Farewell, Old Friend

It’s time to admit that Comfortable Rebellion’s time has passed. This blog began in 2013 as an exercise to stretch my creativity and share some personal philosophies as well as the occasional anecdote from my past, present and … well, obviously not my future. No one could have predicted how the world, and my world within it, would change.

But change it did – and drastically. So much so that I couldn’t keep up, thus what had once been regular, then semi-regular, then occasional posts dwindled to a handful whenever I felt strong enough to try again.

Turns out I’ve changed as well. For one thing, I’m older. An elder, since my parents have passed on, though I’m still blessed with four loved and loving siblings. I’m retired from thirty-plus years in the BC public service, a career that no one expected I’d be able to have when my arthritis was diagnosed at the age of fourteen. Life is good – especially as things seem to have settled in the wake of seven years’ WTF?

What hasn’t changed is my passion. I am still creating. Writing, dreaming, philosophizing … and trying to be a positive force in this increasingly negative world. Rebooting the Rebellion seemed like a natural step in continuing to serve that passion.

Alas, though I enjoyed writing for it, the blog itself has lost its enthusiasm. I regret nothing posted here and have no intention of deleting any of it, but it’s tired. Attempting to reboot yet again can only result in another false start because the Rebellion is done.

Sometimes you have to let go of something old to make room for something new. An updated version is in development and coming soon to a URL near you.

Call it “Comfortable Rebellion 2.0”.

I hope to see you in the next round.

With love,

A Mighty Nut

 

The last time an acorn got my full attention, I was seven or eight years old. I disguised one in a wax candy wrapper and presented it to my older sister while she was walking with her schoolfriends. She opened it and Gotcha! I don’t remember if she threw the “candy” at me once she unwrapped it, but she should have done. I was kind of a brat.

That momentous prank occurred in Sorel PQ, where autumn differs vastly from autumn in Victoria BC. Many trees shed leaves out here, but cedars, pines and firs generally dominate the landscape and so do their cones and needles. Horse chestnuts often nail unwitting pedestrians on Cook Street, and I code-named the mystery trees along Bushby Street “cereal trees” for clogging the gutters with a windfall resembling Kellogg’s “Special K”. Victoria is also known for harbouring (or should that be “arboring”?) Garry oaks in sundry locales, but I have never noticed an abundance of acorns in any of the ’hoods I’ve called home.

Until this year. At some point in the last few weeks, acorns have appeared almost everywhere. No street seems exempt. The main drag is choked with them. The parking lot is sticky from acorns crushed beneath car tires. Walking anywhere is chancy when you can’t tell by looking if the shell is soft enough to give underfoot. Some are, many aren’t. No wonder the squirrels around here are so tubby; they can’t possible consume every acorn they see, and storage becomes a problem for everyone once the attic is stuffed.

Now I know why it’s called Oak Bay.

The most memorable card my mother ever gave me was very simple. On the front, a watercolour sketch of an acorn and encouragement to stand firm. “Remember,” the message read inside, “each mighty oak was once a nut that stood its ground.”

Mum was a riot.

All For Not

Forget-me -uh ...

I’ve been told that the English language is loaded with more potential for negative connotation than any other language in the spoken world. This may be true – the info is unconfirmed because I’m too lazy to conduct real research but I trust my nerdy friend to get at least some of it right. I am also familiar with the phrase “we have no word in (insert language here) for that”, which seems to apply during foreign translations to equally foreign English. That could be considered ironic, given that English has been cobbled together from numerous other languages over millennia. Humans being human, however, I imagine backhanded compliments are frequently delivered in a myriad of native tongues all around the world.

The first of Don Miguel Ruiz’s “Four Agreements” is (paraphrasing) “Be impeccable with your word.” My interpretation is to mean what you say, say what you mean, but be mindful of how it sounds, i.e., be positive where possible. And it’s usually possible. I’ve never been more aware of this since a colleague in the Before Time responded to my water cooler rant with a confused, “There were so many double negatives in there that I lost your point.”

“Double negative?” I’m still unsure how to define one (or is it two?) Now I just try to avoid the word “not”. It’s a fun experiment, actually. Try it! You’ll be amazed at how often you use it even when you intend to sound positive.

Granted, the search for positive alternatives can get silly. One of my favourites? Referring to weakness as undeveloped strength. In context, I get it – humans tend to judge themselves – and each other – harshly. So-called “negative” words take on a whole new destructive meaning where self-esteem is involved. An undeveloped strength is a more hopeful trait than a weakness, a word which is likelier to discourage rather than encourage improvement. And we all want to do better … I hope.

And I have yet to figure this one out: the Universe is allegedly unable to hear the word “not” so when it hears us saying what we don’t want, it gets the reverse message. Saying “I don’t want broccoli for dinner” results in the Universe lovingly bestowing broccoli for dinner. It could be so, I suppose, though I tend to believe that the universe responds to the feeling rather than the phrasing. Everything is some form of energy, words included, but the statement of a single word – in English, no less – missing from the all-knowing Almighty’s vocabulary seems highly suspect.

If you’re still with me and wondering where this is going, thank you and I have no idea. I thought I knew when I started the post, but apparently a point can be lost even without the double negatives.

*sigh*

Flim Flânerie

 

Last week I decided to play “left right” on my afternoon walk. The premise is simple: walk a bit, then turn at the first right. Then turn at the first left. Turn at the next right, next left, and so on, until you’re done. I intended to play it for a half-hour, but my route got out of hand.

The number of dead end streets in Oak Bay is astounding. The area is riddled with narrow lanes and crooked offshoots that lead to gated driveways if you ignore the “no exit” signs – I discovered this when daring to approach a grand old house at what I thought was the end of the road but actually wasn’t. The pavement wound past the house and up the hill, where it forked in two directions, each of which led to an aforementioned driveway. So I trekked back down the hill and resumed my walk along a known through road – but that was on a different flânerie.

