60

 

Comedienne Joan Rivers once told the story of asking a flight attendant where she could find her seat. The attendant looked her over and replied, “A quarter inch lower than last year.”

Welcome to my 60s.

The only way I’ll get through the next ten years is by acknowledging from the start that I’ve never been here before. In theory, that should make it easier to accept the changes that have already begun to happen. I still have most of my own teeth, though for how long remains to be seen. I lost two-thirds of a bridge last year, so methinks some sort of partial lurks in my not-so-distant future. I am also nearing the end of my tenure as a BC public servant., since I intend on retiring sometime in the next few years. My skin is drier and not as firm as it was when an abundance of estrogen ruled my life, my hair is growing naturally paler by the day, and my prescription lenses are marginally thicker than their predecessors.

When did all this stuff happen? And how do I proceed gracefully when the face in the mirror no longer elicits an astonished “You’re how old? You don’t look it!” when the subject comes up in conversation.

With luck, it won’t come up at all.

I’ve known some truly cool seniors. I’m even related to a few of them! Sixty years old in 2021 does not look the same as sixty years old looked in, say, the 1960s. Despite residing in the body of a 70 year old for most of my life (thanks, arthritis!), things will definitely be different from now on. They’re already different from how they were; I’m just not sure when it happened. And I haven’t changed ... I don’t think.

Okay, maybe I’m a tad more cautious than I used to be. I’m more inclined to think twice before stepping out. In fact, I’ll often think thrice to be sure I got it right the first two times. I’m not as flexible as I was in my youth—and I don’t just mean physically. I do like my routine (when I can have one). I like sticking close to home, I don’t like crowds, I sometimes turn off the music to hear the silence ... but I’ve always liked sticking close to home, I’ve never liked crowds, and I’ve often turned off the music when I’m home alone. I guess that’s just me.

As for Ru herself, well, I reckon I’ve grown somewhat wiser, hopefully kinder, a little crankier, more honest, less judge-y, happier with enough, and more comfortable with all of it.

Happy birthday, old girl. You’ve never been better.

Did You See That?

 

When Ter and I were last at the mall, I noticed a car in the parking lot. It stood by itself in a space at the end of the row and was absolutely nothing to get excited about, except that it sported the name and website address of a business I’d not heard of before.

It was still there when we emerged with our purchases. As we passed it en route to the Tiguan, I glanced once more at the website address and remarked to Ter: “I wonder what the Metaphysical Academy is all about.”

“I was just wondering the same thing,” she replied.

“Then you saw it too?”

She nodded. “Yup.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. “That means the car is actually here, in this dimension.”

“Or we’re there, in that dimension,” she countered.

“As in we saw it but the space is empty to everyone else?”

“Sure,” she allowed, still walking. “If you think you see it, it’s there. If you don’t, it’s not.”

“Or,” I suggested, “it could be sitting in another dimension and we only saw it because we passed through the divide.”

She laughed. “And the light was coming from a certain direction.”

We kept walking, but neither of us glanced back. From that angle, there was no guarantee ...

Buckle Up

 

Last week my chiropractor asked me if I was planning any trips to Vancouver now that BC is thisssss close to achieving herd immunity. I said no way; even before COVID, I was done with Vancouver. These days, I think Victoria is too crowded! Besides, as I get older, the hassle of travel outweighs the benefits of being there.

The doctor didn’t disagree—but he’s also booked a golfing trip to Arizona next March. He’ll get there in three days, driving a “doable” (so he says) 900 kms a day, and will enjoy the trip more on the road than being squished into a fully loaded airplane for a few hours.

“Hey,” I said brightly, “in two or three years, if you’ve got two hundred thousand dollars, you can book a seat on Virgin Galactic’s sub-orbital flight from YVR to Phoenix and get there before you leave!”

He paused in rearranging my vertebrae. “What’s that?”

I explained about the FAA approving Richard Branson’s company to begin commercial operations in the next few years. “They flew the prototype last weekend,” I said. “Now they just have to build the actual space plane.”

My chiro was amazed, not just about the concept, but that I actually knew about it.

To be fair, I only know about it because Ter was already glued to CNN when I got up last Sunday morning. The test flight was airborne—with Sir Richard aboard—and I missed the part when they reached zero gravity, but at least I was able to watch the landing in real time. I love flying and I love going fast and I love aerodynamically designed anything, so I felt the rush of history being made when the plane landed safely.

Pretty darned cool, before you start thinking about it. I mean, billionaires floating around in the stratosphere for fun seems like a gargantuan waste of money, possibly environmentally irresponsible, and yet another example of the increasing disparity between the rich and the rest of us. At least Branson isn’t reserving seats solely for those who have more money than sense. He’s partnered with a non-profit to cover the cost for some ordinary people to take a trip beneath the stars. So there’s hope for some little kids who dream of getting there but who could never afford it on their own.

I say “beneath the stars” because it seems the intention here is to establish a sub-orbital commuting service, albeit a hella expensive one, rather than visiting space itself. One small step for a billionaire philanthropist may actually be one giant leap for inter-continental travel. So, if I had the cash, would I sign up for this once-in-a-lifetime über-experience?

No, thanks. Despite the thrill of travelling faster than the speed of sound, I doubt my body would respond well to zero gravity. Though I wonder what kind of in-flight snacks would be offered ...

