Farewell, Old Friend

It’s time to admit that Comfortable Rebellion’s time has passed. This blog began in 2013 as an exercise to stretch my creativity and share some personal philosophies as well as the occasional anecdote from my past, present and … well, obviously not my future. No one could have predicted how the world, and my world within it, would change.

But change it did – and drastically. So much so that I couldn’t keep up, thus what had once been regular, then semi-regular, then occasional posts dwindled to a handful whenever I felt strong enough to try again.

Turns out I’ve changed as well. For one thing, I’m older. An elder, since my parents have passed on, though I’m still blessed with four loved and loving siblings. I’m retired from thirty-plus years in the BC public service, a career that no one expected I’d be able to have when my arthritis was diagnosed at the age of fourteen. Life is good – especially as things seem to have settled in the wake of seven years’ WTF?

What hasn’t changed is my passion. I am still creating. Writing, dreaming, philosophizing … and trying to be a positive force in this increasingly negative world. Rebooting the Rebellion seemed like a natural step in continuing to serve that passion.

Alas, though I enjoyed writing for it, the blog itself has lost its enthusiasm. I regret nothing posted here and have no intention of deleting any of it, but it’s tired. Attempting to reboot yet again can only result in another false start because the Rebellion is done.

Sometimes you have to let go of something old to make room for something new. An updated version is in development and coming soon to a URL near you.

Call it “Comfortable Rebellion 2.0”.

I hope to see you in the next round.

With love,

Fresh Start

Last year I decided I wanted to live in Sidney. A lot of change was happening at the time – I had also decided to retire and moving from Esquimalt was becoming imperative (but that’s another post). I wanted to start my new life in a new home in a new community where my old routine had never been and therefore establishing a new one would be easier. I envisioned a slower pace, taking long walks along the water, hanging out at a café with a chai and my book or journal or card tag, baking cookies, rebooting my library card … Basically letting life happen at my speed rather than struggling to keep up with it.

Sidney seemed a perfect choice. It was different without being unfamiliar, close enough to town without being in town and far enough from town to be somewhere else. The “somewhere else” is key.

Turns out I actually wanted to escape. I wanted to put distance between me and my past life, which was a good life but a demanding one. I was buckling under the stress of carrying on with limited Ru time – my self-care practices were aimed solely at surviving and, as Star Trek TNG noted, “survival is insufficient.” Retiring from the public service was one thing, but I also felt the pressure of staying in touch when I really wanted to go dark.

And Ter and I absolutely had to get out of our living situation. She was at her wits’ end coping with the troll above us and I was losing my mind trying to compensate. But that’s another post. Maybe.

Decision made, we proceeded to scout possibilities in Sidney. Weekend road trips were inconclusive. If we were looking for a definitive yea or nay from the Universe, it wasn’t coming. Vacancies were scarce and the rents as ridiculous as they are in town. We had a few pleasant visits – it’s a tourist town and folks are friendlier than in Victoria, plus the bakeries are notoriously good – but as the summer wore on, it seemed less and less plausible that we’d find a place to call home.

Then, waking up one Friday morning, in the 17 seconds of neutral space before my mind kicked in, I distinctly heard the words “Oak Bay.” Oak Bay? Yeah, right. Oak Bay is the one part of town we couldn’t afford and therefore hadn’t considered when discussing possibilities. Yes, we love the area. It was a favourite haunt when we were at Rockland and in Fairfield, but it’s Oak-frigging-Bay. Land of the whining rich, the privileged few, the upper tax bracket. It wasn’t, well, possible.

But the Universe knows better than I do, and I know enough to pay attention when I think I hear something. I also know to bounce these things off Ter before I dismiss them. So I mentioned this to her, whereupon she confessed she was okay with Sidney but would really rather stay in town. In fact, she’d become more nostalgic about the area since we – I – had decided to leave it. That was my second hint.

The following Monday I started looking and immediately saw a listing for a 2-bedroom flat in Oak Bay that we could actually afford. It was an older building, circa 1969, and we’ve always shied from cookie-cutter situations, but I told Ter about it anyway, figuring she’d dismiss it sight unseen.

