Monday, 2 September 2013

Looking back


My last lesson finished at my sweet school in suburbia, just north of London.
Year 7 students hang off of any limb of mine they can get a grasp of. Imagine that classic cartoon of a baby sitter taking care of too many hyper children. That’s what I looked like.

“Miss Lame!”, “Miss Lame, I love you!”, “DON’T GOOOOO Miss Lame!!!” My little rays of sunshine call anxiously for my attention. Some spill with tears. Some hold gifts and homemade cards up to my face.

“The super group”, they were called around the school and especially within the Learning Support Centre. This “super group” started their first year of secondary school, year 7, with me, Miss Lame. This name was given to my class for the reason that they all required special adaptations to their learning needs. These needs ranged from motor difficulties, which impacted their writing speed and clarity, to learning disabilities affecting speed of apprehension and/or written communication, organization. The majority of my lovelies also fell under the ADHD umbrella.  Furthermore, many of these students also typically had more hectic home lives. This lack of structure at home helped to perpetuate their anxiety centres of the brain and further affect behaviour and memory function. 

(Check out "Beyond logic, consequence and control: A love-based approach to helping children with severe behaviours” to read about the effects of anxiety/trauma on youths’  behaviours)

Daily, at least one of my year 7 darlings would announce: “Misssss, I forgot to take my tabletssss!

I struggled for ages to teach this energetic, deeply loving, highly needy group of students. Getting them settled for science lesson (usually after they consumed ridiculous amounts of processed sugars over lunch) was a drawwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn……wwwwwnnnnnnnnnnn… out ordeal. In fact, sometimes… many times… settling down WAS the whole lesson. 

In the beginning of the school year most of my year 7 students couldn't write a full sentence on a line in their exercise books.  The tricky part… A select few could.

This was yet another challenge. Challenging all individuals.

Before I could effectively work out differentiation and challenging all students in a way that suited their unique needs, I had to first figure out how to even calm them within an hours’ lesson.
Spring came around and in the last 3 months of my teaching contract something changed. I think a few things changed, in me, in them.

Suddenly things worked. Our way.

A few things happened:

My rays of sunshine finally started to calm in their new, secondary school learning environment. Simple things such as the new building and classroom design became familiar. The routines, the style of learning, the new expectations had been absorbed and understood. For the most part… 

Secondly, I realized how to teach them. I remember the moment I made this connect. I was quite pleased, in fact, very excited, to discover that the best approach was to be FULL ON MISS LAME. I could embrace my inner child 100%.  The avenue of learning was play.  We frolicked in the field behind my classroom, counting dandilions in quadrats, playing games like “red squirrel versus grey squirrel” to learn about the impact of non-native species on competition for food and space. They loved doing the “Earth dance”, spinning in circles to demonstrate 1 day, 2 days, 18 days… Bending energetically side-to-side to represent Earth’s tilt away from and towards a lamp (the Sun) during winter and summer. On good days, or just when I could tell my students and myself needed it, we would finish up lesson with a dance party. The most hyper active of the bunch would exit my classroom soaked with sweat, red in the face.  I didn’t make them write as much. We just played with purpose.

The best part. They remembered everything.

I reflect, from Canada, over my summer holidays on my success with this beautiful group of children. They were so loving. They learned from me, and I, from them.

I, Miss Lame, can happily say I am becoming the teacher I've always dreamed of being. It is happening quickly. I am proud.

The most meaningful gift from a year 10 student:

Saturday, 3 August 2013


The dance floor.         

Perhaps not technically a dance floor. Miss Lame’s dance floor.
I.e.  The kitchen, my classroom, on the “pavement” (side-walk), in the streets, on and under tables…
Perhaps a list of places I would NOT dance would make this easier…  On a cliff edge where I might fall to my death? In a game of graveyard, when the “gravekeeper” is looking at me?  

In this particular dancy moment my dance floor was a corner in a moderately busy bar in North-East London. A space large enough to flail and dance without knocking or bothering the crowd of non-dancing, drinking and chatting young professionals and hipsters. In mid-spin, I catch myself in a state of complete and utter elation. It’s a surprise saliva isn’t seeping from the corners of my mouth with my face frozen as it was. Mouth wide open- a gigantic water melon smile.

