I tell myself

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It's snowing here. More snow is forecast. I tell myself Spring will come.

I have never felt a more empty nest in our home. Sentimental, I remind myself we are fortunate, that everyone is currently separated in some form, all for the common good. But I continue to wonder about my grown children's safety, and our own. I continue to wonder about the elderly, the sick, medical staff, grocery-store employees, the babies not yet held by their grandparents. Others. I remind myself to be grateful. For my health. For my job. Many have lost theirs, including some of my colleagues, callously informed via Twitter/Facebook this weekend, promised the opposite only days ago. I wonder how parents are coping, and their children, their mental health. Then I notice through the window two neighbourhood kids wrapped in colourful snowsuits playing in their backyard, simultaneously climbing and sinking into a snow-hill, and I tell myself, they are strong.

I tell myself I can learn a lot from children—an educator, they have been my constant teachers. Buoyed by their inspiring ability to adapt, I tell myself to get focused, get creative, seize opportunities, persist, and learn everything I can from this. Meaning is more found in the bad times, right? I'm reading Sapiens: a Brief History of Mankind. Confident and wise, Yuval Noah Harari attempts to answer life's biggest questions. Couldn't we all use some answers right now? I wonder if Harari's answers still resonate with him, in this new season of history, weighty and charged with us all thinking the same questions. And it continues to snow.

Yet I know for sure that the writers—the storytellers, the philosophers, the filmmakers, the poets—they have all asked these questions before, and so I tell myself Rilke's words: "Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going: no feeling is final."

For Clarity

It may not look like it yet, but Spring is almost here—my favourite season. This Spring will be like none before, at least in my lifetime. Still, I am grateful for Spring. For conversations with my daughter. For a silly video from my son. For the way my wife looks at me sometimes. For friends. For my work colleagues and their dedication to all things education, even without students. For doctors and nurses and medical staff. For scientists and leaders who heed them. For surprise chocolate-chip cookies. For one last gift from my 96-year-old Grandmother. For wanting to write again. For another day. For clarity.

What we do for others—it's all that matters.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

going through the wash.

If you blur your eyes, that's me in Grade 4. I went through the wash. No big deal, right? We've all been through the wash at one point or another and another and maybe another too. But we're still here. Faded. Or pixelated. A little worn, but still here.

After several months working on another course, I have some time off. And I'm nearing the end of this Master's degree. So, for about three weeks, I am going to read (what I want). And write. And sleep late. And watch movies. And talk. And talk to myself. And walk. And laugh. And ponder the sky. And ski? And be silent. And be thankful. And be.

Things one should never outgrow:

Sometimes I recall so clearly the pull of lakes and rivers from my youth.

Looking into water is like that suspension of disbelief that occurs while watching a good film.

I have read that seeing water triggers our overstimulated brains to rest, and that swimming resets our circadian rhythms and restores healthy sleep patterns.

Water rages in many parts of the world today, but I am hoping that soon there is a rippling stream or a lake or even a pond in your life, some simple calm, some reflection.

Whether within it or not, water immerses us.

Look.

Pay attention. I was well into adulthood before I discovered that even spruce trees flower.

Much goes unnoticed. Distraction eclipses all sorts of things.

Look. And look again.

Versions

A big crappy chunk of parenting is not not being yourself but accessing another version of yourself, a hard-ass management version. Inevitably, it's necessary. Because raising adults (as opposed to raising children) is sometimes grueling yet critical both for personal well-being and society. Raising adults is super annoying too. And frustrating. Inevitably, there will be hard conversations. There will be lines drawn in the sand. And crossed. And crossed again.

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

1. my irrational fears.
2. a startling cynicism.
3. that muffled nonsense Charlie Brown adult noise.

But let's be honest. My main point was this: I love you. I love you enough and you are important enough that I won't give up and I won't give in even though I soooooooooo want to. Truth: I did give up a few times; no parent gets through this parenting gig without regrets. If only the big picture, the long term perspective, were available when you need a lifeline.

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."

Out of reach?

I'm taking some courses and one of the treats are all the new words. Yup: wordnerd. But sometimes, when I learn a new word, I think, where have you been all my life?

Recent example?

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.

?

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.

Sound

What’s your favourite sound?

I love sound: honest music, belly laughs, kittens purring, faraway skidoos, loved-one’s voices, rivers flowing, birds singing, ukulele strums, stomach gurgles and soft heartbeats. And more. It’s all great. But my favourite sound? Silence.

