It didn’t matter that twenty of Dan’s eyes would have fit inside one of Canon’s. Size is immaterial to all creatures of good sense. Dan and Canon are nothing if not sensible.

“You are right, of course.” Canon commented in the slow and ponderous speech of a creature larger than a semi truck. “But are we happy, I wonder.”

“Do you mean “we” sentient creatures or “we” you and I?” Dan spoke quickly, punctuating his words with quick tail flicks.

“I meant the word to reference the world at large.”

“You’re pretty large. Are you happy?” Dan chittered at his small joke. All his jokes were small, as indeed was everything that he did.

“Why yes. I think so. In general.” Canon moved his flippers in slow circles, blowing air noisily out his blowhole.

“CANON!” A soaking wet Dan strode to the edge of the dock and bellowed at his retreating friend. “I asked you not to do that when we’re talking! It’ll take me hours to dry off.”

“My apologies, Dan. I forgot.” Canon swum apologetically nearer to the dock.

“I thought whales were supposed to remember everything.”

“I believe that colloquial wisdom refers primarily to elephants. As you know, whales and elephants share only the most tenuous of biological connections. No-one expects whales to remember anything.”

“Well I do. And I, for one, am NOT happy.”

“At this moment or in general?”

“In general.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because, Canon. I am a squirrel. We have a very limited scope, you know. There’s no ADVENTURE in my life. I want to travel.”

“Dan, I had no idea.”

Dan sunk his small face into his smaller paws and stared out over Canon’s broad back to the horizon. “I know. No-one thinks squirrels care about that stuff. We’re supposed to store nuts and climb trees and run away from dogs. But I’ve done all that and now I want something more.”

Canon’s large face was incapable of much expression, and he had no paws with which to hold his face but he did have a warm heart. He loved his small friend very much. Since they had met several seasons previously they had often met to talk and share thoughts on the world. Dan spoke of the sunlit tree tops and Canon told stories of the deep mystery of the sea. Both friends regretted that they could never see life through the other’s eyes.

But Dan’s latest words struck deep in Canon’s very large heart. He excused himself and swam out to sea, thinking hard all the while.

Dan retreated sadly to the trees.

It took Canon three days to come up with a plan. He was a slow and deep thinker and his plans formed slowly. Good plans took at least a day and great plans took longer. He spent several weeks gathering driftwood and pulling apart shipwrecks to find nails and a hammer. Early in the process he recruited three seals, four crabs and a pair of eels. Between all of them they managed to build a platform to Canon’s specifications. The rest of his pod helped him attach the apparatus to his broad back.

A month or so after their initial conversation Canon swam proudly back into the bay. Attached to his back was a platform with a cask for water and a box for food.

“Dan!” Canon’s sonorous tones echoed around the bay.

Dan came running, bounding down the dock to it’s furthest edge. “Canon what IS that thing?!”

“You said you wanted to see the world. I can’t swim quite that far but we could certainly go on an adventure or two.”

The squirrel’s tiny face almost cracked from smiling. Joy radiated from his nose to the tip of his tail. “I’ll grab some food and a handkerchief and we’ll go. Can we go now?”

“As soon as you are ready.”

It was the work of less than an hour for Dan to fill the box with snacks and spare handkerchiefs. Sunset saw the two friends heading out of the bay.

A watcher would have seen only the silhouette of a squirrel, pushing forward to the farthest edge of the platform, watching his fondest dream come true.

Genetics was not then the flourishing field it is now. When I walked away from school with my PhD I decided to venture into the highly experimental field of animal genetics. My motivation was a combination of genuine academic curiosity and rebellion. At the time there was no glamour or respectability associated with the study of genetics. Especially in regards to animals rather than people.

I’d been a good kid all growing up. Respectable, bookish, without attraction or charm but with more brains than my teachers knew what to do with. Even in my post-graduate work my professors largely left me alone to do my own work. Mousy looks and painful shyness ruled me out for extra attention. Of course, I didn’t mind. At a young age I’d accepted my lack of glamour and over the years I began to embrace it. My life was molded around study and academia; my isolation was purposeful.

My colleagues will tell you that I was anti-social, devoted to my Project. They aren’t wrong. But that isn’t the whole story.

By the time I was twenty-eight I was a leader in my field. My less generous peers would say that my “field” wasn’t more than a turnip patch and nothing to be proud of leading. It was NOT my fault that so few saw the potential in gene-manipulation of animals. To my mind it was the holy grail of scientific study. If we could breed stronger horses, healthier livestock, more intelligent pets so many of the world’s ills could be cured.

