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I looked up and he was right there. Little red squirrel on the path in front of me. I’ve never seen one here before. I walk that path everyday, the one that runs along the river and lets you believe for a few moments that you aren’t in the city at all. If you keep your eyes looking at the close trees and the running water through the trunks and leafy things, you can avoid seeing the apartment buildings on the other bank.

It’s forest enough for the moment, and so near downtown, but the wildlife is sparser than real forest far away from tall buildings. Even the few rabbits hide before I’m near enough to see them, and the birds are high up. Geese aren’t as shy. They abound in the spring, teaching the goslings about crossing the path coming up from the river and teaching humans about boundaries.

The squirrel stopped short the moment my eyes were on him, only two, three steps away. I might have seen him sooner if I’d been looking ahead into the dappled things of the green forest and river light. Instead, my eyes were only on the path under my feet, and my thoughts followed.

When I was little, I made a song, but I left it behind with other memories I thought I didn’t want anymore.

When you’re feeling kind of sad, don’t let it get you down

Cheer up! Look at the sky! Cheer up! Not at the ground.

The squirrel watched me watching him, but I was either boring or terrifying, and he did a funny little quick head-tip before running off down a side path.

I think I nearly miss a lot of loveliness and happiness because I’m looking at the ground. Sometimes, I’m looking down because I’m wrapped up in smogged worries, fears, and all the other silly things that get in the way and bend my neck.

When I was little, I sang that song every day. Sing-along anyone?

I’m possible.

There was a young man, probably a teenager, looking at boxes of crackers and popcorn in the drug store. He stood with his back to the shelf that held the Lindt chocolate bars I wanted so, “excuse me,” I said and he scuffed forward a couple of steps.

I was so certain that he was unhappy. Why? I don’t know, exactly. I never saw his face. He wore loose, long black shorts and a loose, long black t-shirt. A droopy backpack hung from his skinny shoulders and his hair was badly cut. He had the heavy look of poverty as he stood there staring at the display.

He took so long examining the boxes, moving back and forth to check all the possibilities. I thought, immediately I thought, that he was hoping to steal something. I picked up my chocolate bar and glanced at his back.

I wanted to ask him if I could buy something for him, ask if he was okay, tell him not to take the risk of stealing. (Maybe he was only trying to figure out which box would last the longest for the money he had.)

The thing is, the last time I asked a stranger “are you okay?”  I couldn’t just leave it at that. She was a tiny 18-year-old sobbing on the side of the road in a wealthy part of a wealthy town. She had five or six stuffed and overflowing bags, one with a broken zipper leaking her clothes. It wasn’t enough to hand over some money and a few kind words. I wanted to offer her a home and safety and a future.

Instead, I offered her my time, energy, acceptance, respect and all the other free things I had on me along with a $20 bill that was the last of my ready cash. I let go of my plans for the afternoon, and I don’t regret any of it.

She and I together taught each other, healed each other, helped each other in ways I’m still discovering (and I hope she is too). I am so glad I walked down that street on that steaming hot afternoon.

But I didn’t speak to the boy in the drugstore.

I don’t know why. Opening an unknown door in one place doesn’t seem to make it any easier to open another door in another place. I don’t know how door-to-door sellers make it through their day. Come to think of it, I don’t know how performing artists make it through either, but I did that for years.

Practice? Stubbornness?

You keep doing it because it’s what you do.

The door opening doesn’t get easier, but it does become more familiar. The failures are better failures than the ones I had last week, the rejections are things I recognize and nod a friendly hello to me in passing, the need I try to fill each time is the same once I get past the different clothes. Each time I do what I can when I can. Sometimes I don’t.

Boy in store: I hope you are okay. I’m sorry I didn’t ask.

It’s the pair of socks sitting on top of my dresser that catches my attention afterward. I don’t know what to do with them. They’re black-and-white stripes, ankle length, nylon blend, similar to socks I occasionally wear, although I prefer cotton.

But this pair has something woven right into those stripes that my feet don’t like. Feet can be so sensitive to memories and hate.

Just socks.

I understand it’s not the socks’ fault. They were never meant to be a symbol of her hatred, or of her friendship, for that matter. They’re just a pair of socks she loaned me one day for a reason I can’t even remember. If they should be a symbol of anything, they carry the fairly heavy burden of a made-in-Bangladesh stamp on the soles.  In the world of socks, they are knowers of things that change lives in terrible ways.

Her hatred spun me around when it burst, but it didn’t change my life in any terrible ways. The ooze tried to seep in and poison me, as hatred does, but the ooze couldn’t hold its own against the fresh air and sunlight that poured in from the other side. The spinning snapped cords and freed me from weights I didn’t know about until they dropped away. It upended me and gave me a good shake too.