She didn’t. In fact, her little voice warned against dismissing it. Long story short, after a series of minor miracles that propelled us forward, we arranged a viewing, went to see it and signed a lease the next week. We moved in on June 12, six months to the day from my last day at work in December, and while it doesn’t really look like what we envisioned, it certainly feels like it. There is no doubt it’s where we are meant to be. In fact, it recently occurred to me that it is exactly what I asked for: north and east facing, lots of light, right on the main drag, walking distance to everything … pretty much what I imagined in Sidney, only not in Sidney.

It's home.

64

 

It doesn’t feel like it looks. It doesn’t look like it feels, either. I wonder what the Beatles envisioned when they wrote “When I’m 64.” I wonder what the next generation sees when they look at me. Do I look like an old lady?

I’ve joked about having the body of a 70-year-old for most of my life but my face is catching up. It’s not there yet – I’m only 64 – but now I get what Mum meant when she said she’d wake up feeling 28 and “get an awfy surprise” when she looked in the mirror. I suspect it depended on the day: some days I feel pretty good and look it, but if I’m stressed or tired, yup, it shows. “More wrinkly about the face,” as the Leppard King once put it. Meh. It happens to everyone and I’d rather age out gracefully than bolt for the Botox and end up looking like Barbie with a turkey neck. I’ve always said I don’t care what it looks like so long as it works, and bless the old bones, my compostable container is hanging in there. She’s all stock except for two finger joints and her back teeth. She still has the extraneous parts like tonsils, gall bladder and appendix. She’s even got me through menopause without help. It’s been a fun ride for sure, but at least I’ve avoided the side effects. 

So, here I am. 64 and counting. Since this time last year, I have officially retired and am on a fixed income. I have a part time gig managing the social media posts for a local author who happens to be the same boss I had when I wrangled numbers for a living. Ter and I are back on the east side of the bridge and happy as clams in our new/old ’hood. Life is finally moving at a pace I can match, and if I happen to wake up feeling less motivated than usual, I am free to spend a day on the couch with a book and a bag of chips. I gotta admit, it’s pretty darned sweet. 

My trippy hippy attitude has taken a beating but through it all, I acknowledge the Universe’s assistance in providing everything I needed – and need – to keep going. Life is not meant to be easy and trust me, it hasn’t been easy since 2018. I’m not whining, I’m just speaking my truth. I’m not alone in the struggle to make sense of it all, to overcome the obstacles and find ways to maintain some sort of balance in this increasingly unbalanced world. Everyone struggles. We have different challenges, of course, none more or less than anyone else’s – it’s relative. On the night before my surgery to replace those two finger joints, I recall my dad telling me it wasn’t that big a deal compared to other people’s lives. I replied, “Maybe so, but it’s the biggest thing in my life right now.” The wisdom of an eighteen-year-old, perhaps, but the sentiment holds true considering how no one is given more than they can handle. I can handle a lot – but could I handle living in a war zone or an abusive relationship? Could I endure not having “enough” – food, shelter, income, etc.? I’m singularly grateful that the Universe thinks not! 

I hope it continues to think that way. I kinda feel like it might, for a while anyway. It’s strange. I’m on the threshold of a whole new phase in life and unsure how to manage it. I’m excited to embrace whatever comes, trusting as ever that I will be sustained through whatever awaits, but I dunno. When I was younger, I figured when I reached this age I’d have seen it all. Now I’m here and it feels like I haven’t seen anything! 

Well, as my favourite Bachman-Turner Overdrive song says, “Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet!” 

Happy birthday, Ru. With love,

62

 

This was a better year, in many ways, than the last. Personally, anyway. The world beyond my window is generally peaceful, though I feel the weighty energy of a greater world gone mad and the good people in it buckling beneath the strain. I have to turn that off, sometimes. If I don’t, I get edgy and contrary—not my natural state despite the hardwiring of my mortal form.

