All in Good Time

 

This happens to me a lot.

The alarm wakes me up at crap o’clock. I lie half-asleep, thinking dark thoughts until muscle memory animates my body and I find myself sitting upright in bed. From there I shuffle into the bathroom and bumble through my morning ablutions, then stare at my closet until some sort of business casual ensemble jumps out at me. It’s a struggle getting into my pants one leg at a time, but I make it. Bling is then coordinated—earrings and pendant, maybe a nifty scarf to complement the fake gems in my studs. Pulled together and starting to wake up, I go to the bedroom door, open it—

—and the alarm wakes me up. It’s crap o’clock and I’m still lying in bed. I’ve dreamed the whole thing, and the first word to mind is a naughty one.

Sound familiar?

Years ago during coffee at the Wall, Boy Sister announced that he’d had a idea but couldn’t remember it. Then he wondered where ideas go when you forget them. My wee sister suggested that, in a parallel Universe, a light bulb had just gone on above his alternate self’s head so it wasn’t really gone, it had just skipped dimensions. Pretty heavy talk for my wee sister, by the way, but maybe she was on to something. Quantum mechanics, you know.

A thought is made up of energy. When a thought is acted upon, the energy of the thought becomes matter and therefore subject to the rules of time and space in this dimension. In my imagination, I’m already up and dressed. In reality, I have to haul myself out of bed and go through the motions, which takes time and (monumental) effort. Still, it’s the price of admission to this estate. Nothing happens instantly in the third dimension. Thoughts do, of course. Thoughts are easy. They pop into being without, well, a second thought. Wishes, dreams, intentions—they’re all energy. Each may be made manifest given physical time and space.

Or not. What we envision isn’t always what’s best for us, and the Universe only coughs up what we need to gain experience. It doesn’t always look like what we intended, though in retrospect it can often be seen to fit the original idea. It may take years before you realize that something happening now is actually something you thought of way back when. And then there are times when something you think becomes real within days, maybe hours, of you thinking it.

The point of all this, you ask? Patience, Grasshopper. All in good time ...

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,

Parallel Lives

I know what you’re thinking. How could she have lived in Vietnam at the time of the war, when the war began after she was born in 1961?

Good question. If time runs in a straight line, it’s natural to assume that multiple lives occur in a similar format, i.e., one after the other. But what if they don’t? Time is cyclical, not linear, therefore it’s entirely plausible for multiple lives to follow the same principle. I mentioned this in an earlier post: if you picture Time as a big wheel, then you can stand in the twenty-first century on one side and look straight across the circle at a life in the tenth century. Or the thirtieth century, since who knows the wheel’s circumference?

You might say, that doesn’t explain overlapping lives. And you could be right. My “previous life in Vietnam” scenario may well have been a simple imagining inspired by a piece of music. It could also be a hint of a life in an alternate Vietnam, situated in another world in another dimension that mirrors this one. I’m just playing with possibilities here; I am not a physicist. I don’t even play one on TV! I do, however, believe there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.

Like the one about parallel dimensions. If we live in the third dimension, what do the first two look like, and how many more are there? (Personally, I think the first two must be flat and boring, as indicated by the terms “one-dimensional thinking” and “two-dimensional character”.) Some theories suggest a whole whack of dimensions, co-existing at the same time on various planes, occurring in no particular order and housing who knows what sort of sapient energies.

Then there’s the “big Ru, little Ru” theory; the one that suggests the Ru in this life is a single facet of a multi-faceted Ru situated elsewhere, and that other facets of the greater Ru presently exist in a handful of other dimensions, living different lives in different conditions, all at the same time.

Blows your mind a little bit, eh? It sure blew mine. It took a while to get my head around it, and I’m still unsure exactly how I feel about being one of a bunch of Rus all connected to a mother Ru. It seems Type A-ish for a single entity to be so eager for experience that it divides itself into splinters and sends them out to grab all the gusto at once. First, if Time is infinite, then what’s the rush? Second, despite its glossy brochure, the multi-function device at the office can’t perform more than one task at a time (and neither can the human brain, by the way), so I question the ability of a greater Ru to live multiple lives at once through a squad of smaller Rus ... except it could explain how I lived in both Vietnam and Canada in the same span of years!