This one involved passing no fewer than three “no exit” signs before I got to a sort-of main road, where I turned left. I walked past grand old houses and gorgeous gardens in search of a right turn It took a while. By the time I finally got to one, I was flagging pretty good and still had to get home. So I turned left instead.

I walked a bit then turned left again, on to what I thought would be a shortcut because there was no “no exit” sign but was in fact a cul-de-sac bordering a tiny park with a creek running through it. I recognized the creek and decided to follow it west, toward the avenue and home. I heard voices ahead, lots of them. Kids’ voices. The path trickled through a scrim of trees and I found myself on a running track behind a school. I had no idea which school; there isn’t one near my place.

But there is one – two, actually – at the main intersection a significant distance from home. The rec centre is also near that intersection, and that is where the kids’ voices were coming from. I had somehow made my way around a hella long loop and come out further north than west.

And, since I had left both my phone and my limo pass at home, I had to walk the whole way back. Which I did, and happily, but no wonder Ter looked at me when I came in and said, “I was about to send out a search party.”

Just when you think you know where you’re going …

When Life Gives You Lemons …

… eat ice cream!

My introduction to lemon ice cream – real ice cream, not sorbet – happened at Vancouver’s Pacific Centre Mall in 1985. Ter and I were over for yet another rock concert and always spent time shopping whenever we were in the city. It was also our first encounter with a Baskin-Robbins outlet. Never had we seen such a variety of flavours in one freezer. The options are countless these days, but back then, choosing from 31 was mind-boggling. I don’t recall what Ter picked, but they had me at “Lemon Mousse”.

It was creamy and sweet and tart and I’ve always remembered it. Perhaps memory has embellished the delight in taste and texture, but no matter. It took decades for me to find another ice cream joint that featured lemon anything other than sorbet. Not that I have anything against dairy-free, but that B-R Lemon Mousse was unlike anything I had ever tasted. I never got past it.

Artisan ice cream shops are ubiquitous forty years later. I have steered clear of dairy for some years on account of arthritic flares, but I have consumed more ice cream in the last two months than I’ve eaten in decades. The summer’s been hot, I’ve been happy, and exploring the neighbourhood has revealed an alarming number of small-batch retailers in dangerous proximity, each of which features a unique spin on lemon ice cream.

Better Acres “Italian Lemon” set the bar last year. Then I discovered Parachute’s “Lemon Cream” this summer. Last week, I happened on 49 Below’s “Lemon Swirl” and I am here to tell you that one knocked the others out of the park. I’d never have gotten through the ridiculously misnamed single scoop without Ter’s help – it was huge – and once the burn wore off, my tongue hurt like it had been sandpapered but, oh man, was it worth it!

Best of all? They sell it by the pint! And online! Click!

Fresh Start

Last year I decided I wanted to live in Sidney. A lot of change was happening at the time – I had also decided to retire and moving from Esquimalt was becoming imperative (but that’s another post). I wanted to start my new life in a new home in a new community where my old routine had never been and therefore establishing a new one would be easier. I envisioned a slower pace, taking long walks along the water, hanging out at a café with a chai and my book or journal or card tag, baking cookies, rebooting my library card … Basically letting life happen at my speed rather than struggling to keep up with it.

Sidney seemed a perfect choice. It was different without being unfamiliar, close enough to town without being in town and far enough from town to be somewhere else. The “somewhere else” is key.

Turns out I actually wanted to escape. I wanted to put distance between me and my past life, which was a good life but a demanding one. I was buckling under the stress of carrying on with limited Ru time – my self-care practices were aimed solely at surviving and, as Star Trek TNG noted, “survival is insufficient.” Retiring from the public service was one thing, but I also felt the pressure of staying in touch when I really wanted to go dark.

And Ter and I absolutely had to get out of our living situation. She was at her wits’ end coping with the troll above us and I was losing my mind trying to compensate. But that’s another post. Maybe.

Decision made, we proceeded to scout possibilities in Sidney. Weekend road trips were inconclusive. If we were looking for a definitive yea or nay from the Universe, it wasn’t coming. Vacancies were scarce and the rents as ridiculous as they are in town. We had a few pleasant visits – it’s a tourist town and folks are friendlier than in Victoria, plus the bakeries are notoriously good – but as the summer wore on, it seemed less and less plausible that we’d find a place to call home.

Then, waking up one Friday morning, in the 17 seconds of neutral space before my mind kicked in, I distinctly heard the words “Oak Bay.” Oak Bay? Yeah, right. Oak Bay is the one part of town we couldn’t afford and therefore hadn’t considered when discussing possibilities. Yes, we love the area. It was a favourite haunt when we were at Rockland and in Fairfield, but it’s Oak-frigging-Bay. Land of the whining rich, the privileged few, the upper tax bracket. It wasn’t, well, possible.

But the Universe knows better than I do, and I know enough to pay attention when I think I hear something. I also know to bounce these things off Ter before I dismiss them. So I mentioned this to her, whereupon she confessed she was okay with Sidney but would really rather stay in town. In fact, she’d become more nostalgic about the area since we – I – had decided to leave it. That was my second hint.

The following Monday I started looking and immediately saw a listing for a 2-bedroom flat in Oak Bay that we could actually afford. It was an older building, circa 1969, and we’ve always shied from cookie-cutter situations, but I told Ter about it anyway, figuring she’d dismiss it sight unseen.

She didn’t. In fact, her little voice warned against dismissing it. Long story short, after a series of minor miracles that propelled us forward, we arranged a viewing, went to see it and signed a lease the next week. We moved in on June 12, six months to the day from my last day at work in December, and while it doesn’t really look like what we envisioned, it certainly feels like it. There is no doubt it’s where we are meant to be. In fact, it recently occurred to me that it is exactly what I asked for: north and east facing, lots of light, right on the main drag, walking distance to everything … pretty much what I imagined in Sidney, only not in Sidney.

