Suffragette City

January 28 was the centennial anniversary of women winning the right to vote. It was also the thirtieth anniversary of the Challenger explosion—an event I remember because it happened during my lifetime. I’ve always had the right to vote; the fight for it happened long before I was born … yet not so long ago. One hundred years isn’t that many in the big picture.

Women’s issues continue to be issues, however. With the US presidential election looming, the argument for/against is once again in contention for candidate support on either side.

A female president would be pretty cool. I admire Hillary Clinton. She’s made her way in a man’s world, and she’d probably be a good president, though I think her focus might be more on foreign policy given her portfolio as Secretary of State during the Obama administration. Looking good to the rest of the world while your home is in a shambles seems to occupy most political leaders’ minds, male or female. Besides, I’ve watched enough women in power to know that many of them don’t care about their struggling sisters, and if they do stand up on the issues, they’re not taken seriously by their male counterparts.

Maybe a woman isn’t the best advocate for pay equity, health care and education. Maybe it should be a man who sees those points for what they really are: issues that affect not just women, but everyone on the planet.

If I was entitled to vote in the US election (thankfully, I’m not), I’d vote for Vermont governor Bernie Sanders (D). I’ve heard him speak on a few occasions, and he’s a guy who gets it. He speaks eloquently and passionately about the problems close to home, those issues almost universally dismissed as “women’s issues”: child poverty, poor education, inaccessible health care and, from there, planned parenthood. He recognizes that these resolving these issues is important to the nation as a whole. They are not unique to women. They are society’s issues, but if we insist on labelling everything, perhaps they should be termed “children’s issues” because—let’s face it—the future lies with the little ones.

Just a thought.

GRRM

I’m a third of the way through A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. This means I’ve read the first of the three stories about Ser Duncan the Tall and his squire, Egg, and am about to embark on the second tale of their adventures—but first, I had to run for The World of Ice and Fire to read up on the politics of the time. The Targaryen kings still ruled Westeros and since a bunch of royals showed up at the tourney in The Hedge Knight, I was compelled to study up and get the names straight.

It’s hard to keep track of so many similarly sounding names (Aemon, Aegon, Aerion, Daemon, Daeron, etc.), hence my determination to get the characters straight. GRRM has said that he’d been told writers should not use names that begin with the same letter more than once in a story, which he felt restricted any cast of characters to a maximum of twenty-six. He added something along the lines of his readers being smart enough to tell their Targaryens apart. Not to mention English royal history, where Williams, Edwards, Richards and Henrys appear in nearly every generation. So he cheerfully uses names more than once, and mixes it up with derivatives of those names until you practically need a map to tell who’s who.

I’m having a ball.

Not only are the Dunk and Egg stories built on solid ground, they flow from one scene to the next, they carry the reader with ease, the imagery is bright and the voices clearly heard, and best of all, they stay with you when you’re not reading. That’s why I consulted the Westerosi Bible to get a better grip on the historic players—book in hand or book elsewhere, in some part of my psyche, I am there.

What a joy to be reminded of why I am a fan. Twenty years ago, the cover art on a paperback copy of A Game of Thrones caught my eye. I fell into the first pages while standing in the bookshop. I devoured the book itself, reading faster and faster, revelling in the writing as much as in the plot. Glorious, glorious, every page was thick and juicy and alive with colour and sound and texture. Sure, I thought it would look fab on film … but just because you can doesn’t mean you should. Season Five has taught me so. Unfortunately, I let my dismay with the TV series weaken my perception of the creator.

Dunk and Egg have reminded me of something vitally important.

GRRM is a masterful writer.

A Song of Ice and Fire was as inspiring to me as The Vampire Chronicles. Even as I read the first volume all those years ago, I was thinking, Could I write something like this? Did I dare to try?

You bet I did.

It started with a book. The written word. One writer speaking to one reader, one page at a time. And that is how I mean for it to stay.

Serial Panda

A fondness for pandas resides in this house. Ter still has the black and white bear she was given as an infant and I have vague memories of a somewhat larger panda being deposited in the bedroom I shared with my sisters when I was a preschooler. Whether or not it was intended for me I don’t recall, but it was most definitely a panda.

Nowadays, a clutch of pandas fights for space among the gang of polar and brown bears who rule our roost like little furry dictators. Fortunately, the pandas are more laid back than their ursine compatriots. It must have to do with them being strict vegetarians. They demand nothing and welcome cuddles.

