life lately
In May, I moved into the city.
I first arrived in British Columbia in February, thinking I'd be staying at Paul's parents' house for but a week or two. Lo and behold, various setbacks occurred (including a global pandemic) which delayed this process -and I ended up staying for three months. I was afforded the tenderest of times with Paul's family, and marveled at the gift of hospitality and generosity in such strange times.
I don't think I'll ever forget the Spring of 2020. Not only for its impact on a global scale, but on a personal one, too. This Spring was perhaps one of, if not the most, momentous seasons of my life. I hopped aboard a westward flight, bidding farewell to Montréal's bitter cold and my teary family, and wept the whole way long. I landed in a new city and province, in full Spring bloom, five hours later. There, I found the boy, awaiting me with a posy of tulips and a beaming smile. Thus began a new chapter in my life -ours, really.
I've since been forging a home in this new place, although I can't say it has been the smoothest of transitions. In all of this, though, I have been reminded of God's nearness and that His mercies are new every morning, every moment. He has faithfully provided for me in just the right timing -though of course it was not the one I wanted or initially envisioned- but I see now how right it was for everything to unfold and come together as and when it did. Funny how that works, isn't it?
In short, I have started a new job for a French women's network that enthuses me. I am so grateful for it, and it is a good fit for this season of my life. And three months ago, I moved into a new home but a walk away from the office. For now, I still work from home -but I opted for a preemptive move when I found this apartment.
Admittedly, I was quite unconvinced by the suite at first glance.
I first visited the suite on a day of "apartment hunting" with Paul and my roommate's boyfriend who came in her stead, as she was out of town. At the time, I was (momentarily) persuaded by a larger and more modern apartment further outside the city core that we'd just toured.
But as we wandered the suite, opened cupboard doors, inspected the white walls and trim, and traipsed from room to room, I remember feeling charmed by it all. Paul kept repeating, "This place is so cozy!" and I was utterly bewitched by the location; a serene street bordered by a cathedral of trees, so tall and majestic that we almost felt we were in the middle of a forest as we drove up. The neighborhood brimmed with young families and quaint craftsman houses and blooming gardens, yet was also at the heart of the city with walking distance to our most beloved coffeehouses and restaurants and markets. It's but a short drive away from the Pacific, and glorious mountain views can be found just down the road.
The suite is in a storied house painted the kind of blue you'd see at dusk -an alchemy of charcoal and indigo. I imagine the best way to describe it is that it reminds me of the familiar comfort of an overcast day, brightening every surrounding green leaf and patch of moss. I know I have the tendency to romanticize things (is that a bad thing, though?) so I ought to be earnest about this: the place is old, rather creeky and cobwebby, and undoubtedly could use some weeding, tightened screws and a new roof. But its character is, to me, undeniable. I know many don't share my delight in fixer-uppers, but I like its older cupboards, screechy white wood porch, and how it's hidden under trees. An unruly garden wraps itself around the front of the home, with blooming bridalwreath and bright red azaleas hindering our path to the entrance (the best kind of problem to have). If anything, despite its quirks and perceived dinginess, it makes me think of a house Trisha Romance might paint.
At the end of that first visit, delighted by the hardwood floors and fresh coats of white paint - very reminiscent of typical Montreal apartments- I told the landlord, "This place makes me feel at home" and I meant it. But for no other reason than spaciousness and convenience, I was still swayed by the previous property.
In a twist of fate (read: God's hand), the modern suite fell through. I swiftly became convinced that the blue house with the lush garden was the one.
Two weeks later, we moved in.
We've since been making a home out of this space, slowly unpacking boxes and filling up walls and sifting through our belongings and shuffling through rooms, attempting to sense what feels right and asking ourselves how to best create a place of belonging in these four walls.
This is a home and a home-in-the-making all at once. The apartment still needs some attention and loving, and I don't doubt such will be the case for a time. I am learning to be at peace with this, putting at bay the feeling that all must be just right, right now. Every time Paul came to visit in the first month after the move (at least), he was bearing his tool kit and ideas, and whiled away around the space building shelves and putting up lights and sanding down tables and tightening wobbly tables. Bless that man. His attentiveness and his proactive posture are such gifts to me! I picked a good one to marry.
