Things that deserve the stink-eye:

 

My wife likes to toss her gloves on the desk near the back door. So, what's the problem? Notice that security camera behind them? Sigh. 

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.

Lang May Yer Lum Reek.

The fireplace in The Great Hall at Edinburgh Castle, Scotland. 

We just watched fireworks in Northern Alberta. And it's -30 C! Two parts impressive and one part yikes. Various New Years Eve celebrations were scaled back or cancelled all across Canada this year. I also read that Scotland's weather interfered with Hogmanay. Yet, thankfully, good people all over the world find a way to celebrate all things hopeful. As they say in Scotland (definitely missing you right now), Lang may yer lum reek.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

A few days ago, I went to a team meeting away from my regular work-site and discovered when I arrived that I was wearing two different shoes. One gray. One black. One with a thicker heel than the other. Um....

What can you do but laugh? (I've actually done this before.) So I showed everyone at my meeting and we laughed and laughed. Did I mention I'm one of the older ones on our team? I really enjoy working with those toddlers though, so no big whoop.

Then...I texted my wife a photo and she laughed too.

Returning to work the following day, I made an usual discovery...first one co-worker...then another....then another...then another....

My sneaky wife! I felt a simultaneous aching sheepishness and utter love for those charming buggers I work with. What's better than that?

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.

The Power of Cookies

About 15 pounds ago, I learned how to make cookies. Last month I decided that if I ever wanted cookies again, I would have to learn the ancient secrets of cookie-making. Why? It’s my wife’s fault. She doesn’t bake anymore. Now before you label me sexist, in no way do I think baking is woman’s work. It’s just that she happened to be the one who made exceptional cookies, muffins, and other delicious what-have-you (or in my case “what-have-you-not”) and I miss all that stuff more than my adult(ish) children. Plus, she is into health and fitness and other mythologies that I struggle to accept.

So, after like two years of waiting for cookies to magically appear, I was struck with a novel thought that some might deem common sense, but not me: bake them yourself David. And so it began. My first batch was decent. But my second and third attempts were impressive and THEN NOW? Well, let’s just say there’s enough butter in my incredible soft and chewy chocolate chip cookies that after 13 minutes and 54 seconds in a 350-degree oven, they all melt into ONE GIANT COOKIE called insert-heavenly-music-here. Actually, I named them Cookie-Monster cookies because, ME LIKE COOKIE. Also, while eating them they fall apart in the same signature way that cookies get catapulted all-sorts-and-such when Cookie Monster unsuccessfully snarfs them down them because (SPOILER) Cookie Monster has no throat.

So then I started bragging to people about my cookies. Anyone with basic deductive skills likely knows what followed. PROVE IT they said. And so I did. And then I did again. And again. And then one more time. Finally, I realized they were manipulating me into making cookies. So I stopped. Then began the gentle inquiries attempting to deflect from the way they USED ME. For example, some asked, “Do you make other kinds of cookies?” My response: “What, like raisin? NO. Raisins don’t have the right flavour, and more importantly, vibe. Basically raisins are sad grapes. Cookies don’t need that kind of negativity.”

Whoa. When did I get so bitter? A sudden realization struck me, a cookiepiphany, if you will. Cookies are more than the sum of their ingredients. They bring people together. They could end global conflict. Therefore, I must make more. AND I must share them. AND SO MUST YOU. Right?

Things one should never outgrow:

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

Lego.

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.

Shoehorned?

Writer David Gerrold said, “Half of being smart is knowing what you’re dumb at.” It’s one of my all-time favourite quotes. There are so many things I’m dumb at. Some examples:

1.       Parking.

2.       Answering the phone.

3.       Opening vehicle hoods.

4.       Selfies. (How does everyone know where to look?)

5.       Not eating.

And 6,453 other things. But I had no idea I was dumb at shoehorns. And then I got some new shoes. Swanky ones. Anyway, my wife (waiting at the door to leave so we can attend something not at our house which is pretty much the only place I like to attend during evenings) saw my struggle and, brow furrowed, swooped in to help me, aka take over. Suddenly, she was on the floor and my shoe still wasn’t on and we were having one of those husband-wife “discussions” that waver hazardously on the tipping point between laughter and rage.

This is pretty much how it went down:

Me: There’s something wrong with these shoes.

The wife: (shakes head, smiles) There’s something wrong with you.

M: There’s something wrong with YOU.

TW: YOU.

M: I have a solution. Let’s stay home.

TW: (makes the face) No.

M: It was worth a try. I can’t help it if one of my feet is bigger than the other.

TW: What? Since when?

M: I don’t know; feet are feet. One gained weight.

TW: Just USE the shoe horn.

M: I’ve never used a shoe horn before. Shoehorns are for old people.

TW: YES they are for old people who can’t put their shoes on!

M: (crushing the heel)

TW: (unprintable things)

After three attempts…

TW: USE the shoe horn.

