If only.

I don’t dream enough. Yet, when I do, in my dreams, I’m often on a journey and most times I have a task to do along the way, or an obstacle to overcome. (Thinking about it now, that’s not so different than life when awake, is it?) And the people who populate my dreams are often strangers; I see glimpses of them along the way, somewhat like the people you see and then don’t see on the subway. In my dreams, movement is the norm.

But then, unexpectedly, one of those strangers is suddenly familiar. I’m always caught by surprise and I feel foolish because I should have known all along because that’s when I realize or perhaps recognize the stranger is not a stranger after all: it’s a loved one who’s gone, someone who’s died, someone I’m missing.

Do you have these dreams too? Imagine if we could control our dreams, conjure at will those we long for. If only.

Once I dreamed I was looking out the passenger window of a truck, the window open, the sun shining, green waves of wheat stretching across a field and then I turned to look at the driver. It was my Dad. I hadn’t seen his eyes for years. Once, I stood up from the patio table at a restaurant and saw, at another table, my brother. He nodded and moved his chin in the direction he wanted me to look. Once, I was with someone in an unfamiliar kitchen searching for ice-cream in the freezer. When I found it and closed the door, sitting at the table was my Mom. We smiled at each other. Once, I was nervously walking on a dimly lit sidewalk in the fog when suddenly from across the street stood a friend from long ago. She waved. I waved back. Once, I walked down a gravel road next to a garden with rows of potatoes and gladiolas and then running to meet me was my grandparent’s old dog, Tub.

These sorts of dreams feel heavy and stir emotions but they don’t make me sad because they are gifts. We have very little control in our lives about who comes and who goes and when and why. It’s the same thing with our dreams. We must enjoy who we can when we can in whatever way we can before we can’t. 

Things one should never outgrow:

Happy birthday Donny. Miss ya.

If you're a Canadian, you know about these. And how they are basically their own food group. Or they should be.

My wife loves them. So did my brother.

Sometimes

Sometimes one sentence says so much. And no period is needed because it won't stop anyway.

Sometimes it's hard to think about anything but that one thing that's missing.

Sometimes all the wonders can be overwhelming.

Sometimes blank paper invites the deepest conversations we have with ourselves.

Sometimes, if I listen carefully, I can hear the past run up the stairs.

Change

I remember thinking she was really thin. Pale too. Sickly? There was something else too. And then the cashier asked her for like, $36.74, and when she kindly joked that she wanted to pay with spare change, I suddenly realized who she was: my Mom.

Well, not really my Mom because my mother died last year. Yet this woman was the right age and the right build and the right look. Plus she wore a hat, definitely function over fashion, just like my Mom did. And she wasn’t joking. Despite the four other people in line, she was determined to use all her coins. And so she counted them out: toonies, loonies, quarters, dimes, nickels. Just like my Mom would do sometimes. And it was kind of funny. And also annoying. Especially when she realized she didn’t have enough change so she inquired if she could pay the difference with her debit card. Distracted by this little spectacle, this little gift of something like a memory that seemed to be somehow entirely made for me, my impatience faded and I smiled and positioned myself fully in the moment. I suspect everyone else in that cashier’s line seethed but I was tickled to see her again if only in the form of a stranger.

I know how memory works. Science says this experience is the type of memory triggered by recognition. In other words, something familiar unconsciously triggers recall and when this happens we live in the then and the now, sort of straddling two worlds, a sort of re-imagination rather than a remembering.

I like that. I like that there’s a diary inside us all, a journal we can never quite read the same way twice. And life, like a gust of wind, sometimes opens it quite unexpectedly. And when it opens, it loosens, it undoes, it unfurls, it unwinds, it airs. 

Just so you know, the answer is no.

Can I recall what "vent rig" refers to in this cryptic note-to-self I just discovered? Anyone else know?

Sheesh.

Things one should never outgrow:

Although still delicious, pop rocks don't look the same as they did when I was a kid because, well, Breaking Bad. Nevertheless, although addictive, they are thankfully not blue meth, and therefore I believe they are still part of a healthy breakfast (lunch, supper, whatever). Folks, it's just common sense. And even though I'm no longer eleven, it still sounds like laughter feels when I put them all in my mouth at once. Highly recommend. (No pun intended there Walter White fans.)

