Peanut Butter & Jam

As this pandemic unfolds, I notice curiously random brain behaviour both in dreams—looking into a stranger's eyes, and then the sinking gravity in our locked eyes as we realize we are shaking hands—and awake. Most mental filing cabinets get accessed quickly, but navigating new (and often fraught) problem-solving at work and socially, some odd cabinets seem to pop open during daily tasks. What's in those? It surprises me every time: a memory of a word game we used to play with our kids on road trips (first letter, last letter); a staccato song lyric from the 1980s All for freedom and for pleasure, nothing ever lasts forever, everybody wants to rule the world...and my childhood cat Bigfoot, curled on the couch next to my Dad, and so on. Writing this, I detect a pattern I hadn't noticed earlier. Sigh.

But my most spine-tingly example involved toasting a bagel a few days ago. As an educator who works in multiple schools weekly, I take a bagged lunch, but much lunch fare is contraband. Some schools restrict peanut butter, some nuts in general, one used to restrict fish and eggs. It makes for few easy lunch choices. Thus, I hadn't eaten peanut butter for years. However, with students relegated to their homes, I realized I could take a peanut butter sandwich to work, a momentary woo-hoo. Soon I found some in the back of our pantry; we were together for lunch, once again! Then, to treat myself one evening, I decided I needed a peanut butter and jam bagel. But when I placed the peanut butter knife in the jam, a strong familiar voice popped into my head, "Never put the peanut butter knife in the jam!" My oldest brother LOVED jam but HATED peanut butter so this was a rule growing up. He's been dead since 2013; I hadn't heard his voice for so long. I laughed and then it nearly broke me. But I ate that damn PB&J bagel, determined. Friends, use those voices inside you now, the ones that summon courage.

Fave Reads 2019

Paulo Freire said, "to speak a true word is to transform the world." I didn't realize it until now, but many of my favourite 2019 reads were about uncovering truths. Not an easy task; it requires adjusting and readjusting mindset. Some books hold truth like pebbles--gather enough and finally there comes an identity landslide. Some pebbles, some more, these were my favourite reads this year.

I re-read this short memoir this
year, probably for the third or
fourth time. It's just pure honesty.

I became fascinated with
artist Paul Klee, whom I studied
for a research project. Part
philosophy, part drawing
guide, this book is packed with
ideas that jolt us from a passive
view about art & design. 

The plot unfolds backwards
revealing a doctor's sickening
history, but the narrator's
confusion and despair
unfolds forwards, and
breaks his heart.

It's gripping, and despite
Atwood's eerie dystopia
firmly connected to our
modern times, it's hopeful. 

As a teen, I read almost everything
King wrote. This book made
me want to re-read those
and so many others I've missed.
Using magic-realism, King
asks us to reflect on what weighs
us down, what immobilizes us.
Not scary, this novella works like
 a companion to King's best books
because it shows us the good
inside his heart. 

I read this as part of a
creative nonfiction class.
A brave author who
holds nothing back. 

Unexpected

My daughter got married last month. I've always told my children that the most important decision they'll ever make is whom they choose to marry. She chose well. But marriage is a choice too. I didn't expect this. Any of it.

I didn't expect my daughter would wear her mother's wedding dress. I didn't expect my daughter would ask me to read Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese." I didn't expect those vows, with hints of tender history and romance and humour. I didn't expect my wife's uncle to whisper this to me just before I went to the podium to speak, "Don't. Fuck. This. Up." I didn't expect to laugh so much, and cry, and laugh again. Or that they would sing that song, carefree and full-throated at times because that's what musicians do I guess. I didn't expect them to swing each other around in a circle during the first dance. As my sister-in-law remarked through joyful tears and laughter, "Who does that except L & P?" I didn't expect people from all over Canada, even the world. I didn't expect people to tell me how much our daughter means to them. I didn't even expect the father-daughter dance. I didn't expect to be the last one to leave the dance hall. I didn't expect that even though I've been a Dad for a long time, it will always be new, again.

I didn't expect to feel this content. Isn't it a wonder that we are always surprised by love? Forgive me: even though I've been parenting for 25 years, I've never done this before. And I'm grateful.

A Good Look

The Firth of Forth, out toward the North Sea,
North Berwick, Scotland

My wife and I spent ten days in Scotland this summer (and one weekend in London). What a dream.

I kept a journal. But first, why Scotland? Our anniversary gift to each other. And my heritage. On both sides. Some of my earliest memories are of visiting my maternal great-grandparents in Saskatoon. I couldn't decipher the content of their discussions due to their Scottish accents but they fascinated me. And we ate toast with tea. I always thought they looked a little pissed off and they seemed to be arguing much of the time. While visiting the Edinburgh Fringe comedy festival, a comedienne explained Glasgow face: bitter, brows down accompanied by a gruff voice (translated as 'appy to see yer).  Lightbulb.