M: (more heel crushing which only enflames my wife’s agony since she loves loves loves shoes) Why won’t it work?

TW: (looks at me like I’m a stop sign that says go)

At this point we can’t stop laughing. My shoe is outsmarting us. It’s like we’re playing shoe Twister.

M: I’ll just wear other shoes?

TW: (Doubly determined. Finally. Something. Works.)

M: (I so want to make a joke that starts with “if the shoehorn fits” but we’re late and the air feels prickly.)

Later, I shared this story with my hardware-store guy and he says this: “maybe you can learn how to use a shoehorn on YouTube?” So we googled it. AND YOU CAN, which also means I’m not the only one dumb at shoe-horns. See folks: we’re all dumb at something, until we’re not. It's a choice. Choose. 

Things one should never outgrow:

goodwill.

My wife peeled a pomegranate for me today. In this season of gifts, a small gift can be such a big gift. I hope you receive such gifts as I do.

Sometimes & Something

Sometimes the absolute best thing is a movie. No question. Add popcorn and lots of butter. And a blanket, a pillow, chips, some chocolate. Or in a theatre with a crowd, each and all fixated, the light flickering in our eyes. Sometimes it’s all a person really needs to feel whole again.

So Hollywood! Stop making the same bad movie again and again. Sure, what makes movies great is very subjective and yet I believe that a truly great, unforgettable movie must contain at least ten of the following things:

1.       a surprise

2.       some kissing

3.       a character with lots of good and a little bad too, a character to like and an unlikeable character (and sometimes maybe they switch places)

4.       a laugh out loud moment or a moment that breaks your heart (or both)

5.       something one’s eyes want to hang on to

6.       somewhere and something lovely and somewhere and something loathly

7.       something on fire (but not necessarily any smoke)

8.       something simple, something complex

9.       something to feed or stretch or snap the imagination

10.   some music and sound effects and special effects and when and only when it’s really needed: some silence.

11.   someone’s eyes yelling and someone’s eyes whispering

12.   something to absorb and something to reject

13.   something uncomfortable

14.   someone so so so determined to fix what or whom is broken

15.   something shocking, something soothing (shivers and thumps)

16.   sincerity, honesty, vulnerability

17.   an advance and a retreat, an attack and a surrender

18.   a quotable quote

19.   something that doesn’t belong, something not seen before

20.   a cow but only if there’s a twister too (aka something impossible to forget)

21.   something to think about when it’s over

22.   something to talk about afterwards

23.   a mirror

24.   a mistake…

But mostly,

      25. an unforgettable movie must have a partner to share it with. 

Things one should never outgrow:

Grandma & Teresa. 

our elders.

I admire and respect those who care for people who can no longer care for themselves. It confuses me when others neglect their grandparents and other elders. We are all busy. Yet everything we have is, in some way or another, a gift from before.

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.

Keyed

We all have those mornings. Take for example, one's keys. There are many different ways a guy's keys could interfere with that frenzied-rush-to-get-out-the-door-efficiency required some mornings when it's important to be early or something needs to be prepped before work or someone needs a ride or whatever. So keys are pretty much key, aren't they? Keys don't always cooperate though. Familiar scenarios follow. Maybe...

1. I can't find my keys.
2. I have the wrong set of keys.
3. I left my keys in my other coat.
4. My key won't work.
5. Someone stole my car so my keys are useless. It could happen. That reminds me of the time
6. One of my teens borrowed my car but came home without it and well, you know that parking-lot-I-have-no-freaking-idea-where-my-car-is-feeling. That.
7. My dog ate my keys.
8. My kid dropped my keys in the toilet. (It's happened to several people apparently.)
9. My keys are at the bottom of the lake/river/swamp/ocean/vat of cheese dip.
10. My wife drove six hours away for the weekend with her keys and my keys. (True story.)

BUT HERE'S A NEW ONE.

I'm going to be presumptuous and declare that this has NEVER HAPPENED TO ANYONE ELSE ON EARTH except me and sure, that's probably exaggeration but wait, maybe not.

Rushing to my car one early sunny beautiful morning recently, I stepped off my deck and onto my driveway, my keys in my right hand. Suddenly I realized I had walked right into one of those cobwebs that spiders like to clothesline us unsuspecting humans with, likely to enjoy the effect of seeing us humans flail around in irrational horror while those same spiders record the drama on their tiny iPhones with the intent to upload footage to Arachni-you-tube and get lots and lots of hits, go viral, impress their friends, and become famous before someone crushes them with a shoe, repeatedly. (My bitterness will be explained momentarily). Anyway, instinctively I reached up to frantically remove that spider silk from my face and promptly shoved my car key up my right nostril into my brain aka a self-administered mini-lobotomy.

OUCHNESS.

If there is indeed an Arachni-you-tube, I suspect I'm famous too.