Oh, I know! Fast food!

Think What You Believe

 

I woke up with monkey mind the other day. You know, the incessant internal chattering that starts ahead of the alarm going off? Or, on a weekend, when you’re trying to sleep in but can’t because you’re suddenly stressing about your next dental appointment ... in eight weeks?

It’s no wonder I’m not a morning person. My mind knows it can catch me in the dream space before I’m fully awake. So much for those magical seventeen seconds when everything is neutral! If I’m not with it right out of the gate—and I’m generally not—poor Ter is invariably clubbed with a grouchy Ru at morning tea.

That bugs me more than it bugs me. Ter doesn’t deserve to have me rain on her peaceful morning routine. She’s usually (always) up before me, and her welcoming smile is easily dimmed when she asks how I’m doing and I growl at her.

So when it happened the other day, I did not blame her for escaping into the shower as soon as she felt was polite. She assured me later that she’d just wanted to get her day started, and maybe that’s true, but I also know she was giving me space to get my act together.

Which I did. I had to. I was driving myself nuts, too. I’m unhappy being unhappy, especially when there’s no cause for it. I mean, really. Stressing first thing about a dental appointment that won’t happen for another two months? Clearly, I had no immediate reason to be upset that morning, so monkey mind went looking for something. First I growled at Ter, then I told her why I was crabby—she probably bolted for the shower to keep me from seeing her eye roll.

Anyway, as I sat there stewing, my little voice said quite clearly: “Think what you believe.”

What?

“You know that saying, ‘you don’t have to believe everything you think’? Well, flip it. Think what you believe.”

I actually blanked out for a minute. Then I considered what I believe. Starting with gratitude, of course. Yeah, gratitude: for Ter, for my loving, friendly and generous Universe, who always wants the best for me and ensures I have everything I need plus a million dollars more (still waiting on that million, incidentally) for miracles and magic and ... you get the idea.

And darned if monkey mind didn’t go, “Sod this; I’m outta here.”

Simply trying to ignore my mind is often like trying to calm a toddler in full tan-tan mode: it just cranks up the volume on the screaming. If, however, I focus on something else, something of my conscious choosing, the toddler sees me walking away and consequently shuts up. I’m fortunate in believing the glass is half-full, so it’s easy to think what I believe ... once I am reminded to do it!

Even then, if I don’t like what I believe, I have the power to change that as well. Monkey mind is relentless; it might be quiet for now, but it’s not gone by any means. It’s lying in the weeds, waiting to pounce before I’m fully awake.

When it does, I’ll be ready.

Memory Almost Full

 

I now take Theracurmin for my bones. It’s a derivative of turmeric that’s lauded as a natural anti-inflammatory and so far, I’m a fan. My pain has reduced to almost nothing and I’ve been able to regain much of the mobility I feared I’d lost. It’s like the magic pill everyone hopes will be prescribed, and while it’s not quite that magical (I still have to avoid known inflammatory foods etc.), it’s the closest I’ve ever come to finding it.

A few weeks after I’d started taking it, Ter saw an ad for it in a magazine. “Hey,” she said, scanning list of the purported benefits, “not only is it an anti-inflammatory, it helps with memory and cognitive function, too!”

Bonus! I thought.

Later that week, I booked a date with my office tea buddy for my day in town. We put it in stone via meeting invites so the time is blocked in our calendars. I had another meeting scheduled ahead of our appointed time, so I sent her an instant message to say I was stuck in a call and would IM her when I was done. She sent back a thumbs up, and my meeting proceeded as planned.

It finished a few minutes later than scheduled. I hung up the phone and glanced at Treena’s status, which is indicated by the colour of a dot next to her name in the Skype for Business window. If it’s green, she’s available. If it’s red, it means she’s busy, in a call, or in a meeting. Hover your cursor over the dot and the system tells you which of the three applies.

Well, Treena’s dot was red. In a meeting. Huh. Must have come up suddenly (it does, sometimes).

I sent her an IM: “Zap me when you’re ready to go.”

She wrote back immediately: “I’m heading for the stairs!”

Only then did I realize her dot was red because she was in a meeting—with me!

Apparently, the Theracurmin has yet to kick in on my memory and cognitive function ...

Bibliography XVI

 “Shattered Love” – Richard Chamberlain

My best friend in junior high was a huge fan of Richard Chamberlain, otherwise I would have little to no idea who he is. In case you don’t know, he played Dr Kildare on TV in the 1960s, graduated to leading man status on film in the 1970s, and was king of the TV miniseries in the 1980s. Handsome, charismatic, and possessed of a voice like a blend of milk and dark chocolate, in his day he earned the admiration and adulation of fans – particularly female ones – pretty much everywhere.

His autobiography was published in 2003. Media around its release seemed more focused on his coming out than anything else he had to say, and I confess the press combined with the book’s title conspired to have me avoid it like the plague. I mean, “shattered love” in the context of a celebrity coming out could only mean one thing: a “poor pitiful me” tell-all where the intimate (sordid?) details of his hidden life were finally revealed.