And by the end of my career I had done all those things. Those beef cows that dwarf Sherman tanks? I made those. But it was a small success early in my career for which I am best known. I say “success”. Most of the reading public would use a different word.

Her name was Zeta456721 but I called her Bellatrix. She was the eighth of her litter and the only one born alive. I’d early discovered that my experiments were more viable if grown in-utero. For Bellatrix I had bred a large Egyptian domestic cat with a tiger for size. Bellatrix’s mother was a fierce and oversized she-demon. And Bell was the size of a Labrador puppy when she was born.

I started with cats because of their genetic similarities to humans. It took me seven years to get Bellatrix and she was a massive disappointment. Ideally she should have been super-intelligent as well as more muscularly dense and agile than her predecessors. She WAS strong and insanely fast and I was half pleased with my work. But her apparent lack of intelligence was a ego-shattering blow. I’d worked so hard for so long only to get an over-sized and mentally worthless house cat.

So that is what she became. I took her home and she lived with me, taking over the guest room and one particularly nice leather couch. I went back to my work, this time with Komodo Dragons and small invertebrate.

Our lives went on peacefully enough for four years. I had to take a mortgage on my house to feed Bella but she didn’t mind that. Sometime in the fall of the fourth year I came home from work to find Bella sitting at my desk, staring at my computer. Even seated her head reached above the level of the desk and she could easily see the running calculations.

“Bella?” I laughed a little and she turned her head. Her eyes looked… wrong. Different.

I was shocked and stood in the doorway. She turned her attention back to the screen. After several minutes she reached out one massive paw and patted the keyboard. The screen froze on a specific equation, one that had been giving me a lot of trouble.

By now I was aghast. I think my mouth was actually hanging open. “Bella what are you DOING?”

She padded over to me and poked at my hand with her soft nose. I followed her back to the computer and drew up a chair. That day my cat fixed an equation that had been giving me trouble for three months. She used a system of taps and growls to indicate letters and numbers as I wrote them down. It took us only an hour to work out a system of communication by which time we were flying.

In those days I worked for the University teaching woefully small classes on genetics. I began to take Bella with me to school, telling no-one that I needed her for my research. Not as an experiment but as a peer and co-scientist.

One day I came back to my office after lunch but she was gone. For an hour I searched the Science wing until I found her in Professor Schmidt’s office. She’d cornered Mark and was growling and chuffing at him in a way that had the man terrified. By that time I could usually tell what she was saying but to anyone else it sounded like the ravings of a furious or hungry beast.

“I’m sorry Mark!” I grabbed with two hands her thick leather collar and pulled. She looked at me in frustration.

“I am so sorry!” I repeated, “but she’s trying to explain why that last set of formula on your board are wrong.”

“She is doing WHAT?” The poor man was practically gibbering. Sweat rolled down his nose.

“You remember me telling you about the Zeta experiment? About how it failed?”

“Yes” he groaned as Bella swung out of my hands and leapt onto his desk to stare at his blackboards.

“Meet the failure. She’s been correcting my math for months and has recently started reading about other fields. I’m not sure but I think she might have a higher IQ than any of us.”

You can imagine the rest of the conversation. It wasn’t pretty. And from that day on Bella caused pure havoc in the hallowed halls of academia. She learned new fields with rapidity and had a flawless memory. Her ability to correct and extrapolate was unparalleled in the scientific community.

What I couldn’t get her interested in was anything ‘artistic’. She seemed only to be interested in black and whites. Facts were her fodder and she used them to create chaos. Chaos that resulted in some of the biggest advancements of the century.

While she lived her career outshone mine as the sun outshines as a lamp. Of course, our successes were not unmixed. Many of my human peers hated me violently for my part in Bella’s existence. It was one of those men who decided that my experiment needed to end.

When I disagreed he came early to my home, smelling of whisky and fear, and shot Bella twice in the head.

She died silently and my heart broke. I have never since modified any of my beasts to the extent that I changed her and thus they have all lived.

There is not room in me for the pain of another such loss. She lives forever in my memory and as a small footnote of thanks on most of the scientific papers of her day. All my research is stored safely. Maybe some day men and women will not be afraid of minds different and new. On that day I hope someone brings another Bella to the world.

Until then I dwell alone.

Point being, it was my third day of work. My arms were full of paperwork and a small bunch of flowers for my cubicle. I felt him try and make eye contact but I purposefully didn’t notice. I squared up my shoulders and resolve and promised myself I would not engage in conversation.

Of course, I underestimated James.

