Butterflies

I dreamed of butterflies, last weekend. My room was full of them, in all colours and sizes, on every surface with more coming through the window, and though my mind was squealing that “they’re bugs!”, I let them land where they wanted. Eventually, I was surrounded.

The next morning, I asked Ter what butterflies mean in spirit lore. Off the cuff, they represent transformation, transmutation, joy and beauty. Deeper research revealed that they herald change, purport lightness of being, living in the moment, freedom in general, that sort of thing. All good things, really.

While Ter was hunting the info online, I came in and read her the Zen calendar blurb for the day: “The butterfly counts not days but moments, and has time enough.”

Chills ensued. See, I’ve been struggling (no surprise) with the novel. It has moments of brilliance, but overall, it’s not working and I cannot figure out what the effing hell is wrong. It’s just not fun right now. In fact, it’s become painful to the point that Ter accused me of being weighed down by it. “You’re grim,” she said. “Let it go, will you?”

Well, I’ve committed to finishing it, so letting go is a nice idea, but once committed, I have real trouble admitting defeat. So during my bedtime meditation, I told the universe that I’m setting it aside and getting out of my own way, hoping to clear the path for another story to be told. Then the butterfly dream happened. Then the butterfly quote appeared. Seems kinda obvious to me … now.

After our morning tea discussion, I asked Ter, “Why didn’t I see this before?”

“Because you’re a Virgo!” she yelled.

Bearing Up

The wee bears have had a hard week. Construction began on the penthouse elevator a few weeks ago,  so the house has been a war zone with hard hat dudes and power tools running amok in the back yard. They’re used to the drilling and hammering by now, but a new twist occurred after Ter’s day off on Monday.

Work on the elevator paused while an old oil tank was dug out of the garden and removed during the past few days—I considered suggesting to the strata that they install a hot tub rather than refilling the hole, but we’re only renting and about to renew our lease for another year, so it might be prudent to restrain myself. This project started huge and anyone who’s embarked on home renovations knows that the plan rarely follows, well, the plan. Better for the renters to keep mum until the worst is over, then bring it up as a joke during the celebratory barbeque in September … assuming it’s finished by then.

Anyway, Rufus is crankier than usual, his bedroom compatriots are misbehaving from nerves, and the kitchen midgets are clinging like the last two Cheerios in the bowl, so I’m spending my day off reassuring them with a domestic presence. I’ve dusted up the house, baked a batch of rhubarb crumble muffins, and am just bashing out this post before I make tea and start writing in earnest. Periodic checks indicate that the bears are relaxing a little—thank the gods that the weekend will be quiet!

Accentuate the Positive

Recently, I’ve been practicing “real time”; that is, paying less attention to the clock and more to making better use of the present moment. I’m also aware that what you say isn’t half as important as how you say it. The universe responds to positive or negative in equal measure—worry that something good may not happen and odds are it won’t. By the same token, worry that something bad will occur and it probably will.

I think it was Mira Kelley who prompted me to test the universe with the way I word my intention. Rather than unconsciously intending to be late by consciously worrying about being late, my newest metaphysical guru recommends changing up the mantra to something like, “My timing is always perfect.” And don’t say it with sarcasm, wise guy. Say it with conviction, then see what happens.

You know what? It works. Truly. I’ve lost count of the occasions when I’ve been embroiled in some end-of-the-day work task that’s run long. I glance at the clock, blanch, then shut everything down, grab my gear, and head for the elevator in a flutter of fear that I’m going to miss my ride. En route to the lobby, I catch myself, suck in a breath, and recite, “My timing is always perfect.” I kid you not, on these occasions the limo is either pulling up as I come through the breezeway or it’s already waiting for me at the curb.

How is this so? Good question. All I can surmise is that it’s about physics. Like attracts like, ergo using negative words or thinking in a negative manner will attract negative energy and you become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Flip the switch to positive and the same thing happens. Gain enough momentum and suddenly you’re hitting all the green lights and getting all your necessities on sale. I’ve even managed to make ten bucks last through the week simply by saying I have enough cash to make it to payday—which, if you know anything about my social calendar and tea budget, you would appreciate as a miracle of biblical proportion.

It’s fun to test these theories. It certainly can’t hurt; that’s why I enjoy playing Philosophy Quest with Ter. She reads all the books, delivers the highlights, and I take ’em to the lab. My perfect timing is almost a fully ingrained habit; I have the odd relapse, but by and large I accept that I’ll make my appointment on time no matter if I am delayed or not.

