And, not only because it serves as a marker of another year older (though, to know me is to understand that even in my 30’s, I begin counting down weeks in advance to the date of my birth), but because creeping out from the corners of the world is change.

Hanging sharply in the air, pungent chimney smoke streaks the black of night with wafts of grey and the sidewalks are beautifully littered with crisp golden leaves that crackle under foot. I literally wrap autumn around me in thick, cozy sweaters and steaming soup that has been left to simmer for hours. To me, there is nothing more comforting than the feel of fall.

Yesterday, amidst a hurried morning of dropping my daughter at school before attending an appointment, I made my way along the quiet downtown streets, amazed at how all traces of the summer’s visitors had vanished with the last few days of August. It was tranquil, joyously so that the suspect noise of honking cars and rushing traffic left little to no effect on me.

Without a clear destination in mind, I opened the door to Starbucks and waited patiently in its usual line. I ordered, positioned myself in one of those soft and coveted chairs that coffeehouses are known for, and sipped at the spicy chai latte as it gnawed back on my taste buds. Pulling a book out of my oversized bag, I opened the creased cover to the pages I had left off on in early summer. The words leapt off the pages, broken Italian phrases, descriptions depicting a poetic and heartfelt storyline, my cheeks burned with embarrassment at my carelessness in tossing it aside so early on. Perhaps, its meatiness was too much to be considered a perfect companion for a day at the beach.

I looked up from my copy of Eat Pray Love from time to time, as a gust of wind followed a customer in, to watch the varying faces both in store and out – chatting with friends, reading the newspaper or passing in haste to return to work. Some were old with deep, crevassed lines etched across their skin… like I will be one day. Some young, arms stretched outward, spinning in dizzying circles… like I once was. And, it was then that I saw that change creeps out from the corners of the world every second of every minute of every hour… of every season.

I’m not so obtuse to have been blind to this realizations prior to yesterday (parenting makes one acutely aware of how quickly change occurs and time dissolves), but maybe, for me at least, fall permits me the grace of just being… and watching what goes on around us every second of every minute of every hour… of every season.

Does that, in of itself, make me human? Is that the singular thread that ties us all together?

Those who haven’t seen this slow-unfolding Dustin Hoffman flick haven’t seen the bruised, pulpy basket of apples that I picked some seven years ago, the you-can’t-win-kind-of-situation that ultimately led to me… losing.

You see, I am the product of a typical North American family. Two mothers, two fathers, a half sister and two half brothers. This is what I grew to know since knee-high to a grasshopper… or, in terms of age: 2. It always made perfect sense to me… until one day, it didn’t. The day I graduated high school, and I came face-to-face with that time honored tradition of dancing with my father(s).

Do I flip a coin? Draw straws? Play a mean game of One Potato, Two Potato?

For all those wondering, I split the dance into quarters. Step-father (who raised me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper… or, in terms of age: 2.). Mother. Father (who remained in my life… on weekends to start, then bi-weekly, then, monthly and on holidays and special occasions). And, finally, my grandfather.

Fast forward some seven years later, and I was faced with Unnatural Selection once more. The walking-down-the-aisle-dilemma. I didn’t want to break hearts (I had never done so before, why start now?), I didn’t want to leave anyone out (I had always been keen at sharing), but somehow I managed to do both. In one fell swoop.

What I wanted was for both the man who was responsible for creating me and the man who was responsible for bandaging my scraped knees to take the long walk with me towards my brand-new life. Somehow that vision imploded, and what I was left with was a father who kept his distance from even the boundaries of my wedding day. He never saw his only daughter in her wedding gown. Or, heard her say her vows.

Six years later, I wish I could give him that moment back. All of those moments.

So, thank you Harvey. I am much wiser for seeing it through my father’s eyes.

The first time I popped this film into our DVD player, I sat snuggled up in bed, mourning the escape of our beloved family cat, Libby. She had slipped out during Christmas dinner the night before, and after a sleepless night of awaiting her arrival home (to no avail), I settled in for a film I had wanted to see since first spying the trailer some time before. There was something beautifully organic about the snippets; I knew I would feel at home with the storyline.