To this day he claims he didn’t do it on purpose. As the elevator started moving he pushed my elbow and my armful of papers and flowers fell to the ground. We both stooped to pick them up and I found myself staring right into the most perfect eyes ever made.

“I am so sorry!” He efficiently gathered my stuff and stood, still holding the pile. “Please accept my apology.”

More than a little flummoxed I smiled but said nothing.

“I’m James.” He holding the my papers carefully but made a move to hand them back. The elevator’s sudden stop knocked the flowers off the top of the pile. He handed me my papers then snatched up the posy.

It was my floor. I smiled again and reached out a hand for the flowers. “I’m Sarah.”

I left the elevator quickly, embarrassed somehow by the encounter.

It took me twenty minutes to get my mind back on my work that day. According to James it took HIM two hours.

For the next three months we rode the elevator together every morning. After two weeks I had figured out that he left much later than I. As a low-level programmer my shifts at the start-up software company were vastly different from James law-career-induced hours.

But we saw each other every morning. Exchanging a smile and maybe a few words. Once he brought a coffee that he claimed was “extra”. I took it and couldn’t bear to tell him that I never drank the stuff. The gesture was too kind for honesty.

After three months he joined me on the elevator at the end of my shift. It was a huge surprise and I felt a wave of dizziness that had nothing to do with our quick descent. He waited for the elevator to empty then held it open for me.

“Would you like to grab a drink? With me?” He swallowed hard but his eyes were smiling.

I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

We ended up talking for four hours over a series of beers and appetizers at a nearby restaurant. Small food is the quickest way to my heart.

At the end of our evening he hailed me a cab. As I slid into my seat he grabbed my hand and brushed a kiss across it. Quickly he let me go and shut the cab door. My hand tingled and I remember smiling for the rest of the evening.

From then our relationship was like most others, I imagine. A series of dinners, movies, shows and seemingly endless conversations. But at the end of every evening James always kissed my hand. Once we went running and I tripped over a tree root. That day he kissed both my hands, one after the other, brushing the dirt away and checking for scrapes.

We were married five years ago. On our wedding day I walked down the aisle to meet the best friend I’ve ever had. When my father handed James my hand James paused and kissed it, his eyes never leaving mine. In that moment I knew that I was safe. I was home.

Every day of our marriage, whenever James left, he took a moment to kiss me goodbye. On the lips yes, but also a quick kiss on my left hand, just above my ring. It was his way of saying “I love you. I’m coming home soon.”

He kissed me goodbye on that day, just like on each one before it. In stories there is always some sign, some hint that one’s life is about to take a swift turn.

Real life is not so tidy.

The hospital called me at 2:45pm. It was raining outside but not hard. Just enough to be noticed. The woman on the other end of the line said that James had had an accident and could I come.

My entire world froze, my body trapped in a muffling cocoon of terror. But I managed to call James’ parents and to get a cab. Twenty minutes later I was at the hospital and five minutes after that I was at his bedside.

The doctor told me that James had been hit while crossing the street. There was internal bleeding and they were going to rush him into surgery. An army of nurses and doctors swooped into the room and I was being shoved out the door very gently. Then I heard it, we all heard it, James was calling my name.

I pushed through to his side again and laid my hand on his wrist, the one not swathed in bandages. He didn’t open his eyes but he lifted his wrist and pressed his bleeding lips to my hand. Just for a moment, but long enough.

They took him away then. He was in surgery for seven hours. Seven hours I spent in the waiting room cradling my hand in my lap. I’d forgotten to wash the blood off and I focused on the pattern of my husband’s promise. A promise I would never let go. He loved me, he was coming back. He loved me, he was coming back.

His parents arrived from upstate. Then mine. I barely noticed them.

At the end of his surgery the doctors came out. I stood, still holding my own hand but this time as a shield.

“Mrs Simpkins?” The doctor’s face was kind, her eyes tired.

“Yes.”

“He’s going to be ok. Honestly we weren’t sure. It was touch and go. But before we put him under one of our nurses heard him saying ‘I promised. For Sarah.’ Seems he had something worth fighting for.” She turned away and I watched her go, relief a haze over my heart.

Love is not perfect and it’s not easy. It’s not about big moments or poems or speeches. It’s about the thousand small promises we make to each other and keep. It’s about always coming home.

I swear, I didn’t mean it to happen. I was just a nice kid from the suburbs, transported to city life by a combination of cultural expectation and parental pressure. The big University was the only “acceptable” choice for the son of a successful businessman and an Ivy-league graduate. I’d have given anything if they’d let me go to art school in England but a biology degree from a prestigious university was my only option. At least as far as THEY were concerned.