Funny, isn’t it, that upending of how things are can rattle us so much that treasures fall from our upside-down hidden pockets. I’m not glad that she suddenly hates me, but I’m delighted with my unexpected discoveries.

Still.

What to do with the socks. I feel like they deserve some uppercase respect.

The Socks.

They could become sock puppets. They could say the things that I might forget and remind me of that whole rattling, spinning, pocket-emptying experience.

I could cut them into strips to use in the braided rag rug that I absolutely will make one day. No, really, I mean it. Braided Rugs Are Us. This will happen immediately after I buy my seaside house and fill it with china tea sets and grand pianos, antique quilts, brilliant elderly books, and numerous cats.

I could give The Socks away. But would they stretch and stretch and refuse to let go of me?

Oh. Oh, I see. I don’t think The Socks have quite that ability, do they.

I don’t think they are holding on to me or the hatred or to anything but unethically produced fibers.

(It would make a great horror story though. Would you like me to write it? I’m not terribly good at horror, but I hear it’s mostly funny except for the horrifying bits.)

I, and only I, hold the meaning for all my socks. The pink-and-white ones that make me feel happy-go-lucky (specifically that word. it’s so happy-go-lucky.), the brown cable-knits that always boost my sense of academic competence, the plain black shorties that get the job done.

I won’t wear these abandoned socks again because I choose to make them the place where I dump the leftovers of a friendship gone wrong, the memories of a friend spiralling away down an unreachable gutter of her romance relationship f*ckuppery.* Not because there’s anything woven into them. It could be woven into me, of course, but that’s a different matter.

*”I don’t see why you can’t say that,” said the librarian. “It says it all. There’s no more profound word in the English language.” There’s no other word that expresses so succinctly what I want to say. Do you have any ideas? Let me know!

I don’t have to keep them or make puppets.  (Although if you’d like to come over and play, I’d be totally into it. Then we could walk around the neighbourhood and entertain the neighbours with our hands in the air, talking with our sock puppets.)

They’re just socks.

I’ll drop them in my next give-away bag from my packed and overflowing closet that’s perpetually in need of yet another purge. But that’s another story.

So…do you need a pair of socks?

I was oddly irritated by a namaste wrist tattoo with flowers ahead of me on the bus. I was sitting in my favourite seat, the last double one, the one that has a strong plexiglas separator between it and the back door. You’d think I’d keep myself to myself and read my book nicely, but no. The tattoo drew my attention and walked right into my little space. It perhaps had an invitation from my curiosity.

I could have looked away. I could have let it decorate the woman who owned it without trying to see under her skin. But it irritated me and I wanted to know why.

Was it the perfect silver hair and upscale, floating, bohemian clothes getting on my nerves? She exuded wealth and privilege, such that it was surprising to find her on a bus in this prairie city where anyone who can drive, does drive.

Like so many prairie cities, it spreads and spreads, softly overflows villages, a puddle of loose-knit busyness under the wide sky. Taking the bus from one side to the other is a half-day journey, so anyone who can slip behind the wheel and reach the perimeter in 15 minutes tries not to catch their otherwise ecologically minded eye in the mirror as they impatiently wait to pass the slow, stopping bus.

But the woman was not driving. Her carefully coiffed and coloured silvery hair, her lovely nails, and her designer casual wardrobe said in well-modulated tones that she could certainly afford to drive her Jaguar or take a cab. Her choice to take public transit should have made me like her more. It didn’t.

I wondered if her obvious wealth fed a demon deep inside me, but the demon said no, not jealous of her. No reason, just look, you’ll see.

That was the moment when Silver Hair found she wasn’t where she intended to be. Public transit is set in its ways and bus ways are not always our way.

“Is there a bus at 2:19, then?” she asked the driver. “The right one?”

The driver–also a woman; does that matter? Would Silver Hair have behaved differently to a man?–the driver couldn’t know all the schedule details, and the woman had a smartphone quite able to access the transit app and website. I saw it as she read an article all about Namaste in the seat ahead of me.

What? I couldn’t help seeing unless I kept my eyes up. You’ll note, that I didn’t take a picture of her and post it as illustration. Resistance of temptation enough for one day.

“Well that doesn’t do me any good,” she said to the driver’s attempt to help. The tattoo and expensive draperies stalked off the bus.

Oh, little demon deep inside, I see. So rude, so entitled, so unpleasant. So many things wrong. It wasn’t the outer look of riches that irritated. It was the inner dearth resentfully pushing through the layers.

