Bibliography XVI

 “Shattered Love” – Richard Chamberlain

My best friend in junior high was a huge fan of Richard Chamberlain, otherwise I would have little to no idea who he is. In case you don’t know, he played Dr Kildare on TV in the 1960s, graduated to leading man status on film in the 1970s, and was king of the TV miniseries in the 1980s. Handsome, charismatic, and possessed of a voice like a blend of milk and dark chocolate, in his day he earned the admiration and adulation of fans – particularly female ones – pretty much everywhere.

His autobiography was published in 2003. Media around its release seemed more focused on his coming out than anything else he had to say, and I confess the press combined with the book’s title conspired to have me avoid it like the plague. I mean, “shattered love” in the context of a celebrity coming out could only mean one thing: a “poor pitiful me” tell-all where the intimate (sordid?) details of his hidden life were finally revealed.

I did the man a severe disservice by thinking those things. Turns out the book is more about his spiritual journey than it is about secretly being gay in his line of work (though he tells some dandy stories about his career, too). There is nothing whiny or pitiful about it. In fact, he gives an objective, completely honest account of life as the younger son of a difficult man, of growing up and living for decades with a major inferiority complex, and of his continuing path to inner peace. And he tells it all with a gentle, self-deprecating humour that in no way negates his eventual discovery and acceptance of his true self.

This guy is practically a guru. I related to much of his story, from his description of a complicated Life with Father right down to his faith in a loving, friendly and generous Universe. The title “Shattered Love” reflects his belief that each of us represents a shard of one singular love so immense that it shattered itself in order to experience its own existence. Or something like that. He certainly subscribes to the same theory as me, that we are as divine as we are connected to the Divinity who created us. God exists around us and apart from us and within us all at once.

I learned a lot from reading this book, especially about the nature of forgiveness and when it applies. I actually learned a whole lot more than I ever expected to learn from a movie star’s memoir, and I am eternally grateful for the lessons.

I do wonder, though, what my junior high bestie would think ...

For Christ’s Sake

Overheard at a Thai restaurant: “I’m not religious, but I am spiritual.”

I get that, I thought. Then I wondered at the difference.

According to my ancient Webster’s dictionary, the adjective religious is defined as: “1. one that believes in or supports a religion; devout; pious; 2. of or concerned with religion (eg., religious books); 3. belonging to a community of monks, nuns, etc; 4. conscientiously exact; scrupulous.”

The adjective spiritual is defined as: “1. of the spirit or soul as distinguished from the body or material matters; 2. of or consisting of spirit; not corporeal; 3. refined in thought or feeling; 4. of religion or the church; sacred; devotional etc. 5. spiritualistic or supernatural.”

Interesting. The word “spiritual” does not appear in the definition of “religious”, and the word “religion” only appears in one of five possibilities under “spiritual”.

I recently learned that the religion into which I was baptized at the age of eighteen is not accepted as a Christian religion by other Christian religions. This is alternately hilarious and disturbing. It doesn’t bother me a whole lot, as I’ve been long inactive due to my issues with the church rather than with anything Jesus taught, but when I do think about it, I am a little annoyed. No matter what other Christians think, I took my baptismal vows to confirm my faith in the teachings and divine mission of Jesus Christ ... so how could I not be considered a Christian? Especially by other Christians?

But you know, I’ve always been a goat among sheep. Even when I was an active churchgoer, I refused to accept that my deeds would be judged by anyone other than God Himself. When my father gently suggested the Almighty might be too busy to manage my exit interview personally, I replied: “I’ll have all Eternity. I can wait.”

I have known many religious people. Few of them are truly happy. They are hard on others and harder on themselves. They keep their gazes down rather than their gazes up, as if fearing to meet the eye of God—and given the god presented in the Bible, I can’t say I blame them. The Old Testament God is not a nice guy. In fact, in human form, he’d probably have had his children removed by social workers until he completed a course in anger management and could prove himself a worthy parent. Seriously. Love born from fear is not love at all. Even we ignorant mortals know that, so Dad Above shouldn’t be surprised that his kids have abandoned him. They deserve better.

