Kettle Me This

Green tea is steeped at a lower heat than black tea, and since I drink a lot of green, my next kettle will have a variable temperature feature. There’s one at work , and if you want an endurance test for small appliances, a staff of eighty-plus will surely provide it. The office kettle is boiling—or close to it—from seven-thirty a.m. to five p.m. every weekday, and I don’t remember when it arrived. It’s also worth noting that no “off the rack” kettle is designed for that sort of heavy duty use. We’ve burned through a few in my time (one day I’ll tell you about the nifty “disco” model that last three days before it went back to the store), and this one has been operating for years.

So when our home kettle threatened to blow up some weeks ago, I told Ter I’d prefer one with a variable temperature feature. Naturally, I couldn’t remember the brand of the office version, but of the few options available on the Canadian Tire website, the Oster model looked almost exactly the same. And it was on sale—at 50% off the regular price! Score!

Oh, but then I noticed the online reviews. Only one post recommended the kettle as worth the effort; a handful of others complained bitterly about leaks and shorts and generally poor performance. Curses.

I researched a few other options, but no real luck. Either the price was ridiculous compared to “212 degrees only” kettles, or the reviews warned against investing in any of them. I conceded to the thriftier option: if we had to buy a replacement, I’d settle for a remake of our Black and Decker, which has been stellar from the first go. In fact, I think it might be as old as the office kettle, if not similarly overworked.

No matter. Our kettle wasn’t crapping out; we only thought it was. Having dodged the leaky base/crappy performance Oster bullet, I returned to work the following Monday and started my morning routine: fill up the kettle, set it to 170 degrees and switch it on to heat while I empty the drainer and zoom to my office for my mug and a scoop of Japanese sencha.

Guess what? The superstar much abused overused and years old office kettle is an Oster with an variable temperature feature.

*sigh*

Letter to a Little Spark

Dear little one:

How your joy delights me! Your optimism, your enthusiasm and excitement, your willingness to embrace your dreams, fills my heart with gladness. My love for you deepens every day.

Yet I am pained, knowing what you do not. Knowing that these plans, made with hope and happiness, are not to be (quite yet), distresses me, for I can see what you cannot.

I know the eddies and currents of the greater flow around you. I see the roots and stones in your path, the unseen perils you will encounter. Your joy in this moment is not unfounded, but the time for fruition is not so soon. In part, you are not ready. In part, you are needed elsewhere, in support of another’s journey. You are yourself, little star, but you are also one in a glittering glorious tapestry and so some things must wait.

You will feel robbed. Cheated. Perhaps neglected or abandoned. Worse, you will doubt your decisions made while setting your intention. You will question your own wisdom.

I will weep with you then. I weep now, anticipating your anger and dismay.

I beg you to take heart, little spark. Trust in light when all is dark. Your present joy is not in vain. When the time is right and all is ready, you will be amazed at the wonders that appear. They will surpass your wildest imagining and be all the sweeter for the lessons you must first learn.

And let not your future joy be tainted. Turn your back on fear and trepidation; let neither colour your dreams. Be not haunted by what is done, but look ahead with the hope and optimism of now. Be excited for your future, little one, but life is to be lived in the present.

I am with you always.

With love,

The Sum of Our Parts

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few (or the one).

All for one and one for all.

It’s not the name on the back of the jersey that matters, it’s the crest on the front.

Call me a socialist and you likely won’t be wrong. I am all for sharing the wealth in support of the whole. Everyone has resources. Everyone has a talent. Everyone can—and should—contribute. I’d not presume to dictate comfort zones, but the best thing about humanity is the way we rally to support a person, a family, a community, or a country in need.

There is something to the attitude of putting the good of the group ahead of stardom for one. Take the International Ice Hockey Federation’s 2019 World Cup Junior Champion Team Finland, for instance. Consistently outmanned, outgunned and short-handed in the final against team USA, they stuck together and ground it out to win the gold medal. There were no superstars and no obvious egos in their game. They were just a bunch of young guys doing their best to help each other.

And win a trophy, of course.

Hm. Competitive sports might not be the best example—though sport is supposed to teach kids the value of teamwork. Too often I see pro players either trying to draw a penalty or whining when they get caught themselves. Participant ribbons for all was maybe not a good idea.

I laughed out loud at a commentator remarking on Canuck wonder-rookie Elias Petterson’s understated celebration when he scores a goal. The kid is Swedish. Modesty becomes them. In fact, it’s taught to children in many cultures around the globe. The “modesty lie” is encouraged in some countries—commit a random act of kindness, but don’t take credit for it. I agree with that in part; when asked point blank if I put cookies on the office snack station, I confess because I’m busted. There’s no point in lying when I’ve been naughty, either. (And some would suggest that’s the case when I put cookies on the office snack station.)