It's home.

64

 

It doesn’t feel like it looks. It doesn’t look like it feels, either. I wonder what the Beatles envisioned when they wrote “When I’m 64.” I wonder what the next generation sees when they look at me. Do I look like an old lady?

I’ve joked about having the body of a 70-year-old for most of my life but my face is catching up. It’s not there yet – I’m only 64 – but now I get what Mum meant when she said she’d wake up feeling 28 and “get an awfy surprise” when she looked in the mirror. I suspect it depended on the day: some days I feel pretty good and look it, but if I’m stressed or tired, yup, it shows. “More wrinkly about the face,” as the Leppard King once put it. Meh. It happens to everyone and I’d rather age out gracefully than bolt for the Botox and end up looking like Barbie with a turkey neck. I’ve always said I don’t care what it looks like so long as it works, and bless the old bones, my compostable container is hanging in there. She’s all stock except for two finger joints and her back teeth. She still has the extraneous parts like tonsils, gall bladder and appendix. She’s even got me through menopause without help. It’s been a fun ride for sure, but at least I’ve avoided the side effects. 

So, here I am. 64 and counting. Since this time last year, I have officially retired and am on a fixed income. I have a part time gig managing the social media posts for a local author who happens to be the same boss I had when I wrangled numbers for a living. Ter and I are back on the east side of the bridge and happy as clams in our new/old ’hood. Life is finally moving at a pace I can match, and if I happen to wake up feeling less motivated than usual, I am free to spend a day on the couch with a book and a bag of chips. I gotta admit, it’s pretty darned sweet. 

My trippy hippy attitude has taken a beating but through it all, I acknowledge the Universe’s assistance in providing everything I needed – and need – to keep going. Life is not meant to be easy and trust me, it hasn’t been easy since 2018. I’m not whining, I’m just speaking my truth. I’m not alone in the struggle to make sense of it all, to overcome the obstacles and find ways to maintain some sort of balance in this increasingly unbalanced world. Everyone struggles. We have different challenges, of course, none more or less than anyone else’s – it’s relative. On the night before my surgery to replace those two finger joints, I recall my dad telling me it wasn’t that big a deal compared to other people’s lives. I replied, “Maybe so, but it’s the biggest thing in my life right now.” The wisdom of an eighteen-year-old, perhaps, but the sentiment holds true considering how no one is given more than they can handle. I can handle a lot – but could I handle living in a war zone or an abusive relationship? Could I endure not having “enough” – food, shelter, income, etc.? I’m singularly grateful that the Universe thinks not! 

I hope it continues to think that way. I kinda feel like it might, for a while anyway. It’s strange. I’m on the threshold of a whole new phase in life and unsure how to manage it. I’m excited to embrace whatever comes, trusting as ever that I will be sustained through whatever awaits, but I dunno. When I was younger, I figured when I reached this age I’d have seen it all. Now I’m here and it feels like I haven’t seen anything! 

Well, as my favourite Bachman-Turner Overdrive song says, “Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet!” 

Happy birthday, Ru. With love,

63

Early last week I realized that I am not – and maybe never have been – wild about my birthday. Anyone whose natal anniversary comes this close to a new school year can probably relate. I didn’t dislike school; it was just hard to fit in, and once my bones crashed the party, being a teenager got significantly harder. We also moved around a lot, so I was often the new kid in class ... but this post isn’t about school. It’s about accepting a truth formed over sixty-two years and only acknowledged in my sixty-third.

I have patchwork memories of birthdays past. Some were good, a few were great, and many were anticipated with more anxiety than excitement. A couple were so crushing that I recall them in more precise detail than I do the most-excellent ones outnumbering them. When contemplating the inevitable occasion a week ago, I felt like my birthday has historically been more stress than celebration, and I wanted to forget the whole thing forevermore.

Then the modem at home crapped out and I had to work at the office for five days straight. I was already compromised by a week of bad technology karma, so losing the wifi was a grandiose WTF? Thinking of my birthday on top of that just made me crabbier. And I mean crabbier.

I can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that the people I work with are amused by my moods. They certainly aren’t daunted, although they are quick to respect when I answer “How are you, Ru?” with a warning to approach with caution. Last Monday I ranted freely about my wifi woes, to which none of them were genuinely sympathetic, as apparently a whole week of my on-site presence is a perceived win (should have been my first hint).

When I arrived at the office on Tuesday, a bunch of balloons was tangled in the tree outside my window. Our office is next door to a hotel and three different, um, drinking establishments, so, obviously the balloons had somehow got loose from their original owner the previous night ... but for them to end up outside my window when I’m flanked by glass on either side seemed like a pre-birthday sign from the Universe. I definitely felt the love, which was rather humbling considering my attitude.

Throughout the week, my peeps made frequent reference to my approaching happy day, which I was actually dreading though it would have been mean to say so. And on the last workday before my birthday, I walked into a fully decorated office, down to the tiny party hats made for each of my critters. My morning chai was bought for me, our executive director brought me flowers, everyone on the headquarters roster had signed a birthday card, and once our office manager arrived (coming in specially on a vacation day), she brought a black forest cake and led the team in a round of “Happy Birthday to Ru”. We partied and laughed and hugged and got a little work done ahead of my birthday long weekend.

How could anyone stay miserable in the face of so much love? Not me, that’s for sure. And on the home front, the technician from Rogering Shaw got us back online with a new modem to replace the dud they’d sent us a week earlier (but that’s another post). By the end of the week, my treed balloons were wimpy and shrivelled ... and so was I.

My attitude had to change after all that. And it did. I’d been so fraught with anxiety and, yes, feeling unworthy, that I almost denied myself the joy of being loved by people I love. They might not be family, yet they mean as much to me as any blood relation – and I mean as much to them. Today (the 2^nd), I’ve been inundated with texts and emails, and Ter has been her usual over-the-top generous self. I’d say I’m luckier than I deserve, but that might send the wrong message to a Universe that exists to give back what I put out.

