Natasha Regehr

Tag: Relationships

Ring

A few weeks ago I was surprised with an eight-hour “proposal tour,” in which my partner took me to eight places in the city that have been significant at some point in our two-year relationship. The event included a treasure map and eight scrolls, each detailing a task for us to complete together before our wedding next summer. Here’s a glimpse of how the day unfolded.

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A map and eight scrolls, the treasure of my life.

Joe Kool’s and a candle, for the night the fire was lit.

The Runt Club and a candle holder, for quesadillas and a renaissance concert.

Victoria Park and a drawing in Quebec City, for the first time our hands touched.

Metropolitan United Church, and the Montreal Bach Festival, for our first symphony.

The Grand Theatre and a trip to Stratford, for Romeo and Juliet.

St. James Westminster and an empty box, for our common call to faith.

The Robert Q and jewelry by the lake, for our wanderlust.

The Olde South Village Pub, chocolates, and the sweetest question I have ever been asked: Will you marry me?

And now I gaze with gratitude and wonder at this ring on my finger and think, how is it that I have come to know such happiness? How is it that this man can love me as he does? I swell with joy, I glitter like diamonds on gold.

Plunge

A few months ago I had the super-bright idea that it would be cool to snorkel between the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates, having two continents within arms’ reach.  Cool, I thought.  I’m going to do that.  Because I do all the things.

So off I went to Iceland, where I did all sorts of other things.  I went zip-lining upside down.  I went hiking in the mountains.  I bathed in the Blue Lagoon.  I paid 35,000 Icelandic króna for a pair of rain pants that I didn’t end up using (that’s okay — it’s just money.  Sometimes it goes away like that).  I photographed geysers and waterfalls, soaked in hot springs, and ate rye bread that had been baked for 24 hours underground, where the water is at a constant volcanic boil.  I wandered the streets of Reykjavik, went to the flea market, and ate an incomparable fish dinner.  I bumped my head on the top of a cave and marvelled at the almost-midnight sun.  All the things.

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Seasoned Greetings: The Power of One

“Happy New Year.”

We say it every year, to pretty much everyone we see, because that’s the thing to say in January.  Do we mean it?

Well, of course, to some extent.  Who doesn’t have a generic sense of goodwill towards the world at large after several weeks of holiday indulgences? Who doesn’t support the idea of a year of happiness to replace the year of whatever-it-was that just concluded?

But really, much like with “How are you?” and other empty social conventions, we aren’t particularly interested in the type of year most people have just had, nor in the particularities of the year ahead of them.  We just want a seasonal alternative to “Hi!”

We may gaze fondly at our dearly beloveds at 11:59 on December 31 and offer them our affectionate good wishes.  We may encourage those closest to us to pursue their dreams with optimism.  But in general, we settle for a blanket “Happy New Year,” spread with equal (dis)interest over great populations of distant acquaintances, and consider our festive duty done.

In my family, this annual dissimulation of goodwill has traditionally taken the form of a “Family Letter” reminding others of our largely unchanging existence; and being a literary type, I am often the one tasked with trying to make our lives sound interesting.  My earnest attempts at creativity have included detailed profiles of each family member, illustrated by elaborate collages and laced with carefully-crafted witticisms.  The resulting epistle was typically sent to Everybody, with instructions to pass it on to Everybody Else.  It was posted on social media, and maybe on my blog.  Just to make sure that Every Possible Person had access to my self-absorbed ramblings. 

But this year I did something different.

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