Taite grew up surrounded by those who appreciate creativity. Dance, poetry and handwork filled her childhood. Taite is now entering her 4th year in Ryerson's Creative Industries program and is a writer for the publication StyleCircle.
The Therapeutic Art of Finger Knitting
Everyone warned me. They told me university was ‘tough’ - so different from high school. I told people I liked a challenge (and usually, I do!) However, the challenge of living 113 kilometers from my twin sister, moving from a sleepy town in the country to the chaos of downtown Toronto and trying to balance an incredibly stacked workload proved to be a bit more difficult than the trials of my high school years. Anxiety took up constant residence in the pit of my stomach and on the palms of my hands while fatigue followed me like unrelenting karma. As someone who had rarely dealt with stress in the past I was overwhelmed. Wading through the excess of self-care advice on the internet proved a stressful task in and of itself. Mindfulness, reading, meditation, bubble baths, exercise - I carried these remedies for stress around my waist like a tool belt but, while being viable options for others I’m sure, none of them really worked for me.
I was lucky enough to be raised by many of the goddesses themselves. My aunt Natalie, goddess of the earth, my aunt Jodie, goddess of the water, my aunt Ruth, goddess of reason, and my grandma Linda, goddess of compassion. While I cannot attribute my incredible childhood to one single individual, my mother not only created a perfect life for my sister and me but blew sunflower seeds onto the soil we grew out of, turning our faces to the sun.
Saying ‘I Do’ to Vintage
I believe finding your own personal style is a lifelong journey, starting the moment you’re first asked: “What do you want to wear?” At fourteen, I began to wonder if my American Eagle light-wash jeans and Garage t-shirts were really the ultimate means for self-expression. While I wanted to be unique, yearned for it actually, the familiarity and comfort of the mall convinced me not to worry. It was on a whim that I first went to the Ottawa Vintage Clothing Show with my mother. Having never been before I didn’t know how much I would enjoy it and how it would become a part of my annual shopping experience.
Broken Yellow Highway Lines
I lay flat on my stomach, staring into the growling teeth of the vent beneath the bottom step. She had followed me to the base of the stairs, resting herself against my back. No one truly understands how it feels to have someone fit against the curve of your spine like they were intended to be a part of your body until they were peeled away from you like skin from an orange. It is a kind of knowledge only gained from sharing a room until you are born. This was always how I explored the house in my young, soft days; as creatures that roll on the ground. And never alone.