A-OK

The trick is not to believe that everything will be okay, because it won’t. That pesky “contrast clause” in the universal contract pretty well ensures it, and if you need proof, just look at the state of the world around us.

No, the trick is to believe that, no matter what happens, you will be okay. You will survive. You’re human and fragile and riddled with conflicting emotions, but in the end, you will be okay.

Reminding myself of this is all that’s got me through the last few years; it’s probably the best advice I’ve ever gotten (if only I could remember who said it!) When things get crazy beyond my control but that affect me nonetheless, I have taken great comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone. I am safe, I am loved, and I will be okay no matter what. After all, my universe is a friendly one. Ultimately, it’s a good place, so even on this wild ride, I feel as I did in childhood, knowing my parents had it all in hand (though I understand as an adult that they were faking it like mad!) Of course I worry on occasion, hence my “practice du jour” of trusting the positive unfolding of my life in a world dissolving into chaos. Stability comes from within. You can’t rely on anything outside yourself—and before you hit me on the Universe being external, I say unto you: “Wrong-O”! You and I are one with the universe, cooperative, connected particles of energy in motion, independent yet irrevocably united. The universe isn’t the source of global chaos. It’s only providing us with what we’ve asked for, knowingly or unknowingly. That’s why it’s a good idea to be aware of your own energy.

I digress.

Stability comes from within. That solid grounding, the knowledge that I’ll be fine, enables me to ride the proverbial wave of change. It doesn’t always excite me. Sometimes it scares the heck out of me—until the little voice in quiet confidence reminds me that no matter what, I am and will be okay.

With love,

Love and Service

An unusual thing happened to me the other day. Riding the elevator to my office, I suddenly, gleefully, thought, I want to be evil. I wanted to be bad, mean, inconsiderate, self-absorbed, über-critical, unhelpful; in general, the direct opposite of the way I was brought up and, incidentally, against my nature.

I got to the eighth floor, put my lunch in the fridge, cleaned out the dish drainer, switched on the kettle, replenished the snack bowls, and lit up my “doctor is in” sign.

Sigh.

Life at present has gotten beyond my control. Too much is happening that affects me, yet I can do nothing but cope—and coping is getting harder by the day. I’ve been haranguing my angels and doing the self-talk, fighting the good fight, resisting the impulse to flush myself into the Vortex of Doom, and pursued the positive attitude to the ends of the earth. On the elevator that day, I admitted defeat.

And that’s okay. I can’t do it all. I can’t always be optimistic. I’m human, after all, not superhuman. It’s not my job to rejig the misaligned energy fields. All I have to do is take my hands off the wheel and be patient. Be kind with others, and with myself. Take small steps. Find joy in the present moment—or admit when joy ain’t happening. It’s okay if my outlook is bleak. It won’t stay that way. It never does. And no matter how rough my life is, someone else’s is always rougher. Knowing so does not lessen my angst, but it puts things in perspective.

So did the entry on the Zen desk calendar for my “wanna be evil” day. It’s a piece called the Bodhisatta Vows, and I like it better than I ever liked the Lord’s Prayer:

May I be a guard for those who need protection

A guide for those on the path

A boat, a raft, a bridge for those who wish to cross the flood

May I be a lamp in the darkness

A resting place for the weary

A healing medicine for all who are sick

A vase of plenty, a tree of miracles

And for the boundless multitude of living beings

May I bring sustenance and awakening

Enduring like the earth and sky

Until all beings are freed from sorrow

And all are awakened

With love,

Serenity Now

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

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

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

I think it’s because we’re exhausted.

I know I am.

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

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

Happy birthday, Joe.

Accentuate the Positive

Recently, I’ve been practicing “real time”; that is, paying less attention to the clock and more to making better use of the present moment. I’m also aware that what you say isn’t half as important as how you say it. The universe responds to positive or negative in equal measure—worry that something good may not happen and odds are it won’t. By the same token, worry that something bad will occur and it probably will.

I think it was Mira Kelley who prompted me to test the universe with the way I word my intention. Rather than unconsciously intending to be late by consciously worrying about being late, my newest metaphysical guru recommends changing up the mantra to something like, “My timing is always perfect.” And don’t say it with sarcasm, wise guy. Say it with conviction, then see what happens.