I think, if you tattoo it on the outside (or say it all the time), it’s always a good idea to live it on the inside.

That goes for god blessers, blessed be-ers, peace outers, and all the rest too.

And me.

Yes, unfortunately, there’s no escape. Now I have to consider who, besides my intelligent little demon, is peering out through my layers.

Who is skulking around inside me, speaking when I would have stayed silent, sending words to listening ears that I would have left unsaid? Who reaches invisibly to grasp at coat sleeves for attention? Some of those people inside me are not my friends, but I let them hang around.

I hope that if you meet one of those people, you will remember that I’m sharing space in my house and don’t always pay attention to who my roommates are.

I hope that I will remember the same for you and for Silver Hair when I see her again.

Take Away: Where does clear vision, accurate judgment, and healthy boundary-keeping step back for compassion?

It was a day of letting go, patience, and slow life. I stopped by the regular grocery store after a sunny morning coffee at the Place Where You Meet Everyone. You’ve been there. I saw you! The little organic grocery, deli, and community place. It’s the place to go if you want fresh organic food, beautiful coffee, and warm connections with interesting on-the-edge people.

Refreshed and ready for mundane pantry-filling of the few, very few, things the Place Where You Meet Everyone could not provide, I stopped by the Food Mart, or possibly Food Fair, or even Food Store. They have frozen, local, bison burgers.

Oh, you thought I was vegan? No. I’ve just never particularly liked meat, and I definitely don’t like cruelty. But I do struggle with anemia, so I fill up on bison burgers a couple of times a month. Easy to cook (my days with a glass of wine in a kitchen filled with exotic fragrances and bubbling pots are on a long pause) and they fill me up for days.

So I picked up two packages and wandered over to the checkout line, said hello to my neighbours, waited my turn on my day of letting it go.

“Oh, dear,” said the woman working the till. “These have different prices. I’ll send someone to check. Do you mind waiting, dear?” I didn’t even mind being called dear; not by an old dear who meant it, and not on that day of slow patience.

The price problem took time to resolve, and I stood aside to let waiting customers pay and go their way. Finally, someone called the woman at the till and spoke to her on the phone. With concern, the woman turned to me to explain.

“They aren’t $5 a package,” she said, anxiously.

No, they never are. I didn’t look at the price when I picked them up.

“That one was a mistake. They’re both $15.” She looked so worried, but I didn’t understand why.

“Ok.” I got out my card to pay, but she hesitated about scanning the $15 price tags.

“Are you sure? They’re very expensive! $15! Ground beef is way cheaper.”

“Yes,” I smile. “They’ve very good though and fill you up a lot faster than regular ground beef.” Unhappy beef bereft of any nutrients along with the poor cow’s dignity.

“Really?” she said. “I didn’t know that.” She scanned one in and paused to question again. “How many would you say you’d eat at once to be full? Two?”

“Half if I’ve got some salad or veg. Never more than one.”

She scanned in the second one, doing the math. “So that’s really not so expensive, and I’ve heard it’s way better quality meat and the animals are happier.”

“All true,” I said.

Such a small thing. But it’s stayed in my mind for days. How often is some small conversation that almost didn’t happen a moment that changes a small thing in someone’s life? And sometimes it leads to a big thing. Sometimes not. That’s okay. It’s the small, everyday things that you remember.

Harpers (people who play Irish, Scottish, and other trad harps) love romance, it seems. I was at the Cairde Na Cruite Harp Festival in Termonfeckin (go ahead, say it!) last week. They wanted to know, would I move to Ireland?

“Well, yes.” Yes, I would. “But I’ll need a way of doing that, won’t I.”

“Oh, so,” they said, “we’ll find you a nice Irish man. They’re charming, you know.”

“A rich one,” said Aine, always practical about these things.

“Sure and a rich one,” agreed Siobhan, a tilt of her head and speculative dark eyes watching me. “I have a few in mind.”

“Rich and handsome and must play tunes,” said someone else.

The whiskey was going around that night, but not so much that I couldn’t speak up there.

“No, no musicians for me.”

‘What, why then? Playing and singing so beautifully yourself as you do!”

“Siobhan, you are a wily one, but I’m not looking for a man.” Not even a charming Irish one. And musicians are also suspect outside of the tunes.

But I have to grin because already I’ve managed a passing crush on three of them. They’re safe, you see. Won’t ever see them again, and at least one was happily married. Not, of course, that marriage is always a barrier to additional romantic amusement for some charming Irish (or non-Irish, for that matter) musicians.

“Not looking. Sure that will be a loss for an Irishman.” Siobhan shook her head and lifted her glass for another round.

