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.

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,

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,

60

 

Comedienne Joan Rivers once told the story of asking a flight attendant where she could find her seat. The attendant looked her over and replied, “A quarter inch lower than last year.”

Welcome to my 60s.

The only way I’ll get through the next ten years is by acknowledging from the start that I’ve never been here before. In theory, that should make it easier to accept the changes that have already begun to happen. I still have most of my own teeth, though for how long remains to be seen. I lost two-thirds of a bridge last year, so methinks some sort of partial lurks in my not-so-distant future. I am also nearing the end of my tenure as a BC public servant., since I intend on retiring sometime in the next few years. My skin is drier and not as firm as it was when an abundance of estrogen ruled my life, my hair is growing naturally paler by the day, and my prescription lenses are marginally thicker than their predecessors.

When did all this stuff happen? And how do I proceed gracefully when the face in the mirror no longer elicits an astonished “You’re how old? You don’t look it!” when the subject comes up in conversation.

With luck, it won’t come up at all.

I’ve known some truly cool seniors. I’m even related to a few of them! Sixty years old in 2021 does not look the same as sixty years old looked in, say, the 1960s. Despite residing in the body of a 70 year old for most of my life (thanks, arthritis!), things will definitely be different from now on. They’re already different from how they were; I’m just not sure when it happened. And I haven’t changed ... I don’t think.

Okay, maybe I’m a tad more cautious than I used to be. I’m more inclined to think twice before stepping out. In fact, I’ll often think thrice to be sure I got it right the first two times. I’m not as flexible as I was in my youth—and I don’t just mean physically. I do like my routine (when I can have one). I like sticking close to home, I don’t like crowds, I sometimes turn off the music to hear the silence ... but I’ve always liked sticking close to home, I’ve never liked crowds, and I’ve often turned off the music when I’m home alone. I guess that’s just me.

As for Ru herself, well, I reckon I’ve grown somewhat wiser, hopefully kinder, a little crankier, more honest, less judge-y, happier with enough, and more comfortable with all of it.

Happy birthday, old girl. You’ve never been better.

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,

58

Groucho Marx said, “Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.”

My mother once said she’d wake up feeling like a young woman, then look in the mirror and “get an awfy surprise.”

My aunt once said she’d figured out why babies cry when adults lean over their cot: “Everything falls forward and you have a face like a pudding!”

Today is my 58^th birthday. Part of me goes, “Wow.” Another part goes, “Already?” and another goes, “Not done yet!” I continue to be a work in progress, though it seems of late that what progress I’ve made in recent years is being tested in the crucible of this existence. It’s all fine and well to preach inner peace, faith and meditation; now’s the time to walk the talk.

I’m also at the age where parents, mentors, friends and icons being returning Home. The loss of souls who nurtured and inspired me growing up has been extremely trying. And I’ve spent more time than is comfortable wallowing in the Slough of Despond—but there have been bright moments, too: positive change at work, revisiting the music I loved when it was new, reliving shared history and laughing over the best memories. I’m old enough now to understand the concept of selective memory, and am beyond grateful that the bad ones don’t cause the same pain, while the good ones are as acute as when they were being made. Life is indeed a funny thing.

So here I sit, taking stock of where I am versus where I was or expected to be, and am okay with it. New adventures lie ahead, yet there’s enough in the rearview mirror to entertain me in slow moments, and to prove that I have been generously supported throughout my journey. I continually long for extended periods of creative production, and trust it, too, will come in due course. I can, in the meantime, give myself four hours on a weekend and see what evolves.

Mostly, I have learned to live only in the present moment and let the gods advise when I need to do something. Some days are more daunting than others—that’s the joy (?) of being human—but I’m getting the hang of it now. There’s no rush to master it, either. I’m still in awe of this beautiful, magical, unpredictable, colourful, wonderful world.

Happy birthday, Ru.

With love,

“Full Circle”

Tomorrow would have been my mother’s 89^th birthday. Actually, it will still be her birthday; she’s just not here to celebrate it.

