...Behold the Public Gardens of Halifax...

Here in Halifax they have a plot of land that is leased to the city by the British Crown for something like one pound per year. In order for Halifax to keep this land they have to promise it remains a green space - a green space in the heart of downtown, no less. Halifax has made this space into a beautiful garden (in which you most certainly CANNOT walk on the grass, or feed the ducks...they turn into gremlins, I hear) which is open to the public. The garden is surrounded by a huge iron gate which I could analyse within a 'gated community' framework...but I'd rather not think that hard right now. At any rate, here are some lovely photos from two seperate occasions when I happened to spend some time in the garden's loveliness.

Who knew Halifax boasted Canada's first indoor skating rink?!
You would if you were able to make out this iddy biddy writing.

My friends Caroline (left) and Karen (right)
from school here at Dalhousie.
They really like having their pictures taken ;)

Kyla and her Duck. I'd like to call him "Marty".
Kyla came from Toronto, ON to visit me last weekend.
It was a bit of a last-minute trip, but definitely appreciated!
More on our adventures through Halifax later...

Water, water, everywhere....
And so many, many drops to spare.
It's been raining for weeks here in Halifax.
WEEKS. *sigh*
But at least that means that the waterfalls and little pools in the park are full!
(look at me being all positive. I know. It's disgusting.)

And as always, take time to smell the roses
(or in this case, the hydrangeas, but who's taking notes?)

...a little bit of nostalgia...

"Some memories are realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again."

~ Willa Cather, My Antonia.~

Every once in a while, I have terribly nostalgic days. Today it is raining. I think that's part of the problem. I wax nostalgic on rainy days. Today I wrote in my diary again. Did you know, it's been six months since I last wrote in it? Bizarre for someone who used to be a semi-regular journaler. And by no means do I think that this blog page has compensated for my lack of journaling...my journal is a much more personal expression of myself and something very few people have access to.

I've kept a semi-regular journal for 6 years now (wow! has it been so long?) I started journaling when I was given a notebook on New Year's Eve 2000. The new millenium. My parents won a gift basket at a gala we went to (it certainly seems a long time ago, but I can still remember some of the awkwardness of that evening. I'm sure I journaled about it!) My parents had no use for the journal so they gave it to me. And a legacy began.

What I find most entertaining about my journals (there are now 3 of them) is to re-read what I've written at the different points of my life. I find there are trends. At specific times of the year I tend to write about certain people, often I write about the same things over and over and over again (you'd think it would become monotonous for me...). It's interesting to read about myself, years after an event, and have some retrospect on the experiences. Actually, it's quite odd. Sometimes I get mad at myself in my journal. Sometimes I get mad at other people. Sometimes I'm mad at God. But most often I complain about my problems. I believe the writing is cathartic, although most times the issues remain unresolved. Yet I don't think it's resolution that I seek, rather, simply an unjudgemental expression of my emotions, cluttered and confused as they often are.

Perhaps you've made it into my journal. Chances are good that if I've known you since 2000 you've made the odd appearance. Odds of appearance are increased if we've ever experienced any conflict together (so...that doesn't really narrow down the options, does it?) Odds are further increased if we ever dated. Although, some unique characters have never made it into my journal, while others have featured like reoccurring cameos in the drama that is my life. (you appreciated that simile, didn't you?)

So today it's raining. Did I mention I get a little sentimental in the rain? (contrary to somewhat popular belief, I do not melt in the rain.)

"Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.
My words echo
Thus, in your mind."

~ TS Eliot, Four Quartets.

"I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians. When I was twelve, the words was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present, and into the future. We all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see out destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put in the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you know why we’re told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wilderness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad at what they allowed to whither in themselves. After you get so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get all weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theatre, the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little heartsad and not knowing why. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm. The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good, some of them not so good. Things happen to us. Loved ones die. People get in wrecks, and get crippled. It’s not hard to do, in this world of crazy mazes. Life itself does its best to take that memory of magic away from us. You don’t know its happening until one day you feel like you’ve lost something, but you’re not sure what it is."

~ Robert McCammon