My body moves, with the music, with its own way. Sensations of that instant are absorbed fully, yet not consciously articulated. In this pure moment, the external sound, the light and surrounding bodies meld and coexist with my internal- my heart beat, my sensory-motor impulses. Movements originate from my twisting, popping core and transfer to my windmill arms and legs zigzagging and wobbling in time.

Watermelon smile.

Ironically, as I realise this high point, this pure state of mind, I am brought back to a conscious place in which I am able to reflect on my actions, surrounds, past and present. I gleefully accept that a few seconds ago I was 100% absorbed in that particular period in time.
Coming to this conscious place, reflecting, my hippocampus starts dancing and I am suddenly launched into my past.

A cherished memory emerges.
My watermelon smile broadens into a genetically modified, super melon.

Dance. Miss Lame’s favourite form of movement. Since I can remember.

I remember:
The dress. Off-white, t-shirt length sleeves, a sort of linen type material. The skirt was crinkled and pleated long-ways past my knees and down to my mid-calf. The top part had the same off-white material with sewed on floral pattern. This dress. For a very special occasion. My first wedding. I was 7.

My hopes. I envisioned an expansive, classic dance floor. I had my ideas about what a wedding should look like and my expectations of the dance floor were high. Walt Disney is to blame. I imagined, other kids my age who would dance with me too. Even at age 7, I imagine a sweet boy asking me to dance.

My Grandpa Bob was getting married.

When grandparents get married, the dance floor is less expansive, and the crowd less mobile and youthful.

The reception was hosted at my Grandfather’s favourite watering hole in North Bay Ontario, The Legion. I remember, a larger room, dimmer lighting, in the lower level of a building. What one might imagine a Northern Ontario legion to look like… The wedding participant composition- Not children. With the exception of my siblings and I and our cousin Nick. No seven year old hotties to share in a dance with. I was NOT going to find romance at this wedding, however, there was a dance floor and I found it. Quickly. It was the space beside the tables and bar. Parquet floor. A good size- This pleased me. My 7 year old imagination built in the bits of romance that lacked about the space. I quickly got over my expectations. Dance became the sole priority.

My first memory of all-out Miss Lame dance and appreciation:

A hazy recollection my Aunt Vicci in her gold accented outfit. She loves gold. Some elderly participants cutting up the dance floor around me and my siblings, while we wriggled with all our might.

The cherished memory.

I remember my Dad jumping out of his chair that bordered the parquet dance floor. I remember facing him. I remember watching intently as his feet shift across the floor in a zig-zag pattern, as his whole body progressively drops, lower and lower with each zag.


Mini-miss Lame is blown away.  I remember absolute inspiration.

A dance with my Dad. This memory has stuck with me through life. In hibernation until this moment in the bar corner in North-East London.  

As I danced with no restraint, as an “adult”, I reflect on this memory, I recognize the underlying foundation of my dance style. THE TWIST. 
So many zig-zags- Some simple, the basic TWIST. Some with fancy lame modifications.

This shared moment with my Dad informed my future dancing style, yes, but it is more than that. This cherished memory embodies my Dad’s unconditional love and spirit. 
The form through which he displayed this. Through movement.

He was there.

I remember the booming Bruce voice that strained and hollered in shear excitement (where I suspect my volume control issues stem from) during times of intensity on the soccer field and as I dug my edges into the snow and swooshed under that gate, racing for the finish. The authentic, lame-with-no-shame leap for joy when goals were scored or I bombed through the finish line, the best time beat.

He was there.

Movement. Understanding my capacity. My power and influence. The dedication to others- the team, and most importantly, to self.
Understanding my capacity to advance and evolve- physical, intellectual, social and emotional.

On the parquet dance floor in the legion in North Bay Ontario, this moment of shared movement, I remember I can see and feel that he is my Dad and he loves me. No shame, his whole heart. We move together. Mini Miss Lame and big Bruce Lame.

This moment told me this and this is why it has stayed with me.

What cherished memories has stuck with you? Why? What moves you?

