Elements

the view from my bench

One of the many magical things I’ve discovered about Esquimalt is the wilder side of Victoria’s Inner Harbour – this lovely little part of the Capital Regional District features a coastline of tiny mountaintops poking up through the ocean, gusty winds at unexpected intervals, and an up-hill/down-dale topography that provides a better workout than anything I could probably get in a gym. And the same stunning view of the Olympic mountains is as readily available here as it was from the Ocean Room.

A recent flânerie took me, with my Canon, down to Saxe Point Park, the “over the bridge” version of Beacon Hill that features far fewer flower beds and a slightly less cultivated atmosphere than my former stomping ground. I walked the park’s perimeter with the ocean on my right and the urban forest on my left, until I rounded the point and came upon a wooden bench situated with a rock rise at its back and a stunning view of the water out front. By then a rest was welcome, so I sat down on the bench and took a minute to absorb the environment. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, let it out, and noted:

The sun’s warmth on my face;

The air stirring in my lungs;

The rock solid beneath my feet;

The sound of water gently lapping the shore.

In short, it was a perfectly pure mindful moment in which I was acutely aware of the four main elements that makes this world so beautiful. Wood and metal were also present in the bench beneath me, but this Virgo counts them with rock in the “earth” category.

This dimension is fraught with contrast. Life is not designed to be easy, but our loving, friendly and generous Universe has provided a glorious venue in which to find respite from the human experience. All we have to do is pay attention to it, and to ourselves. We are connected to the earth in ways we don’t fully comprehend, yet that moment on the bench at Saxe Point defined my connection more keenly than any book or documentary ever could.

It must have done, because I’ve remembered it.

Born to be Alive

Life sometimes sucks. Lately I’ve thought it would be easier if other people weren’t involved.

On the other hand, life is often glorious, and the people in it make it easier.

Contrast, right?

But, you know, that’s the point. Life is meant to be lived. I don’t mean by extreme measures either, thrillseekers. Finding peace in everyday routine makes for a generally pleasant existence if I stop to appreciate one very simple fact:

I am able to breathe.

Joy will always be countered by despair. Grief will always be matched by delight. In no way am I advocating for a boring life—it won’t likely happen and if it did, we’d complain about it. I merely suggest that patience be employed in shadow and bright moments be seized because neither state is permanent. Life itself is temporary; at least, this life is.

That’s why we’re here. Sometime, somewhere, someone decided it would be fun to try mortality and everyone else agreed. We existed then and we’ll exist again, but we’re here right now.

I don’t know what happens next because I don’t need to. I’ll know as I go. I’ll figure it out and find my way and all will be well no matter how I choose to perceive it. In fact, all is already well. It’s always well even at its worst; trusting this universal truth gives me hope in my dark moments.

Yup, life is hard. It’s also a gift. So pause for this one second:

Take a deep breath in—and I mean deep—then let it out slowly, through your nose.

That’s how it feels to be alive.

Relish it. Treasure it. Above all, be grateful for it, because it will not last forever.

With love,

Letter to a Little Spark

Dear little one:

How your joy delights me! Your optimism, your enthusiasm and excitement, your willingness to embrace your dreams, fills my heart with gladness. My love for you deepens every day.

Yet I am pained, knowing what you do not. Knowing that these plans, made with hope and happiness, are not to be (quite yet), distresses me, for I can see what you cannot.

I know the eddies and currents of the greater flow around you. I see the roots and stones in your path, the unseen perils you will encounter. Your joy in this moment is not unfounded, but the time for fruition is not so soon. In part, you are not ready. In part, you are needed elsewhere, in support of another’s journey. You are yourself, little star, but you are also one in a glittering glorious tapestry and so some things must wait.

You will feel robbed. Cheated. Perhaps neglected or abandoned. Worse, you will doubt your decisions made while setting your intention. You will question your own wisdom.

I will weep with you then. I weep now, anticipating your anger and dismay.

I beg you to take heart, little spark. Trust in light when all is dark. Your present joy is not in vain. When the time is right and all is ready, you will be amazed at the wonders that appear. They will surpass your wildest imagining and be all the sweeter for the lessons you must first learn.