Remember Day

Do you recall

1.      When we all had VCRs?

2.      And the clock forever flashed?

3.      And “be kind rewind?”

4.      And remember fondue parties?

5.      And when phones were attached to the wall?

6.      Remember phone booths?

7.      And when we had a lock combination to memorize instead of twenty passwords?

8.      And we carried cash? And there were dollar bills?

9.      And we opened car windows with handles? And we opened car doors for women?

10.  And remember before air conditioning?

11.  Remember when cats weren’t famous on the Internet?

12.  Remember when it was A cloud and not THE cloud?

13.  Remember that noise fax machines made? Ditto dial-up internet?

14.  And lots of people wore shirts that said Bum Equipment or Just do it or Vote for Pedro?

15.  Remember Y2K?

16.  Remember when we didn't feel nervous being in an airport? And we didn't have to arrive three hours in advance? And bottled water wasn't an apparent weapon?

17.  Remember YOLO?

18.  Remember beanie-babies?

19.  And Polaroid cameras?

20.  Remember reading Harry Potter that first time?

21.  Remember playing outside?

22.  Remember climbing trees?

23.  Remember waiting for an hour in a car waiting for your parents to return?

24.  Remember buying cigarettes for your Dad?

25.  Remember when our parents were young? Our brothers? Our sisters? Our children? Remember when we were young?

Science say remembering one thing versus another is a by-product of reinforcement. One particularly effective memory reinforcer is emotion. In other words, if you felt it deeply, you’ll likely never forget it. These feelings may fade but they remain. Sometimes I think there should be a day just for remembering, a remembering day. Why not today? 

Glue?

They say it's the glue that holds a family together. It's quite a familiar phrase to me, but what is the glue? What actually cements us together in families?

Surely love. Absolutely. But what sorts of love? What actions? Conversations? Promises? What moments activate the glue?

I appreciate the glue metaphor but I think it's more like maps. Maps connect us. And like pushpin markers on a map, events, experiences, choices, celebrations, traditions, even tragedies identify the routes, the commutes, the detours. Those pushpins mark the construction zones, the places we stopped for snacks, the roadside attractions, the plus ones (2s, 3s, 4s?) who became family, even where the blanket was left behind.

Throughout a lifetime, there are many roads that families travel together. Everyone experiences the journey differently but we were all there. Once. Twice maybe? And perhaps one hundred times in our dreams. And maybe just once more sometime yet to come? We'll see. The togetherness doesn't last though. I'd like to say no one gets left behind but it happens. Sometimes, whether by choice or circumstance, we travel on alone yet we are still connected through our maps even when we cannot or choose not to return. Families might be together for decades but hardly long enough when some elsewhere journeys begin or end, heart-wrenching either way.

Maps are meant to revisit, to reaffirm, and to make the journey easier. We can unfold our memories across the kitchen table and talk and laugh and cry a bit too. Maps can remain hidden in our pockets too, folded and protected, places we no longer choose to visit: treacherous roads or car crashes or dead ends. And maps can be neglected too, even forgotten because life interferes: distractions, work, beauty, change, everything.

But in every family shouldn't there be at least one person waiting for your return? Someone so easy to find because the map is so clear, so familiar, so compelling that when you get close enough you have no choice but to run? I know these maps and I know this waiting.

Who waits for you?

Her song, her carol.

It’s fitting that it’s May. Spring was my Mom’s favourite season. She also liked summer, fall and winter (mostly). She also loved hummingbirds and bees and frogs and water and leaves and soil and seeds and garden corn and veggies and books and Bugs Bunny: “what a maroon!” Her name was Carol.

She had a great name didn’t she? As you know, Carol means “song” or “to sing.” If your life were a song, what would it sound like? What would the lyrics be? Would its patterns rhyme or would random rule? (My Mom lived random.) Would people line dance to it or would they head-bang or would they flash mob or would they hold still, listening carefully waiting for what might come next? What images would bloom from those sounds and from those words in listeners’ minds? Would it inspire? Would it warn? Would it question? Would it shock? Would it soothe? Would we laugh? Would we long to hear it again and again?

