The Year of Being Human

Twelve months ago, Ter and I stood in our kitchen and proclaimed 2018 “the Year of Transition and Change”. She was on the cusp of committing to retire from the public service, my job had settled down after a major shift in program staff, my wee sis and I were planning to visit our brother on Prince Edward Island. There was some concern over a nodule in Mum’s forearm, but the experts were confident—as was she—that it would amount to naught. In all, the new year seemed full of promise and adventure, and we were ready to tackle all the good things we envisioned.

Perhaps we should have been more specific. Perhaps we should have proclaimed 2018 as a year of positive transition and change.

Ter’s intention to cruise into retirement went south when she was called to be shop steward in an ugly harassment case. I lost my office and was moved into a shared space when branch staff expanded beyond the eighth floor’s capacity. Though Mum’s radiation treatment appeared to be a success in February, after a couple of months of normal, she fell ill and died four weeks after Ter’s last day at work. Wee sis and I cancelled our trip to PEI—she had injured her back while helping Dad care for Mum, and quite frankly, the shock was so overwhelming that we reeled through the summer and well into the fall. That’s when our landlord let us know she was thinking to sell the suite. Ter tweaked a muscle in her neck at Thanksgiving and was laid up into November. The Tiguan went into the shop for an expensive overnight service—twice. The postal dispute threatened Christmas delivery of cards and parcels ... and I’m sure I’ve forgotten something in the continuous monsoon of WTF? we endured throughout 2018, but that’s the gist of our Year of Transition and Change.

Keeping the faith was pretty darned challenging during the past twelve months. It’s easy to believe in a loving friendly and generous Universe when all is going smoothly. The tricky part is seeing the light in darkness. The majority of 2018 was, for me, a battle against a pervading sense of loss. Every night, I struggled to maintain my belief in being loved by a higher power, to trust that things happen for a reason, when they are meant to happen, and to know the rest of my life will not be spent gaping into a black hole. The gauge on my power of positivity has hovered perilously close to empty at times. I have cried more in the past months than I have in past years. I have raged at the heavens and thrown up my hands. I have stormed and begged and dug deep to get through the past turbulent, tumultuous, unexpectedly tragic fifty-two weeks.

And yet I have seen miracles. Small ones, to be sure, but miracles nonetheless. I will always remember the preternatural brilliance of the day after my mother died; how sharply defined and brilliantly hued the world appeared through the Ocean Room window. I will cherish forever the kindness and support I was shown by my friends and co-workers, people who rarely see me vulnerable yet rose to the occasion when I could not help myself. Christmas presents appeared from nowhere at the last minute, as did emails from loved ones after long silences. And others, too numerous to name. Feeling my mother’s presence in the room. Ter’s parking karma. Being able to pay cash for Tiggy’s repairs. Having a beautiful place to call home. Laughing with my office roomie, then going for tea with her because we like each other enough to be more than workmates. Hugging my little sister. The list goes on.

Though I almost lost it more than once, I managed to keep my grip on the thread that binds me to divinity. I still believe in something greater than myself, that all-encompassing presence that some call God. In truth, I’m no longer sure what to call it. I just know it’s there, that I am part of it and it is part of me—and of everyone else who is, who was, and who will be. For me, 2018 was all about the human experience and it truly sucked ... but I survived. I’m not through it yet, of course. The calendar doesn’t control time, it merely marks it. By all counts, I am only halfway through the process of reconciling myself to the tectonic changes that occurred in the past twelve months, so the drama ain’t over yet. I am relieved to say, however, that the light is more evident now than it was even three months ago.

It occurred to me on Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year, that miracles are like stars strewn across a midnight sky:

The longer you spend staring up at them, the more begin to appear, and soon the entire night is bright with light.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Happy New Year.

With love,

The Year of the Pause

Though I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I do begin each year with a blank office bulletin board, and every year that board has a theme. 2017 was about the moon and stars. I sprinkled the paper with celestial quotes from Shakespeare to Einstein to Neil Degrasse-Tyson and drew pictures in higher chakra colours to lend a calming “night sky” atmosphere to my increasingly crazy workdays.

It didn’t always work, but it was always gratifying to see my colleagues smile so maybe it worked better than I think.

As January 1 approached, I began contemplating my theme for 2018. On Christmas Day, rather than annoy myself by surfing F***book, I was prompted to pay a rare visit to the Paper Teapot and catch up on far too many of Nicole’s poems. In calmer times, I dropped into the Pot quite often; altered priorities of late have put the screws to that, to my detriment. Nic’s poetry is both beautiful and practical, as it encourages my creativity and my interpretive skills—an artistic two-for-one that I confess has been taken for granted in light of more pressing (yet ultimately less important) issues.

I digress.

As I scrolled through her unread posts, my admiration—and, yes, envy—was reawakened. Her turn of phrase, her magical metaphors and airbrushed imagery held me in thrall until I could no longer stand it: I had to email her and gush about the handful of gems she managed to wring from spare moments around her epic year-long writing project.