And let not your future joy be tainted. Turn your back on fear and trepidation; let neither colour your dreams. Be not haunted by what is done, but look ahead with the hope and optimism of now. Be excited for your future, little one, but life is to be lived in the present.

I am with you always.

With love,

The Sum of Our Parts

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few (or the one).

All for one and one for all.

It’s not the name on the back of the jersey that matters, it’s the crest on the front.

Call me a socialist and you likely won’t be wrong. I am all for sharing the wealth in support of the whole. Everyone has resources. Everyone has a talent. Everyone can—and should—contribute. I’d not presume to dictate comfort zones, but the best thing about humanity is the way we rally to support a person, a family, a community, or a country in need.

There is something to the attitude of putting the good of the group ahead of stardom for one. Take the International Ice Hockey Federation’s 2019 World Cup Junior Champion Team Finland, for instance. Consistently outmanned, outgunned and short-handed in the final against team USA, they stuck together and ground it out to win the gold medal. There were no superstars and no obvious egos in their game. They were just a bunch of young guys doing their best to help each other.

And win a trophy, of course.

Hm. Competitive sports might not be the best example—though sport is supposed to teach kids the value of teamwork. Too often I see pro players either trying to draw a penalty or whining when they get caught themselves. Participant ribbons for all was maybe not a good idea.

I laughed out loud at a commentator remarking on Canuck wonder-rookie Elias Petterson’s understated celebration when he scores a goal. The kid is Swedish. Modesty becomes them. In fact, it’s taught to children in many cultures around the globe. The “modesty lie” is encouraged in some countries—commit a random act of kindness, but don’t take credit for it. I agree with that in part; when asked point blank if I put cookies on the office snack station, I confess because I’m busted. There’s no point in lying when I’ve been naughty, either. (And some would suggest that’s the case when I put cookies on the office snack station.)

But in this magical world of contrast and the human experience, superstars are inevitable. Everyone wants to be special, even in societies where they’re taught to be ordinary—or at least not to be extraordinary. That’s hard for an ego to endure. I get that. I also know that everyone is born special. The best thing anyone can do is be themselves. That’s why we’re all here. Be yourself and be the best at it. As Martin Luther King once said, even if you’re a shrub, be the best darned shrub you can be.

The whole garden will look better.

With love,

Stepping Out of Christmas

The night before we took down the tree, I noticed something I always forget until the night of the day we put up the tree: I love how the twinkle lights are reflected in Ter’s wineglass. This year, the inverted effect also reflected the tapsalteerie nature of Christmas 2018 ... or of 2018 in general. As my office roomie bleakly observed in mid-December, “2018 can go f*** itself.”

Amen, sister.

Right up to December twenty-first, real life inflicted itself on the festivities. Physical challenges, work pressure, car repairs, and the cyclical nature of grief conspired to foil my seasonal joy—but we got ’er done in spite of the obstacles.

Don’t we always?

Think about it. Life doesn’t stop because it’s Christmas. It doesn’t stop for vacation, either. I once asked my boss if I could have my time back because my February leave had sucked. Alas, my request was denied. Since then, I have been aware of the contrast in supposedly good times, Christmas being the most obvious target for the simple reason that it demands more energy than a summer holiday. When you’re already exhausted, the smallest hiccup can be tectonic in result.

Conversely, this past Christmas was also brighter, more peaceful and somehow happier than previous ones. I thought frequently of Mum, but the memories of Christmases with her made up for the first one without her. As for the big tree ... I did the heavy lifting since Ter was out of commission, but it felt like more of a team effort once Bart the bear was in place next to the star. Ups and downs came fast and furious throughout the season, but upside down or right side up, it was consistently beautiful. I couldn’t have imagined better.

On to 2019!

Chances Are

Stop trying to scare me! I am fed up with news stories and advertisements designed to freak me out. Everywhere I turn, monsters lurk in the shadows. Cybercrime. Extreme weather. Economic disaster. Road rage. Housing crises. Someone wants to rob me. Something wants to kill me. Someone wants to be me.

