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.

Let's be honest:

we should all have the confidence of a miniature donkey.

They have mohawks. Long fuzzy ears. Beautiful down-cast eyes. Upon entering the fence, they just mosey on over and stand next to you, waiting to be petted. Don't try to move them though; they are tiny, but solid and, as advertised, stubborn. And I swear they are nervous system regulators.

Fave Reads 2017

Working on another degree, I do a lot of reading. I love what I'm learning and it's rewiring my brain. But it's hard work. So it means I savour taking time away from academics just to read a few stories and inhabit some spaces that catch my eye. These are the ones I loved this year.

Terrific graphic novel.
This author loves words
and their many meanings.
Also goldfish.
And how deep a
well pain can be. 

Devoured this. Felt
stronger & more
hopeful. Felt like
resistance &
persistence. Everyone
should read this.

Illustrated philosophy.
A humble artist's voice
about how to be just
"half a shade braver."

Merricat is memorable.
And it's a little scary
to let her into your head.
She lingers, both heroic
and heinous. 

Scenes in this book
still resonate with me.
Dogs' inner narratives
reveal humanity. 

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. 

Along for the Ride

My education transformed and transported me. It's a common story. It's an important story too. As MLK said, "nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity."

Recently, both my children graduated: one from college and one from university. This was my #1 bucket list item. I've been working on this dream for 20 years. Determined, my wife and I made this happen. My children are starting their adult lives debt free. I'm grateful. I'm happy. And I'm looking forward to where it takes them next. Because I am finally going along for the ride.

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. 

Absorbed.

Careful. It's easy to miss a perfect day. Some days are so simple they may not warrant much reflection, but I am happy to say, I absorbed everything today:

1.  sleeping in and waking up and knowing my grown son is home.
2.  a mid-morning nap.
3.  a stone brought from Hawaii for me. 
4.  eggs fried in coconut oil.
5.  breakfast with almost everyone I love (only one missing and she comes next weekend).
6.  next-level laughter.
7.  warm and melty outdoors.
8.  a long walk.
9.  slush.
10.  successfully avoiding that trucker's attempt to splash me hard.
11.  a silly movie.
12.  another (yes another!) nap.
13.  new iTunes.
14.  lazy cabbage rolls.
15.  a phone call from my daughter.
16.  this video.
17.  canned peaches.
18.  a hug.  
19.  SNL.
20.  & fresh sheets.

Why the fuss Canadians?

source

When asked why he chose equal numbers of men and women to form his cabinet, PM Justin Trudeau said, “Because it’s 2015.”

Boom. Pretty much the equivalent of dropping the mic.

Not all Canadians appreciate this. But I can’t fathom why. If it’s because of sexism, whether willful or through pure ignorance, that’s total bunk. Anyone who has a mother should be ashamed of themselves for that sort of patriarchal nonsense. Personally, I think this decision is a moot point. It doesn’t matter where anyone is on the political spectrum, there is no point debating this. Any debate speaks to bias and sexism because any Canadian citizen age 18 or over, male or female, of a particular race or religion, immigrant or indigenous, ALL PERSONS, have the right to run for elected office. Ever hear of the “Famous Five”? Or the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms? Since 1960. (Go ahead and google it; the history of this is dreadful.) So 55 years later, why is this even a thing?

For those who contend that he chose gender over qualifications or experience like some political publicity stunt, I doubt that, because puh-lease, do people really think there aren't 15 women capable of these leadership roles? Even if some lack experience, it doesn’t mean he chose the wrong people. For eons we’ve had qualified/unqualified, experienced/inexperienced, predominantly male politicians who’ve misrepresented their constituents and our country in numerous and appalling ways. See the Senate for several recent examples. And no, of course, not all are corrupted by power, but definitely a few too many. Anyone, regardless of gender can be nominated, be elected, and be really shitty at their jobs. We Canadians have that right too.

