if you want to learn more about pink shirt day, go here. You can read all about the kick ass kid from the Maritimes who started the whole movement himself. Chum chum

What do you think? Were you bullied as a kid (or perhaps were you the one doing the bullying?) Am I totally off-base with the whole hug thing? Go ahead — tell me!