I’m getting off-topic. Like I said, I never meant it to happen. All I wanted was to keep my head down, get done with my four years and get OUT. Once I had a job they wouldn’t be able to tell me what to do. I have never had the illusion that being a college student made me in any way independent. A host of teachers, RA’s and my ever-present parents made college another gilded cage. And the gilding was flaking off with dangerous rapidity.

Finish, get the degree, move on, that was the plan. God laughs at plans.

It was November and my head was down, this time as a futile defense against cold wind and stinging rain. I was walking along the road next to campus. There was a trail I liked that dipped below an overpass. It was a quiet path, not frequented by my fellow students. Just as I drew level with the sheltering overpass a flash of red brought my head up.

Shoes. There were shoes on top of the concrete wall next to me.

I stopped walking. The shoes were red converse high tops and they were on the feet of the most striking girl I’d ever seen. She wore torn jeans, a black and pink zip-up sweatshirt and a bright green t-shirt. Her hair was blonde and long.

“Cheerleader hair.” I said, not meaning to say anything at all.

“What did you say?” Until I’d spoken she hadn’t seemed to notice me, now she turned and glared.

“Um,” I was completely flummoxed. No words came. We both stood there, me in shock, her frozen in disbelief.

“Did you just say that I have CHEERLEADER HAIR?” Her words stung almost as hard as the rain.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. Honest.” My neck was starting to hurt from craning up to look at her where she stood on the wall. “If you’re going to yell at me can you come down here? My neck hurts.”

She paused, considered and jumped down. “You shouldn’t accuse a girl of being in any way like a cheerleader. It’s rude.”

I spoke without thinking. “That’s dumb.”

“What?”

“Well, there is nothing inherently WRONG with being a cheerleader. And it’s offensive of YOU to imply that they are inferior.”

That flummoxed her, I could tell. Good, I thought, we’re even.

“I have to go.” She grabbed a backpack off the wall and turned away.

“Wait!” The rain was starting to bother me but this girl was bothering me more.

She stopped but didn’t turn around.

“What were you doing up there on the wall?”

She started walking then but called back over one shoulder “Look UP, you idiot.”

I watched her walk away, her red sneakers darkening in the rain. When she turned a corner I remembered and looked up.

And there, covering the entire wall was an enormous graffiti. Dragons fought over a cityscape where people ran and laughed and drove tiny, perfect cars. Flames and stars and flowers twined and soared over it all. Stunning. Breathtaking.

Real.

I didn’t mean for it to happen but it did. I fell for the graffiti girl in her perfect red sneakers.

Not all the tunnels the children made were of the hands-and-knees variety. Of the half-dozen children who frequented the green space behind the suburban sprawl, only two liked their tunnels low and close. Anna built her pathways high and wide, Jeff used tree limbs to make bridges over nothing instead of tunnels through the brush. Zach liked to make small corridors through the thorniest bushes and slimiest mud. Nobody followed Zach for long. Alyssa (“Lyss” to all but her mother) refused to use anyone else’s paths and instead followed the animal trails. It was Lyss who first saw them.

The green space was a last bastion of earth, stone, and tree in a city which expanded daily, throwing itself onto new ground with every exhalation of smog and cement. Covering something like five square miles the forest had been early claimed by deer, squirrel, rabbit and coyote. No other animal stayed long in a place so near the stink of human.

No animal, that is, until the raccoon came.

Raccoon are scavengers. Clever with their paws and more clever still when faced with the challenge of outwitting humans. It took only a couple of raccoon to lay claim to the entire green space before they moved their entire clan. Lock, stock and weapons they came, bringing their intelligence and their long-standing hatred of the humans whose blind power sought ever to kill all creatures but themselves.

Unfortunately, the humans were too big to be fought off by even the smartest raccoon warrior. At least, the adults were.

Lyss saw one. A glimpse only and that too quick for recognition. Drawing herself up and squinting she followed the line of waving ferns until they moved no more. It took one long whistle to call the other children to her.

A ragged circle formed as, one by one, the kids came through their private pathways to stand beside their friend.

With great formality they waited in silence until the Whistler spoke. “Zach, Anna, Jeff, Peter, Daisy” Her voice was ponderous, “I just saw a Something”.

“A Something?” It was Zach, the skeptic. His voice was challenging.

“Yes. It was small and moved fast.”

“A cat?” Anna was in charge of The Pet Recovery Detail and took her job seriously.

“Nope. Too big and the way it moved was all wrong.”