Many would never consider living with a roommate they've never met before -but one Facetime call was enough for me to know Hannah and I were a good fit for cohabitation. We have been enjoying this process of configuring the space together, chats over dinner, ice cream sandwiches on Main, and watching Atypical on weeknights with glasses of chilled rosé. I am so looking forward to the year ahead.
I am building new rhythms here, and I am finding that this is perhaps my very favorite thing about doing life in a new place. The alarm chirps and I rise to the sight of a flowering tree right outside my window, soft morning light painting itself on the walls of my quiet bedroom. I make way down the hall to the kitchen, where I grind fresh beans from the coffeehouse at the corner. I try to make a ceremony of the endless monotony that besieges these times: I sit at the dark farmhouse table by the flicker of a bergamot and orange blossom candle, I fill up the lined ivory pages of my leatherbound journal, sipping dark roast from the French press. Music, the likes of Gregory Alan Isakov or Alexi Murdoch floods through the room. The window is cracked open and I hear the steady fall of rain, or birds warbling from blossom-laden trees. I think there is something important about remembering the soundtrack of every season.
Truthfully, my quiet times and biblical study lacked their usual regularity in this past season -most certainly because I struggle to keep an early bedtime and have not exercised discipline in my schedule lately. My moments of stillness so quickly disappear, as I give them away to lesser things that sway my attention. I have grown convicted of these facts, and am making adjustments to change this. I had missed these times of meditation of God's Word, equipped with highlighters and inky pens and post-it notes and a thirst for His presence and truth. I am starting, slowly, to make my way through the Old Testament again, picking up where I'd left off. I leaf through the well-worn pages of my Bible, in search of promises of old. I'm so grateful for God's grace and kindness, which rid me of my shame and beckon me to be a faithful disciple of Christ. I am like the Israelites I read about, who were so quick to forget God and yet were recipients of His forgiveness, again and again. And I think of the grace extended to Simon Peter, who'd demonstrated His erring ways over and over -and I am reminded that, even when our track record isn't so lovely, His mercy is more (side note: I love that song!). As I study Scripture, I'm made aware that God's Word sustains and guides me, drawing my wayward heart to His. Praise be to Him.
I have been finding that I deeply care about keeping a home. I'm cooking, finding pleasure in morning smoothies with spinach and berries, homemade granola, tuscan kale soup bubbling in the dutch oven, sweet potato enchiladas or French toast for date night, sweet and sour kitchen in a thrifted crock pot, meals with feta and sundried tomatoes and fresh basil and beets when Spring made way for Summer. I love the hum of tumbling laundry, fistfuls of sunflowers arranged in pitchers, the smell of fresh linens on the bed, filling each room with pieces foraged here and there.
I let myself slowly live into the space before filling all its walls and shelves just right -and I dare say I would do this again next place I move. There is no urgency to get it just right. In the words of another, "just take it bird by bird." Before you know it, your home-in-the-making will be home indeed -and nearly every piece of furniture in a room, frame on the wall and paperback in the bookcase will be right where they belong, and you can be adjusting and changing as life within these walls unfolds.
Toolbox in hand, Paul arrives around these parts with a heart eager to help. He's hung shelves and strings of light, built furniture, tightened a wobbly farm table, moved couches and desks, changed lightbulbs, stained a kitchen island, smeared a fresh coat of paint on aged drawers, and, and, and. He has helped me, in so many ways, make this little basement suite become an abode. I don't deserve him, I tell you. During peony season, he'd come to the apartment bearing the fullest ones, "because they're your favorite flower" -and I felt my heart grow a couple inches. The 45-minute drive from his house alone is an act of love itself. All the rest feels like an indulgence. I am blessed.