Ter and I used to call her on the day and sing a silly birthday song we learned in church. Maybe we’ll do it this year, too, only without the telephone. Last year, instead of taking her and Dad to lunch, we drove out to the house, where Wee Sis and Boy Sister joined us for tea and cake in an impromptu party. It was one of the happiest times I’ve had. No one suspected it would be our last birthday with Mum.

I’ve spent this whole summer trying to write a poem that would do her justice. I’ve played with phrases and couplets, seeking to describe the “something special” that Dad says existed between Mum and me from the day I was born. Who am I kidding? A proper poetic tribute would have to be an epic to rival the Viking sagas, except it exceeds my ability to compose one.

And yet, perhaps an epic ode is unnecessary. In this instance, perhaps less is truly more. A single line that came to me on the day of her passing seems to say it all. It certainly feels that way.

You were there when I arrived

And I was there to say good bye.

Happy Birthday, Mum.

57

In the midst of chaos – another birthday.

I woke up feeling strangely disconnected from myself this morning. The past few months have been utterly crazy for a myriad of reasons. Today is the first day in weeks when nothing’s been on the docket, and while the crazies rage all around it, my birthday sits like the eye of the hurricane, where all is calm.

Okay, that’s a bit of hyperbole. Let’s just say there’s a lot going on and it won’t be stopping anytime soon. Life is like that. There’s always something. We claim we want routine, we crave a level playing field, yet how many static days pass before we complain about being bored? I didn’t ask for any of what’s happening … or did I? If only I’d brought a copy of my contract on the day I was born …

Back to this morning. Birthdays being my New Year’s benchmark, it was time for a review of the past year with an eye to seeing if/how I’ve progressed since last September. This year, I’ve kind of stumbled in the gratitude department. I’m not completely happy with my job, and I’m not completely happy at home (nothing to do with Ter; believe me when I say that she’s sharing the pain). More change is definitely in the wind … but how am I doing with me? Am I okay with Ru? I’ve been running full tilt for so many months that I haven’t had time to think, let alone act. I’m in dire need of serious self-care, that’s for darned sure, and “self-care” does not mean eating as much ice cream as I want despite the congestion I’ll encounter as a result. That’s self-indulgence. Or maybe self-destructive.

It feels good in the moment, though.

I’m a Virgo and Virgo is an earth sign. I need grounding, else I’m susceptible to drama. And grounding is what I’ve missed most of late. Everyone needs solitude in some degree; that’s when we look inward to see how we’re doing. Well, I looked inward this morning and saw myself spinning in orbit when I should be fixed solidly at centre. In a summer fraught with grief, frustration, and anxiety, this is no surprise. It is not, however, inevitable that I remain grief-stricken, frustrated or anxious. The best way I know to bring me back to earth?

Gratitude. Gratitude, gratitude, gratitude.

Work is nuts, but I work with good caring people. Work is cramped, but my office roommate is the only person on the whole crowded floor I would choose to bump elbows with in a tiny space. Home is noisy, but it’s beautiful whether or not the toddler downstairs is pitching a fit. (And none of it is permanent; I can change it if I want.) I still have the ocean, I can still do the stairs, I’m in better health now than I was a year ago—and I still have my Ter. I still have dear friends and a wonderful family… and I had the best mum that ever was.

Happy birthday, Ru. Welcome back to earth.

Birthday Girl

Today is my birthday. I wasn’t going to blog about it, but I’m feeling particularly grateful so thought I’d post a “bonus” blog just to put it out there.

I’ve said before how birthdays act as my New Year’s Day, when I reflect on where I’ve been, where I am, and how far off track I may be from my original plan. Luckily, I don’t remember my original plan since I made it before I was born, but considering how happy I am today, I reckon I can’t have strayed too far off course.

Albert Einstein is quoted on the kitchen calendar today: “The ideals which have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty and Truth.”

