No Nog? Now What?

 

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

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

Can’t say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

God Save the King

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

God save the King.

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.

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),

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,

No Shoes, No Service?

Know what I like best about working from home? No shoes! Socks are optional depending on the weather, but they hardly count as restrictive footwear and besides, I had begun running around in sock feet at the office before COVID sent us into isolation.

It’s been a few weeks now and I’m getting into a groove. The bears are accustomed to me being here all day every day, so much that I wonder if I should make them all take the Oath of Employment, or at least of Confidentiality. Not that they (or I, for that matter) are privy to classified information, but what they sometimes hear could get me fired for being at odds with the party line. All government employees are at risk of biting the hand that feeds them at some point in their lives, and when you’re thirty years in ...

I digress.

Working from home is a notion I’d resisted for the longest time. I want to keep my worlds separate, and turning my bed/writing room into an office was a threat to that dividing line.

Turns out it’s not that bad. My office junk fits in a file box that gets hidden in the closet overnight and on weekends, and the government laptop, though hooked up to my personal rig’s keyboard, monitor and mouse during the week, is unplugged every Friday at quitting time and sits neatly atop my writing box, which is promptly restored to working order until Sunday evening. I have access to a kitchen shared with one person instead of seventy others – and that one person kindly does my lunch dishes in real time opposed to me doing them with the dinner dishes that evening. I take my morning tea with her instead of Treena, and have purloined a supply of loose Mumbai chai so I’m not missing my favourite despite missing the Blenz crew and my office buddies. I do communicate with folks on work matters, and visit the office once or twice a week to pick up supplies and go for a “real” Mumbai chai, often as a latte with extra foam, but overall ... working from home is working.

I do, however, insist on dressing as if for the office. Hair, bling, pretty tops and black jeans. It helps to hold that dividing line between the worlds, bare feet notwithstanding. Taking a walk after work also helps in shifting to “home” mode (I wear shoes then, or course). Do I want to WAH indefinitely, though? Not really. Part-time sure, but I am a social creature ... and some bears are getting too curious for their own good ...

Where the Heart Is

one of these things is not like the others ...

Most of the houses in my neighbourhood are near or over a hundred years old. I say “most” because a fair number of them have been torn down and replaced by what Boy Sister refers to as “chicken coop” houses – the West Coast style featuring flat roofs and no personality. They claim to reflect the environment in their slick wood façades and plate glass windows, but they actually stick out like the proverbial sore thumb among their elder neighbours. A recent trend has been to try and blend in with an arched roof and some fake Tudor accents around pseudo-mullioned windows, but really, it’s akin to setting out a plastic goblet with the Waterford.

I know the land is worth more than the structure sitting on it, but I’m beginning to resent the seemingly wanton destruction of older buildings to stuff bigger and less attractive domiciles onto property that once featured a lovely garden as well as a cute little cottage or a heritage home. I might view the influx more favourably if the new homes were multi-unit stratas or better yet, rental suites, but they’re not. Depending on the route I choose from the limo stop, I walk past at least three lots where older houses used to be, and none of the new constructs, though significantly larger than any of the original structures, appear built to accommodate more than one family and a basement suite to help the new owners make outrageous monthly mortgage payments. Worse, many single lots now feature a pair of too-big houses staring into each other’s windows, so there go the gardens for which Victoria was nicknamed.

I wonder sometimes where the ghosts go. Buildings house more than people, you know. They assume the energetic vibe of their occupants, and some of them retain that vibe long after the occupants have departed. Old buildings are particularly vibrant with the energy of their pasts. Ter and I were outnumbered by the phantoms in our suite at Rockland. That entire neighbourhood is rich with the presence of residents long past, drifting through the old mansions and manor houses that grace the tree-lined streets. It remains my favourite part of town, and I would happily return to it if I had the cash to snap up one of those crumbling old houses with their original woodwork and stained glass windows. If I had the cash, I’d buy one and restore it. I think it would thank me – and so would the ghosts.

Disheartened with the ubiquitous reconstruction of my current neighbourhood, I picked a rarely walked route home the other night. I thought that passing some less familiar houses would rejuvenate me after a particularly intense week at work. Surely, I thought, there is one street in Fairfield unblemished by new construction or a gaping hole where someone’s childhood home once stood.