I have no idea when the rules changed, but in broadcasting school, the first one was to keep my tone optimistic. One day while on the air, the weather forecast predicted an 80% chance of rain and I reported that we had a 20% chance of sun. It rained that day, but not the entire day and I dunno about you, but I appreciate a break in the drizzle.

In my mid-thirties, after passing a particularly stubborn kidney stone, the doctor warned that I had a 30% chance of having a second one. At first I thought, crap. Then I thought, wait a minute. The odds actually favoured a happier prospect. I had a 70% chance of not having a second one (and so far, so good). But why didn’t he say so? Why did he emphasize the lesser chance? It couldn’t have been to give me hope. We can’t have people believing that all will be well. There’s more money and more power in keeping people fearful.

Cancer is everywhere and has been everywhere for seemingly ever. But since it executed a hit-and-run on my mother that still has me reeling, I am particularly sensitive about it. I haven’t been driven to donate money to the related charities, though they’ve certainly upped their fundraising game. October is awareness month, after all, and I am more acutely aware of it than usual.

When I hear that one in sixty-four women will develop breast cancer, it’s hard not to panic immediately that I will be the one. Or that Ter will. Or my wee sister. Or my poet laureate. Or my office roomie.

Wait a minute. One in sixty-four will means sixty-three in sixty-four won’t—and I’m not jamming my head into the sand on this. I’m just deciding to be positive. To protect myself from manifesting a fearful intention. Thoughts are energy, positive and negative. Like attracts like. I’m certainly not saying that someone who fears cancer is doomed to be the one in sixty-four, but isn’t it more hopeful to focus on being in the healthy majority? Isn’t it more hopeful to focus on the positive side of everything? Contrast is a fact; there is no light without dark. If you flip that somewhat negative thought, however, then there is no dark without light. Life happens according to plan. That is also a fact. But we choose how we live it, be it in love or in fear.

I choose love. I choose to be positive. I choose optimism. I choose to deflect the negativity wherever possible, whenever possible. Of course I have off days. Mood swings and massive occasions of WTF? Contrast, right? Human. Things I must live with because living with them is why I’m here. I will not, however, allow myself to be intimidated by a society bent on intimidating me.

Being positive takes effort. It takes conscious thought. It takes persistence and courage and a host of other things that escape me right this second – but it can be done! And because for most of the time I live in a friendly, generous and loving universe, it works. Try it sometime. When you think or hear something negative, flip it and see what you get.

I bet the odds end up in your favour.

With love,

Lemons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me and My Shadow

You again. My old friend. Stealthy and silent, biding your time, waiting patiently for your moment. You’re so good at being unobtrusive that I forget you’re always two steps behind, lurking at my shoulder, skulking by my side. I lose my focus and suddenly you’re right in front of me. If you had a face, you’d be smiling because once in front, you refuse to step aside and let me pass.

Everyone has a dark side. It’s part of the package we bought when we signed the papers on this existence. Call it what you will: shadow self, alter ego, super ego, it’s the human part of our mortal makeup.

And it loves to be miserable. It revels in reminders of how hard life is, and how precarious our position is within this big scary world. Fear is its driving force, and boy does it know how to play the head games required to immobilize you.

I normally choose happiness and love over fear and anxiety, but when life demands to be lived on its own terms, i.e., when the poo hits the propeller, Shadow Ru pounces.

I didn’t even realize she had done so until the day I finally looked up from my feet. There she was, and had been for weeks, fixed solidly in my path.

By then I was so immured in the funk of loss that pulling myself out of it was like pushing the proverbial elephant up the stairs. I’d been crying nonstop since June. Taking tea and tissues into the Ocean Room had become a nightly ritual. From one loss, a list of others had sprung in a dismal domino effect that made the rest of my life look pretty grim. What’s the point, anyway? Can we start again, please? I knew I had to flip my focus to abundance instead of loss, and as soon as I saw Shadow Ru, I understood it was time to put her back in her place. But how to do it?

According to the law of physics, you get back the energy you put out. If you’re operating from the fear-based position of loss, you’ll find yourself losing more, thanks to the generous nature of our obliging Universe. Conversely, if you look for the miracle, you’ll see it—and you honestly don’t have to try that hard.