I did the man a severe disservice by thinking those things. Turns out the book is more about his spiritual journey than it is about secretly being gay in his line of work (though he tells some dandy stories about his career, too). There is nothing whiny or pitiful about it. In fact, he gives an objective, completely honest account of life as the younger son of a difficult man, of growing up and living for decades with a major inferiority complex, and of his continuing path to inner peace. And he tells it all with a gentle, self-deprecating humour that in no way negates his eventual discovery and acceptance of his true self.

This guy is practically a guru. I related to much of his story, from his description of a complicated Life with Father right down to his faith in a loving, friendly and generous Universe. The title “Shattered Love” reflects his belief that each of us represents a shard of one singular love so immense that it shattered itself in order to experience its own existence. Or something like that. He certainly subscribes to the same theory as me, that we are as divine as we are connected to the Divinity who created us. God exists around us and apart from us and within us all at once.

I learned a lot from reading this book, especially about the nature of forgiveness and when it applies. I actually learned a whole lot more than I ever expected to learn from a movie star’s memoir, and I am eternally grateful for the lessons.

I do wonder, though, what my junior high bestie would think ...

Whose Bench Is It Anyway?

 

Have you ever noticed how uncomfortable everyone is on the first morning of a two-day course? How awkward the first half-day is as we all get settled and suss out our classmates? The next morning, we each make a beeline for the exact spot we claimed the day before – and panic when the instructor spontaneously rearranges the seating.

Humans are apparently territorial. Every time I visit the park, I sit on the same bench. I even refer to it as “my bench.” Last week, I spied cherry stones scattered in the grass near my feet and immediately wondered, somewhat resentfully, who had been sitting on my bench. Today I arrived to find a paperback novel had been left on the seat – a James Patterson, though I don’t recall the title. Seeing it gave me pause; I actually hesitated before reminding myself this is my bench, goldarnit, so I’m a-sittin’ on it.

So I did.

As I sat there, I wondered how many other people consider the bench to be theirs. It is public property. Anyone can sit on it and for as long as they like, to boot. No one can claim it for their very own. I’ve been lucky having it to myself on a Sunday morning. I won’t mind sharing if I’m there first, but if someone else is there when I round the corner, I’ll keep walking. I go there to meditate, after all, so why disrupt someone else on a principle that won’t stand up in court?

There’s a plaque on this particular bench. It’s placed in memory of a fellow named Timothy, who perished before his time as a victim of foul play (so says the marker). Whether the bench is occupied or not, the plaque is always there. Maybe whoever ate the cherries thinks of the bench as theirs. Same for whoever forgot to take their book when they left. I don’t think of it as mine, anymore.

It belongs to Timothy.

Oh No, Canada

 

Today may be Canada’s birthday, but the territory existed long before France (at the time) gave the colony a name. It probably already had a name, I just don’t know what it was. The boundaries were different, too, as determined by the Indigenous peoples who lived here long before the Europeans’ arrival changed everything for them.

Don’t get me wrong. I love living here. I’m grateful to live here. It’s the best country in the world, but it didn’t start out that way and we have a long way to go before descendants of the original inhabitants have any reason to believe it.

At the end of May 2021, the bodies of 215 children were discovered buried on the property of a residential school in Kamloops. Just a few weeks later, another mass grave was discovered in Saskatchewan. I can’t go into it more deeply than that, as I am not qualified to comment. I’m grateful to be here, but my being here is predicated on a colonial government’s shameful attempts to destroy an entire culture first by appropriating their land, then by taking (and killing) their children.

I am not an activist. I don’t march in protests. I haven’t even paid that much attention to media stories about native blockades and whaling rights and so on, but when I learned (too recently) about the residential schools and the Sixties’ Scoop, a small part of me died. On hearing about those buried children, I wept.

Out of respect for grieving First Nations, this year the City of Victoria cancelled plans for a virtual Canada Day celebration. In consultation, however, local Indigenous leaders felt it would be wrong to dismiss the occasion entirely, so it’s become a learning opportunity for those of us who need educating.

Like me.

The truth must be told. History must be embraced, not erased, if we wish for true reconciliation with Canada’s Indigenous peoples. I sense no desire in them for punishment or vengeance. It seems all they ask is that we listen to them with respect and recognize them as the original stewards of this magical land. Reconciliation is key. We can’t undo what was done, but we can certainly right the wrongs of the past by changing our ways now and moving into Canada’s future together.

Maybe then, we will truly have something to celebrate.

Listen Up

 

Wednesday, June 30, 2021, has been proclaimed A Day to Listen. On this day, no matter what their regular format, radio stations across Canada are committed to broadcast stories of courage and survival from our Indigenous peoples. It’s time. We need to hear about their experience as much as they need to tell us about it, for only through sharing the burden of truth can we progress together in healing and reconciliation.

In the era of music streaming and custom playlists, this is where radio proves it’s still relevant. Having worked in the industry for a short time back when, I understand how multiple stations are able to broadcast content simultaneously—assuming that’s what they mean to do. Could be that local stations will air local stories, though it seems less likely given the quick turnaround time from proclamation to air date. I rather suspect the content will be housed in a mothership location and accessed through the miracle of modern technology ... much more modern than the tech I worked with in the early 1990s!

Gone are the days when the DJ had any control over what got played. The music is still a factor, but now it’s part of a formula aimed at a particular demographic to attract the most advertisers. I wonder how Wednesday will play out, sponsor-wise. I’d hesitate to sell commercial time on such a day, as goofball ads for hot tubs or pizza parlours would clash like mad with the serious intent of the programming.

