Loui, Loui

well, shoot - he played for Boston once

I don’t mind the Vancouver Canucks. I’m not a raving fan, but I’m not violently opposed to the team, either. “St Trevor of Linden” and all that. I’m not crazy about their general manager, but that’s because he was a) with the Bruins organization before coming to Vancouver and b) he brought over Brandon Sutter from Pittsburgh, who might actually be an okay guy, but, let’s face it, he’s a Sutter.

My hockey pool policy is no secret: I won’t pick players from a team I dislike. I tend to pick former Flyers as well as member of the current roster, for all the good it’s done. This year, I decided to take a chance with Loui Eriksson, who joined Vancouver in the off season. Earmarked to play on the top line with the Twedes, Daniel and Henrik, Loui seems likely to score a whack of points off the twins’ combined genius, thus garnering a whack of points for Ruthie’s Rebels.

Besides, he’s kind of cute.

The Canucks’ home opener was against Calgary. In my list of “go, teams”, Canucks trump Flames, and I wanted to see how Loui would do in a match that really counted. (He got points in a preseason game, but they don’t count in the pool.) First period, a delayed penalty is called against Calgary. The Vancouver goalie streaks for the bench to get the extra man on to stretch the advantage. Loui has the puck. He also has three Flames buzzing him, so he sends a blind pass behind him, hoping his defenceman catches it.

Only the defenceman misses. He flings himself forward in a heroic attempt to knock the rubber disc off course, misses again, and the puck sails merrily into the empty net.

“Dear God,” I blurt, sickened. “Oh, dear God.”

Calgary 1 – Vancouver 0.

They gave credit to the last Flame who touched the puck. I might have been upset that it didn’t count in my pool total, but I was ill for Loui. The new guy, acquired to score goals, and in his first real game, he puts it into his own net. I’ve seen it before, many times. I’ve seen bad bounces beat a goalie from 200 feet and I’ve seen “deflections off their own man” galore, but none of them are easy to take—not even when my team benefits.

Which mine didn’t, this time.

Oh, Loui.

Blustery Days

My earliest memory of hella high winds formed when I was about five years old. I was in kindergarten in Sorel, at a school that was, I believe, walking distance from home.

I don’t remember much about kindergarten except that I didn’t like it. It was new and strange, and full of kids who spoke French when I was the only one who didn’t. I don’t know if I lasted the full term, or if my folks pulled me out after I pitched a four alarm tan-tan in the driveway one day; so much of that time in my life is long gone but for the dramas that tend to stay with a person well into adulthood. Allowing for said dramas to become exaggerated over time, I have a clear sense of losing my mind one day, and my mother telling the kind folks who had come to pick me up to go on their way. I don’t remember anything more than that, but if Mum does, I bet the story’s as embarrassing as the one she likes to tell about the day I first saw snow.

I digress.

While I was still in kindergarten, I remember stepping from the school into bright sun and big wind. The leaves were doing their swirly dance on the sidewalk and skittering into the street. I was wearing my plush green winter coat, which was heavy enough to keep my feet on the ground when the wind tried to lift me off them. It was so strong when it hit me that it felt like a big hand curling around my legs. It tugged so insistently that I was sure I’d achieve liftoff like Piglet in the stories by AA Milne—to this day, on a big windy one, I’ll generally ask of no one in particular, “Can I fly Piglet next?”

Fast forward to November 2015. Ter and I had ventured out to do some Christmas shopping and the wind was so strong when we got home that folks were parking on Dallas Road to watch the ocean pound against the shore. I love a stormy ocean, and while I normally watch it from the shelter of my living room, this time, I couldn’t resist. “I have to go look,” I told Ter, and promptly left her to struggle with the shopping bags while I headed up to street level.

Our street sits a bit lower than the main road. How much lower became evident when I reached the top of the slope and was struck full in the face by a blast of salt spray—and this before I got across the road. I waited for a break in the traffic and crossed over to join the other nut cases hanging out by the railing.

Wind roaring. Surf crashing. Gulls hanging overhead. Kids in their twenties spreading their wings and leaning into the teeth of it, letting the wind hold them upright. Small dogs being carried because otherwise they’d be airborne. My vision immediately obscured by the spray on my glasses. The sheer force of the wind felt like that long-ago hand trying to push me back into traffic, shoving so hard that it seemed almost enraged. I fought back, kept my feet, staggered a few steps along the sidewalk. You can’t breathe in wind that strong; it jams itself down your throat and stays there. And all the while, you are reminded of how fragile, how mortal, you are against this heaving, howling, living entity.