“What’ll we do?” Jeff was not known for patience, and preferred action to talking anytime.

All the kids spoke then, some voting to catch it, others to forget it. One voice shouted “death” in a shrill soprano.

It was probably that one word that sealed their fate. Raccoons don’t speak English but they know a battle cry when they hear it.

“We don’t even know what ‘it’ is,” Lyss pointed out, “so we can hardly decide what to do with it. It’s almost suppertime anyway and we don’t want the grown-ups wandering around back here looking for us. We’ll meet tomorrow after lunch.”

They dispersed with little argument. Kids know sense when they hear it and Lyss was persuasive.

Dark fell soon after, dropping into each hollow and leaf-shape. It blotted out everything in the woods except the feral gleam of two dozen pair of eyes. The raccoon had begun a council of war.

The next day the woods, though cosmetically unaltered, were a different place indeed. The kids met on the lip of the trees, at the line where green grass changed to fern and blackberry.

“Here’s the plan, kids”, Lyss stood on a small boulder and threw her shoulders back smartly, “We’re going to figure out what the Something was that I saw.”

“How?” Daisy interrupted.

“I was just going to say… We need to be our quietest. If it’s an animal it’s probably scared of people. Go your own ways, keep your eyes open and meet back here in two hours. Keep your whistle wet and sing out if you find it.”

They scurried off then, hairless beasts as comfortable in the woods as two-leggers can make themselves.

Zach got into trouble first. Sometime in the night something had changed his tunnels. They were no longer his familiar slime-floored paths. The twists and turns were all wrong, the bracken pushing close and forcing him forward. In ten minutes he was lost, utterly.

Daisy found her airy tunnels strung with blackberry, thistle, stinging nettle and ivy. All cleverly concealed among the normal harmless plants. Every scrap of exposed skin was soon covered in scratches, welts and nettle stings.

Jeff tumbled into a pit after only a quarter mile. Peter met the same fate, though in a different ditch.

Anna had the sense to let out a whistle, piercing and shrill, when she realized her paths were being detoured. Lyss, springing along a deer-trail, heard her and came running.

The two girls met, wide-eyed and panting, in the shade of a scrub oak. They said nothing but looked around for their friends. Only faint birdsong met their strained ears, only trees in sight.

“Where are the rest of ‘em?” Anna’s voice was quiet.

“I dunno but I don’t like it.” Lyss tore a branch off the oak and handed it to her friend. Anna gripped it like a champion slugger.

A quiet rumble, then, like rain on hard earth. Back to back Anna and Lyss watched the ferns part. Beady masked eyes blinked, then narrowed in what could only be hatred.

“Lyss?” Anna’s voice quavered.

“Yeah?” Lyss narrowed her eyes and began to breathe hard. People in movies always breathed hard right before battle.

Anna never got to ask the question. A hundred years of raccoon hatred rose up in two dozen animals and the storm broke upon two small girls.

There was nothing for it but to fight. Anna dealt fearsome blows left and right, knocking the raccoons backward and out. Lyss had no weapon but her hands and feet. Blind panic drove both girls as they fought hands and feet against fur and claw.

The tide turned and turned again. Now the raccoon pressed close and the girls were almost lost in fur and flashing teeth. Now the girls drove the smaller creatures backward. It was an even match.

Even until Daisy, swollen and sore, came crashing through the underbrush, throwing stones with deadly accuracy.

The enemy scattered then, and the girls themselves ran. They found the boys, pulled two of them out of cleverly disguised pits, and cut a way into Zach’s muddy prison. All six limped out of the woods, wiping blood away and brushing off dirt. Anna and Lyss were cut and looked worst, but their mothers wouldn’t notice too much.

It had only been an hour since they’d set off to discover the “something”. Their discovery had not been what they expected and all were shocked. The woods were no longer safe.

No-one said anything. The girls hugged each other. The boys pointedly didn’t make eye contact. All cleaned themselves up as best they could and headed home.

They wouldn’t ever return.

For the gladiators working out was not an elective so much as it was “do this or die more quickly”. The Greeks worked out so that they could take home a crown made of deciduous vegetation. (Olympics anyone?) My grandparent’s generation engaged in physical activity if and only if they were in the military or owned a farm.

Something happened in the 1980′s though that changed our cultural perspective. For the last thirty years or so working out has been… well… cool. With a host of fitness and health oriented books, magazines, day-time talk show specials and reality tv shows we are now a culture of gym rats. The fact that 80% of people don’t know what to DO when they are at the gym is irrelevant. There’s always “standing around pretending to be mid-super set” or “getting a drink of water” or “listening to one’s iPod”. As a last ditch effort the confused can find a personal trainer who will guide them through the maze of equipment and activities.

