The Red Bag of Courage

It’s my favourite colour. The colour of passion, of life, of rage and the root chakra. Its palette ranges from shell pink to cabernet, but my favourite hue lies somewhere between crimson and garnet; a rich, sanguine, luscious red, deeper than ruby but brighter then blood.

While my hair was dyed fire engine red for years, I was not self-conscious about it, probably because I was standing underneath it and couldn’t see myself coming from half a block away. It never occurred that I might be brave to be so bold. I literally didn’t see it except in the mirror, and even then, my stylist is so adept at her art that the colour was stunning, never shocking.

I admire women who wear red, especially in coats, hats and/or shoes. My older sister has a red wool coat that looks absolutely awesome, but when I remarked on how cool she looked walking up the street, she replied that she felt like she was screaming for attention – something no one in my family (my hair antics notwithstanding) ever does deliberately. I assured her that she wasn’t as loud as she feared, it was the proximity to herself that lent the illusion. The same thing happens when I wear my Flyers jersey: no logo is larger than the one on my chest.

This past weekend, my sisters and I convened to sort through our dear mother’s clothes. Mum was always well-dressed, accenting a neutral outfit with a flashy scarf, a bit of bling, or a pretty cardigan. She wore lots of blue and green, cream and taupe. No black. No grey. Her cardies were mostly floral prints. There was not a lot of red in her wardrobe—yet she accessorized with it brilliantly.

A scarlet car coat hung in her closet. I pinched her crimson pashmina. My wee sis opened one of a dozen (I kid you not) shoeboxes and exclaimed, “Her Christmas shoes!”, a pair of low heeled pumps as red as the slippers of Oz. Mum wore them during the holidays. And then, the purse. The cavernous, multi-pocketed satchel that she carried with her on many a lunch date with Ter and me over the years. It’s red. Cardinal red. I’d have claimed it on the spot but didn’t, not because it’s neon bright, but because it’s far bigger than any bag I ever intend to carry. It’ll be a splendid addition to someone’s collection, though. Someone with the spot-on fashion sense my mother had.

At the end of the day, surrounded by boxes stuffed with sweaters, scarves and shoes, we reminisced with wonder about Mum’s style and my older sister observed, “She wasn’t afraid of colour.”

Mum was right. Be bold. Be brave. Wear red—and if you can’t wear it, accessorize!

Recognizing Divinity

One morning, I took shelter beneath an overhang while waiting for the traffic lights to change. A tall twenty-something kid with green hair and his whole life strapped to his back joined me to get out of the rain. Our eyes met.

“Hey,” he said, “how’s it going?”

“Fine,” I replied. “You?”

He made a face. “Not so good.” He began setting up shop, arranging his pack into a comfy lounge chair and pulling out a cardboard sign asking for change. “I just came from a job interview,” he went on, “but when I got there, she told me it was cancelled. Nice, eh?”

“Cancelled?” I echoed. “Not rescheduled?”

“Nope.” He sat down, clearly disgruntled, and sighed. “I got there early and she said it was cancelled. So much for that.”

I have little experience actually conversing with the sidewalk’s self-employed. This kid was clearly among them, and though I doubted he’d applied for a gig at City Hall, I was fairly sure he would have fit at the 7-Eleven, and whomever had set the interview should have honoured the appointment, especially if he indeed arrived ahead of time.

“That sucks,” I agreed. “What are you going to do now?”

He settled more comfortably into his makeshift La-Z-Boy. “I guess I’ll hang here for a while and listen to people telling me to get a job. I came out here to be with a friend, but maybe I’ll go back to Vancouver and try again there.”

“You might have better luck in a bigger city,” I said. “Victoria isn’t really a happening town.”

He gloomily concurred.

I asked if he wanted a coffee or something to ward against the chill weather. He politely refused, having had enough coffee to get a buzz going for the non-interview. “You’d think fifty people wishing you luck would have had some pull,” he said.