One poem in particular pounced: a flame so pure in its perfection that it sparked the theme for my 2018 bulletin board and may even have prompted my first NY resolution in decades. It’s called “This Pause” and here’s what it inspired:

·         In the midst of chaos, hit the pause button.

·         Stop the carousel and take a conscious breath.

·         Hear the space between the notes.

·         See beauty in unexpected places (like the mirror).

·         Don’t buy into drama.

·         Foster your connection to the things that really count and release the rest.

Some days will be tougher than others. My resolve is an exercise in mindfulness, but it will be worth it when I remember to pause.

Thank you, Beanie.

Happy New Year!

With love,

Holidaze

For years now, people have complained about Christmas showing up in October. That’s never bothered me, probably because I love Christmas, but this year I’ve noticed something I’m sure was not the ordinary until now.

There used to be space between holidays. Sometime after school started, harvest froufrou would kick off Thanksgiving (breathe), then Hallowe’en (not an “official” holiday but you’ll see my point) would be proclaimed (breathe), then Remembrance Day (breathe), then Christmas would get into gear, followed (followed, mind you) too soon by Boxing Day and New Year’s, after which we’d get a few weeks off before being confronted with Valentine’s Day in early February. Retailers gave consumers a break between reasons to consume, but that no longer happens.

Hallowe’en candy is in stores just after school starts. Thanksgiving is celebrated with little to no preamble, probably since it’s counter-intuitive to promote acquiring more stuff at a time when we’re meant to be grateful for what we have. Poppies are on lapels before Hallowe’en – no discredit there, as November 11 is hardly a goldmine for the veterans – but this year I saw my first Christmas commercial mere hours before the first trick-or-treaters emerged on October 31. Geez. That blew my mind. I mean, I try to restrain my Yuletide spirit until November 11, and I believe the rest of the world should do the same thing.

What’s that, Ru? The rest of the world should wait until the veterans have been remembered before we launch into the annual consumer frenzy like good little lab rats? And where were you on the first weekend in November, hmmmmmm?

Okay, okay. I confess—I was at Canadian Tire, topping up on twinkle lights and stopping at Starbucks for a steamed eggnog. Sue me. I have lately been so overwhelmed by the bad news and negativity in the world that I was desperate for something to make me happy. Well, Christmas makes me happy. The lights, the food, the music, the convivial cheer that seems more prevalent among strangers—in the face of death and destruction and people behaving badly, I’m all for indulging in a little premature holiday spirit.

I digress. Sort of. As Dr Seuss pointed out, and contrary to what the big eastern syndicate would have us believe, Christmas doesn’t come from a store. And it doesn’t matter anyway, when I know what’s coming on December 24: the first Boxing Day sale ads, mixed in with New Year’s sale ads, bleeding into Valentine’s Day diamond commercials in January, blurred by Easter treat blurbs in February, Mother’s Day flower adverts in April and so on and so on ...

Believe me, I’m into the holidays this year, and because I’m into them, I want to slow down and enjoy them—even the commercials (the celebratory food and drink ones, not the appalling Black Friday ones)—before the marketing moguls snatch the Yuletide season from my grasp.

Merry Christmas in advance!

From the Frying Pan

I LOL’d at this pic. It might have been hysterical laughter, but it was genuine—and that’s what will keep me going into 2017.

If you believe life is going to be hard, it will be hard. Better to believe it will be all right, that you will be all right, than to condemn it from the get-go.

For me, 2016 was a year rife with uphill battles. Ter and I agonized for months to bring about something that has not yet materialized. Work was unsettling for us both, for different reasons. My left ankle locked up in January. My bones flared through the fall and winter. The Flyers missed the playoffs again. A baker’s dozen of musicians, legends and icons passed on. The world went completely crazy. Looking back, last year sucked out loud ... but it didn’t kill me. In fact, I have emerged (I hope) stronger and more immune to difficulty than I was twelve months ago.

Seeds were planted in the tumultuous soil of 2016 that will bloom in 2017. Some will produce challenging consequences, others will remind us that beauty and art and kindness still exist. Life will happen. We needn’t expend ourselves to seek the bad stuff—CNN delights in keeping us apprised of global disasters, and reality TV continues to bombard us with eat-or-be-eaten cupcake competitions and outback inbred family shenanigans. The night is dark and full of terrors, ’tis true, but it is also rich with moonlight and magic. Resolve to marvel at the moonlight. Believe in the magic. Refuse to accept the universe as a cold and hostile environment. Embrace the dark, let it liberate your other senses, and above all, do not fear it.

It’s only as scary as you want it to be.

New Year’s resolutions, I have said, are not my thang. Maintaining a daily practice of kindness, compassion, appreciation and gratitude for each moment is. Humans complicate everything. Nothing needs to be that hard. When you find yourself fighting upstream, do yourself a favour and stop. The river will take you where you’re meant to go; resistance is generally a sign that you’re going the wrong way.