A few years ago, due to Ter’s affection for the critters, we watched Kung Fu Panda and fell immediately in love with Po, the adopted son of the noodle-slinging Mr. Ping. Played by Jack Black, Po loves kung fu and dreams of joining a crime-fighting quintet known as the Furious Five; how he gets there is a series of misadventures so hilariously presented that I was in tears by the final credits. Laugh-out-loud moments are scarce in animated films—I’ve been disappointed with most of the ones I’ve seen—but something about Po strikes every note with a purity that’s made me a fan.

Kung Fu Panda 2 is equally good, if not a touch darker in that it delves more deeply into Po’s beginning (how did a panda come to be adopted by a goose, anyway?) and he must face the villain responsible for making him an orphan. Tear jerker moments to be sure, but hey, if they’re well done, I will embrace them despite the joke that a cartoon character never dies; the artist simply stops drawing it.

Fabulous as Po is, however, my favourite character is Master Shifu, brilliantly voiced by Dustin Hoffman. Shifu is a Zen master with patience issues, especially when Po lumbers on scene and set about tossing his serenely balanced world on its ear. The dialogue is sharp, the action is paced at warp speed, and the hero is as real as you and me. Not since The Emperor’s New Groove have I enjoyed an animated film so thoroughly. Snappy repartee and non-stop martial arts aside, the beauty of Kung Fu Panda is the simplicity of its 

message:

There is no secret ingredient.

Life is about being who we are as we are, about being our best, and finding peace within ourselves.

Kung Fu Panda 3 is released this weekend. The first two movies are so good that Ter and I are going to brave the knee-high throng and see it at the theatre. With popcorn … and maybe a panda hiding in my hoodie.

Full Moon Rising

Full Moon Rising

full moon rising

swollen and dripping

pearls of light

o’er a black opal sea

silver moon shining

frosted purity

commanding the tide

to heights undisclosed

a sphere of influence

beyond mortal reckoning

inspires lunacy

in an urban forest

wolf moon watching

from a star-scattered sky

she calls in white silence

and we answer in song

Playday

Well, it’s been interesting. Back to work with fresh resolve, and did I write a word worth reading since my last post?

Nope.

Cleverly, I scheduled a four day workweek to ease myself back into the daily grind, and no matter how much I may enjoy my colleagues and parts of my job, it is most definitely a grind. I did, however, take a few minutes to draw a bunch of balloons on my 2016 bulletin board. Balloons appear to be a theme with me at present. They’re bright and cheerful – like ice cream and Duran Duran, they elicit an immediate smile. It’s hard to be crabby when I’m smiling.

Today is my day off, and I’m unsure precisely how to spend it. Reading? Writing? Colouring? All of the above? One thing is clear: after a few days in work mode, my creative self needs nurturing before it can create. It requires time, the way Blue Silver’s carburetor required time to warm up before I hit the road in winter.

Hey, good analogy, Ru!

So, the day will be spent quietly and probably in the Ocean Room, with tea, my books (colouring and otherwise) and the Downton Abbey soundtrack, until I have to leave for my chiro appointment this afternoon. If writing happens, I’ll go for it, but I’m not pushing the Muse. I’ll just let her know that I’m available and see if she wants to meet up sometime this weekend.

I was reminded of an important truth last week:

“The more complex the mind, the greater the need for the simplicity of play.”

Thank the gods for Mr. Spock.

With love,

Seriously

Too seriously. Seriously.

Taking creativity seriously is like using salt in the kitchen: it’s a necessary ingredient, but too much will ruin the dish. I realized yesterday that the sodium content in my attitude is toxic and may be why I’ve been unable to write much of anything for months.

A fun fact: no one is going to die if I don’t write. Not even I will die. I’ll be unhappy, but Ter will tell you that she won’t notice any difference because I’ve been a misery when I am writing.

I’ve been moaning about how hard it is; apprehensive about how much I’ll get done in a session; anxious about the value of what I’ll get done; and downright negative about what I do get done. It’s gotten so bad that I actually admitted to myself on the weekend that I don’t want to do it anymore. I heard the words, clear as day, in my head:

“I don’t want to write.”

Huh?

Wait a minute, kiddo. How can someone who insists that she’s a writer, who proclaims that she’d rather quit breathing than quit writing, who took four frigging weeks of vacation in order TO BE a writer not want to write????