“I wish I’d known,” I told him. “Maybe the fifty-first would have been the difference.”

He looked briefly nonplussed, then laughed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The light had changed more than once by now, and my own job awaited. “I can’t do anything more for you,” I said, “but at least I can give you this.” I proffered a fiver. “It might help.”

He didn’t take it, and for a second I worried that I’d offended him. Instead, he looked up at me and asked the most astonishing question.

“Are you sure?”

He had nothing. I was on my way to the bank before returning to the office, and he asks if I’m sure about giving him a paltry five dollars? I was amazed, humbled, and a little embarrassed. But I persevered.

“Of course I’m sure. At the very least, it’ll get you to the ferry, if that’s what you want to do.”

He slowly took the bill from my hand and thanked me.

I tried to shrug it off. My heart would rob me blind if I allowed it. This was a genuinely good kid and they all deserve a break. Unable to give him one, I aimed for encouragement. “That interview didn’t work out but the next one probably will. Good luck, okay?”

He smiled. I bolted for the crosswalk before I burst into tears.

I haven’t seen him since then, but I remember him whenever I’m at that corner. I wonder where he is and if his fortunes have changed. I wonder what his name is. I regret that I didn’t think to ask.

I don’t, as a rule, donate to individuals. I once joked that if I dropped a coin into every hat on a downtown block, I’d be broke by the next intersection. I have no idea why this kid touched me, except that I actually took the time to talk to him.

Dr. Wayne Dyer said in a  lecture once that you don’t have to give money to someone on the street. You can always offer a silent blessing as you pass. So nowadays, if I can, if I’m feeling brave, I will meet someone’s eyes and offer a smile in lieu of coin.

Most of the time, I get a smile back. Maybe it’s not about the money after all. Maybe it’s about one human noticing another, and recognizing the divinity in each other.

We are all connected.

With love,

Fear Less

Life is about contrast: light/dark; yes/no; happy/sad; naughty/nice. We have no choice in that, it’s a physical law. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Nothing is constant but change. This too shall pass. Bad/good things happen to good/bad people.

Yaddayaddayadda.

The empowering thing about contrast is that we can choose which way we’re facing. When it’s all good, we can enjoy the moment, or waste it by dreading its inevitable end. When it goes pear-shaped, we can wallow in piteous despair, or seek the contrast and overcome.

We choose how we respond.

I’m saying this out loud because a) it’s true and b) I need the reminder. I have a lot of fear—or I could, if I chose. Fear is like a water leak; it starts small, so small that you may not know it’s happening until the ceiling crashes into your living room. Then, as is completely natural, you’re immobilized.

Fear is housed in the biological unit’s disk operating system. It’s not the same as the little voice that warns against getting on that particular bus; the little voice is your wiser self, and often dismissed by an intellect so insecure that it will endanger itself by refusing to accept the help. Fear is part of the survival package that comes with this mortality gig. Fear is a good thing—until the filtering mechanism malfunctions. That’s when all manner of mental anguish results. We start spooking at shadows and suspecting infamy at every turn. We begin to believe when we are told we should be afraid, and of what. We then actively seek things to frighten us. The law of attraction gets very weighty in such cases—the more you fear, the more you have to fear.

Nicole sent me the pendant in the picture at Christmas last year. I wear it when I need the boost. Courage is not defined as being unafraid. The bravest souls are still afraid; they simply refuse to be ruled by it. “Courage” has pinged on my radar of late, showing me that I am working through some of my issues. It’s also confirmation that I’m on the right track, because I’d already identified the problem but wasn’t sure how to resolve it. How does one conquer fear, especially an irrational one?

With courage, that’s how. Look the monster in the eye and say, “You’re not the boss of me!”

It’s a start, and there might even be a fight, but persevere. Fear is a bully and bullies are cowards at the core. Be brave. Stand your ground. Trust that all will be well … and it will be.

With love,