My Mom’s song would sound like a ball game and a picnic but only after hard work and perseverance and sweat. Her song would sound like corn stalks in a garden tended dutifully. Her song would be the squeak of her countertop every Saturday morning as she kneaded bread dough. (I often woke to that sound.) Her song could be silent too, like an owl, patient and watching but mostly silent like a page turned and another page and another book and another and one more too. It would be loud sometimes too and there would be laughter and yelling at the TV and the occasional swat given to the occasional boy. And it would sound like coffee brewing and more coffee and cigarettes and debate and politics and some stories and some lies too. There would be a dash of ABBA, maybe some Anne Murray and some fiddle and some guitar and an old country song: “King of the Road.”

But mostly, it’s what you wouldn’t hear in her song: no worry, no complaining, no bitterness, no anger, no rushing. Peaceful. Sometimes, so much so that it seemed distant. Nevertheless, in honour of her song, I urge you today: don’t worry. Yes it will rain, it will snow, it will freeze, the sun will shine, bees will sting but rarely all in one day. So enjoy today. Eat cake. Seed the crops. Plant a garden. Watch the news. Cry if you need to but mostly be calm. Why worry so much? Why rush? Just carry on. Tomorrow is tomorrow. Enjoy today. This, I believe, was my Mom’s song, her carol.

The Importance of Scars

The picture above my desk:
my older brothers and me.

For a while I forgot about the scar at the corner of my right eye. Time has masked it with laugh lines but noticing it again, the story remains fresh. Pondering it now, I realize time has also changed its meaning. Scars are often secrets but this scar in no way began as a secret. I made sure this scar shouted.

My brothers and I were boarding the bus one September morning during my first weeks of school. My oldest brother's impatience got the better of him and he gave me a push to "help" me up the stairs. I bet I was carrying my lunchkit and maybe that's why I didn't put my hands out to brace myself against the fall? Instead, my face introduced itself to the steps, hence the scar.

I do remember crying, probably more like wailing, standing with my Mom, watching the bus drive away. Equipped early with a propensity for drama, I also remember thinking Is my eye going to fall out? Why isn't my Mom taking me to the hospital?! And why is my brother so mean? And why do they get to go to school considering the fact that I'm the only one who likes to go?!

Despite the hullabaloo, my scar is pretty tiny. And like that saying "when things go wrong, don't go with them," longevity and the loss of my oldest brother has taught me that this tiny scar is actually something huge to me now.

I wonder if my brother ever thought about it again? I wonder if he thought about the time a few years later when I punched him in the nose. I had to stand on a snow pile so I was tall enough. A spontaneous act, I remember feeling shocked that I had actually followed through with that very foolish decision. I don't recall what happened afterwards but I suspect G-rated would not describe it.

Revenge. That was always a problem with my brothers. They were older. They were taller. They were stronger. And worst of all, my heart just wasn't into revenge. Although I was always wary of my brother's negative attention, and I was always quick to tell anyone who would listen that they were meaner than mean, I would forget about my elaborate revenge plots and subplots. Eventually, I realized this may have been what irritated them the most about me. I rarely fought back. Plus, as the classic annoying tattletale, I learned fairly quickly that people would actually listen if I told my sibling war stories in such greatly exaggerated detail that even I couldn't keep a straight face while sharing and thus I turned their torture of me into legends that my cousins Laurel and Jo and I would laugh about until we couldn't breathe.

And thinking about this right now, I realized something: I wonder if this scar made me a writer, if indeed my brothers made me a writer. I needed someone to listen and they wouldn't listen unless I entertained them. That is the bigger thing this tiny scar means to me now. So brother, for this scar, I thank you.

Things one should never outgrow:

revisiting your childhood.

It is.

One foot in the Mediterranean,
the other somewhere else. 

When I was little one of the first road-trips my parents took me on was to Flin Flon, Manitoba. If you’re not familiar, this town is located about six hours northeast of Saskatoon. And from my current location in Northern Alberta it’s about eighteen hours away.