Jesu Maria. Get me out of this.

With the wind helping me along, I trip-and-a-trip-trip-tripped back toward home, where Ter had managed to secure the Tiguan by the curb and wrestle our loot into the house. “Well?” she asked from the top of the stairs. “How was it?”

“One of the stupidest things I’ve ever done,” I replied, gasping.

“Yah,” she said, “while I was trying to drop the hatch on Tiggy, the wind swooped in and snatched one of the empty grocery bags. The last I saw, it was zipping toward Moss Rock Park.”

I could very easily have gone the same route.

Last week, the west coast was treated to a hat trick of storms over three days, ending with the remains of Typhoon Songda predicted to be the most intense of the trio. Once again, folks pulled over to watch the ocean do its thing. Ter parked Tiggy behind the house for the third act, as did most of the neighbours. The street out front was empty that night. The wind ramped up for a bit of a show before dinner, then died back by eight and never really took off.

I didn’t even try to go outside.

Anywhere But Here

Rough week, last week. Anxieties to address, disruptions to endure, and a rock-your-world for Ter when she was “asked” to give up her office and move (again) to a cubicle at work. That day was the worst, not because she was particularly attached to her office, but because we are all human and change of any ilk is always upsetting—even when it turns out for the best which, in this case, it has.

Before it all turned out, however, and while she worked through her human, the world was a gloomy place. I struggle with my Zen in these moments, torn between believing that all will be well and feeling like the fool on the hill for believing that all will be well. You know, even when things are not okay, you are okay. I am no Pollyanna; I can get as dark and sarcastic as the most miserable cynic. I just choose to seek light in that dark.

Sometimes, though, it’s hard. Sometimes, I don’t even want to try. I just want to lie on the side of the road and let the world go by.

On the worst morning, ahead of a dental appointment I’d been dreading for months, I asked myself where I wanted to be.

Anywhere but here, I thought.

In the next beat, my little voice reminded me that I couldn’t be anywhere but here, so I’d better man up and deal with it. I can’t say it made me feel better. In truth, I wanted to cry because the truth hurts and the truth is that each of us is always Here. In this moment, with neither past nor future, we can only ever be in the present. Good or bad, peaceful or painful, all we have is the moment we’re in right now. Wishing to be elsewhere won’t change it. Nothing you can do will change it. Nope, we’re stuck with right here, right now, so you know what? Make the best of it. Choose how you will live it. If the best you can do is grit your teeth and endure it, do so, but while you’re enduring it, hold fast to another truth: this moment, like all the moments gone before and still to come, will pass. A new moment will replace it, and in that new moment awaits a chance for something better.

Ter is happy in her new space.

My dental appointment was uneventful.

The week is over and we both survived.

Hallelujah.

With love,

Attitude Adjustment

It’s often easy to forget my efforts to be Zen in the workplace. I work for government, after all, and if ever a system was designed to drive its employees crazy, government at pretty much every level (municipal, provincial or federal) is it.

The latest WTF? initiative saw the removal of everyone’s deskside garbage cans. The powers above insist that it’s an eco-friendly policy to centralize the office refuse location, but what it means is that, rather than continue with twice-weekly janitorial service, everyone from administrative clerks to executive directors is responsible for transporting their candy wrappers and apple cores to the kitchen (happily—for me—located next to my office).

Anyway, to appease the disgruntled rabble, our branch executive went the extra mile to source inexpensive little desktop bins for everyone on the floor, and the unfortunate employee tasked with distribution found herself faced with the same stupid joke from every workstation she visited.

Including mine.

So when I happened on her in tears later that day, I was appalled that my poor attitude had contributed to making her job harder. She reminded me that I am not responsible for how someone reacts to a comment, and I agree, but it didn’t stop me from regretting my part in the overall drama. It wasn’t her fault that we lost our garbage pickup; she was simply given the impossible job of trying to make it better and nobody, not even I, appreciated her effort.

I thought about it for a couple of days before I worked up the courage to stop by her office and thank her, not for the tiny Starbucks trash bin, but for the gift of witnessing her tears. She started to protest, but I held up a hand to stop her:

“It is never my intention to upset anyone,” I said, “but I realized after the other day that I was taking it all too seriously and my attitude was causing you—who least deserve it—pain. Without that ‘aha’ moment, I’d still be acting like a ratbag, so thank you for allowing me to learn from this experience.”