My living in the city has proven to be great fun for Paul and I. Some days we stick around here, with a homecooked meal and an episode of Modern Family (or two). Other days, we venture off to a new neighborhood, a restaurant on our list, or some adventure he's dreamed up. When we celebrated four full years of us (and four full months of living on the same coast, with no goodbyes in sight!), Paul brought me to St.Lawrence -said to be Vancouver's best restaurant (and Québécoise cuisine, too...he spoils me so!). We reminisced fondly, gawking at the possibility of a date night in the city again. We took pictures of every course, because that’s just what you do when restaurants open up after three months. As always, the conversation carried us through the hours. We talked about who we were four years ago (when our ages were still suffixed by ‘teen’!), and wondered who we’ll be four years from now. I can't help but think how funny it is, that neither of us remembers the moment in September 2015 when we first met: it was, arguably, a non-event for both of us as it transpired. But that moment, however memorable, just so happened to upend both of our lives -and for this I will always be glad. I forget, sometimes, that moving here was for us to finally be together. It's odd to remember this, as togetherness is so natural to us (and always was).
My neighborhood is all sorts of wonderful: a canopy of trees, free libraries on the curb, young mothers with sleepy bubs in prams, parks scattered everywhere, a coffee counter at the corner, an organic market down the road, the 90-year-old German harmonica player who plays Blue Danube (and La Vie en Rose, to fancy me), etc. When you come visit me, I'll gladly show you all that the "etcetera" contains. For months, at 7 pm, without fail, the neighborhood came alive with the sound of banging pots and pans, enthused claps, a bagpipe down the block - all to thank the tireless work of essential workers in these days of COVID-19. The other tenants in our building, too, are welcoming and kind. Our neighborly chatter is spirited and fun, and I recognize what a gift this is, and how important it is to cherish this relationship with those I share a street with.
I'm grateful for this season of life, and want to bottle it up and never forget it. I recognize the profound privilege in uttering such words, knowing that these are heavy times. This is, admittedly, one of the reasons I've been quite silent around here recently... feeling as though this was a time for silence and making room to listen to my black brothers and sisters, rather than contributing new content to the online sphere. I have been challenged and grown convicted. While being careful not to center my own feelings in this important time in history, I do hope to share with you what I've been learning, and the voices that have been especially impactful to me in this journey of racial consciousness that I and so many are on right now. Stay tuned.
Beyond this, the days of this Summer of 2020 have been marked by Vancouver's cool Pacific breeze, drizzles of rain here and there, and a sun dipping low, as if to rest on mountaintops. These are the days of online projects and Zoom calls in my little home office (which just so happens to be my bedroom), big projects wrapping up and thankfulness for a steady job that challenges and stimulates me, long walks to Granville Island after work, the voices of Louis Armstrong and Kurt Weill and Ella Fitzgerald on a loop, a book (or five) singing my name at any given moment, Facetimes with my family, wedding plans, reading Letter from a Birmingham Jail through tears, talks of politics and talks of real estate, Langley on the weekend, poolside afternoons, meandering through community gardens (enjoying raspberry harvests), double dates galore, picnics in Heather Park with Kaylyn, hunting everywhere for just the right mug, a new teapot, iced coffee and Louisville lemonade, a new rainjacket from the Thiessens, pinching fingerfuls of lavender and releasing its glorious flagrance, Rain or Shine ice cream on waffle cones (mint chip, rhubarb cardamom, blueberry balsamic, lemon square, snickerdoodle, who's to say?), the On Being podcast on rainy days, a weeklong visit from my mom (gardening and homekeeping, exploring Stanley Park, a weekend in Whistler, poking around bookshops and thrift stores, Queen Elizabeth Park's roses, chats that ministered to my heart in the way only chats with a mama can do, teary hellos and teary goodbyes), slipping into a new dress, hydrangeas so big and so blue, such joy in celebrating Elise's wedding (what a beautiful July bride she was), wandering Cambie and Main, pon sandals in the mail, Mennonite platz and and blueberry buttermilk muffins in Rita's kitchen, weekly dates with my cousin, ricotta and rasberry jam on sourdough (aspiring to make sourdough too), lamb burritos at the beach, receiving an inheritance of bridal magazines, watching Hamilton at Erin's, coffee shop dates with him, community group on Mondays, homechurch on Sundays, talks of a trip to Portland when the borders open up (someday), talks of a trip to Montreal in the dwindling days of Summer, ordering prints for the wall in the living room, an Okanagan peach pie, movies projected on sheets in the backyard, potfuls of plants, drying eucalyptus, a favorite blackberry absinthe candle. Tender mercies, piled on real high.