I know a few spiritual people, too. Most of them are happier than the devoutly religious folks, but every soul that is or ever was is here to experience contrast and most of us have as many dark days as we do sunny ones. Jesus was a spiritual person. These days I am less assured of parts of his story than I am in others, but I will not deny he was a light being with an extraordinary connection to his divinity. It’s unfortunate that his darkness was not as well recorded; relating to him as a conflicted human is difficult when he’s only ever portrayed as the solemn master of his mortal state. Of course his death was horrible, but he wasn’t the only one crucified in those days. The Romans practically made a sport of it.

I know, I know—his story is really about the Resurrection.

Or is it? Well, maybe, in that it seems many of his present-day followers strive to be worthy of his sacrifice by behaving in complete opposition to his lessons about loving thy neighbour as thyself and judging not lest ye be judged. Since our sins have already been atoned for, why not transgress with gay abandon knowing he gave us a free pass back to Heaven?

Ironically, I may be more of a Christian now than I was in my churchgoing days. I focus more on what he taught while he was alive than what religion says we won by his death (and even then, it has to be the “right” religion, otherwise it’s “do not pass Go, do not collect $200”). I prefer to trust in his loving way, in his sound sense of his own divinity and his efforts to convince everyone he met that they were just as precious, just as special, just as beloved, just as deserving of blessings, as he was.

As I am.

As you are.

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),

Me and My Shadow

You again. My old friend. Stealthy and silent, biding your time, waiting patiently for your moment. You’re so good at being unobtrusive that I forget you’re always two steps behind, lurking at my shoulder, skulking by my side. I lose my focus and suddenly you’re right in front of me. If you had a face, you’d be smiling because once in front, you refuse to step aside and let me pass.

Everyone has a dark side. It’s part of the package we bought when we signed the papers on this existence. Call it what you will: shadow self, alter ego, super ego, it’s the human part of our mortal makeup.

And it loves to be miserable. It revels in reminders of how hard life is, and how precarious our position is within this big scary world. Fear is its driving force, and boy does it know how to play the head games required to immobilize you.

I normally choose happiness and love over fear and anxiety, but when life demands to be lived on its own terms, i.e., when the poo hits the propeller, Shadow Ru pounces.

I didn’t even realize she had done so until the day I finally looked up from my feet. There she was, and had been for weeks, fixed solidly in my path.

By then I was so immured in the funk of loss that pulling myself out of it was like pushing the proverbial elephant up the stairs. I’d been crying nonstop since June. Taking tea and tissues into the Ocean Room had become a nightly ritual. From one loss, a list of others had sprung in a dismal domino effect that made the rest of my life look pretty grim. What’s the point, anyway? Can we start again, please? I knew I had to flip my focus to abundance instead of loss, and as soon as I saw Shadow Ru, I understood it was time to put her back in her place. But how to do it?

According to the law of physics, you get back the energy you put out. If you’re operating from the fear-based position of loss, you’ll find yourself losing more, thanks to the generous nature of our obliging Universe. Conversely, if you look for the miracle, you’ll see it—and you honestly don’t have to try that hard.

But Shadow Ru was relentless. “You think that was bad?” she asked. “What about this? And this? Or what if this happens? Wouldn’t it be terrible?”

“Well, yes,” I replied, “but it hasn’t happened.”

“But what if it does? Best be prepared for the worst.”

“Oh, move along!” I burst out, fed up with the negativity.

She refused. Worse, she persisted with her pernicious fearmongering until I thought I’d lose my mind. She wouldn’t let me see past her. She deliberately blocked my view of the good things in my life, of the little miracles and everyday blessings that sustained me through this summer. I was frazzed beyond endurance, trying to elbow past her, when my smarter self—Spirit Ru—calmly made a brilliant suggestion:

If your shadow is in front of you, then the sun is at your back. Just turn around.

Huh. I shoulda had a V-8.

Shadow Ru is still with me, of course, but now she’s back where she belongs: behind me.

With love,

Get a Heart On

I move that we ban romance from Valentine’s Day. Love comes in many shapes and sizes, but let’s face it, romance is about chemical response and doesn’t go the distance. How many diamonds bestowed today will sparkle for the same lover five or ten or fifty years from now?

Oh, Ru, you’re being cynical.

Okay, maybe so. I may be taking the bait set out by the same big eastern syndicate that made Christmas a crass commercial racket. You know the message: that you’re not a winner if you don’t have a lover to ply you with roses and chocolate and a strand of costly bling.

