100 Things

Thanks for the photo, Beanie!

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

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

1.             Ter

2.            My family

3.            My friends

4.            Chocolate

5.            Vampires

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

7.            Sitting at the ocean

8.           French fries

9.            Bass players

10.        Fast cars

11.         Movies about writers

12.        19^th century Paris

13.        Puppies

14.        Bailey’s Original

15.         Flâneries

16.        Duran Duran

17.         Warming spices

18.        Laughing

19.        Making other people laugh

20.       Summer rain

21.        Winter storms

22.       Documentaries about royalty

23.       Charles II of England

24.       Chrome (not the browser)

25.        The rumble of a muscle car’s engine

26.       Smooth jazz

27.        Fridays

28.       Lavender

29.       Extra-foamy tea lattes

30.       My CD collection

31.        Family photos

32.       Horses

33.       James Tiberius Kirk

34.       Stretching

35.        Candlelight

36.       Costume dramas

37.        Singing along

38.       Going for tea

39.       Shawls

40.       Teddy bears

41.        Bacon cheeseburgers

42.       Watching the sunrise

43.       Christmas

44.       The first page of a new read

45.        White roses

46.       Reminiscing

47.        Soft ice cream

48.       Finishing a writing project

49.       Starting a writing project

50.       Classic Mustangs

51.         Watching snow fall

52.        Hot showers

53.        Afternoon naps

54.        Baking cookies

55.        Solitude

56.        Michael York

57.        Going barefoot

58.       Art Deco

59.        Long necklaces

60.       Rhubarb crumble with custard

61.        Turkey stuffing

62.       Cashmere

63.       Birthday presents

64.       Cheesecake

65.        Fuzzy socks

66.       Hockey

67.        Canada

68.       Hugs (giving and getting)

69.       “The Night Circus”

70.       Telling people how wonderful they are

71.         Embracing my age

72.        Philosophical debates

73.        Long drives

74.        Night skies

75.        Def Leppard

76.        Museums

77.        Colouring

78.       Brownies

79.        Main streets in little villages

80.      Breakfast for dinner

81.        Full skirts

82.       Morning fog

83.       Kids playing street hockey

84.       Lying on the couch listening to music

85.       Massages

86.       The wind blowing through me

87.       Peppermint

88.      Crossword puzzles

89.       Lazy Sundays

90.       The sun on my skin

91.        Classic rock

92.       Sharpies

93.       Getting my hair done

94.       Making gratitude lists

95.        Bedtime

96.       Bookstores

97.        Jaguar X-types

98.       Flying

99.       Dreaming

100.   Being alive ...

With love,

Lemons

When someone’s life goes sour, I’m the first one to spout a platitude. When it’s my life, I’m the first one to want to clock the first one to spout a platitude.

Like this oldie but goodie: “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”

If all had gone to plan, this weekend my wee sister and I would have been halfway through visiting our older older brother on Prince Edward Island, and today I’d have been on an in-person artist date with Nicole. Alas, life had another plan that, by ripple effect, changed the original plan, plus a couple of others.

I spent the summer mourning my “sister trip” as well as my mother, and even though the flights were fully refunded, having to do it still hurt. It also gave me a different song to sing when I tired of lamenting Mum. There were a few tracks on the “2018 Summer Sucks” EP, and I played that baby thin. I may even have incurred an eyeroll or two by writing this post, but stick with me – it gets brighter at the end.

It may be human to cry for what might have been, but it’s also terribly unproductive. “What might have been” is as unreal as what once was; all we truly have is Right Now. And while in the Now, even what seems real is merely transient. Sadness is as fleeting as happiness if you choose to make it so. Denying what we feel in a given moment doesn’t make it go away – in fact, it’s more likely to come out sideways when we’re not looking – so by all means, take that moment and relish it. We’re here to experience contrast; however, it’s equally important to remember that we can change how we feel, good or bad, according to how we want to feel.

I didn’t know it before, but I know it now: I don’t like grief. While it’s necessary to the human condition, it’s no fun at all and eventually I got tired of it. I slowly started thinking about other things. Happier things. Creative things. I love and miss Mum no less, yet now that I’m facing the sun again, she’s even more present in my awareness. (How can she be gone and still be present? Only the Universe knows for sure!)

You rarely nail the recipe on the first go; you gotta keep tasting the lemons to get the sweetness right – and while some folks just plain like their lemonade on the sour side, others have no idea that adding the sugar is up to them. Henry David Thoreau said, and I’m paraphrasing as usual, it’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.

I hated that wee sis and I had to postpone our trip. I hated the reason more, of course, but we certainly haven’t cancelled it. We’ve simply changed the dates.

So Thoreau was right. It’s about perspective. And when you get right down to it, you can’t make lemonade without those darned lemons.

Five Long Years

Comfortable Rebellion started on March 23, 2013, with a post entitled “Why Not?” There was no topical photo to accompany the text on that introductory blurb; there was just a big idea, a little preface, and (thanks to Nicole) a poem.