Muchness

I watched The Theory of Everything and not surprisingly, now I'm wondering about theories for everything. Although I enjoyed the film and found some key sequences quite moving, I felt the film didn't mine the depths of Stephen Hawking or Jane Wilde or science or relationships or time or some of its other themes for the real valuable nuggets. I wanted more. And thus now I'm writing to uncover more.

More. That's a theory right there isn't it?

What is more? How deep, how wide, how much? What are the criteria for more and how do we measure it? How should we define it? What if the scientific process were applied to more?

Hypothesis: less is more. I've spent a lifetime researching this one and I already know this as truth. Only appreciating less reveals more. Take for example the not "muchness" of pairing my skiis with my music and closing my eyes as the chair lift takes me up and up, the whoosh down across rolling hills speed building, zipping around corners, then a home-made cinammon bun, a smiling slobbery baby, talking and laughing with the people I love. I don't need a lot of things; I just need to appreciate the moments. It may not seem like much but it's muchness.

Therefore, Hypothesis 2: um....run that by me one more time. That's the first "more" statement that popped into my head. And thinking it about it now, it's a gooder. One more time. In his 20s, Stephen Hawking was given two years to live. In his 70s now, he's still alive, still enjoying his family, still hypothesizing, still searching, still enjoying that aforementioned muchness, and no doubt, still struggling too. But despite hardships he's recognized what a gift one more time is indeed. What theory could be better than one more run, one more time?

What's your theory of everything?

Let's be honest.

Thanks honey. Happy Valentine's Day to you too.
And ditto. ;-)

Really.

But the dog doesn't only need that
soup-bone. He needs me more. So
he drops it at my feet and well,
see how he stares at me? Waiting
for the next story and what's next?
Because that is the beautiful bond
between us. 

When I really want to reach people, when I really want them to hear me, when I really want them to understand, I tell them a story.

There has to be a somebody and a somewhere and the somebody wants something BUT there's a problem (or two) and so then something happens and something is solved or something isn't and whether it takes two seconds or two minutes and even if the story isn't that good, that story is worth something. It is. Always. Even if only one person really heard it, really felt it ring like a little bell inside, the very story that was needed.

All storytellers, all writers know this. And all listeners do too. We see each other in stories, we make eye-contact despite whatever perceived-barriers. Maybe we could all understand each other much much more than we realize, but we just aren't listening to each other's stories as carefully as we need to.

It's child's play. But people grow up and forget. Sad.

“The stories people tell have a way of taking care of them. If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive.” -from ‘Lessons for Grownups fromChildren’s Books’ 

Problem Solving

My poor wife. She did it again. Some people struggle to learn and that’s why they repeat the same mistakes. What grievous error now you ask? She bought the Christmas baking much much too early again. Plus, she “hid” those sugary bonbons in the freezer where ANYONE can find them. And by anyone, I mean my teens. And since they moved away, by my teens I mean me. But none of this is my fault. I blame the washing machine.

The washing machine said it needed five more minutes before I could transfer my clothing to the dryer. So I looked in the freezer. And that’s when I spotted a Tupperware container of home-made cookies of various shapes, sizes, and delicious-es. What’s a guy to think and what’s a guy to do when confronted with such a conundrum? This:

1. She won’t notice if I eat just one.
2. Hmm. Now there’s an empty spot in the container. I better eat one more, make it an even number again.
3. Uh oh, now there’s only one left in this row.
4. I better eat the last one in this row.
5. Uh oh. The entire row is gone.
6. I will rearrange them.
7. Hmm. Still gaps. I will arrange them differently.
8. It looks like I broke a few moving them around so I should probably eat those too.
9. More gaps. Bummer.
10. Hmm. If I eat all the cookies then hide the container, there is a 98% chance my wife will not remember purchasing them. Perfect.

Who says problem-solving is hard?

I guess.

source

Sometimes I say to my wife, "Guess what?"

And she says, "What?"

I say "Guess."

And she says, "I don't know."

So I say, "Guess."

And she just looks at me.

And I say, "C'mon. Guess."

And she says, "No."

My wife can't guess. It's a real thing you know. Some people can't guess. Picture the support group for that eh? I, however, enjoy guessing. When people say to me, "Guess what?" I say random things like:
1. Whoa. It's like you just punched me in the frontal lobe.
2. They finally invented maple cough syrup? (Seriously, that should be a thing.)
3. Someone realized that the cure for world hunger is food?

Getting back to my wife. I don't know why she can't guess. She doesn't have time. She's like a broken toy. She's like a Jack in the box. Maybe a Jacklyn in the box? Or Jack Squat in the box?. Anyway, metaphorically speaking, instead of popping up she just opens the lid, stands, tilts her head to one side, and looks out the tops of her eyes at me.

I don't mean to say my wife isn't fun. She is. She's way more fun than I am. For example, she enjoys organized team sports. And people. She just can't guess, I guess. (See what I did there?)

(My wife doesn't much appreciate Phil Dunphy either. Can you believe it?)

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?