Hm. Okay. Bits and bobs and the Sunday “cold start” could be the problem. I’m out of shape, my creative muscle gone to flab with too infrequent use, so obviously, I must dedicate myself to it.

In other words, get serious.

Hit the computer at 9:00 a.m. and keep office hours each day. Approach it like it’s my job and I’ll have to get somewhere, right?

Each morning last week, I’d tell Ter, “I’m off to work,” and I’d disappear into my room. I wrote for three solid days, started to get some momentum, struck a patch of  “uh oh, what’s happening now?” then the week was over and life got in the way.

Life does that. Life is far more demanding than the Muse because life is about survival and in the big picture, creativity isn’t. It’s nice if you can combine the two. I’m not there yet, but I had the fourth week set aside specifically to indulge inspiration. Yesterday was my first serious crack at it. Despite the weekend revelation that I don’t want to do it anymore, I decided that poor self-discipline was the problem and if I just show up, the Muse will oblige.

Well, kudos to the Muse. Who wants to work with a crabby, cynical, frustrated colleague?

I packed it in, considered slashing my wrists, and opted for some yoga stretches instead. Following that, my little voice suggested continuing with Liz Gilbert’s Big Magic, and the section I happened upon was a timely wakeup call about attitude. Approach creativity like it’s the prize at the end of the Green Mile and every step will be shackled to a concrete block. 

In other words, good luck getting anywhere.

I was reminded that my creativity is a gift. Take it seriously by viewing it with gratitude, respect and humility, but remember that it’s also supposed to be fun. It’s not work. It’s play. It’s free-flowing and experimental, and it’s safe. No one will die if it doesn’t get done.

So I’m changing my attitude.

No more “going to work.”

I am going to play.

Clean Slate

So, your day sucked? That’s okay.

Tomorrow is another day.

Oh, there may be wreckage from yesterday—relationships to be mended and mistakes to be corrected—but every day is a bright shiny fresh new start, a chance to do your best in every circumstance. Even if you’re the villain of the piece, it’s another opportunity to excel at your villainy. Give it your best shot.

Bear in mind, your best can vary from day to day. That’s okay, too.

And if all you intended yesterday was to avoid the sugar wagon, then today is another chance to do it.

Don’t beat yourself up. The past is past and cannot be changed. The future hasn’t happened yet, so don’t fret about it. Just for today, just for this moment, do the best you can. Honour your intention. Let anger/sadness/remorse pass, because it will, if you don’t hold onto it (and why would you?) Pay a compliment. Do a favour. Spare a minute for someone in need. Take yourself out for tea. Let a friend take you out for tea. Acknowledge gratitude for (insert name/object/circumstance here). Remember, U R loved.

Breathe—and pay attention to it. Inhaling is instinct. Exhaling is not.

You needn’t wait until morning to hit the reset button, either, though it’s okay if you’d rather; you can step from the shadows at any time, day—and here’s the miracle—or night. I agree, however, that it’s often easier to crash at the end of the day and tell Dr Bailey that “today really sucked.”

Tomorrow might go the same way.

But it might not.

Every day is a clean slate.

With love,

Dark Dynasty

Of course I’ve seen the new Star Wars movie! Of course it’s a blast! J.J. Abrams directed and Lawrence Kasdan co-wrote—how can it fail?

It doesn’t … except perhaps in the most critical area of an epic battle between good and evil.

The villain is a petulant adolescent rather than a deeply disturbed and thoroughly traumatized adult.

Sigh.

The kid tries his best to be rotten, but he’s up against a legend, and even if Darth Vader became a pop icon instead of a modern-day Mephistopheles, he still packed a heavier punch in a galaxy far, far away than the reedy stripling who swears to avenge him.

Um, he doesn’t need avenging, kid. He was redeemed at the end of Episode VI.

So here’s hoping that we get some back story in the next movie, because without a darned good reason for his subversive behaviour in this one, I have a problem with a baddie who needs a timeout and a good spanking.

The Empire Strikes Back remains my favourite of the franchise. All hail Lord Vader!

A Virtuous Life (Part II)

I no longer believe that I have a greater purpose beyond a) being happy and b) making others happy. Item b) isn’t actually my responsibility—it’s the individual’s—but if I can help to make someone’s day better, I’m game. Ever the fan of recipes with fewer than five ingredients, and thanks to Dr. Wayne Dyer, I was recently reminded of the four cardinal virtues as defined by Lao-tzu in the Tao Te Ching:

Reverence (Respect)

Sincerity (Honesty)

Gentleness (Kindness)

Supportiveness (Service)

I know; that looks like eight, but it’s not. The four virtues are so called because they originate with our divine natures, therefore it’s more natural for us to practice them in all their incarnations, i.e., “reverence” being interpreted as unconditional love and respect for ourselves, for each other, and for all living beings. You can include the planet in the last category, as the world and everything in it is made of energy on some vibrational level and is, therefore, alive.