We all but hugged (neither of us is comfy with raw emotion, especially in the workplace), and we’re back on solid ground. My stuffie, Isbjorn, has appropriated my trash cup for himself, and I am resolved to think twice before the next senseless policy is allowed to alter my attitude with the people I value most.

Wish me luck!

Isbjorn set for winter hibernation

Mutable Earth

A buddy of mine is plagued by Virgos. She has me, for one. Her preteen daughter, just morphing into the ugly years, is another. She’ll often tell me story of the girl’s attitude then say, “Must be a Virgo thing,” which I’ll either confirm or deflect to pubescent hormones.

She recently met a guy whose birthday is the day before mine. It started out great, but went a little weird after a few days, during which she was inclined to some action, but held off for fear he’d “get all defensive” on her.

“Virgos don’t get defensive,” I snapped.

Nonplussed at the interruption, she blinked at me—and burst out laughing.

…

What?

A-OK

The trick is not to believe that everything will be okay, because it won’t. That pesky “contrast clause” in the universal contract pretty well ensures it, and if you need proof, just look at the state of the world around us.

No, the trick is to believe that, no matter what happens, you will be okay. You will survive. You’re human and fragile and riddled with conflicting emotions, but in the end, you will be okay.

Reminding myself of this is all that’s got me through the last few years; it’s probably the best advice I’ve ever gotten (if only I could remember who said it!) When things get crazy beyond my control but that affect me nonetheless, I have taken great comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone. I am safe, I am loved, and I will be okay no matter what. After all, my universe is a friendly one. Ultimately, it’s a good place, so even on this wild ride, I feel as I did in childhood, knowing my parents had it all in hand (though I understand as an adult that they were faking it like mad!) Of course I worry on occasion, hence my “practice du jour” of trusting the positive unfolding of my life in a world dissolving into chaos. Stability comes from within. You can’t rely on anything outside yourself—and before you hit me on the Universe being external, I say unto you: “Wrong-O”! You and I are one with the universe, cooperative, connected particles of energy in motion, independent yet irrevocably united. The universe isn’t the source of global chaos. It’s only providing us with what we’ve asked for, knowingly or unknowingly. That’s why it’s a good idea to be aware of your own energy.

I digress.

Stability comes from within. That solid grounding, the knowledge that I’ll be fine, enables me to ride the proverbial wave of change. It doesn’t always excite me. Sometimes it scares the heck out of me—until the little voice in quiet confidence reminds me that no matter what, I am and will be okay.

With love,

Tears

Where do tears come from? The head or the heart? I can’t always tell.

In my staunch religious youth, if a song was sung or a prayer said aloud and Ruth cried, it was deemed a winner. Even today, in my not-so-religious middle years, I cry when reminded that I am loved. I dislike crying; it makes my head ache and waters down my resolve to, well, not cry. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears of empathy, tears of frustration, tears of pain, tears of hay fever—I guess they come from everywhere: head, heart and itchy nose.

Seated in a prayer circle during a workshop seminar on addressing the needs of Aboriginal kids in care, I suddenly, unaccountably, welled up and started to weep. Most of the people around me freaked out a little, unnerved by the European show of weakness, but the native facilitator smiled and accepted my apology with words I will always remember:

“Tears are a gift.”

A few years later, when I became a regular at the local tea shop where Joelique worked, he announced one day that he had cried the previous night. “Why?” I asked. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” he replied, philosophically, “I’m teaching myself that it’s okay to cry.” Though he was roughly half my age, his parents, like many of their generation, had employed the Stop it now or I’ll give you something to cry about tactic to turn off the tap in a highly emotional child.

I laughed at his thundering impression of his dad, then I shared my experience in the prayer circle and told him what the facilitator had told me.

“Tears are a gift.”

We held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat, and just as tears rose in both pairs of eyes, the timer went off and saved us.

I wrote this tiny poem as a tribute to the moment:

a confession

I’ve had a day

and you told me you’d cried

so we talked about tears

until duty called

which was probably good

else I’d have dissolved

April 28, 2011

With love,

Reach Up for the Sunrise

Much as I love the fall, I am no fan of getting up before the sun. Hauling the compostable container from my toasty comfy bed to shuffle down a cold dark hallway, flipping on lights as I go, seems to get harder with each successive weekday morning.

We are now past the fall equinox. The sun rises almost an hour after I do, and about twenty minutes before Ter and I leave for work. On a clear morning, I eat my breakfast while watching a spectacular show. On a clear morning, I watch the sun rise from the Ocean Room window.