You know what? It works. Truly. I’ve lost count of the occasions when I’ve been embroiled in some end-of-the-day work task that’s run long. I glance at the clock, blanch, then shut everything down, grab my gear, and head for the elevator in a flutter of fear that I’m going to miss my ride. En route to the lobby, I catch myself, suck in a breath, and recite, “My timing is always perfect.” I kid you not, on these occasions the limo is either pulling up as I come through the breezeway or it’s already waiting for me at the curb.

How is this so? Good question. All I can surmise is that it’s about physics. Like attracts like, ergo using negative words or thinking in a negative manner will attract negative energy and you become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Flip the switch to positive and the same thing happens. Gain enough momentum and suddenly you’re hitting all the green lights and getting all your necessities on sale. I’ve even managed to make ten bucks last through the week simply by saying I have enough cash to make it to payday—which, if you know anything about my social calendar and tea budget, you would appreciate as a miracle of biblical proportion.

It’s fun to test these theories. It certainly can’t hurt; that’s why I enjoy playing Philosophy Quest with Ter. She reads all the books, delivers the highlights, and I take ’em to the lab. My perfect timing is almost a fully ingrained habit; I have the odd relapse, but by and large I accept that I’ll make my appointment on time no matter if I am delayed or not.

Try it. You have nothing to lose … unless you want to.

Oceanic

I have lived near the ocean for most of my life. It’s a bit like living in Paris: drive past the Eiffel Tower every day and, eventually, you just don’t see it anymore. I’m no sun worshipper, either. I have rarely spent more than a couple of hours at a time on the beach, and even then my beach time was accumulated in Europe a gazillion years ago. (The tan lines on my back took two years to fade.) It’s been enough for me to know it’s there when I want it—hop in the car and twenty minutes in any direction brings you to a patch of the coast, be it sandy, rocky, sheltered or open horizon.

On a trip to Edmonton in 1992, Ter and I visited the museum. The big draw at the time was a cetacean exhibit featuring whales and other “everyday” west coast critters—otters, herons, indigenous fish, etc. A horde of curious prairie dwellers had gathered, rightfully ooh-ing and ah-ing, around the life-sized model of an orca that, quite frankly, I barely noticed. I think I glanced at it, thought, oh, yeah—orca, then said to Ter, “Where are the dinosaurs?”

That was my first hint of how blessed I am to live beside wild water.

Only lately have I realized how therapeutic the ocean has been in my life. Almost inherently, I am drawn to it when distressed or frazzled. When my bones were new and thrice-weekly physiotherapy sessions were located in the Cook Street village, my mother often drove the long way home, cruising along Dallas Road in the big blue Mercury so I could look out at the water. My favourite ocean was deep blue with scattered whitecaps. I was so fixed on watching the waves that I forgot, for a moment, how much my joints hurt.

Over the years, my colour preference has shifted like the ocean itself, from deep blue with whitecaps to grey-green with whitecaps, but these days it varies. The one constant is whitecaps. Better yet, give me surf. Now that I live across the street from the very stretch of Dallas that Mum drove in the old days, I can lie in bed at night and hear the ocean boom as it hits the shore. I get up early on weekends and visit the beach, watching the birds and the waves and losing track of time. On work days, I deliberately choose a walking route from the limo stop that takes me home along the cliffs, just because I can. And the other night, after a particularly weird-energy day, Ter and I wandered across the street to “the finger” and watched the tide crash against the beach. Unsettled and weepy when we started, a half-hour later, I was cracking up as she danced along the breakwater. No drugs, no booze. Just wind and playful water, and we were healed.

Never underestimate the power of the ocean. Sure, it can take out entire villages in a tempest, but in a gentler mood, it can lull a babe to sleep and ease the edgiest adult. When I spend time beside it, be it on a workday evening or a Sunday morning, I always come away recalibrated.

Carpe Diem F/U

Yeeeeaaahhhh … speaking as my own lab rat, that neutral space between sleeping and waking has proven more elusive on workdays. The alarm has woken me every day this week, firing me straight into a mood that gets momentum before I realize I’m caught in it. And stopping that momentum is like grabbing a handful of smoke. It’s really hard.