A pair of teenaged boys were shooting hoops with a basketball halfway up the block. Cherry blossoms on the bubble of blooming beamed in the late afternoon sun. I noticed fresh paint on one of the houses, and new front stairs attached to another. Someone was mowing their lawn and the summery smell of cut grass blended with the salt breeze off the sea. I began to relax. My plan had worked. And then, I saw this:

*sigh*

Orange is the New Black

In no way, shape or form do I support, condone or agree with the outcome of the US election. I haven’t felt that sick in front of the TV since I watched the Twin Towers collapse on 9/11. I am a democratic socialist who supported Bernie Sanders, so I admit to harbouring reservations about Hillary in office, but still—the lesser of two evils, right?

Moot point, Ru. Despite the effect this singular decision will have on the entire planet, only a select number among the global population had a say in making it. The American people have spoken. The rest of us (and those who voted for the unsuccessful candidates) will have to live with it.

Ironically, they wanted change in 2008, and they got it. Maybe it wasn’t what they’d envisioned, or there was too much of it with too little time to adjust (humans are not as progressive as we think), or maybe those descendants of the original settlers are freaked out by their former majority becoming the new minority—whatever the case, the end result of yesterday’s vote is necessary.

You can only duct-tape a leaky system for so long before it blows completely, and I suspect a Democratic win last night would have been just another Band-Aid on the bleed. Well, we called down the thunder, so get ready for the BOOM!

I say “we” because it’s been my experience that humans, much as we whine about wanting change, really prefer things to stay the same. Institutional failure may be partly responsible for the orange outcome of this ground-rattling election, but the devolution of society has as great a part to play in the demise of what came before it.

True change is often painful. Disasters, whether natural or man-made, always precede a rebuild of some sort; we only choose to improve our toys. Improving conditions for the poor, for refugees and immigrants, for the working class, even for the earth itself, isn’t usually in anyone’s self-interest until it becomes imperative. No one who voted for Obama’s successor was voting for the good of others. They were voting for themselves … and that’s pretty well what they got. Those who voted for the other candidates (remote as the independents’ chances were, they still deserve to be recognized) were likely more community-minded and globally aware, but were shown to be in the minority.

America is broken. Of course it can be fixed. It can rise from the ashes and emerge stronger, better, and braver than it was yesterday. Did they pick the guy to get it to that place? Hell, no! Healing a wound never begins on the top. It begins deep down, close to the bone; that’s where the rebuild begins. Recovery is up to the people. It’s up to families and neighbours and co-workers and community leaders to make a difference at the local level. They will have to get each other through the next few years. They can do it; they just have to be willing to do the work themselves rather than relying on the tangerine head to do it for them.

I am sympathetic, truly. I appreciate the fear and desperation of the folks who voted as I would have voted; alas for them, the democratic process must be respected even when you don’t get who you want.

As for the crashing of Canada’s immigration website when the numbers started firming up, I guess socialism is looking pretty good to some of our neighbours now, eh?

I wish them well. I believe they can do better. I hope the people will join and become a stronger nation by working together, by showing kindness and compassion to themselves and each other. The human spirit, when focused and tuned in, is fiercely inspiring. We are capable of great and wondrous things.

With love and hope,

Don’t Look Back

Last week, I watched Bill Maher and his four guests—two Democrats and two Republicans—argue back and forth about their upcoming election and what’s wrong with both candidates. The US is in a sticky pickle because, as I see it, the voting public is caught between a Trump and a hard place. When faced with two evils, folks generally choose the lesser one ... but in this race, how can you tell which is which?

No matter. I’m Canadian. My problem comes after the US election, when everyone else in the world has to deal with the outcome of their decision.

It was interesting, however, to hear people on both sides trying to outshout each other about “taking America back”, “getting America back”, and “reclaiming America”. One of them referred to regaining the country originally intended by the founding fathers.

