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.

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.

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 ...

61

 

A year has passed already? When did that happen?

There’s no point in being mystified, as it clearly has happened. Better to accept and get on with it. In fact, it’s preferable.

It would be peevish to claim that my sixties have sucked, but really, the past twelve months have been challenging. I reacted to my second dose and subsequent booster of the COVID vaccine, resulting in so much pain that I could barely function on a day to day basis. I managed to keep to my work routine, but anything more—flâneries, writing, socializing, even eating regular meals—was beyond my capacity as I spent my free time sleeping to recover from the fatigue of said work routine. I lost weight, mobility and, to some extent, the will to live. My will to survive remained, else my sixtieth birthday might have been my last, thus I am here to tell you that, to quote Star Trek: the Next Generation, “survival (alone) is insufficient”.

I thank the gods every day for my beloved Ter. Without her, I would have been—and would still be—hooped. She made it her mission to get me through each day, to get me where I needed to be and see me safely home again. She took on all household chores. She pored over countless books and websites in search of solutions to my ongoing inflammation. She encouraged me in whatever I felt able to do, be it a shuffle around the park or a shuffle around the coffee table. In essence, she stepped up as she had done during 2016’s auto immune incident. She is simply the best. I cannot be grateful enough for her love and unlimited support. Why she puts up with me I do not know and no longer care. I’m just glad she does.

I found a physiotherapist to help me rebuild my strength with an eye to resuming my regular flâneries. It was promising to start, then I faltered. My condition is chronic rather than the result of a short-term injury and I was unable to maintain the level of activity he prescribed on a weekly basis. I did well enough to start, but then my energy would be sapped by stress at work or at home, or by what I might have eaten (and why) that caused a flare. We talked a lot about capacity versus activity, how psychology affects the physical, and ways to manage chronic pain that differ from his usual area of practice. In the end, he’s let me build my own routine based on the tools he gave me (load-bearing exercises and yoga/qigong videos on YouTube), but the really cool thing is he’s putting together a low impact program for folks with chronic pain and has asked me to help by giving him feedback after running through the steps with him. We inspired each other in a way neither of us anticipated, which proves to me that the Universe had a definite hand in me finding him.

Same with the chiropractor. My chiro of twenty-plus years retired last Christmas, so I’ve been test-driving potential successors. My first try worked out great for a few months, until she injured herself and I was forced to visit her colleague in the same clinic. I liked him so much that I’m considering switching to him for good. I have a good sense of what works for my body, and wonderful as Dr M is, Dr C has a subtle something extra that just feels better.

Now that COVID is here to stay, work has settled into halftime in town and halftime at home office. The world is a less amiable place than it was even a year ago, but the media doesn’t report good news or optimistic stories so I’m unconvinced that the positive in human nature is outdone by the negative in human nature. Power, money, ego and fear may get all the attention, but the spirit of creative collaboration defies the boundaries of race, religion and nationality.

While I work on overcoming my challenges, the Universe continues to care for me in every conceivable way. Miracles continue to manifest, if not for me directly then for people within my circle to which I am a witness. The world is stupid crazy, yet I am blessed with an inner calm that occasionally gives way to monkey mind but hey, that’s what mortality is all about, Charlie Brown.

Today I turn sixty-one. There’s plenty of time for my sixties to be my best decade yet. It’s up to me.

Happy birthday, Ru. With love,

Did You See That?

 

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

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

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

“Then you saw it too?”

She nodded. “Yup.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Think What You Believe

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?

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

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

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

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

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

When it does, I’ll be ready.

Memory Almost Full

 

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

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

Bonus! I thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Retro Manifestation

 

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

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

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

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

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

Poke Check

 

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

“I got Pfizer.”

“I got Moderna”

“I got AstraZeneca.”

“I got a rock.”

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

“I got a headache.”

“I had nausea.”

“I was super-fatigued.”

