Circling the Block

I got stuck while trying to write this week. For days I circled the draft, unsure of what to say or how to move forward.

It wasn’t writer’s block so much as an overwhelm. I had too many ideas and no clear thread to hold onto. My word doc was a shattered mess of small fragments that, if given time, might turn into something more. For now, they’re full of sharp edges and random patterns.

A bunch of false starts.

The longer I stared, the more I recognized the feeling.

For years, spring weather has promised an end to pandemic life. And yet, I’ve never felt a full return to normalcy. Warmer weather has been riddled with paranoia, social anxiety, and looming lockdowns. There’s always a final winter storm to ruin the momentum.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the full promise of spring.

How I want spring to feel

To find this week’s essay, I decided to go outside for inspiration.

In winter, my walks are spent staring down and bracing myself through the cold. Yesterday, however, was a balmy ten degrees. I kept my head high as I walked through the city. At every step, there was something new to catch my eye.

Along the sides of storefronts, I saw a series of graffiti. 5:00 am, the first one read. Kat, where are you? Who is he?

A few paces down: 5:41 am - Kat, why do you torture me?

My heart ached for this hurting man running through the streets in distress, manically defacing his neighbourhood.

On the next building: 5:50 am - I’m coming home to pimp you out.

And my empathy shifted. I wondered if Kat was okay. Does she walk by these notes, too? Does she even know they’re here?

I was so distracted by the narrative that I almost stepped on an empty cookie dough wrapper. A mystery all its own.

I passed a family giving bags of food to people on the street. A man rocking back and forth on the curb took one. “Thank you”, he said. It sounded like a normal, polite interaction until I remembered the circumstances.

On the other side of the street, a decrepit building loomed like the set of a zombie film. Two young girls stood outside taking photos of their mini skirts. A different kind of dystopian.

Three blocks away, a yellow police line sectioned off the stairs to a church. A man stood on the outside. To cross or not to cross.

Between Broadview and Yonge, I was mesmerized by these swirling vignettes. It started raining right as the town hall clock chimed five, and I felt an urgency to get everything down. I jogged to the nearest Starbucks, revelling in the romance of being a slightly damp writer with a head full of ideas.

Here, I thought, is where I will thread these starts together. This is where I decide on an ending.

But they didn’t have the tea I wanted. Flustered, I couldn’t think of another order fast enough, and I saw myself out. I ducked into the Eaton Centre and cowered in a corner while jotting what I could on my phone.

Around me was a cacophony of stimulation. Shoes decorated like pastries and pastries the size of shoes. Herds of people sharing opinions. Various dialects shooting passed me in rapid succession.

It was an endless spree of inspiration and overwhelm.

Me romanticizing the rain

As I typed, I realized that everything is tinged. My burst of inspiration is coated in layers of grime and sadness. It’s all muddy.

Behind closed doors, we’ve grown and coped in various ways. Now, we’re defrosting from a long, long hibernation, and the feeling is… off. There have been surges of violence that keep the city on edge. New businesses have replaced the old ones we loved. More un-homed people sprawl across parks.

Everyone and everything has changed.

But Toronto is full of spring energy. The world is no longer paused and momentum is palpable.

There was a time when I wasn’t sure if we would ever hit “play” again. Mark and I listened to the same music, maintained the same routine, and stayed in the same 500 square feet for three years straight. It was an endless loop.

I remember in the early days of COVID being infatuated with Hamilton. We were cooped up, struggling to cope, and blaring “Wait for It” on our Alexa every hour. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s earworms encircled and trapped us for a moment in time.

A couple of weeks ago, we saw the musical on stage. It felt like finally skipping ahead to the next track. An emotional exhale.

Now I can barely keep up with our new pace. We’re forging ahead at a clip I’m no longer accustomed to, and it’s exhilarating.

As I moved out of the mall, I took stock of all the imminent changes. We leave our pandemic home later this month. The company I started dancing with over zoom is hosting its next show at the Opera house in June. The end of my twenties is looming.

The plot is moving forward.

Vibin’ to the Hamilton soundtrack at the gym

Suddenly, I found myself in Chinatown. My thoughts transported me to the other side of the tower as I kept moving west. The rain had stopped, and around me was a city enjoying a sunny afternoon.

I was about an hour too early for my dinner with the girls - ones I’ve known since university and who are now running departments, buying homes, and getting married. Women who have grown in their hidden corners and have quietly emerged as blooming flowers.

I took a moment to sit in a small cafe and write down every little thought, vignette, and false start. In sifting through, I preened through the sharp edges and dug-up loose fragments. An essay garden, if you will.

For the first time in years, I am excited to spend spring in the city. I’m looking forward to the unchartered, territory where it’s not always easy to find a connecting thread. Sometimes you have to circle the block to find the path forward, but, finally, it feels like there is somewhere to go.

There is momentum.