Monday, 1 July 2013

Miss Lame springtime travels

This moment in time, at this new place full of new stimulus, new perspectives, a new vibe, that is impossible to summarise to perfect clarity with words.  The same place will look differently in a different year, a different season, yesterday, through a different lens.  The bitter-sweet realisation, that you will never be able to see everything, in every form, in a life time. In a thousand life times. This is also what is so magical about travel. Your experience.
Your precious moment in time.
It has informed who you are and how you see the world. More enriched. Even when things don’t happened ideally, learning is the result. We are still… More enriched.
Your moment. Your opportunity. Your growth.
My body bumps and bobbles side to side as my volcano tour guide drives the off-roading jeep along the young, barely evident roads that carry us, adjacent to Eyjafjallajӧkull- The volcanic range that erupted 2010.  Newly laid igneous rock, newly laid tracks- It is illegal to start a new path in Iceland. Police must be the first to imprint the land.

The severely grooved tire tread picks up young ash and occasionally wields glacier water that trickles in small rivers intersecting our path, streaming from Eyjafjallajӧkull to our right. 

My charismatic guide is telling myself and the two other travellers, about Icelandic delicacies; “lamb scrotum jelly” and the fermented shark that “smells like pee”. He too, does not quite understand WHY.
It’s taken with a shot of this harsh liqueur”.
We agree it’s not about the pleasure of food, rather an opportunity to prove “toughness”, or rather a lack of tastebuds...
We park. Eyjafjallajӧkull provides me with a sample of ash for my students. I am very excited about the small container full of deep, black material, jam-packed with minerals. Just a few years ago, molten and deep in the Earth.
EEEEEEEEEieieeeeeeeeghhheeeee!!!! (Excitement)
Lava is probably one of the coolest things in the world to Miss Lame.
Standing proudly with my small container of ash, crystal blue sky day, peering up at the massive overhanging glacier at the location where the volcano spewed externally in 2010 (most of the eruption occurred under the glacier atop the range).  The Sun is sat right at the crest of this stout, but long volcanic range.  It makes the snow and ice glimmer, and the blackness of the young ash abrupt and contrasted.

I feel this extreme, elated feeling. My heart is exploding with happiness and excitement. The natural wonders that surround me. My brain, buzzing and tangential with science-dork thoughts.  I wonder, “Can one have a heart attack from extreme happiness?
On the tour, I am also introduced to Hekla. A hyperactive volcano, she erupts frequently, sort of like Miss Lame… Typically, Hekla vocalises every 10 years or so. It has been 12 years, so I crossed my fingers in hopes that Hekla would be hyper with me. My guide informs me that these moments of hyperactivity are not particularly dangerous, not like in the movies, with fireballs and unbeatable rivers of lava.  I am told that an old lady with a walker could out run the oozing lava that makes its way out of Hekla. Hekla does, however, start throwing around pummus, which if struck by, would hurt. Pummus is often used for scrubbing callouses on feet. Hekla, 100 metres in front of me, I bend down and grabbed another sample. For my students… and the callouses on my feet…
On this unique and inspiring tour, I am also shown the youngest island in the world, in the distance, barely visible in the picture below.

The island was built up from years of continuous eruptions in the ocean, which surfaced and quelled in the past 5 years or so. Under study, only scientists are allowed to place foot on this small, infantile landmass. Nothing may be left or taken there- Poop bags are a must. The birds that fly over-head, however, are not bound by these strict regulations, and so they leave their mark.  The scientists have begun to observe minute signs of first-ever life/growth on the youngest island on Earth and it is mostly owed to the birds generous gifts of poop
Poop = organic matter = life. How beautiful.
This day long adventure was my moment in Iceland.  At this time in natural history, when this small landmass is the youngest in the world, Hekla was chilled out, and only two years ago, Eyjafjallajӧkull beltched igneous rock with ample minerals and transformed the surrounding Icelandic landscape.
How fortunate I am.

  • ·       Spanish, or I should say, Catalunya life.

Merci!” I say as the server approaches me.  
He beams, “ohh, do you speak Catalan?!
Thanks to my Catalan ex-flatmate and dear friend, Clara, I arrived in Barcelona, well equipped with the “proper” greeting for the Catalonian region of Spain.
Not with the French accent”, Clara had highlighted.
Great first impressions in Barcelona for Miss Lame!
Thanks Clara!
Throughout my time in Barcelona, day after day, a picture of Catalan identity was painted with distinct lines, in colours and words.
An apparent, overriding wish, to be a place separate from Spain. I am reminded of the dynamic between Quebec and the rest of Canada.
I see evidence in the form of blue and white stripes hanging proudly from windows.
A student survey conveys the widespread feelings of Catalan people. Parc Guell. With a fellow Canadian and friend, John, who had joined me for Barcelona adventures.  Gaudi curves and colours encompass us in the form of the world’s longest bench. Resemblance of a slithering dragon’s curvaceous spine. 

