Butterflies and Hummingbirds

Apparently, my mother liked to watch hummingbirds. She put sugar water in the feeder on her patio and throughout the spring and summer, the little gaffers showed up in droves to get hyped on empty calories. When my sisters and I cleared out her room last March, a Christmas ornament in the shape of a hummingbird lay on her dresser. It now lies on the end table next to her photo in the Ocean Room. Yes, I pinched it and now, whenever I see a hummingbird, I think of Mum.

When she passed away a year ago this very day, butterflies were everywhere. ’Twas the season, after all – summer had just begun and the world was bright with life in all its vibrant glory. What a magical time she chose in which to make her transition. In many cultures, butterflies and hummingbirds symbolize transformation, whether it’s a massive change in this life or moving from this one to the next. I suppose it’s natural to see significance in a hummingbird hovering outside the window when Mum has been the subject of conversation, or to startle at a butterfly flitting over the lavender bush a heartbeat after she’s crossed my mind. Some might call it coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in our ability to transcend dimensions with a thought. I think of Mum and she is here. I may not see her, I may not even feel her presence ... until I glance through the window and see that tiny bird pausing just long enough to catch my eye and make me wonder.

With love,

Crap O’Clock

I am slumped in my comfy chair, still in my jammies with a hot Magic Bag softening my stiff neck and shoulders. A bleary-eyed Ter is nursing the day’s first cup of tea from her corner of the loveseat. Neither of us has the energy for small talk. A mournful wail suddenly wafts up from the lawn beneath our window, wending its way into our living room—it’s the three-year-old downstairs, voicing his displeasure at being dressed and out the door to daycare before seven a.m. on a weekday.

“Suck it up, junior,” I say, bluntly. “Life is hard so you’d better get used to it.”

Cut me some slack, okay? This is the same kid who wakes me from a sound sleep at this same ungodly hour on a Sunday by galloping gaily up and down the hall beneath our suite. Instead of sympathizing, I take a perverse pleasure in him being hauled out the door against his will two days a week when I have to get up and go to work for five. He thinks he’s hard done by now? Wait until he starts school, heh heh.

Yup, it’s a hard life all right. I am not nor ever have been a morning person. I have learned to appreciate the beauty of a sunrise over the ocean or the tranquil solitude of a pre-breakfast flânerie, but overall, I’d rather stay up late than get up early. And I can sympathize with Junior Jinx (as Ter calls him) to some degree: I became “anti-morning” when I started school myself. It’s not that I disliked school (much). I’m generally quite happy when I get to the office, too. It’s the getting up at crap o’clock to go somewhere I’d rather not go that well and truly bites.

I don’t know how my mother did it. She was always the first one up, summer or winter, rain or shine, and breakfast was usually on the hob before she knocked on my door with a cheery, “Wakey, wakey!” or—after my bones kicked in—an even brighter, “Pill time!” Those were bleak mornings for sure. I can’t imagine she liked them any better than I did, but I never saw it.

During a recent work tea with Treena, she reminisced fondly about the idyllic days of childhood. “Do you remember waking up every day, full of excitement and eager to see what adventure awaited?” she asked, wistfully.

I just stared at her, wondering what that must have been like. It seems every morning of my life is met with the question of whether I can do it. Whether I can get up and get going. It was particularly grim when I was younger, but I’ve hated being woken up forever. Sure, I can wake up happy on a weekend, but who doesn’t? It’s a weekend, for Pete’s sake!

Which reminds me: I have to reset the alarm before I go to bed tonight.

Crap.

Born to be Alive

Life sometimes sucks. Lately I’ve thought it would be easier if other people weren’t involved.

On the other hand, life is often glorious, and the people in it make it easier.

Contrast, right?

But, you know, that’s the point. Life is meant to be lived. I don’t mean by extreme measures either, thrillseekers. Finding peace in everyday routine makes for a generally pleasant existence if I stop to appreciate one very simple fact:

I am able to breathe.

Joy will always be countered by despair. Grief will always be matched by delight. In no way am I advocating for a boring life—it won’t likely happen and if it did, we’d complain about it. I merely suggest that patience be employed in shadow and bright moments be seized because neither state is permanent. Life itself is temporary; at least, this life is.

That’s why we’re here. Sometime, somewhere, someone decided it would be fun to try mortality and everyone else agreed. We existed then and we’ll exist again, but we’re here right now.

I don’t know what happens next because I don’t need to. I’ll know as I go. I’ll figure it out and find my way and all will be well no matter how I choose to perceive it. In fact, all is already well. It’s always well even at its worst; trusting this universal truth gives me hope in my dark moments.

Yup, life is hard. It’s also a gift. So pause for this one second:

Take a deep breath in—and I mean deep—then let it out slowly, through your nose.

That’s how it feels to be alive.

Relish it. Treasure it. Above all, be grateful for it, because it will not last forever.

With love,

100 Things

Thanks for the photo, Beanie!

Not only was I inspired to pinch this picture from Nicole’s recent post at The Paper Teapot, I was prompted to follow her example and list one hundred things I love. She took the challenge from Julia Cameron’s “The Right to Write”, a creative manual I have not acquired myself, but then I’ve always appreciated others doing the reading for me.