I realized this morning that I need regular exposure to nature. Sitting by the ocean, walking through the woods, even a stroll up the main drag to see what’s happening in the metaphoric village square, will calm my mind and bring me back to centre. My qigong and yoga practices are critical as well, since they keep me mobile and build strength. I’ve improved in that regard over the past twelve months. (Let’s ignore the flare in my left foot that stalled my progress during the past two weeks—augh!) My immune system has settled after last summer’s disaster of the covid vaccine response. I can almost claim to be normal again, assuming my recall is accurate. Weight is improving, mobility is improving, mental state is good if I stay in the moment and don’t let my head get, well, ahead.

Which reminds me of the sarky remark the Father of my Unborn Children made when filling out a stupid rock star survey in the mid-80’s: “If you want to get ahead, get a hat.”

My writing is still on the mend. I’m not nearly as prolific as I once was—I completed one short story this summer, but aside from a few errant stabs at a longtime work in progress, I’m more interested in reading than writing these days. I’ve rebooted my library card. It saves shelf space at home, and I can explore a multitude of genres without blowing my allowance on misfires. That said, I’ve downloaded some dandies to my Kindle in the past year. The best was “The Book Eaters” by Sunyi Dean, with Cornelia Funke’s “Inkheart” running a close second. Great fantasy works both, each fantabulous in its own way. Right now I’m on the second of Alison Weir’s “Six Wives of Henry VIII” series; I’ll always be a sucker for historical fiction, particularly stories set in Tudor and Stuart England. I’ve got pieces of my own Charles II story yet to be woven together. I’ll finish it eventually. Maybe when I’m retired?

That won’t be for a while yet. I still enjoy my job and the people I work with; I’m now at the office three days a week, to give Ter home space and me a change of scene. I get more work done on my two home office days, so it works out. The extra office day was added earlier this summer as an experiment to see how I held up physically. I did so well that it’s a regular thing now. Next plan is to take the community limo twice a week; I dislike hauling the gov’t laptop on public transit so Ter drives me in and home on occasions when I’m carrying it.

My outlook hasn’t changed all that much, despite having to monitor my tendency to become a recluse. I still believe implicitly in a loving, friendly and generous Universe that works in my best interest even when I’m going “Uni, WTF??” Like attracts like, so I try to remain positive where possible ... but thank the gods that hockey season is on the horizon—I can use my naughty words without compromising my everyday principles.

I never tire of living; I just get tired of life, sometimes. When I feel that darkness start to creep in, I turn off the news and go to the beach.

It’s a good life. I am grateful to be in it. I love my people and especially my Ter. Miracles abound, big and small; even the tiny ones appear when I look for them. It’s not always good, but it’s all good, if you know what I mean.

Happy birthday, Ru. With love,

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.”

State Funeral

 

I thought I would be more emotional during the Queen’s funeral. I was up at 2:00 a.m. to catch the start of the proceedings – mostly people arriving at the Abbey ahead of the service – and hung in there until 6:00 a.m., when the Queen’s motorcade crept out of London en route to Windsor. The procession from Westminster to Wellington Arch was gruelling – and I wasn’t even following on foot! Given the time between the funeral and the committal service, I figured I could grab a nap and be awake for the final stages at St George’s Chapel.

Nope. I slept past it; again, thank the gods for Youtube.

Ten days is a long time. At this point, I was more aggrieved for the royal family, especially the King and his siblings, for having to march in line behind the coffin once more. Of course it’s to honour their mother as much as the late monarch and I would have wanted to do the same, but oh, my, the miles they have trudged in Her Majesty’s wake. And, I dare say, at their ages. I can only imagine their relief that all is finally over. Closure has occurred, the second Elizabethan Era is ended and a new reign begins.

Shouldn’t something have changed? The world feels the same. The sun rose this morning, autumn is still scheduled for the end of this week, the war is still on in Ukraine. I imagined that her death would somehow mirror my own mother’s passing, when my surroundings took on a stunning new brilliance I hadn’t seen before. The royal Elizabeth was as important as mine, yet despite ten days of mourning, with four spent lying-in-state, now that it’s done, it’s done. There might be some global follow up in the next couple of days, but guaranteed the focus outside the UK will soon enough revert to the usual business of “suffering and greed, here today, forgot tomorrow”.