We are part of a tourist mass atop this outlook spot. Two local youth, likely around eleven year old, clipboard in hands, approach us.

A class project. Survey the tourists.  
They gently request to “ask us a few questions”, pointing at their clipboard to fill in the communication gaps. John and I curiously and happily accept.
The interviewers first look for simple, one word answers. This is easiest for both parties.  

Where are you from?

What is your favourite sport?

Do you like Barcelona?


Our interviewers are quite satisfied with our responses and record them confidently.
We are then confronted with their final question “What do you think about Catalonia independence?
John and I look at each other. Puzzled. Stumped. On unsettled territory upon which we have little ground to stand on.
Could we possibly find any ONE word that may suffice?!
We err on the safe side and decide on a simple response that will appease our over-ambitious interviewers. We have learned after 4 days in Barcelona what they would like to hear.
It’s good” we say with an apprehension, a sort of question in an answer. We are aware of the over-simplicity of our response, and our under awareness of the historical, political situation. We give them a visual “thumbs up” to evade the communication barrier. John and I look at each other, both knowing that pages upon pages of words could be used to respond sufficiently to their inquiry. Research required.
  • ·       Rosemary, thyme and climb.

John and I set out to climb Montserrat, up to the famous Monastery atop the geological breadknife. Monserrat is named after the “serrated” profile it imprints against the sky.  

We begin our climb and initially our bodies oxygen demand supersedes our oxygen supply. My forward lurching posture gives me a great view of the rock upon which I am cascading.  I observe a lot of sedimentary rock and Neil Shubin’s words come to mind. Sedimentary rock equals discovering fossils (Your Inner Fish). This is because the processes in building of sedimentary rocks involve the layering and compacting of bits of sediment (eroded pieces of rock), which would preserve little dead organisms. A big earth hug!  Meanwhile, while igneous and metamorphic rock is built in extreme heat conditions. Dead organism melt down! Breathing heavily, I excitedly and actively scan the rocks, hopeful that I might spot a simple little fossil. Rosemary shrubs graze my calves and thyme seep out of rock crevasses. I touch them, I smell them. I sweat and my breathing fluctuates with the mountain grade. My glutes contract and pull me up and forward. All my senses are active and I am aware of them all. I  am officially living in that moment and time. I am overwhelmed and again, my heart explodes with sheer happiness.
Rosemary galore
Over half way up. The view.
Moments from the monastery

My moment in Spain.

 NOTE: Any words that are boldeditalicizedunderlined and in red are suggested/preferred words by Mom. She doesn’t like me saying words like fuckshitass (etc) on the internet… I feel these words better illustrate my feelings at times, so just imagine them in there if you will.

Sunday, 19 May 2013


One might have thought my next blog post would focus on Iceland. I was there April 25-28. It was a truly amazing place. In fact, in the next year my plan is to go back with more time now that I know what adventures are to be had while there.

So so sooooo many beautiful things I reflected on in my note book as I traveled around and explored the natural wonders of Iceland. 

A science-dork’s dream-come-true trip. I was so stimulated and excited constantly… by … geology.

The problem, however, is Miss Lame's need to type out her messages. If I had just written my thoughts and experiences in my computer as they happened I would have flowed with intense expression. I would have produced a quality string of words, worthy of a blog post. Words that would do justice to Iceland.

I was so moved and I felt so strong there.

A few weeks since this stunning experience, I look down at the jagged words, intermingle with intense scribbles. “Use one line to cross out incorrect work!” A recurring instruction Miss Lame never seemed to absorb. A six year old’s writing?

The task seems daunting. The time and attention required to decipher my poopy handwriting, to get my mind back to the powerful feelings I had as I was confronted with such beautiful natural phenomena and gorgeous people, it all seemed like too much whilst in the midst of a marking frenzie. I must do Iceland justice and now is not the time.

More present in my mind is the thought of some of the most important people in my life. My family. Last week a very important day tried to pass me by but something jumped out at me. A picture.