What’s important is that we tune in on the 30th, at least for part of the day. Listen to some of the stories and learn something we didn’t know before, that might help us to understand more about what really happened in our shadowed past so we can build a brighter future. I’m all for it. I’ll be listening.

Will you?

Perfectly Imperfect

 

Last week I learned that “baroque” stems from the Portugese word meaning “imperfect pearl”. In the show I was watching, the pristine sphere of a cultivated pearl was displayed alongside a spludge of matching iridescence but woefully irregular shape.

If you think about it, life is very much like a baroque pearl. We’re oysters struggling to produce a flawless result. We strive for perfection in everything, yet achieve it in almost nothing.

Does that negate the struggle? Is an imperfect pearl less valuable than a perfect one? And, should it be? The oyster who produces an imperfect specimen is just as stressed as the oyster next door, who may actually be more stressed by the pressure to get it right the first time. Besides, as much beauty exists in imperfection as in the opposite—and sometimes you needn’t look that hard to find it.

Perfect pearls exist under false pretences, by the way. They’re like F***book lives, cleverly manipulated to look like naturally occurring phenomena.

The only perfect thing in this universe is, well, the Universe. Of course, there are moments of perfection in life, but they are moments. Transient, impermanent. Which is, I believe, what makes them perfect. Life itself is meant to be imperfect. It’s the only way we can learn anything! It’s also the reason why we’re here. There are two potential outcomes to anything we try: success or a lesson to be learned. No failures. Just learning.

I don’t know where we got the idea that everything we do, say, display, create or achieve must be perfect. Maybe it’s a holdover from where our spirits originate. We remember what it is to know perfection, ergo we knock ourselves out trying to recreate it in this dimension. A noble notion, yet the cause of so much misery at the same time. After all, who among us is perfect?

In truth, we’re all baroque.

With love,

Intelligence

 

I adore Nick Rhodes. He’s not my favourite member of Duran Duran—that honour belongs to the father of my unborn children—but in truth I would adore Nick even if he wasn’t in the band. I find him alternately insightful and hilarious. It’s been clear from the beginning that he’s highly intelligent ... but on finding this quote, I was initially compelled to disagree with him.

At first glance, I’d have said that intelligence is often too easily insulted. Intelligence is the scorekeeper, the entity who judges status and determines the hierarchy. Intelligence, if given any authority, can become, depending on one’s nature, nurturing, condescending, patronizing, oppressive, suppressive or, at worst, despotic.

Unless he’s referring to emotional intelligence. Emotional intelligence is less about being right or being in control than it is about being open-minded and accepting of other opinions. Emotional intelligence allows for debate between opposing views, and for proponents of either side to remain friends in the event of a draw. Emotional intelligence ensures that criticism, whether given or received, is less crushing than constructive.

I know intelligent people who wield their smarts like a weapon designed to show their superiority. I know people whose intelligence is applied to fostering their own poor self-esteem. I also know intelligent people who think of themselves less (rather than less of themselves) than they think of others. In any of those categories, only one seems to fit the notion of intelligence being insulted.

So now I think Nick might be right. Intelligence itself is actually a neutral force. Neither proud nor humble, intelligence does not tell us how or where to use it. I’ve been confusing intelligence with ego!

D-oh!

Retro Manifestation

 

I had just graduated from high school when I agreed to attend a young adult function at our church. My family had been inactive for years, but the opportunity to expand my social circle arose as I was contemplating my future as a grown up. Get a job, my own apartment, eventually a car (I had yet to get my driver’s license), and start contributing to society. Oh—and find a mate. A husband for sure, but I’d be happy with a steady boyfriend. Or even a first date. I’d had boy friends in school, but never a boyfriend. I guess I’d had other priorities ... or the boys had. In any case, once I was free of the Class of ’79, the field widened considerably.

It sounds appallingly old-fashioned, but I clearly remember thinking the invitation, extended by a missionary couple who was hosting the group, might be the gateway to finding Mr Right. So I accepted.

He wasn’t there that week, or the next week, or the week after that. I attended a bunch of those gatherings, meeting people my own age but no one who asked me out. Even after I was eventually baptized, the fabled future husband did not appear. I was neither impressed by nor impressive to the slender field of potential patriarchs for a family of my own, though I did have a blast on the social scene in general. At least I can say I had as much fun in my twenties as other girls had in theirs, only without the bars, clubs, discos and alcoholic accelerants. Best of all, I met my Ter. Inseparable for more than a year before my dad suggested we get our own place, what began as a temporary arrangement is still going strong almost forty years later.

Only now do I see the magical manifestation of my original intention. It’s taken me almost forty years to realize that when I accepted the invitation to that young adult gathering, I was going to meet my life partner. I simply lacked the imagination to envision something—someone—who would punt the standard from the park. In fact, who I got was so marvellously unexpected that I am in a perpetual state of gratitude for my incredible good fortune. This lifetime relationship has worked out far better than I had anticipated, and probably better than I deserve.

I like to think that Ter feels similarly about me, though the one thing I am sure of is that, in 1980, the Universe read my intention to find my soulmate ... and smiled.

All in Good Time

 

This happens to me a lot.