Or that you’ve convinced yourself of life being unnecessarily hard. For you, a spark of divinity caught in a human experience, it doesn’t have to be complicated. Simplify as much as you can. Believe in the goodness of the Universe. Cherish yourself and others will follow. You deserve it just because. You are a good person, a valuable person, a light in the night that will cast a wide beam if you allow yourself to do it—and doing it is easy.

Just be you.

If you’re unsure exactly who “you” are, take some time this year to figure it out. Look inside rather than out. Listen to your heart. Ignore your head. (Hint: Your heart always speaks softly. Your head will chatter incessantly and even start yelling to make itself heard. The louder it gets, the closer you are to silencing it with a solitary word: Quiet.) Remember, given freely and without condition, love is never a mistake. Try it on yourself first. It’ll feel weird to start, but it gets easier with (you guessed it!) practice. And don’t beat yourself up if you miss a day. Or a week. Or a month. Forgive yourself and start again. And don’t wait for January 1, 2018 to do it.

I’m with you.

With love,

These Boots Are Made for Walkin’

My wee sister IM’d me at work one morning:

“Hey, sissy, are you free for lunch?”

“Sure,” I wrote back. “What do you feel like?”

“Shoes!” she replied.

Uh oh, I thought. The wee ’un’s on a bender.

My sister buys her shoes at the store directly downstairs from my office. She’s partial to Kubos and has acquired something like six pairs in everything from green to black to “aubergine”. Granted, the store regularly puts them on sale, so she gets them practically two-for-one, and on this day a sale was also in progress: buy a pair at regular price and get a second “on sale” pair at fifty percent off the sale price. Boy Sister had gone ahead and found a pair for himself; we were to meet him there and one of us could score the second pair in the deal for cheap.

BS hadn’t arrived when we did, so the Greig sisters were on the loose without our handler. I said, “I need boots”, so we started looking. And commenting. And cracking ourselves up with inside jokes and stupid remarks. I do enjoy shopping with my little sister. She’s a veritable hoot.

I really wanted/needed tall boots in which I could walk comfortably. Apparently, I was also in the market for some form of red leather. Crimson? Too dark. Candy apple patent? Too flashy (though they’d totally work under my boot-cut jeans). Scarlet? Too high in the heel. Plain black? Too boring. Then my eye caught a low-heeled black boot with burgundy accents and I promptly zoomed in for a closeup.

It met all my criteria. Black and red with low heels, made of buttery leather, and sporting a filigree button that kinda sorta matches my silver Lannister pendant (a bonus, not a criterion). Then I looked at the brand name: Dorking.

My wee sister looked dubious. “Do you want to buy a boot with the word dork in its name?”

Uhhhh … I bought it anyway. And I proved the greater dork because it wasn’t on sale, so when Boy Sister finally arrived, the deal didn’t work to plan. Not to mention that one pair of boots cost almost as much as a pair of tires for the Tiguan, but here’s the thing:

They are so comfy that I wore them all day every day for three solid weeks and my feet think they’re in heaven. I’m wearing them right now, in fact, so not only are they made for walking, they are made for looking cool while sitting still.

Today is New Year’s Eve. Looks like I’m walking into 2015 with style.

New Year’s Day

It seems counter-intuitive to begin a new year with a hangover, but that’s inevitably what I do. And when I say “hangover”, I mean of the gluttonous variety. I’m a cheap drunk, so despite the seasonal increase in consumption, I limit myself to one boozy libation per day. Treats, however, know no bounds and can do as much mischief as alcohol once the line is crossed.

Thatʼs why I try to view January 1 as just another day; a day to recover from the holiday overload and regain some perspective. A hangover of any ilk will skew the latter, thus adding to the fervour of making those pesky New Yearʼs resolutions. Is that when the tradition started, I wonder? Folk feeling like crap and resolving to be better about feeling better? A man will agree to do anything if heʼs miserable enough and wants the misery to end.

I may be aware of the perils in NY resolutions, but I am not immune. I was reflecting in the bathroom mirror this morning on what I might resolve to do better in 2014. One thing came immediately to mind:

Write daily.

Just as promptly, the panicked mental chatter ensued.

What, write something every day for a whole year and beyond? I canʼt commit to that. I have a job, a social life. What if I fail (which I am likely to do, given the scope of the resolution)?

Inner sigh.

“Write dailyˮ means write today. It does not mean write tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

The same principle applies to anything and everything else. Do it TODAY. And if youʼre unsure you can uphold that resolve for a full 24 hours (as I am about rebuffing those treats), hold true to the moment.

Just for today. For New Yearʼs Day and Valentineʼs Day, for Tuesday, for your birthday, for Arbour Day and Nirvana Day and All Saintsʼ Day—what day doesnʼt matter as long as itʼs this one.

This day. This hour. This moment. Itʼs the one youʼve got. Make it count.