It would be easier—or unnecessary—if I was doing what I love on a daily basis. Following one’s bliss tends to make for a cheery awakening, not to mention negating the need for an alarm clock. And work has been particularly stressful for a bunch of reasons, none of which warrant attention here. I’m through the worst of it with a five-day weekend on the horizon—including the Heart “tribute to Led Zeppelin” concert on Sunday night, woo hoo—so the point of this post is mostly to demonstrate that each philosophy I try to embrace can (and often will) slip like a greased porker from my grasp. However, I do not give up. The reset button on that neutral space is better pressed first thing in the morning, but it’s not about maintaining the positive vibe from dawn ’til dusk. It’s about maintaining it for as long as you can. Be it a day, half a day, or an hour, every positive thought you can think does more good in the world than you imagine. Momentum is merely a bonus.

So, if you can’t carpe the diem, try carping the momento. It’s worth every breath until it’s gone, and the beauty is, you can always start over in the morning.

Carpe Diem

There is a brief space between sleeping and waking when you are neither your dreams nor your thoughts. You are yourself. The space is neutral, utterly devoid of memory or anticipation, and if you recognize that space, you can use it to set the tone for your day.

In that neutral space, before you remember the fight you had with your spouse or the stupid staff meeting you must attend at 2:00 p.m., you can gain a foothold in the mood of your choice:

“I will fill my day with (insert here).”

Think it. Say it. The sentiment is energy, and energy attracts like energy. If you can sustain a thought for 17 seconds, it will attract a similar, more detailed thought. Sustain that thought for another 17 seconds, and a third, even more powerful step is taken toward managing the day. Positive breeds positive, negative breeds negative. Pick one and watch the blooming result. You don’t wake up in a mood; you wake up and remember something that ignites your mood.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

When I first heard of this “neutral space”, I decided to look for it myself. My first attempt was pretty successful: I opened my eyes, saw the space and promptly filled it with, “I will fill my day with joy and love.” Then I fell back asleep and dreamed of puppies.

Okay, starting while on vacation made it easier to choose joy and creativity over resentment and dissatisfaction, and I admit that I went down in flames on returning to work, but I scored some momentum during my time off. Granted, being awakened by the alarm sends me straight to the swear jar; however, I have learned to catch myself before the downslide gets perpendicular. I tell myself, “Whoa, stop!” That kills the momentum so I can regain control of my thoughts. I’m teaching myself to start each day with “I will fill my day with …” It’s still easier on weekends, but I’m gaining some momentum for the workweek.

So you had a fight with your spouse. That stupid staff meeting will go ahead. How you decide to resolve the inevitable is up to you, but truly, why would anyone knowingly choose to be in a bad mood? It only makes life harder, and life happens anyway.

Much Ado About Nothing

Sometimes it’s okay to be inert. Sometime it’s necessary. It helps to recharge your batteries and get you centered to tackle the next challenge in running life’s gauntlet.

Back in my own personal Dark Ages, I was gifted at Christmas with a desk calendar of daily affirmations. I’m pretty sure that the motive behind the offering was purely tongue-in-cheek, but I placed the new agey object prominently among the stuffies and Star Wars toys that cluttered up my cubicle. Each day, I’d read the affirmation, and if it was particularly laughable, I’d share it with the person who’d given me the calendar. She was as bitterly cynical as I was (though born in July, she should have been a Virgo), so her response would be similarly derisive to mine and we’d have a good malevolent snicker about it.

One was so ridiculously airy-fairy that I pinned it to my cubicle wall and highlighted this line:

“Even when I appear to be doing nothing, the Universe is working through me.”

The perfect excuse for a disgruntled civil servant to become less motivated, wouldn’t you say?

I realize now what that line truly means. I have since learned that doing nothing is actually doing something. It’s resting. It’s healing. It’s stabilizing jangled energy after a particularly unsettling event or series of events. It’s regrouping to enable my outwardly extroverted helping complex. The tricky part is choosing to do “nothing” over “something else”.

Once again, Ter is my greatest gift. She gets it. She recognizes the signs before I do and is often the first to suggest that maybe we should skip our Saturday lunch-and-shopping routine to leave me at home where I can do a few hours of nothing. I’ll sometimes fight because I don’t want to disappoint her or I think that doing something different will fix my mood, but in truth I suspect she’s more relieved than disappointed when I acquiesce. Who wants to tow a whiny fifty-two year old preschooler all over town in the guise of spending quality time together? Truly, we both benefit from my acceptance that nothing is preferable to something—at least for one weekend.