As for me, it’s back to walking my own path, being the best I can be in any given moment – but remembering Her Majesty’s example, which was really not dissimilar to what my mother taught me about treating others with kindness and respect. I’m grateful to have witnessed these massive moments in history. I have been touched through the connection that binds me to every living soul, uniting us in grief and sympathy for the loss of an exceptional person. Perhaps I can’t foresee a difference to my life in the aftermath ... yet there will be unexpected moments when I am reminded of the change in this country’s hierarchy. It may be a tiny thing, like a filing a chargeback from the King’s Printer when a month ago I was filing them from the Queen’s Printer, or something more poignant, like watching the King’s Christmas message when it used to be given by the Queen, but I will have those moments and then I’ll know.

Actually, I kind of know already. When someone passes on, whether famous or family, everything changes. We just don’t always recognize it.

With love,

Perfectly Imperfect

 

Last week I learned that “baroque” stems from the Portugese word meaning “imperfect pearl”. In the show I was watching, the pristine sphere of a cultivated pearl was displayed alongside a spludge of matching iridescence but woefully irregular shape.

If you think about it, life is very much like a baroque pearl. We’re oysters struggling to produce a flawless result. We strive for perfection in everything, yet achieve it in almost nothing.

Does that negate the struggle? Is an imperfect pearl less valuable than a perfect one? And, should it be? The oyster who produces an imperfect specimen is just as stressed as the oyster next door, who may actually be more stressed by the pressure to get it right the first time. Besides, as much beauty exists in imperfection as in the opposite—and sometimes you needn’t look that hard to find it.

Perfect pearls exist under false pretences, by the way. They’re like F***book lives, cleverly manipulated to look like naturally occurring phenomena.

The only perfect thing in this universe is, well, the Universe. Of course, there are moments of perfection in life, but they are moments. Transient, impermanent. Which is, I believe, what makes them perfect. Life itself is meant to be imperfect. It’s the only way we can learn anything! It’s also the reason why we’re here. There are two potential outcomes to anything we try: success or a lesson to be learned. No failures. Just learning.

I don’t know where we got the idea that everything we do, say, display, create or achieve must be perfect. Maybe it’s a holdover from where our spirits originate. We remember what it is to know perfection, ergo we knock ourselves out trying to recreate it in this dimension. A noble notion, yet the cause of so much misery at the same time. After all, who among us is perfect?

In truth, we’re all baroque.

With love,

Resistance is Futile

 

BC’s daily numbers have surged during the past week, so it’s time to accept that I live in a COVID-19 universe.

It’s been a luxury to ignore it until now. I work primarily from home, heading into town once a week to visit the new office space and have tea with a couple of friends. It’s mostly a social thing that has helped me adapt to wearing a mask in public. It felt weird and strange and awkward for the first few months, and I still don’t like it, but for the first time ever, it felt almost natural during a weekend trip to the mall.

I have stuck pretty close to home since all this started. Truly, if not for my weekly sojourns—chauffeured by Ter to avoid public transit—I’d probably be a hermit. Ter has adapted more quickly, as she goes out every couple of days to get groceries and some fresh air (she’s always been more restless than me; apparently I can stay home for days on end but she needs to get out and breathe ... even in a mask).

Anyway, this past weekend, our PVR crapped out so to kill some time, we did what we used to do without ever thinking about it. We went to the mall. Ter’s parking karma was in full force, scoring us a spot right near the identified entrance that some folks were still using as an exit (sigh). As I pulled my mask from my purse and fixed it in place before leaving the car, I felt like I was preparing to rob a bank, but other than that, I’m so accustomed to a face covering that I forgot about it within minutes.

And I had a ball! Standing in line to get into the bookstore, spritzing sanitizer on my hands at every shop entrance, conversing with clerks through two layers of cloth and a sheet of plexiglass—all that was different, but in this suddenly oddball existence it felt like a trip to the mall always feels:

Normal.