But Shadow Ru was relentless. “You think that was bad?” she asked. “What about this? And this? Or what if this happens? Wouldn’t it be terrible?”

“Well, yes,” I replied, “but it hasn’t happened.”

“But what if it does? Best be prepared for the worst.”

“Oh, move along!” I burst out, fed up with the negativity.

She refused. Worse, she persisted with her pernicious fearmongering until I thought I’d lose my mind. She wouldn’t let me see past her. She deliberately blocked my view of the good things in my life, of the little miracles and everyday blessings that sustained me through this summer. I was frazzed beyond endurance, trying to elbow past her, when my smarter self—Spirit Ru—calmly made a brilliant suggestion:

If your shadow is in front of you, then the sun is at your back. Just turn around.

Huh. I shoulda had a V-8.

Shadow Ru is still with me, of course, but now she’s back where she belongs: behind me.

With love,

A Patch of Poppies

I was in a bit of a quandary about Remembrance Day this year. Too many newscasts fraught with gun violence and acts of terrorism, and civil wars in places we don’t hear about because there’s no business interest for the West – I’ve been pretty cynical of late, so the timing wasn’t great for November 11. It seemed to me that the sacrifices made, the lives lost and families destroyed during, well, every darned war we’ve seen since The Great One and The One to Stop All Others, have all been for naught. Pointless. A truly senseless waste because, looking at where we are now, it solved nothing. The world is still in conflicted turmoil with no apparent end in sight.

Toss my deity, Sting, into the mix. For months, I’ve been looping Children’s Crusade, one of my favourite songs from his first solo album. I don’t think he’s that wild about it, but I love it despite – or perhaps because of –  its tragic theme. Poppies are prominent throughout, starting with the boys who perished in the first World War, through to 1980s London, where the next generation have become what he poetically called “opium slaves”. It’s hardly his fault that I happened on a rogue patch of poppies and the phrase “poppies for young men” immediately came to mind. I thought, Brilliant – a theme for my Remembrance Day blog post! Only in the months between then and now, I lost my perspective.

Duelling dictators, ongoing problems in the Middle East, the Russians (another subject on Sting’s first album that remains annoyingly relevant), religious wars, civil wars, nuclear wars ... the list goes on and on, ad nauseum. By this time last week, I was nothing more than resigned to go through the motions. I mean, you have to wear a poppy, right? Otherwise, you’re being disrespectful. But inside, I viewed the poppy as a symbol of a failed exercise.

When Ter and I talked about Remembrance Day, I ’fessed up with my mixed feelings. She did not disagree. She even sympathized, as I had a point about how messed up the world remains despite the staggering loss of life in those two wars. A few hours later, after she’d pondered the predicament, she was able to adjust my perspective by reminding me of context.

“Don’t look at the world right now,” she said. “You have to remember that the threat back then was present moment. If those sacrifices had not been made, our parents’ lives would have been vastly different and so would ours. In that respect, what they gave was supremely profound and made a definite difference at the time. And at the time is what matters.”

She was right, of course. Then, as if to prove her point, I saw news interviews with a couple of the few surviving veterans who fought in WWII. They each told a story of imminent threat, of an enemy so powerful that neither thought anything of signing up to stop it. They were not fighting against future dictators or nuclear nutballs or religious extremists. They were fighting to save their Now.

The same might be said of every war that’s ever been fought; after all, the beast was not invented in 1914. It seems there’s always a threat. So long as we believe that war is the way to peace, my little patch of poppies is a blood-coloured point on a long and grisly timeline. However, I want to end this post on a positive note, so here goes:

Remembrance Day will outlast the soldiers who survived those battles. Veterans of more recent conflicts will take their places rather than stand beside them at the ceremonies in successive years. So they should. No one who goes to war should be forgotten or ignored; they deserve our respect and our gratitude. The world has become a more perilous place, yet there are still men and women brave enough to stand in defence of human rights and freedom. If one day a year is all they ask of me in return, I can give this much.

I can wear a poppy and I can mean it.

Give Peace a Chance

“Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding” – Albert Einstein

“We must live together as brothers or perish together as fools” – Martin Luther King Jr.