Strong feelings flowed from prefrontal cortex to finger tips. I smash out my message, sat in a bustling café.  I cry, I smile, I drink coffee.

Who is the most influential person in your life?

After sharing my example, I ask my students to reflect and write. To tell me about their influential person.

Missed Mother’s day in Canada. Missed the thought, being so wrapped up in my hectic teaching world. My oldest friend, M, posts a picture of her Mother as a young woman. Facebook. My connect with my distant people. 

Post-secondary education done, my folks and her folks move from Ottawa to London Ontario together, to start their lives with careers, homes and children. God parents to my sister. A dear family to the Lame family.

M and I went to different primary schools and so during those years we spent less time together. We were less close. It was when we stepped into secondary school world, that we reunited and our friendship, plus two others, thrived.

“Crazy square of odd chicks”, we liked to call ourselves. I remember, no cares, just the self-centred teen thoughts of “nobody could be more silly and life-loving than us”. We fluttered about our secondary school halls, dancing when we felt like it, making up shocking rap songs, spearheading Equity Committee celebrations- “We hate people, who hate people”- The slogan we came up with. This suggestion as reluctantly, with a smirk, turned down by the Equity Committee supporting teacher due to negative connotation... 

WE HAD FUN. WE LOVED. WE LAUGHED. WE ATE TONS OF FOOD. AND CAME UP WITH RIDICULOUS PLANS ANS IDEAS… SO HAPPY. And, as I’ve come to notice, as an observer of teens every day, we were very fortunate.  I fondly reflect and can confidently conclude that this fortunate teenage experience of unconditional love and laughter was an important part in Miss Lame’s development. My lame-with-no-shame approach to life was completely accepted and celebrated with this circle or rather, square, of friends. It enabled my lameness to flourish. At a time where acceptance is paramount to the psyche, I had it, in the best possible way.  Not many teens can say they had this opportunity.
Crazy square of odd chicks

Going into grade 10, 16 years old or so, second last year of high school.  The “crazy square of odd chicks”, plus another important addition, beautiful "Nic-cool", were so strong. Becoming young women and nothing, absolutely nothing could be better. I remember this significant high-point- The sheer happiness and silliness, coupled with our thriving emotional maturity. It felt perfect.

A devastating quake. M’s Mom passed. Suddenly.

Her Mom.

Sitting in the back seat of my car pool into work on Monday this past week. The picture, on facebook, before my eyes. Alison, so beautiful and lively. I am overwhelmed with emotion.
The picture. The thoughts of these beautiful times. The thought of the loss. The pain I saw in M. The pain in me. The pain of losing the strong group of four. Losing connect with M.

Everything shifts. We learned. A very difficult lesson. Loss. And it’s lack of discernment and compassion.
The picture highlights for me flaw in the notion that time that heals. Not really. Sadness and the loss never goes. The experience never erases. Alison never returns. Sure, time may make it hurt less constantly, enables M to speak more comfortably and openly about her Mom, display beautiful pictures of her, in celebration of her. But it still hurts deeply.

I still cry and hurt. For M. For the loss. For Alison’s loss of life.

Mother’s day can mean such different things to different individuals. The picture highlighted this too.

This picture. The thought of M’s Mom. Always, as it would for any, translates to thoughts of my own Mother. The loss, so close. Real.  I am forever haunted by this terrifying thought since the devastating quake- It can happen.

The picture. Moves me. Makes me reflect on the most influential person in my life.


So many valuable things, she's taught me. She showed me love and acceptance. She taught me empathy. She taught me to find and celebrate the beauty in people. To hear. To feel. For other and self. To feel and love with my whole heart.

She gave me so much love and room to grow that I can love with my whole heart.   

My Mom- Sally Lame- Who she has been to me. And who she allows me to be. 


The picture. Missing Mother’s day. I felt a sadness. I wanted to celebrate the most influential person in my life. I didn’t know how to from across the pond.

I decide to share her with my students. My sweet children. This is how I celebrate and appreciate my mother. I think of her and inspire my students to reflect. At least I hope I do.

Little Sally Lame in the middle!

Their reflections back tell me that they are inspired. They indicate to me that Mother's day would mean vastly different things to different students. Some, like me, discuss their family too, but my students' person of influence varied greatly. Connection and unconditional love is at the core of each story. I am moved and feel I’ve connected with my Mother, living thousands of kilometres away. 

