Things one should never outgrow:

a large dipped cone from Dairy Queen (especially when the temp is 36 degrees). 

Live in the moment?

We all agree it's important to live in the moment, but some ask, how?  

How? 

We humans struggle with living life in the now. Why? Honestly, how could we not? Who has the luxury of living in the moment? People without responsibilities? People without goals? People whose needs are easily attained? Billionaires? There's always something making us busy now, often for good reasons such as, others. True living in the moment might be achievable for toddlers only. 

Maybe it's legitimately better to live for the future? Isn't this why we study? Isn't this why we raise children? Isn't this why we schedule holidays? Isn't this why we train for marathons? There's always something making us busy now, for then. 

I think living in the moment is the right intention, but perhaps the wrong idea: I can't surrender to consistently living in the moment, but I can surrender—and recommend—living in the moments. I read Alice Walker's book: I notice the color purple. It's a cliché but it's true: stop and smell the roses, or linger after the kiss, or go ahead and swim in the lake, or take the day off to be with a toddler (personal favourite) aka live in the moments. And how? 

When I'm mindful, it goes like this:

1. I decide
2. to stop,
3. and revel.

And then I forget. And then I'm mindful again. And then I get busy again. And then I forget. Rinse and repeat. But when I remember steps 1, 2, 3...wow...those moments...they lift me. 

Love Letter

source

Writers are urged to resist sentimentality. I've tried. But, disclaimer: I. Just. Can't.

Today is my Grandma's 97th birthday. We wrote letters to each other for over thirty years, at least until arthritis and a failing memory prevented her from writing back. She died less than six months ago. I miss her. I couldn't attend her funeral, so I wrote one last letter which was read at her memorial. 

Dear Grandma,

Thank you for what you did for me. It meant everything. You were my first real memory: you taught me how to tie my shoes. It’s a simple but essential skill I’ve used almost every day since, and one that I will use for the rest of my life. How could I not think of you everyday, at least for a moment? It’s easy to think about you. Because you cared. You listened. You noticed. You were the first person I trusted. I remember your kiss before bed. No one ever did that before. I remember every new pair of knitted mittens. I felt calm reading your Reader’s digest books. I felt smart doing Grandpa’s newspaper puzzles because you encouraged me. I felt warm being in the garden with you, watching Tub wander between the rows. I remember when I asked you to sit beside me at your electric organ because I had finally, finally learned a song to play for you, and together we sang Elvis’ hit song, “Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go….”

I felt safe with you—the way you said my name, the way you paid attention. There is a lot of rejection in life, but you accepted me. I didn’t think I was lovable, but you loved me anyway, despite my faults and flaws. There was always a whirlwind of nervousness and shame and loneliness twisting my childhood insides, but I felt peaceful with you. I remember how you would look at me from across the room and smile, just for me. No one else did that. I had two modes as a kid: bawling or annoying. (No wonder you drank scotch.) Yet you were patient with me. I don’t know...maybe you were an annoying kid too, or bullied, or felt different, or loved somebody who was? Or maybe you were fueled by compassion? Whatever the reason, because you accepted me, I learned to accept myself. I will always be grateful for that, plus it taught me how I should treat others, how to support and respect everyone, all kinds of people. I failed these lessons many times, sometimes still do, but they were lessons I surely needed, and the world does too. Thank you. “Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled….”

I learned from you that happiness is a choice, and people need reminders. You helped me understand that worrying and bitterness is inaction. Sometimes, I would listen while you had conversations with others around all those kitchen tables, and when topics got dark and hopeless, you would find something witty and positive to say, dropping a mic on all that pointless complaining. You were honest. You would tease Grandpa until he stopped worrying, mocking his voice with a wink. You were authentic. That can be a vulnerable and thus uncomfortable way to be for most of us, but I watched you, and I learned. I asked you what you wanted for your birthday once and you smiled and said, “I already have everything…plus a cane, and a walker, and one leg shorter than the other.” You were real. You had a way with words. You made me laugh. You taught me that honesty builds bridges between us, and laughter heals rifts, helps us cope, helps sustain us. You lifted us up. “Love me tender, love me long, take me to your heart….”