“The day the power of love overrules the love of power, the world will know peace” – Gandhi

“Our prime purpose in this life is to help others—and if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them” – the Dalai Lama

Something horrifying happened as a result of Charlottesville, last weekend. I agreed—to a point—with Donald Trump. Violence only escalates with participants on both sides.

Now that you’ve regained consciousness, my thought is actually more expansive than the single incident of protesters getting into it with white supremacists at that rally. People who bring weapons to a gathering for any reason may try to plead self defence, but that’s an extremely loose interpretation of America’s Second Amendment, “arms” being anything that will do more damage in a confrontation than bare hands. Neither is a street brawl inevitable, since violence—like peace—is a choice. The math is simple enough: weapons = intent to harm.

Were the protesters in Virginia there to perpetrate violence? Only the individuals know for sure. Did they expect to encounter resistance from the other side? Considering the collective nature of that side, you’d have to be a moron to expect otherwise.

The white supremacists, on the other hand ... I can’t begin to guess their group intention, but protesting the removal of a statue seems like an excuse to act out their fear-based self-loathing on anybody and everybody else. “We’re taking back our country,” one of them declared. Um, excuse me, sir, but the country was never yours to begin with. White men took it from the original inhabitants by trickery and force, so even the excuse that you’re reclaiming what you’ve lost is a piss-poor one.

I read a quote the other day: “We are all human. Why can’t we live together?”

Because we’re human, that’s why. We are biologically linked to the earth and all the elements; we are ruled by intellect and bullied by ego, subject to fear and driven by the emotion resulting from all of the above. Our spirit selves are a little lost amid the tumult. Rising above it takes more internal fortitude than many of us believe we have, so we resort to violence when we feel threatened. Those white supremacists in Charlottesville arrived feeling brave in their numbers, but every one of them is a fragile, fearful, wounded soul more pathetic than powerful.

And on the flipside, those standing against them  were similarly equipped, though they surely felt their cause more noble. It’s easy to hate those who behave hatefully. It’s equally easy to ape (and justify) that behaviour when we believe we’re in the right. Remember: the villain is the hero in his own story.

The events of the past week have left me somewhat discouraged and a little bit afraid of a future that seems to be unravelling like a roll of toilet paper in the mouth of a speeding squirrel. Terrorists continue to drive vehicles into crowds at festivals and public markets. Nazis, like overconfident cockroaches, are creeping out of the shadows in our own back yard. Mother Earth continues to rend her garments through weather events of Biblical proportion. We can’t live peacefully with our families, our neighbours, our co-workers, our environment, other drivers—or with ourselves.

Maybe this is the real problem. We are all victims of conditioning, of broken parents and bad relationships and the myth of a god who plays favourites. We justify our misery by blaming others and rely on outside agencies to solve our problems when in truth, we can only be responsible for ourselves. We choose our thoughts, therefore we choose our actions, and ultimately, we choose who we become.

Most of us are good people. Most of us do not appear in video clips of violence and mass hysteria. Most of us are simply doing the best we can, but the time may be coming when each of us must make a choice and stand by it. I’m not saying we each have to go it alone. Of course we don’t. There is strength in numbers, but the strength required to gain peace must not manifest in violence. It must come with kindness, with caring and generosity and understanding. It must also come from within. So start with yourself. Look inward, angel, and see where peace begins. Find it there, or find a way to bring it there. Nurture it. Practice it, and when you’re comfortable with it, let it spread outward, beyond yourself to the realm of others, and once the world alights, watch those cockroaches run for cover.

With love,

From the Frying Pan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just be you.

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

I’m with you.

With love,

Anywhere But Here

Rough week, last week. Anxieties to address, disruptions to endure, and a rock-your-world for Ter when she was “asked” to give up her office and move (again) to a cubicle at work. That day was the worst, not because she was particularly attached to her office, but because we are all human and change of any ilk is always upsetting—even when it turns out for the best which, in this case, it has.

Before it all turned out, however, and while she worked through her human, the world was a gloomy place. I struggle with my Zen in these moments, torn between believing that all will be well and feeling like the fool on the hill for believing that all will be well. You know, even when things are not okay, you are okay. I am no Pollyanna; I can get as dark and sarcastic as the most miserable cynic. I just choose to seek light in that dark.