Pah! I say! Who needs a lover when one has love? And I do. Boy, do I ever! I have a life full of people who love me, and whom I love in return. No love of mine is unrequited... except perhaps the torch I carry for John Taylor. Ah, contrast.

I digress. Love, as I say, comes in all shapes and sizes. Love for a friend. Love for family. Love for a pet. Love for a plant. Love for oneself—and this is no small thing. Too many of us think we’re unworthy of being loved and this is simply not so. Everyone deserves to be loved. Everyone is loved by someone, somewhere.

One of the most beautiful poems I have ever read was written by Ravindra Kumar Karnani. I have no idea what inspired me to post it here, but it seems an appropriate sentiment to help anyone who may feel lost, alone or unloved on this day when love seems more important than on any other (which, by the way, it’s not):

God, Speak to Me

The child whispered, “God, speak to me”
And a meadow lark sang.
The child did not hear.

So the child yelled, “God, speak to me!”
And the thunder rolled across the sky
But the child did not listen.

The child looked around and said,
“God, let me see you” and a star shone brightly.
But the child did not notice.

And the child shouted,
“God, show me a miracle!”
And a life was born but the child did not know.

So, the child cried out in despair.
“Touch me God, and let me know you are here!”
Whereupon God reached down and touched the child.

But the child brushed the butterfly away
And walked away unknowingly.

Rest assured, you are loved.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Gender in Spirit

During an episode of Philosophy Quest at the Wall, Boy Sister once asked me if I thought souls are gender neutral. I replied that I thought not. My being female in this phase, I reasoned, is a physical manifestation of my soul’s essence, therefore “Spirit Ru” must be female. We debated this for a while, ending the session – as usual –with more questions than answers.

Later on, I reconsidered my response. Perhaps I am presently female simply because my biology dictates it; that perhaps Spirit Ru is not specifically female, but is either a perfect blend of both energies or a singular form of neither. Biology colours so much of our experience in life: how we perceive ourselves, how we react to others, and how others react to us. It also provides the setting for our individual stories, i.e., I’m playing a female character in this particular tale (though I admit, I haven’t yet sensed an existence as a man). Boy Sister’s experience in the same circle is different because he’s got that pesky Y chromosome – and thus, you’d think, the advantage in our patriarchal he-man culture. Yet he also exhibits care, compassion, and self-sacrifice; traits which our patriarchal he-man culture has labelled feminine in nature and thus derides as weakness in a man.

Let me say here that, as boys carry the X chromosome as well, a balanced XY won’t fear those “feminine” traits within himself and will be, I believe, a better man as a result.

Anyway, on recalling high school biology and releasing my identity’s ties to my ovaries, I grew more comfortable with the notion of Spirit Ru being genderless. I have no idea what form this would take, and I get entangled in the logistics when engaging in speculation: Am I an orb? An angel (but wait; angels are gender specific ... aren’t they)? Or am I a single cell that fits with other single cells to create a greater whole? And what does that whole look like?

See what I mean?

But then, if our souls are neutral and our gender biologically determined, how do we explain folks who are transgender? Why would a neutral soul in a male body be convinced it should be female, and vice versa? The Universe doesn’t make mistakes, but if wearing the wrong skin is something you sign up for in Experience 301, then, geez, am I glad I majored in “Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis”. Philosophical course load aside, I suggest that people tasked with gender identity issues as their primary challenge in life are among the bravest of souls. Perhaps these conflicted folks chose the wrong skin to teach the rest of us about tolerance and compassion, an uphill battle that’s approaching the perpendicular despite our “all-inclusive” modern age.

On a less complicated scale, the lesson for everyone is always love. Love is not about biology or chemistry. Love is not passion or romance. In its purest form, love is gender neutral – and if the Universe in all its majestic entirety is composed of a trillion-bazillion-googillion tiny souls like you and me, then perhaps we are, too.

That’s the beauty of Philosophy Quest. We don’t solve anything, but the mysteries make us think.

Sunrise, Sunset II

Do you remember the old riddle about how to eat an elephant? “One bite at a time.”

The big picture—a movie, for instance—is made up of a bunch of little pictures, run at speed in a sequence to create a larger whole. That’s kind of what life is: a series of little pictures, or one bite of an elephant at a time.