I was particularly happy to order New York fries—my go-to snack in any food court, though this time it was to go and the clerk had to hand me the condiments on request. It’s been interesting at Blenz and Bucky’s too, having the barista add sugar and cream to my tea rather than me loading it up myself. I’m tapping my debit/credit card instead of forking over the cash—I’ve had the same twenty dollar bill in my wallet since March—and on Saturday I tapped up a storm as I restocked my home supply of Paris Afternoon tea and Purdy’s chocolate, tried cinnamon buns from a new foodie outlet, and couldn’t leave without getting the aforementioned NY fries.

Sure, the bulk of my purchases were comfort carbs ... but with my history, that was normal, too!

Watching a toddler weaving in her mother’s wake, I wondered what she’ll remember of her childhood when she grows up. No one wants COVID to become the norm, but right now, there’s less harm in adapting to the rules than there is in fighting them. So far in my life, I have found that if I give myself three days, I can adapt to anything.

With love (and fries),

Take the Fall

 

It’s pumpkin spice and everything nice. My favourite time of year is the fall. This weekend is especially precious, being Thanksgiving on Monday and me being grateful for nothing. The calendar is clear; I have four whole days to fill with whatever takes my fancy and right now I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than nothing.

Perhaps I sound ungrateful? I’m not. Truly, I’m not. Every day is stuffed with miracles, some too tiny to see and some so blatantly obvious that only a fool could deny them. Granted, the latter seem to appear less frequently, but the little ones, the ones I don’t always see, probably mean the most. They are the ones keeping everything in motion—and after the week I’ve had, I am ever so grateful for the passage of time!

It’s been a busy autumn despite COVID restrictions and working from home. Ter and I both have birthdays in the fall, and last week was particularly busy with appointments. I had some dental work done (more than expected, actually), Ter and I both had chiropractic treatments, and she did chauffeuring duty for a friend who had tests at the hospital on two separate days. And it’s only Friday!

So you see why a weekend of nothing is something for which to be grateful.

I could run my usual list: Ter, of course. My siblings and co-workers, my friends, my job in a pandemic where lots of folks lost theirs, my health (which is pretty good despite the daily bones), living in Canada rather than a few miles south of Canada. I’m even grateful for the petty bickering of politicians during our provincial election in contrast to the catastrophic numbskullery of the American presidential race. I dislike using a negative to promote the positive, but really? Compared to what the US populace is enduring, our troubles are puny indeed.

Yep, the fall is my favourite. We’ve had a good run of sun and high temperatures through the latter half of September into October, but now I’m ready for the rain. I want my hour back from April so it’s a bit lighter in the morning and the candles are lit earlier in the evening. I want fuzzy socks and big mugs of tea, fat winter novels and holidays specials on TV. The house smells of apples and cinnamon and, this Sunday, of stuffing!!

Spring is pretty, summer is lovely, winter is sleepy, but of the four seasons?

I’ll take the fall.

One’s Own Path

 

I am the protagonist in my own story. I am also a sister, neighbour, friend, colleague, aunt, and life partner. I play “random stranger” in countless other stories, too. Sometimes I forget and try to solve another person’s problem, but ultimately, and as difficult as it is when I would take someone else’s burden on myself, I can’t walk a path set for someone else. I can only walk alongside.

The path analogy is certainly not new, but it became more clear to me during a flânerie some weeks ago. It was a gorgeous sunny day in the urban forest. The light was gloriously dappled a dozen shades of green. I was surrounded by towering firs and abundant foliage, yet I plainly heard other people’s voices all around me. Strangely (or maybe not, to those who know me), I thought of those who have gone before, the unseen souls whom I have loved and who yet linger to help me navigate my way through this weighty, challenging, fleeting and paradoxically interminable third dimensional existence. I felt their combined presence beside me on the spongy cedar path, but when I glanced around, I was alone.