I like to think of myself as part of that elite 20% who a)know what to do to use my gym time well and b) don’t shoot myself in the proverbial foot by eating crap ten minutes after a workout. And, since I’ve been working out and have had access to a personal trainer off and on for the last eight years, I am able to workout while simultaneously observing the idiosyncrasies of fellow gym members. Today during my intervals I composed the following mini letters to different groups of people I see at the gym.

Dear Middle Aged Men,
Way to go! Now is the time to get heart-healthy. Now is the time to learn to love anything from bicycling to kayaking to running. But please, don’t think that your newfound hobbies give you the right to wear spandex. Manly man shorts of appropriate length and volume would greatly enhance your manliness. Trust me.

Dear Overweight Ladies and Men,
Do you know who the most inspirational person in this building is right at this moment? Nope, it’s not that guy over there who was once an Olympic pole vaulter. Nope, not that lady who has been running on the treadmill for an hour without stopping or even breaking a sweat. The most inspirational person here is YOU! You are the one who conquered unknown numbers of insecurities, unhealthy habits, hatred of gym clothes, embarrassments and cruelties. YOU are the one who decided that you wanted to make a change. YOU are the one who SHOWS UP EVERY DAY. Well done! I doff my cap to you and thank you for being so amazing. Keep on keeping on.

Dear Teenage Boys,
Good habits start young. You are off to a good start if you are already making working out a daily part of your life. It will benefit you for years to come. That said, please do your research. Watching you lift improperly day after day after day is painful to me. Not to mention that you’re front-loading your muscles. Your pecs and biceps are admirable but your back is weak and your triceps must feel neglected. Read some books! Get a trainer! LEARN! Also, don’t waste my time. If you aren’t using a piece of equipment GET YOUR ASS OFF OF IT! Some of us have jobs and classes and life to get back to, I don’t have the leisure to watch you watch a football game while sitting on the bench I need. Also, last thing, please do not stare at that girl’s butt so obviously for so long. This is her gym too and she needs to feel safe and comfortable. You leering like she’s the porterhouse steak and you’re the hungry pit bull does not encourage her to spend time here.

Dear Young Women,
First, when you come to the gym make sure that your butt is fully covered and your boobs are contained. I know, I know, the men should not be staring at you in the first place but you are hardly making this easy on them. Feeling cute at the gym is important, I get it. I myself put effort into being both comfortable and cute when I’m going to pump iron. One cannot wear baggy sweats and a sweatshirt at the gym without passing out from heat stroke. But you can work your outfits so that you have maximum comfort with minimum distraction-potential. Oh, and dear dear girl, doing the stair master for an hour six days per week will not make you fit. Cardio alone will not cut it. Do some research and start lifting free weights. It’s the best way to protect your body, build bone density and see results. Just wait until you wake up one day and have triceps! It’s the best feeling ever.

Dear Old People,
I love you. I love your knee-high white socks and black tennis shoes. I love your sweat bands and your treadmill-walks and your awesomeness. Someday I hope to be just as cool as you.

Dear Suburban Moms,
I’m impressed. I thought all your people did was take yoga classes and meet your friends for coffee. Nice to see some bicep curls from your group. Come back soon and often!

Dear Me,
Don’t think you know everything. Remember that every person has a story and you don’t get to judge anyone. Ever. Also, do more push-ups. You were slacking today.

Dear People Who Don’t Go to the Gym,
You should. It’s a fascinating place to people watch. Besides which, “Exercise give you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands!” Thank you Elle Woods and thank you gym. It’s been a good day.

I have strong feelings about martial arts, and my dojo/lineage in particular. Given the opportunity I would shout to the hills the wonderful benefits of Kempo for the average Jill. (The average Joe I cannot speak for- I know only one Joe and he seems to be rather un-average.) So, for all you gals out there, I’m going to break it down and explain why I think you should visit a Z-Ultimate dojo.

1) The People My biggest trepidation before trying martial arts was not “will I fall on my face” or “will I make a fool out of myself” or “are they gonna hurt me”. Knowing myself those were automatically going to be “yes”. No, my concern was “Is this going to be some kind of macho club where the boys are boss and spare time is spent chanting to Buddha?”. It took only a few moments for those fears to be put to rest. There are a few rituals- bowing and so forth, but nary a Buddha in sight and no suburban Vin Diesels leaking testosterone onto the carpet. Quite the contrary, with very limited exceptions, every person I have spoken to at karate has been fun, funny, positive and encouraging. Even when someone is pummeling you to powder they are doing it with a smile on their face and narrating HOW you can improve.

