Change Versus Rest

 

It’s said that a change is as good as a rest. So, in theory, I should be able to shift from work routine to home routine without doing a face-plant on the first day of vacation, right?

Wrong.

My first day went fairly smoothly in that I accomplished all I’d set out to do, which wasn’t very much in comparison to getting up and getting out to spend a day with my co-workers at the office. Such an endeavour demands more energy than a day off, so on Day One I went easy on myself ... I thought.

I slept in, took a walk, started my annual read of The Night Circus, ate way too much sugar, did some philosophizing with Ter, and did not need a nap to get me through the day. We planned to finish up the last of our prezzie shopping on Day Two, but when I woke up that morning, I was headachy and seriously conflicted about my ability to deal with crowds of people in a confined space. I tried to talk myself into soldiering on, that I was just tired but it would be okay—and the next thing I knew, I was in tears over nothing and Ter bailed me out by insisting I stay home while she tackled the Christmas crowds. Gratefully, I relented.

Ter was a trooper, making two forays into the retail wild and accomplishing her mission without me whining in her wake. I read my book, skipped taking a walk, ate no gluten, and yes, took that afternoon nap. Day Three was a much better start, though we were both semi-stunned at how quickly the fatigue set in during our quick trip to the mall. But that’s another post.

The point of this one is my realizing that a change is not always as good as a rest. Sometimes a full stop does more good than an altered focus, especially at this time of year. Christmas is a whole other barrel of monkeys when it comes to energy drain and I’m still figuring out the critical balance between capacity and demand in regular life. The curve remains pretty steep as I suss out which symptoms are attributed to age and which are the result of living in a post-COVID world. The plague struck as I reached my sixties so I’m not sure what would have happened anyway; in some ways I’ve never been so confused by ongoing change.

Methinks it’s time for a rest.

Tough Love

 

My loving, friendly, generous Universe blesses me daily. I live in a world where miracles abound. All things happen with everyone’s best interest in mind. There is a reason for everything, even the difficult stuff. I try to go gently, practicing kindness, compassion and being non-judgemental.

Obviously, there are days when I’m more successful at this than others.

I don’t rely on Oracle cards, but I do follow Colette Baron-Reid on F***book. She posts a daily card, which I often don’t see until days after the fact so, clearly, I’m not that invested. Still, there are occasions when the card of a particular day will ring true in hindsight (not that I look behind me that often. As Ragnar said to his sons in a later episode of Vikings, “Don’t look back; that’s not where you’re going.”)

One day recently, the card simply stated “It Is What It Is.” The message advised me to adopt radical acceptance, explaining that acceptance is the best means of opening myself to greater abundance, blessing, and/or happiness. It suggested taking things at face value and not to read more into a given instant. Sometimes things just happen. Not everything has a deeper meaning. Acceptance enables good energy to flow easily, clearing log jams that result from us focusing too intently on what vexes us.

That very same day, I lost my mind over something so trivial it’s almost embarrassing.

Anyone who knows me also knows that my vehicle is sacrosanct. Indeed, only two things can drive me to spontaneous acts of violence: Flyer games, and any slight, be it a scratch, dent or other misdemeanour, against my vehicle. Well, on this day, I was the victim of a visitor who parked in my reserved space – and boom! Kindness, compassion and being non-judgemental flew right out the window. I seethed and foamed and fretted at the utter lack of morality in that individual. Capital punishment was a just penalty for the crime of forcing me to park my beloved Tiguan on the street.

Once I cooled off (and it took a while), I marvelled at how cushy my life is that I have the luxury of obsessing over something that, as a First World problem, barely rates as a problem at all ... or it shouldn’t.

Suddenly, the day’s Oracle card returned to mind: It Is What It Is.

Huh, I thought. The card meaning was suddenly clear. By advocating radical acceptance, the Universe was saying, in the most loving, friendly and generous way:

“Get over it.”

Memory Almost Full

 

I now take Theracurmin for my bones. It’s a derivative of turmeric that’s lauded as a natural anti-inflammatory and so far, I’m a fan. My pain has reduced to almost nothing and I’ve been able to regain much of the mobility I feared I’d lost. It’s like the magic pill everyone hopes will be prescribed, and while it’s not quite that magical (I still have to avoid known inflammatory foods etc.), it’s the closest I’ve ever come to finding it.

A few weeks after I’d started taking it, Ter saw an ad for it in a magazine. “Hey,” she said, scanning list of the purported benefits, “not only is it an anti-inflammatory, it helps with memory and cognitive function, too!”

Bonus! I thought.