Justin Trudeau could also have answered that question this way: “Because it’s my choice.” It was and it is because Canadians elected him. That’s democracy and despite its misgivings, when I look around the world, I don’t see government better than democracy. So considering it’s November, let’s pause for a moment of silence and reflect on why we have a democracy. And let’s remember how fortunate we are to live where we live. 

Blink

I've been struggling to write. And to read. Begin my July projects. Master something. Create something new. Relax. It's the starting. The struggle is to start. I keep dismissing the start. I'm doing it again right now.

I have no more and no less hours each day than every other person on Earth. So what's the deal? Starting. Starting is the problem.

Above my desk is a sticky note, a reminder: after a devastating stroke, Jean-Dominique Bauby wrote his memoirs using only his left eye. Blink after blink. Wow. Considering this, how could I possibly whine for one more second?

And yet, I still can't start. I think it's doubt. Honestly. Self-doubt. Does everyone forget sometimes how to start? I was surprised when I found myself in the kitchen today to cook. There was a time when I cooked every night but I can't recall, before today, the last thing I cooked.

I made rice. I chopped onions. I toasted peanuts. I made a salad dressing. Added together, they made a meal. I guess that's something at least.

Recently my wife gave me a leather-bound journal. It's a beautiful thing to someone like me. The paper is hand-made, the binding hand-stitched. A note inside from the artist suggests using the book as "my personal book of wisdom." I like that idea. I'd like to draw in it too. And yet, I can't start. And I'm worried I will somehow ruin it.

There's that self-doubt again.

Like Bauby, I must figure out how to begin again. What other choice is there? And I will choose. I know I will. One blink at a time. I just did. I guess that's something.

Both

Surrender? Transition? Change? Flux? Letting go? Transformation? Giving in? Giving up? All endings.

And depending on how you look at them, they are all beginnings too. Both.

Some People.

Stumps are trees too.

"When you have seen one ant, one bird, one tree you have not seen them all." 
~Edward O. Wilson

I think the same would apply to people, don't you? I hope you think so too. Because, thankfully, someone

eventually steps up,
steps in,
sees it differently and says so,
says what needs to be said,
says enough,
shuts down negativity,
reminds us, "not everything is about you,"
finally says what everyone was thinking,
finally cuts through the crap,
takes the lead (and inspires several other someones),
takes the time to actually listen,
squeezes our shoulders just when we need a bit of courage,
lets in all the fresh air so everyone can breathe again,
is vulnerable enough to be honest,
admits to being wrong,
takes responsibility (even when someone else probably should),
forgives it all,
smiles,
says yes or says no,
as needed,
and both are absolutely right.

Someone
(you might not even suspect)
changes everything,
changes me,
changes you,
changes us all.

Are you someone?

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?

Some Give.

Door's wide open.

“Giving in is not the same as giving up.”

Think about that. Like me, it may help you sort something out.

I interpret these phrases several ways.

      1.Giving in is to compromise or surrender.

      2.Giving up is to abandon or to release.

I know, I know. Some might say we should never give up. But is giving up always negative?

Giving in is a way to continue momentum in another direction. Giving up is a way to discontinue momentum. And yet sometimes giving up might also lead to a new solution, a new outlook, a new path. Depending on the situation, I see value in both reactions.

For example, one lesson I learned early was to give up my need to be right. Marriage teaches this to us all doesn't it? However, as the youngest in my family I developed this essential skill fairly early, just to manage conflict during my youth. Yet beyond family, it taught me well in life that giving in, compromising, is a way to forge relationships and build bridges. And I am proud to say that I try to seek to learn something from everyone regardless of gender, education, age, religion, culture, past or present, whatever. This learning inspires me; the listening does too. So do great leaders. I feel this has helped me determine what I agree with and what I don’t. In this sense, giving in and giving up has given me so much more.

But there’s another lesson I still haven’t mastered yet: give up focusing on what’s wrong instead of what’s right. This lesson can make all the difference in moving forward and achieving happiness. Why? Give in or give up; either way, something will give. 

I miss when...