“I got a rock.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Food Porn XIII

"Chovocado Pudding"

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

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

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

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

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

One ripe avocado

3 tablespoons cocoa powder

2.5 to 3 tablespoons maple syrup

Pinch of salt

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

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

I dare yours to do the same.

Desert Island Discs

 

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

Well, duh.

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

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

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

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

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

Short Notice

 

Not always, I hope!

For a woman who touts the practice of present moment mindfulness, I sure miss a lot. I seldom miss the obvious (I hope) and I suspect most of what does escape my notice stems from knowing all is well in my world rather than indifference to my surroundings.

It’s a running joke between Ter and me that I don’t notice things. Buildings, for instance. I distinctly recall walking up Georgia Street in Vancouver and Ter later asking me about some detail or other on one of the plate glass skyscrapers we had passed. For the life of me, I could not picture the building she was talking about, so had to plead the fifth for an answer. That was years ago, but I can cite more recent examples of less glaring omissions.

Take the box of Haagen-Daz bars lodged in the freezer door. Due to sugar sensitivities, Ter has to eat even a mini ice cream bar in two sittings. Sometimes we’ll split one between us, but it’s not unusual for me to spy a cling-wrapped morsel one day awaiting its demise on another. During this past summer, however, we realized we were consuming way too much dairy/sugar/naughty treats and stopped replenishing our stock. After we decided to cut back, I glanced into the box and noted a pair of bars remaining. A few days later, Ter confessed to finishing one of them. “That leaves the other one, then?” I asked.

She actually looked sheepish. “No, they’re both gone.”

The little muncher had stealthily nibbled away until the last of the bars were gone, but I had been in the freezer that morning and was certain the box had still been there. Another box appeared some days later, and I had to ask her when she’d bought it because I was sure the space had been empty that morning. To my relief, the answer was “Today.” Yet I can almost guarantee if the ice cream confession hadn’t occurred, I could not have said when the Haagen Daz bars became dry garlic pork ribs.

These are tiny examples, of course. Dozens more would be listed if I could remember them all, but it seems that my not noticing things has taken root in Ter’s subconscious. One night she dreamed we were stuck on a hill behind traffic at a standstill. I was driving, so Ter got out to see what the holdup was. Whatever the snarl was, it cleared while she was still investigating, and I drove away without her.

At first, dream-Ter couldn’t believe it ... until her little voice said, “I bet she hasn’t noticed I’m not in the car!”

I would like to express my offense and outrage at being so callously perceived by the one I love most, but I can’t. The notion is not as absurd as it is possible. Not likely, I must insist, but possible.

*sigh*

Resistance is Futile

 

BC’s daily numbers have surged during the past week, so it’s time to accept that I live in a COVID-19 universe.

It’s been a luxury to ignore it until now. I work primarily from home, heading into town once a week to visit the new office space and have tea with a couple of friends. It’s mostly a social thing that has helped me adapt to wearing a mask in public. It felt weird and strange and awkward for the first few months, and I still don’t like it, but for the first time ever, it felt almost natural during a weekend trip to the mall.

I have stuck pretty close to home since all this started. Truly, if not for my weekly sojourns—chauffeured by Ter to avoid public transit—I’d probably be a hermit. Ter has adapted more quickly, as she goes out every couple of days to get groceries and some fresh air (she’s always been more restless than me; apparently I can stay home for days on end but she needs to get out and breathe ... even in a mask).

Anyway, this past weekend, our PVR crapped out so to kill some time, we did what we used to do without ever thinking about it. We went to the mall. Ter’s parking karma was in full force, scoring us a spot right near the identified entrance that some folks were still using as an exit (sigh). As I pulled my mask from my purse and fixed it in place before leaving the car, I felt like I was preparing to rob a bank, but other than that, I’m so accustomed to a face covering that I forgot about it within minutes.

And I had a ball! Standing in line to get into the bookstore, spritzing sanitizer on my hands at every shop entrance, conversing with clerks through two layers of cloth and a sheet of plexiglass—all that was different, but in this suddenly oddball existence it felt like a trip to the mall always feels:

Normal.