You have everything you need to manage a twenty-four hour period. Skills and resources are at hand to get you through every day. If you can restrain the urge to dwell on days past or worry too much about tomorrow, you can make the most of that day. And, yes, much of how the day is handled depends on where you’re at, but you must also remember that all you can do at any moment is your best, even if that best is not what it would be on another day. Forget about what may or may not be; it doesn’t matter. Just focus on the now.

It’s good to have a plan for the future, but not at the expense of the present moment. Besides, the future is made up of present moments, so you may want to consider this before you beam into an imagining that may never happen. As Master Yoda says in The Empire Strikes Back (my still-favourite Star Wars film), “The future is always in motion.” This makes it difficult to predict, so why waste now anticipating what isn’t assured tomorrow?

By the same token, looking back with guilt and/or regret only hinders your progress. It can even stop you from being better than your current best when it involves berating yourself for things said or unsaid, done or undone. It’s past; let it go. Forgive everyone—including yourself—involved in whatever incident still bugs you and free yourself from the video replay of what cannot be changed. If you can’t do that, and I know, it’s easier said than done, then use the past as a starting point: “From now on, I will (insert more positive perspective here).” Or, better yet, narrow it to the present moment: “Right now, I am (insert more positive perspective here).”

And if you can’t conjure a positive perspective on your own, a good default is simply “I am loved.” This is true in the past, present and future.

Some days will seem longer and others far too short. Some will go well and some will be disasters—through no fault of your own, I might add. You’re not the only one whose best is different from day to day; the kindest thing you can do is accept others as they are in any given instant, understanding that where they are may not be as obvious.

Sunrise signals a fresh start to something I hope will be wonderful. Sunset is my time to reflect on how it went before I put it (and myself) to bed. This is Ru 2018, dedicated to releasing the past, living the present moment as best I can, and trusting the future to unfold as a result.

Try it for a day. Just for today ... and watch the elephant disappear, one bite at a time.

With love,

Do You See What I See?

What do you see when you look in the mirror? Do you see someone worth loving? Someone who is loved? Do you see someone whom you love?

Many of us tolerate their our reflections for practical purposes, like teeth-brushing and face-washing, but lots of us don’t like to look that closely at ourselves. We see what we’re told to see, and the mirror only shows the flaws that have dogged us from birth. We focus on our buckteeth and bug eyes because our peers focused on them and we mistook teasing for truth. Beauty, for most of us, was unattainable without certain products, and even then, Revlon has never worked the same magic on me as it did on Cindy Crawford.

She was the supermodel I figured I had the best shot at emulating. Trust me—it never happened.

That’s okay. I know now that her Cosmo covers were touched up to make her more than she actually was. None of us is perfect; we’ve established that. Unfortunately, we are primed to pay more attention to our imperfections than they deserve, and at the cost of what makes us beautiful.

You are so much more than what you see in the glass. Mirrors only show us two dimensions. I wonder sometimes how I appear to other people. I’m happy in my own skin (finally!), but I know some beautiful people who loathe to look in the mirror. What gives?

Here’s the best kept secret in the cosmos: everyone is beautiful. That’s the dimension the mirror cannot capture, and thus the one whose existence we insist on doubting. Our divinity eludes the tool we use to measure our appeal, yet our divinity is what makes us each unique and special and extraordinary. How can you be all those things and not be beautiful? A smile—even a bucktoothed one—is irresistible when it animates the smiler’s eyes. When we accept that we are divine, we allow ourselves to be loved. When we feel loved, we feel beautiful, and our distorted perception of ourselves is realigned to reveal the inescapable truth. Beauty resides in the soul, and everybody has one of those. Some of us are out of touch with it, but we have one nonetheless.

The next time you catch your own eye, take a minute to look—really look—at yourself, and don’t look away until you glimpse that beauty. I promise you, it’s there. I can see it, even if (right now) you can’t.

With love,

Birthday Girl

Today is my birthday. I wasn’t going to blog about it, but I’m feeling particularly grateful so thought I’d post a “bonus” blog just to put it out there.

I’ve said before how birthdays act as my New Year’s Day, when I reflect on where I’ve been, where I am, and how far off track I may be from my original plan. Luckily, I don’t remember my original plan since I made it before I was born, but considering how happy I am today, I reckon I can’t have strayed too far off course.