Later that week, I booked a date with my office tea buddy for my day in town. We put it in stone via meeting invites so the time is blocked in our calendars. I had another meeting scheduled ahead of our appointed time, so I sent her an instant message to say I was stuck in a call and would IM her when I was done. She sent back a thumbs up, and my meeting proceeded as planned.

It finished a few minutes later than scheduled. I hung up the phone and glanced at Treena’s status, which is indicated by the colour of a dot next to her name in the Skype for Business window. If it’s green, she’s available. If it’s red, it means she’s busy, in a call, or in a meeting. Hover your cursor over the dot and the system tells you which of the three applies.

Well, Treena’s dot was red. In a meeting. Huh. Must have come up suddenly (it does, sometimes).

I sent her an IM: “Zap me when you’re ready to go.”

She wrote back immediately: “I’m heading for the stairs!”

Only then did I realize her dot was red because she was in a meeting—with me!

Apparently, the Theracurmin has yet to kick in on my memory and cognitive function ...

Whose Bench Is It Anyway?

 

Have you ever noticed how uncomfortable everyone is on the first morning of a two-day course? How awkward the first half-day is as we all get settled and suss out our classmates? The next morning, we each make a beeline for the exact spot we claimed the day before – and panic when the instructor spontaneously rearranges the seating.

Humans are apparently territorial. Every time I visit the park, I sit on the same bench. I even refer to it as “my bench.” Last week, I spied cherry stones scattered in the grass near my feet and immediately wondered, somewhat resentfully, who had been sitting on my bench. Today I arrived to find a paperback novel had been left on the seat – a James Patterson, though I don’t recall the title. Seeing it gave me pause; I actually hesitated before reminding myself this is my bench, goldarnit, so I’m a-sittin’ on it.

So I did.

As I sat there, I wondered how many other people consider the bench to be theirs. It is public property. Anyone can sit on it and for as long as they like, to boot. No one can claim it for their very own. I’ve been lucky having it to myself on a Sunday morning. I won’t mind sharing if I’m there first, but if someone else is there when I round the corner, I’ll keep walking. I go there to meditate, after all, so why disrupt someone else on a principle that won’t stand up in court?

There’s a plaque on this particular bench. It’s placed in memory of a fellow named Timothy, who perished before his time as a victim of foul play (so says the marker). Whether the bench is occupied or not, the plaque is always there. Maybe whoever ate the cherries thinks of the bench as theirs. Same for whoever forgot to take their book when they left. I don’t think of it as mine, anymore.

It belongs to Timothy.

RAIN

 

Each Wednesday at noon, I attend—or try to attend—a twenty minute guided meditation session on Skype. It’s sponsored by the Ministry of Health and has been a huge help in getting me through the workweek while cooped up in my home office over the past year. Meditating has come more easily with practice, but I appreciate these weekly sessions because I generally learn something I can use in my semi-regular practice.

I say “semi-regular” because my routine depends on how tired I am at the end of the day. I used to think I suck at meditating because I almost always fall asleep; turns out it’s a handy trick for when I can’t fall asleep!

Anyway, I learned a new acronym the other day:

Recognize

Accept/Allow

Investigate

Nurture

The lesson that day was to teach how to manage difficult emotions. We tend to ignore or try to explain away our emotions; we rarely allow ourselves to experience them, especially the negative ones. It doesn’t have to be a huge big deal, either. There’s no judgment during these sessions, but as it turned out, I was having a bit of a challenge with something and it happened to coincide with RAIN.

So, here’s how it works:

Recognize the feeling. You might have to sift through a few layers, but with gentle persistence the culprit will reveal itself.

Accept that you’re feeling it or Allow yourself to feel it. And don’t judge yourself, either. Just observe the feeling and acknowledge it.

Investigate why you might be feeling it. Few emotions exist in and of themselves. Most stem from a deeper source that can be identified on closer inspection ... if we’re honest with ourselves. I was able to trace my challenge to something I was asked to do earlier in the week, that I had no idea how to accomplish but felt I should have been able to figure out unaided. Hence, increasing frustration and decreasing confidence.

Nurture yourself. Be compassionate. Understand that we are not our emotions. We have them, but they are not who we are. I still have to think that one through at times; if my frustration is not who I am, then why say “I am frustrated”? Well, I’m frustrated in the moment and moments do not last. Once I figure out what I need to feel better (the Nurture part of the acronym), I can take the steps and, presto! No more frustration! But Ru still exists and Ru is always wonderful.

So are you.

With love,

Short Notice

 

Not always, I hope!

For a woman who touts the practice of present moment mindfulness, I sure miss a lot. I seldom miss the obvious (I hope) and I suspect most of what does escape my notice stems from knowing all is well in my world rather than indifference to my surroundings.