And, during that very first viewing, I did. As a cheeky writer who, other than in front of her laptop, is most comfortable in the kitchen, who is filled with hysterical idiosyncrasies, fell a little crazy in love with the wonderment that is the relationship of Julie to Julia.

Then… the ending. My eyes fell sad. My heart broke. In fact, it took me months before I accepted the finality, that more often than not, life doesn’t grant Golden Tickets to Utopia.

The second time around, I didn’t watch with that same hope that in the end, Julia Child would ultimately show up on the doorstep of Julie Powell, iconic pearls in place, iconic nasally voice wafting through the air, fulfilling my want, my need for a Happily-Ever-After. Instead I saw it as a tribute… to both an amazing Chef of butter-laden French food and a writer who had previously lost her way. It was in this that I saw what I had originally been searching for, but in a less than obvious way. The happy ending wasn’t meant to be the meeting of the minds of Julie and Julia, but rather in overcoming the obstacles they each faced through the journeys of their professional and personal lives.

It took me some time to realize it, but once I let go of the clichés so typically associated with fact-based-stories-turned-Hollywood-productions, I found the absolute beauty of Julie & Julia. From beginning to buttery end.

June –
After being approached by dance-instructor-turned-studio-director, Melodie Sharma, to help her introduce her business, Kelowna Dance and Performing Arts, to Okanagan residents, I was pleased to assist her in the creation of a feature article titled A Cultural Revolution and staff bios for the newly launched website. Visit Melodie and staff online at:
http://www.kelownadance.com/?p=293

In addition to KDPA, I saw the assignment of destination write-ups for Snowbirds & RV Travelers Magazine on Chemainus (a town near and dear to this island girl’s heart), Radium Hot Springs and the Naramata Bench. I’ll be sure to add the URL to the latest online version once it comes available.

July/Aug issue of Gonzo went online (and into circulation), with amazing articles on Nicholas Cage (cover) and artist Angelina Wrona. My contribution to this edition came in the form of OIFF reviews (pg 14-15) and a piece on mental illness in film (pg 22-23). Check it out:
http://content.yudu.com/Library/A1o490/GonzoMagazineJulyAug/resources/index.htm

July –
The first couple weeks were spent road-tripping to Los Angeles with stops in San Francisco and Seattle, before returning home to our new locale of Penticton.

The second half of the month was then spent moving and unpacking (ugh!) before polishing off an article for the next issue of Gonzo. Fingers are tightly crossed that it will make print. As always, stay posted.

August –
Though we’re only four days in, this month is showing signs of being the best yet. It started off with a random (?) email from someone regarding my blog. Though I can’t divulge too much in the way of details (right now anyway), it seems as though I’ve crossed a radar beyond that of my family and friends. Sure, I was always aware that what I’m writing here is put out into the global reach of all internet users, but I never believed that anyone would read what I have to say without my prompting them to. Apparently, I was wrong… in the case of at least one person. Once I have more to share, I will.

In leaving Kelowna behind, is it possible that we passed through a sort of secondary dimension? The mere moment the iconic white lettering appeared on the sage-brush dotted mountains, the seemingly endless knot in my stomach unravelled. The rat-race was over, so was the competition with leggy blonde bombshells sporting head-to-toe Ed Hardy. Nothing remained but a slower paced lifestyle and the essence of a casual resort town.

Trading in a 1500 square foot townhouse for a two bedroom condo was, at first glance, worthy of tears shed. And, even now, I miss the Bard’s etched quote on the latte coloured wall of the dining room. With each day, my grip on the past is a little less. Eventually, it will reside in the back of my mind as nothing more than a peg on the map of places I once lived.

Until then, I live, work and breathe a new future. I enjoy the laughter of both old and new friends. Penticton quite possibly was the best decision we could have made. For now…

It seems as though we thrive in finding ways to refine an already-enhanced bi-product because we are rarely satisfied with what we have in hand. In recognizing the silver-lining only under negative duress, I wonder, do our hectic lives blur all the lovely bits of life taking place around us each moment?