I learned from you the meaning of real strength. I once stopped by to visit and found you in your bedroom on your exercise bike. Your walker was nearby. Sweating, you jumped off and we sat together, talked, and ate cookies. You made jokes about how fat you were getting, even though I’d guess you weighed the same trim weight your entire adulthood. You did not take yourself too seriously, you were always humble, but to me you were perseverance personified. You built a farm, you raised three kids, you picked the roots and shooed the bears. You cooked the feasts and scrubbed the clothes, and during all of this, your hair was curled just so. You lost your only son much too soon. Then your husband, your siblings, three of your grandchildren, your oldest daughter. No one can plan for that kind of grief, for a life with that much heartache. Only once, not that many years ago, do I recall your strength wavering, when you said, “I don’t know why I’m still here.” I understood you, Grandma. You didn’t want to be a burden. None of us do. But this moment passed, thanks to ice cream and chocolate, which are actually two very good reasons to persist through the struggles. But I know why you were still here Grandma. I’m telling you right now. You were here for me, and for everyone else in this room. To show us that we can endure more than we realize, that we are stronger than we think, and you will continue to teach us that lesson as we age. “Love me tender, love me dear, tell me you are mine…till the end of time.”

People say that everyone growing up needs that one person who believes in them. You were that person for me. You never missed my birthday or any other important occasion in my life. You never raised your voice. You made extra chocolate cupcakes just for me and told me to eat, eat, eat. (This may have worked too well on me Grandma.) You never judged me, ever. You told my wife once, “David gets me.” You got me too, Grandma. You were my unconditional love. Thank you, because it made me a better, stronger person, even though I’m bawling a little bit right now and I can still be annoying. I will never forget you Grandma. You were loved and will always be loved; you will always be part of my stories, and if I have grandchildren someday, I will treat them exactly how you treated me…  “Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled….”

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye (nerds edition):

Walking to work last month, my friend noticed something so she sent me this photo: far below, a light shining on the ice surface below the bridge. Following is a summary of our conversation over the next week.

Her: Things that deserve the stink-eye...this glowing light is a cell phone on the river. #strangerthings

Me: MY IMAGINATION IS ON FULL THROTTLE. What if that's Barb down there?! IN THE UPSIDE DOWN?!

Her: AND SHE'S SENDING US A MESSAGE!

Honestly I couldn't wait to walk home and see for myself. And yup, I saw the little green light too. So I texted her back...

Me: The light is still there! I'm shook.

Walking to work mornings and evenings, we texted for the next week; we even considered venturing onto the river, but no because, death. Yet the "cell phone" continued to glow. C'mon though: WHAT CELL PHONE HAS A LIGHT THAT REMAINS ON THAT LONG?

Eventually the light faded...

And that's when we realized...

Indeed, my friend. It. Is.

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.

Inside My Box

Inside my box.

I slept in a box this weekend. Along with several other people, I participated in a homeless simulation, and I got the message. 

I have seen bums sleeping on the streets in Edmonton, Montreal, Paris, Rome. Sometimes I would put a coin or two in their cups and move on. Before my experience, I hadn't thought about what it means to label someone a "bum." Sleeping on asphalt outside overnight has me thinking carefully about that word and its intent. When I call someone a bum, am I saying...You are a piece of crap? You are connected to a bodily function that I'd rather not dwell on? Hence I can ignore you?

My 12-hour homeless experience was the tip of the tip of the poverty iceberg, yet the event clearly said gratitude. Usually blind to my privileges, I saw them everywhere at home today: blankets, pillows, lip balm, toothpaste, mosquito spray, deodorant, sunglasses, socks, shampoo, food. So much comfort. Doesn't everyone deserve this comfort? Yet the poor are blamed, dismissed, disrespected, ignored.  

How does that lack of compassion impact a person's daily mental health?

Science teaches that pain is subjective. Our brains use pain as a signal for action; the actual pain is not an accurate indicator of how much damage has occurred to our bodies (or minds). Thus pain responses are individual in nature. This is both fascinating to me, and, considering the homeless, tragic. Yet it explains a lot, because if my pain is not your pain, it takes effort to truly understand your pain. Thus the homeless, and what they're experiencing--so abstract to me--becomes invisible to me as it does for so many of us. 

I survived one night sleeping outside in a box, but if I had to do it again tonight and tomorrow and tomorrow and almost everyone ignored me everyday...who would my pain make of me? A thief? A drug addict? Dead? It's not so abstract anymore. 