Albert Einstein is quoted on the kitchen calendar today: “The ideals which have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty and Truth.”

If ever a statement was meant for me, this might be it. I almost burst into tears because that’s exactly how I feel about my life and the people in it – so many good folks have taught me about those three vital virtues, how to act on them, to appreciate them, and to use them as the lens through which I view my life. I am deeply, truly blessed. Not so long ago, I would have denied my worthiness, but nowadays I realize, heck, I deserve all the good (and probably the not so good) I’ve experienced and will experience during my time in this phase. But really, people have featured more prominently in my progression than circumstance. My wonderful parents, my fabulous siblings, and of course my magical Ter, have all inspired and supported me through the most important lessons life has to teach me, but there are secondary characters in my personal drama, too. Friends who have come and gone, co-workers of the same temporary nature, both delightful and painful (some at the same time—now that’s a rare talent!), even people I have not met in the flesh have influenced my development. What to write, how to write, how not to write ... sometimes the most valuable lesson is how not to do something. Another favourite quote is “A wise man once said nothing.” I laughed when I read it, but humour is often based on a nugget of truth and part of life is also learning when to be silent.

I’m working on that, too. I’m working on everything, in fact, but today, I’m giving myself break. Ter and I are meeting wee sis and Boy Sister for lunch, and though Saturday is typically laundry day, the undies can wait. Episode Seven of Versailles, however, cannot. That’s on tap for this evening, after dinner and prezzies and a day of being duly celebrated.

I have never felt so loved ... or so grateful. If I can give back a fraction of the marvels life has given me, my work here will be done. Happy birthday to Ru.

With love,

There’s No Place Like Home

What does home feel like? For me, it’s a place where – or a person with whom – I am safe. Loved. Accepted for myself and free to be myself. Home is not a physical thing for me. It was when I was a kid, but even then, we moved around so much that getting attached to the house was futile. Home was where my family was – and I know I was luckier than a lot of kids. Ter, for instance, feels more at home with my kin than she did with her own, since growing up for her happened harder and faster than it did for me.

But that was when we were kids. As adults, we’ve made a home wherever we’ve lived, whether for six months or sixteen years. Sometimes, I haven’t wanted to go home. When renos were happening or the neighbours were too close beneath our feet, my office was preferable to my house, which speaks to the closeness of my colleagues as evidence that home is a feeling rather than a location.

Years ago, when I figured out how to operate the speed dial on my work phone, I loaded “home” onto the button just below “parents”. One day, meaning to call my folks, I instinctively dialled “home” (well done, Mum and Dad!) Two years ago, when Ter and I each got a cell phone, she took our old land line as her new number. I haven’t bothered to change the speed dial ID. Home means many things to many people, but for me, it means “Ter.”

Well done, bud. <3

On Da Mend

I’ve been wondering why my arthritis chose this winter to reignite. I may not understand completely why it’s back until it’s gone again (one always hopes, right?), but I have some ideas. This life is about learning, and as far as my bones go, I think I failed grade three the first time.

The first time around, I declared war. I fought to be as normal as everyone else in my world. I didn’t always make it, of course. I had a ton of sick days during those years. I was deeply, truly angry when it beat me, and I used that fury to redouble my efforts, sometimes successfully and sometimes not so much. There were no trippy hippy platitudes for teenaged Ru, that’s for sure. I was locked in mortal combat with a monster and one of us was gonna die.

When it finally burned out, my relief was overwhelming. I had won. I was alive and my nemesis wasn’t.

I was also wrong. Oh, I was most certainly alive, but the bones—and my terror of their return—have haunted me to this day. The trouble with your worst fear is that it can manifest in ideal conditions. I have no idea what those conditions are, but something went haywire last fall.

Welcome back to grade three, Ru.

I’m a quicker study these days, though. This relapse happened for a reason. I hope it’s a short term stint, but this time I’m doing my homework between meltdowns. (I still have them, those opaque moments when the fear of indefinite hurting immobilizes me.) Anyway, here’s what I’ve learned so far:

Living with chronic pain is not a competition. It’s a process. If I didn’t know it before—which I apparently didn’t—I know it now. Rather than a battle for supremacy between me and my compostable container, it’s a cooperative effort based on mutual respect. I give it what it needs to feel better, be it ice, rest, or the occasional Aleve, and it stops hurting so much. Who knew?