The alarm wakes me up at crap o’clock. I lie half-asleep, thinking dark thoughts until muscle memory animates my body and I find myself sitting upright in bed. From there I shuffle into the bathroom and bumble through my morning ablutions, then stare at my closet until some sort of business casual ensemble jumps out at me. It’s a struggle getting into my pants one leg at a time, but I make it. Bling is then coordinated—earrings and pendant, maybe a nifty scarf to complement the fake gems in my studs. Pulled together and starting to wake up, I go to the bedroom door, open it—

—and the alarm wakes me up. It’s crap o’clock and I’m still lying in bed. I’ve dreamed the whole thing, and the first word to mind is a naughty one.

Sound familiar?

Years ago during coffee at the Wall, Boy Sister announced that he’d had a idea but couldn’t remember it. Then he wondered where ideas go when you forget them. My wee sister suggested that, in a parallel Universe, a light bulb had just gone on above his alternate self’s head so it wasn’t really gone, it had just skipped dimensions. Pretty heavy talk for my wee sister, by the way, but maybe she was on to something. Quantum mechanics, you know.

A thought is made up of energy. When a thought is acted upon, the energy of the thought becomes matter and therefore subject to the rules of time and space in this dimension. In my imagination, I’m already up and dressed. In reality, I have to haul myself out of bed and go through the motions, which takes time and (monumental) effort. Still, it’s the price of admission to this estate. Nothing happens instantly in the third dimension. Thoughts do, of course. Thoughts are easy. They pop into being without, well, a second thought. Wishes, dreams, intentions—they’re all energy. Each may be made manifest given physical time and space.

Or not. What we envision isn’t always what’s best for us, and the Universe only coughs up what we need to gain experience. It doesn’t always look like what we intended, though in retrospect it can often be seen to fit the original idea. It may take years before you realize that something happening now is actually something you thought of way back when. And then there are times when something you think becomes real within days, maybe hours, of you thinking it.

The point of all this, you ask? Patience, Grasshopper. All in good time ...

RAIN

 

Each Wednesday at noon, I attend—or try to attend—a twenty minute guided meditation session on Skype. It’s sponsored by the Ministry of Health and has been a huge help in getting me through the workweek while cooped up in my home office over the past year. Meditating has come more easily with practice, but I appreciate these weekly sessions because I generally learn something I can use in my semi-regular practice.

I say “semi-regular” because my routine depends on how tired I am at the end of the day. I used to think I suck at meditating because I almost always fall asleep; turns out it’s a handy trick for when I can’t fall asleep!

Anyway, I learned a new acronym the other day:

Recognize

Accept/Allow

Investigate

Nurture

The lesson that day was to teach how to manage difficult emotions. We tend to ignore or try to explain away our emotions; we rarely allow ourselves to experience them, especially the negative ones. It doesn’t have to be a huge big deal, either. There’s no judgment during these sessions, but as it turned out, I was having a bit of a challenge with something and it happened to coincide with RAIN.

So, here’s how it works:

Recognize the feeling. You might have to sift through a few layers, but with gentle persistence the culprit will reveal itself.

Accept that you’re feeling it or Allow yourself to feel it. And don’t judge yourself, either. Just observe the feeling and acknowledge it.

Investigate why you might be feeling it. Few emotions exist in and of themselves. Most stem from a deeper source that can be identified on closer inspection ... if we’re honest with ourselves. I was able to trace my challenge to something I was asked to do earlier in the week, that I had no idea how to accomplish but felt I should have been able to figure out unaided. Hence, increasing frustration and decreasing confidence.

Nurture yourself. Be compassionate. Understand that we are not our emotions. We have them, but they are not who we are. I still have to think that one through at times; if my frustration is not who I am, then why say “I am frustrated”? Well, I’m frustrated in the moment and moments do not last. Once I figure out what I need to feel better (the Nurture part of the acronym), I can take the steps and, presto! No more frustration! But Ru still exists and Ru is always wonderful.

So are you.

With love,

Sunday in the Park with Ru

 

This is my soul food. Sitting on a park bench, overlooking snow-capped mountains and a tranquil ocean, listening to birdsong on the breeze that stirs my hair, scenting the sea in each conscious breath. I am warm in the sun and caressed by the wind, connected at once to the earth and the divine, a tiny (but significant) part of a greater whole.

Sometimes I’m too restless to sit, so I walk among the trees. It’s a different kind of soul food in the forest. While the infinite horizon and big sky are cleansing, the forest is nurturing and intimate. Tender in a manner that eludes even a calm day by the water. I feel present and presence, as if the trees themselves are welcoming me into their company. Whether I’m by the ocean or in the woods, I always emerge from the park with a renewed sense of strength, hope and peace of mind.

It’s become a weekly ritual. Ter drops me on Sunday morning and I spend some time feeding my soul. It’s been sunny through most of May, but this morning I woke to clouds and a damp chill in the air. I’d planned to bring the Canon this week, so when Ter asked if I still wanted to go, I said why not? No rain was predicted and my camera has a “cloudy day” setting. I put on my hoodie and off we went.

I sat for a while by the water, marvelling at the mirror surface of an ocean that’s rarely so still. There was no wind to speak of, though the birds across the cove were almost hysterical in making such a racket that meditation was darned near impossible. I spied an eagle cruising close to their trees—didn’t get a photo, but concluded that warning shots were being fired in defence of offspring. Nature isn’t always benign and peaceful.