As I wrote in my note to the HQ folks who signed my card, thanks to them, I’ve decided my birthday is okay after all. The only ones I’ll dislike now are the ones that make me older.

Happy birthday, Ru. You are so very loved.

No Nog? Now What?

 

A new year sits on the horizon. Only a few days remain in 2023, which, for me, has been a year of adapting to what has changed rather than experiencing actual change. Of course change has happened in the past twelve months; life is always in some sort of flux, just not always as drastically as it’s been since 2020. That darned corona virus threw everything and everyone for a loop, but it can’t be blamed for everything that happened this year.

Well, maybe it can. If not for the pandemic, my work life would still be fulltime at the office, where my colleagues would also be present all day every day (and less work would be getting done!) But would Starbucks have kept eggnog lattes on their holiday drinks menu if COVID hadn’t happened?

Can’t say.

What I can say, however, is in the Before Time, a Bucky’s steamed eggnog was better than anyone else’s. The ratio of nog to milk was always perfect, the foam always thick, creamy and demanding of a spoon. I’d down at least one a week back then ... and but now, it’s impossible even if I still worked in town five days a week. Eggnog anything is no longer listed among their holiday drinks.

One thing that has not changed is my compulsion to lose it when I can’t have what I want because they’re out of a vital ingredient. I’m not referring to eggnog here – I took that one in stride, likely because they took it off the menu during the lean winter of lockdown. To give Bucky’s masterminds credit, they came up with a dandy if not preferable replacement in the form of a Gingerbread Oat Chai Latte. Hot or iced, when ordered half-sweet, oh my gawd, it’s good. Even Ter likes them, and she’s not inclined to “handcrafted beverages” at the best of times.

So we happily scheduled a stop at Bucky’s to celebrate our final Christmas shopping trip for the year. I cheerfully placed the order: “Two grande gingerbread oat chai lattes, please, half-sweet.”

The clerk at the counter hesitated, then regretfully advised us that “We’re out of gingerbread syrup.”

For anyone who doesn’t already know, many years ago, I went postal on a David’s Tea clerk who innocently told me that Persian Apple (my favourite at the time) was a limited edition and no longer available. My reaction almost immediately assumed legendary status thanks to my then-office roomie, who witnessed the scene and promptly told everyone at work how badly I’d behaved. Since then, anyone who’s with me is instantly traumatized when I am faced with similar information, whether or not I react with the same vehemence. I try not to, being mindful that it’s not the clerk’s fault and no one deserves berating over a First World trifle, but the legend lives on ...

On this occasion, I think I held it together pretty well. Also thanks to the pandemic, “pivoting” has become a thing, and I’m quicker than some on the spur of the moment. Ter is more easily flustered these days, and it took her completely aback. Ergo, our drinks order went from a straightforward “two of the same” to one half-sweet cinnamon dolce oat chai latter and a decaf Americano with cream and one raw sugar, which they were also out of (due to a strike at the sugar processing plant), so make that a shot of brown sugar syrup instead. We ran through it a few times for the clerk’s benefit – awesome as she was, she was determined to get it right – yet in the end, I couldn’t resist.

“You know,” I said to her, “this wouldn’t be so confusing if you hadn’t run out of gingerbread syrup.”

62

 

This was a better year, in many ways, than the last. Personally, anyway. The world beyond my window is generally peaceful, though I feel the weighty energy of a greater world gone mad and the good people in it buckling beneath the strain. I have to turn that off, sometimes. If I don’t, I get edgy and contrary—not my natural state despite the hardwiring of my mortal form.

I realized this morning that I need regular exposure to nature. Sitting by the ocean, walking through the woods, even a stroll up the main drag to see what’s happening in the metaphoric village square, will calm my mind and bring me back to centre. My qigong and yoga practices are critical as well, since they keep me mobile and build strength. I’ve improved in that regard over the past twelve months. (Let’s ignore the flare in my left foot that stalled my progress during the past two weeks—augh!) My immune system has settled after last summer’s disaster of the covid vaccine response. I can almost claim to be normal again, assuming my recall is accurate. Weight is improving, mobility is improving, mental state is good if I stay in the moment and don’t let my head get, well, ahead.

Which reminds me of the sarky remark the Father of my Unborn Children made when filling out a stupid rock star survey in the mid-80’s: “If you want to get ahead, get a hat.”

My writing is still on the mend. I’m not nearly as prolific as I once was—I completed one short story this summer, but aside from a few errant stabs at a longtime work in progress, I’m more interested in reading than writing these days. I’ve rebooted my library card. It saves shelf space at home, and I can explore a multitude of genres without blowing my allowance on misfires. That said, I’ve downloaded some dandies to my Kindle in the past year. The best was “The Book Eaters” by Sunyi Dean, with Cornelia Funke’s “Inkheart” running a close second. Great fantasy works both, each fantabulous in its own way. Right now I’m on the second of Alison Weir’s “Six Wives of Henry VIII” series; I’ll always be a sucker for historical fiction, particularly stories set in Tudor and Stuart England. I’ve got pieces of my own Charles II story yet to be woven together. I’ll finish it eventually. Maybe when I’m retired?

That won’t be for a while yet. I still enjoy my job and the people I work with; I’m now at the office three days a week, to give Ter home space and me a change of scene. I get more work done on my two home office days, so it works out. The extra office day was added earlier this summer as an experiment to see how I held up physically. I did so well that it’s a regular thing now. Next plan is to take the community limo twice a week; I dislike hauling the gov’t laptop on public transit so Ter drives me in and home on occasions when I’m carrying it.

My outlook hasn’t changed all that much, despite having to monitor my tendency to become a recluse. I still believe implicitly in a loving, friendly and generous Universe that works in my best interest even when I’m going “Uni, WTF??” Like attracts like, so I try to remain positive where possible ... but thank the gods that hockey season is on the horizon—I can use my naughty words without compromising my everyday principles.