That silly affirmation clearly struck a chord all those years ago because I’ve remembered it—just as I remember Mr. Spock saying that expending energy running up and down a stretch of green grass and calling it a rest is illogical.

Therefore, do nothing once in a while. The Universe may appreciate being able to work without having to chase you around all the time.

"Under the Porch"

A quiet space. A private place. Soothing shadows and solitary silence. They’ll never think to look for me here, once they realize I’m not there.

I love them. I do. I am there for them, always. When they need a cuddle. A companion. A neutral ear. An excuse to play. They think my life is empty without them ... and it would be, if not for these stolen moments under the porch.

I can hear my heartbeat.

I can smooth my fur.

I can rest undisturbed.

I can be.

My name is called above the floorboards. My corner of the sofa is empty. I am not in anyone’s room. I am not in the yard. I am nowhere they can see. When rising panic trills in someone’s voice, I will emerge to a flurry of attention aimed at soothing themselves rather than welcoming me.

I love them. I do.

My life would be empty, but it would be mine. 

Being an introvert, even one with extrovert tendencies, can be difficult in our demanding world. At the end of a particularly exhausting day, I will “go under the porch” to recharge my batteries undisturbed. I am a people person, thus a people pleaser, so while this piece was written from a pet’s point of view, it easily applies to the way I sometimes feel about being “Dr. Ruth”.

Today is my most precious day off—one with no plans except to write write write. Reijo’s romance is once again moving along smoothly, so I’m treating myself to a pot of peach momotaro as I follow my hero's path to wedded bliss. He’s a lovely boy, exactly the sort of character to work with on a sublimely sunny day. Gratitude abounds.

With love,

Two Girls in Sneakers

We shook up the feng shui at home, yesterday. Ter’s been unable to sleep in her room for much of the past year because the neighbours’ 50-inch TV is situated below her bedroom, and since they are the loudest people we have ever lived with—ironic, given the stringent reference checks we went through specifically asking how noisy we are—it became easier (once we thought of it) to move her into my room rather than fight with them about it. It meant juggling a few cumbersome pieces of furniture. For two women in their fifties, losing approximately half a pound of muscle per year and each coping with her own particular brand of structural damage, it presented a daunting challenge. So daunting, in fact, that I began to suspect Ter of dawdling as the day wore on and we were still out and about on errands, with the challenge and our regularly scheduled laundry day still before us.

At three in the afternoon, however, we threw in the first load of laundry and got down to it. First task: shifting my computer desk, which weighs a ton and doesn’t bend around corners. Yep, it was heavy, but we did it. Negotiated it out one door, paused for breath. Hauled it a short way down the hall, paused for breath. Angled it through a second door and congratulated ourselves on not blowing out a vertebra. In comparison, the bed was easy, except for the staple that bit Ter when she gripped the boxspring in a delicate place. Three bookcases followed (one to the hallway and two to the new writing room), then my dresser was repositioned and Ter was able to bring in her night table and get her sleeping space in order. Yay, us!

Hooking up my computer and the stereo took a tad more finesse. I couldn’t remember how to connect the speakers though I had only just disconnected them, so I had to call in Ter. She also had to help with the peripherals on my writing rig, pushing the keyboard cord up through the back of the desk so I could grab it from above and plug it into the PC. That was one of the more comical moments, her pushing the wimpy cord up and me unable to grasp it from the top with my right hand. “Can you get it higher?” I asked, at which she crept forward a bit and promptly bumped her head against the keyboard tray. I felt the cord’s end brush the tips of my ring and little fingers but couldn’t bend them to catch it (they have false joints and don’t always go where I want them). “No!” I gasped, half-impaled on the desktop, “this is my three-fingered hand; move it to the left!” At which we both nearly collapsed into giggles. Three hours later, the whole project was done.