It’s a running joke between Ter and me that I don’t notice things. Buildings, for instance. I distinctly recall walking up Georgia Street in Vancouver and Ter later asking me about some detail or other on one of the plate glass skyscrapers we had passed. For the life of me, I could not picture the building she was talking about, so had to plead the fifth for an answer. That was years ago, but I can cite more recent examples of less glaring omissions.

Take the box of Haagen-Daz bars lodged in the freezer door. Due to sugar sensitivities, Ter has to eat even a mini ice cream bar in two sittings. Sometimes we’ll split one between us, but it’s not unusual for me to spy a cling-wrapped morsel one day awaiting its demise on another. During this past summer, however, we realized we were consuming way too much dairy/sugar/naughty treats and stopped replenishing our stock. After we decided to cut back, I glanced into the box and noted a pair of bars remaining. A few days later, Ter confessed to finishing one of them. “That leaves the other one, then?” I asked.

She actually looked sheepish. “No, they’re both gone.”

The little muncher had stealthily nibbled away until the last of the bars were gone, but I had been in the freezer that morning and was certain the box had still been there. Another box appeared some days later, and I had to ask her when she’d bought it because I was sure the space had been empty that morning. To my relief, the answer was “Today.” Yet I can almost guarantee if the ice cream confession hadn’t occurred, I could not have said when the Haagen Daz bars became dry garlic pork ribs.

These are tiny examples, of course. Dozens more would be listed if I could remember them all, but it seems that my not noticing things has taken root in Ter’s subconscious. One night she dreamed we were stuck on a hill behind traffic at a standstill. I was driving, so Ter got out to see what the holdup was. Whatever the snarl was, it cleared while she was still investigating, and I drove away without her.

At first, dream-Ter couldn’t believe it ... until her little voice said, “I bet she hasn’t noticed I’m not in the car!”

I would like to express my offense and outrage at being so callously perceived by the one I love most, but I can’t. The notion is not as absurd as it is possible. Not likely, I must insist, but possible.

*sigh*

This Radiant World

 

I read “Station Eleven” again this past spring. Given current circumstances, it seemed even more relevant than it did when I read it the first two times. Before I began this post, I revisited Bibliography 7 to remind myself of my initial impression of the book and was struck by my closing thought:

Will we create something better the next time? Or will we just want to go home?

Having lived with the threat of COVID-19 for the past six months, I’m afraid I have my answer.

Granted, watching the news is not the best way to feel good about human nature. Too many stories involve vandalized cars bearing out-of-province plates, or claims that mandatory wearing of masks on the bus is a human rights violation, or crowds of young ’uns flagrantly defying the rules meant to keep everyone safe. Fear-and-anger-mongering keeps the media solvent, after all. There is no money in keeping people calm unless you’re in the pharmaceutical industry.

I’m not afraid of the virus, myself. I follow the guidelines and respect the rules, but I’ll tell you, after six months, I’ve had enough. I am done with novelty face masks and working from home. I hate online shopping. I miss bacon cheeseburgers and Vietnamese noodles. I want to expand my bubble and get to know my neighbours. I want to browse in a bookstore. I want to explore my neighbourhood, to become a regular at Guido’s café and share a bench at the park. I want to have a conversation while standing in line. I want to see James Bond at the theatre in November. I want hockey in winter.

Bugger a brave new world. It appears that I want to go home.

But it ain’t over yet. And until it is, there is a line in the novel that resonates each time I read it, a line that encompasses everything about this life and the stage on which it is played. I have carried it with me since the very first reading, and though it hasn’t become a meme (gods forbid it ever does), it surfaces in singular moments.

One morning of late, I stepped onto the balcony after the sprinklers had stopped watering the lawn. It’s a lovely stretch of grass flanked by cedar hedges and dotted with magnolia and apple trees, with flowerbeds and a birdbath where the crows tend to bully the songbirds on a hot day. I’ve seen a raccoon stretching up for a drink, a deer resting in the shade, a squirrel cleaning its fur by wriggling in the dirt. Each of those occasions was a gift, but on this particular morning, the lawn was empty. I stood barefoot in a patch of sun, the floor warm beneath my feet, and I noticed that the tree by the birdbath was glistening. The water from the sprinklers lay thick on the leaves, sparkling like diamonds scattered over the green. It was so beautiful that I fetched the Canon with no hope of capturing the true glory of the shot. I initially called it “jewel tree”, until the line from “Station Eleven” reminded me of the tiny miracles in everyday life if I open my eyes to see them:

This radiant world.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

 

The summer heat has been so intense of late that I’ve been leaving my bedroom window wide open through the night ... for all the good it’s done. I prefer my room on the cool side anyway, but “cool” has not been in the cards for early September. Even with the window cranked as far as it will go, I’ve kicked the covers onto the floor more than once.