If ever a statement was meant for me, this might be it. I almost burst into tears because that’s exactly how I feel about my life and the people in it – so many good folks have taught me about those three vital virtues, how to act on them, to appreciate them, and to use them as the lens through which I view my life. I am deeply, truly blessed. Not so long ago, I would have denied my worthiness, but nowadays I realize, heck, I deserve all the good (and probably the not so good) I’ve experienced and will experience during my time in this phase. But really, people have featured more prominently in my progression than circumstance. My wonderful parents, my fabulous siblings, and of course my magical Ter, have all inspired and supported me through the most important lessons life has to teach me, but there are secondary characters in my personal drama, too. Friends who have come and gone, co-workers of the same temporary nature, both delightful and painful (some at the same time—now that’s a rare talent!), even people I have not met in the flesh have influenced my development. What to write, how to write, how not to write ... sometimes the most valuable lesson is how not to do something. Another favourite quote is “A wise man once said nothing.” I laughed when I read it, but humour is often based on a nugget of truth and part of life is also learning when to be silent.

I’m working on that, too. I’m working on everything, in fact, but today, I’m giving myself break. Ter and I are meeting wee sis and Boy Sister for lunch, and though Saturday is typically laundry day, the undies can wait. Episode Seven of Versailles, however, cannot. That’s on tap for this evening, after dinner and prezzies and a day of being duly celebrated.

I have never felt so loved ... or so grateful. If I can give back a fraction of the marvels life has given me, my work here will be done. Happy birthday to Ru.

With love,

Fabulous 55

It’s my birthday!!!!!!!

I confess, I get a little wired on September 2 because Ter has been madly shopping and wrapping and planning for the occasion. No one is more grateful for me than she is, and while it feels weird to be celebrated just for existing, I appreciate her effort almost as much as I appreciate her just for existing.

It works two ways.

So, here I am at the almost-middle-age mark. No regrets, lots of memories, a happy Now, and excited about future episodes of “Two Girls and a Tiguan”. Life is, has been, and continues to be good to me. I am so very fortunate.

I have a great friend and soul sistah in my beloved Ter. Without her, I’d probably still be living in my parents’ basement instead of embracing a universe of potential and possibility.

I chose a kick-butt birth family spearheaded by wonderful parents who planned for me and gave me sibs whom I am always delighted to see whether days, months, or years have passed between sightings.

My friends are few and extremely precious. Writers, healers, humourists, and relatives (yes, sisters can be friends) all contribute to my creativity in ways they can’t imagine.

My colleagues are gold, to the point where my executive director worked to get me a salary increase rather than let me go when I was so unhappy last year. Though money was not a condition for me staying with the division, I’m grateful for the abundance nonetheless. There are still days when I don’t get paid enough, but in a world where a living wage is beyond many people’s reach, I recognize how spectacularly lucky I am.

My pit crew will get my compostable container to my intended 115^th birthday; by then I think I’ll be done.

I have a new writing rig that happened when the old one spontaneously combusted. It’s taken a couple of days, but I think the new computer has renewed my passion for writing—proof of the wisdom not to get too attached to things.

Wherever I am, I have a comfortable home where I feel safe and loved at all times.

In short, I’m in better shape now than I was a year ago. Who says things only get worse? In my universe, they only get better!

With love and gratitude,

White Lace and Promises

Have you noticed how everything starts out perfect and promising?

A new home. A new car. A new project. A new relationship. An idea. Each day. Life itself.

Today is the Rebellion’s third anniversary. This is the five hundred and sixty-second post. Wow. I can’t say I haven’t been writing, can I?

I started the blog why? Well, why not?

That was the title of my first post. I had to revisit it, to remind myself of what “why not” meant at the time. It seems I’ve remained true to my original intention, which was to share writerly thoughts, bits of fiction, quotes from heroes, and philosophical hypotheses developed over the course of my journey through this phase. In some ways, not much has changed. I’m still writing the same novel. I’m still working on my attitude, trying to create a positive vibe in a world of ever increasing contrast. I’m still imperfect and hoping to improve as I go.

I have, however, discovered something wonderful. Three years later, I am happier now than I have ever been.