We work so well as a team, bouncing ideas off each other, giving and taking as required, discussing and debating, trying one thing then deciding on another and having everything fall into place better than we had imagined. We learned, by moving twice in two years, that a room will tell you where things ought to be placed; you start with a plan and end up with what works best. We moved into this suite believing that each in her own space would be beneficial for us both; thanks to the self-absorbed folks below us, it’s proved not to be the case—at least, not for now. Now, the room-that-was-once-mine is designated for sleeping only; there’s no technology at all save for the evil clock-radio, and the boom box that plays new age white noise during the night … and the feeling in the room is already calmer and more peaceful. I found that strange, given that my energy alone occupied it until yesterday. I’d half-expected to feel as if something’s been taken away, but if something has, I can’t say what it might be. The space is large enough to accommodate each of our personalities without clashing. In fact, I think Ter’s brought a serenity that my red-and-gold “Lannister pad” lacked. She’s much happier now that she knows she can spend the whole night in her own bed instead of starting on the sofa and relocating when the TV goes off downstairs.

And I still have a room in which I can write undisturbed. Win-win!

We have been a team since 1984. Over three decades, we have accomplished great things. I still recall her leaning against the wall outside our new apartment in 1993, having just hefted a Xerox box full of books up 56 spiraled stairs. She was panting a little, flushed and glowing as only a fair-skinned Finn can make attractive, when she looked at me and grinned. “If this doesn’t prove we’re possibility thinkers, nothing will!”

Thirty years later, whenever we pull off a coup like we pulled off yesterday, I am reminded of the birthday card she gave me in 2005. I don’t remember what we had conquered that year, but she was pumped about something when she wrote the card: “This is the perfect card for us! Look what we’ve been able to accomplish this year. Just imagine what we can do in the next year! Are you up for it?”

There’s nothing two girls in sneakers can’t do.

The Importance of Tea (Part VI)

“Safetea”

The first day of autumn blew in on a strong wind complete with rain and a stormy sea. It also coincided with the Tour de Victoria, which happened to roll past my window en route, one hopes, to someplace warm and dry. At midday it occurred to me that I was missing an opportunity to see a bunch of crazy people cycle by, so I carried my tea tumbler full of Persian Apple to the Ocean Room and settled on the sofa to watch the race for a bit.

I love wild water. The sea at its feistiest is a momentous sight. Grey-green waves laced with foam, pounding the beach right across the street. Rain coming sideways, driven by the same wind that has the trees dancing to its music. Part of me yearns to go out in it, to experience firsthand the smells, the sounds, the sights of Nature doing her darndest to remind us that, ultimately, she rules and we’ll just have to work with it.

Problem is, much as I long to stand in the teeth of it, those teeth are cold, wet and sharp. Only a fool would willingly succumb to that longing. Or, in the case of racing cyclists, a number of fools.

Nope, a sensible person curls up in a warm room with a steady supply of tea on the steep and watches the show from a safe haven.

Yes, I am immensely grateful that I have that warm, safe haven. I can afford to rhapsodize about stormy weather because I have the good fortune to be sheltered from it.

The vibe indoors was no doubt influenced by the energy outdoors; I had real trouble wanting to write, let alone knowing what to write. I spent most of the morning reading over things, trying to get a bead on something that would trickle into flow. I get rattled and restless when the wind is up – a reminder that I, too, am a creature of Nature and susceptible to the same energy patterns as everything else on the planet. It’s a harder fight on that sort of day, to be content, to be creative, even to be optimistic. So it was good for me to take my tea into the OR and observe the conditions from a happy place. It made me grateful and even a bit creative, ’cause that’s when I saw the paradox of heinous outside, peaceful inside, and the importance of tea in the situation. I grabbed the Canon, set up the shot and hit the button.

Instant post.

Life is good.

Aqua Aura

This is how conversations go in our house: 

Ter:     Where do you want to go on our drive tomorrow?

Me:     I thought we were going to hit the farm stands on Old West Saanich.

Ter:     You still want to do that?

Me:     I know you’re out there every day, but it’ll be a novelty for me.

Ter:     Okay. Which ones do you want to see?

Me:     I dunno. Whichever. I thought we could just drive out, have lunch and take a few unexpected turns on the way back.

Ter:     Okay, we’ll do that. 

Next morning: 

Me:     I’ve been thinking about our day trip. Let’s go to Sidney, look at the shops, have lunch, and hit the stands on the way back.

Ter:     That’s what I thought last night! Go to Sidney.

Me:     Why didn’t you say so?

Ter (shrugging):      You seemed to have your mind set.

Me:     Well, now that we’re agreed, let’s do Sidney. 