Back to the journal. Giddy, with some highlights:

• Scottish breakfasts are massive and amazing, odes to protein, haggis included.
• deep fried fish and chips and mushy peas
• respect for diversity in art and architecture and urban development, and seriously the best Indian food I've ever eaten
• a pop-up library in Glasgow
• Thrift store charity shops all over the UK
• once locals determined we are Canadian they immediately began to trash-talk Trump, "why would they elect that vile, vile man?" Good question. Perhaps the only redeeming thing about Trump: he helps bring people together, bonded in confusion and distaste. 
• taking the train through the highlands, all the waterfalls and rusty-red deer, very Harry Potter
• the Scottish flag painted on a rock high above Ft. William
• pipers on many street corners
• Inverlochy castle
• Arthur's Seat
• Crabbie's Ginger Beer
• JK Rowling's old writing spot, The Elephant Room (apple pie and scotch)
• everything about North Berwick: the beach, Mary Brown, the Lobster Shack, cemetery stories, scones with butter and jam
• climbing the Scott monument
• the closes along the Royal Mile
• finding the home where my great-grandmother and her siblings spent family time together
• Grassmarket in Edinburgh, and the dungeons at Edinburgh castle
• rain and cool weather
• the statue of Winston Churchill in Parliament Square and taking a boat down The Thames
• our airbnb neighbourhood, Islington, London where we had a salted caramel & popcorn milkshake with a shot of whiskey at the Screen on the Green while watching Dunkirk.

All of it, beauty. I must say, it is most pleasing to have a good look at the world. 

Look both ways?

My son is grown now but I remember prepping him for Kindergarten. Because he seemed like a risk-taker, there was one important question I needed the answer to: “How do you properly cross the street?” He quickly replied, “Run!”

I laughed. I expected “look both ways.”

It’s one of the foremost things we’re all taught in life, isn’t it? Look both ways. Hmm. Is this expression more than pedestrian behaviour? Could it be a life strategy?

Look both ways has obvious safety benefits, but maybe it also correlates to looking back and looking forward. Looking back seems easy: life was simpler then. Less pressure? Fewer responsibilities? More carefree? Yet I don’t long to return to that time; it would mean giving up so much. My life is rounded now, fuller. Looking forward seems easy too: I envision a bright future for my children, for my wife, for myself. I hope to be wiser and more satisfied, for more comfort, for health, for travel, for time. Even more, I hope to see my children achieve success. Yet looking forward, I can’t help but wonder too: how much time is left?

Probably not enough. And that’s why I realize now look both ways wasn't the right answer: what's important is now. I realize my son said it best because there’s something better than looking both ways.

I need to run. Thanks son. 

Sometimes Time

Sometimes I wish I could freeze time.

No. I want to pause time then replay it when needed so I can relive it and so could everyone else in the memory...but then would it just be a photograph?

Better yet, what if I could stretch time? Or hold an intermission during time? At least a breathing time?

No, I want to amend time. Why pause it? Why not capture it along with a variety of other forming memories and make wine out of it and cork it? Then I could sip it when I need it, when I'm lonely, when I'm missing the ones I love.

No, maybe what I really want to do is mend time. I don't mean fix. I want to sew moments together like a quilt and crawl underneath, grow warm there. If only this were possible.

No...what I want to do is bookmark time. Return to that page. Show it those who need to see it so they can see where I'm coming from, why I have the point of view I do. And to share it too.

If only I could punctuate time. Add a comma to slow it down, a dash to speed it onward, a period to stop, or a semi-colon to wait for a while for the inevitable.

Sometimes I don't know what I want. Sometimes time is cruel.

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. 

Which ones might you read?

source

A wise woman I know once introduced me to something I’ve thought about many times: the human library. Think about this concept. I am always fascinated by people and I love to learn. I truly believe that I can learn something from every person I encounter. But there are so many people in the world. And I have so much to learn. What might we all learn from a human “book” and how might it change us? 

The Human Library “is designed to build a positive framework for conversations that can challenge stereotypes and prejudices through dialogue.” It’s a “place where real people are on loan to readers.”

Whose life experience might be “borrowed” and shared for an afternoon and what would one gain from “reading” his or her life? Organized in libraries all over the world, human library events are held where the public is invited to “borrow a book” and speak one-on-one or in small groups with remarkable people who share their unique true-life stories and perspectives. Imagine that. It sounds both intimidating and exhilarating. Perhaps that’s why it has such a weighty effect on those who dare “read” these stories. Although I have never visited a human library, I do feel like I have had the awesome experience of encountering human books, most notably Ray Charles, Wab Kinew, and when I was a teenager, a Hiroshima survivor. They challenged and changed my worldview. I’ve heard about other “Books” rich with stories. Which ones might you “read?” A deaf blind man? A soldier with PTSD? A gay single father? An Olympic coach? An alcoholic? An abuse survivor? Someone with ADHD? A Muslim? A homeless person? A paramedic? A recovering addict? A farmer who lost his farm? A cancer survivor? A parent whose baby lived for 21 days? A person with cerebral palsy? A Hutterite? A female police office? The possibilities are as endless as, well, books.