Some days are easier than others. As my Scottish mum would say, you’ll be “up one day and doon the next.” Accept this and move on. Down days are frustrating, and sometimes you’ll weep anguished tears. That’s okay. Tears are not a sign of weakness. Tomorrow will be different. Sure, it might be worse ... but it might also be better.

Stay in the moment. Some of them (many of them) will hurt like the dickens, but not every one of them. Occasions do occur when the pain is overshadowed. Laughing with a friend. A hot cup of tea. Cuddling a teddy bear. Sun breaking through cloud. Watching a favourite movie. Even wrangling with a math problem can provide a welcome distraction. Cherish those moments by embracing, welcoming, savouring and otherwise being grateful for them. (There is always space for gratitude.)

Do not look too far ahead. Contemplating a future of non-stop coping will make you want to cut your throat. This saps strength better applied either to the present moment, if necessary, or spared for a moment when you really need it.

Rest and rejuvenate. Fighting pain while operating in day to day life takes more energy for you than it does for your healthy friend/neighbour/co-worker. I resisted this notion in my teens, when all I wanted was to be as normal as my buddies, but as a middle-aged adult, if I have to, I nap on a weekend afternoon. Sometimes I can’t keep my eyes open; at other times, I doze while listening to my silly jazz station. It’s nice for most of us to lie still once in a while. For you, it’s imperative!

Admit when you’re not up to par. It takes courage to say you’re unwell. I wish it didn’t. As with tears, pain is not a sign of weakness. It’s frigging pain. When you’re in it, it’s okay to say so (just try to maintain your dignity while doing it). At my worst last November, I discovered how much my co-workers care for me when they rallied to make my life easier during a particularly trying phase at the office. My honesty gave them a chance to be as kind and generous with me as they claim I am with them. Win-win!

Wash dishes by hand, in purely hot water (no cold), and wearing rubber gloves. Aching finger joints love the heat and the gloves ensure you don’t strain them further by gripping too hard on wet stoneware.

Remind yourself that, though pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. You may not have a choice about when it hurts, but you can certainly decide how to handle it when it does.

Finally, you may be alone with the pain, but you are not truly alone. Each of us is loved somewhere, by someone. You are no exception. It may be hard to remember this when you’re living your day one breath at a time. That doesn’t make it a lie. Reach out. Someone will answer.

With love,

From the Frying Pan

I LOL’d at this pic. It might have been hysterical laughter, but it was genuine—and that’s what will keep me going into 2017.

If you believe life is going to be hard, it will be hard. Better to believe it will be all right, that you will be all right, than to condemn it from the get-go.

For me, 2016 was a year rife with uphill battles. Ter and I agonized for months to bring about something that has not yet materialized. Work was unsettling for us both, for different reasons. My left ankle locked up in January. My bones flared through the fall and winter. The Flyers missed the playoffs again. A baker’s dozen of musicians, legends and icons passed on. The world went completely crazy. Looking back, last year sucked out loud ... but it didn’t kill me. In fact, I have emerged (I hope) stronger and more immune to difficulty than I was twelve months ago.

Seeds were planted in the tumultuous soil of 2016 that will bloom in 2017. Some will produce challenging consequences, others will remind us that beauty and art and kindness still exist. Life will happen. We needn’t expend ourselves to seek the bad stuff—CNN delights in keeping us apprised of global disasters, and reality TV continues to bombard us with eat-or-be-eaten cupcake competitions and outback inbred family shenanigans. The night is dark and full of terrors, ’tis true, but it is also rich with moonlight and magic. Resolve to marvel at the moonlight. Believe in the magic. Refuse to accept the universe as a cold and hostile environment. Embrace the dark, let it liberate your other senses, and above all, do not fear it.

It’s only as scary as you want it to be.

New Year’s resolutions, I have said, are not my thang. Maintaining a daily practice of kindness, compassion, appreciation and gratitude for each moment is. Humans complicate everything. Nothing needs to be that hard. When you find yourself fighting upstream, do yourself a favour and stop. The river will take you where you’re meant to go; resistance is generally a sign that you’re going the wrong way.