Try it. You have nothing to lose … unless you want to.

Inside Voices

I have two inner voices. One is the part that came with me, the part that I’ll take with me, the part that is me. The other one is part of the software that came with my compostable container. It’s more of a tape recorder in that it plays back the memes that shaped me growing up, and it seems utterly bent on keeping me in my place.

“You’re an idiot,” it tells me.

“That won’t work.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Who are you kidding?”

“Shut up. No one cares what you think.”

It’s bossy and derisive and judgmental and relentlessly unforgiving.

It tries to deceive me into believing that it’s actually my other inside voice, the one that’s true and wise and eternal. I also think it’s getting worried. I’m learning to tell the difference, you see. In fact, I’ve recently tried a trick of my own, and while I’m hiccupping a bit, I am determined to persevere until a new, healthier habit forms.

The other day I stapled two invoices together. On discovering my error, I immediately berated myself. Moron, I thought, ripping out the staple.

Wait a second, someone else said. It was an accident and no one died. ‘Moron’ is unduly harsh.

The internal debate ensued. Well, yeah, said the first voice, but she should have known better.

Keep beating her up and she’ll keep making the same mistakes, the second pointed out.

That’s the point, really. The first voice needs me to stay stupid so it can feel needed. It doesn’t offer any brighter alternative, but it gets to keep its job. In other words, it stays relevant.

We all need that voice. It’s the voice that ensures survival at all cost, that motivates and assesses and preserves us as mortals. Unfortunately for it, the job is only temporary, so it tries to make itself more important by holding us back, by reminding us that we’re failures without it, or that we can only be successful if we heed its sage advice; advice, incidentally, which is strategically worded to keep us from trying.

I digress.

The inner dialogue is ongoing, like the ticking of a clock. Sometimes you hear it, sometimes you don’t. When I hear mine, it’s usually the aforementioned first voice and it’s almost always deriding me for something and calling me stupid into the bargain. Whoa, buddy. Catch me on a gaffe, by all means, but instead of snarling, “Idiot,” try something gentler, like, “Oh, sweetie.”

Basically, I’m watching to catch myself on the lip of an insult with the intention of changing said insult to a term of endearment. I’ve done it a couple of times—it’s actually appalling, how frequent the opportunities are—and it might just be working. In fact, the opportunities seem to be dwindling.

Ironic, isn’t it? The voice that takes such pleasure in correcting me harshly would rather be silent than be corrected itself.

Who’s the real idiot?

With love,

LeBon Homie

With John Taylor’s birthday as an excuse, I pulled out a couple of Duran Duran albums to play over the weekend. I could have gone, like, totally retro and played Rio, Seven and the Ragged Tiger, or even the jazz/funk Notorious and been happy, but I chose Astronaut—otherwise known as “The Original Five Reunion Album”. For one thing, any of JT’s killer basslines sound fa-boo-lus on the Tiguan’s kickass stereo, and for another, well, the twisted wordsmith in me has always loved Simon LeBon’s way with a lyric and he wrote a couple of dandies when O5 got back together in 2005.

I’ve always considered him to be a poet rather than a lyricist, and while I admit that his distinctive vocal style (some call it “whiny”) can be annoying, he’s a master at using his voice to convey the mood of the song. He once said that his job as a poet is to knock holes in the wall between the conscious and the subconscious without breaching said wall. That way, the darker aspects of human nature are allowed to leak into the light and be dispelled in relative safety. He can write hit radio candy, but from the beginning of the band’s career, his lyrics often took the typical “boy wants girl” theme to a deeper, more contemplative place. As he progressed, his scope naturally widened to reflect social issues and a more mature attitude to romance, but he never lost his ability to have fun.

I can’t pick a favourite track from Astronaut—there are too many goodies in the bag—but I truly love “Bedroom Toys”. It’s a weird, warped lyric in keeping with DD’s renowned love of “artistic smut”, and SLB sings it with a genuinely playful humour. I laughed out loud when I first heard it and even now, ten years later, it’s worth cranking up and singing along.

DD is and has been my all time feel good band; I cannot be depressed when listening to them, for which I am eternally grateful. Paper Gods, their 14^th studio album, is due for release in September—too late to be a birthday present, alas—and as devoted as I am to the bass player, I am eagerly anticipating what SLB brings to this party.

The Importance of Tea XI

“Chai One On”

My favourite after-school snack is a cup of black tea and one of Ter’s killer GF “not just for Christmas anymore” shortbread cookies. The silky vanilla/almond-scented cookie is the perfect match for a sweet, spicy, creamy chai. I carry my treat into the Ocean Room to cast off the workday args and await my roomie’s arrival—it’s often the best time of my day.