Blogging is not solely responsible for my progress, but it’s helped. At least I can look back and see the trail behind me. It’s taught me a few things, that’s for sure. Things like, the smallest piece can trigger the greatest response. I get comments about things that I forget almost as soon as I’ve written them, while my treasures are seemingly passed without notice. A good reminder to “detach from the outcome” and not be too invested in the end result!

Remarkably, the poem that Nicole wrote for my fortieth birthday is equally relevant today, after fifteen years and five hundred-plus posts, so here it is again, because I love it and I love Nicole for writing it, and because it’s the nucleus around which the Rebellion is built. It was the promise of the CR’s potential when I stepped into cyberspace thirty-six months ago.

Enjoy again!

With love,

Sitting on a Shady Veranda with Ruthie Wordsmyth

 “You are the Saint of Storytelling.”

I tell her while sharing bits of

smooth candy and cups of green tea
sitting on a shady veranda under a Vienna sky.

“The Zeitgeist of Paragraph! 

Mistress of Manuscript Extravaganza!”

I tell her this because it is the truth

my friend, the writer, word-spinner
is the main character of a poetic prophecy
rising with an exquisite voice
an Enchanted Empress baring her
woven soul into spirals of fiction
into epiphanies of elemental editing.

My literary gentlewoman friend

the Storyteller, Princess of Plentitude
is the keynote speaker at a symposium
for the Gorgeous Struggle
offering simple directions to the center
of the universe and sundry side-streets of Sublime.

Her biography will soon be available in trade paperback

autographed copies of Comfortable Rebellion
will grace the bookshelves of admiring fans
but will pale in comparison to my first edition hardcover
inscribed with her permanent wisdom.

Inside will the near-art experience booklovers have longed for a fort-night

inside there will be polaroid pictures, convictions and conversations
dreams and disappointments though her tears will be absent
saved in a mason jar on the edge of her prolific writing table.

“You are the Operatic Melody of my heart!”

I tell her while brewing a fresh pot of green tea.

“A Victorious Virago!”

I tell her this because it is true.

“What would I do without you?”  I ask her.

She just smiles, shrugs her shoulders 

and tells me another story.

Know Thy Elf

one day I'll get a more recent pic

A year has passed since I unwittingly freed my house elf. I was sure that I would rue the day when I thoughtlessly handed her a pair of socks and felt the *snap-pinng* of the bond breaking between us. And, had she taken full advantage of the occasion, I might have felt more regret. As it is, nothing much has changed.

She still drives me to work, asks what I want for dinner, vacuums the rug in my writing room, brings me tea, and tucks my polar bears into bed at night. She is still my armchair therapist, my surrogate guru, my confidence coach and my greatest fan. She coaxes, encourages, and always supports me in whatever mad escapade I think to undertake.

She rocks—and not just because she loves me.

She was my best friend before she was my elf, and she will be my best friend after we are done with this estate. Throughout our long existence together, she has been my sister, my counselor, my jester, my mirror, and perhaps, during a life or two, my rival.

No matter what life we’re in, however, she is always my hero.

Happy birthday, Ter.

With love,

Colour Me Gone

You might think that the term “adult colouring book” means extensive use of a flesh-coloured Crayola, but you’d be wrong.

What I think is a recent craze has actually been around for a while. My wee sister tells me that she had a grown-up colouring book when her kids were small. She still has it—unfinished, because the kids (now grown) made off with her coloured pencils.

Guess what I gave her for her birthday.

Colouring therapy goes even deeper into my history when I think about it. A Doodle Art poster of butterflies hung in the kitchen when I was a pre-teen; I would occasionally pause to fill in a wing or a flower, as would my sisters and maybe my younger older brother, though I never saw him doing it.

I’ve heard that colouring induces a mindset as close to meditating as one can get without actually meditating—good news for someone like me, who falls asleep when confronted by a lighted candle.

Truth is, I love to colour. It’s easier than writing. Way easier, in fact., though it can facilitate the process by giving me something to do while I mull over plot portents. I get completely lost in my Christmas cards each year. The hard part is the poetry; once the words are formed, the struggle ends and the joy begins—with colour.

It’s the perfect meditation. There are no rules, no time limits, no restrictions. You can even colour outside the lines if you want. How cool is that?