Sometimes, though, it’s hard. Sometimes, I don’t even want to try. I just want to lie on the side of the road and let the world go by.

On the worst morning, ahead of a dental appointment I’d been dreading for months, I asked myself where I wanted to be.

Anywhere but here, I thought.

In the next beat, my little voice reminded me that I couldn’t be anywhere but here, so I’d better man up and deal with it. I can’t say it made me feel better. In truth, I wanted to cry because the truth hurts and the truth is that each of us is always Here. In this moment, with neither past nor future, we can only ever be in the present. Good or bad, peaceful or painful, all we have is the moment we’re in right now. Wishing to be elsewhere won’t change it. Nothing you can do will change it. Nope, we’re stuck with right here, right now, so you know what? Make the best of it. Choose how you will live it. If the best you can do is grit your teeth and endure it, do so, but while you’re enduring it, hold fast to another truth: this moment, like all the moments gone before and still to come, will pass. A new moment will replace it, and in that new moment awaits a chance for something better.

Ter is happy in her new space.

My dental appointment was uneventful.

The week is over and we both survived.

Hallelujah.

With love,

In the Name of Love

After the Orlando shooting, I felt compelled to attend a pride flag ceremony at City Hall. I took time off work and hiked down the street, joined the throng of other like-minded souls and listened as our mayor made a speech before asking us to participate in a moment of silence for the victims of this purely hate-driven crime. I stood with my head bowed and my hand on my heart, and when the moment was over, I heard someone say my name.

Looking up, I was pleasantly surprised to see a former workmate who had moved on to bigger and better things. His office was just down the street, he said, what was I doing here?

“I’m just so sorry that this happened,” I replied. “I can’t believe it.” And yet I could, given the pin-headed contrast in this enlightened age. We chatted for a minute, catching up, then he introduced me to his sister, who is in a lesbian relationship. If his compassion had not made sense to me before—which it had; he’s a truly lovely guy—it made complete sense to me then.

Whether you know it or not, at some point in your life, a friend, co-worker, neighbour, or family member has either been attracted to the same sex or wanted to be a member of the opposite. If you knew and you were okay with it, kudos to you. If you’re running through a list of everyone you’ve ever known and wondering, please stop wasting your time. It’s obvious that you wouldn’t have been okay.

In my opinion, as long as it’s consensual and the players are of legal age, there is no shame in loving where your heart leads you. The shame is in the shaming.

You can’t convince me that the percentage of gay, lesbian, bi- or trans-gender people in society has increased over the years. I’m pretty sure they have always lived among us; they just haven’t been free to express it the way they are fighting to express it in the twenty-first century.

Personally, I consider them among the bravest people in the world. Nor do I condemn the folks who hid their true natures from fear of persecution and/or prosecution in times not so long past. It must have been—and still must be—horrible to pretend to be someone you’re not because being yourself might cost your family/job/reputation/life.

Our so-cool-it’s-painful Prime Minister recently marched in Toronto’s pride parade. This guy is so together, so enlightened, so necessary for the future of our country and society as a whole. He’s a great example of what Canadians not only are, but what we can be if we choose love over hate and acceptance instead of fear. Gay men are not predators and lesbian women are not mutants. Trans-gender people (and I have known one myself) only seek to be happy in their own skin. It’s not about carnal relations—or it shouldn’t be. It’s about the freedom to love where our hearts, not our minds, take us.

And so, with love,

Season Finale

’Tis nobler to lose by a single goal than be blown out of the arena halfway through the game. To wit, the end of the Flyers’ post-season was less painful to endure because they stood their ground and held the Capitals to one goal. But for a nifty hiccup that fooled first the defenceman and then the goalie … well, “what if” doesn’t matter. “What was” is what counts, and “what was” is a final score of 1 – 0 for the wrong team. The Flyers are on the golf course tomorrow morning.

