100 Things

Thanks for the photo, Beanie!

Not only was I inspired to pinch this picture from Nicole’s recent post at The Paper Teapot, I was prompted to follow her example and list one hundred things I love. She took the challenge from Julia Cameron’s “The Right to Write”, a creative manual I have not acquired myself, but then I’ve always appreciated others doing the reading for me.

Nic was right about this—once you start, it’s hard to stop. So here goes, in no particular order (except the top three) and in no way the limit of things that give me joy:

1.             Ter

2.            My family

3.            My friends

4.            Chocolate

5.            Vampires

6.            “A Song of Ice and Fire” (the books, not the TV series)

7.            Sitting at the ocean

8.           French fries

9.            Bass players

10.        Fast cars

11.         Movies about writers

12.        19^th century Paris

13.        Puppies

14.        Bailey’s Original

15.         Flâneries

16.        Duran Duran

17.         Warming spices

18.        Laughing

19.        Making other people laugh

20.       Summer rain

21.        Winter storms

22.       Documentaries about royalty

23.       Charles II of England

24.       Chrome (not the browser)

25.        The rumble of a muscle car’s engine

26.       Smooth jazz

27.        Fridays

28.       Lavender

29.       Extra-foamy tea lattes

30.       My CD collection

31.        Family photos

32.       Horses

33.       James Tiberius Kirk

34.       Stretching

35.        Candlelight

36.       Costume dramas

37.        Singing along

38.       Going for tea

39.       Shawls

40.       Teddy bears

41.        Bacon cheeseburgers

42.       Watching the sunrise

43.       Christmas

44.       The first page of a new read

45.        White roses

46.       Reminiscing

47.        Soft ice cream

48.       Finishing a writing project

49.       Starting a writing project

50.       Classic Mustangs

51.         Watching snow fall

52.        Hot showers

53.        Afternoon naps

54.        Baking cookies

55.        Solitude

56.        Michael York

57.        Going barefoot

58.       Art Deco

59.        Long necklaces

60.       Rhubarb crumble with custard

61.        Turkey stuffing

62.       Cashmere

63.       Birthday presents

64.       Cheesecake

65.        Fuzzy socks

66.       Hockey

67.        Canada

68.       Hugs (giving and getting)

69.       “The Night Circus”

70.       Telling people how wonderful they are

71.         Embracing my age

72.        Philosophical debates

73.        Long drives

74.        Night skies

75.        Def Leppard

76.        Museums

77.        Colouring

78.       Brownies

79.        Main streets in little villages

80.      Breakfast for dinner

81.        Full skirts

82.       Morning fog

83.       Kids playing street hockey

84.       Lying on the couch listening to music

85.       Massages

86.       The wind blowing through me

87.       Peppermint

88.      Crossword puzzles

89.       Lazy Sundays

90.       The sun on my skin

91.        Classic rock

92.       Sharpies

93.       Getting my hair done

94.       Making gratitude lists

95.        Bedtime

96.       Bookstores

97.        Jaguar X-types

98.       Flying

99.       Dreaming

100.   Being alive ...

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,

What If?

I have a cold. A monster cold, in fact, and it’s making me really crabby ... when I’m not lying on the couch feeling sorry for myself, that is. I have no energy, no interest, and no will to live. I can’t meditate through the brain fog. Thinking only worsens my congestion headache. All I want are green grapes and a full night’s sleep.

When I’m sick, I hate everything about this mortality gig. My Zen patience and good humour are as if they never existed (proof that it’s easier to keep the faith in good times than in challenging ones). And time? Time slows to an interminable crawl punctuated by the death rattle as I struggle to inhale through a perpetually stuffy nose.

Screw the self-healing and herbal remedies. Give me Benylin!

During one of my darker funks this week, I gave my mind its head. Generally, I try to contain it, but this time, I let it go, partly to see where it would go on its own, and partly because I didn’t care to stop it. I felt like crap. Fighting the good mental fight would take too much effort, so for a few indifferent moments, I dropped my deflectors and in poured the darkness.

What if it’s all a grand cosmic joke? What if we are, as Boy Sister likes to say, a failed lab experiment? What if there is no divine connection? What if the universe isn’t friendly and no one is listening? What if there is no plan, no path, and no learning? What if there are no past or parallel lives? What if there’s no future, no light at the end of the tunnel?