When the not-predicted rain started to sprinkle, I left the open ocean for the shelter of the wood. I have to say, the woods might be my favourite place on a damp day; the foliage is lush and the scent intoxicating, not to mention that wondrous sense of being alive within a living entity. It’s utterly remarkable. Anyway, I wandered the trails and took a bunch of photos, particularly fascinated by the tiny bursts of colour amid the omnipresent green, until my phone binked to advise that Ter was on her way. By then I had hiked around the park’s perimeter, even finding myself on the street when the trail I was on took me between residential properties.

“Did you have a good time?” Ter asked when I got into the car.

“Yep,” I replied. “Time for tea!”

Because the best thing about this cloudy chilly sprinkly Sunday in the park was knowing that a warm, dry home awaited when I was done.

With love and gratitude,

Soul Food?

 

Quitting sugar is a bit like quitting booze. It can be awkward in a social situation. My office tea buddy is a treat freak who can rationalize herself into committing any form of dietary misdemeanour. “I’ve earned it” or “I deserve it” are two of her favourites, and she is notorious – or was, in the before times – for enticing co-workers with bowls of chips, boxes of cookies, and plates of gourmet doughnuts cut into bite-sized pieces (aka “quarters”). She’d often IM me with alluring details of a new chocolate bar she discovered at lunch, ending with a coy “Want some?” that I rarely resisted.

In truth, my powers of resistance are stronger than everything except my desire to please, so when the offer of some new sugary discovery was extended, I accepted to be polite. I do hate to disappoint people.

Still, when I recently told her that I’m off sugar for health reasons, she made all the right supportive noises before she said, “Well, the time will come when you have to surrender—just once—for the sake of your soul.”

Treats are comfort food, and comfort food is comforting for a reason. It’s emotionally gratifying. Soul food, as it were, being good for your soul because it feels good, period.

Oh, but wait a minute. As I understand it, my soul resides in but is not part of the compostable container. Being the spark of divinity that binds me to the Universe and all living things, it’s the one thing I will take with me when I leave. My soul needs attention, sure, but not in the form of food. It needs no physical nourishment. It certainly isn’t prone to sugar cravings that will wreck my mind and my body for hours after a treat is consumed in seconds. It just isn’t.

What is, however, is the sneaky little part of my brain that resides just out of sight behind my ears. Known to neurologists as the amygdale, it’s been described by one expert as “the toddler in the room” where demands, tantrums, addictions, and primal emotions like fear and anger reside. It’s the part of my makeup that claims comfort from food and will say anything to get it. Including “I’ve earned this”, “I deserve this”, or “My soul needs this”.

Clever, eh? How it uses first-person logic to negotiate and get its way? It actually tries to trick me into believing that a brownie will make me feel better when in truth that brownie will a) not taste as good as I remember and b) make me sluggish and crabby for the rest of the day. Why would my soul want to feel like crap? Well, it doesn’t. My soul knows what’s good for me and my body, and my prefrontal cortex (aka “the parent in the room”) concurs. It’s the voice that says,

“Away with you, Princess Amygdale. You’re busted.”

Poke Check

 

These days, people sound like kids trick or treating on Hallowe’en night:

“I got Pfizer.”

“I got Moderna”

“I got AstraZeneca.”

“I got a rock.”

Now that the greater number of people I know have had their first dose of vaccine, the subject has changed though the format is the same:

“I got a headache.”

“I had nausea.”

“I was super-fatigued.”

“I got a rock.”

I’m not anti-vaccine by any means. I’m more “pro-healthy immune system”. I was also somewhat concerned that being vaccinated might worsen my current auto-immune issue, my logic being that rubella caused my rheumatoid arthritis when I was a kid, and the homeopathic flu program in 2016 ignited whatever it is I’ve been dealing with ever since. Not to mention some distrust of a vaccine so new in its development that the potential for serious side effects down the road cannot be predicted. Call me old school; I wasn’t buying it.

The Universe has a clever way of coaxing me into changing my mind. It takes its time, dropping breadcrumbs designed to present another point of view and I, being a perceiving type who tries to keep an open mind, will often consider new information before adjusting—or not—my original opinion.

When Ter eventually decided to get the jab, I supported her because she felt it was important that one of us “take it for the team”, and her immune system isn’t fighting an ongoing battle like mine. Once she made her appointment, however, I began to wonder at the wisdom of relying on herd immunity as my protection against contracting COVID-19. For one thing, I know a couple of people with auto-immune conditions who’ve had their first dose and suffered nothing more than a sore arm and a day or two of feeling slightly under the weather.

Then, during an email thread on another subject, my siblings each mentioned having received their first dose. I explained my rationale for not being vaccinated, whereupon my older older brother metaphorically took me aside and suggested that I might be misinformed. Neither Pfizer nor Moderna contains the coronavirus, and while he respected the logic behind my decision, he hoped I might reconsider given this information.

At this point, I asked Ter what she thought about me being jabbed despite our earlier agreement. She replied that she’d been rethinking the plan but hadn’t known how to broach it with me—so thank you, older older brother, for opening the door to that conversation.