I miss you Mom. I am so so so lucky to have you and I don’t know how to tell you just how much.

This story, I hope. For me, for you and for the world to know.

Sally Lame is my Mother and she is amazing. 

Wednesday, 10 April 2013


Moments for me: 1

The last two weeks of teaching before Easter holidays were, as the kids call it, “bare long”. Bare long and anxious.  Too much work, not enough Miss Lame time, or sleep. Also, my day-to-day had been uprooted by an unfortunate experience a few weeks before. Suddenly very disordered and inefficient, Miss Lame had to begin to navigate her teaching world she’s become accustom to for a year now, in a new way.  In those last two weeks, Miss Lame even started to feel detachment from her beautiful students, as her stress levels rose. The joy and heart of my teaching world was deteriorating too.

The last day of school. I stopped.  I decided, only relaxed, quality time with my students. A moment for me and for them- To end on a positive note.

Step to the line if you’ve tried Canadian maple syrup

… A community building activity, the statements start simple and fun, such as the example above, and progressively delved into more reflective and challenging requests- a focus on social awareness and bullying.  Students were invited to step to the masking tape line down the centre of the classroom if the statement applied to them, but they were not required- Their comfort was paramount. Students reflected and related together, as a unit. They saw that their experiences were not unlike their peers.

Step to the line if you’ve ever felt bullied”- nearly 100% of students hesitantly stepped forward.


The final request “Step to the line if you could use a dose of dancing right about now!

Tension broken, my students laughed and leapt on to the line.

Music on, Miss Lame carefully chose the new fad song- “Harlem Shake”. “Gangnam Style” is out.

WALL FLOWERS!!!!! Arms crossed, grinning, my students stood around the perimeter of dance floor we had created in the centre of my classroom. Softly chatting with their neighbouring friends, grinning shyly as I passed them by dancing and trying to engage them with my “chicken dance”.  The wallflowers were rooted and immovable. Then, unexpectedly, “C”, approaches me: “Miss Lame, would it be ok if I danced with you for this song?

MISS LAME IS INSTANTLY OVERCOME WITH EXTREME JOY: “YESSSS!!!” I give “C” an scarily enthusiastic double high five. 

We begin jumping and flailing energetically, whilst the wallflowers grin and stay rooted. 

About “C”:
I’ve not met a more impressive individual of the age of 13- so kind-hearted, driven and brave. “C” has recently been diagnosed with Crohn’s disease.  His diet for the previous 3 weeks had consisted of merely water and a high calorie, “vial” (as he puts it) shake, which he must carry on with for a month’s time. The treatment for his new diagnosis. "C" accepts this and carries on in his beautiful way.  “C” is also autistic and has the most wonderful things to share in the classroom. He is an absolute sponge for knowledge. Very sensitive to others, he apologises constantly:

C: “I’m sorry I’m late Miss Lame…” …“It’s ok “C”, don’t be sorry! I’m glad you’re here!”… C: “I’m sorry…” deeply sincere, “C” settles into his seat.

… Back to the dance party…
“C” and I dance our gosh darn hearts out for the entirety of “Harlem Shake” and at the end “C” approaches me again, “Ok, Miss Lame, I am tired now and need to rest. My condition makes me really, very tired… I am sorry.

“C”! You’ve just made my week.

In fact, this moment of joyous dance with “C” was the source of full-on smiles and random instances of laughter for Miss Lame for several days to follow.

Moments for me: 2

On holidays.

The first half week of my holidays was a whirl-wind of fun, friends, being out, eating out. This was lovely, but I quickly realised my internal tornado of anxiety built up from the last few weeks of teaching, had not yet quelled.

I needed to JUST STOP.

I did just that, for an ENTIRE DAY. A downright awesome, day-long “moment” for me.