2) The Combination Ego Boost/Constant Humbling Our teacher is particularly awesome at being encouraging but all the teachers are great. If you do something wrong they correct you, sometimes with a good-natured laugh at your incompetence. Occasionally you will fail EPICLY and the whole place will dissolve into hopeless laughter. Once, I literally ran into someone’s fist while sparring. You can imagine. My Sensei was almost on the floor laughing. But when you turn around and do something truly well, the praise is enthusiastic and lavish. It’s a great atmosphere overall.

3) The fitness Two words: weight loss. Two more words: strength training. Since beginning training five months ago I have lost almost 15 pounds, my cardio stamina is vastly increased and I’m a lot stronger. If you invest your effort and show up to class, you’ll be amazed at the results. Honestly, girls, bikini season never looked so good. In fact, I’ve been mourning our rainy summer because I have a four-pack and it never gets a chance to be appreciated.

4) Fear Factor Growing up I was no fragile flower. I climbed trees, jumped off of stuff, did flips on trampolines, chopped wood, built forts- the whole shebang. But neither did I take crazy risks. There was never a moment where I thought “hey if I hold a sheet while jumping out my second story window I bet I can fly!”. Thus, I have never really tested my physical limits. Like most women, I have been subtly afraid of pain. It’s an insidious fear, incidentally, and pervasive amongst my sex. Flash forward to kempo. Last week I took two punches straight to the sternum from a man who was 1) twice my size 2) probably thrice my strength and 3) PISSED OFF because I’d just punched him repeatedly in the groin. Needless to say his punches were NOT love taps. And you know what? I’m ok. Bruised, sure, but unbroken. Through many similar experiences I have learned that my body can take quite a lot of punishment. The fear is gone.

I understand that a lot of women will not take to martial arts. It’s punishing and difficult and there ARE those men out there who will take out their insecurity on you. But your teachers have your back always and I have never ever felt unsafe at the dojo. I cannot recommend martial arts enough. The confidence-boost, the newfound safety in one’s own skin, the health benefits and camaraderie are all unique.

So try it out. And let me know how it goes. Maybe in a few months we can get together and compare bruises.

Needless to say, we’re on our third rainstorm today and it’s getting old fast.

In other news, I’m watching parts of “Kill Bill”. It’s pretty much just as weird and bloody as I remember. Suddenly I recall why I never sat through the whole thing in the first place. Also, what’s up with the asian kid in the plaid skirt? Did plaid suddenly become big in Asia? Lots of Scottish people wandering over for really good sticky rice and then forgetting to leave? Also, someone should tell her that her weapon was a poor choice. Things that work on inertia are insanely difficult to control.

In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, this is one of those stream-of-consciousness posts that happen when I’m too awake to sleep but not creative enough to paint.

Just watched a couple of really impressive martial arts movies: Ip Man and Ip Man 2. They’re both on Netflix instant watch if you want to check them out. Best part is that they are based on a true story. Second best part is that they are gloriously sparse on wire work. I detest martial arts movies that rely on wire work. (Another reason not to like Kill Bill). If you are going to make a movie about fighting the fighting should at least APPEAR realistic. Wire work is great for things like Matrix, where you are expected to suspend disbelief. But if the physics looks off in a real martial arts movie I get irritated and stop watching. Note- I’ve always been like this, even before I’d ever taken a Kempo lesson.

(Can someone remind me why Lucy Lui is the bad guy? I’m having trouble figuring out the stare-down that is happening right now…)

I just gave up on Kill Bill. Too boring. (Yes, I said BORING).

Basically my life has devolved (evolved?) into Kempo and painting. Supposedly I still have a job but I haven’t been there in four or five days so work is fading into a dim memory. The blessed haze of forgetfulness has settled over my memories of the box office, the house managing and most of all the lobby attending. Instead of work I work out. Thrice yesterday and a really intense weight day today mean that my body is gloriously gelatinous. Tomorrow I’m getting up and going for an hour long run. Hooray! (Means I get to use my new running watch!)

I’ve been working on some writing stuff lately, too, and lots of drawing. Also, I’m feeling my feelings to the best of my ability. Which is hard, because I have a lot of feelings these days.

Back to drawing. So long and thanks for all the fish!