In short, what if there’s no point?

Well, shoot. Having hit bottom, I lay there for a minute and contemplated the void. What if, indeed? Is “nothing” something to fear? Does “nothing” validate the bad behaviour and brutal violence we inflict on each other every day? Conversely, does “nothing” devalue the beauty of a horse in full flight or the joy in a child’s laughter?

Okay, I thought, there may be no more to life than what I have now ... so why not be happy? Even if it makes no difference to the outcome, it’ll certainly make a difference to the moments I have. There is nothing to lose by choosing joy.

And assuming I survive this frigging cold, I plan to choose it forthwith!

Naughty Santa and Captain Underpants

Decorating for Christmas is almost as much fun as Christmas itself. Pulling the Rubbermaid bins from the closet and unwrapping the crumpled tissue within can unleash a joy that obliterates anything imagined by the Big Eastern Syndicate.

The best part is reconnecting with the memories. Almost every item in our holiday collection inspires laughter and a gleeful, “Do you remember …?”

Case in point: Naughty Santa and Captain Underpants. Photos printed off the internet and slipped into frames from the dollar store, it just ain’t Christmas without them.

Truly, I don’t recall exactly when Naughty Santa was conceived, though the shot of John Taylor wearing a Santa hat and tilting that eyebrow the way only he can was a goofball sock stuffer, one of those off-the-cuff trinkets designed to get a giggle on Christmas morning. I put it together for Ter near the end of our tenure at Rockland, and while she loved it on sight, she retaliated with a vengeance a few years later.

2011 was the worst Christmas of my entire life. What had begun as a fresh start in a new residence had blown up three months into our lease and suddenly our treasured Yuletide celebration became an ordeal to be endured. We did the best we could, but by the morning of December 25, we were going through the motions. The only gift I remember from that darkest of holidays was the helpless laughter that erupted when I ripped off the wrapping to reveal a photo of my hormonal hockey crush, posing proudly in his Calvins. I screamed, I laughed, I cried, and I will love Ter forever for giving me that moment of unbridled joy when I had thought I’d never laugh again.

That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

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,

Retreat Into Art

Poetry. Cake decorating. Architecture. Painting. Metalwork. Jewelry. Quilting. Photography. Everyone can do something artistic. People say to me, “I could never write a book.” To which I say, “You can do something else.” (And I guarantee it’ll be something that I can’t.)

At coffee with my wee sister one day, I told her about the card I was making for our younger older brother’s birthday. At that stage, I’d not yet decided on a drawing, so I said to her, “If you get an idea, let me know.”

She kinda smirked and replied, “I’m not that creative.”

Wrong-o, kid. I reminded her of her flair for interior design (she has a great eye for colour) and the garden she used to keep in bloom throughout the seasons. She thought for a second, then said, “I liked to plant things to see what they’d look like, or if I could keep them alive.” Which she usually could. She likes to paint walls, too, if she could do so uninterrupted. She has kids and critters and a job, so her creativity goes unrecognized, but it’s there. Every one of my siblings has some creative ability whether or not they realize it, and we all share warmth, wit and wonderful parents. Dad is an artist/writer/dreamer; Mum is a gift unto herself, but was always baking, knitting, or sewing, and loved to play her piano while she raised her kids.

Making time for creativity is the trick. In an über-busy world, too few of us earn a living from our passion. Creativity is notorious for producing poor to no income, but that’s what hobbies are for. The lucky ones make it their reality. The rest of us make it our escape from reality. Either way, how dare anyone claim that art is expendable! Without art, there is no life, no will, no courage, no joy … no point.

Just sayin’.

Where 'Ere You Find It

Downton Abbey, series 4, episode 8: Lady Edith Crawley laments to her grandmother, “Sometimes I think God doesn’t want me to be happy.” To which the Dowager Countess of Grantham replies with something along the lines of, “Life is full of challenges. One is resolved, then another … and another … and … and why don’t you fetch us some ice cream?”