Thursday April 3, 2013- To be marked as a day of dedication entirely to my lame self. A momentous occasion for Miss Lame.
1.       Sweat- A free trial of a “boot camp pilates” class with my dear friend Bea. We struggled and felt awkward together- giggling and making faces as we butchered the movements, while the stealth, serious pilates instructor and regulars swung their limbs around with pristine coordination. We were likely very annoying.
2.       Consume- mouth-watering parma ham, roasted tomato and mozzarella sandwich. Cappuccino. Omm nom nom!
3.       Sweat- Ironmonger Row Baths, owned by Spa London- Steam rooms, dry saunas, cold pools, hot ginger and peppermint teas, quite rooms for reading and sleeping.
4.       Get touched- Back massage treatment.
5.       Sweat- 30 more minutes of steam, heat, sweat. A nap in the quite room.
6.       Consume + movement- Glowing with warmth, Bea and I mowed down on whole red peppers and carrots coated in hummus as we dozily walked down the street… Heading for Swedish bakery- Cardamom bun. Cappuccino. Ommmmmmmm nom nom!
7.       Movement-  Carry on walking to my home with Bea. Feeling light and like a baby coming-to after a long nap.
8.       Consume- Dinner. Fresh salad with warm beetroot. Happy tummy, happy soul… Ommmm nom nom... AGAIN!
9.       Rest and digest- film with Bea
… making room in order to…
10.   Consume- White Rabbit for a freshly made salted caramel filled donut with ganache on the side and some hazelnut crumbly yum-yum.

… A lot of consuming.

A powerful realisation came to me, between consuming dinner and consuming donut.

The moment:
During the film, I turn to Bea, “Maybe before heading to get our donut we could pop into the Sainsbury’s to grab some hand soap for my bathroom… I’m all out”.  

My words hung in the air. 

Bea looks at me, semi-bewildered, likely holding back full-on bewildered feelings inside… And gently suggests popping into a corner shop if I need to grab some hand soap… “Do you need it today?”…

I come-to. I realise what I’ve just done.

Miss Lame's growing, subconscious need to accomplish something "purposeful" in her day, to be efficient, had slipped out and into the open living room space. Exposed. 

Maybe I should sharpen the knives, count coffee beans and organise the “stuff drawer” in my kitchen while I’m at it.

Gosh darn hand soap?!?!?!?! Unless that hunk of soap was to create a hot bubble bath or being rubbed all over my body by a beautiful man, the soap was NOT part of my purely pleasurable, pampered and gluttonous day!

I revoked my words and ate them whole: “Film then donuts straight after. Om nom nom!!!!

Thank you Bea for helping me through this moment of clarity.

This seemingly minute slippery subconscious moment about hand soap, ultimately brought Miss Lame to the realisation that it has literally been YEARS- since she was a dependent, gallivanting, self-centered child, post 18- that she last made it through an ENTIRE day solely for her, with no “purposeful” task. 
A run to the grocery store, email to send, work, school or social thing to take on and coordinate, the possibilities for “purposeful” daily endeavours are endless for Miss Lame, and for years now, since I can remember, I've managed to make this possibilities a reality.

A NEW LEAF OF SELF LOVIN’ HAS OFFICIALLY BEEN TURNED.  There WILL be more days of pure pampering, pleasure and gluttony for Miss Lame. A band on "purposeful" endeavours. 


Brain Movement.

I’ve struggled quite a bit over the past 3 or so months, to have some sort of brain movement. I was seriously afflicted with a case of brain constipation. A kajumble of ideas, half passed. I was in an inconclusive state about my pending future. Fearful to make a decision about what direction to take my life, come the end of June, when my current working visa runs out.

Brain constipation = no writing inspiration.  

Miss Lame likes to write stories where she realises her direction, knows her emotions. It makes for a more meaningful and fluid writing experience.  Better constructed and deliberate, I imagine readers would connect with my words better and enjoy reading more. Much like in teaching, a successful lesson or message stems from having this big picture to work from. If you know where you want your lesson to end up, you share the message and content in a much more engaging way.

Bloated, stuck brain is uncomfortable.  Regular BMs feel great.

Recently, a particularly uprooting experience jerked my comfortable teaching world off-kilter (mentioned in the beginning of this entry).  This resulted in a major, successful BM. Finally.  Emotions rampaged out of my brain, down my motor neurons, into my hands and are converted to digital information in my computer. "Save".  

This writing purge contains sensitive subject matter and so, I've held off posting it. A part of my adventure in becoming Miss Lame, I've felt strong about the message and have struggled to move on to new topics since. 

Symptoms of brain constipation returning. 