No chai, however, is created equal. I ordered my first at Starbucks fifteen years ago and was promptly hooked. Their brand was Tazo, which became my go-to until proper tea shops started popping up all over town. I have since tried a handful of others, both bulk and bagged: Stash, Mighty Leaf, and Numi in the boxed brand department, loose varieties from David’s, Teavana, Murchie’s … and the winner is: the Mumbai Chai at Blenz.

For the uninitiated, Blenz is Canada’s answer to Starbucks and their focus is coffee. They do, however, feature ten or twelve varieties of tea for the non-coffee-drinker. I’ve tried most of them. White Peony was my standard until I went dairy-free and gave up the occasional chai latte. Then I got bored and tried the black chai tea plain, no latte; okay, with cream and two sugars. Now I’m hooked. My wee sister is hooked. My work pal Julie is hooked (and happy—it only costs $3.10 per cup). The kid behind the counter now hesitates before starting my order, though I think he’s figuring out that white peony is morning and chai is afternoon.

My at-home/after-school blend is David’s “Saigon Chai”, the former standard which Mumbai has knocked out of the park. Alas, Blenz doesn’t sell loose tea. Or they didn’t. I recently got an email announcing that their tea blends are now available for bulk purchase, so off I went to the shop to see if our local franchise owner was complying with this particular corporate policy (he guards his customers against what he considers the sillier head office orders, which is why everyone loves him).

As it happened, I was the only customer in the shop, so I had time to ask him about it. He gave me rebellious brown eyes and said, “I’m not advertising the loose tea. It’s hideously expensive, so I can’t in good conscience sell it to you.”

“Define ‘hideously expensive’,” I said. He and I had talked years earlier about the white peony, but I never took him up on his offer to work something out if I really wanted some for home.

He punched the flavour up on the computer and frowned. “$12.95 for a hundred grams.”

I burst out laughing. “You think that’s hideously expensive?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re a tea snob,” I replied. “I spend $18.00 for fifty grams of green tea at Teavana!”

Poor guy, I think he was horrified enough to call an intervention, but once I assured him that pricier chais have fallen far short of the Mumbai, he acquiesced. “I’ll have to get some bags in,” he fretted.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I have a tin at home. I’ll bring it in empty and you can fill ’er up.”

Problem is, I’m still working on 100 gms of “Saigon Chai” and my practice is to finish what I have before buying more. It may be my imagination, but there’s too much cardamom in this batch. It really isn’t very enjoyable …

Season Finale

3 cups in 6 years - one more and they'll have a quart

The Chicago Blackhawks have won their third Stanley Cup in six years. Good for them! It’s hard to win one in this age of salary caps and unrestricted free agents, but team management was able to keep the core group together, led by the truly indomitable Jonathan Toews. That kid (kid?? He’s twenty-seven years old!) is the James T. Kirk of the NHL. I’ve seen him carry that team on his back when they’re slumping, and in a duel of captains in the final series, he showed will and grit that Steve Stamkos only dreams of having.

I should probably dislike the Hawks the way I dislike the Islanders; after all, that twerp Patrick Kane scored the OT winner in Game 7 against the Flyers in 2011 and it took me all summer to get over it. Meh. It’s enough for me to not like Patrick Kane. I do like that the whole team gave Roberto Luongo conniptions in various playoff series over the Vancouver years, again led by their Valyrian steel captain.

I paid off my playoff pool debt and collected my regular season pool winnings, yesterday. When the math was finally done, the whole enchilada cost me $5 and gave me the dubious distinction of being one half of the first-ever tie for a money spot.

So hockey mania is over for another year.

Well, three and a half months.

“Crocodile Tears”

The children don’t come here anymore. There was a time when they came in herds, beginning with an early-morning trickle of toddlers and swelling to a gang of climbing, running, jumping, crawling, carousing little critters. They shrieked and screamed in gleeful chorus. By midday, the birds would be outdone with their chatter.

The tiny ones, so sweet and trusting, barely out of the nursery, came, one by one, in the care of nannies or neighbours. Grandparents patrolled the pathways while a generation once-removed ran races up and down the green or clambered about on monkey bars. Sometimes, the pervasive, shining laughter was punctuated by a wail as one took a tumble or scraped a knee. Tiny hands ploughed the sand and built castles from paper cups. The walls were decorated with gravel.

