Five Long Years

Comfortable Rebellion started on March 23, 2013, with a post entitled “Why Not?” There was no topical photo to accompany the text on that introductory blurb; there was just a big idea, a little preface, and (thanks to Nicole) a poem.

That was five years ago. A lot has happened in those five years, yet not a lot has happened. Time is so fluid, so subjective, that it’s hard to reconcile exactly how much has occurred since I took the plunge 755 posts ago. I’ve strayed a bit from my original intention, which was to write write write then post post post about the literary passion that has driven me from the time I wrote my first unfinished novel at the age of twelve.

There have been a lot of unfinished novels. I have also finished a few, and continue to wrestle with the latest, now almost six years in the birthing and still an obsession because it’s a darned good story and has been from the beginning. Have I ever said, “I want to write a romance”? Not aloud, surely. Romance is not my thing, at least not in the conventional sense. I like that my romances tend to go sideways, but the hero in this one deserves a true love story with a happily-ever-after ending and I’m simply not that skilled at making those happen. In the long run, the characters are responsible for achieving the desired outcome, but I’m still the one directing traffic. If only they weren’t so ... so human.

That’s another area where the Rebellion has slipped slightly off the rails. I’ve become more aware of what it is to be human in the past few years. Ironically, I did not see it coming, and I’ve written a lot more than I meant to about my experience. Personal non-fiction is not my literary preference, but it is writing, so I can’t say I’ve lost the CR plot entirely. It’s about stories, right? My story, which is your story and everyone else’s story throughout history; anyone who has been human, anyway, who has lived a life unique unto him/herself but who shares so much in common with me just by nature of his/her humanity. We are all connected, after all. If I didn’t feel it five years ago, I certainly feel it now. So I write about it, and post about it, and hope that the ether has been brightened somewhat by my contribution to it. I may never know.

Have I gone wrong? Maybe not. Maybe the blog has evolved as it was supposed to, even if it doesn’t look the way I imagined it would in the spring of 2013. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what it would look like or what I thought I was doing before I did it, but on that Friday five years ago, I asked myself why should I do it and the answer came pretty quickly:

Why not?

Here’s to another five years.

The Company You Keep

Come on, get Happy!

One never knows what one is getting when a new bear joins the household. It’s a bonus that Ter’s critter instinct has never let her down; every bear she’s brought home has been a winner, but it takes time for each unique personality to reveal itself, and the group dynamic often plays a part in what that personality looks like.

Take Cardigan, for instance. He came by way of my Christmas stocking in 2015, so we didn’t meet each other until it was theoretically too late. I looked at him, he looked at me, and nothing immediately happened. I didn’t even know his name until he’d sat in somewhat anxious silence for a few days (they’re almost always anxious at first; after all, they don’t know us, either ... and when I say “us”, I mean “me” because they flock to Ter like kids to the ice cream truck). With his natty scarf and cable-knit coat, he seemed an academic type, shy and introverted. First hint: the smoke detector incident in November 2016 (“Chirping”) freaked him out. To this day, if he sees me put on my coat, he says, “I don’t want the con, Mum.”

Slightly neurotic? Check.

Then he met Basher, which I figured was a good thing because he needed socializing. Besides, a quiet, studious companion might be a good influence on my little goon, who has always been a bit of a thug. Flyer fan, you know.

Well, Basher nicknamed him “Nerdy”, at which he took mild offense until he realized Basher isn’t that bright and didn’t mean to be mean. Now he’s okay with it. Anyone else calling him “Nerdy”, however, gets a reprimand.

Even if it’s his mother.

Cardie’s time with Basher is determined by the number of Flyer games on TV, as he resides in the living room and Basher is a bedroom bear. This means Cardigan spends a lot of time by himself—and as anyone who spends too much time alone can tell you, it messes with your head. While Cardie retained his sweetness, his shyness intensified and his neurotic tendencies became more evident. He stayed in his spot and didn’t want to stray, and while he seemed okay with being alone during the day, he worried incessantly that Ter and I wouldn’t be home before dark. Not a problem in summer. In winter, he was really bothered. I started to wonder if he might need professional help.

Then Happy Livewell arrived. He came to us last winter, as part of a Christmas present for Ter, but I think he’s been more of a gift to Cardigan. Happy immediately felt at home in the living room. He staked out his spot near the window, and one day asked Ter who the little blond guy was sitting under the lamp. She brought him over and introduced him to Cardigan.

Now the pair are inseparable. Every morning, Happy comes to hang out with Cardie while Ter and I are at work. They watch TV together in the evening. Happy is so cheerful and optimistic that Cardigan has finally begun to relax. He’s even cracked a couple of jokes! Happy always laughs at them, but his constant good humour has boosted Cardie’s confidence to the point where my little guy occasionally sasses me! He’s come out of his shell, and is so much healthier and happier with his new best friend than he was when he was his own best friend.

I think people are the same. Why not build positive, nurturing relationships rather than negative and needy ones? Remember, a single candle throws a whole lotta light. Don’t imagine for an instant that your attitude has no effect on others. It does. You can lift someone up as sure as someone else can bring you down—and if you spend too much time in your own head, that little voice will work its sinister magic and convince you the world is a hostile, lonely place. It is, and it isn’t. A lot of it depends on the company you keep.