I never tire of living; I just get tired of life, sometimes. When I feel that darkness start to creep in, I turn off the news and go to the beach.

It’s a good life. I am grateful to be in it. I love my people and especially my Ter. Miracles abound, big and small; even the tiny ones appear when I look for them. It’s not always good, but it’s all good, if you know what I mean.

Happy birthday, Ru. With love,

No Mo’ Sno’

 

You know that snowfall I reported a post or two ago? Well, it kept snowing. And snowing. And snowing, until 35 centimetres had landed on the south island and everything froze in place. No last minute prezzie shopping, no grocery shopping, no visiting, no departing upstairs neighbours. Nothing. The rest of Canada has every right to thumb their noses at us, but that doesn’t make the stress any less stressful for people accustomed to green Christmases.

My snowmance extends to fantasies of being snowed in, of the aforementioned hot tea, fat novels and cozy blankets. The truth is far less enchanting. The truth is even I get cabin fever. It’s not that I would go out, it’s that ability to choose whether or not to go out. Being snowed in negates that agency.

Oh, Ter and I did suit up and venture out the next day. We assessed the Tiguan situation, shovelling off as much of the snow as we could to prevent him from freezing solid when the melt came (it has yet to start). Mercifully, the snow was still light and powdery, and we managed to dust off the hood, windshield and windows, but digging out was too much for two babes in their sixties. Besides, if we’d been able to clear a path to the road, the road itself was impassable.

In a bizarre way, it was fun to be out in bright sun and knee-high snow, working with my proton to move the white stuff around. It felt like we’d accomplished something when we finally came indoors to thaw ourselves out. It’s important to feel empowered in such situations, because it’s hard to stay positive when the challenge continues beyond a day or two, especially as Christmas Day creeps ever closer and there are still things to be done.

I can’t imagine the strain on parents of little kids. How do you explain to a six year old who believes in magic that Santa couldn’t get his sleigh out of the driveway? Yup. I am luckier than most in these Currier and Ives conditions. Perhaps it’s a recognition of how overwhelming life has lately been that my loving friendly and generous Universe has blessed me with a puny-by-comparison set of args this Christmas. I’m warm, I’m safe, I’m fed, so quit whining, Ru.

I submit that it’s all relative. A few days of “severe by west coast standards” snow is hardly a life or death event, but Christmas has taken an odd turn in past years and this was the first holiday season since Mum died that looked promising. I’ve become woefully nostalgic for Christmases past, which in itself is different, if not understandable in the circumstances.

Ter and I used to go all out during the holidays, and while I’m sure we griped and got stressed at the time, I only remember the joy. The tradition. Filling the advent calendar with Quality Street chocolates. Dashing out to pick up sock stuffers during lunch breaks. Shopping trips on weeknights when the stores are less crowded. Baking a ton of cookies. Lavish Christmas teas with friends and family. Wrapping presents in elegant paper. My wee sister’s fabulous mincemeat tarts. Kicking back on Christmas Eve when all was said and done, sipping a ruby mimosa and watching Alistair Sim by the light of the “f***ing soap opera tree”, as a friend once called it. The Christmas Day phone call to my parents ahead of the Queen’s Message.

Everything has changed. My parents are gone. So is the Queen. Our beautiful Edwardian flat was traded for a ho-hum standard apartment. A global pandemic moved in, stayed for two years and never really departed. The world itself seems to have tilted further out of alignment. Indeed, why should Christmas have survived intact?

You have to laugh at the irony. Imagine, Christmas being called on account of snow.

Merry, merry anyway. With love,

Change Versus Rest

 

It’s said that a change is as good as a rest. So, in theory, I should be able to shift from work routine to home routine without doing a face-plant on the first day of vacation, right?

Wrong.

My first day went fairly smoothly in that I accomplished all I’d set out to do, which wasn’t very much in comparison to getting up and getting out to spend a day with my co-workers at the office. Such an endeavour demands more energy than a day off, so on Day One I went easy on myself ... I thought.

I slept in, took a walk, started my annual read of The Night Circus, ate way too much sugar, did some philosophizing with Ter, and did not need a nap to get me through the day. We planned to finish up the last of our prezzie shopping on Day Two, but when I woke up that morning, I was headachy and seriously conflicted about my ability to deal with crowds of people in a confined space. I tried to talk myself into soldiering on, that I was just tired but it would be okay—and the next thing I knew, I was in tears over nothing and Ter bailed me out by insisting I stay home while she tackled the Christmas crowds. Gratefully, I relented.

Ter was a trooper, making two forays into the retail wild and accomplishing her mission without me whining in her wake. I read my book, skipped taking a walk, ate no gluten, and yes, took that afternoon nap. Day Three was a much better start, though we were both semi-stunned at how quickly the fatigue set in during our quick trip to the mall. But that’s another post.

The point of this one is my realizing that a change is not always as good as a rest. Sometimes a full stop does more good than an altered focus, especially at this time of year. Christmas is a whole other barrel of monkeys when it comes to energy drain and I’m still figuring out the critical balance between capacity and demand in regular life. The curve remains pretty steep as I suss out which symptoms are attributed to age and which are the result of living in a post-COVID world. The plague struck as I reached my sixties so I’m not sure what would have happened anyway; in some ways I’ve never been so confused by ongoing change.

Methinks it’s time for a rest.

Holiday Hoopla

 

We did it. We got the tree up. All three trees, in fact, but the true triumph was in squeezing our six-and-a-half-footer into the corner where we originally thought it wouldn’t fit. We didn’t even try during our first two years in the new place; we bought a tabletop for the living room and made do with a reduction in favoured ornaments. And, no, it was nothing like the same.