Around us everywhere is sound. And we are constantly processing it. We may filter some, but sound is hard to ignore. Worse yet is the chatter. It distracts us, it demands, it chastises, it confuses, it weakens: the radio, the TV, the texts, the constant updates and news flashes, the global cycle of doom, gloom, renewal, and resume. All these sound-waves impact us. They reverberate. We absorb them. Once they’re inside us, we process that discord and it churns. We’re distracted, we’re frustrated, we’re confused, we’re anxious, we’re worried, and we may not even know why. Whatever or whoever the din, we must continually swim in this steady stream of noise.

Therefore I wish you silence. In other words, I wish you peace. What’s more valuable than peace? Think about it. Don’t we all deserve a little peace? Peace of mind? To be peaceful. It soothes. It balms. It bolsters. What’s better than that?

That’s the thing: we can make peace. We can find it. We can choose it. In small ways and big ways. For most of us, it’s not that far away. And for those whose peace is distant, we can make peace for others. There are a million ways. Go offline. Go outside. Be pure of heart. Have good intentions. Apologize. Walk. Pull your sheets out the dryer and crawl inside them. Seek ways to be on good terms with others. Stop comparing yourself to others. Compromise. Forgive. Empower someone else and bask in their happiness. Surrender something. Learn something. Be honest and open and real and vulnerable. Stop trying to solve everything, at least for a while. Accept that determining blame is unproductive. Be humble. Sneak away for a while. Stay in bed an extra hour. Spend time with someone you trust and tell them what’s troubling you. Like cats do, sit in the sun. Give away cookies. Think about what you’ve accomplished instead of what you haven’t. Wander for a while. Slow down. Recharge. Breathe. Make peace with someone and it might hardly make a sound and yet it will be heard in the most important places in the heart. 

True story:

So years ago, in our kitchen, we had this plug-in that was upside down. So I decided to just unscrew it and turn it over and put it back. So then there were sparks everywhere. So then I sprinted to the breaker box and flipped the breaker. So I decided the plug itself must be faulty. So I decided to change the plug. So I drove to the store and bought a new plug. So I carefully but confidently removed the old plug noting where all the wires went so I could attach the new plug in exactly the same manner. So as not to be too cocky, I even drew a picture. So I flicked the breaker back on and returned to plug in the coffee maker to test it all the while fighting off my squeamish inner desire to brace for a potential explosion. So nothing. So I tried again. So nothing. So my wife kindly commented that she thought that particular plug-in never worked anyway so I shouldn’t worry about it. So I could have seized her with my muscular arms and kissed her madly but instead I missed her deliberate act of kindness and sarcastically remarked, “That’s the same plug-in we use for the toaster every morning!” So then I began to ruminate. So I mulled for hours the various ways my DIY intentions would indeed cause our house to burn down in the middle of the night killing my wife and children leaving me as the only scarred survivor being interviewed on television as I confessed my stupidity to Oprah. So just before bed I tried to start the dishwasher. So then it wouldn’t work either. So then I decided to burn the house down myself. So instead, I didn’t sleep for a few hours. So in the morning I called a professional and then began worrying about the $8000 it was going to cost me to fix my idiocy. So the pro arrived and he took three seconds to discover the breaker wasn’t completely flipped back on. So um, wow.

So here’s the thing: imagine a line, a continuum, and at the beginning of the line is a dot that represents the past. So in the middle of that line is a dot that represents the present and another dot further ahead near the end of the line that represents the future. So somewhere between the dots that represent the present and the future is a little arrow pointing at the line and next to it is a message: you are not here.

So, my friends, you and I should stop worrying about all those unlikely things that haven’t happened yet.

Dear Extroverts,

It’s true. You dominate our culture with your social swagger, your big personalities. Yet at least 4/10 people are introverts. Therefore we introverts would like to share our thoughts. First, some definitions.

Extrovert: typically an assertive, multi-tasker and risk-taker, who enjoys social situations and characteristically thinks out loud.

Introvert: typically enjoys quiet concentration, listening more than talking, thinking before speaking, and taking a cautious approach to risk.

No disrespect but since you can’t interrupt us right now, following are some specifics about us introverts.

1.       We like people but we need to be alone to recharge our batteries.

2.       We like earphones. If there were an earphone for the entire body, we would like that.

3.       Despite this, we are usually good listeners.

4.       When it comes to friendship, less is much more; this is sometimes hard for extroverts to understand.

5.       Introverts are not characteristically shy; it’s just that our default setting is quiet (usually).

6.       When people cancel social plans with us, we glow inside.

7.       Never EVER surprise us with a party.

8.       We can act like extroverts when needed but it can be exhausting.

9.       We are not afraid to lead or take control but we prefer to do so quietly.

10.   We thrive behind the scenes.

11.   Extroverts are more motivated by rewards than we are.

12.   Introverts enjoy being appreciated for what they can bring to the group rather than for who they are in the group.

13.   Widely reported famous introverts include J.K. Rowling, Clint Eastwood, and Steve Martin. So yes, cowboys and comedians can be introverts too.