It also helped to remind myself that new technology is as much a miracle as an untried property, and since I live in a loving, friendly and generous Universe, why not accept the vaccine as a miracle and trust that I would be safe? That sealed the deal.

I had my first dose of Moderna on May 21. When I told the nurse (Michaela—she was great) that I had RA, she said I might have some joint pain after the shot, but it wasn’t likely to be severe. Within minutes, I was getting what felt like tiny carpet shocks in my left hip—most strange. It didn’t last long, but during the next thirty-six hours, a weird little zitzit struck random joints without developing into anything more sinister. Otherwise and so far, I’ve skipped the headache but not the nausea, slept like a super-predator for 16 hours a day, and had a touch of vertigo if I move my head too fast. In other words, nothing much different from the usual!

In fact, I now harbour the wild idea that the vaccine might cure my present condition ...

Food Porn XIII

"Chovocado Pudding"

The pursuit of drug-free pain management continues. I stopped taking Aleve every other night after a scary bout of what might have been food poisoning but also checked every box for overuse of non-prescription meds. I don’t even take it occasionally, anymore. Once bitten, you know.

But once bitten, what was the alternative to my little blue pill? Once again, I looked to my diet. COVID restrictions have helped in one area: “take out” means more than a bacon cheeseburger for pickup. Now it means “prepare to be taken out for a day after eating take out”. It’s amazing how quickly my body responds to inflammatory foods, and tasty as that burger may be, it’s also loaded with salt, fat, dairy, and whatever the steer was fed before it became a beef patty. I’m basically shrink-wrapped for twenty-four hours after consuming one.

I also live with a food narc. Ter is a strong believer in food as medicine; she has a ton of books on the subject and has made it her personal mission to feed me all the right stuff. But she can’t control what I choose to consume on my own watch.

So on the morning when I announced I was giving up sugar, she almost wept with relief. The preceding few weeks had been fraught with pain, frustration, and desperation as my symptoms worsened and I stubbornly continued to ignore my inner voice. In fact, I had almost defiantly begun hoarding treats: muffins, cookies, granola bars, candy, chocolate – if sugar was the primary ingredient, I bought it. Finally, after a particularly rough weekend, I surrendered. Consulting one of Ter’s anti-inflammatory books, I determined that honey and maple syrup could stay on the list, but everything else had to go. No sugar? No problem.

And so to the “food porn” part of this post. I would never in a million years have imagined that a phenomenal chocolate pudding could result from five ingredients that exclude milk, cream, melted chocolate, sugar, or any of the other items on my verboten foods list. But it can, and it does:

One ripe avocado

3 tablespoons cocoa powder

2.5 to 3 tablespoons maple syrup

Pinch of salt

¼ to 1/3 cup almond or coconut milk (your preference)

Put everything into a food processor and blitz until smooth and creamy. (Note: the amount of almond milk depends on the size of the avocado and how creamy you like your pud.) Refrigerate for a couple of hours – it’s really good cold – and enjoy within a few days. Word is that it spoils fairly quickly, but mine has never lasted that long.

I dare yours to do the same.

COVID Hockey

 

Elliot comforts Basher (again)

Basher may be distraught, but I’m not. Not really. The Flyers didn’t make the playoffs (again) this year. The usual suspects – weak defence, iffy goaltending – are to blame; that, and too little production from the top guns. I think Jake Voracek was the team points leader and he didn’t hit double digits in the goal count. Same with Captain Claude ... but overall, I’m willing to blame the oddball circumstances of playing pro sports during a global pandemic. Momentum was broken by COVID delays as much as by injuries and consistently slow starts. Rarely did we score first, and while the boys were fully capable of coming back from a deficit, I don’t know how often (if at all) they actually held a lead straight out of the gate. Every first period I saw was a prime opportunity for the opposition to pounce as Philly spent twenty minutes getting their act together. Second and third periods were generally better.

I could speak more knowledgably if I subscribed to the NHL channel. Cardigan and Ter would be tormented with non-stop Flyer games, but I’d have a better idea of what went wrong if I’d seen every one. This year, Canadian fans of US teams were kinda cursed, though I must admit the revised format of a team playing within its own division made for some dandy, playoff-type rivalries. Philadelphia is in an ugly division, too. Boston, Washington and the Islanders make for way more swears from my chair, though I like Pittsburgh enough to forgive Sid Crosby for scoring in every game—sometimes twice!

At least I saw some Flyer games, via feeds picked up by Sportsnet from their American counterparts. Yikes, that’s another annoyance – listening to commentaries from the Boston, Washington or Pittsburgh crew. Philadelphia broadcasts must be contracted to a secret society or something, because I have yet to hear the play-by-play from their side. And it can be painful, listening to the man-crushes over players I’d like to slam through the boards. The best US broadcast team came out of Buffalo during back-to-back Sabres games: the guy doing the play by play was genuinely hilarious (opposed to thinking himself genuinely hilarious and being genuinely mistaken). He reminded me of Rod Phillips, who used to call the Oilers’ games in the days when Ter and I listened to them over the computer. Creative play by play is a true art form and Phillips was a master. We still use some of his sayings around the house, most notably the “dastardly defensive breakdown” when something goes awry in the kitchen.