It’s a remarkable thing when the gold spark winks above the horizon. Time stops. An unexpected serenity settles over me. I stand transfixed in a gradually spreading pool of warm toffee light. Every cell in my being leans toward it. I unfold like a flower. I raise my arms as if to embrace the glory and bring it to my heart. On a good day, I carry it with me. On a not-so-good day, I cherish the moment and head out the door only to pause on the front stoop and marvel once more at the gift of living across the street from a daily miracle.

The sun doesn’t hurry. It comes on its own schedule, with a majesty unparalleled by any other natural phenomenon, and it happens every single day. People complain about the rain and cloud and fog and cold, and every time I say to them, “The sun is up there; you just can’t see it.”

I get a lot of funny looks, but I also get some smiles.

Almost every culture and society throughout history has associated the sun with their most powerful deity. Being a night owl, I haven’t always understood the attraction. I used to enjoy the sunset more, simply because a different kind of magic—my kind of magic—occurs after the light fades and the noisy, bustling, chaotic world goes to sleep. I used to stay up and write all night, and man, I produced a ton of stuff. I plan to do it again, once I retire from my daytime gig. I love the night. For me, it’s the most mysterious and creative and expansive time of the 24 hour cycle, and if I could stay awake past nine p.m., I’d have that darned novel in the can and be two more ahead!

Until then, however … “Sun, sun, sun, here it comes …”

All Good Things

It’s Thanksgiving. I usually celebrate the occasion earlier in the month, on Ter’s birthday because, of all the good things in my life, I am the most thankful for her.

I also mentioned to my sisters—wee and Boy—last week that they are among my top five. I didn’t say where, but they were happy just to have made the list. Sillies. My family is second, third, fourth and fifth, and includes older sister, both brothers and of course my wonderful parents.

After family come my friends—those who have become family, those who get me through my workday, and Nicky Bean, who stands alone as a beacon of inspiration, creativity and writerly support, and who also happens to agree that John Taylor is perfect.

I must also to give the nod to my pit crew—my voodoo medicine man, my massage therapist, my foot man and chiropractor. I wish I could be grateful for my dentist, but despite the miracle of having my own teeth (so far), I remain suspicious of how much work is actually required for my health rather than his home renovations.

Big picture, I am grateful for everything in my life, even the challenging stuff though I’m often snarky while dealing with those challenges (like dental work). Mortality can be a struggle, but it provides a plethora of opportunity to learn, to love, to hope and dream and laugh and cry and taste chocolate.

I am most grateful, perhaps, for gratitude itself, for it being the wellspring of abundance and prosperity, and a reminder that I have it pretty darned good in a world seemingly poised on the lip of the Dark Side.

Now, to give everyone something worth being grateful for, I’ll keep this short! Take a moment to consider the good things in your life. You might have to look for them, but trust me, they’re there, and if you focus on them instead of the things that drive you crazy, you’ll discover yourself to be in better shape than you thought.

With love and gratitude,

Royal Flush

Of course I’m a Royalist. I had an affair with Charles II, didn’t I?

During the recent visit of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to Victoria, almost everyone I know displayed some degree of giddiness at the city’s brush with royalty. A couple of people were aware but not following, and only one rolled her eyes with a dismissive flip of her hand.

Well, fine. Say what you like about Britain’s royals, but I have no problem with my tax dollars going to support a visit to my hometown, or anywhere else in Canada, for that matter. Our nation’s membership in the Commonwealth has helped our global reputation as a diverse people of wit, warmth and welcome. We are a part of something greater than ourselves, which I believe makes us more tolerant and less suspicious of other nations. It also gives us the benefit of representation by a truly great lady in Queen Elizabeth II. She is an inspiring example of loyalty, grace and commitment, and she’s ensured that subsequent generations of her family are similarly aware of the privileged life they lead.

A life of service,

A life of charity.

A life on a gruelling schedule in a relentlessly public eye.

Few celebrities can make any of these claims, let alone all three, plus the royals are excellent ambassadors for any number of causes. They use their super powers for the good of others and not themselves (are you listening, Kardashians?) Better yet, they do it with style and—yes—humility.

I watched Will and Kate’s progress through their week out west and was less impressed by their lineage than by their conduct. “They’re such good people,” Ter remarked during the news clip of the couple breaking formation for an impromptu walkabout in Vancouver.

“That’s because they were raised to have manners,” I replied.

These days, any petulant brat can be a princess; it’s no longer a title of distinction demanding decorum and social grace. In a world of spoiled industry heiresses and overpaid sports stars, it’s refreshing to see monied young people exhibiting genuine class.