I watched them from my usual spot, close but rarely involved. No one celebrates “being” quite like a child. No one embraces the unknown or welcomes the fantastic as freely as a child. They know nothing of fear; not really. They may be reserved, but in time, curiosity wins out and the adventurer steps up for inspection. What mischief they contrive! One cherub took to hiding in the cradle of my jaws; once he was found napping with my tongue as a pillow and after that, his sister knew immediately where to look if she lost track of him.

No one saw him disappear. One minute there, the next minute gone. No one saw anything untoward, no one noticed an out of the ordinary blip in their reality. He came to me when her back was turned. He patted my snout with his sticky hand and snuggled down between my teeth—and now no one comes to play.

I shouldn’t have swallowed.

Oceanic

I have lived near the ocean for most of my life. It’s a bit like living in Paris: drive past the Eiffel Tower every day and, eventually, you just don’t see it anymore. I’m no sun worshipper, either. I have rarely spent more than a couple of hours at a time on the beach, and even then my beach time was accumulated in Europe a gazillion years ago. (The tan lines on my back took two years to fade.) It’s been enough for me to know it’s there when I want it—hop in the car and twenty minutes in any direction brings you to a patch of the coast, be it sandy, rocky, sheltered or open horizon.

On a trip to Edmonton in 1992, Ter and I visited the museum. The big draw at the time was a cetacean exhibit featuring whales and other “everyday” west coast critters—otters, herons, indigenous fish, etc. A horde of curious prairie dwellers had gathered, rightfully ooh-ing and ah-ing, around the life-sized model of an orca that, quite frankly, I barely noticed. I think I glanced at it, thought, oh, yeah—orca, then said to Ter, “Where are the dinosaurs?”

That was my first hint of how blessed I am to live beside wild water.

Only lately have I realized how therapeutic the ocean has been in my life. Almost inherently, I am drawn to it when distressed or frazzled. When my bones were new and thrice-weekly physiotherapy sessions were located in the Cook Street village, my mother often drove the long way home, cruising along Dallas Road in the big blue Mercury so I could look out at the water. My favourite ocean was deep blue with scattered whitecaps. I was so fixed on watching the waves that I forgot, for a moment, how much my joints hurt.

Over the years, my colour preference has shifted like the ocean itself, from deep blue with whitecaps to grey-green with whitecaps, but these days it varies. The one constant is whitecaps. Better yet, give me surf. Now that I live across the street from the very stretch of Dallas that Mum drove in the old days, I can lie in bed at night and hear the ocean boom as it hits the shore. I get up early on weekends and visit the beach, watching the birds and the waves and losing track of time. On work days, I deliberately choose a walking route from the limo stop that takes me home along the cliffs, just because I can. And the other night, after a particularly weird-energy day, Ter and I wandered across the street to “the finger” and watched the tide crash against the beach. Unsettled and weepy when we started, a half-hour later, I was cracking up as she danced along the breakwater. No drugs, no booze. Just wind and playful water, and we were healed.

Never underestimate the power of the ocean. Sure, it can take out entire villages in a tempest, but in a gentler mood, it can lull a babe to sleep and ease the edgiest adult. When I spend time beside it, be it on a workday evening or a Sunday morning, I always come away recalibrated.

The Importance of Tea X

“Spiritualitea”

It’s more than just a cup of tea. It’s an experience.

I have a standing date with my work pal, Julie. On Wednesday, we go for tea. Our favourite haunt is “The Red Couch”, otherwise known as the Teavana shop on Fort Street, where we have become somewhat infamous with the staff behind the counter. I hope we are favourites rather than dreaded nutbars, but they are trained to be welcoming so I may never know.

They also allow us to pay on our way out, which is where this story starts.

Unless one is a tea snob, one cannot comprehend the willingness to spend five dollars on a cup of tea. The price is based on how rare or exotic the tea is, white being the priciest, pure green being next, followed in descending order by flavoured green, black and herbal. So when Julie lost her mind over the cost of the white she had just downed, the ensuing discussion resulted in me losing mine. “You enjoyed that tea,” I scolded. “I watched you.”

“I’d have enjoyed it more if it was $3.99 instead of $5!” she retorted.

The twist here is that the staff were on her side. One admitted that their prices are hefty, but the better deal is to buy it loose and brew it at home, where even the costliest pearls work out to a dollar per cup. Her partner behind the bench mused that the in-house brew should be two bucks across the board. I listened to this for a awhile, then broke in.