I confess, I often want to smack Lady Edith. Ter admonishes me to be more forgiving and to consider the time in which the Crawleys live. Edith is clearly a misfit in Edwardian society, a culture where a woman’s worth is based on how good a marriage she makes. She’s a misfit in her own family, as well—the homely middle daughter outshone by her beautiful older sister (who is mean as a junkyard dog with her) and eclipsed by her charismatic younger sister (who, unfortunately, died in season 3). She may also be the smartest of the three, the one who strikes out on her own to write a weekly newspaper column and even—gasp!—has a fling with a married man, but because every “normal” move she makes blows up in her face, she is an object of pity and self-loathing. Playing by society’s rules hasn’t worked for her, so, naturally, she is a sullen, self-pitying presence in the drawing room and is surely justified in suspecting that God is out to get her.

She couldn’t be more wrong.

God, by whichever name applies, wants everyone to be happy. God, however, is not responsible for whether or not we are happy. That’s our part of the bargain. And while life is designed to push us beyond our comfort zone, it also provides for joy. Even in our darkest moments, joy can be found. It doesn’t have to last long; just enough to help us forget our moment of misery and emerge a little bit stronger for having had the break.

Sometimes I think that the more we have, the more we expect from happiness—and the less likely we are to get it, because happiness is a soul thing and we seek it through our egos. Don’t get me wrong, I love “stuff”. I love coloured pencils and hardcover books and shiny earrings and fast cars and cool shoes, and who doesn’t love chocolate??? but acquiring stuff is like eating too much sugar: it only whets your appetite and leaves you sick and unsatisfied.

Joy is found in experience rather than stuff. Hearing a child’s laughter. Holding a warm mug of tea in your cold hands. Listening to the ocean’s heartbeat. Watching the Flyers even if they’re losing the &*^%ing game. Thinking fondly of someone you love. Trusting that the someone will sense that thought and feel better for it.

Knowing that you, too, are loved.

Rather than smacking her, now I wish Lady Edith would bust out and tip the world on its ear. If she does, however, her life won’t get any easier. She may not be any happier, either. But if she chooses to look for it, she will find joy.

And so will you.

With love,

Acceptance

This moment sucks. So how do I find joy in it? How do I drum up enthusiasm for the relentless pounding behind my left eye?

I don’t. I take Tylenol and a nap, and hope that it’s better when I wake.

It isn’t. In fact, it might be worse. It’s one of those hormonally-based migraines that last thirty-six hours and peak at 5 on the Richter scale. Not enough to make me barf, but enough to make being awake unpleasant. It also gets me to thinking about the downside of being present. There are some moments where I’d rather be anywhere else but where I am, when hearing a cheerful “be here now” is less likely to make me grateful than it is to make me a murder suspect.

One of the principles admonished by spiritual guru/philosopher/consciously-aware smart guy Eckhart Tolle is a threefold number that can be applied to every crappy moment/event/situation in life:

If you can change it, do so.

If you can remove yourself from it, do so.

If you can do neither of the first two things, accept it. Accept that the moment sucks and accept that it will pass. Good, bad or indifferent, no moment lasts forever. Perhaps the most helpful thing you can do in a so-called helpless situation is allow yourself to feel ripped off – denying fear of a root canal or anger with an executive decision will only make it worse. Don’t dwell on it, but don’t deny it, either. Accept how you feel and move on. You may feel better for it – I certainly do. I cannot change when the Flyers are losing a game. I can quit watching, or I can accept it and be happy that I’m watching them at all. That’s the other thing Professor Ekkles has done. He’s broken acceptance into further opportunities for presence. Once you accept the moment. you can:

Be enthusiastic; and/or

Find joy; and/or

If you can do neither of these things, then acceptance will have to do. Ironically, it takes more strength to stop resisting than it does to resist, but accepting what you cannot change can actually empower you. Letting go is liberating.

Back to the thirty-six hour migraine. When the Tylenol/nap attack fails, I do what I can to live with it. My ridiculously-priced green tea is always comforting, so I brew a tumbler and cradle it in my hands, sipping slowly and savouring the sweet grassy flavour. I compose this post, squinting at the computer screen as I collect my thoughts. I talk at Ter, who is having a day herself; we don’t complain, but we bolster each other through our respective sucky moments, finally admitting out loud that “it is what it is” and moving on despite the lure of continuing to whine.

And then, as it always does, the thirty-seventh hour arrives.