That was five years ago. A lot has happened in those five years, yet not a lot has happened. Time is so fluid, so subjective, that it’s hard to reconcile exactly how much has occurred since I took the plunge 755 posts ago. I’ve strayed a bit from my original intention, which was to write write write then post post post about the literary passion that has driven me from the time I wrote my first unfinished novel at the age of twelve.

There have been a lot of unfinished novels. I have also finished a few, and continue to wrestle with the latest, now almost six years in the birthing and still an obsession because it’s a darned good story and has been from the beginning. Have I ever said, “I want to write a romance”? Not aloud, surely. Romance is not my thing, at least not in the conventional sense. I like that my romances tend to go sideways, but the hero in this one deserves a true love story with a happily-ever-after ending and I’m simply not that skilled at making those happen. In the long run, the characters are responsible for achieving the desired outcome, but I’m still the one directing traffic. If only they weren’t so ... so human.

That’s another area where the Rebellion has slipped slightly off the rails. I’ve become more aware of what it is to be human in the past few years. Ironically, I did not see it coming, and I’ve written a lot more than I meant to about my experience. Personal non-fiction is not my literary preference, but it is writing, so I can’t say I’ve lost the CR plot entirely. It’s about stories, right? My story, which is your story and everyone else’s story throughout history; anyone who has been human, anyway, who has lived a life unique unto him/herself but who shares so much in common with me just by nature of his/her humanity. We are all connected, after all. If I didn’t feel it five years ago, I certainly feel it now. So I write about it, and post about it, and hope that the ether has been brightened somewhat by my contribution to it. I may never know.

Have I gone wrong? Maybe not. Maybe the blog has evolved as it was supposed to, even if it doesn’t look the way I imagined it would in the spring of 2013. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what it would look like or what I thought I was doing before I did it, but on that Friday five years ago, I asked myself why should I do it and the answer came pretty quickly:

Why not?

Here’s to another five years.

Soul Mates

Many years ago, I took one of those silly quizzes that asked me to name five people who were important to me. They had to be people I knew, i.e., no rock stars or favourite authors. I didn’t want to think too much, as overthinking can mess with the results, so I followed my instinct and wrote down five names.

Ter was one of them.

The next task was to assign a colour to each name. Again, without thinking too much, I pictured each person and let the colour assign itself.

Ter’s was white.

In the end, the colour was said to determine what role each person played in my life. One of them was an outright WTF? and I don’t remember the other three—but I have always remembered Ter’s because white meant “soul mate”.

Well, duh. If course she was—and is, and always will be. She and I are irrevocably linked and likely have been so since before The Big Bang. We will likely be so into however many futures are left to us, until we say “enough already!” and move onto our next gigs as technicians, planners or spirit guides—whatever other employment opportunities exist in the Great Beyond.

Even then, we’ll always be friends. Sisters. Soul sisters and soul mates. I can’t imagine any life without her, and I’m fine with that. I’ve never been so fine about anything, in fact. She is simply as vital to my survival as air, though I won’t take her for granted until I can’t breathe anymore. Nope, she’s a part of me and I’m a part of her and there you go.

We have this limiting misconception that a soul mate must be the one you marry. I could very well be wrong, but I only know one couple where that seems to be true. I know of many more folks who thought they’d married their soul mate, then met someone else and immediately gone, oops. Serial weddings ensue as romantic misconception reigns, but here’s the kick: A soul mate can be anything in one’s life—not necessarily a spouse, but a friend, a sibling, a co-worker, a neighbour, a poet (*waves at Beanie*), a healer or a hairdresser or a barista. It can even be—get this—your arch nemesis. Yes, Virginia, your worst enemy may very well be your soul mate. After all, lessons are to be learned, and who better to teach them than a soul who has known yours from the dawn of Time?

There is a theory that suggests we exist in “soul groups”. This is especially plausible if you believe in reincarnation or parallel lives, or any of the other trippy hippy alternatives I’ve encountered during the past few years. Everyone in this group can be considered a soul mate. This explains why I feel more connected to a select few than I do for the entire cast of characters I will meet in this life. These are the people with whom I have solid, enduring (sometimes frustrating) relationships, but the term “soul mate” also includes the handful of power people who have crossed my path during their own journeys; those individuals who drop in to make a difference ranging from improving my day to testing my boundaries to changing the course of my entire life.

It took me twenty years to find my Ter. I wasn’t without soul mates before then, but those who served their purpose in my childhood and teenage years had moved on to make room for her. She got into the car one fateful evening, we started talking, and we haven’t stopped since.

Soul sisters. Soul mates. Forever. What a wonderful thought!

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,

All Good Things

It’s Thanksgiving. I usually celebrate the occasion earlier in the month, on Ter’s birthday because, of all the good things in my life, I am the most thankful for her.

I also mentioned to my sisters—wee and Boy—last week that they are among my top five. I didn’t say where, but they were happy just to have made the list. Sillies. My family is second, third, fourth and fifth, and includes older sister, both brothers and of course my wonderful parents.