Now, it’s not quite as easy as enrolling in University. Primarily because University art courses are… shall we say… lacking. If I wanted to sit in a room and listen to someone drone on about Art History I’d go to University. Since I actually want to improve my SKILL SET, I needed something else. Enter The Gage Academy. For those of you who know the art world, it’s an Atelier. For those who can’t even pronounce “Atelier”, it’s an apprenticeship. The student spends 30-40 hours a week in their corner of the studios completing assignments and being critiqued.  Learning through DOING. It’s not officially decided but I did get accepted and I would love to go.

Also, Fins Bistro has put me on the list of artists. I’ll be having a show down there during the month of August. Of course, as of the 30 day mark I had not one single painting prepared. Luckily I paint fast so I should be ok.

In the world of martial arts things are moving on apace. I’m a yellow belt now and had my first night of sparring last night. (You’ll never know what a thrill it is for an ex-ballerina to own a mouth guard!) Naturally, most of the night was spent in “flailing newb” mode, but there was a lot of learning happening so I don’t mind. You can bet I’ll be at every sparring class between now and the tournament. If I’m going to pay the entrance fee and buy the sparring gear I better freaking win at least once!

My love of kempo continues undimmed in the face of a bruised/broken second toe, a collection of bruises and bumps that span the colours of the rainbow and a bunch of strained neck muscles. What I do not love is sparring with guys who take one look at me and go into “got something to prove” mode. Frankly guys, I’m a YELLOW BELT, you don’t have to throw a punch like Muhammad Ali in order to break my guard. I’m not that skilled. Just take a deep breath and be sneaky instead of coming at me with brute force. Please. Kthanksbye.

Point being, life is good.

Currently I am sitting on aforementioned deck or “lanai” watching kids play in the pool and little birds fight each other for breakfast crumbs left on the floor of the lanai. The surf has been unusually high here due to a recent storm in New Zealand so snorkeling or paddle-boarding had to be abandoned for another day. It’s the first day that I haven’t gone in the water at all, actually. It’s been more of a reading/drawing/hanging out kind of day.

Yesterday we braved aforementioned high surf and went up to Napili to play in the waves. My five Mansours and the other six Mansours trooped out of our condo complex looking like nothing so much as a colorful cattle drive. Twelve of us make almost a parade with our brightly coloured swimsuit cover-ups and board shorts. It’s just a short trip to the beach, maybe five minutes on foot.

Let me tell you, when locals say “high surf” they ain’t kidding. The waves on Napili (previously sedate, friendly and un-impressive)  were sweeping up to the shrubberies and above the heads of the swimmers. Lynn, the youngest of the other Mansours and I walked down to the sheltered area of the beach and floated around. And I would have been fine if I’d stayed there. Instead, foolishly, I walked back toward the center of the beach and came across Barry who invited me to “dive into the waves”.

I know. I’m an idiot. 

The smart people stayed on the beach and watched as Barry and I dove head-first into seven or eight-foot waves. I was fine until about the third wave. Those of you who know beaches know that timing is everything. Timing fail. I lost my footing and was tossed, tumbled and washed about ten feet onto shore to land at Lynn’s feet. I came up coughing and laughing and completely sand-covered.

I figure it was cheap exfoliation.

I also blame aforementioned event for the bruise on my right hip and the strange red bumps covering my left arm from clavicle to wrist. Lynn says “heat rash”, James says “Ocean-induced-flesh-eating-virus”, I say “SAND!”. Time will tell who is right. I’m hoping it’s anyone but James.

This morning I stood on some rocks and watched an enormous turtle eating breakfast. I found myself fascinated by the rotary motion of his flippers as he balanced himself against the strong incoming waves. (Apparently all the good snacks are in shallow water.) The bummer about shallow water if you are a large turtle is that it’s hard to maintain your location against the circular wave motion. But he just flipped his front flippers and kicked with his back flippers and darned if he didn’t do it. Of course, occasionally I got the turtle equivalent of a “moon” when a wave caught him wrong but them’s the breaks.

Props to Hawaii. It’s the only place in the world where I LIKE to wake up before seven am. When the days are sunny and the sun goes away at seven thirty pm you want to soak in as much day as possible. I wish the time difference meant that I could start waking up at seven at home. Unfortunately, best case scenario, I’ll be waking up at ten for the first few days. Ce’st la vie.

Karate is greatly missed, though we practice diligently and have even done “bone conditioning” a few times. The neighbors call it our “karate show” and enquire at what time they can expect to watch it the next day. My life as an entertainer is, apparently, not over. (A great comfort to me.)

That’s about all for now. Take care of the people at home and save a spot near the cat for me.