It is a bright, sunshiny day. Fluffy grey clouds float across the sky on a cool easterly wind. As I write (this morning) I’m in Sherbrooke (Québec). In a few short hours I’ll be on a train, headed west, for Montréal, and from there Ottawa.
For the past few months now I have been, for all intent and purposes, living between two cities: Ottawa and Sherbrooke. In fact, in Sherbrooke, I have begun to put done roots. The city does not seem as “foreign” and I’m quickly learning to navigate the city – on foot! This weekend I visited the Musée des beaux-arts de Sherbrooke and took in the Mario Merola exhibition, as well as began refresher courses on driving a standard (Sherbrooke is a city of hills). I’m beginning to feel at home.
I’ve been living between Ottawa and Sherbrooke because I’ve fallen in love. My heart is in Sherbrooke, and it is becoming more and more difficult to remain separated from the one I love. So I’m thinking about moving, in a manner of speaking, starting all over again. And the idea of moving is both terrifying and exciting. Terrifying because moving means packing, finding a place to live, a new job – and I’m nervous, for some reason, about looking for work in a predominantly French-speaking city. Exciting because of a great love, getting to know and settle into a new city, making new friends – to be in a “completely unknown” territory. Now I am faced with a dilemma: to move or not to move.
In all of the unknowns around a potential move, one thing is certain: writing can be done anywhere. At home. On a train. In a café. Waiting in my doctor’s office. Writing is truly portable, and no matter where I live, writing will remain constant. Perhaps there isn’t a dilemma after all, and the decision is already made …?
Night is fully in place as I write now. This entry has been written over the course of the day – stealing moments here and there. I am on a Ottawa-bound-train, headed for home, and uncertain as to where home is.
For the past few months now I have been, for all intent and purposes, living between two cities: Ottawa and Sherbrooke. In fact, in Sherbrooke, I have begun to put done roots. The city does not seem as “foreign” and I’m quickly learning to navigate the city – on foot! This weekend I visited the Musée des beaux-arts de Sherbrooke and took in the Mario Merola exhibition, as well as began refresher courses on driving a standard (Sherbrooke is a city of hills). I’m beginning to feel at home.
I’ve been living between Ottawa and Sherbrooke because I’ve fallen in love. My heart is in Sherbrooke, and it is becoming more and more difficult to remain separated from the one I love. So I’m thinking about moving, in a manner of speaking, starting all over again. And the idea of moving is both terrifying and exciting. Terrifying because moving means packing, finding a place to live, a new job – and I’m nervous, for some reason, about looking for work in a predominantly French-speaking city. Exciting because of a great love, getting to know and settle into a new city, making new friends – to be in a “completely unknown” territory. Now I am faced with a dilemma: to move or not to move.
In all of the unknowns around a potential move, one thing is certain: writing can be done anywhere. At home. On a train. In a café. Waiting in my doctor’s office. Writing is truly portable, and no matter where I live, writing will remain constant. Perhaps there isn’t a dilemma after all, and the decision is already made …?
Night is fully in place as I write now. This entry has been written over the course of the day – stealing moments here and there. I am on a Ottawa-bound-train, headed for home, and uncertain as to where home is.
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