It got worse one night earlier this week. I was awakened in the wee hours by the stink of rubbish and old cigarette ashes. My room smelled like a dirty ashtray. Already crabby from the heat, I thought resentfully of the dumpster belonging to the apartment building next door. It sits in their parking lot (the site of many an interesting bang, crash or sneeze depending on the day) and had not, until that moment, made its presence so keenly evident. I promptly determined that the heat and humidity were responsible for elevating the pong and started to steam over having to live with the stench of other people’s refuse. How do communities deal with neighbourly disruptions of the olfactory sort? Was it something our society board could address?

Ugh. Dopey and pissed about it, I buried my head under my quilt and drifted back to fitful sleep in hope that the wind—any wind—might shift and clear out the toxic air before sunrise.

Well, it didn’t. In fact, it was worse when I woke up a few hours later. Crappage. I got up, got dressed, got the bears up (they were cranky, too), then opened the blinds to see a sickly pall lying over the ’hood.

Fog? I thought. In this heat?

Then it dawned on me. It wasn’t fog. It was smoke.

I wandered out to where Ter had just emerged from her vacuum-sealed room. The whole suite smelled like an overstuffed ashtray. “It’s the forest fires in Washington state,” she said when she saw me. We hadn’t realized (or I hadn’t, anyway) that pretty much the entire west coast of America is on fire, but more appalling than the unbridled greed of ravenous flames south of the border was my initial reaction to the news.

Apparently I live in a bubble so dense that the reek of entire towns being burned out and thousands of folks losing their homes is okay if it means it’s not the dumpster next door!

Honestly, Ru, really???

Once I realized how messed up my priorities are, I adjusted them most speedily. Understanding has helped me to accept the ongoing haze and lingering acridity ... but, confidentially, I am still relieved. When I figure out what that says about me as a person, I’ll get back to you.

Social Distance

the bears practicing social distance
(scale in inches: 1 to 12)

At a staff conference last fall, my colleagues and I were put through an exercise about personal space and everyone’s unique comfort zone. Most folks prefer about a six-inch buffer, which, during a conversation with another, works out to about a foot of space between parties.

Except for me.

Part of the exercise was to pair up and have one person walk toward the other. When the walker got too close for comfort, the standee was to put up a hand and say, “Stop.” I got about a foot from my partner before her hand went up (that hand went up a lot faster when I pretended to be angry—but that was a different exercise).

When it was my turn to put up a hand, my partner ended up literally nose to nose with me. She was probably more uncomfortable than I was, and I confess my ease with her proximity was likely due to me knowing her rather than her being a stranger, but I honestly wasn’t that surprised by my non-reaction.

I generally don’t mind people in my space. In my face, yes, but in my space? Not so much. I respect the space of others, but I’m not bothered sitting beside someone on the bus or standing next to someone at a crosswalk. So the practice of social distancing during the COVID outbreak is proving somewhat challenging for me. I thought nothing of sharing an elevator with a guy from the third floor at the office last week – we stood shoulder to shoulder and laughed about my security card’s superpower of accessing more floors than my own, and only after he had deplaned did I realize we had stood less than twelve inches, let alone six feet, from each other.

It’s a curious time for society, all right. I thought we were isolated from each other before COVID-19! And yet, as I remarked to a neighbour not long after this all started, it’s amazing how social humans really are after we’re told we can’t be social anymore.

58

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday, Ru.

With love,

Reclaiming My Optimism

I’ve been so unhappy for so long that it’s become my natural state. Only it’s not my natural state; it’s just the by-product of a particularly rough patch in this glorious gift of human experience. I have also adapted to it, disliking how I feel yet feeling powerless to change it.

Then one day I realized that I can change it. So I stood up and declared, “I am reclaiming my optimism!”

And nothing happened.

Oh, life continued. It may even have improved, though it wasn’t reflected in my mood. A week passed and I was still miserable. When I asked myself why this was, the answer came pretty quickly:

“Reclaim  is a verb, Ru. You have to do something.”

Oh. Yeah.

Darn.

See, when I’m unhappy, I lack motivation. I want things to right themselves while I loaf around in front of the TV or snooze on the sofa or complain to everyone about everything. Why do I have to make myself feel better when it’s not my fault that I feel crappy?

Well, “reclaim” is a verb. If I have the wherewithal to recognize that I am unhappy, and that I dislike being unhappy, it’s up to me to stop being unhappy.

But how?

Good question. Simple answer.

Gratitude.