I didn’t feel alone, though. That was comforting ... to a point. I realized facing front that even if I can’t see them, they stay a step or two behind because the path before me is mine. My hand will not be held and the obstacles removed before I encounter them. I have to test the footing and trip over the roots and choose which way to go when I reach a fork in the trail. The best they can do—the best any of us can do—is lend support and encouragement from the sidelines.

It’s a hard lesson. I can’t imagine what a parent feels like when their child falls ill. My mother blamed herself when my arthritis was diagnosed; she thought God was punishing her through me. I distinctly remember telling her this was not so, that my bones were my challenge. She felt the ripple effect, as did the entire family to varying degrees, but in the end all she could do was help me while I tackled the problem.

So it is with life. Each of us has a map to follow, sometimes with company, sometimes not. People come and go according to their own maps, and when all is said and done, a magical story will have been told.

Cold Stop

In the radio biz, a cold stop means a track that ends abruptly rather than fading out. It’s synonymous with “cold turkey” for quitting a habit right now. It can also mean a sudden stop in motion, or stopping in one’s tracks.

Nothing positive ever keeps me awake. Even when anticipating something good, anxiety over what could (but probably won’t) go wrong will rear mightier and scarier during darkest night than is possible in the light of day. I don’t remember what I used in nights before I took the picture at the top of this post; it was snapped during 2016’s winter off Dallas Road and I’ve wrestled with nocturnal demons for years. But I recently found myself wide awake and freaking out around three in the morning; desperate to silence the internal screaming, I somehow managed to conjure the red lollipop in a blizzard and issue the mental command: STOP!

Imagery is power. My best defence against nausea is to picture brittle blue skies, silver-frosted streams, and glistening sun on ice-coated branches. Imagining the blistering cold of ice on my tongue and snow on my face is a sure fire means to quell the roiling threat of flu or food poisoning. So perhaps it’s not surprising that the picture of a snowy stop sign, accompanied by a firm declaration, startled my hysterical mind into silence. And in that instant, I was able to redirect my thoughts to something more pleasant.

Well, the only fiction that interests my night time mind is dreaming up the worst possible outcome in a real-life predicament – a scenario of which there are countless versions, might I add. It’s not at all compelled to consider writing the next scene or developing a new story idea. Ironically, there is no creative value in lying awake between midnight and six a.m.

So when I next find myself tormented by the insomniac game of “Worst Case Scenario”, I’m calling in the cold stop and going back to sleep.

First World Problems

my bangs need a trim ...

BC has been trying to flatten the COVID-19 curve for almost 6 weeks now. According to our provincial health officer, who’s become something of a folk hero out here, we’re actually succeeding at it—but we’re not out of the woods yet. This means the parameters put in place when all this started will remain in place until mid-May at least.

Rats.

On the other hand, it’s not without purpose that we are asked to stay home, that businesses have had to cut staff, that non-essential services are on temporarily hold. Ah. Non-essential services. Here’s where I recognize how incredibly fortunate we are to be more worried about getting our eyebrows done during a pandemic than we are about dying from it.

Not that I get my eyebrows done. I just know people who do. Still, after six weeks of “doing without”, I am beginning to miss some things.

My monthly chiropractic treatment, for instance. Working from home has certainly helped my structural precondition, but I know I’m out of alignment. My chiropractor had to self-isolate on his return from the States in early April, then I got a call cancelling all appointments until further notice. I’m sure he’s fine; it’s just the closing of (how do I say this?) “non-essential” medical services that’s put my maintenance on hold. Ter’s chiro has had to do the same thing. They’ll take an emergency call, of course, but neither she nor I will play that card unless we’re well and truly immobilized.

Almost worse is the root growth and fading colour in my hair. Maintenance on the mane is a major operation every two months, with drop in tweaks to keep the bangs trimmed and the pink vibrant. My stylist makes no real money on me anyway (she mostly likes to play with colour and I’m fearless about it), and I miss visiting with her while she works her magic in the salon.

And have I mentioned lingering over tea with my office buddies? I’m able to nab a tea break with Treena when I drop by the office for printing/scanning/supplies once a week, otherwise I’ve resorted to buying my Blenz favourite in bulk and drinking it at home on workdays.