You’ll note that patience is not listed, despite being hailed by established religions as one of the nobler virtues.

Well, maybe it’s there after all—filed under “Gentleness”. There may be four cardinal virtues, but like the four astrological elements, there are descending (or ascending?) variations of each. Secondary and tertiary virtues sprung from the original, if you will. Some have been decreed by religious dogma, but any quality that makes the world a kinder place is fine by me. The point being that, since the cardinal four actually come with us from beyond the veil, daily practice of same can and will enrich a person’s life as well as those whom that person encounters, and it doesn’t matter which god claims you.

This sounds simple, and it probably is. Humans do have a way of complicating things. Within the maelstrom that is daily life, simplicity is hard to come by.

That’s why it’s called “practice”. You may not get it right the first time. If you do, good luck sustaining it. But as long as you persevere, practice eventually becomes a way of life. Same goes if you choose to be a pin-headed rat bastard. Practice anything with regularity and you’ll achieve it. Even miserable sods have the power to increase their abundance. The Universe serves everyone.

Or tries to serve. I still get in my own way. I still grip the wheel with both hands and try to force my will on it. All I have to do is set the intention and step away from the helm, but can I do that???

Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh—No.

Virgo = Control freak. For someone who has no limitations, I have given myself limitations.

Four little virtues. Respect, honesty, kindness and service.

Practice, practice, practice.

With love,

A Virtuous Life (Part I)

Tolstoy wrote a short story called The Death of Ivan Ilyich. I haven’t read it, but I know the premise. On his deathbed, the protagonist laments, “What if my whole life has been wrong?”

That’s a scary thought, especially when one considers that Jacob Marley, in A Christmas Carol and also on his deathbed, knew that his life had been wrong.

Only it hadn’t been. Neither had Ivan’s. Neither is mine. Nor is yours.

Nobody’s life is ever “wrong”. We may regret, at the end, how we chose to live it, but life is meant to teach us by letting us make mistakes. Even poor choices are merely choices, decisions made whether or not we are aware of making them.

The saddest choice a person can make is to give up too soon. Children are shaped by external influences: parents, siblings, friends, peers, media, religion, etc. The first thirty years of my life (this time) were spent in pursuit of someone else’s idea of happiness. During those years, I believed my primary purpose was to marry and have children, be a support to hubby and a pillar in my community. Failing that (which I did), I was expected to get a secure job and settle into the role of small spanner in the larger works.

Writing was a nice-to-have.

It still is.

I had my midlife crisis at thirty. By religious standards, I was past my best-before date and other women my age were married and bearing children. What was wrong with me that I wasn’t able to do the same?

Only upon closer inspection did I discover that—gasp!—I was happy with my life. Oh, it was a little rough, being gainfully unemployed and still on the marriage market, but Ter and I were making ends meet and having a ball wherever possible. I was writing, she was drawing, we were young, optimistic, and I still had my Mustang. We regularly tripped to Vancouver for rock concerts and went to the movies a lot; even after we landed those secure jobs and became pension prisoners, we spent our cruise/golfing vacation money on Def Leppard and Duran Duran tickets—more than once!

After I turned forty, I started thinking more deeply about life’s meaning. More importantly, about my life’s meaning. I’ve heard that we spend most of our lives trying to become who we were when we started in those magical, new-penny moments after we were born. Everyone comes to this world with a plan and pure intent. The first half of our life messes us up, and we spend the rest of it (hopefully) getting back to ourselves.

This involves unlearning what loving but fallible folks have taught us from day one, and unlistening to the know-it-all ego that has its own motivation for holding us back. It’s a process that requires daily recalibration and ongoing forgiveness of ourselves and others. Most of us will depart this estate with a greater understanding than we had when we arrived. Some of us won’t—but guess what? They get to repeat Grade Three! 

… to be continued

Whole Lotta Shakin’

For the uninitiated, coastal BC sits in an earthquake zone. A couple of continental plates are jammed one atop the other and one day a shift is going to occur that will make Abbostford a waterfront city. We’re located on the east side of the Pacific “Rim of Fire”, a volcanic and geologically unstable circle that may be likened to a sleeping dragon: we move with the rhythm of its breathing, but we get a jolt when it coughs.