This year, Ter lost it. She was absolutely determined to make the Big Tree possible; she even brought it up from the basement to test its dimensions in the corner. It’s embarrassing to admit, but if we had tried it the first year, the tabletop tree wouldn’t have been necessary. Let’s just forget that it never was necessary; at the time, our combined state of mind simply couldn’t do the math what with the stress of COVID, my father’s passing, and Christmas in a new environment.

I’m also somewhat chagrined to admit that the renewed excitement I felt for the holidays this year has seriously waned in the past few weeks. December is always a crash of work, life and seasonal obligation; ironically, Ter and I have ceased to exchange gifts between ourselves. All we want for Christmas is the lights, a few treats, our holiday movies, and the upstairs neighbour to go away for the winter. It appears that we may get our grownup Christmas wish, but man, it’s taking some time to manifest.

In the meantime, our annual obligations—which are less obligations than things we enjoy and want to do each year—require that we try to keep up with the season. Making matters worse is the threat of significant snow this week. Yup, with Santa Day looming, the weather gods are getting their own holly jollies. At least my work routine has ended for the calendar year, though keeping to it for the first half of December was its usual challenge. Or maybe its unusual challenge, given how things have changed in COVID’s wake.

Because they have changed. Or I have. I’m still working out the difference between what happened and what would have happened anyway. Until I figure it out for myself, I am a study in confused philosophy and am a lot less patient with it than I was in the Before Time. Perhaps I will use this holiday season to sort it out. I sure won’t be using the time to celebrate at the same rate as in Christmases past. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad the house is decorated. I had a blast doing the cards. I’m enjoying the lights and the music. I relish having a dozen different cheeses in the fridge and ruby mimosas on a whim. And oat-based nog is a surprisingly favourable alternative to conventional eggnog, in case you’re wondering.

This holiday season will be spent sorting myself out—not terribly entertaining, I admit, but with pure intent to regain my former joie de vivre.

Assuming that my former joie de vivre ever existed, of course. Sometimes I forget who I was when I’m not impressed with who I am. While I get to work on solving that mystery, I’ll appreciate the beauty of the midwinter solstice, the respite from the daily grind, and the abundance of my loving, friendly and generous Universe.

With love,

Snow Daze

 

It’s snowing. I’m in my room writing about it, reminiscing about Christmases past when the only seasonal white stuff was the whipped cream on Mum’s Boxing Day trifle, or recalling one winter day when I stood with my father in the living room and watched a rare flurry outside the window.

I said, “Isn’t it pretty?”

Dad growled, “I hate snow.”

It’s definitely different when you don’t have to operate in it.

I remember some winters when Mum would do a massive grocery shopping in response to a menacing forecast. Once the kitchen was fully stocked, she would come into the living room and announce, “Now it can snow.” We’d all breathe a sigh of relief, knowing hearty soups and fresh-baked baps were in the works no matter how frightful was the weather outside.

These days, even on the west coast, snow seems an annual inevitability. I don’t remember a recent winter without it; in fact, a major snowfall in the Before Time prompted the Powers That Be to order laptops for all staff during the computer refresh (admin staff typically received desktops) so we could work from home on heavy snow days. The computers were also outfitted with VPN access, and whatever technology was required to keep the system from crashing was boosted to avoid a network catastrophe. (I wonder if our directors had a communal premonition, as it sure came in handy when COVID hit.)

Used to be that snow fell in January or February. Now it seems bent on wrecking Christmas, or at least one’s Christmas vacation, by dumping before festive preparations are complete. This year, the first round fell on November 7, followed almost exactly two weeks later by a second round. I now have a strategy to outwit the winter by either picking up my computer—my rig is left at the office on weekends so it gets its updates on schedule—or keeping it at home if it snows later in the week. It’s much less stressful to be on vacation, though today’s snowfall is interfering with last minute Christmas shopping; not mine, but everyone else’s, and that’s an extra stress on people already teetering on the edge.

My snowmance continues, however, with images of hot tea, fat novels and cozy blankets. Ter suffers more, being prone to cabin fever long before I get restless. She’s never actually declared a loathing for it, but a snow advisory can rattle her until she’s able to restock the pantry. Then she emerges from the kitchen to announce, “Now, it can snow.”

Christmas Kryptonite

 

Lookee what Ter brought home the other day! Oh, joy! Hallelujah, let the church say “Amen”, Christmas candy is now available – and November has hardly begun!

Remember when holiday treats were truly limited editions? When eggnog, candy canes, boxes of chocolates and tins of cookies were on the shelves for maybe four weeks before Christmas? When the sublime blend of white chocolate and peppermint candy had yet to be invented? I remember those days. I don’t lament them much, either, but whoever decided to mix crushed candy canes into melted white chocolate deserves some sort of culinary—nay, Nobel—award.

Something magical has happened this year. For the first time since the Before Time, I’m getting excited about Christmas. The neighbours behind us put twinkle lights on their balcony a few days before Hallowe’en—it was probably to celebrate Diwali, but I was thrilled with the multi-coloured light show anyway. Eggnog lattes are now available at my coffee haunt, even ahead of Starbucks; I haven’t indulged as yet, but I won’t wait until December to have one. Ter and I are talking about holiday baking again. I’ve listened to Christmas tunes on two occasions so far and she’s confessed to playing holiday discs in the car. And we may be out of our minds in this smaller apartment, but this year, we’re tackling the Big Tree without caring if it overwhelms the living room.

But it started with the Candy Cane Kisses. I don’t even like Hershey’s chocolate, but these little bonbons are deadly addictive (something in the toxic red food colouring, perchance?). Their similarity to my favourite ice cream ever – peppermint candy – could explain it; maybe it’s the refreshing punch of peppermint in the sweet white chocolate. Or the textural contrast of crunchy bits in melty surroundings. Don’t know, don’t care. Get ’em while you can. They might be here early, but they sure won’t stay late.

Think I’ll have just one more ...