After family come my friends—those who have become family, those who get me through my workday, and Nicky Bean, who stands alone as a beacon of inspiration, creativity and writerly support, and who also happens to agree that John Taylor is perfect.

I must also to give the nod to my pit crew—my voodoo medicine man, my massage therapist, my foot man and chiropractor. I wish I could be grateful for my dentist, but despite the miracle of having my own teeth (so far), I remain suspicious of how much work is actually required for my health rather than his home renovations.

Big picture, I am grateful for everything in my life, even the challenging stuff though I’m often snarky while dealing with those challenges (like dental work). Mortality can be a struggle, but it provides a plethora of opportunity to learn, to love, to hope and dream and laugh and cry and taste chocolate.

I am most grateful, perhaps, for gratitude itself, for it being the wellspring of abundance and prosperity, and a reminder that I have it pretty darned good in a world seemingly poised on the lip of the Dark Side.

Now, to give everyone something worth being grateful for, I’ll keep this short! Take a moment to consider the good things in your life. You might have to look for them, but trust me, they’re there, and if you focus on them instead of the things that drive you crazy, you’ll discover yourself to be in better shape than you thought.

With love and gratitude,

“Dark Side Light”

Ru Note: When I posted this photo on F***book a few weeks ago, Nicole commented that she sensed an imminent writing exercise. I hadn’t planned on one, but since she mentioned it, here it is:

If you heard the boom, you probably didn’t know what it was. I didn’t; not until the stars faded and I found myself speeding along the same street in different light.

Familiar ground helped as my brain adjusted to unfamiliar details. For one thing, the sky was blue. It took me another two blocks, racing through busy intersections, to notice the hood stretched out before me was silver. More than silver. The mirror-bright finish was pure, solid chrome—and as soon as the sun’s white-hot reflection ricocheted into my eyes, I knew for sure what was wrong.

Or was it right?

I peeled around an unexpected corner and stopped the car. My heart continued to pound, fuelled on adrenaline and the thrill of the … chase? Was I the hunter or the hunted?

Only one way to find out.

I sat behind the wheel, squinting in the glare off my car’s opposite-of-onyx hood, and wondered if Brise had come through, too.

It was a chilling thought.

Your Name Becomes You

aw, jeez

Family legend has it that my parents took days to decide what to call me. Finally, they settled on “Ruth”, but what made up their minds? Did I tell them myself? Did something in my eyes speak of my nature and they took the cue? I do know that my mother’s cousin had a daughter some weeks after I was born and also called her Ruth. Mum was peeved at that. I guess she’d hoped that my name would make me unique among my peers, and as it happened, she wasn’t far off the mark.

My fifth grade teacher once took me into the hall and had me wait there while he returned to the classroom. “This room,” I heard him say, “is now Ruth-less.”

I remember rolling my eyes while my classmates groaned. Even ten-year-old kids know a lame joke when they hear it..

After I started writing in earnest, I got a baby name book to help me with a story set in France. I found a ton of names with French comparatives, not to mention German, Norse, Italian, Spanish, Old English, Celtic, Hebrew, etc. Naturally, I looked up my own name to see what it meant.

(Insert laugh here.)

Ironically, the few Ruths whom I encountered growing up were not particularly pleasant individuals. The one in ninth grade was a nasty acquaintance, the complete antithesis of what the name actually means (she might have been a better friend but I can’t say because she definitely wasn’t a friend of mine). Through work recently, I had a conversation with another Ruth who asked me if I liked my name. “I must do,” I replied. “since I haven’t changed it.”

We agreed that now it’s cool to have a name that missed the top ten of our generation, though at the time it was awkward to stick out so formally among all the Debbies and Lindas and Karens and Pattys in school. (No one called me Ruthie until I reached my thirties, when it burst on scene alongside other nicknames such as “Ruthless”, “Rufus”, “Rufie”, and my personal favourite, “Ru”.)

Then there’s the Biblical connection—despite having her own book in the Old Testament, Ruth was hardly a superhero. “Whither thou goest, I will go,” she said to her mother-in-law after she was widowed—and off the two went like Thelma and Louise without the guns or a bare-chested Brad Pitt. I was, however, a third of the holy trinity at one office, working for years alongside an Esther and an Eve. Now I’m paired with a Naomi who is not my mother-in-law but is most certainly my mentor at work. and as for my role at home … whither Ter goes, I also goest—and I’m totally good with it.

A few years into our friendship, Nicole sent me the card pictured at the top of this post with the explanation that “Ruth” was the name of the heroine in a novel she was writing and the definition had helped her to find the character’s voice. She sent the card to me in propinquity, with the reminder that I was often in her thoughts (who’s the beautiful friend here, eh?), and it sat on my desk for months before I thought to tuck it into one of my journals.

I might have laughed when I first learned that “Ruth” means “friend”, but it may actually mean more than that. Check this out:

So now, my name is subjective depending on my relationship with the individual. Choose your definition, but don’t tell me what you’ve picked!

With love,