I know, I know. If someone had said that to me three weeks ago, I’d have barfed on them. Problem is, it’s true. When all else fails, employ gratitude. I dragged out my old “shoot for the moon” journal, the one I started in 2010 where the last entry was dated 2016, and I started logging things for which I am grateful. I wrote every day, focusing on little things when big things continued to overwhelm, and gradually, I began to feel better. Happier. More hopeful. More empowered. More optimistic. More me.

Miracles happen all the time whether or not I see them, so now I look for them. I may only find one in a day, but at least I’m looking! And, just as negativity gains momentum, positivity does the same.

It’s a process, of course, and some days are still a struggle, but spark by spark, I’m pulling myself out of the dark.

Welcome back, Ru.

With love,

Butterflies and Hummingbirds

Apparently, my mother liked to watch hummingbirds. She put sugar water in the feeder on her patio and throughout the spring and summer, the little gaffers showed up in droves to get hyped on empty calories. When my sisters and I cleared out her room last March, a Christmas ornament in the shape of a hummingbird lay on her dresser. It now lies on the end table next to her photo in the Ocean Room. Yes, I pinched it and now, whenever I see a hummingbird, I think of Mum.

When she passed away a year ago this very day, butterflies were everywhere. ’Twas the season, after all – summer had just begun and the world was bright with life in all its vibrant glory. What a magical time she chose in which to make her transition. In many cultures, butterflies and hummingbirds symbolize transformation, whether it’s a massive change in this life or moving from this one to the next. I suppose it’s natural to see significance in a hummingbird hovering outside the window when Mum has been the subject of conversation, or to startle at a butterfly flitting over the lavender bush a heartbeat after she’s crossed my mind. Some might call it coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in our ability to transcend dimensions with a thought. I think of Mum and she is here. I may not see her, I may not even feel her presence ... until I glance through the window and see that tiny bird pausing just long enough to catch my eye and make me wonder.

With love,

Seek and Ye Shall Find

One day Ter spoke to me from the kitchen. “You may have noticed the box of little meat pies in the freezer.”

I hadn’t, so without looking up from my crossword, I replied, “I don’t look on the upper shelf.”

“It’s not on the upper shelf,” she said. “It’s on the lower shelf, with your tea treats.”

Wait a minute. That’s my go-to shelf, where Ziploc bags of cookies, tarts, brownies and muffins are stacked one atop the other. I go in there twice a day, yet I had seen no box of little meat pies.

I finally looked up at her, puzzling. “Under the pizza crust?”

“No,” she said patiently, “on top of the muffins.”

I had taken out a muffin for breakfast the previous day. You would think I’d have noticed a sizeable box of little meat pies, but nope. I hadn’t.

I can’t even say that was a one-off. A week or two earlier, I’d spied a box of apple cinnamon Cheerios next to the box of originals on top of the fridge and asked Ter when she had bought it.

“Two days ago,” she said.

I’d eaten a bowl of originals that morning and not seen the bright green box standing beside the bright yellow one? Really? Really?

If I’m not looking for it, apparently I won’t see it. This applies to more than meat pies and cereal boxes, incidentally. In this era of extreme hyper-sensitivity (hyper-hyper-sensitivity?), eventually someone somewhere will take offense at something you say or do. Some folks are so touchy that they’ll even take offense on behalf of others, without consulting those others, by the way, but merely on the presumption that others might be offended if they knew what had been said or done. The self-appointed PC police go digging for titbits to be offended about, then spread the word. People get upset about things they had no idea existed. Sometimes that’s good. We must be aware of what we can change for the betterment of all. At its worst, however, it’s petty, destructive, frustrating, unproductive, or just plain stupid.

Which brings me to my point:

Taking offense is a choice. If I’m not looking to be offended, insulted or pissed off, chances are I won’t be offended, insulted or pissed off. I admit, personal circumstances can make me more sensitive than usual—being human is a tougher gig than any of us imagined when we signed up for it—but in the long run, the decision to be offended is mine, no matter what the perpetrator’s intent.

Forget ignorance. Oblivion is bliss.

Saved By Zero

I wrapped up the last task of the fiscal year end crazies on Friday. While it’s still high anxiety for the real finance folks at the office, at last it’s over for me.

Thank the gods.

The first three months of the calendar year are the worst three months of the government fiscal. I return to work after Christmas holidays and am thrust headlong into hell. It’s fast, it’s furious, and this year it nearly killed me.

Maybe it’s the non-stop number-crunching. Left Brain is in full control and she is a tyrant. Creativity takes a beating. I can’t write more than a terse email, let alone a philosophical blog post. And laughing is not an option unless it rings with hysteria.