In my opinion, there is something profound in our human make-up, our human curiosity, our human nature to overcome our differences when we encounter in each other a fascinatingly good story. In my perfect world, we would live with and respect our fellow human beings like we are human books in a world that is a human library, and despite our inevitable differences, we would at least “read” each other’s stories. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Sometimes signs are wrong. Almost always there's an exit. Exit 2015. Enter 2016. Isn't the entrance strategy more important anyway?

Things one should never outgrow:

Jessica Hagy's The Art of War Visualized

turning stones.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Dear Google Hangout,

Yes. I'm still here. But I must admit, this prompt was a little unnerving. Why so existential Google? Are you watching me?

Signed,
Someone who wonders sometimes if science fiction isn't so fiction-y anymore.

This is not a step.

It looks like a step, doesn't it? But look closely: this is not a step.

For obvious safety reasons, stepladders can be dangerous. With each subsequent level up, each step is a little more precarious than the last. Therefore, don't go too far, right? Heed the warning at the very top of most stepladders clearly marked "this is not a step."

There's a terrific irony in that but at the same time it's quite a truth too. As in life, sometimes what feels like the final step or what looks like the final step is indeed, not a step at all. And there you are, stuck. Either jump or make a shaky return to the floor. 

And yet steps shouldn't be this difficult, should they? After all, steps are the very things that make life manageable. Need a cake? Follow these steps. Need a career? Follow these steps. Addicted? Follow 12 steps. 

But as we all know, some steps are more complicated. And some, after taken, rouse regret. And some other steps may not have been taken intentionally, and then what? 

Some say no matter because the first step was the most important anyway. Without that first step, where would any of us be? It's a good point, and yet I’m interested in the next steps too because just maybe it’s steps we face when we realize we've gone the wrong way that are the most important. And then it’s that next step that makes all the difference. After all, stepping off is still a step. 

Still, stepping off may solve little. Maybe instead, it’s the reaching up and replacing of that darkened lightbulb instead. Illuminate so that others may see where and where not to step. Maybe that's the point of being on a stepladder in the first place. Why? Because I've learned just as much, maybe even more, from others’ missteps than their successes. 

Share your failures friends. I guarantee someone needs to hear them. Shed that light so others can see where and where not to step. Be the mentor you wish you’d had. 

Things one should never outgrow:

breaking trail,  (despite obstacles and unexpected challenges).

Just so you know, the answer is no.

Do pigs fly? Not so much.

(But sometimes, every once-in-a-while, they absolutely do.)

My life in 6 words...

Jessica Hagy

When will I write a book?

Unexpected Sharpness

He left behind his best pair of shoes. (I know they're comfy because we're the same size.) She left behind almost everything. (One can only take so much on a plane but I'm happy she has her guitar.) Let's be honest though. What they mostly left behind is this: me.

That's why there's an unexpected sharpness today, a lonely sharpness. I knew it was coming but I'm always easily surprised. My children are grown and gone. One moved about 8 hours away, one moved about 48 hours away. And yes, they will be back: Thanksgiving, surely Christmas, probably next summer, I don't know.

That's the thing: I don't know.

For the past week I've been talking with myself about this but I haven't much been listening to my logic. I knew it was coming. My daughter has already had two years of university six hours away. This isn't really new. Yet the difference this time seems to be that both of them are gone. And that's what I don't know: as a parent, who am I and how do I cope if both of them go?

I don't have a choice. I have to let go. But that also means I can't protect them. I can't be in charge. I can't see their faces in the morning and at night and I remember in the early years, that was the best part. I can't read Harry Potter aloud at bedtime anymore. I can't sing We Three Kings every night. And I can't make burritos, one without onions, one with everything, both with avocado and just sit and listen and laugh and nag and argue and question and challenge and debate and laugh and just look at them and just enjoy family life every day because that was the routine for so long and I barely remember a time without that routine.

That's the other thing: I don't know the new routine.

Wow that sounds old and anal. But honestly, my wife and I have built this sturdy structure, a sort-of scaffolding and now construction isn't complete but we've certainly finished this phase. And I know this is just all my stupid selfish tender heart because I'm also equally excited for them to find their own paths. My own path led to much happiness: marriage, children, career. They've earned this. I want this for them.