Are you kidding me??? The country was founded over two hundred years ago, by privileged white European males who drew up a Constitution that would serve their interests and no one else’s. Think about it. When the country was formed, the only Africans in America were slaves, women were chattel, and the native Americans had been driven off their land by the guests they had welcomed but who refused to leave. The paperwork wasn’t written for anyone within those three groups. The right to bear arms meant that colonists on the frontier could defend themselves instead of waiting for the cavalry to ride over the hill. And they were pretty much defending themselves from the indigenous residents, so I’m of two minds on the fairness of the policy in the first place.

If I have learned anything in the past couple of years, it’s that nothing is ever going to be the same again. You cannot get back to the way it was because the way it is has changed so radically that previous rules can no longer apply. Society can’t rely on a document that was written in the dark ages because that document was written for the dark ages. Respect its purpose, sure, but then improve upon it, for crying out sideways!

We are not here to stay the same. We are not here to live in the past. We are here to move forward, to embrace each other and create something better than what we had yesterday (and I don’t mean building a better iPhone). Cleaving to an outdated document is not the way to fix today’s problems. One might even suggest that cleaving to that document is what created today’s problems. The world in 2016 is not remotely similar to the world in 1776 or whenever. Can we please leave that old world behind and work with each other to make something wondrous of the one we have?

Because it is wondrous. People are amazingly diverse, but our diversity is not what makes us magnificent. Our shared divinity is what make us magical. We are each capable of love, of compassion, of respect and gratitude and kindness. Our culture does not make us any of those things. Neither does our history. We should be using those things as starting points from which to grow and change ... but even as I write this, I realize that I might be missing my own point.

We are spiritual beings having a human experience. We are born divine. Many of us lose sight of it along the way. If time truly is cyclical and we are moving in circles, then perhaps we do want to go back to somewhere in the past. Let’s go further back than two measly centuries. Let’s go back to where we truly started, when we were born pure and untainted, radiant with love and no conditions, when we knew in our souls that all we needed to make a success of this life was to exercise our divinity and treat each other ...

... with love.

The New Normal

I was going to write a piece after the Orlando shooting, but Brexit happened before I could corral my thoughts. Then I was going to write about Brexit, but Istanbul happened before I could corral my thoughts, so it seems pointless to bother given whatever comes next. I have no idea what the next thing may be, but that it will come is inevitable.

Closer to home, Ter and I have spent the last year—maybe two … or three—surfing the wave of change both in the house and at the office. New neighbours, new colleagues, new babies, new technology, new projects … and more change on the horizon. No wonder we’re fried. I stubbornly believed that things will settle down, but lately I’ve come to the dreadful conclusion that they won’t. Worse, not all change is an improvement, so not only must I roll with it, I must shut up and play my guitar. Resistance may be futile, but I prefer change to make sense.

However, I was pretty proud of myself for maintaining both my cool and encouraging others to relax while we rode a rough patch at the office last week. I was regaling Ter with tales of our acceptance and flexibility when I received written notice that the local branch of my bank is closing in the fall—and I lost my mind. Freaked out. Rose up on my hocks and waved my forefeet in defiance of yet another frustrating and unexpected unravelling of my reality. I was so pissed that it’s as hilarious in retrospect as it is proof that the little things will break you.

It doesn’t help that everyone from Gregg Braden to David Usher is citing change as the new normal. Stability is on the way out and the future is too volatile to predict. Old standards no longer apply and new ones haven’t been developed yet. They’re in process, but everything and everyone is moving so fast that they can’t keep up with themselves. I can’t keep up.

I realized this during my week off. A disheartening discovery at first, until I realized I don’t want to keep up; I have to keep up in some ways, especially at work, but in my real life, the heck with it. I’m all for packing up and moving to the country, where I can live in solitude from the frenetic energy of a 21^st century urban existence.

I’ll take Ter with me, of course. Even an introvert requires some social interaction and F***book doesn’t cut it. Imagine the pace of everyday life dialled back a few degrees. Walks in the woods and reading by a lake. Occasional forays to the farmer’s market and stopping for tea at a local café. Afternoon naps. Staying up late to see the stars. Seeing the stars! Bubble baths in a clawfoot tub. Live theatre. Nature’s music.

Now, there’s a change worth pursuing.