To the uninitiated, this probably seems fairly predictable – one so concerned with pleasing the other that she doesn’t speak her mind freely until the other expresses the same thought. That happens a lot with Ter and me. One of us inevitably has the same thought as the other within everything from a few hours to a nanosecond. An almost daily comment is, “I was just thinking that!” But my birthday trip to Sidney last week had a purpose unbeknown to either of us at the time we decided to make the town our destination. 

There used to be a great card shop out there. I play card tag with Nicole, so any time I can hit a good card shop is a bonus, ergo I got all excited at the prospect of picking up some dandies in Sidney. Alas, the only thing constant is change. The card shop no longer exists. It’s been split into three shops, one for kids’ clothes, one for ladies’ wear, and one called “Pitt and Hobbs” that appeared from the sidewalk to house cards of some sort. So in we went. 

I did get some neat-o cards for tag, but I also spied … in truth it spied me and sparkled up a storm to get my attention … a piece of aqua-coloured quartz that shimmered like iridescent gold in the light. It sat among less glorious minerals in a curio cabinet and I immediately thought, Ter has to see this. If she liked it, I’d buy it. Well, she liked it, we bought it, and now it’s sitting on a table in the Ocean Room, radiating beams and shooting stars from every angle. It’s beautiful, gorgeous, and apparently we were meant to have it else we wouldn’t each have been prompted to go to Sidney—a town where we shared our first apartment, but where we visit maybe once every two years. 

A shiny piece of stone may seem a trivial thing. I have no idea of its greater purpose, but the way it came to us is significant to me. A lot of my life with Ter—and with others—has been lived by mutual consent. What fascinates me is how we arrive at that consent. More often than not, it’s with silent prompting on either side. We’ll each have a thought yet not speak of it until the other one blurts it out some time later. We communicate like ordinary people every day, but on a deeper level, we’re this close to telepathic with a brief satellite delay. In truth, I’m less mystified by it these days, but when Ter looked up “aqua aura” online, she discovered that our new treasure’s primary property is to open and strengthen lines of communication. 

I can feel that satellite delay getting shorter. I wonder when we’ll start getting radio signals from Mars.

Mother Nature is a Libra

Ter and I recently caught a cool documentary called “Orbit” – about the Earth’s annual journey around the sun and how three things affect our planet: the orbit itself, the rotation of the Earth on its axis, and the tilt of the Earth on its axis. I paid more attention in Grade 10 science than I thought, because I actually understood what the presenters were saying about how the weather works, how (and why) the seasons occur, and all manner of other nifty-neater tidbits that I’ve filed away to wow people at social occasions down the road.

The episode about the tilt was the most fascinating because it focused on extreme weather phenomena like tornadoes and monsoons, explaining how and why they happen. There is so much going on to keep the world balanced while we merrily blaze along unbalancing everything. I’m not so hip on the Book of Genesis these days, but I do appreciate the intricate design and mechanics of our world within its galaxy within the greater universe. It’s miraculous no matter who/what you think is in charge of it all, and we are indeed arrogant little gnats to think so much of our combined intellect and expertise. Yeah. Right. The planet is smarter than we are. It’s trying, always trying, to compensate for our intelligence. It’s all about balancing the positive and negative energies that sustain us and we haven’t got a frigging clue. We don’t.

My vocabulary is too small to express my awe at how precarious is our position in space. Down to the tiniest molecule, nature seeks to keep the physical scales aligned and thus keep the world habitable. Actually, the same thing is happening within our own bodies, but we’ve been deafened to the innate wisdom that can tell us what we require to be healthy. There is a movement toward healing through balancing internal energies—or is it a return to those methods? because holistic therapies have been around for millennia compared to the relatively recent forms of “conventional” medicine. It makes you wonder which is actually the alternative in the field.

Admittedly, I’m no expert and I’m not dependent on my intelligence, but I am learning to ride the rhythm of the world both outside and within myself. I’ve known for a while that the planet is ill because we’re robbing it of the resources it needs to stay healthy, therefore its attempts to regain that critical balance are becoming more violent. I’m trying to apply the same principle to my own carbon-based unit, else I’d still be eating sandwiches and sticky buns. Some days are better than others, but I am practicing awareness of myself and my environment. Earth is a marvelous, magical place. Doesn’t it make sense to keep it that way?

Beautiful!