“You guys are missing the point,” I said. “This is more than a cup of tea. This is an experience. Your tea is brewed for you—thank you, ladies—while we hang out on the comfy couch in this tranquil shop and get a much-needed respite from the office. It’s not just the tea. It’s the whole package. See?”

I’m unsure that my point was received on all fronts, but I think the staff felt marginally better. Julie is a riot—I love her dearly—who begrudges nothing to no one and will learn from her five dollar error in judgment rather than be bitter about a perceived rip-off. When we next hit the Couch, she’ll opt for the three dollar brew and enjoy the same experience. ’Cause that’s what tea all about, Charlie Brown. The experience.

SCOBY-Doo

I may not be mother to mortal children, but I seem to have a knack for breeding SCOBYs.

How hard can it be to breed spludges of yeast and bacteria, you ask? Not very, I admit. And the more batches of kombucha I brew, the easier it gets. I’m presently fermenting my nth batch (truly, I’ve lost count), and the mass I received from my older sister at Christmas never dreamed he’d have to work so hard.

I was a nervous novice and emailed my sister in a mild panic after three days: He’s just lying at the bottom of the jar. Is he okay??? She wrote back, They do that sometimes. I’m sure he’s fine. And on the fifth day, he rose. I checked the jar in the morning and he had floated onto one side, almost as if trying to himself over and getting stuck halfway. Okay, at least he’s alive. And when I peeled back the cheesecloth to test the brew on day seven, the mouth of the jar was sealed by a white film disconcertingly reminiscent of the white of an eye. Doo was floating just beneath it. In fact, he was tethered to it like the mothership spooling line to a satellite. Yuk.

It’s not unusual, apparently, for baby SCOBYs to develop in the same jar.

Batch number two proceeded the same way. This time I was hoping for a baby, because my tea buddy Treena wanted to try brewing her own kombucha, but if there was a baby, it was glommed to the original when bottling time arrived and I wound up (okay, Ter wound up) carving off a chunk of the whole thing. That batch was made with black tea, so the SCOBY looked like he’d been to a tanning salon. Double yuk.

A few brews later, another buddy expressed an interest in obtaining a baby. I had a batch planned for the weekend and promised her any offspring. From the get-go, SCOBY-Doo stayed near the top of the jar, but in the end proved as fertile as ever, producing a sturdy white sclera. To ensure that it was up to the task, I gave Doo a rest and plunked the babe into a fresh batch of sugared green tea.

It sank to the bottom of the jar and stayed there for twelve full days.

Peeling back the cheesecloth on day fourteen, I was puzzled by the papery thin film that greeted me. “Wasn’t it thicker than this?” I asked Ter, who has SCOBY-handling duty and is responsible for bathing and trimming the Doo between batches.

“I think it’s actually at the bottom,” she replied.

“You mean it never moved?” I peered through the glass at the fog I had perceived as just that: the milky fog that sometimes sinks like sediment on the floor of the jar. Remaining unconvinced, I strained the tea and Ter was proven right: baby-Doo had never left the floor!

The next day I told my friend the story and added, “Your SCOBY is a lazy bum.”

She was ecstatic. “You mean he made a baby to do the work? That’s my kind of SCOBY!”

For the record, she has a child.

All My Children

Adults don’t count. Vampires are certainly excluded. Even the children in my stories must be considered characters rather than offspring, being born to the aforementioned fictitious adults. But I guess, in a funny way, every one I write is my child.

On second thought, maybe not. I did not birth Lucius or Julian or Black or Cassie or any of the other grown ups—mortal or otherwise—who populate my work. They came to me as individuals with stories to be told. I happen to be the scribe. The biographer. Some authors roll their eyes at others like me, who insist that their protagonists appear like ghosts, fully-formed and possessed of a unique personality, looking for a mouthpiece to speak for them. What, do those authors build their heroes from spare parts and assign traits from a personalities app?

Zzzzzzzz.

I have never constructed a character. Perhaps it’s a matter of deconstructing, of working backward from the final result to learn how he/she became who he/she was when I met him/her. Take Lucius, for example. When I met him, he was a battle-scarred warrior of legendary reputation. His “bad dude” potential was right up front and I know some folks who were either scared of him, disliked him, or both. Now, a dozen years and six volumes later, I understand how he became the scary bad hero of Treason. I’ve worked with him for long enough to have learned what makes him tick, and not because he’s confessed to any of it. I’ve learned about him through the eyes of those who knew him as a child, then as a boy, then as a young man. Did I invent those people, each with a story to complement his? I suppose, on some level, it’s possible.

But it’s much more fun to imagine that I simply make myself available and the voice finds me.