Miss Lame's writing and life approach surrounds this idea of utter honesty. I feel a responsibility to myself and my readers to stay true to this approach.I want to paint a full picture. Be frank about experiences. I know I am not alone and I don't want to be afraid to say it. I love relating to others through honesty. 

Saying nothing does not promote change and growth.

My solution (laxative, so to speak): Friends of facebook please do not hesitate to request this BM by messaging me your email address. I will gladly send it along.

 NOTE: Any words that are boldeditalicizedunderlined and in red are suggested/preferred words by Mom. She doesn’t like me saying words like fuckshitass (etc) on the internet… I feel these words better illustrate my feelings at times, so just imagine them in there if you will.

Saturday, 16 February 2013

LOUD. choices.

Sorry for the delay lovelies... I wrote this segment a while ago and should have posted. BUSY BEE.  More current post is in the works. :) 


I am so sorry to interrupt”... The flight attendant, gentle, smiling, apologetic places her hand on the side of my seat near my shoulder.
You have such a beautiful voice, just beautiful!...”
I know what she is going to say and laugh as I reflect on the excited conversation I was just having with the young fellow I was sat next to- My volume building and filling the cabin as I buzz with joyous agitation. My lifelong struggles with volume control. "Loudest Girl Award" at high school prom- the moment I realized my extraordinary loudness... I am minutes from embracing my beloved parents after 9 months. The happiest of holidays.
The flight attendant: “It really is such a beautiful voice, but it just seems to be carrying and I can hear you down the other end of the plane... But just a lovely voice...” She kindly pads her message- “shut the heck up”- with positive. She is genuine.

I know. I am in Canada now.
I do not receive the Silly-pants American” tone I have become accustom to in the UK, rather, a compliment sandwich, sweetly requesting I moderate my “beautiful” volume.


I leapt across the pond for the holidays.  I sat at the kitchen island. Writing. Trying to write. The kitchen island has been the main hub of the Lame house over the years- The place of weeknight family dinners and elaborate mind map creating during university time. It has been the centre of social gatherings since the days of bad-bum high school parties to present day “adult” shindigs...
I feel I need to clarify.
-Adult as in, we are considered adult in age, not that I'm hosting elaborate swingers parties..

-And quotation marks- “...”- to highlight the pause I experience as I contemplate the level of maturity with which my friends and I carry ourselves during these momentous occasions. 
"King's cup", a routine game and social lubricant at Lame house parties- the very serious rule that all participants must crescendo and touch Jay's nipple before taking a drink. 

“Immature is the word boring people use to describe fun people”
(Some Facebooker post. 2012. Facebook)  
As I spent time at the infamous Lame house island over the holidays- eating, drinking, engaging with family and dear old friends, and particularly as I sat on my own reflecting and writing- I was overcome with bitter-sweet feelings.
The history and old roots collided with Miss Lame's current and prospering world. New, self-grown roots.

I was suddenly slapped sharply with the reality of my near future.  Two year visa. 1.5 years experienced. I was not sure where I will be headed come July. 

Discomfort in uncertainty. New, big choices to be made.

No matter what you choose or where you go you are always going to be missing out on something and friends somewhere else.
(A fellow traveler- Miss Anne, my Mom and other folks I'm sure...2012. Conversation.)

Had I made different choices, I could be chillin' with my (hypothetical) friend, Vera, in the city of Moscow or playing a fierce game of life-size chess in a park somewhere. Hand-stands on a beach in Australia? Seeing old friends and family more.

Homebody or world explorer- there are beautiful people and potential moments-good and bad- just waiting to be experienced or passed by.  

Next choice, next route. Constant opportunities for growth.

Reflect to gain.

Miss Lame in London England 1.5 years- teaching, growing and making new connections. My current place, a result of a compilation of many small, daily decisions (To begin a chat with a stranger..."falafel or chicken shish?!"... jk.) and big over-arching decisions such as the one I made in grade 11- "I want to be a teacher." And about 2 years ago- "I will go teach in London England."

I love my choices to date and who they have made me. Or rather, what I have made of them.

A bit of both. 

Trust yourself to make the right decision
(Doodle, Niccer. 2012. Wise words.)

 NOTE: Any words that are bolded, italicized, underlined and in red are suggested/preferred words by Mom. She doesn’t like me saying words like fuck, shit, ass (etc) on the internet… I feel these words better illustrate my feelings at times, so just imagine them in there if you will.