The last Friday in May.

Who doesn't need to take a moment the last Friday in May? A moment to just enjoy the sky and the sun and apple-tree flowers and bees everywhere. A moment to look at a stump left behind by a tree almost 40 years old, a tree that was dying. A moment to marvel at its life and the space it left behind and how it is actually possible to miss a tree. A moment to contemplate change. A moment to push off whatever sits on your shoulders and push off into another space, a quiet, safe space where you can stop thinking for a moment. A moment to stretch your back and sigh and put your feet on solid ground and close your eyes and breathe and just inhabit the moment and so what when inevitable distractions occur, well that's just balloons floating away. A moment to remember someone no longer here, no longer laughing and eating ice cream or dancing in a parking lot or mulching the garden or planting gladiolas or baking bread or driving a tractor through a field dreaming much too much into a future instead of the only place we can find happiness: in the now.  A moment to ponder what the last Friday in May should be about: friends and gin and pumpkin break pudding and text messages about Austin Powers and letters mailed like silent promises. A moment to celebrate and say thanks for everything you have and everything you once had and everything that you might have someday but so what if you don't? Because, today.

Arrangement

Often art is all about the arrangement: words, shapes, images, narratives, chronology, choreography, notes, even wind-blown pine-cones.

Nature is definitely an artist.

Things one should never outgrow:

Thanks Mac & Shay.

a wiener roast, especially a Winter wiener roast.

It's weird when you get oldish and your kid invites you over for supper. But I like it.

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. 

Things one should never outgrow:

While walking one day, I discovered this home-made "Stonehenge." It reminded me of that maxim
1. Eat.
2. Design.
3. Sleep.

Happening upon this little circle of stones, I felt a kindred spirit. What's the point of life if we don't create something out of it? Whether it's a tool or technology, or a territory, we humans make things. And we hope others will admire these creations. My psychology training tells me it's like self-determination theory: we need to feel in charge of something in the world (autonomy), we strive to succeed at that something (competence), so we can share that something with others (relatedness).

I noticed you kid, I noticed.

Things one should never outgrow:

Our Family: the Lego mini-figure version
c Summer 2016

Lego.

Solid

Many years ago my Dad made a miniature Kenworth truck & flat-bed trailer. Like literally cut and welded it all together. Although it’s a toy, it’s heavy and it’s permanent. And in fact, it’s amazing. It will surely survive the zombie apocalypse.

He gave me this toy when I was a young adult. Sadly, I didn’t really understand the gesture then so I wonder now if I thanked him properly. My Dad absolutely loved cars and trucks and vehicles but we didn’t share this enthusiasm much so when he gave me this gift I was confused. It wasn’t my birthday or Christmas and he didn’t explain why. But I get it now Dad. I do.

Not long before my Dad died, I re-gifted his toy to my son when he was still a boy, and I know that’s exactly what my Dad wanted. My son played with it many times. But then it was tucked on a shelf in a room for years and so I hadn’t thought about it much but recently, I was able to re-examine it from all angles, and it’s like I’m seeing it again for the first time. The details are impressive. Washers for headlights, tiny mirrors painted silver. Some sort of safety lights on the top of the cab. Cylindrical silver fuel tanks. Steel wheels. A smoke stack. (Why not two stacks, Dad?) Some of the detailing is scratched now but it still lumbers along quite well, yet I wouldn’t want to drop it on my foot.

What I especially notice about this toy this time are all my Dad’s mistakes. I can see his cuts weren’t perfect. The paint doesn’t hide all the welds and some are raised and uneven. His hammer marks are visible. Now, this is the best part. His mistakes tell his story because they illuminate his process, his time, his energy, his focus, his art, his work. My Dad didn’t much care how things looked; he preferred how they functioned. Because I too have aged, I feel like I can guess his thoughts: perfection is fiction.

The act of creating and making and giving and receiving is messy but it’s honestly the only stab we all have at immortality. In this sense, I guess my Dad was making a sort-of time machine. For me. (And for himself too.) He knew I would return to this toy throughout my life. It’s a message from the past about the investment required to be a father. It’s a tangible piece of his respect and appreciation and love. And like him, (and like me) it’s not perfect but it’s solid which, I believe, is his way of saying to me that’s what’s truly important. Thanks Dad. 

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.