I was particularly happy to order New York fries—my go-to snack in any food court, though this time it was to go and the clerk had to hand me the condiments on request. It’s been interesting at Blenz and Bucky’s too, having the barista add sugar and cream to my tea rather than me loading it up myself. I’m tapping my debit/credit card instead of forking over the cash—I’ve had the same twenty dollar bill in my wallet since March—and on Saturday I tapped up a storm as I restocked my home supply of Paris Afternoon tea and Purdy’s chocolate, tried cinnamon buns from a new foodie outlet, and couldn’t leave without getting the aforementioned NY fries.

Sure, the bulk of my purchases were comfort carbs ... but with my history, that was normal, too!

Watching a toddler weaving in her mother’s wake, I wondered what she’ll remember of her childhood when she grows up. No one wants COVID to become the norm, but right now, there’s less harm in adapting to the rules than there is in fighting them. So far in my life, I have found that if I give myself three days, I can adapt to anything.

With love (and fries),

Seeing Stars

 

The Tampa Bay Lightning fulfilled their purpose and eliminated the Islanders in six games to win the eastern conference final. YES!!!! Despite my earlier intention to support them through the Stanley Cup final, however, I have changed my mind. It seems I’ve adopted the Dallas Stars as my championship team for the COVID-19 Cup.

But, Ru, what the ... ?

You may well ask. I didn’t mean to cheer for Dallas, but I accidentally watched the last couple of games in their series against the dishonourable Knights. Ter gets the blame for that – she’s the one who flipped the channel to prove if there’s a game on, we’ll watch it. The captain of the Stars (Jamie Benn) grew up in Brentwood Bay, the same community where Ter and I lived as teenagers before we met. It’s a small thing, but enough to pick a team for the duration of a game. That, and I was still mad at Vegas for the second empty net goal against Vancouver.

At the end of game five, Ter announced her support for Dallas to win the Cup. Not only could she not raise any enthusiasm for Tampa, she liked the idea of backing “Brentwood” Benn. I kind of agreed, but I’ve disliked Dallas in the past and, compared to my general indifference to the Lightning, that weighs more.

I waffled some when game six (the elimination game for Vegas) ended with the Stars’ overtime victory. It happened on the dumbest penalty call ever invented by the NHL: the infamous “delay of game”. By accident or design, when a player sends the puck goes over the glass in the defensive zone, it’s an automatic two-minute minor. I have no problem calling it when by design, but the puck glancing off the shaft of a stick engaged in a battle for said puck, I don’t see that being deliberate. Honestly, they delay the game by calling delay of game when they could treat it like icing or offside calls: just get another puck and have a faceoff. Anyway, it’s what happened to the Knights. Dallas scored on the power play and that was it: series over. On a dumb delay of game call that was clearly an accident. I was outraged at the injustice.

Then I remembered the snotty second empty net goal against Vancouver. Suddenly the hockey gods were repaying karma and I was good with the Dallas win. I was also a toe closer to going the distance with them, but not there yet.

At the start of Game One of the final round, Cardigan asked me which team I was hoping would win. I replied that I wouldn’t know until the first goal was scored. If I cheered, that was my team. If I swore, it wasn’t.

Dallas scored first. I cheered. Decision made.

Go, Stars.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

 

The summer heat has been so intense of late that I’ve been leaving my bedroom window wide open through the night ... for all the good it’s done. I prefer my room on the cool side anyway, but “cool” has not been in the cards for early September. Even with the window cranked as far as it will go, I’ve kicked the covers onto the floor more than once.

It got worse one night earlier this week. I was awakened in the wee hours by the stink of rubbish and old cigarette ashes. My room smelled like a dirty ashtray. Already crabby from the heat, I thought resentfully of the dumpster belonging to the apartment building next door. It sits in their parking lot (the site of many an interesting bang, crash or sneeze depending on the day) and had not, until that moment, made its presence so keenly evident. I promptly determined that the heat and humidity were responsible for elevating the pong and started to steam over having to live with the stench of other people’s refuse. How do communities deal with neighbourly disruptions of the olfactory sort? Was it something our society board could address?