14.   We do not think we are better than others; in fact, we sometimes feel shame for not being extroverted.

15.   We are dreamers; we think too much.

16.   We don’t want to be cured of this.

17.   It’s not funny when you send a stranger over to talk to us.

18.   Hermit? Don’t go there.

19.   YOLO? No.

20.   A pack of introverts is called a library. 

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.

Grr.

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Everyone has a dark(ish) side. Even me. Sure, I’m a nice guy. Almost always. Someone actually gave me this advice once: “you’re too nice.” Well well. There are worse things to be accused of, so I have chosen to live with that diagnosis. Yet, as with everyone, my dark side surfaces. It lifts its furrowed head and looks around. And what does it see?

Idiots.

Let me explain. People claim that true selves emerge in trying circumstances. Like in a disaster. Like when threatened with death. Like when faced with a grizzly, or a very large snake or a massive tax-bill or especially a turkey. (Sorry. That last example is a little more science-ish than science.) According to real science, there is truth to this reactive behaviour. During calm, we typically manage our lives using the frontal lobe, the rational decision-making portion of the brain. However, during great threat, the amygdala, the small inner core of the brain, trumps all rational thinking and instead, we act based on intense emotion: fight, flight, or freeze. This is designed to save our lives but yet also ruin our lives, because well, idiots idiot things up.

So when does the amygdala transform us into idiots? Is it when our grandparents ask us to fix their computers? Is it when surveys are requested during supper? Is it when our phones are missing? All of the above. And more. Quite honestly, we’ve all lost our shit here and there and that one time at that family reunion. Ahem. But I digress.

My amygdala typically gets rage-y when I’m driving. It’s emotional. People cut you off. They don’t always remember their signal lights. They drive too slowly. So no offence but I probably called you an idiot. I’m not the only one though. See, I conducted an official math(ish) poll and it turns out that literally seven out of ten people also think you drivers are idiots. You do not want to know what the other three people called you.

Hmm. I discovered yesterday that I’ve been driving with only one headlight. I wonder what you called me?

See? Everyone does have a dark(ish) side.

Chicken, out.

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Why did the chicken cross the road? Good question, because I hit it with my car on my way to work.

The whole thing took seconds but I recall everything in slow motion. I saw that prairie chicken emerge from the grass at the side of the road. Like all those Roadrunner cartoons I watched on repeat as a kid, its back legs spun like wheels, its neck extended as forward as possible, so fixated, so intent on reaching its destination, like any moment it might catapult like a missile.

Despite some part of me cheering it on, I knew what was imminent because that chicken was simply too far from that elusive other-side-of-the-road. Why the rush chicken? Why did you need to cross the road at that precise time? Were you being chased by Wile E. Coyote? Was an anvil about to drop from somewhere? What’s on the other side? An important meeting? A manicure? The pub? A KFC protest? Who knows, because even though that prairie chicken reached the center line (narrowly avoiding an oncoming truck)...boom: feathers. Chicken, out.

Sorry chicken.

Later at work, I pulled it out of my grill and threw it in a dumpster. Now that’s a bummer of a Friday.

I must say there are things we can all learn from that chicken. We all recognize the meaning behind “running around like a chicken with your head cut off,” and yet, based on this incident, I can tell you that even with his head attached that chicken looked super frazzled. Peeps, getting from point A to point B shouldn’t be so stressful. Just what is SO IMPORTANT on the other side of the road?

Not much. Most of what we worry about never happens. But stress (the result of an overloaded nervous system repeating "imminent threat imminent threat") compels us to believe the best time to cross the road and get to the other side (whatever that may mean to each of us) is yesterday. Some would argue against this vehemently, but let’s be honest: we all have the same amount of time every day. Until suddenly, we don’t. So if you get my meaning, slow down chickens. Slow down.

Wordfuse (Fatigue Edition)

Yenning for some. Because we all wake up feeling like these some days.

Just so you know, the answer is no.

Is it possible for me to NOT wonder every time I use a boot-boy if today is the day when he snaps and becomes a wood chipper?

Whoa.

Swim it out.

Do this. It rocks. 

What builds muscle mass and improves endurance? What protects us from joint stress and strain? What helps alleviate arthritis? What improves cardio-respiratory fitness and burns calories almost as efficiently as cycling? What works almost all our muscles? What is effective when we're old or injured? What cools the body (and the mind)?