Yet I don't quite know my own path now.

Friends help. They remind me of the times I couldn't wait for my teens to grow up and get lives and at times, stop being assholes. I'm also told these relationships will evolve in deeper ways. I hope so. But will that happen for sure? I don't know.

Here's what I do know though: they don't need me to pine for them. They need me to be what I've always tried to be: Dad. So, just like from the very beginning of my life with them, that's what I will figure out how to do and how to be and who to be in all the ways they need me to be.

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?

Catch Flies

Source

I have a new friend. He lives in my car.

Well, to be more accurate, he lives next to my car, inside the driver’s side mirror. Almost every day he literally makes his home between that mirror and the door handle. My new friend is a spider.

Think about this. My spider friend is either exceptionally foolish or a total hero. Fool would likely be the easy choice but I’m choosing hero. Despite the fact that I drive over 100 km/hr down a bumpy highway most days and thus his web is very nearly destroyed every single time, that spider rebuilds every single time. That’s stick-to-it-ness. That’s grit. That’s perseverance. That’s determination. Meanwhile, I get annoyed when I have hiccups.

Let’s think for a moment about my insect friend. What else is that spider building besides a web? Character.

How is it that a spider seems to know more about character, especially character gained through discipline, than I do? And it’s not just spiders. Think about other examples in nature: beavers, rats, uh Wily Coyote. I even heard about a parrot that knows three languages. I mean p-uh-lease. Some days I have to text someone to walk me through various remote control functions. It all seems to beg the question: why are we humans such pathetic overgrown babies by comparison?

Truth is we aren’t. We just forget sometimes. There are plenty of human “true-gritters:” My go-to absolute-inspiration example is always, always, always Terry Fox. Mark Twain said, “the secret of getting ahead is getting started.” Terry Fox certainly started something, didn’t he? And despite not finishing, his momentum still has continuing ripple effects on Canadian health, perspective, and pride. That’s impressive. Therefore spiders, er I mean people, don’t stop building and rebuilding your webs. Catch those flies.

Wish Machine

Source

Like all Gen X'ers, I’m still waiting for flying cars but I’m prepared to wait a little longer now because I've recognized that the future is actually already here. Let me state the obvious again: the future is NOW. And how do I know?

It’s thanks to one astonishing invention. Truthfully, this invention makes as much sense to me as texting does to most Grandmas. I don’t understand how it works but, like gas prices, not everything can be explained so let’s just focus on what’s important: no one could have predicted this invention would EVER exist. AND YET IT DOES. I’m referring to the ultimate creation machine (now available for personal use): the 3D printer.

Thinking about it just makes me sweat. IMAGINE the possibilities.

Before I share some possibilities, let’s just ponder a 3D printer shall we? I love all things creative. Creative people or “creatives” LOVE to brainstorm. Think of the moment someone brainstormed a 3D printer. Genius? Yes. Practical? No. And that is my point. What creatives DON’T or SHOULDN’T do while brainstorming is evaluate their thinking. That comes later, and it should, but during the beginning stage, creativity is KILLED by judgment. In other words, one must let the mind go, let it fly. Some of those ideas will leave the nest successfully and some will hit the ground head on. Feathers everywhere? That’s ok. Creativity is always messy and sometimes even ridiculous. But that’s necessary. Think about it. This notion explains everything from pet rocks to chocolate dipped donuts stuffed with cookie dough. How could those two delights exist if someone had been using judgment? And yet, imagine our world without them.

And that’s why the 3D printer is amazing. Not only is it creativity itself; it encourages more creativity. It’s like brainstorming come to life. It’s like a wish machine that makes wishes! That’s why I want my own 3-D printer to...(Reminder: no judgement please.)

1.      Make me extra copies of my glasses (in case I lose them again).

2.      Make money. C’mon, you were thinking it too.

3.      Make me abs. Just press print and boom, I'm a hottie.

And so much more too. Plus, just imagine being with a group of friends in somebody’s garage with a 3D printer (insert giddiness here)...oh the things we’d manufacture!

Okay, now you can judge, but I hope you’ll agree that even if these print jobs are nuts, creativity not only predicts the future, it produces it. 

2013 Reads

A little late. But who cares? As Dr. Seuss said so eloquently, “How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?"

I can't imagine life with Dr. Seuss, or any of these writers, their books my favourite reads last year (in no particular order). 

Smart. Funny.
Even sorta math-y. 

TELL YOUR STORY
(even when it's heartbreaking).

Made me want to make
a mix tape. And find my
old friends. And it made
me feel again too
(because I stopped
feeling for a while.)

Thanks to Susan Cain
and stories like these,
I'm not so weird
anymore. 

Maybe cancer does
indeed reveal you
more than it changes you?
Whatever the answer, I
still fucking hate it.