It's snowing again and I'm not even mad about it.
I’m loving Stratford. It’s pretty, small, and very quiet. I go to bed early, sleep well, and read a lot. I’ve been pretty darn comfortable.
It takes 20 minutes to walk to work and every trip results in pebbles in my boots. I walk funny. Or rather, I comport myself with a little too much twitch in my step. By some magic hot step of my own design I manage to flip small bits of stone into my footwear. It is very uncomfortable. If you see me walking down Ontario or Albert Street wearing giant headphones and a beatific smile on my face, you can bet I’m grimacing on the inside. I’ll eventually stop, untie the lace on one of my London Fog boots, pull it off and shake. Three or four pebbles will fall out. This happens every single day.
Yesterday as I winced in pain rounding Nile Street I came upon a revelation about my teeny companions: one must get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Even though I was feeling great about my state in Stratford, I was troubled by distant memories about old betrayals, unfinished scripts, and creeping weight gain. As I ruminated on an old heartbreak that morning I banged my head on a lamp and I took it as a sign to be more present and enlightened. We really do create our own prisons.
When I arrived at the Festival theatre and removed my coat and scarf, I pulled off my boot and tipped it over to release the two rocks that had spring-boarded inside as I walked up Queen; I felt calmly hopeful about my day. I had a huge problem looming in front of me and had no idea how to fix it. By the end of the day, with the help of my mentors, the issue was resolved. But I know there will be another ‘crisis’ because they are as inevitable as the pebbles in my shoe.