Gods help us when it wakes.

I’d still rather live here than in the prairies, where tornadoes have an annual season, or the tropics, where hurricanes/monsoons/cyclones are equally predictable. I know enough about quakes to have the infrequent, “OMG, we’re gonna die!” freak out, but such thoughts don’t stick around. If they did, I’d have relocated years ago.

I’m good with the occasional tremor.

In truth, they happen every day. We just don’t feel most of them. I’ve convinced myself that every little shaker is releasing the pressure on the subducted plates and thus delaying or reducing the oomph of the inevitable Big One, but no one knows for sure if this is so. We won’t know until it happens.

I will confess, however, that the 4.3 or 4.9, depending on who you talk to,  event that shook me awake on December 29 lasted longer than was comfortable. Just as I thought it was over, the shaking resumed with a little more vigour. “This is it,” I thought (the first time I have ever thought that), and in the next instant … nothing.

My heart took longer to quit pounding than the quake itself lasted, but time assumes a disconcerting elastic quality when Nature is in charge. Compared to others felt over the years, this one was impressive.

They are usually over before they can be identified. I once thought the photocopier was due for servicing, but an earthquake had rattled through the print run.

While prepping for work one morning years ago, the bathroom floor lurched beneath my feet. “Ter!” I yelled, continuing to apply my eye makeup, “was that a quake?”

“I think so!” she called from the other end of the house. End of conversation.

Another time, also at Rockland, I was in the tub when a large truck rumbled past the house. Ter poked her head into the bathroom to advise me otherwise. I glanced at the painting on the wall above me and thought perhaps we should move it elsewhere.

There are no paintings on the bedroom walls, just in case.

10:30 p.m. on Boxing Day 2012—I recall the specifics because the house cracked and trembled as the train roared through the basement and I thought, “No! Not during the Game of Thrones marathon!”

The Northridge, California quake in 1994 was memorable not for being felt in BC, but for the six weeks that followed, during which the office I was with answered countless calls from the public, varying from practical requests for info on what to put in an earthquake kit to panicked pleas for advice on what to do when a shaker hits. One caller was ready to pack up and return to Ontario, but my “the earth is breathing and sometimes it coughs” explanation relaxed her enough to reconsider.

“It’s not to be feared,” I said, “just prepare as best you can.”

I wonder sometimes if I was given the same advice about life before I was born.

Bibliography XII

“James Bond Cars” – Frédéric Brun

And in the “Pretentious Coffee Table Book” department, a hardcover tome packed with photos, anecdotes and specifications associated with the vehicular co-stars in the 007 series from “Dr No” to “SPECTRE”, including the oddball entries like space buggies, tanks, and airplanes. Did I die and go to Heaven when I unwrapped this baby? Pretty much. Yeah, sure, there are photos of Sean Connery, George Lazenby, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig sprinkled throughout, but … who cares?

Ter claims that I have an instinct for engineering and I have always had an eye for automobiles (I remember identifying a Dodge 500 by its rear lights when I was a little kid in Quebec), so my excitement here is far less surprising than the giver of the gift—my little tea fairy, Treena, who has no idea at all about cars beyond trying to avoid being hit by one in a crosswalk (so far, so good). Whenever I start rhapsodising about the Tesla in the parkade or the Maserati standing outside the coffee house, she glazes over. But, gods bless her, she thought of me when she saw this book and I will adore her forever because of it.

Page after page of glossy, glorious photos in black and white and in colour, of Aston Martins in various stages of assembly, blocks of text describing how the DB5 and beyond became part of the Bond mystique, stories from the drivers and technicians behind the stunts … and there, on page 81, is a full colour shot of the Mustang Mach 1 from “Diamonds Are Forever”. The car was a bit player in my favourite of the 007 films, but it stole the scene it was in by ripping it up during a chase in Las Vegas. Other Mustangs have appeared in Bond movies—Ford gave the producers a pre-production model for the scene in “Goldfinger” where gentleman spy is distracted by pretty girl in white convertible, and a million new cars were sold as a result.

I’ll expect nothing but pleasure when I pick up this book to kill the few minutes between dinner and dishes, but then again, who knows? Inspiration can hit when one isn’t looking, and a hot car often heralds the introduction of a new character with a story to tell …