Thus begins life at Number 668, the garden house. Life in Vancouver is far from what I've known and the places I began and became... but it is, slowly, becoming home to me. I'm so excited.
I first arrived in British Columbia in February, thinking I'd be staying at Paul's parents' house for but a week or two. Lo and behold, various setbacks occurred (including a global pandemic) which delayed this process -and I ended up staying for three months. I was afforded the tenderest of times with Paul's family, and marveled at the gift of hospitality and generosity in such strange times.
I don't think I'll ever forget the Spring of 2020. Not only for its impact on a global scale, but on a personal one, too. This Spring was perhaps one of, if not the most, momentous seasons of my life. I hopped aboard a westward flight, bidding farewell to Montréal's bitter cold and my teary family, and wept the whole way long. I landed in a new city and province, in full Spring bloom, five hours later. There, I found the boy, awaiting me with a posy of tulips and a beaming smile. Thus began a new chapter in my life -ours, really.
I've since been forging a home in this new place, although I can't say it has been the smoothest of transitions. In all of this, though, I have been reminded of God's nearness and that His mercies are new every morning, every moment. He has faithfully provided for me in just the right timing -though of course it was not the one I wanted or initially envisioned- but I see now how right it was for everything to unfold and come together as and when it did. Funny how that works, isn't it?
In short, I have started a new job for a French women's network that enthuses me. I am so grateful for it, and it is a good fit for this season of my life. And three months ago, I moved into a new home but a walk away from the office. For now, I still work from home -but I opted for a preemptive move when I found this apartment.
---
Admittedly, I was quite unconvinced by the suite at first glance.
I first visited the suite on a day of "apartment hunting" with Paul and my roommate's boyfriend who came in her stead, as she was out of town. At the time, I was (momentarily) persuaded by a larger and more modern apartment further outside the city core that we'd just toured.
But as we wandered the suite, opened cupboard doors, inspected the white walls and trim, and traipsed from room to room, I remember feeling charmed by it all. Paul kept repeating, "This place is so cozy!" and I was utterly bewitched by the location; a serene street bordered by a cathedral of trees, so tall and majestic that we almost felt we were in the middle of a forest as we drove up. The neighborhood brimmed with young families and quaint craftsman houses and blooming gardens, yet was also at the heart of the city with walking distance to our most beloved coffeehouses and restaurants and markets. It's but a short drive away from the Pacific, and glorious mountain views can be found just down the road.
The suite is in a storied house painted the kind of blue you'd see at dusk -an alchemy of charcoal and indigo. I imagine the best way to describe it is that it reminds me of the familiar comfort of an overcast day, brightening every surrounding green leaf and patch of moss. I know I have the tendency to romanticize things (is that a bad thing, though?) so I ought to be earnest about this: the place is old, rather creeky and cobwebby, and undoubtedly could use some weeding, tightened screws and a new roof. But its character is, to me, undeniable. I know many don't share my delight in fixer-uppers, but I like its older cupboards, screechy white wood porch, and how it's hidden under trees. An unruly garden wraps itself around the front of the home, with blooming bridalwreath and bright red azaleas hindering our path to the entrance (the best kind of problem to have). If anything, despite its quirks and perceived dinginess, it makes me think of a house Trisha Romance might paint.
At the end of that first visit, delighted by the hardwood floors and fresh coats of white paint - very reminiscent of typical Montreal apartments- I told the landlord, "This place makes me feel at home" and I meant it. But for no other reason than spaciousness and convenience, I was still swayed by the previous property.
In a twist of fate (read: God's hand), the modern suite fell through. I swiftly became convinced that the blue house with the lush garden was the one.
Two weeks later, we moved in.
---
This is a home and a home-in-the-making all at once. The apartment still needs some attention and loving, and I don't doubt such will be the case for a time. I am learning to be at peace with this, putting at bay the feeling that all must be just right, right now. Every time Paul came to visit in the first month after the move (at least), he was bearing his tool kit and ideas, and whiled away around the space building shelves and putting up lights and sanding down tables and tightening wobbly tables. Bless that man. His attentiveness and his proactive posture are such gifts to me! I picked a good one to marry.