If you love nature, you’d love this place. It’s classic Canadian Shield. And it’s not in the middle of nowhere, it’s in the middle of amazing nowhere. (I happen to love nowhere.) A mining town I guess, everything is built on rock. The way I remember it, the town weaves around rocks that look like they were kicked around by giants and abandoned. Rocks and precarious houses and deep lakes and sudden islands and spruce trees and more rocks. Before I was born, my Dad worked there. He seemed excited to share this place with me. And I totally got it.

Ever go someplace new and it doesn’t feel strange at all? That’s what it felt like for me. About a three hour trip from where I grew up in Saskatchewan, we arrived early enough to be seated in a restaurant around 9 a.m. Manitoba time. We had gained an hour. Despite the time, I ordered a cheeseburger. My nine-year-old self thought that was the best breakfast ever. 

Decades later, I was in a medical doctor’s office in Alberta talking about feeling tired and stressed and confused and the doctor looked at me and said, “Ever been to Flin Flon?” Surprised, I shared my Flin Flon story. Then he added, “You need to go back to Flin Flon. It’s the best fishing ever.” Basically, he prescribed a vacation. 

What are the chances I would meet up with another Flin Flon fan? Here’s my point: the world is a small town. It is.

The little things...

like retro gum packaging.

#timetravel
#nostalgia
#simsgasstationcandycounter

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

is this
a. my elevator?
b. a horror movie set?
c. a David Suzuki special?
d. Ke$ha's house?

#alloftheabove
#goingdown(tohell)?

"Don't Know."

Lynda Barry

Lately I've been reading books about art and the creative process. They're rebuilding me. I need to do this sometimes. (Don't you?) A little art therapy I guess.

One of the books is a graphic non-linear autobiography. The narrator tells her own story through a series of drawings and doodles and collages framed by thoughts. In one section she's doodling and there are ghosts behind her yelling "Don't Know!"  The girl is the book's author struggling with her desire to become an artist. The problem is she doesn't know if her work is any good. She's already experienced that inevitable turning point we all undergo at some point regarding self-expression and art: someone judged her work negatively. Now she is followed by ghosts whose lingering presence forces her to question the value of her work. And she just can't determine anymore what's good. Before, it didn't matter.

So how does one know if something is truly good?

"Don't know."

Every child experiences this. Every artist experiences this. Really anyone who creates anything. I very clearly recall winning an art contest in Grade 3. There was an assembly and I was presented with a book. The man reached out to shake my hand but I didn't know what he was doing so I stood there until finally I reached up and held his hand for a while. He laughed. For years after that I wondered, am I an artist? Art class, for me, was my school safe place. I enjoyed most things about school but Art class felt more like home than my own home. I never felt stupid there. And honestly I don't ever remember being criticized there but I do remember one useless lesson I learned at some point in junior high: real boys don't do art. And that's when the critic appeared: me.

I just finished my first year in a new job. Despite the many challenges, I almost entirely loved the job. Especially the creativity. The risk-taking. The problem-solving. Testing hypotheses. The play. Never the same day twice. Researching. Collaborating. Designing. Learning. Developing the art of it. Practicing. It was hard. But it rarely felt like work. But I wonder, was it good? I truly think it was and yet....

"Don't know?"

Some things just cannot be judged at least not in quantifiable ways. I believe, once again, that what's most valuable is not measurable. Like art. So I say: "ghosts, go away."

Some People

What for?

I tend to avoid people who gloat. Braggarts exhaust me. My immediate compulsion is to disappear. It's yet another circumstance where I would love a magic remote control so I could press the pause option and interrupt all that showboating thus allowing me to, uh, pull an (e)scapegloat.

What do people have to gloat about anyway? It's just not Canadian boring.

I only recall one sustained gloat-fest encounter from which I couldn't escape. Many years ago we invited some new neighbours over, a couple we thought we might have a lot in common with but had never socialized with before. After dinner we were talking about something, the women in one room, the men in another (as usual, sadly) when suddenly the gloater randomly asked me if I wanted to see his American Express gold card.

I laughed in his face.