I understand the concept of social distancing, but continue to misjudge it. Most people are better about skirting around me than I am about eluding them, though I’m not out and about as much as usual. Being an introvert, I’m quite content to stay home for days on end. I sure am snacking a lot more, though. I’ve heard the “19” in “COVID-19” is because the disease was named in 2019 … but I suspect it will actually come to mean the number of pounds I’ve gained before house arrest is over.

Stay safe, stay healthy, stay positive - we've got this.

With love,

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.

View From Another Window

Ter and I no longer live in Fairfield. Our heritage suite was sold last fall and our new home is across the bridge in Esquimalt, which is still within the Capital Regional District but is far enough away from Victoria to be , as far as we’re concerned, on another planet.

Rather than being right across the street, the ocean is two blocks away. I can still see it through my bedroom window, but now it’s partially obscured by tall cedar trees and the rooftops between here and there. The mountains I admired from the Ocean Room are visible in the same frame—and yes, I have my own bedroom again. We both do, though Ter’s is known as “the nun’s cell” because it’s so much smaller than mine. She’s happy in her little den, as I am happy in what’s been dubbed “the Princess suite” because “master” cannot apply when one’s house elf was accidentally freed from service.

Fate has been extremely kind in granting us a suite where no one lives below us in a building where all our neighbours are older and (mostly) quieter than we are. We have more of them than we did off Dallas Road, but I’m the only soul in residence who leaves at crap o’clock because she has a regular job. Everyone else is retired or semi-so, but if you’re inclined to laugh at us being roomies in an old folks’ home, you can stifle the impulse right now. This place is a gift. It more than met all our conditions. It included a few we hadn’t even considered.

In truth, I have never felt as blessed by my loving friendly and generous Universe. Here, we can heal. We can rest and recharge from the ongoing strain of living above entitled millennials while adapting to a world, first, without Ter working and, second, without Mum. It’s been tougher than I thought it would be—not that I thought much about it until it happened, and if I had thought about it, I would never have imagined it playing out as it actually played out. Many things have changed. It seems everything has changed. One thing has not.

The view may be different, but the magic is the same.

Return to Comfortable Rebellion

Somewhere along the line, I lost my focus. This blog started in 2013 as a creative outlet, though it ended up following my life path and personal development as much as it did my literary (let’s call it what it is) frustration. It was great fun to write about the ride until the ride veered off the tracks and threw me against the wall a couple of years ago. Now, in 2020, nothing is the same. My home, my job, my neighbourhood—even I, myself—have changed.

For the better, one hopes. One must always hope, else there’s no point.

Earlier this year, I decided to reboot the Rebellion. Since that decision, Covid 19 has swept around the world and is threatening my own community. Life is so far from normal I can’t envision what the end result will be. I don’t know what the rebooted Rebellion will look like down the road, but I didn’t know it the first time, either. In truth, with everything around me so strange and unfamiliar, I don’t know anything more than that I want to write again. I really, really, want to write again, and for the first time in ages, I feel like I can actually accomplish something. I have a room, a rig, and my wonderful Ter to support me as I go. Anyone who wants to come along is welcome, of course. I’m happy enough on my own, but it’s nice to have company besides the voices in my head. You needn’t introduce yourself. I don’t have to know you’re there ... but if you’re up for a story or a spontaneous Philosophy Quest, pull up a chair and I’ll put the kettle on for tea.

With love,

Strange Days

Here we sit, still ahead but losing ground in the race against Covid 19. It’s not where I expected to be at this stage of the journey, but I’ve given up on waiting for the return of normal. “New normal” doesn’t even apply, as life of late doesn’t settle into any kind of routine before another wave hits.

It’s getting stranger.

Right now, I can’t work from home, so I am almost alone at the office, where three other stalwarts are with me on a floor usually populated by eighty-five. Not that I mind the solitude. It’s fiscal year end and there are fewer distractions with most of my colleagues staying home. I’m getting lots done.

