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,