Ter gave me a book for my birthday. I love it, but like dessert, I have to eat my veggies before I can indulge, so I don’t spend as much time at it as I’d like. When I can no longer bear the wait, however, you’ll find me in the zone.

The Three-Ring Night Circus

Falling so in love with The Night Circus means that it deserves to be a hardcover addition to my library. I dropped the hint for my birthday in 2014 and no one picked it up. Then I forgot about it until Christmas, when I re-read the paperback. I dropped the hardcover hint again and, again, no one picked it up. I suspect this was because my presents had already been procured. I got some neat books in lieu and forgot once more about TNC in hardcover.

Earlier this year, I searched online and discovered that new hardcovers no longer exist. Used ones, however, are available from various sellers in various conditions for various prices. I didn’t order one because online options can be boggling and I still have my paperback. A hardcover is a nice to have, but certainly not mandatory.

My tea fairy, Treena, usually coordinates her birthday/Christmas prezzie shopping with Ter; they compare notes and such to ensure that no duplications occur. Only this year, they didn’t consult on my birthday until it was too late. Each of them had remembered my request, and each of them had gone ahead on the assumption that the other would never think of it. Once they consulted, they realized that, uh oh, a duplication was in progress. Ter’s had already arrived when Treena came by for tea—a celebration which included my acquiring season three of Orphan Black, thanks to Treena, who shares my hope that one day Ter will become equally addicted to the series and we can all be addicts together. Ter certainly knows the series’ premise, well enough to coin a clone joke when referring to the duplicate prezzie gaffe. She and Treena decided to give me both “clones” of the gift and let me choose which one to keep.

Meanwhile, bearing in mind that I had no idea what they were up to, I quietly decided to pursue my own hardcover edition of TNC. There’s a great used bookshop on SSI called Black Sheep Books, and if there was a hardcover edition to be had, surely it would be had there. Ter dropped me after lunch one day and I went over the store from floor to ceiling in search of my treasure.

No luck.

No luck at Salt Spring Books, either—though I did score a copy of Plague by CC Humphreys (murder and mayhem in Restoration England).

When we got home, Treena’s clone had arrived, so she and Ter contrived to present me with two wrapped packages on Sunday afternoon. I was a little concerned about them being wrapped. Since they were the same item, where was the element of surprise on the second package? Oh, the thing about clones, I was reminded, is that they aren’t exactly identical.

True enough. The book pictured on the right is the North American release, courtesy of Ter, and the book on the left is the UK release, by way of Treena. They’re each so beautiful that I’m keeping them both.

And I’m keeping the books, too.

A Tight Fit

Home from the holidays. Blerg. How does a spirit that’s flown free, and even spent a few days disembodied, cram itself back into the daily grind?

Not easily.

I’m all about attitude, and I know that I have the power to make every situation a positive one no matter how challenging the circumstances, but I could use another week of vacation. On the other hand, my resolve to change my work situation has not wavered. I even got a little astrological advice on SSI. At the café by the beach, I was sipping my chai and Ter was flipping through a local publication when she found the horoscope pictured above. I read mine, burst out laughing, and attracted the attention of the guy behind the counter, who sauntered over and observed that people don’t usually laugh at their horoscope. “We take those things seriously,” he said, faking a reproving frown.

“No kidding,” I replied cheerfully, handing over the magazine. “I’m a Virgo and having problems at work. Is this a hint, or what?”

A copy of the Chinese Horoscope for 2015 was lying on the table in the Stonehouse living room. On the morning of our departure, Ter was taking pictures and caught one of me perusing the book. I love these things. Without taking them too seriously, I find them interesting. I was born in 1961, the Year of the Ox. My element is metal. 2015 is the Year of the Goat, and if I had read the predictions before they became a semi-annual report, I might have stopped the world and gotten off for good. Changes abound. Frustrations lie ahead. I want to change my job but opportunities will be rare. Disruption is everywhere. The Goat is a mercurial critter, throwing things in the air just to see where the pieces land.

Gee, you think?