Possibly a loss for someone. Then again, possibly not. But I am focused on independence, strong solitude, writing stories, and moving to Ireland when I can afford it on my own. That’s romantic.

UPDATE JULY 2024: In reposting this from my old blog, I had to revisit finally leaving that place, two caretakers (one another stalker) later. The management company, when I reported the first one, said the words (“We take this very seriously.”) but did nothing about it. In the end, they told me I should have reported the second stalker, and they would have ensured there was no contact. “Oh, except if you run into him in the hallway.”

UPDATE MAY 2017: I don’t see that much has changed. There’s a lot more focus on the sexual aspect of “no means no,” but we still don’t understand that “no” is a complete sentence in any situation. Toddlers understand, although the world rarely cooperates. I think it would be nice if we would all take the time to hear toddler disagreement. That doesn’t mean giving in, spoiling, letting them “get away” with whatever it is. It just means a little more listening and little less rush. That might help us take the adult “no” more seriously too.

ORIGINAL POST:

Sexual harassment, sexual assault, violence. Everywhere under the scraped-off posters of Jian Ghomeshi the signs and questions of what we should have seen and asked then, should see and ask right now. Three things have happened in the last few weeks that carry neon signs, demand my questions and leave me wanting answers.

The second of the two was a Conflict Resolution workshop. The breakout group I was part of addressed stalkers in terms of importunate patrons (in our public service workplace) who ask for personal information or make personal comments. It turns out that this was the first time in the many workshops the facilitator had run, the first time that a group suggested the word “No” as a response to a patron’s behaviour. Suggestions had ranged from “You’re making me uncomfortable” to “I’d prefer you didn’t ask me things like that.”

Really?

A group of experienced front-line staff could not imagine saying “No.” No, you may not ask me that. No, your words are inappropriate. No, I am not interested.

The first thing that happened put me in a frame of mind to notice far more about the workshop and the word No. And I did not say no. I encountered a masked protest on the way home from work on Guy Fawkes Day. Only a few were left by the time I was walking by. They were quiet in a circle chatting, and the one who was without a mask I recognized so I said hello. Others there I would know without their masks. They would have been at some of the same meetings, rallies, and gatherings, but they remained anonymous behind Guy Fawkes faces.

I would have carried on home to supper and sleep, but one mask stepped forward to speak to me. Curiously, he had no idea who I was; didn’t recognize me at all. He invited me to participate in the resistance and asked if I worked in the “building” (the Manitoba Legislature).

So I introduced myself.

The part that leaves me curious, thoughtful, wondering, came next. He showed surprise as if (I thought fleetingly) he did know me and hadn’t recognized me in the dark under wintry clothes. Then he reached to hug me.

I had a lengthy split-second conversation in my mind. This is a strange man in a mask hugging me without permission and I don’t want to be hugged. But I know most of them under the masks. You don’t know him, or if it turned out you do, it’s not well enough to want to be hugged by him. Well, now the hug is over so it’s too late.

Too late? Now is the time to walk him through a different story!

I walked home instead.

I am still thinking about it.

My gift of fear stays wrapped in its box too often.

Recently, I had to unwrap fear and put her smack in the middle of the floor where I can’t ignore her voice. She’s at home with me now, where the signs I should have seen a year ago are booming in the hallway. The caretaker of my building is sexually harassing me. Only when he’s drunk of course, so that’s all right?

It began a year ago when he came to check the broken thermostat that left the heat on high, all the time, in my apartment. I was practicing and he didn’t mind if I carried on while he was there. When he had finished the repair he asked if I’d play something, and, if I sang, would I sing a song and play? I played Moon River. There may have been a better choice I thought afterwards, when the trouble began. It took me a long time to realize that my choice of song didn’t control his choice of behaviour.

He was effusive in his appreciation, but harp players are accustomed to the Harp Thing. Men, in particular, seem to forget whatever boundaries they knew when they find themselves in the woman-playing-harp ambiance. That’s one of the reasons I stopped performing for so many years.

After he left my apartment he texted me: I can’t stop thinking about you and something more about being beautiful singing and playing the harp. I ignored that text and another one a few days later, Hi, how are you… He was friendly, lighting up when he saw me, and always immediately helpful. Two other women I know had described him as the best caretaker ever and though they were surprised and concerned at his words to me, it didn’t seem necessary to question his behaviour.

Or rather, it seemed that the task of questioning was hung about with weights to make it unbearably heavy. What would happen to me as a tenant? How safe would I be if I made the caretaker angry? How would the management company react?