Better All The Time

Except for John Taylor, the Jaguar E-type, and Chocolat’s champagne truffle, nothing is completely perfect. It may seem so at the beginning, but in due course, flaws will become evident. Your shiny exotic sports car will start to misfire. Your dream home will develop a leaky roof. The new colleague you clicked with turns out to be bipolar. Mr. Right comes with two kids and a clingy ex-wife.

You get the picture.

The opposite is also inevitable. What sucks right now will improve. It doesn’t matter where you are in life, that big wheel keeps on turnin’ and everything associated with it is in its own present moment.

What am I trying to say here? Basically, that good stuff co-exists with bad stuff and vice versa. It’s a matter of—there’s that word again—perspective. You can find something positive in chaos and you can find something to kill your joy. It’s your call whether to seek gratitude or not, but it’s also a given that positive and negative happen at the same time. Life is never solely one or the other. It’s always both. What takes precedence is whatever gets your attention. Admittedly, some downers demand attention as part of our learning, but while we’re dealing with the human condition, we can take heart in knowing that everything around us is moving like a Ferris Wheel, some things rising to a pinnacle and others on the descent. Sure, the latter may be construed as depressing, but really, it’s not. It’s life—evolving and revolving.

Many years ago, my father quoted me a Chinese proverb (and I’m paraphrasing here): “Bad luck, like good, cannot last forever.”

And it doesn’t. Change is always happening. The trick is to enjoy the ride—and when it’s scary as hell and you want it to stop, gird your loins and trust that it will, because it will.

With love,

Clean Slate

So, your day sucked? That’s okay.

Tomorrow is another day.

Oh, there may be wreckage from yesterday—relationships to be mended and mistakes to be corrected—but every day is a bright shiny fresh new start, a chance to do your best in every circumstance. Even if you’re the villain of the piece, it’s another opportunity to excel at your villainy. Give it your best shot.

Bear in mind, your best can vary from day to day. That’s okay, too.

And if all you intended yesterday was to avoid the sugar wagon, then today is another chance to do it.

Don’t beat yourself up. The past is past and cannot be changed. The future hasn’t happened yet, so don’t fret about it. Just for today, just for this moment, do the best you can. Honour your intention. Let anger/sadness/remorse pass, because it will, if you don’t hold onto it (and why would you?) Pay a compliment. Do a favour. Spare a minute for someone in need. Take yourself out for tea. Let a friend take you out for tea. Acknowledge gratitude for (insert name/object/circumstance here). Remember, U R loved.

Breathe—and pay attention to it. Inhaling is instinct. Exhaling is not.

You needn’t wait until morning to hit the reset button, either, though it’s okay if you’d rather; you can step from the shadows at any time, day—and here’s the miracle—or night. I agree, however, that it’s often easier to crash at the end of the day and tell Dr Bailey that “today really sucked.”

Tomorrow might go the same way.

But it might not.

Every day is a clean slate.

With love,

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.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

thank you for your wisdom, Dr. Wayne

It’s the last day of August and change is a-comin’. We’ll soon have new neighbours downstairs. My resumé is in the shop, being revamped in support of my intention to seek another job. Ter’s office has been moved into a new ministry. I’ll be 54 in a couple of days. And though not everyone knows it, the world lost a great light yesterday when Dr. Wayne Dyer passed on in his sleep (but that’s another post).

Gratitude for the return of my voodoo medicine man continues. His work on my bum ankle is bearing fruit, though it’s taking time and conscious effort on my part—not to mention a sharp reminder of just how much fun acupuncture can be when the points are activated. You know the jarring metallic ache of tin foil on a filling? Amplify it a thousand times and you have the latest response to an ankle point that I had no idea existed until recently. Aaaaaeeeeeiiii, did it HURT! After I regained consciousness, Dr. Voodoo jested about wearing a cup next time … only I didn’t laugh.

He also told me—because we chat between threats during a treatment—that the Chinese annual cycle actually has five seasons (no, hockey is not the fifth no matter what the Scotiabank commercials say): true fall, true winter, true spring, true summer, and late summer/early fall. He’s an October baby, so we share a mutual love of the segue from summer into autumn. I’ve always viewed this time of year as a time of renewal and new beginnings. Given all that’s happened during the past few months, I’m especially grateful for the morning mist and evening chill that bracket the welcome warmth of a lingering summer sun.