As with all things, the cycle will come full circle. The chaos that is life right now will find its balance and smooth out. The elevator at home will be installed and construction ended. Our downstairs neighbours will settle in after October 1. I’ll either find a new job or the one I have will change, whichever is in my best interest. Patience and perseverance are probably my best weapons at this point. They’re certainly less likely to land me in jail.

Paradise Found

How do I even begin to describe our Salt Spring retreat? First, I’ll say that my fifty-fourth birthday was absolutely painless, and blessed with a thunderstorm that seems to be an annual event given that the same thing occurred in 2014, when I was awakened from my birthday nap by a flicker of lightning and subsequent boom! This year, the sun showed its face at dawn, then promptly ducked behind a glowering thunderhead. The sky was a more ominous colour each time I looked at it, and then came the rain. Ter and I stood on our little patio with our Motos set to “video” and each recorded a full minute of solid rain. Nature at its finest. Beautiful, majestic and inspiring.

That pretty well describes our short visit to the Island, too. I spent three whole days disinclined to do much more than explore the local bookshops and wait for the deer to show up every evening. Though I’d brought my blog log, I wrote not a word. I’d brought a novel, yet read nothing more than the Stonehouse welcome brochure. I’d packed my pencils and sketchbook, and they remained packed the whole time. The cameras got a lot of use, though—Mr. Moto on the road to/from, and the Canon for day trips. If not for the pictures, I might have dreamed the whole experience.

There’s not much to report on the outside, beyond trying to relate the grandeur of living in a palatial home overlooking Ganges Harbour and the smaller Gulf Islands. Honestly, the Stonehouse looks like a movie set, but it never felt cold or aloof. We arrived to find our host, Michael, in the midst of prepping for afternoon tea. The scent of baking shortbread met us at the door, and a citrus almond torte awaited to accommodate my gluten sensitivity. While Ter dealt with the formalities, I walked into the vaulted living room, hauled my jaw up off the floor, and thought, Julian would own a place like this (and probably does).

I realize now that any trouble I had relaxing into it was all my own doing. Not having been there before, neither Ter nor I had any idea what to expect or how to behave. It felt naughty to sneak out and use the kettle, as if we were breaking the rules and trespassing beyond the threshold of our room. By the end of our stay, however, we had surrendered to the house’s embrace and were roaming both house and grounds with impunity. I felt truly liberated for the first time in maybe forever. The routine was simple: wake up, make tea, watch the sun, get dressed, eat breakfast, watch the rain, go exploring, return for tea, go for dinner, watch the deer, take a bath, have tea, go to bed. No TV, no radio. The house is rigged for ambient music in every room, so we had tuneage, but no media except for updating our FB pages courtesy of free WiFi. There is a TV in the living room, but we didn’t bother.

Our daily outings took us to the northern tip of the island one day, and across it on another day (the lateral trip took maybe a half hour). Best word to apply to Salt Spring is “funky”. The bookshops are great, though – I actually bought myself a birthday present by a local author (local in that he’s from Toronto but lives on SSI) at Salt Spring Books, and had hoped to score a specific rarity at Black Sheep Books; otherwise my highlight of our exploration was discovery of a little café at the north end of the island. We walked the beach, collected a couple of oyster shells, then dropped in for tea and a phenomenally good slice of chocolate-orange olive oil cake. Maybe half a dozen other folks were sprinkled around the room, but a conversation in progress involved a heated debate between two locals on the grammatical breakdown of a single sentence: “Sean is passionately in love with Katherine.” Ter had to drag me away before I threw in my two cents. I may lead a sheltered life, for nowhere else have I encountered an argument on where the verb belongs.

Now that we’ve done it once, I think we’ve found our home away from home. Gone are the days when Vancouver revived us; the energy there is waaaaaaaay too crazy. It’s a little nutty in Ganges village, too, but for a different reason: we drove SSI from tip to tail and never met a traffic light!