With love,

Where the Heart Is

one of these things is not like the others ...

Most of the houses in my neighbourhood are near or over a hundred years old. I say “most” because a fair number of them have been torn down and replaced by what Boy Sister refers to as “chicken coop” houses – the West Coast style featuring flat roofs and no personality. They claim to reflect the environment in their slick wood façades and plate glass windows, but they actually stick out like the proverbial sore thumb among their elder neighbours. A recent trend has been to try and blend in with an arched roof and some fake Tudor accents around pseudo-mullioned windows, but really, it’s akin to setting out a plastic goblet with the Waterford.

I know the land is worth more than the structure sitting on it, but I’m beginning to resent the seemingly wanton destruction of older buildings to stuff bigger and less attractive domiciles onto property that once featured a lovely garden as well as a cute little cottage or a heritage home. I might view the influx more favourably if the new homes were multi-unit stratas or better yet, rental suites, but they’re not. Depending on the route I choose from the limo stop, I walk past at least three lots where older houses used to be, and none of the new constructs, though significantly larger than any of the original structures, appear built to accommodate more than one family and a basement suite to help the new owners make outrageous monthly mortgage payments. Worse, many single lots now feature a pair of too-big houses staring into each other’s windows, so there go the gardens for which Victoria was nicknamed.

I wonder sometimes where the ghosts go. Buildings house more than people, you know. They assume the energetic vibe of their occupants, and some of them retain that vibe long after the occupants have departed. Old buildings are particularly vibrant with the energy of their pasts. Ter and I were outnumbered by the phantoms in our suite at Rockland. That entire neighbourhood is rich with the presence of residents long past, drifting through the old mansions and manor houses that grace the tree-lined streets. It remains my favourite part of town, and I would happily return to it if I had the cash to snap up one of those crumbling old houses with their original woodwork and stained glass windows. If I had the cash, I’d buy one and restore it. I think it would thank me – and so would the ghosts.

Disheartened with the ubiquitous reconstruction of my current neighbourhood, I picked a rarely walked route home the other night. I thought that passing some less familiar houses would rejuvenate me after a particularly intense week at work. Surely, I thought, there is one street in Fairfield unblemished by new construction or a gaping hole where someone’s childhood home once stood.

A pair of teenaged boys were shooting hoops with a basketball halfway up the block. Cherry blossoms on the bubble of blooming beamed in the late afternoon sun. I noticed fresh paint on one of the houses, and new front stairs attached to another. Someone was mowing their lawn and the summery smell of cut grass blended with the salt breeze off the sea. I began to relax. My plan had worked. And then, I saw this:

*sigh*

Soul Mates

Many years ago, I took one of those silly quizzes that asked me to name five people who were important to me. They had to be people I knew, i.e., no rock stars or favourite authors. I didn’t want to think too much, as overthinking can mess with the results, so I followed my instinct and wrote down five names.

Ter was one of them.

The next task was to assign a colour to each name. Again, without thinking too much, I pictured each person and let the colour assign itself.

Ter’s was white.

In the end, the colour was said to determine what role each person played in my life. One of them was an outright WTF? and I don’t remember the other three—but I have always remembered Ter’s because white meant “soul mate”.

Well, duh. If course she was—and is, and always will be. She and I are irrevocably linked and likely have been so since before The Big Bang. We will likely be so into however many futures are left to us, until we say “enough already!” and move onto our next gigs as technicians, planners or spirit guides—whatever other employment opportunities exist in the Great Beyond.

Even then, we’ll always be friends. Sisters. Soul sisters and soul mates. I can’t imagine any life without her, and I’m fine with that. I’ve never been so fine about anything, in fact. She is simply as vital to my survival as air, though I won’t take her for granted until I can’t breathe anymore. Nope, she’s a part of me and I’m a part of her and there you go.

We have this limiting misconception that a soul mate must be the one you marry. I could very well be wrong, but I only know one couple where that seems to be true. I know of many more folks who thought they’d married their soul mate, then met someone else and immediately gone, oops. Serial weddings ensue as romantic misconception reigns, but here’s the kick: A soul mate can be anything in one’s life—not necessarily a spouse, but a friend, a sibling, a co-worker, a neighbour, a poet (*waves at Beanie*), a healer or a hairdresser or a barista. It can even be—get this—your arch nemesis. Yes, Virginia, your worst enemy may very well be your soul mate. After all, lessons are to be learned, and who better to teach them than a soul who has known yours from the dawn of Time?

There is a theory that suggests we exist in “soul groups”. This is especially plausible if you believe in reincarnation or parallel lives, or any of the other trippy hippy alternatives I’ve encountered during the past few years. Everyone in this group can be considered a soul mate. This explains why I feel more connected to a select few than I do for the entire cast of characters I will meet in this life. These are the people with whom I have solid, enduring (sometimes frustrating) relationships, but the term “soul mate” also includes the handful of power people who have crossed my path during their own journeys; those individuals who drop in to make a difference ranging from improving my day to testing my boundaries to changing the course of my entire life.

It took me twenty years to find my Ter. I wasn’t without soul mates before then, but those who served their purpose in my childhood and teenage years had moved on to make room for her. She got into the car one fateful evening, we started talking, and we haven’t stopped since.

Soul sisters. Soul mates. Forever. What a wonderful thought!

With love,