Regardless of our current situation – our occupation, financial outlook, relationship status – we are driven by the need to improve; to do better, to be better. Contentment becomes impossible as we manoeuvre through a walled maze like mice in a bad science experiment. Instead, perhaps, maybe we should stop for even a split second to appreciate the road we have traveled rather than focus solely on the journey ahead.

In standing still and contemplating what we have when we have it, we are more likely to stop the agonizing stretch of living outside of the moment.

It’s only a house – I’ve said that plenty of times since deciding to sell. But in truth, it has been more than that. It has been a time capsule of sorts; it holds memories, laughter, a part of each of us. And so it will be for the next owner…

For us, for now: Penticton.

There are also memories that exist solely in pixels, fragmented pieces of an experience that somehow fit together – even when we wish they didn’t. There, imprinted on our hearts, those fragile moments stay – even when we wish they wouldn’t.

And, if we could walk a day in someone else’s shoes, only then would we realize how even though the journey is different, the beginning and end are the same. Defining moments are found somewhere in between, the nuts and bolts that hold us together.

Taking a train ride down the track toward Would-have-Could-have-Should-have, we know the obvious stations to get off at. Hindsight, as they say, is always 20/20. But life doesn’t work in reverse. Without a magic potion to take us back to yesterday, last year or a decade ago, we have to be ok with what we have done… said… chosen.

But there’s an upside to not doing the right thing the first go-round…

It gives us the footing to be better, to think rationally, to grow and smile and be healthy. Reflecting on the years of wasted energy in attempting to connect the dots to form someone other than myself, I somehow think that had I not gone through that, I wouldn’t appreciate this nearly as much.

Maybe regret can exist only when we doubt the importance of the memories we’re most afraid to learn from…

Editorial deadline for Gonzo is fast approaching and though I have a handful of assignments to finish polishing, the bulk is done. To ensure finality of projects, I’ve done the unthinkable and cancelled my plans to attend the much-anticipated premiere of Sex and the City 2. For those of you who know me, this shows serious dedication… Am I right?

I met with Leo Bartels today (of Leo’s Videos on Pandosy) and got his feedback on some of his favoured OIFF films. He was such a wealth of information and managed to heighten my excitement of the upcoming festival. I can’t wait!

I’ve scheduled an interview tomorrow with Kennedy Goodkey, co-writer/producer of The Beast of the Bottomless Lake. Thanks to a dear friend (Zenta!), I was able to land the fantastic opportunity to talk to one of the masterminds behind this amazing locally-themed film. For those Ogopogo-enthusiasts, this can’t be missed.

All in all, Gonzo has been such a good fit for me. I’m challenged to think beyond what I’m used to and for that alone, I can’t help but be in a constant state of elation. Not too long ago I was clueless as to where I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to be doing.

I’m getting there… a little closer every day.

Work with Gonzo has been moving along at warp speed – I’ve barely had time to catch my breath (finally!). I’m working on multiple pieces for the upcoming issue, all film-related. This coming week I have an interview with one of the masterminds behind The Beast of the Bottomless Lake and a meeting with local indie-film buff, Leo (from Leo’s Videos) – to pick his brain on the upcoming OIFF.

Rouge continues to be an exciting venture for me. I get to be the girly-girl that everyone knows me to be, while backing up a company that I believe in whole-heartedly. Who could ask for anything more than that?

I’m back doing some freelance work for OkanganAnchor, just an article here and there. When it comes down to it, this and OVHR are the companies that my website was built on so I’m happy to help them whenever possible.

As for other projects, I met with an owner of a local up-and-coming marketing company a few weeks back and we’re hoping to work together in the near future. So, fingers crossed!

The thrill of seeing my name, my work in print still hasn’t worn off. I somehow doubt it ever will…. And, I think there’s something beautiful in that. I have the issue sitting right beside my laptop and each day that I sit down to write, I can’t help but think of where this wonderful talent has taken me (and will continue to take me, though my best friend has me pegged for Vanity Fair. I guess we’ll see.)

All in all, life is good. And by good, I mean grand.