Ugh. Dopey and pissed about it, I buried my head under my quilt and drifted back to fitful sleep in hope that the wind—any wind—might shift and clear out the toxic air before sunrise.

Well, it didn’t. In fact, it was worse when I woke up a few hours later. Crappage. I got up, got dressed, got the bears up (they were cranky, too), then opened the blinds to see a sickly pall lying over the ’hood.

Fog? I thought. In this heat?

Then it dawned on me. It wasn’t fog. It was smoke.

I wandered out to where Ter had just emerged from her vacuum-sealed room. The whole suite smelled like an overstuffed ashtray. “It’s the forest fires in Washington state,” she said when she saw me. We hadn’t realized (or I hadn’t, anyway) that pretty much the entire west coast of America is on fire, but more appalling than the unbridled greed of ravenous flames south of the border was my initial reaction to the news.

Apparently I live in a bubble so dense that the reek of entire towns being burned out and thousands of folks losing their homes is okay if it means it’s not the dumpster next door!

Honestly, Ru, really???

Once I realized how messed up my priorities are, I adjusted them most speedily. Understanding has helped me to accept the ongoing haze and lingering acridity ... but, confidentially, I am still relieved. When I figure out what that says about me as a person, I’ll get back to you.

Gardening

 

When Ter and I lived on Rockland Avenue, our little deck between the gables was bright with baskets of fuchsias, pots of pansies, and assorted other vessels containing greenery of some ilk. One year, pepper, tomato and strawberry plants jostled for position with the petunias, azaleas and marigolds. The yield wasn’t great, though what fruit we did get was delicious beyond description, and my lasting memory is of fighting to remove the strawberry plant at the end of its season. The thing had sent runners beneath the planks of the deck and what looked like errant strands of twine actually possessed greater strength than a pair of human hands; alas, we resorted to shears when pride was on the line.

I say “we.” I mean “Ter.” Gardening is a spectator sport for me, but she helped her dad grow veggies in the back forty when she was a little girl. And she enjoyed it! So the Rockland rooftop garden was her doing. As has been my habit from the start of our relationship, I merely enjoyed the fruits of her labour.

Genetics can’t play that big a role in the colour of one’s thumb, however. My wee sister would have a garden to rival Buchart’s if she had the time and energy. She once told me that she enjoys planting random things just to see what pops up, and last spring she created a box garden to grow her own vegetables. I can’t imagine where that impulse comes from. As far as I know, none my other sibs are horticulturists, and the family front yard was rarely more than mowed. I think Mum might have done more, but she had her hands full with everything else domestic, and Dad was not at all interested.

It seems Ter and I have each followed our fathers’ examples. I can’t be bothered to water one indoor plant let alone a bunch of them, yet any time we’ve been house-hunting, she’s hoped for a balcony or a little corner in the yard where she can tend a few herbs and flowers.

I am happy to report that—ta da!—we now have a balcony! It’s not a big one, but Ter has kept it vibrant with a variety of plants that gets switched out as the seasons change. She’s out there every day, watering the tomatoes, trimming the mint, and deadheading the pansies. As one flower fades, she brings another home to replace it. She’s never happier than when she’s puttering with her ... I want to say “pot” garden, but in BC that means something entirely different.

Let’s go with “container.”

59

 

The Year of WTF??? My annual reflection on where I am versus where I thought I’d be has been derailed by my father’s death, a global pandemic, and what appears to be the precursor to a second civil war in America. History is being made even as it’s being erased. Change is not only happening. Change has happened. There is no going back now—not that going back is ever an option. We don’t go backward; we go into retrograde. Maybe this time, the changes will stick. Maybe this time, real change will result. Healthy change. Universal change. Change for the betterment of all.