At least the pressure is gone for the rest of the playoffs. Now Washington squares off against Philadelphia’s arch-nemesis, the evil Pittsburgh Penguins (my second-string team; what is it with me and Pennsylvania?) in round two, and you better believe I’m rooting for the Pens. They have a better chance than the Flyers ever had, but we’ll see. The stars rarely come out in the post-season. The playoffs are more often the domain of the unsung hero, the third or fourth line guy in nobody’s office pool who bursts into the spotlight and wins the day against insurmountable odds while the Ovechkins and Girouxes and Kanes disappear from the stats.

I just lost three players in my pool. In the regular season (and for other poolies who nabbed them in the draft), they racked up double digit points. In the first round, they gave me nuttin’.

I still love them, though. Always have, always will.

Now I can reclaim my higher self. The disparity between gladiatorial game mentality and a Zen state of mind does not elude me; I am well aware of my mental paradox at this time of year. Bless Ter for giving it a name. When I remarked on the mystery of how I can get so mean and nasty during a hockey game yet strive to be more kind and peaceful in my real life, she responded simply, “It’s just contrast.”

True enough. In keeping with the reclamation of honour, dignity and sportsmanlike conduct, I refrained from allowing Basher his frowny face in the blog photo. As fans, we recognize the effort our guys put into clawing out a spot in the first round and pushing the series to six games. They could have lost in four straight. They could have missed the playoffs completely. They did neither. And while it would have been skookum to knock the Capitals through the boards and onto the links, Washington deserved to win. So, handshakes all ’round.

We now return to our regularly scheduled blogging.

With love,

The Greatest Love of All

Bill Maher recently had a bit of a rant about narcissism and the dangers of self-love. One thing that stuck was his story about a five-year-old kid behind him kicking his seat during a cross-country flight and the parent explaining that “Logan is only exploring.”

“No,” Bill said, “Logan is being a dick, and if you’re not going to stuff him in the overhead luggage compartment, I will!”

After I stopped laughing, I realized that the concept of loving oneself has become, as is inevitable with mortals, somewhat warped with time.

The Greatest Love of All, when performed by George Benson in the 1970s, was sung gently and with compassion, as he entreats the listener to instill confidence and self-respect in our children.

The same song, performed by Whitney Houston in 1985, is a totally different animal. A fan of Benson’s version, I winced when the diva belted it out at full volume because Whitney was nothing if not a narcissist. She made everything into a “look at me” anthem when I believe this particular song was meant to encourage us to teach our kids not about self-love, but about selfless love.

Love in its mortal form is conditional. I love you because:

You love me.

You feed me.

You give me things.

You do things for me.

You ask nothing of me.

And if you stop, I won’t love you anymore.

Love in its purest form, the love that every child brings with him at birth, is the wellspring of kindness and generosity, of sincerity and compassion and respect for ourselves, for each other, and for the planet that sustains us.

There is nothing at all wrong with reminding that child of his divinity. There is, however, a grave injustice in cossetting that kid and letting him run riot. That’s doing him as much a disservice as it is annoying the heck out of the guy whose seat the kid is kicking. Darn this compostable container. It’s tricked us into teaching an entire generation that every one of them can have whatever they want whenever and wherever they want it because they are entitled. The era of instant gratification has made our children selfish, petulant, demanding, and incapable of fending for themselves in the real world.

On the flipside, however, because contrast is a universal law, there are millennials who band together for the greater good, who run bottle drives and raise funds for hurricane relief and apply themselves to their lessons so they can find the cure for cancer or champion clean energy. Those kids have got the message. They have healthy self-esteems and not only do they respect society, they want to improve it. Kudos to those kids, and to their parents for keeping them in tune with their inherent natures.

The song is true. If it gives a child the courage and confidence to make a positive difference in the world, then learning to love himself can be the greatest gift of all.

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,

Take the Day

The cough medicine commercial is right: a sick day is misnamed. It’s actually a “getting well” day—and I’m taking one. Admitting this may cost me a day’s pay should my boss happen upon this post (a billion to one shot, I’m sure) but it’s worth it to point out that I am not physically ill. I needed a mental health day; a day for self-care and to nurture a spirit that’s been flaring hard against a smothering global darkness and finally conceded defeat last night.

I’m down, but not out.

