Yesterday, even after feeling so joy-full all week, I wound up feeling down right joy-less. I am not sure what it was that triggered my mean reds (the colour blue does not conjure sadness for me, it is too soothing and pretty... red on the other hand I can more easily associate with pain) but in the end I "wasted" the entire day. By which I mean that I spent a great deal of time on the couch with my cat getting caught up on season three of Lost. A friendly voice kept whispering in my ear that I should leave the house and follow the long-awaited sunshine to some café where I could read or write or watch people walk by. That voice specifically invited me to the old port or to the plateau, which are areas of Montréal that I don't visit nearly often enough. I tried to respond to the voice, even put on a watery blue-green skirt after a rejuvinating shower complete with coconut shampoo. Thought about leaving, looked at the door and then... sank back into the couch. Part of me felt that I should stay home and do my chores. The house needed attention. And yet, even though I forced myself to stay in until they were done, I did none of them.
One good thing I can say about my behaviour yesterday is that I continually silenced the Bully. I am refering to the other voice, not the kind one who wanted me to have fun, but the snide one who usually shows up at such opportune low energy moments to dispense charming little observations like: "you are so lazy!" Each time this voice started up I was more or less successful at redirecting my thoughts. Unfortunately I redirected them to the computer screen where downloaded episodes of Gilmore Girls and Lost were playing, instead of towards something a bit more creative (it seemed easier to replace negative thinking with no thinking than recklessly jumping straight into positive thinking) but I none the less see it as improvement.
Luckily when Adrien got home from his fun day out with friends he was in a buoyant mood and immediately started peeling me off the couch, though I resisted obstinately and clung to the throw pillows with all my might. Eventually he was able to lure me into the car with the prospect of eating dinner at one of my favorite restaurants, Le Santropol. I think I like it so much because it is almost like accidentally finding out that a tiny little scrap of Vancouver has mysteriously vanished from Commercial Drive and re-materialized in the heart of Montréal. Not only is the interior a hodge-podge of bright bohemian furniture, and the walls alternate between showcases for 3D artwork that spills right into the room and glittering mozaics but also it has a fenced-in back garden where you can eat under a canopy of faerie lights and birch leaves. There are numerous shaggy fraggle-esque nooks amidst fountains, trees and overgrown flower beds. Cats wander through freely, on important cat missions. And they serve divinely, ridiculously, jaw-stretchingly huge sandwiches which ensure that you will not leave without embarrasing smears of cream cheese and mint jelly on your cheeks. It was the perfect sweet antidote to my sour mood.
On the way home, rushing up the little side street where we parked, and feeling startlingly chilly in my whispy blue-green skirt, I suddenly happened upon a night-time, lit up view of the city. I realized that I live in a pretty neat place actually, and the heavy grouch-creature on my chest finally took off for the rest of the evening. We took the long way home through winding streets lined with centuries old stone houses and I repeated Alissa's mantra to myself while peering out into the lamp-lit night: the world is Magic, the world is Magic, the world is Magic.