Nic was right about this—once you start, it’s hard to stop. So here goes, in no particular order (except the top three) and in no way the limit of things that give me joy:

1.             Ter

2.            My family

3.            My friends

4.            Chocolate

5.            Vampires

6.            “A Song of Ice and Fire” (the books, not the TV series)

7.            Sitting at the ocean

8.           French fries

9.            Bass players

10.        Fast cars

11.         Movies about writers

12.        19^th century Paris

13.        Puppies

14.        Bailey’s Original

15.         Flâneries

16.        Duran Duran

17.         Warming spices

18.        Laughing

19.        Making other people laugh

20.       Summer rain

21.        Winter storms

22.       Documentaries about royalty

23.       Charles II of England

24.       Chrome (not the browser)

25.        The rumble of a muscle car’s engine

26.       Smooth jazz

27.        Fridays

28.       Lavender

29.       Extra-foamy tea lattes

30.       My CD collection

31.        Family photos

32.       Horses

33.       James Tiberius Kirk

34.       Stretching

35.        Candlelight

36.       Costume dramas

37.        Singing along

38.       Going for tea

39.       Shawls

40.       Teddy bears

41.        Bacon cheeseburgers

42.       Watching the sunrise

43.       Christmas

44.       The first page of a new read

45.        White roses

46.       Reminiscing

47.        Soft ice cream

48.       Finishing a writing project

49.       Starting a writing project

50.       Classic Mustangs

51.         Watching snow fall

52.        Hot showers

53.        Afternoon naps

54.        Baking cookies

55.        Solitude

56.        Michael York

57.        Going barefoot

58.       Art Deco

59.        Long necklaces

60.       Rhubarb crumble with custard

61.        Turkey stuffing

62.       Cashmere

63.       Birthday presents

64.       Cheesecake

65.        Fuzzy socks

66.       Hockey

67.        Canada

68.       Hugs (giving and getting)

69.       “The Night Circus”

70.       Telling people how wonderful they are

71.         Embracing my age

72.        Philosophical debates

73.        Long drives

74.        Night skies

75.        Def Leppard

76.        Museums

77.        Colouring

78.       Brownies

79.        Main streets in little villages

80.      Breakfast for dinner

81.        Full skirts

82.       Morning fog

83.       Kids playing street hockey

84.       Lying on the couch listening to music

85.       Massages

86.       The wind blowing through me

87.       Peppermint

88.      Crossword puzzles

89.       Lazy Sundays

90.       The sun on my skin

91.        Classic rock

92.       Sharpies

93.       Getting my hair done

94.       Making gratitude lists

95.        Bedtime

96.       Bookstores

97.        Jaguar X-types

98.       Flying

99.       Dreaming

100.   Being alive ...

With love,

For Christ’s Sake

Overheard at a Thai restaurant: “I’m not religious, but I am spiritual.”

I get that, I thought. Then I wondered at the difference.

According to my ancient Webster’s dictionary, the adjective religious is defined as: “1. one that believes in or supports a religion; devout; pious; 2. of or concerned with religion (eg., religious books); 3. belonging to a community of monks, nuns, etc; 4. conscientiously exact; scrupulous.”

The adjective spiritual is defined as: “1. of the spirit or soul as distinguished from the body or material matters; 2. of or consisting of spirit; not corporeal; 3. refined in thought or feeling; 4. of religion or the church; sacred; devotional etc. 5. spiritualistic or supernatural.”

Interesting. The word “spiritual” does not appear in the definition of “religious”, and the word “religion” only appears in one of five possibilities under “spiritual”.

I recently learned that the religion into which I was baptized at the age of eighteen is not accepted as a Christian religion by other Christian religions. This is alternately hilarious and disturbing. It doesn’t bother me a whole lot, as I’ve been long inactive due to my issues with the church rather than with anything Jesus taught, but when I do think about it, I am a little annoyed. No matter what other Christians think, I took my baptismal vows to confirm my faith in the teachings and divine mission of Jesus Christ ... so how could I not be considered a Christian? Especially by other Christians?

But you know, I’ve always been a goat among sheep. Even when I was an active churchgoer, I refused to accept that my deeds would be judged by anyone other than God Himself. When my father gently suggested the Almighty might be too busy to manage my exit interview personally, I replied: “I’ll have all Eternity. I can wait.”

I have known many religious people. Few of them are truly happy. They are hard on others and harder on themselves. They keep their gazes down rather than their gazes up, as if fearing to meet the eye of God—and given the god presented in the Bible, I can’t say I blame them. The Old Testament God is not a nice guy. In fact, in human form, he’d probably have had his children removed by social workers until he completed a course in anger management and could prove himself a worthy parent. Seriously. Love born from fear is not love at all. Even we ignorant mortals know that, so Dad Above shouldn’t be surprised that his kids have abandoned him. They deserve better.

I know a few spiritual people, too. Most of them are happier than the devoutly religious folks, but every soul that is or ever was is here to experience contrast and most of us have as many dark days as we do sunny ones. Jesus was a spiritual person. These days I am less assured of parts of his story than I am in others, but I will not deny he was a light being with an extraordinary connection to his divinity. It’s unfortunate that his darkness was not as well recorded; relating to him as a conflicted human is difficult when he’s only ever portrayed as the solemn master of his mortal state. Of course his death was horrible, but he wasn’t the only one crucified in those days. The Romans practically made a sport of it.

I know, I know—his story is really about the Resurrection.

Or is it? Well, maybe, in that it seems many of his present-day followers strive to be worthy of his sacrifice by behaving in complete opposition to his lessons about loving thy neighbour as thyself and judging not lest ye be judged. Since our sins have already been atoned for, why not transgress with gay abandon knowing he gave us a free pass back to Heaven?

Ironically, I may be more of a Christian now than I was in my churchgoing days. I focus more on what he taught while he was alive than what religion says we won by his death (and even then, it has to be the “right” religion, otherwise it’s “do not pass Go, do not collect $200”). I prefer to trust in his loving way, in his sound sense of his own divinity and his efforts to convince everyone he met that they were just as precious, just as special, just as beloved, just as deserving of blessings, as he was.

As I am.

As you are.

With love,