In celebration of this shift between the seasons, Ter and I are taking off to Saltspring Island tomorrow. It’s more of a retreat than we imagined it would be when we booked the accommodation, again because of all that’s occurred of late. Home construction, work headaches, wonky ankles, noise noise noise … yes, we’re looking forward to a few days of solitude and utter silence.

In my absence, however, the Rebellion continues, courtesy of a few brave souls who accepted my invitation to be guest bloggers. Ms. Nicole D. Myers, my personal Poetry Bean, takes the wheel on September 1, followed by my precious (and pre-scheduled) Ter on “the day”—September 2—and finished up with an offering from my immortal beloved, Julian Scott-Tyler, on September 3. I am truly blessed to have Nic and Ter in my life, to have their love and respect and admiration. Everything they give me is reflected back a hundredfold. Despite being a writer, I cannot express in words how deeply grateful I am for their friendship. Julian is a different animal entirely, but he is also the only character I know who comes without hesitation when I call. That speaks to an affection he hasn’t professed aloud, but which I certainly feel when I’m working with him.

And so, with change in the wind, to Saltspring I go.

With love,

Fallen Angel

The demise of my childbearing potential has come with some inconvenient side effects. During the office renos this month, I happened on a conversation between two colleagues about plugging a computer directly into a wall socket. “Is that allowed?” one was asking, “or do we have to use a power bar for surge protection?”

“You can plug it in directly,” the other replied, “but I’m all about surge protection.”

I almost chipped in with a fervent, “So am I!” because the oscillating fan in my office has four settings and I could really use one that has a fifth.

The other hormonal hiccup is dry skin all over and itchy skin in patches. A particularly persistent spot has developed on the inner edge of my left shoulder blade. The other day I was pretzel-twisting to reach it and thought, “Why is it so itchy here?”

The answer immediately followed:

“It’s where your wings used to be.”

Hickory Dickory

Time is constantly proving its irrelevance. Our lives are dictated by it, but it is a trickster, an illusionist given license to run the modern world—and aren’t we the fools for giving it such power?

Time is unstable. Unreliable. It makes us chase it, then drags its heels like a petulant toddler. It is easily lost when we’re deep in our bliss and rudely intrusive when a workday dawns. We panic when we’re late and bored when we’re early. We eat “because it’s time”, go to bed “because it’s time”, and if we don’t, if we heed our natural rhythm by eating when we’re hungry and sleeping when we’re tired, we mess up the clock and confuse our own bodies into the bargain.

Even the calendar is evil because a child should be born when it’s ready, not pulled from the womb because it’s “overdue”. “Overdue” simply means that predicting a birth date is like predicting the weather: not an exact science. Pity the babes born by appointment. Their first experience in this life is to be roused before they’re ready.

And daylight savings time? Please. Critters and crops have no idea what time it is, and less reason to care, so the old story about it benefiting the farmers is meaningless. As for saving energy by giving us an extra hour of daylight, hello? Light earlier in the morning means dark earlier in the evening and, seriously, summer days are by nature longer than winter days, so why bother when people are more disoriented and accident-prone in the week following a time change than by the usual mix of sleep deprivation and prescription medication?

If I sound crabby—and I believe I do—DST ended last night and my already hormonally-challenged biochemistry has been knocked further out of whack as a result. It will take a week for my system to adapt. I try to accept change because I can’t, well, change it, but I appreciate it more when the change makes sense.

Daylight savings no longer does.

Changes

The most important thing I’ve learned of late is that change, while inevitable, is as natural as it is non-threatening. No matter what happens around me, I am safe and I am loved.

New neighbours downstairs? I’ll adapt (they’ve turned out to be wonderful, but we’ll see when the baby comes!)

New duties at the office? I can learn.

Car trouble? I’ll get through it.

Financial challenges? I’m richer than I think.

Hockey season? So far, the Flyers are in the playoffs.

Even the weather is misbehaving. I love the fall. It’s my favourite of the seasons, but this year it seems as confused as everything else, unable to shift smoothly from summer’s candy perfume and ice cream palette to the sharp scents and warm hues of autumn. I have no choice but to ride it out (and be grateful for the unexpectedly mild month we’ve enjoyed), but it’s unsettling.

