Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Much goes unnoticed. Distraction syndrome eclipses all sorts of things.
Look. And look again.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Yet there is also compromise and negotiation and forgiveness too, all of which may feel painful for everyone involved. And of course it's sunnier too: there are birthday parties and vacations and board-game arguments to laugh about (eventually) and a million other funny-tender-soft moments knitted into a fabric more valuable than its design.
But sometimes it was so hard.
Sometimes I would step out of myself and watch us all dysfunction. We were trying to say hear me and listen to me. So were they. And I knew it wasn't working for any of us. Sometimes because what they said or did was so shockingly stupid. And sometimes because we were so confused about what to do. I would hear myself lecturing my teens and bubbling just underneath my frustration was
- my irrational fears.
- a startling cynicism.
- that muffled nonsense Charlie Brown adult noise.
Back then I wondered sometimes if my teens would ever really know me as anything but the asshole who napalmed their hastily defined fun. Would they ever realize I didn't enjoy tearing down that rickety scaffolding they called teenaged life goals? Would they ever be able to acknowledge that my heart was in the right place? Damaged but still beating, not so defiant anymore.
And then it's YEARS later and I forgot many of these events and yet something still lingered for a long time, sort of a melancholy, an ache. I did not dwell on it because I know that shame kills, both the giver and the receiver. And then one morning, my daughter (who lived in a University dorm 48 hours away at the time) texted me because she heard bagpipes, and thought of me.
What?! Me? She remembered I love bagpipes? I don't know how to tell you what that felt like.
Several years later now, our family functions again. There's more to learn, but the past is the past. My children made me a better man. I learned my lessons, so did they. Once again, we connect, we celebrate, we endeavor to become who we dream to be. It's a privilege many don't have. I'm not so naive anymore: I know there will be hard times again. Yet a tender core survived. I don't know where I read it: "thick skin like a rhinoceros, tender heart like a lamb."
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
|To me, this broken tree looks like a lion.|
Vulnerability requires courage. It might feel like you're breaking. In a way, you are. But the beauty's inside. Bring it out. Your honesty will encourage others to be more authentic too. And it frees us to become more.
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
Sadly, most of us outgrow picture-giving. But why? Is it because it's just too vulnerable? Is it because we fixate on so-called imperfections? Why do most people think they can't draw? Why do we become so self-conscious? When exactly did that inner critic suffocate the artist within?
Kids don't much care about that stuff. This drawing may look a little nightmarish, but it's definitely a delight. That gaping maw looks like some sort of invitation to another world, a world where carefree kids live, where imagination and creativity is still more important than banal conformity. Don't be afraid. Go ahead, hop in there. Explore.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Liminality: the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a ritual (a process?), when we occupy a position at, or on both sides of, a threshold.
Aka life? But what a smart way to describe it. Aren't we always between things? Firsts and lasts? Novice and expert? Illness and recovery? Winter and Spring? Darkness and light? The decision and the consequences? Starting over and starting over again? The me I was and the me I am becoming? What it meant then and what it means now?
The messy stage. Between the tyrant and the deliverer. All the while seeking meaning, seeking much-needed clarity. Waiting. Or moving forward, full speed, trusting our headlights in the snowstorm.
Hold on, my friends. This too shall pass.
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Nature is definitely an artist.
Sunday, February 19, 2017
This dog has energy! And it's tough. And it's relentlessly playful. And it stinks. And that orange ball is basically a petri dish six weeks into some harrowing experiment.
But come on, you can't not play fetch.
Monday, February 13, 2017
In other words, it's a good reminder to me (especially in Canada) that my access to health-care, education, and infrastructure all contributes to a quality of life that enhances my success. Yet another reason to keep one's greed in perspective.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
|Thanks Mac & Shay.|
It's weird when you get oldish and your kid invites you over for supper. But I like it.
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Like millions of others I'm reading about, I am bewildered by what is happening in the United States. Sure, I was bewildered last year too. Shocked. Angered. Grossed out. Worried. But now it's worse. And it renders me unable to think clearly. This is not the US I grew up next to. I'm not American and I don't pretend to know what it's like to be an American. It's always a matter of worldviews and perceptions, but I'm so confused by this open bigotry and ignorant tyranny and "alternative facts."
I always seek to understand people because, despite differing ideologies, the great leveler is that we are all human and don't we want the best for our children, for all children? This situation is way beyond political parties. Yet not everyone (?!) feels some combination of appalled and outraged, so what now? And what next?
Often, I am guilty of leading with my feelings. As we all should know, feelings are not facts so perhaps that isn't the best way to think critically and calmly about 2017 in North America. Nevertheless, this FEELS like when I was a kid and I watched Roots or when Sting sang, "I hope the Russians love their children too." It FEELS like when I read Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank or Night by Elie Wiesel or 1984 or The Handmaid's Tale or when I met a man who lived through Hiroshima. It FEELS like my Great-Grandfather, who paid the ultimate sacrifice at Passchendaele in World War 1, would be sickened by these developments. I don't even know how to explain these feelings. It's a heavy feeling, a fog. Growing up privileged and safe and comfortable and free likely explains why I feel so confused at times. But right now, I'm awake. I'm alert. And I feel empowered by all those who DO feel appalled and outraged and MOTIVATED.