While I’m dreaming ... I’d like a pony.

Oh, it’s easy to be cynical. Even I, trippy hippy Ru, have slipped off course in the past twelve months. Change on the heels of change in the teeth of change has taxed my coping skills to the max. Exhausted, I lie by the side of the road and watch the landscape undulate like a stormy sea and wonder how the heck will I find the strength to adapt, assuming the storm will pass?

It will pass. It has to. It always does—but man, this sustained assault has me questioning my own sanity as much as anyone else’s. The world has gone mad ... and yet how many generations have looked at their world and expressed this same sentiment?

All of them, I bet.

Finally, finally, my sightline is starting to level. It’s hard not to look back, to stop reiterating the litany of struggle against, yep, change that began years ago with Ter’s retirement (but probably goes even farther back) and ends (one hopes) with Dad’s passing this past June. In between? Chaos. Massive continual upheaval in my family, home and professional life, not to mention the effect of COVID-19 on all of the above. A category four onslaught of a metaphysical nature that could have—and very nearly did—destroy me.

Melodrama, you say? Could be. I am a writer, after all. That has not changed, thank the gods. At times I wondered, even feared, it was not so, but in my soul, it’s what I am. Still and forever, whether or not I am productive.

Yeah, this past year has been a bit of a gong show. I’ve lost some ground, but I can get it back. It likely won’t take as much energy as I fear, either. With energy at a premium these days, this fear seems legitimate, but I also know fear is the means by which my mind tries to control me. My mind, and CNN.

Having accepted that I am not remotely close to where I had thought to be at the end of my fifty-ninth year (today being the first day in my sixtieth on the planet), it’s time to look ahead. I’ve no idea and even less control over how the greater world will look this time next year, but I do have a say in my corner of it. In my year to come, I hope for inner peace. For more serenity, more success, more love, more creativity, more kindness ... more me. By reclaiming Ru, I know I will be the better for it, and I kinda think the world will be, too.

A windshield take up significantly more space than the rearview mirror, so eyes front and bring me that horizon. Happy birthday, Ru.

With love,

Blue for Who?

 

Poor grammar in the title, I know, but bigger than that, there’s been poor language around our house of late. This past week saw our TV flipping between two channels: CBC (Hockey Night in Canada) and CNN (the Democratic National Convention). Granted, the poorest language occurred during HNIC as the Flyers tangled with the Canadiens and ultimately—by the skin of their collective teeth, by the way—won the first round. Round Two, against the hated New York Islanders, starts on Monday. This is where “poor language” will morph into full on “swears”, as Cardigan reproachfully puts it, and you just know he’s aiming the frown at me. The only time Ter uses poor language is when the goalie deserts his post in favour of playing the puck. She’s a Flyer fan by association anyway; her true heart lies in the west, with either Edmonton or Vancouver, and while she didn’t watch the Canucks’ first round, she’s happy that they’ve made it to the second. Against the defending champions, no less.

Meanwhile, over on CNN, the DNC provided an interesting diversion from hockey. I actually preferred the virtual format to the “live” conventions of yore; sure, it was a little odd seeing candidates and their advocates speaking to empty rooms but, for me, the speeches packed more punch without the distraction of a cheering, applauding, stomping, sycophantic crowd. (Let’s face it; no one at these things has come to be convinced. They’re already diehard supporters.) The Republicans get their airtime next week ... and I can’t imagine how on earth they will find enough to convince anyone in eight hours that the present incumbent deserves another term at the White House. In toe-curling fairness, they should be given equal time despite the fear of how high my BP may climb as a result. Coupled with the playoffs, the reading may spike halfway to Mars. I’m an avid orange supporter in one arena, but definitely not in the other.

Ter declared the other day that she’s keeping the blue polish on her toenails until November. With my head stuck in the bubble, I immediately commended her loyalty. “Good for you! Hoping the Canucks will go the distance, eh?”

“No,” she replied, “I’m hoping the Democrats get in!”

Priorities.