They Say It's Your Birthday

Wow! I get to contribute to Ru’s blog for her birthday post, what an honour. I was wracking my brain to try to figure out what I could write given my tiny talent in this area amongst the literary giants who have posted on this page. *clears throat*

Then I remembered that I had posted something on my own blog page for her birthday a couple of years ago. It’s an excerpt but it is still relevant, and I still love this picture of her taken circa 1984 at fab birthday bash with a bunch of our crazy friends.

We are currently on Salt Spring Island taking a few days to retreat from the world and celebrate this birthday in a more subdued fashion with a glass of Prosecco in hand and some fine hand crafted chocolates from Chocolat.

Join me in celebrating our wonderful Ruthie! You are so loved by SO many Dear One.

Cheers!

- Ter

* * *

It’s Ruth’s birthday today. I was not sure how to express exactly how I feel about her, so I’m going to challenge my limited writing skill by describing her in a paragraph or two…

She is strong, courageous, beautiful, loving, stubborn, opinionated, funny, inspiring, talented and “scary smart”. She is a big sister extraordinaire, an awesome sibling, loving daughter and is sometimes referred to as Dad’s favourite. She is the best kind of friend you could ever have and she is loved and respected by many. Sometimes she is a philosopher, an engineer, a scientist, an artist and on occasion, a drama queen. She loves tea, chocolate, music, hockey, cars and tall dark handsome men. Oh, and did I mention potatoes? You could feed her some form of potatoes with every meal and she would be ecstatic!

And last but certainly not least, she IS a WRITER. It is her single passion and it is engrained in her soul. Those of us who have had the good fortune to be able to read her writing know that she has a brilliant and exceptional talent. I think she is a creative genius. Her Mum thinks she should be famous. Maybe she should be. She certainly deserves to be paid for the level of skill and talent she has. If she was she would be filthy stinking rich by now. But she no longer aspires to fame and fortune. She says that she is happy just being a writer every day.

Happy Birthday my Ruthums, it has been an honour to spend a good chunk of my life with you. I love you “Bigger than the Universe”!

Serenity Now

Yesterday was the Leppard King’s birthday. Ter and I set out to celebrate accordingly, but despite our good intentions, everything seemed to go against the grain. By 8 p.m., we were forced to admit, “Well, that was a bust.” We then spent a half-hour listening to The Lost Fingers online—a gypsy jazz band out of Quebec; their version of Sunglasses at Night has made me a fan—after which Ter suggested we go ahead with our plan and finish up the day with a few Leppard videos.

Perhaps, appropriately, that turned out to be the best part of the day.

I woke this morning wondering what had gone wrong. We had looked forward to a pub lunch in His Royal Leppardness’ honour, followed by a stroll through Oak Bay village, shopping and maybe stopping for sorbetto, then preparing a carnivorous dinner at home. We went through the motions, yet nothing worked.

I think it’s because we’re exhausted.

I know I am.

You can attribute some energy malfunctions to a full moon—I’ve lived and worked among people long enough to defy the naysayers who pooh-pooh scheduled lunacy as New Age nonsense—but there are times when the spirit simply cannot overcome the flesh. Nor should it. Sometimes rest is the best medicine, and my compostable container is going through the mill with intense treatments on its bum ankle. Mental rest is as important, given the continuous strain of functioning as an introvert in an extroverted world. Ter and I are both fried at the end of a workweek; the last thing we needed yesterday was a trip through Tourism Central during a heat wave, even on the august occasion of Joe Elliott’s birthday. Consequently, our energy was misaligned and things did not work out until the day was practically done. Only when we were sequestered in our lovely peaceful home, curled in place before the Leps’ greatest hits, did we actually relax.

Today, we have retired to our respective happy places. I’m in my room and Ter is puttering in the kitchen. It’s a long weekend, for which I am immensely grateful. It’s also a mere three weeks from our summer vacation, for which I am deliriously grateful. I work from January to September with one measly week off in between, then I wonder why I’m knackered by mid-summer. I’m not saying that yesterday bombed with spectacular gusto. It just didn’t run as smoothly as it might have had we taken time to recover from the previous week. On the other hand, had we stayed home, we would have missed a photo op that suited the occasion to a tee:

Happy birthday, Joe.