Granted, the past twelve months as a whole were out to destroy me. Not only was my personal life in turmoil, my work life was equally volatile. When I am stressed, I lose myself. I become inflexible. I am resentful and impatient with others. I have spontaneous crying jags. I develop seasonal alcoholic disorder. I crash at nine p.m. though sleep eludes me well into the wee hours, and when I do sleep, my dreams are nightmarish.

I stop being me. I don’t know who I become, but I don’t like her very much. I’m just relieved when she goes away. She started packing at the end of last week, once the last invoices were paid and the quarter reconciled. After the forecast and the final tally zeroed out, I felt Ru come out of hiding.

There’s yet a ton of cleanup in the aftermath, and I don’t just mean at the office. I must also sift through the wreckage and pull out what worked for me when all else worked against me. Amidst the storming were moments worth preserving: gold stars for remembering to breathe, to recalibrate, to take care of myself wherever possible. I also acknowledge the support I had during the worst of it, from Ter, from my wee sister, my friends, and my brilliant colleagues at work. Work, work, work. Yup, Q4 is the absolute worst time of the annual cycle—

—and now that it’s over, I look back and wonder why I was so fraught. Nobody died. Nobody was at risk. Everything got done, and if it didn’t, oh, well.

Will it happen again in 2020? Probably … but I have nine months to sharpen my coping skills!

Giving Up for Lent

I’m learning that being better and being different are not the same thing. I can choose to be better than I am, but I cannot make myself be different from what I am.

What I am is, as you are, human.

When Spirit Ru ordered her compostable container for this go-round, she chose the Virgo options package—the gory details available in any astrological writing, but the best description I’ve found being in The Secret Language of Birthdays by Gary Goldschneider and Joost Elffers. While reading the profile of those born on September 2, I wondered how two complete strangers could possibly have nailed every facet of my personality. At my mortal worst, I can be fussy, judgemental, cynical, moody, unyielding and/or explosive. Not pretty.

I can also be generous, compassionate, loving, fair and authentic. The pros might make a shorter list than the cons, but the items indicated on the former weigh more than those on the latter. (My story and I’m sticking to it). I suspect most of the pros came with me from Before. The real challenge lies in mastering my dark side. I can be brutally intolerant, and authenticity is not always a positive trait. Staying on top of my human is truly a practice and some days are doomed. I am especially harsh at fiscal year end, when the stress of balancing the books at work chisels away at my sense of humour, not to mention my patience and normally egalitarian nature.

So, for Lent this year, I thought I’d try to dial it back a bit. Despite neither of us being Catholic, Ter has been studying up on it, and her research suggested that, rather than giving up something like sugar or cigarettes, why not try to be better at something like, say, forgiveness? What a great idea! Don’t make it a sacrificial, negative thing. Put a positive spin on it and improve in a more spiritual way. I can do this, I thought, especially since I’m already working on being more Zen!

Alas, by 7:45 a.m. on Ash Wednesday, Ter had said to me, “There you go again,” three times.

Then I arrived at work. During our mid-morning check in, I burst out ranting about some hare-brained new policy and she said, “There you go again.”

D-oh! Recalibrating ...

I realized something in the following few days. Good bad or indifferent, Virgo Ru is apparently here to stay. I can practice improving on my human, but I will not be able to change it. Nor should I; it’s part of what I am, if not who, and the beauty of this life lies in its flexibility. Every day is a fresh start. The day before doesn’t count and tomorrow doesn’t matter. I’ll never be different from what I am, but by being more mindful, I can be better than I am.

Wish me luck.

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 Year of Being Human

Twelve months ago, Ter and I stood in our kitchen and proclaimed 2018 “the Year of Transition and Change”. She was on the cusp of committing to retire from the public service, my job had settled down after a major shift in program staff, my wee sis and I were planning to visit our brother on Prince Edward Island. There was some concern over a nodule in Mum’s forearm, but the experts were confident—as was she—that it would amount to naught. In all, the new year seemed full of promise and adventure, and we were ready to tackle all the good things we envisioned.

Perhaps we should have been more specific. Perhaps we should have proclaimed 2018 as a year of positive transition and change.

Ter’s intention to cruise into retirement went south when she was called to be shop steward in an ugly harassment case. I lost my office and was moved into a shared space when branch staff expanded beyond the eighth floor’s capacity. Though Mum’s radiation treatment appeared to be a success in February, after a couple of months of normal, she fell ill and died four weeks after Ter’s last day at work. Wee sis and I cancelled our trip to PEI—she had injured her back while helping Dad care for Mum, and quite frankly, the shock was so overwhelming that we reeled through the summer and well into the fall. That’s when our landlord let us know she was thinking to sell the suite. Ter tweaked a muscle in her neck at Thanksgiving and was laid up into November. The Tiguan went into the shop for an expensive overnight service—twice. The postal dispute threatened Christmas delivery of cards and parcels ... and I’m sure I’ve forgotten something in the continuous monsoon of WTF? we endured throughout 2018, but that’s the gist of our Year of Transition and Change.