Hallow Won't

 

Move Hallowe'en?? Horrors!

There’s an underground rumbling that suggests the scariest night of the year be moved from the last day of October to the last Saturday of October.

WTF?

Granted, the rumbling comes from disgruntled parents and teachers who are inconvenienced by managing children jacked on sugar the day after Hallowe’en, but it also indicates a lack of understanding about the day itself and why it exists in the first place.

“Hallowe’en” is the contracted form of “All Hallow’s Eve”, “All Hallows” being November 1, otherwise known as “All Saints Day” on the religious calendar.

Did I say “religious”? Yes, and I meant to say it. And I’m not apologizing, either. I may not be conventionally religious, but I do enjoy the holidays and observances associated with (and some say stolen from) annual celebrations of spring, fall, and winter.

I wonder why no one bothered to Christianize the summer solstice.

I digress.

Hallowe’en happens on October 31 for a reason. It’s not about the candy. Okay, maybe now it is, but originally, it was the last chance day in the year for evil spirits to work their nefarious magic on innocent souls before the saints came marching in on November 1. The dead rose to walk again, witches cast wicked spells and Satan roamed free. Folks dressed up to fool said evil spirits – and their earthbound minions – on the premise that they wouldn’t be recognized and the spirits would bypass them. That’s where the tradition of Hallowe’en costumes come from. In truth, I’m unsure where the trick-or-treat thing started, though it’s likely rooted in the same occasion, and candy was not the anticipated outcome. Successfully dodging the demons was.

The Easter argument doesn’t support moving October 31, either. Easter happens in coincidence with Passover, an event dependent on the lunar cycle, which is not attached to a static date. Candy wasn’t the anticipated outcome at Easter or Passover, either, by the way. I’m not at all sure where chocolate fits into history though, being a fool for Cadbury Creme eggs, I do appreciate its presence in the modern era.

If it hasn’t become obvious by now, I’m all for keeping Hallowe’en where it is. If anything needs to change, perhaps getting rid of trick-or-treat is the answer. After all, I’m not the only one who’s been buzzed on Hallowe’en candy since August!

Rockets - Yeah!

 

Now that Hallowe’en is a thing again – okay, maybe it never stopped, but during two years of COVID restrictions, it seems like everything did – the age-old debate is back: what’s the best Hallowe’en candy?

Tiny chocolate bars don’t count. First, they’re a given favourite. The only argument is which one is the best. Mars bars were tops for a while, then Crunchies took the prize, now I’m a huge (or would be, if I ate every one I see) Aero fan. Second, tiny chocolate bars are ubiquitous, a fact of life and school lunches in this era of dwindling seasonal treats. By “dwindling”, I mean much of what was once only available at select times of the year is now available all year, so it’s hard to get excited about a clutch of little chocolate bars when whole boxes of the darned things are in stores 24/7. The manufacturers try to make them special by issuing scary shapes in spooky wrappers, but I doubt the kids are fooled either.

I digress. Sort of. Back to the best of the Hallowe’en treat bag:

Stick gum? No, thanks.

Chiclets? Better than stick, but still, no thanks.

Bubble gum? Geez, how many kinds of gum are there, anyway?

Lollipops? Meh. The green ones are okay, but ...

Molasses kisses? A taste I neither appreciated nor acquired until adulthood. Now I love them, dark sticky ones and whipped chewy airy ones alike. If only they were available all year.

Apples? Straight to compost.

Skittles, Starbursts and Sour Patch Kids didn’t exist when I was trick or treating, nor did gummies of any ilk. I like gummy Life Savers now, but am lukewarm to the others.

Nope, my second favourite treat as a Hallowe’en kid was a roll of Rockets. Hands down, the best candy in the bag. Pure sugar with no real flavour, they are little buttons of pure sweet/tart delight – very much a mini-version of the SweetTarts I also loved in childhood. I could get SweetTarts at the corner store year-round, but Rockets were strictly a Hallowe’en thing. I hoarded them like a miser, they were off-limits in trades unless I had a friend who disliked them, in which case I’d happily surrender whatever my buddy wanted in return. If I ate them one at a time, I could make a roll of Rockets last far longer than a little box of Smarties.

A strange aside: I hear Rockets are called Smarties in the States. Their version of Canadian Smarties must be the sub-standard M&Ms ... but that’s a debate for another time.

Nowadays Rockets, like tiny chocolate bars, are available all year – if you know where to get ’em. And I do ... or Ter does, and so a constant supply resides in our kitchen pantry. I have a stash in my desk drawer at the office, too, and it’s not unusual to hear the telltale wrapper crinkling at some time between eleven and one on any given day, be it a weekday or a weekend, week in, week out, month in, month out, all blessed year. My favourite Hallowe’en candy is a seasonal treat no more.

I can’t decide if I’m happy about that, or a little sad.

Tough Love

 

My loving, friendly, generous Universe blesses me daily. I live in a world where miracles abound. All things happen with everyone’s best interest in mind. There is a reason for everything, even the difficult stuff. I try to go gently, practicing kindness, compassion and being non-judgemental.

Obviously, there are days when I’m more successful at this than others.

I don’t rely on Oracle cards, but I do follow Colette Baron-Reid on F***book. She posts a daily card, which I often don’t see until days after the fact so, clearly, I’m not that invested. Still, there are occasions when the card of a particular day will ring true in hindsight (not that I look behind me that often. As Ragnar said to his sons in a later episode of Vikings, “Don’t look back; that’s not where you’re going.”)

One day recently, the card simply stated “It Is What It Is.” The message advised me to adopt radical acceptance, explaining that acceptance is the best means of opening myself to greater abundance, blessing, and/or happiness. It suggested taking things at face value and not to read more into a given instant. Sometimes things just happen. Not everything has a deeper meaning. Acceptance enables good energy to flow easily, clearing log jams that result from us focusing too intently on what vexes us.

