A not-so-obvious kind of beauty

The following is a guest post by my one and only twin sister, Camille, who is a fabulous writer.  In her thoughtful post below, she explores how we can appreciate the beauty that surrounds us, no matter where we are.

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In my work, I meet a lot of people who live in beautiful places – in small towns with picturesque rivers and pretty little forests, or on big, sprawling farms in the Prairies where you can watch the sun set or a storm come in for hours, or in places that are adorned with incredible views of the Rocky Mountains. Where I live, in Toronto, I don’t have the same kind of beauty around me all the time, at least not the big, obvious beauty that just comes to you – the kind you can’t miss.

I admit it, sometimes I envy them.

But I do love it here.

I love the way our neighborhood park fills boisterously with people on a beautiful summer day.

I love the community garden in that park that is kept up by volunteers. I love the patches of ‘guerilla gardening’ around the city, where someone has chosen to make an ugly spot beautiful.

I love the graffiti – the stencils, the statements, the way the artistic visions merge as the art changes.

The way the patios fill with people in the summer, the way we make room to share the space so we can all drink beer and enjoy the sun.

The collision of cultures of Kensington; the way the ethnic neighborhoods pop up and suddenly you are immersed. The way organic, vegan restaurants are housed next to punk bars. I love the Mexican tortilleria where the cooks make food just like they used to in Mexico, and I love that a few steps away is the family-run butcher shop that has been open for generations.

I love the University of Toronto campus, especially in fall when it becomes a vision in ivy and maple: all gold, orange, and red. And I love its stately buildings, their curved nooks and the secret spots you can take solace in.

I love the Hebrew writing on an Italian café near Chinatown, a remnant from the days when the neighborhood was filled with Jewish immigrants. The stunning historical church in a residential Portuguese neighborhood that you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

What I love about this city is the bus driver who kindly chats with the intellectually disabled person who sits up front.

It’s the person who walks carrying her stuffed Wal Mart bags on her head, rather than in her hands, because that’s the way she used to do it in her former country.

It’s the dad I see at the bus stop every day, with stretched ears and tattoos, who’s taking his little daughter to school and reads her stories on the bus.

I love that the kids in a local community centre (where I once volunteered) paint the windows during pride week to express messages of acceptance and love for all types of families and people. And I love pride week. Not just the parade but the way the city gets extra bright and colourful, even more welcoming and diverse than it is the rest of the year.

I love the food in this city, but it’s not just that I can have a good meal. I love the peace I feel on quiet Baldwin Street sitting on the picnic table in the front of my favourite Chinese lunch spot. I love that this restaurant is being passed on to the next generation; I watch the owner holding her baby granddaughter in her hands while the grown up daughter rings in my order. I love that when this restaurant announced it would be closing temporarily for renovations there was a flurry of questions from patrons, who eagerly filled out a guest book with stories of their experiences here and what it’s meant to them.

I love the little hole-in-the-wall places where, thanks to the commitment and passion of the people who run them, you can get the best of things. The best Trinidadian roti. The best long-pulled espresso. The best lamb kebabs.

I love the baristas, the chefs, the sommeliers, the optimistic and determined restaurateurs, the many people who bring us not just good food – who bring us the best food. I love that I’ve talked to some of the city’s best chefs, because they’re not hidden away, they’re serving food at festivals and charity events and willing to talk. I’ve eaten next to the city’s most celebrated, most famous chef in a small Vietnamese restaurant near my house, because he knows how good it is.

I love the people I’ve met here. I love the entrepreneurs – the people who are passionate about their businesses, who are excited about life, and the ideas and possibilities they are so eager to share. I love the friends I’ve made, the mentors I’ve found – the uniqueness of these people, the richness they bring to my life.

I love that this city is endlessly, hopelessly pregnant with possibility. It is the sweeping, satisfying turns my career can take, the amazing people I might meet, the endless opportunities for discovery, both large and small.

Things are big here, yes, but really it’s the little things. It’s walking home on a snowy evening while snow shovellers pause to let me pass. It’s stopping on a rough little street on a sweaty summer day to look at a mural I never noticed before. It’s drinking in the colour from the many bunches of beautiful flowers that small groceries put outside their shops, announcing it’s spring. It’s witnessing a simple kindness that passes between two people who look and sound so different.

Yes, sometimes I miss the quiet of the country, the deep, silent richness of a forest, the freedom of open spaces and of being profoundly alone. I do love the big, obvious beauty of the mountains, or of a picture perfect country farm.

But living here, I’ve learned that the beauty you have to work a little harder for – well, it’s not so bad either.