Ah, well. This year’s irregular regular season is done and dusted for my boys. I’ll keep an eye on the playoff standings, and expect Ter and I will watch the finals. All was not lost, either. Cardigan has learned a ton of hockey jargon by osmosis; he and Basher often debated whether to pull the goalie and when, and darned if he didn’t hold his own against Basher’s blunt-edged logic.

He still doesn’t understand icing ... though I’m not sure Basher gets it, either.

The Importance of Tea XIII

 “Days Gone Chai”

You may or may not remember that in June of 2015, after extensive research at a number of outlets, I had determined that my favourite chai tea was steeped at a coffee place. Blenz had not only bettered franchise outlets like Starbucks and David’s, but had surpassed local tea giants Silk Road and Murchie’s for the best chai in town (in my opinion). Since that summer, David’s Tea has introduced their Organic Chai, which knocked their Saigon Chai out of the park but wasn’t able—despite a multitude of online orders in the past year—to surpass the Blenz blend as my No. 1 favourite. On my weekly day at the office, I am guaranteed to visit my regular pre-COVID haunt for a mid-morning cuppa, where the barista now adds the 3 raw sugars and substantial splash of cream I used to add myself.

In the halcyon days of 2019, when I occasionally ordered an Earl Grey with lavender syrup, owner/manager Jonathan would razz me whenever I ordered a chai. “With lavender?” he’d ask, dimpling impishly while I scowled at his impudence.

Things changed, of course. In a pandemic world where nothing is fun anymore, the Sussex shop managed to stay open through lockdowns and restrictions. Some staff had to be let go, and while the core crew remained, Jonathan took the afternoon shift. I chai in the morning, so I didn’t see him for ages.

My working from home also meant no more daily Mumbai chai. I don’t know how I coped to begin with, though the bulk of my online David’s organic orders occurred in those first few months. As the siege wore on, I realized I’d have to get a home supply of Mumbai, so I brought an empty tea tin to my next in-the-office day and asked for a hundred grams. That wasn’t quite enough to sustain me, apparently, as I brought in a second tin the following week, rotating through by refilling an empty when its twin reached the halfway mark.

Fast forward to March 2021. I am now coming to the office twice a week and some of the old gang have returned to Blenz—happy reunions on both sides of the counter. I stop in with my office buddy for coffee one rare afternoon and who do I see working the steamer but Jonathan! He’s wearing a mask, but I know he’s smirking when he asks if I’ve ordered a(nother) Mumbai chai. He adds that he orders twice as much of it since I’ve started buying it by the tin.

“No,” I reply, “but since you mention it, I’ve been thinking I need a whole bag of the loose stuff for home. What do you think?”

He shrugs. “An order came in this morning. I’m loaded.”

“Great!” I declare. “How much do you want for 500 grams?”

He’s so good to me. We settle on a price (reduced) and he throws in a box of compostable tea bags. My office buddy is mildly stunned by the whole transaction, but Ter isn’t fazed at all when I proudly produce the bag from my tote at the end of the day.

I’m halfway convinced they put crack in the mix, but ... oh well!

Desert Island Discs

 

Ter and I baked cookies yesterday. Before we started, she declared, “Baking music!” and popped a disc onto the kitchen stereo. Just as I asked what “baking music” was, the first notes of A Charlie Brown Christmas trickled from the speakers.

Well, duh.

Vince Guaraldi’s version of O Tannenbaum never fails to lift my spirits. In fact, every time I hear a track—any track—on the CBC album, I am transported to a tranquil world of joy and beauty that no other album can invoke. Ter often plays it while she’s cooking; I’ll hear it from my room and my whole being relaxes. We even play it in the car, cruising on the mellow notes of a recording we have both loved for-seeming-ever. I can’t explain why; it just is.

Which means it holds the top spot in my trio of “desert island discs”. You know, the perennial conversation-starter about what three albums you’d have if you were stranded on a pile of sand in the south Pacific. Yes, Virginia, a Christmas album is my top pick for indefinite isolation. I never get tired of it. My favourite track is the instrumental of Christmastime is Here, where the piano is played so casually, with such elegance, that it’s easy to picture my beloved Julian at the keyboard (sorry, Vince). And Hark! the Herald Angels almost always begins with Ter and I “loo loo loo-ing” along with the kids. As a twelve track album, it’s crammed with so many pleasant memories and good feelings that packing it past Tahiti is a no-brainer.

The trouble comes with choosing the second and third of my top three discs. Okay, Duran Duran for sure—but which album? Can I cheat and make my own lengthy “best of” playlist? Do home-made discs count, and if so, does a double-disc count as one or two? I might go with Notorious for its jazz-influenced riffs, but I actually prefer 21^st century DD to their earlier work. Even then, I can’t pick a single album because Astronaut, All You Need is Now and Paper Gods are all fabulous. (Red Carpet Massacre is only okay, though as an experiment it was brave attempt by the band to stay relevant.)

Assuming I can settle on a DD album in the second spot, my third choice is probably something by Ludovico Einaudi, whose instrumental work on piano ranges from delicate to epic depending on the track and whether or not an orchestra is involved. Every one of his albums inspires an award-winning story I have yet to write, so again, how do I choose one over the others?

I know, I know. It’s not likely to become an issue. I seriously doubt the island I get stranded on will be wired for sound, but whether it be cookies in the kitchen or sunning on the beach, A Charlie Brown Christmas is definitely music to bake by!