This was followed by an short awkward pause during which I searched his eyes for some punch line and then with my questioning eyes I remember whispering "seriously?" Oddly, he was not at all phased by my reaction. So what's a guy to do when confronted with some weird-ass dominance hierarchy scenario in his very own living room? Being poor and completely disinterested in this sort of posturing and clearly happy to be the beta male in this situation, I shrugged my shoulders and nodded as he opened his wallet. I recall chuckling somewhat still wondering if he was just messing with me. But nope. He was indeed serious, obviously blinded by some sort of clinical case of "gloatitis," because after the exalted card was held up like the Lion King he then provided, verbally, an itemized list of purchases, the insane cost of his wife's engagement ring, blah, blah, blah....

Yup. That was the first time I met Donald Trump. *wink* I realize now he may have pissed on one of my trees before he left my yard that night. Anyway, we didn't invite them over again after that. My wife and I don't enjoy gloat-cheese.

Here's an idea: instead of a gloat button, why not a whoop-whoop button? There's nothing wrong with celebrating one's accomplishments but as the saying goes, "flattery is all right as long as you don't inhale."

In the Parentheses

This will be quick. I don't want to stay here for very long....

My Dad died nine years ago today.

So much has changed since then. Isn't it odd? One day's hardship years later is a memory with a bridge built backwards. A bridge I don't cross so often anymore. Once, I crossed it frequently. I would run back there along those clackety foot-boards over the curve and linger close to the edge and feel the weight behind my eyes.

I'm only 20 years younger than you now Dad. How strange. But this means I understand you so much more. I know your struggles. I know your anger. I know your bitterness. As e.e. cummings said so well "Old age sticks up keep off signs) & youth yanks them down (old age cries No Tres) & (pas) youth laughs." Believe me; I feel I'm in the parentheses now and if it would help I would have a big-ass sign on my lawn if I could.

If I'm older now, am I still your youngest? Not really. I'm not your black sheep anymore, I'm not the one you seemed to be working so hard to change. I'm more like you now and I even see you in the mirror some mornings. And I wonder...how many heartbreaks did you endure while, oblivious, I chattered on and skipped about in my clueless exuberant youth? That's what I understand so well now.

We were so different and yet now, you are the only person I want to talk to.

But I also know what all your worry and anxiety did to you. So I'm trying not to be angry, I'm trying not to struggle so much with the sheer muchness of the world. I'm trying to let go. And since I can't talk to you I have started letting my worries drop like handwritten notes off the side of that bridge. And most days, it's helping.

Three Sentence Story

     For his ninth birthday my son's grandparents gave him a trip in a small four-seater plane and the pilot told him he was allowed to take one person with him. He looked at each of us and finally chose his big sister.
     Both my kids were on that plane.

Trifecta's at it again. This time the task was to create a story in three sentences. I'm enjoying these flash fiction challenges because they're so hard. It seems there are so many things to consider when less is more.

Kinda Perfect (New Years Eve Edition)

New Years Eve deep-fried Mars bars!

#HappyHogmanay
#atadfattening

I've likely already forgotten this too.

Image from here.

There's new research that suggests forgetting is linked to doorways. Apparently, when we travel through a doorway, our brains use this "event-gateway" as a visual signal to file information away and then move on. This explains why we sometimes can't recall why we entered a room.

This makes sense to me. I compare it to sorta closing a window on my computer. In other words, "I'm done with that. Next."

And this is why I love wacky scientists. They explain my brain glitches. They make me less pathetic. It's not age, it's not stress, it's not lack of sleep, it's not watching Teen Mom 2, it's the doorway's fault.

However, despite my new-found excuse/dubious scientific principle, this information conjures in my brain a variety of other pea-brained theories and thoughts and questions:

1. Do you think this explains why open-concept homes evolved?
2. This doesn't explain that one time (ok, maybe three times) I phoned someone and then I was surprised who said hello because I forgot who I was calling.
3. Nor does this explain what I was looking for in the fridge a few minutes ago.
4. But it does explain Scooby Doo and the gang becoming so discombobulated in all those classic hall of doors scenes and maybe even why people became idiots on Let's Make a Deal.
5. I think it explains this too but it doesn't explain....

...Oops. I can't remember the conclusion to #5. I left my office for a moment, promptly forgot I was writing this, and returned several hours later. Damn doorways.