Ice cream (especially root-beer floats).

I wish. Actually, if you were thinking eating of any kind (instead of swimming), sadly that is incorrect, but I like the way you think.

This year, one of the hottest I can recall, I have gone swimming in

a.       a pool.

b.      the ocean.

c.      with a bear, literally (thankful he kept to his own side of the river and left fairly quickly).

d.      in that shimmery-shade-of-sugary-blue glacial water.

This was weird. I seldom swim. For me, clothing is rarely optional and water and I haven’t always been in a trustworthy relationship. Yet, in that water whether it was salty or freezing or a little too populated, I couldn’t help but unwind. And it made me wonder:

1.      Maybe flying is actually floating.

2.      Maybe swimming washes away more than we realize.

3.      Maybe swimming resets perspective.

4.      Where else can you pee your pants in public?

5.      Maybe swimming makes us young again.

6.      Maybe it’s impossible to be unhappy in the water.

“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it’s always our self we find in the sea.” –e.e. cummings

Go swim. 

Things one should never outgrow:

expecting great things whether you catch them or not.

"I love fishing. You put that line in the water and you don't know what's on the other end. Your imagination is under there." ~Robert Altman

#happyCanadaday

I'm trying.

This is my Dad. Age 22. 1960. Nearly a year before he married my Mom.

My Dad died many years ago now. I wish I could talk to him about this photo. But I can't so I will focus on what I know. He's in a camp, a logging camp in northern Saskatchewan or Manitoba. He once told me that his logging days were some of his best. Good friends. Hard work. Away from home. He didn't much appreciate his roots.

My Dad was an extrovert. Born confident or so it seemed to me. Much like my oldest brother. In this photo he looks a bit like his own father, a big swath of dark hair. I see myself in there too. Never once did I see my Dad wear a sweater so I guess he was uncomfortably cold. Clothes were only ever just functional for my Dad. So many more things were so much more important: land, hard work, the news, women who punched men in the movies, The Flintstones.

Although my Dad loved to talk and I appreciated listening, I didn't always pay attention. Yet I heard enough and I certainly watched what he did. Those images are indelible now. And what did his actions say?
1. Lead.
2. Drive fast.
3. Don't hurt kids.
4. Pay your bills; pay a few others' bills too.
5. There's hidden potential in most things, especially what others would deem as junk.

I have my suspicions about how my Dad learned these lessons. Poverty in his youth shaped his story. He was the oldest son saddled with too much responsibility too soon, he loved the freedom and escape connected to a powerful engine, he knew too well what it meant to be a hurt kid. Poverty taught my Dad to manage money but also help his neighbours. But mostly poverty made him a problem-solver, to make something out of nothing just to survive. Sadly, it scarred him too. He struggled to forgive some and understand others. Poverty sucked the ease out of him and replaced it with worry, occasionally quite irrational worry. He could not relax. He could not stop working.

There's a valuable saying I like: "put your future in good hands, your own." That's what my Dad's life said.

And I'm trying Dad. I was never as strong as you but I'm trying. I'm trying.

Watermelon Optional

Famous saying: “when one door closes, open the fridge.”

Oh I get it folks. I get it. It’s all about delayed gratification: one of the hallmarks of maturity, perseverance, and personal growth. And I admit it: I need some. But sometimes delayed gratification and its first cousin rational thinking get hip-checked in front of a bus when there are food-truck deep-fried fish and chips on the menu.

Why must food taste so darn delicious? Why should salt be unhealthy? Who exactly was the genius fat-guy who invented nachos just to simultaneously bring joy and ruin to my life? Why can’t one amazing thing, like chocolate for example, be completely without calories? Or better yet why doesn't a ten-minute strenuous session of sitting or shampooing one’s hair burn like 1000 calories? And what if sleeping for seven or eight hours burned enough calories that we humans could just start eating again the next day? 

Oops. That is what happens isn’t it?

Well then, why isn’t that enough? Like many, I’ve been asking myself that question my entire life and I still have very few answers. On the Internet apparently Abraham Lincoln clearly states that if I just simply act happy about eating an entire pail of ice cream then my body will better metabolize those calories and I will still lose weight so if this was good enough for Lincoln, who am I to argue with that?

All I DO know about my never-ending war/dance-off with food is this: stress is evil. And the only way I have learned to cope with stress is to eat an entire watermelon and go for a walk and have a good talk with myself where mostly I try to muster some gratitude about every grand and astounding thing about my life, my ONE and only life. And sometimes I don’t even eat the watermelon.

And that folks, is all the wisdom I have on this subject.