Keeping the faith was pretty darned challenging during the past twelve months. It’s easy to believe in a loving friendly and generous Universe when all is going smoothly. The tricky part is seeing the light in darkness. The majority of 2018 was, for me, a battle against a pervading sense of loss. Every night, I struggled to maintain my belief in being loved by a higher power, to trust that things happen for a reason, when they are meant to happen, and to know the rest of my life will not be spent gaping into a black hole. The gauge on my power of positivity has hovered perilously close to empty at times. I have cried more in the past months than I have in past years. I have raged at the heavens and thrown up my hands. I have stormed and begged and dug deep to get through the past turbulent, tumultuous, unexpectedly tragic fifty-two weeks.

And yet I have seen miracles. Small ones, to be sure, but miracles nonetheless. I will always remember the preternatural brilliance of the day after my mother died; how sharply defined and brilliantly hued the world appeared through the Ocean Room window. I will cherish forever the kindness and support I was shown by my friends and co-workers, people who rarely see me vulnerable yet rose to the occasion when I could not help myself. Christmas presents appeared from nowhere at the last minute, as did emails from loved ones after long silences. And others, too numerous to name. Feeling my mother’s presence in the room. Ter’s parking karma. Being able to pay cash for Tiggy’s repairs. Having a beautiful place to call home. Laughing with my office roomie, then going for tea with her because we like each other enough to be more than workmates. Hugging my little sister. The list goes on.

Though I almost lost it more than once, I managed to keep my grip on the thread that binds me to divinity. I still believe in something greater than myself, that all-encompassing presence that some call God. In truth, I’m no longer sure what to call it. I just know it’s there, that I am part of it and it is part of me—and of everyone else who is, who was, and who will be. For me, 2018 was all about the human experience and it truly sucked ... but I survived. I’m not through it yet, of course. The calendar doesn’t control time, it merely marks it. By all counts, I am only halfway through the process of reconciling myself to the tectonic changes that occurred in the past twelve months, so the drama ain’t over yet. I am relieved to say, however, that the light is more evident now than it was even three months ago.

It occurred to me on Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year, that miracles are like stars strewn across a midnight sky:

The longer you spend staring up at them, the more begin to appear, and soon the entire night is bright with light.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Happy New Year.

With love,

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,

Thanks for Nothing

This Thanksgiving weekend, I am grateful for the impermanent nature of reality.

Didn’t see that coming, did you? Neither did I. Looking back through the blog log, I haven’t always posted about Thanksgiving on the second Monday in October, and I was disinclined to write about it this year, too. After all 2018 has put me through, gratitude, despite being the fundamental concept of my path to happiness, has been hard to come by.

Which doesn’t explain why I felt compelled to write about it anyway. I resisted at first, stubbornly loyal to my sentiment that life has sucked since last spring. True, I have seen glimmers of light in the overarching darkness—I can’t not see them, given my equally stubborn loyalty to understanding contrast—but how blatantly cock-eyed does this optimist want to be? As a cherished colleague recently observed, “ ‘Committed’ has two meanings.”

My gratitude list always starts with Ter. She’s the rock in my life. Batman to my Robin. The yin to my yang. My cool inspector, armchair therapist, sounding board, heavy lifter and nutrition coach. From her, one thing leads to another and my list gets longer almost by itself. Family, friends, co-workers, abundance, prosperity, health, creativity, yaddayaddayadda ...

Though I remain deeply grateful for everything on it, today that list feels more like a rote recitation than a genuine expression of thanks. So when my little voice urged me to write something specifically for Thanksgiving, my first response was, Forget it; I’ve got nothing new to say.

Nothing new? Really? Maybe you should ponder that more closely, Ru.

So I did. I gave it some serious consideration, and this is what I came up with:

I am grateful for the impermanent nature of reality. To be clear, of this reality.

Everything in this 3-D world is temporary. Everything. Our homes, our jobs, our money, our families, even our compostable containers—everything we think we own can be gone in a heartbeat. Be it by fire, flood, divorce, disease, crooked accountants, you name it, there are no guarantees. None. Zero, zip, zilch. And you know what? There aren’t meant to be. It’s strangely liberating to realize that no matter what happens, you can overcome it. You may not think you can (alas, too many people don’t), but humans are resilient, resourceful, and more adaptable than they’re taught to believe.