But in this magical world of contrast and the human experience, superstars are inevitable. Everyone wants to be special, even in societies where they’re taught to be ordinary—or at least not to be extraordinary. That’s hard for an ego to endure. I get that. I also know that everyone is born special. The best thing anyone can do is be themselves. That’s why we’re all here. Be yourself and be the best at it. As Martin Luther King once said, even if you’re a shrub, be the best darned shrub you can be.

The whole garden will look better.

With love,

Pay No Mind

As I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I am not making the same one again this year. I am not promising to write more. I do not resolve to clear my mind and let the Muse do her thing; I will not try harder to be creative and I do not promise to finish any of the projects that have sat half done for the past xxx years.

Xxx years? Really? Augh. And I call myself a writer?

Well, yeah. I do. I just don’t call myself a prolific one.

In keeping with my ritual of non-resolution, I don’t plan to change my status and become more prolific. I haven’t spent any time perusing incomplete stories with an eye to changing their status, either. Yet one has begun to resume forward motion. I had stalled, as usual, when my head got, well, ahead of me ... and the quote above this post came at the best possible time.

Now I have something new to practice: cultivating no mind. Thinking is okay, but doing too much of it is not my friend. It’s not conducive to art of any ilk. Or to life, when it comes to that. How often do you change your mind before choosing something at random off a menu? How many playlists do you agonize over before picking one just to make it stop? Do you ever wear what you planned to wear? I admit to a perverse pleasure in anticipating my drink for Thursday cafe with wee sis and boy sister, but even then, I’ve been known to toss my plan out the window when I get to the counter. (Okay, that’s mostly to throw the barista, who prides himself on knowing his customers’ “usual”.)

One week into the new year and my non-resolution is already in danger of being broken. The story I mentioned is almost done. Once I gave it some serious attention (not thought), it started to write itself and now I know how it ends. I just have to write myself there.

Never mind.

Relax Your Face

An old friend once observed that crazy people don’t smile. If that’s so, then the majority of us are bordering on the brink. Pope Francis recommends those who claim to have Jesus in their hearts may want to notify their faces—the same could be said to anyone professing Islamic, Buddhist or otherwise enlightened tendencies. As for smiling faces during the holiday season, yeah, right. I once worked with a kid who said she had the crabbiest customers of the year during her Christmas gig at Starbucks. So much for joy, peace and goodwill to all.

Relax your face. While you’re at it, drop your shoulders and inhale until your ribcage swells—but if that’s too much, just do the face. Do it, ’cause I bet you have no idea how tense your face is, and when it’s tense, it’s probably frowning. Or scowling. Or anxious. One thing is sure: it ain’t smiling.

I’m not suggesting you walk through life with a goofy grin in place. That would be unrealistic, not to mention ridiculous. I am suggesting, however, that a couple of times a day, take a minute to soften the muscles in your face, maybe even conjure a little smile while you’re folding laundry or mixing a batch of muffins. I tried it while disentangling Christmas tree lights and my BP improved in the same instant as my mood.

You must be aware of your face before you can soften it, however, so paying attention is the first step—especially in a neutral position, i.e., when you’re not engaged in some emotional hijinks or concentrating on a math problem. Try it when you’re alone and see for yourself: relaxing your face relaxes everything. It won’t solve your problems, but it softens a resistant stance. You might even feel a little better, too.

How can that be bad?

Stepping Out of Christmas

The night before we took down the tree, I noticed something I always forget until the night of the day we put up the tree: I love how the twinkle lights are reflected in Ter’s wineglass. This year, the inverted effect also reflected the tapsalteerie nature of Christmas 2018 ... or of 2018 in general. As my office roomie bleakly observed in mid-December, “2018 can go f*** itself.”

Amen, sister.

Right up to December twenty-first, real life inflicted itself on the festivities. Physical challenges, work pressure, car repairs, and the cyclical nature of grief conspired to foil my seasonal joy—but we got ’er done in spite of the obstacles.

Don’t we always?

Think about it. Life doesn’t stop because it’s Christmas. It doesn’t stop for vacation, either. I once asked my boss if I could have my time back because my February leave had sucked. Alas, my request was denied. Since then, I have been aware of the contrast in supposedly good times, Christmas being the most obvious target for the simple reason that it demands more energy than a summer holiday. When you’re already exhausted, the smallest hiccup can be tectonic in result.

Conversely, this past Christmas was also brighter, more peaceful and somehow happier than previous ones. I thought frequently of Mum, but the memories of Christmases with her made up for the first one without her. As for the big tree ... I did the heavy lifting since Ter was out of commission, but it felt like more of a team effort once Bart the bear was in place next to the star. Ups and downs came fast and furious throughout the season, but upside down or right side up, it was consistently beautiful. I couldn’t have imagined better.

On to 2019!