And it’s not just me.

My professional peeps are going through stuff. One of my office buddies is going through bigger stuff. Family members are always dealing with all sorts of stuff. Stuff, stuff, stuff. I put the question, “What’s with all this stuff?” and the answer came back, “It’s life. It’s where we are. It’s the collective energy all around the world, the mix of love and hate, wealth and poverty, conflict and concession. It’s contrast.”

I need to reframe.

On the positive side, my niece is marrying her longtime sweetie (and he is a sweetie) in mid-October, my nephew and his wife are expecting a babe in April, Christmas is coming, and the Flyers are in the playoffs. I have a bunch of writing projects on the hob, not the usual single work in progress. How’s that for abundance? Speaking of which, I have that, too, in more ways than I can count, in love and support and laughter and health and ongoing employment with the potential for a wee pay raise once they untangle the resource issues at work … and the Flyers are in the playoffs.

I have Ter. And Nicole. And my parents and my sibs. And me. In spite of change swirling endlessly around me, I still have Ru.

Thanksgiving is a few weeks away. I’m suddenly so grateful that I fear I’ll peak before the stat holiday arrives—and that’s okay. I watched the first episode of Gotham and one line sprang out at me, a line delivered by a grown man to a little boy whose parents were killed in front of him, a line so guilelessly optimistic that it would have sounded trite if it hadn’t been so true:

There will be light.

Amen.

Autumn Leaves

“the autumn leaves

drift by my window…”

No, they don’t. Around here, they zip by so fast that you wonder if you saw them at all. Or they get caught on the updraft and spiral skyward like snowflakes only to land light years from their tree of origin. I watched a flock of them on Saturday morning, dancing and spinning with such glee it was hard to grasp that the dance is of their death.

I pictured a tiny fragile leaf, nurtured all summer on sap and sunshine, clinging tenaciously to the branch despite the insistently tugging wind. I imagined the tree whispering, encouraging it to let go. So it does. The wind catches it, carries it high above the branch, above the tree itself, away on a dizzying gust, higher and higher, until it disappears from mortal sight. The bright yellow remains will land on a lawn or a sidewalk, but the leaf itself has moved on, through the clouds and up past the atmosphere to wherever leaves go when they die.

Only they don’t die. I doubt that leaves actually live. They are to a tree what hair is to a human. They grow and are shed, but they don’t feel anything. When a leaf is plucked before its time, it doesn’t say ouch. The tree does. The tree houses the infinite energy, rooted in the earth and tied to an annual cycle that mirrors the greater cycle of all creation.

The blaze of autumn colour is easily misinterpreted as death. It may signal the final hurrah for this round, but it’s far from over for the tree. It will sleep through the winter, then be reborn in the spring, sprouting new leaves, living another cycle … just as we do. We don’t end with our mortal winter. Our bright yellow remains are absorbed back into the earth, but the essence of each individual rises up past the atmosphere to a place beyond mortal vision, to sleep or dream or plan a return visit—but certainly not to die. What would be the point of that? Why would Nature establish a pattern of renewal and rebirth, and exclude us from the party? And how naïve are we to believe that we only get one crack at this mortality gig? I didn’t have to repeat third grade, but I did have to move up through elementary to junior high to high school before I learned enough to equip me for the next phase, and which proved insufficient, by the way. Doing is the best way to learn, so if we don’t learn it in this life, guess what? We repeat grade three. It took me twelve years of school to make adulthood. I reckon it should take at least twelve lifetimes to graduate to whatever comes next in the grand scheme of things.

That’s not to say I can goof off or not do my homework. I doubt there is a test between phases, but I suspect if I don’t pay attention now, I’ll get to the exit interview and go Crap! I was supposed to learn (insert virtue here)! So I’ll have to wedge the forgotten lesson into my course load for the next round.

Autumn is my favourite season of the year, so I’m optimistic that the autumn of my current existence will be the most fun yet. My toes are barely into it, but I know it’s here. My leaves are turning, for one thing, and the sap is starting to run a bit thin. I’m attracted to brighter colours, and bolder about wearing them, too. Now I get the saying, “When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple.” Vivid colours are better suited to adorn maturity.

Just ask a tree.