Coincidentally, even as our possessions are temporary, so are the less tangible things. Like heartache. Like grief. Like sorrow. Even happiness is fleeting, so best to embrace it while it’s here. This very moment is already over, never to return, and don’t look back at it else you’ll miss the one you’re in and the next one will be in your face before you’re ready. It might be the most joyous moment in living memory, or it might bring physical pain like you’ve never imagined. Whatever it brings, the moment and everything in it will surely pass. It has to. While time is relative, it’s also perpetually in motion. We’re always moving forward, back to where we came from, where the only thing that does matter, the only thing that does last forever, is love.

We are spiritual beings having a human experience. I admit, Spirit Ru has not liked the human part of this gig one whit of late, but everything I have endured, everything I have lost (or thought I’ve lost), has brought me to the point where I can honestly say how grateful I am that nothing here is permanent. Live the moment. Good, bad or indifferent, it will not last forever—and in the end, the one thing we take with us is the one thing we brought when we were born:

Ourselves.

With love (and gratitude),

What’s in a Brain?

Not only is my chiropractor enthralled by my crooked spine, he’s a great audience. I’m guaranteed to get a laugh every time I see him. He’s also a sports therapist, so I like to ask him random questions when I’ve been pondering the unique oddities of my compostable container. I’m so strangely wired, in fact, that sometimes we both learn something.

Lately I’ve had problems with my teeth aching, but rather than going to the dentist like a normal person, I decided it was a nerve issue better addressed by chiro—and I was right. A couple of visits and some postural instruction later, and my teeth are quiet again. It also got me thinking about my nervous system. So I asked him:

“All our nerves are contained in the spinal cord, right?”

“Yes,” he said, “except for seventeen facial nerves. (He knew this because my teeth quandary had sent him back to the manual; boy, we had a laugh about that!) Everything else runs through the third and fourth cervical vertebrae via the spinal cord.”

Now was the time to spring my logic on him, but not before I got his expert take on the subject. “So, where does it start?”

“In the brain.”

So much for logic. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “I thought it started at the base of the spine and spread upward, like a tulip bulb!”

He thought this was hilarious. “No, no. The nervous system starts at the brain and continues from the base of the spine into your legs and feet. I’m surprised at you, Ruth. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it shows how much I value my brain!”

I’m really more of a heart person.

Fast forward to the ancient Egypt exhibit at the Royal BC Museum.  It’s a fabulous meander through life on the Nile in the time of the pharaohs, spanning everything from geography to society to the afterlife. I’ve read a bit about the ancient culture and the rituals around mummification, but the exhibit taught me a few things I hadn’t previously known about the process of prepping the body. I knew the internal organs were removed and given their own individual jars—lungs, liver, stomach and intestines—but I didn’t know (or remember) the heart was replaced in the chest cavity and (get this) the brain was discarded. Turns out you don’t need it in the afterlife!

It’s not that important in this life, either, no matter how hard it tries to convince you otherwise. It doesn’t house your soul. It’s the mortal version of Windows: it keeps the compostable container alive, but it doesn’t know a darned thing about life.

Well, maybe it knows enough to fear dying. It runs the machine and houses the self-preservation software. It’s also got an impressive array of tricks to keep us believing it’s smarter than it really is. As the comic Emo Phillips once said, “I thought the brain was the most important organ in my body. Then I realized who was telling me that.”

Sure, when faced with imminent danger, the fight/flight response kicks in, but the brain is part of the standard mortality package that includes motor skills and bladder control. I suppose the intellect resides in the brain as well, as intellect lacks compassion for anything and anyone save itself. Intellect ridicules compassion and empathy. It sneers at getting by on what you need rather than raking in the lion’s share. It’s all about survival of the fittest—but not necessarily the smartest. It believes what it’s told (sort of) and makes up what it doesn’t hear the first time. To its credit, the brain is a good storyteller—the writer in me likes that point—but it does tend to focus on horror rather than hope, keeping itself relevant in the guise of keeping us safe.

I could go on, but I’m not a neuroscientist. I don’t even play one on TV. I do know, however, that my heart is far smarter than my brain will ever be. I suspect this is because my heart houses the innate wisdom of spirit, that which connects me to each of you and to the greater source of All There Is. What resides in my heart is truly eternal, limitless, immortal and divine. What resides in my brain is temporary, transient, subjective and useful only until I reach my carbon-based expiry date. It is utterly fallible, and utterly human. It provides the contrast our spirits need to help us experience this phase of existence. It’s not as smart as it is shifty, but if I’m going to be a true creature of spirit, I will be glad of my brain for as long as I am here. It serves a significant purpose, after all, but let’s get real.

I won’t need it in the afterlife.