Babybel Cheese, here today, gone tomorrow…or in 30min after you’ve had some time to digest.

I keep staring at my Babybel cheese thinking it’s going to melt in the sun. I’m riding the train back to Montreal from Toronto again. I ordered a cheese plate with coffee and apple juice for breakfast. I love cheese. It’s one of my many weaknesses. I just couldn’t do the Babybel. I’d already had the swiss, strong cheddar (classic), a very modestly sized Coeur de Lion (and of course the itty bitty one was the best one), and a copious amount of Melba toast. I also love Melba toast. Anyway, by the time I got around to the little Babybel, I was far too full. So, there it sits, lonely little Babybel with no one to unwrap its pretty red plastic wrapper.

My friend Mark helped me book the seat on this ride. He’s got the inside scoop on the best place to sit on the train and he was right! I just passed a glorious expansive body of water with the greenest little cliffs around it. Ok, maybe not cliffs, but there were nice green patches, that’s for sure. Combine that with the pre-production tracks I’ve been listening to, and I’m totally in my own little bubble.

I’ve learnt a lot about bubbles in the last while, primarily, that bubbles eventually pop. When I made my little move from Montreal to Toronto, I was convinced I would adapt easily because the two cities are so close and I know Toronto well. In reality, it was much harder than I anticipated and I’ve been a whiny mess for the last couple months. Fortunately, I have wonderful family and friends and I was conscious of my behavior. It didn’t stop me however from expressing every emotion I had, so, to those whom I love, please forgive me for all my yammering about resistance to change and popped bubbles.

I think the mistake I made was getting attached. To be clear, I’m not talking about people. Loyalty and relationships are so important to me (though some people really believe in the idea that we are meant to only be in each other’s periphery for an undetermined temporary period of time. I subscribe to that in some cases, but having history with someone also counts for a lot if you ask me). What I’m really talking about is confusing places and things with living life. I never thought where I lived would matter to me.

As it turns out, my apartment with park view, which was the nicest I’d had since living on my own, had become my status symbol. It was modern, clean, it had an old piano, a spare room, a washer/dryer, and was very well located. My neighborhood was where all my artist friends lived. With them so close by, I knowingly created a little bubble that was truly romantic. We lay in the grass singing songs, sharing thoughts, motivating each other and then bitching about god knows what, swimming at the pool for free and having the best home made gelato. All around us there were dogs running, people playing Frisbee and guitar, and then the sun would set so perfectly it broke your heart. To process it all, you went home, and had a glass of wine.

Umm, so why undo all of that? The thing is, none of it is real. The shared moments are, but the rest is all just places and things and how you see them. Admittedly, giving up most of my possessions, my apt and everything that came with it, for something untried and seemingly less sexy was really hard and dare I say, a bit scary? (“It’s all right Amanda, you’re allowed to show that you’re scared” says inner far less judge-y voice.) I think at some point I’d convinced myself that I’d done well in the world, succeeded! Sure, I was making a modest living, but I was getting by as an artist! That was respectable! That’s something! So I hung onto it. Culturally, we’ve been taught to find value from

external sources. We look for meaning in tangible things that can be a symbol of our place in the world. I’m cool with people wanting whatever they want, I just don’t want to feel attached to places and things, no matter how humble a level it might be on, because once you start, it’s a slippery slope from there. Of course the memories and experiences are great, but they can live inside you as opposed to being held onto so firmly that letting go of them threatens your very identity.

Things are different now. My new location is much more noisy, urban and polluted. Instead of guitars and dogs, I hear sirens and shady characters yelling. I hated it at first, but really it was mostly the change I hated. I love it now and I’m not sure why, but I suspect it might have something to do with feeling like I’m being challenged.

When I expressed my negative feelings about this jarring change to family and friends, I was met with lots of different responses, but the one that stood out the most was my mom’s “What’s a matter with you? You’re acting like an old retired person! You should be asking yourself what your next adventure is going to be! Since when do you care about the kind of apartment you have? You’ve lived in all sorts of situations and the kid I raised is much more flexible” My mom is in her 60’s and lives on the other side of the world. She was right. Mothers.

So, the tall buildings that block the sun, the shouting people, the sirens, the more modest home, and the perpetual smell of Asian cooking are a welcome change. Bring it on! I’m having an adventure! I’m not in a bubble any more, at least not for now. Life is full of surprises and action these days and it’s an enjoyable shift in my experience of the world around me. Perception is everything and I’m done allowing my vision to be clouded by things that never mattered to me to begin with. You decide your worth, you decide what your reality is.

Babybel update! Packaging torn, inside=delicious.