That very same day, I lost my mind over something so trivial it’s almost embarrassing.

Anyone who knows me also knows that my vehicle is sacrosanct. Indeed, only two things can drive me to spontaneous acts of violence: Flyer games, and any slight, be it a scratch, dent or other misdemeanour, against my vehicle. Well, on this day, I was the victim of a visitor who parked in my reserved space – and boom! Kindness, compassion and being non-judgemental flew right out the window. I seethed and foamed and fretted at the utter lack of morality in that individual. Capital punishment was a just penalty for the crime of forcing me to park my beloved Tiguan on the street.

Once I cooled off (and it took a while), I marvelled at how cushy my life is that I have the luxury of obsessing over something that, as a First World problem, barely rates as a problem at all ... or it shouldn’t.

Suddenly, the day’s Oracle card returned to mind: It Is What It Is.

Huh, I thought. The card meaning was suddenly clear. By advocating radical acceptance, the Universe was saying, in the most loving, friendly and generous way:

“Get over it.”

State Funeral

 

I thought I would be more emotional during the Queen’s funeral. I was up at 2:00 a.m. to catch the start of the proceedings – mostly people arriving at the Abbey ahead of the service – and hung in there until 6:00 a.m., when the Queen’s motorcade crept out of London en route to Windsor. The procession from Westminster to Wellington Arch was gruelling – and I wasn’t even following on foot! Given the time between the funeral and the committal service, I figured I could grab a nap and be awake for the final stages at St George’s Chapel.

Nope. I slept past it; again, thank the gods for Youtube.

Ten days is a long time. At this point, I was more aggrieved for the royal family, especially the King and his siblings, for having to march in line behind the coffin once more. Of course it’s to honour their mother as much as the late monarch and I would have wanted to do the same, but oh, my, the miles they have trudged in Her Majesty’s wake. And, I dare say, at their ages. I can only imagine their relief that all is finally over. Closure has occurred, the second Elizabethan Era is ended and a new reign begins.

Shouldn’t something have changed? The world feels the same. The sun rose this morning, autumn is still scheduled for the end of this week, the war is still on in Ukraine. I imagined that her death would somehow mirror my own mother’s passing, when my surroundings took on a stunning new brilliance I hadn’t seen before. The royal Elizabeth was as important as mine, yet despite ten days of mourning, with four spent lying-in-state, now that it’s done, it’s done. There might be some global follow up in the next couple of days, but guaranteed the focus outside the UK will soon enough revert to the usual business of “suffering and greed, here today, forgot tomorrow”.

As for me, it’s back to walking my own path, being the best I can be in any given moment – but remembering Her Majesty’s example, which was really not dissimilar to what my mother taught me about treating others with kindness and respect. I’m grateful to have witnessed these massive moments in history. I have been touched through the connection that binds me to every living soul, uniting us in grief and sympathy for the loss of an exceptional person. Perhaps I can’t foresee a difference to my life in the aftermath ... yet there will be unexpected moments when I am reminded of the change in this country’s hierarchy. It may be a tiny thing, like a filing a chargeback from the King’s Printer when a month ago I was filing them from the Queen’s Printer, or something more poignant, like watching the King’s Christmas message when it used to be given by the Queen, but I will have those moments and then I’ll know.

Actually, I kind of know already. When someone passes on, whether famous or family, everything changes. We just don’t always recognize it.

With love,

God Save the King

 

I wonder how strange it must feel for the former Prince of Wales to sign himself “Charles R”.

Though it’s only been a few days since the Queen’s passing, the adjustment to having a King has been easier than I’d originally imagined, perhaps because yesterday was about the proclamation and accession of the new monarch rather than about Her late Majesty. The formal proceedings at St James’ Palace were fascinating to watch. I never thought I’d say this, but bless Youtube as a repository for such things. At the end of a busy day prepping for my return to work, Ter and I were able to catch up on this piece of living history hours after it had happened. Time zone issues, you know.

Maybe it’s as much because she and I are career public servants as we are Royalists that we observed with keen interest the reading, signing, and witnessing of the accession proclamation by the King and Privy Council members. Draft Orders-in-Council were approved regarding use of the existing royal seals pending creation and authorization of new ones, one of a million changes to be made when a king succeeds a queen. Even here in Canada, in BC, there are protocols regarding the Queen’s portrait (drape it in black), the state of legislation passed under the previous reign (they remain in effect), and the shift of lawyers named from Queen’s Council to King’s Council (it’s automatic and immediate).

Again, His Majesty gave a fine speech, this time to the assembly. There is no doubt he gets both the gravity of his new responsibilities and the weighty challenge of following his mother’s stellar example. I still think he’ll do well enough in his own right, in his own way.

I was particularly touched – and amused – when the motorcade departing Buckingham Palace at the end of the day yesterday suddenly stopped halfway along the Mall. The Rolls carrying the King veered off at an angle and came to a full halt. The back door opened and His newly proclaimed Majesty got out for a spontaneous walkabout with spectators along the road. The scramble of media cameras to seek and focus on him with the crowd was hilarious, as the car had stopped between established view points and no one was prepared for it. Yet it confirmed for me the suspicion that his private grief may be helped by sharing in the public’s, for the Queen was a beloved figure in many people’s lives as well as within her own family.

There’s the surreal thing again. In absorbing the protocols around naming a new sovereign, I am reminded that the sole reason for them is that Queen Elizabeth has died. The reminder came this morning, when I awoke to the news that her coffin had arrived at Holyrood House in Edinburgh, there to await tomorrow’s service at St Giles ahead of transport to London and a lying in state at Westminster until the funeral on the 19th. Charles is in a uniquely painful position, taking on his mother’s job while simultaneously mourning her loss. Surely no other member of his family can relate so acutely to the awful contradiction of ascending monarch with mourning son. On all counts, I truly wish His Majesty well.

God save the King.