Many would never consider living with a roommate they've never met before -but one Facetime call was enough for me to know Hannah and I were a good fit for cohabitation. We have been enjoying this process of configuring the space together, chats over dinner, ice cream sandwiches on Main, and watching Atypical on weeknights with glasses of chilled rosé. I am so looking forward to the year ahead.
---
I am building new rhythms here, and I am finding that this is perhaps my very favorite thing about doing life in a new place. The alarm chirps and I rise to the sight of a flowering tree right outside my window, soft morning light painting itself on the walls of my quiet bedroom. I make way down the hall to the kitchen, where I grind fresh beans from the coffeehouse at the corner. I try to make a ceremony of the endless monotony that besieges these times: I sit at the dark farmhouse table by the flicker of a bergamot and orange blossom candle, I fill up the lined ivory pages of my leatherbound journal, sipping dark roast from the French press. Music, the likes of Gregory Alan Isakov or Alexi Murdoch floods through the room. The window is cracked open and I hear the steady fall of rain, or birds warbling from blossom-laden trees. I think there is something important about remembering the soundtrack of every season.
Truthfully, my quiet times and biblical study lacked their usual regularity in this past season -most certainly because I struggle to keep an early bedtime and have not exercised discipline in my schedule lately. My moments of stillness so quickly disappear, as I give them away to lesser things that sway my attention. I have grown convicted of these facts, and am making adjustments to change this. I had missed these times of meditation of God's Word, equipped with highlighters and inky pens and post-it notes and a thirst for His presence and truth. I am starting, slowly, to make my way through the Old Testament again, picking up where I'd left off. I leaf through the well-worn pages of my Bible, in search of promises of old. I'm so grateful for God's grace and kindness, which rid me of my shame and beckon me to be a faithful disciple of Christ. I am like the Israelites I read about, who were so quick to forget God and yet were recipients of His forgiveness, again and again. And I think of the grace extended to Simon Peter, who'd demonstrated His erring ways over and over -and I am reminded that, even when our track record isn't so lovely, His mercy is more (side note: I love that song!). As I study Scripture, I'm made aware that God's Word sustains and guides me, drawing my wayward heart to His. Praise be to Him.
---
I have been finding that I deeply care about keeping a home. I'm cooking, finding pleasure in morning smoothies with spinach and berries, homemade granola, tuscan kale soup bubbling in the dutch oven, sweet potato enchiladas or French toast for date night, sweet and sour kitchen in a thrifted crock pot, meals with feta and sundried tomatoes and fresh basil and beets when Spring made way for Summer. I love the hum of tumbling laundry, fistfuls of sunflowers arranged in pitchers, the smell of fresh linens on the bed, filling each room with pieces foraged here and there.
I let myself slowly live into the space before filling all its walls and shelves just right -and I dare say I would do this again next place I move. There is no urgency to get it just right. In the words of another, "just take it bird by bird." Before you know it, your home-in-the-making will be home indeed -and nearly every piece of furniture in a room, frame on the wall and paperback in the bookcase will be right where they belong, and you can be adjusting and changing as life within these walls unfolds.
---
Toolbox in hand, Paul arrives around these parts with a heart eager to help. He's hung shelves and strings of light, built furniture, tightened a wobbly farm table, moved couches and desks, changed lightbulbs, stained a kitchen island, smeared a fresh coat of paint on aged drawers, and, and, and. He has helped me, in so many ways, make this little basement suite become an abode. I don't deserve him, I tell you. During peony season, he'd come to the apartment bearing the fullest ones, "because they're your favorite flower" -and I felt my heart grow a couple inches. The 45-minute drive from his house alone is an act of love itself. All the rest feels like an indulgence. I am blessed.
My living in the city has proven to be great fun for Paul and I. Some days we stick around here, with a homecooked meal and an episode of Modern Family (or two). Other days, we venture off to a new neighborhood, a restaurant on our list, or some adventure he's dreamed up. When we celebrated four full years of us (and four full months of living on the same coast, with no goodbyes in sight!), Paul brought me to St.Lawrence -said to be Vancouver's best restaurant (and Québécoise cuisine, too...he spoils me so!). We reminisced fondly, gawking at the possibility of a date night in the city again. We took pictures of every course, because that’s just what you do when restaurants open up after three months. As always, the conversation carried us through the hours. We talked about who we were four years ago (when our ages were still suffixed by ‘teen’!), and wondered who we’ll be four years from now. I can't help but think how funny it is, that neither of us remembers the moment in September 2015 when we first met: it was, arguably, a non-event for both of us as it transpired. But that moment, however memorable, just so happened to upend both of our lives -and for this I will always be glad. I forget, sometimes, that moving here was for us to finally be together. It's odd to remember this, as togetherness is so natural to us (and always was).
