Pushing the envelope

One of the hardest things I've been trying to do in the last while has been to revisit emotional triggers that have sent me off into hysterics in the last two-plus years of solitude.



At some level, I've been doing better: I can now walk through our old neighbourhoods -- even past our old homes -- without losing it, and I've even watched our favourite movies and not sobbed from beginning to end. But there are still a few challenges.



Last week, I undertook another one: visiting the engraved plaque and memorial forest that came bundled with the cremation. The last time I remember being there was September 2011, with my mother- and sister-in-law, and I felt more than vaguely guilty about not having been back sooner.

And it is such a beautiful place: one of our favourite escapes from the city where we took visitors for a quick introduction to the wilderness on our doorstep, to seek a quiet place for a picnic, or simply to be together.



The engraving was well-washed with my tears on arrival and departure, my hike up the trail was an abbreviated one, and I've been weepier since, but all-in-all, it wasn't as horribly wrenching as I thought it would be.

On the way back to the city, I started thinking about some of the recent work I've been doing in the studio, the new projects I've been messing around with, and how my perception (both of me and those around me) changes every time I bump into one of those previous boundaries.

But in some ways, I've just been nibbling at the edges of the tough items: there are two that sit on the horizon that still scare the heck out of me. I know that seeing the other side of them needs to be done sooner or later, but taking the kamikaze approach isn't my style.

Yet.

Sadly, the "video" below is only a series of stills of CANO, but such a great tune: it's from the first album we listened to together.