#highschoolgraduationday

my son was still a little boy.

Just so you know, answer is no.

My father's day card this year. Love it.

Is this wrong?

#summer

Things that are most likely the devil?

Need a yeti? Source

In 2011, Time magazine did a comprehensive study on customer service satisfaction: it revealed that at least 1 in 2 people have a story to tell about their own personal customer service HELL. I have a new one but instead of leading me to hell it led me somewhere "colder."

Which of the following occurred when I recently called customer service after I discovered debit card fraud? (Spoiler: it’s all of them!)

a. Choose from among these six options.

b. Choose from among these four sub-options.

c. Remain on hold for 15 minutes. 

d. Informed that this office cannot help because they process only lost or stolen cards, not card fraud. Huh? 

e. Redirected to another office.

f.  Repeat.

g. New office can’t help either. Redirected back to the original office.

h. Repeat.

i. Original office wants to know: who gave me this number?

j. No words. Asked for supervisor. Similar "can't help" message. Told that only credit cards are processed through their service. Debit card can only be cancelled by bank. Bank closed. No emergency number. (Already knew that but still incredulous: not acceptable.) Respectfully asked the representative if HE would be ok with leaving  HIS bank account vulnerable to a criminal with a bogus version of HIS debit card accessing ATMs in New York all weekend. New flash: Nope. He wouldn't. But he still couldn't help. 

k. Cry out to the sky.

l. Phone random office numbers at bank branches like I’m playing Ding-Dong-Ditch.

m. Office closed, directed to voice mail.

n. Next. Repeat. Office closed, directed to voice mail.

o. Next. Repeat. Office closed, directed to voice mail. 

p. ALL OFFICES ON EARTH ARE NOW CLOSED. HELP ME, HELP ME, PLEASE.

q. Scotch.

r. Next. Repeat.

s. “Hello.”

t. Confused, momentarily forget why and whom I called.

u. Person revealed she is not officially at work but she will take care of the problem.

WHAT? YES! And that, my friends, is how I found the YETI of customer service! People: never give up. If you search hard enough, true customer service people really do exist.  

Free

by Nate X

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." ~Maya Angelou

If stories are birds then inside us are both hummingbirds and pterodactyls. Which ones will you set free?

Ladders

Last summer I borrowed my brother's ladder. And his gloves. What I used them to do wasn't really important. But he would have liked that I completed the task, a task I truly wish he was still here to do. If he were here he may have nodded and then he would have directed me to another task. My brother was a doer. He was always getting things done without any hesitation, or so it seemed to me.

I'm a thinker but I need to remind myself to be a little more like my brother and get things done. Don't get me wrong: I'm not lazy. I don't often need a push. I just get lost in my head occasionally. As the saying goes, it's impossible to climb a ladder with your hands in your pockets.

Folks, think about this: maybe the memory of someone is like a ladder. Borrow your courage wherever you can. And keep climbing.

Just so you know, the answer is no.

Aristotle

Are mistakes and poor choices the same thing?

(Mistakes don't define us unless we continue making them.)

Sometimes.

Sometimes I'm sure that Spring is mine, only mine. Green is my colour. Rain is my preference. Soil is my canvas. Buds are my buds.

Spring colourizes dead grass while I stand there in my bare feet, sponges. Spring is potential. Details burgeoning. Energy personified. Water runs marathons down ditches. 

Slow down Spring. I know you can't but Summer is too hot, Winter too long. Autumn is second to my Spring but Autumn’s alluring colour is merely Spring’s closing credits. Spring establishes the story.

Spring was my father and brothers suddenly gone seeding for a month. Spring was my mother’s Iris spikes and Gladiola bulbs. Spring was my youth studying muddy water, wide sweeping Saskatchewan water sucked into culverts, an eddy twisting above the hole; I dropped a stick in there, ran across the road to the other side and I still want to know where it went. Now, Spring is April pussywillows on my daughter's birthday and the May green leaves on my son's birthday. I keep time with Spring so I won't waste it.