---
My neighborhood is all sorts of wonderful: a canopy of trees, free libraries on the curb, young mothers with sleepy bubs in prams, parks scattered everywhere, a coffee counter at the corner, an organic market down the road, the 90-year-old German harmonica player who plays Blue Danube (and La Vie en Rose, to fancy me), etc. When you come visit me, I'll gladly show you all that the "etcetera" contains. For months, at 7 pm, without fail, the neighborhood came alive with the sound of banging pots and pans, enthused claps, a bagpipe down the block - all to thank the tireless work of essential workers in these days of COVID-19. The other tenants in our building, too, are welcoming and kind. Our neighborly chatter is spirited and fun, and I recognize what a gift this is, and how important it is to cherish this relationship with those I share a street with.
I'm grateful for this season of life, and want to bottle it up and never forget it. I recognize the profound privilege in uttering such words, knowing that these are heavy times. This is, admittedly, one of the reasons I've been quite silent around here recently... feeling as though this was a time for silence and making room to listen to my black brothers and sisters, rather than contributing new content to the online sphere. I have been challenged and grown convicted. While being careful not to center my own feelings in this important time in history, I do hope to share with you what I've been learning, and the voices that have been especially impactful to me in this journey of racial consciousness that I and so many are on right now. Stay tuned.
Beyond this, the days of this Summer of 2020 have been marked by Vancouver's cool Pacific breeze, drizzles of rain here and there, and a sun dipping low, as if to rest on mountaintops. These are the days of online projects and Zoom calls in my little home office (which just so happens to be my bedroom), big projects wrapping up and thankfulness for a steady job that challenges and stimulates me, long walks to Granville Island after work, the voices of Louis Armstrong and Kurt Weill and Ella Fitzgerald on a loop, a book (or five) singing my name at any given moment, Facetimes with my family, wedding plans, reading Letter from a Birmingham Jail through tears, talks of politics and talks of real estate, Langley on the weekend, poolside afternoons, meandering through community gardens (enjoying raspberry harvests), double dates galore, picnics in Heather Park with Kaylyn, hunting everywhere for just the right mug, a new teapot, iced coffee and Louisville lemonade, a new rainjacket from the Thiessens, pinching fingerfuls of lavender and releasing its glorious flagrance, Rain or Shine ice cream on waffle cones (mint chip, rhubarb cardamom, blueberry balsamic, lemon square, snickerdoodle, who's to say?), the On Being podcast on rainy days, a weeklong visit from my mom (gardening and homekeeping, exploring Stanley Park, a weekend in Whistler, poking around bookshops and thrift stores, Queen Elizabeth Park's roses, chats that ministered to my heart in the way only chats with a mama can do, teary hellos and teary goodbyes), slipping into a new dress, hydrangeas so big and so blue, such joy in celebrating Elise's wedding (what a beautiful July bride she was), wandering Cambie and Main, pon sandals in the mail, Mennonite platz and and blueberry buttermilk muffins in Rita's kitchen, weekly dates with my cousin, ricotta and rasberry jam on sourdough (aspiring to make sourdough too), lamb burritos at the beach, receiving an inheritance of bridal magazines, watching Hamilton at Erin's, coffee shop dates with him, community group on Mondays, homechurch on Sundays, talks of a trip to Portland when the borders open up (someday), talks of a trip to Montreal in the dwindling days of Summer, ordering prints for the wall in the living room, an Okanagan peach pie, movies projected on sheets in the backyard, potfuls of plants, drying eucalyptus, a favorite blackberry absinthe candle. Tender mercies, piled on real high.
Thus begins life at Number 668, the garden house. Life in Vancouver is far from what I've known and the places I began and became... but it is, slowly, becoming home to me. I'm so excited.
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