A few weeks later he came to fix the oven fuses and brought a Christmas present from his trip home to the Philippines. I let him leave it with me (easier to accept than to create tension by saying No), quickly gave it away to a little girl who likes brightly colored wooden necklaces, contrived to laugh over the whole thing, and let myself think it was over. Sure, he was still friendly and happy to see me around, but he seemed generally to be that kind of guy, so it didn’t mean anything, right?

It’s a year since the I can’t stop thinking about you text. He called me one evening, the day before Remembrance Day, and asked if I would mind playing harp for a few friends he had over. They were all musicians and had never seen a harp. I didn’t mind–I have a small portable harp and though the red flag fluttered in the back of my mind, the music flag flapped wildly in the wind. Always love a chance to play with other musicians.

He offered, somewhat insistently, to come up to my apartment and help me but I am very able to say No once the balance tips far enough. He was very drunk. His friends were not drunk and were legitimately interested in the harp and the music, while he messed around annoyingly, placing the mic close to me and trying to put my harp case away. I finally got fed up with telling him repeated No, take the mic away, leave my harp case alone, and called it a night. His drunken, soaked mind thought it was a good idea to hold my harp case to help me put my harp in it. No, I said. Put it down. I don’t need your help. I had to say it several times, distaste puking the words. Put it down!!!

I do this quite enough at parties, at gigs, even at work, I told his friends. It’s no fun having to do it at home too. I sure don’t expect the caretaker of my building to need a caretaker.

I will walk you home, he said.

No. I’m quite capable of walking up three floors on my own.

By this time, his wife had returned home, and I wondered how she could smile so sweetly at me.

He followed me into the hallway, dripping soggy thanks and pleas to accompany me. Does “No” ever find itself running out of steam? No, I said. Go back inside. You’re drunk. Go home. So, he tried to hug me. Harps are lovely, but tough to pass through. My harp kept him away and I told him, NO. I don’t want to hug you.

Home, safe in my own apartment. He texted me: Can I go there just to thank you

I ignored the text. I ignored the six calls between 12:11 and 12:14 am, and finally put my phone on airplane mode. Later, turning it back to normal, there were two voicemails. He was waiting in the stairwell for me to come talk to him. There are two deadbolts on the apartment door and I turned them both, though he has the keys so it does nothing but buy a few seconds. I went to brush my teeth and heard tapping at my door. Repeated, careful, secret tapping.

I wish I’d gone to the door and recorded a conversation. I wish I’d told him I’d call the police unless he went away and delivered a full admission and apology. I wish I’d stopped feeling sorry for his wife and just called the goddam police. I wish I hadn’t frozen in place, afraid to move, afraid to make any noise, draw any notice to my presence and wakefulness in my own apartment.

Since that night, I sleep with a barricade against my bedroom door, with both deadbolts locked on the apartment door. I keep a rolled-up sheet at the apartment door so he won’t see the shadow of my feet if I peer through the spyhole. I carry my phone everywhere, even the bathroom, so that I can call for help if he shows up. Right now, sitting in my room at my computer, my door open because it’s daytime dammit, in my own home dammit, I hear slight noises over the music and pull my earphones off, glance over my shoulder at my open bedroom door. I will go now and check the spyhole, then I will move the laptop to the dining area, where I can easily see if the locks turn.

Later today, my friend is coming over to sit a quiet witness when I call the caretaker to fix my stove. I will also give him an opportunity to fix the impending disaster he is making for himself. I will have to tell him that his behaviour (whether he remembers it or not) is inappropriate and unacceptable; that I will not allow it to continue. I may have to tell him that if it happens again I will report him to the management company and also to the police; that I have kept the evidence of the text, repeated calls, and voicemails and have it stowed safely online where others also have access to it. I will record our entire conversation.

I do not want to do any of this. I want him to be the safe, helpful, friendly man he was in between the times of his unsafe, disturbing behaviour. I want the world to be a place where I can tell the management company and they will send him for counselling and offer me support instead of either blaming me or instantly firing him. I don’t want worry about his wife and son burdening me because of his bad choices. But his bad choices leave me without a choice. I cannot pretend it didn’t happen and I have to tell him the rules.

I have to tell him, but after that, what do I do? Whether he takes it well or badly, whatever he says or does in the moment, how will I know what he’ll do the next time he’s drunk?

How will I ever know?

UPDATE MAY 2017:

He didn’t like it. It took months before he treated me civilly. Since then, he’s very slow to respond to requests to fix things. The various tradespeople who work on the building tell me that he is forever blaming them but that he doesn’t bother to call right away. He also can’t be bothered to tell me when they are going to show up. Was it worth it, telling him about the rules? I don’t know.