The reality hits beyond the confines of work and home. Ter reports of empty shelves and decimated departments at the grocery stores. I myself walk almost deserted streets, where the homeless folks are about to outnumber the not-homeless folks. Shops, cafes and restaurants are closed. The inner harbour is quiet. No tourists get in my way and ridership on the community limo is down.

And every day, the number of confirmed cases increases.

In no way are we facing the same catastrophic numbers as China or Italy, or even the US. I trust Canada has been as proactive as a nation can be against a pandemic whose arrival was inevitable. I understand the BC response as well (twelve years working in emergency management helps), yet I can appreciate the frustration of people who don’t see why we have such restrictions when the situation, though serious, surely isn’t dire.

The point is, we’re trying to avoid “dire”.

I confess, the novelty has worn off for me, too. I’d like nothing better than to be part of a bustling crowd again, but I also tend to be proactive while others, it seems, prefer to be reactive.

It helps to be an introvert. If not for the pressure of work (Covid’s timing sucks), I’d be on vacation, hunkered down with Ter in our cozy new flat, writing up a storm instead of venturing into a post-apocalyptic Victoria every day. I’ve been living in a Stephen King novel without the gore, and the experts say it ain’t over yet. The worst is yet to come, but if we all pull together, it may not be as bad when all is said and done.

Stay safe. Keep your distance. Wash your hands (mine are so dry they almost hurt, but there’s nothing Lubriderm can’t fix!). Limit your exposure to the news. Get outside and breathe. You’re alive. Spring is here. The world is still beautiful and this pandemic will not last. It’s just another attempt at Nature seeking balance.

I hope.

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,

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,

Crap O’Clock

I am slumped in my comfy chair, still in my jammies with a hot Magic Bag softening my stiff neck and shoulders. A bleary-eyed Ter is nursing the day’s first cup of tea from her corner of the loveseat. Neither of us has the energy for small talk. A mournful wail suddenly wafts up from the lawn beneath our window, wending its way into our living room—it’s the three-year-old downstairs, voicing his displeasure at being dressed and out the door to daycare before seven a.m. on a weekday.

“Suck it up, junior,” I say, bluntly. “Life is hard so you’d better get used to it.”

Cut me some slack, okay? This is the same kid who wakes me from a sound sleep at this same ungodly hour on a Sunday by galloping gaily up and down the hall beneath our suite. Instead of sympathizing, I take a perverse pleasure in him being hauled out the door against his will two days a week when I have to get up and go to work for five. He thinks he’s hard done by now? Wait until he starts school, heh heh.

Yup, it’s a hard life all right. I am not nor ever have been a morning person. I have learned to appreciate the beauty of a sunrise over the ocean or the tranquil solitude of a pre-breakfast flânerie, but overall, I’d rather stay up late than get up early. And I can sympathize with Junior Jinx (as Ter calls him) to some degree: I became “anti-morning” when I started school myself. It’s not that I disliked school (much). I’m generally quite happy when I get to the office, too. It’s the getting up at crap o’clock to go somewhere I’d rather not go that well and truly bites.

I don’t know how my mother did it. She was always the first one up, summer or winter, rain or shine, and breakfast was usually on the hob before she knocked on my door with a cheery, “Wakey, wakey!” or—after my bones kicked in—an even brighter, “Pill time!” Those were bleak mornings for sure. I can’t imagine she liked them any better than I did, but I never saw it.

During a recent work tea with Treena, she reminisced fondly about the idyllic days of childhood. “Do you remember waking up every day, full of excitement and eager to see what adventure awaited?” she asked, wistfully.

I just stared at her, wondering what that must have been like. It seems every morning of my life is met with the question of whether I can do it. Whether I can get up and get going. It was particularly grim when I was younger, but I’ve hated being woken up forever. Sure, I can wake up happy on a weekend, but who doesn’t? It’s a weekend, for Pete’s sake!

Which reminds me: I have to reset the alarm before I go to bed tonight.

Crap.

Born to be Alive

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

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

Contrast, right?

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

I am able to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

That’s how it feels to be alive.

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

With love,