I may be a little drained from the daily lineup of coworkers who stop by my office to tell me their woes, but on a deeper level, I think I am royally pissed. Not with my colleagues, not with my family, not at home, and not even at life. Life is good. It’s a challenge in contrast, but life is a gift. No one has the right to rob someone else of it.

I digress.

I think that I’m pissed at the folks who sit online and berate the good intentions of others. When Paris happened, I witnessed an explosion of French flags popping up in social media as horrified humans rose to their higher natures and rallied in solidarity with France. Shortly after this surge of collective compassion, a second explosion occurred—of outraged reproach for this show of “selective support”. Beirut had been similarly assaulted on the same day. The same number of deaths and equal amount of terror were suffered there, only few in the western world had risen in that country’s support, hence those who had done so for Paris were called out as hypocrites.

They are not hypocrites. They are uninformed. Is it their fault that the western news outlets did not report the attack on Beirut? I knew nothing of it. I was still reeling from the stupidity of the Starbucks Red Cup Controversy, which got more airtime on my newsfeed than anything out of the Middle East, when I stumbled onto CNN’s coverage of Paris.

The public doesn’t decide what makes the news. Advertisers and programmers decide what we are told and, to some extent, what we’re to do about it. Then they sit back and watch the masses squabble about it all.

So I crashed. The negativity has been overwhelming, and while I believe implicitly in the power of one solitary candle, I also believe that the flame requires tending, else it will burn out completely.

Balance. Contrast. Achieving and maintaining one in the face of the other requires an awareness of your own needs as well as the needs of others. If I am guilty of anything, it’s of assuming that I have superpowers of endurance, resistance, and acceptance. Actually, I do have them, but they are not limitless. A single day should get me back on my feet. A day of green tea, quiet meditation, and gratitude.

A “get well” day.

With love,

De-Throned

Warning:

·         spoiler alert

·         content may be unsuitable for some readers

Proceed at your own peril.

I’ve done something I thought I would never, ever do.

I’ve cancelled my pre-order for Game of Thrones 2015.

It’s a small comfort to note that GRRM had a severely reduced role in the production of season five, and the plotlines veered wildly from those in the books, so I can say this without betraying my loyalty to the original storyteller. Season five was absolutely no fun to watch. It was unnecessarily graphic in the sex and violence department—a constant through the first four seasons, come to that—but I have simply run out of excuses to defend the series. Almost every episode had me wondering why I was tuning in when most of what I got was pornographic, misogynistic, borderline criminal crap.

I have a pretty high tolerance for sex, and I understand that we as a society have grown so numb that more extreme visuals are required to engage an audience when it comes to blood and gore. I hate it, but I get it. I myself prize clever dialogue over vivid pictures. The banter between Tyrion and Varys was gold, but also like gold, those few nuggets were buried so deep in the dirt as to have taken up perhaps ten minutes of ten hours. Instead, we were treated to more of Ramsay Snow—a man whom we already know is a sadist, so must we be continually reminded of it with ever increasing enthusiasm? Of course Sansa was in for a rape on her wedding night—we didn’t have to hear it while it happened. Also featured was the burning at the stake of a child, and it was not enough for the producers to suggest it was happening; no, we had to hear the girl screaming for her mother until the flames were pretty well extinguished. Oh, and then there was the public humiliation of Cersei, whose walk of shame was indeed written into the books (Sansa’s rape and Shireen’s fiery death were not) but which lasted on paper for as long as it took to read. On film, they dragged it out for a longer eternity to me than it was for the character.

Painful.

Brutally painful.

And the final insult? The series won best drama at the Emmys this year.

Mortifying.

So, now what do I do? I have yet to cancel HBO—The Knick resumes this month and yep, I’m hooked—but the reason why I signed up in the first place has gone sour. The first season was awesome (except for the obligatory gratuitous sex), the second slightly less so, the third perfectly awful for the torturing of Theon Greyjoy, the fourth started to stray from the books and the fifth, well, the fifth isn’t coming to my DVD collection any time soon. In fact, I may unload the second, third and fourth seasons if I can find a taker. My office buddy teases that I’ll be unable to resist season six in the spring, but I wouldn’t put money on that one.

I’ll just wait for GRRM to publish the next book.