Or that you’ve convinced yourself of life being unnecessarily hard. For you, a spark of divinity caught in a human experience, it doesn’t have to be complicated. Simplify as much as you can. Believe in the goodness of the Universe. Cherish yourself and others will follow. You deserve it just because. You are a good person, a valuable person, a light in the night that will cast a wide beam if you allow yourself to do it—and doing it is easy.

Just be you.

If you’re unsure exactly who “you” are, take some time this year to figure it out. Look inside rather than out. Listen to your heart. Ignore your head. (Hint: Your heart always speaks softly. Your head will chatter incessantly and even start yelling to make itself heard. The louder it gets, the closer you are to silencing it with a solitary word: Quiet.) Remember, given freely and without condition, love is never a mistake. Try it on yourself first. It’ll feel weird to start, but it gets easier with (you guessed it!) practice. And don’t beat yourself up if you miss a day. Or a week. Or a month. Forgive yourself and start again. And don’t wait for January 1, 2018 to do it.

I’m with you.

With love,

A-OK

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

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

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

I digress.

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

With love,

Don’t Look Back

Last week, I watched Bill Maher and his four guests—two Democrats and two Republicans—argue back and forth about their upcoming election and what’s wrong with both candidates. The US is in a sticky pickle because, as I see it, the voting public is caught between a Trump and a hard place. When faced with two evils, folks generally choose the lesser one ... but in this race, how can you tell which is which?

No matter. I’m Canadian. My problem comes after the US election, when everyone else in the world has to deal with the outcome of their decision.

It was interesting, however, to hear people on both sides trying to outshout each other about “taking America back”, “getting America back”, and “reclaiming America”. One of them referred to regaining the country originally intended by the founding fathers.

Are you kidding me??? The country was founded over two hundred years ago, by privileged white European males who drew up a Constitution that would serve their interests and no one else’s. Think about it. When the country was formed, the only Africans in America were slaves, women were chattel, and the native Americans had been driven off their land by the guests they had welcomed but who refused to leave. The paperwork wasn’t written for anyone within those three groups. The right to bear arms meant that colonists on the frontier could defend themselves instead of waiting for the cavalry to ride over the hill. And they were pretty much defending themselves from the indigenous residents, so I’m of two minds on the fairness of the policy in the first place.

If I have learned anything in the past couple of years, it’s that nothing is ever going to be the same again. You cannot get back to the way it was because the way it is has changed so radically that previous rules can no longer apply. Society can’t rely on a document that was written in the dark ages because that document was written for the dark ages. Respect its purpose, sure, but then improve upon it, for crying out sideways!

We are not here to stay the same. We are not here to live in the past. We are here to move forward, to embrace each other and create something better than what we had yesterday (and I don’t mean building a better iPhone). Cleaving to an outdated document is not the way to fix today’s problems. One might even suggest that cleaving to that document is what created today’s problems. The world in 2016 is not remotely similar to the world in 1776 or whenever. Can we please leave that old world behind and work with each other to make something wondrous of the one we have?

Because it is wondrous. People are amazingly diverse, but our diversity is not what makes us magnificent. Our shared divinity is what make us magical. We are each capable of love, of compassion, of respect and gratitude and kindness. Our culture does not make us any of those things. Neither does our history. We should be using those things as starting points from which to grow and change ... but even as I write this, I realize that I might be missing my own point.

We are spiritual beings having a human experience. We are born divine. Many of us lose sight of it along the way. If time truly is cyclical and we are moving in circles, then perhaps we do want to go back to somewhere in the past. Let’s go further back than two measly centuries. Let’s go back to where we truly started, when we were born pure and untainted, radiant with love and no conditions, when we knew in our souls that all we needed to make a success of this life was to exercise our divinity and treat each other ...

... with love.

In the Name of Love

After the Orlando shooting, I felt compelled to attend a pride flag ceremony at City Hall. I took time off work and hiked down the street, joined the throng of other like-minded souls and listened as our mayor made a speech before asking us to participate in a moment of silence for the victims of this purely hate-driven crime. I stood with my head bowed and my hand on my heart, and when the moment was over, I heard someone say my name.

Looking up, I was pleasantly surprised to see a former workmate who had moved on to bigger and better things. His office was just down the street, he said, what was I doing here?

“I’m just so sorry that this happened,” I replied. “I can’t believe it.” And yet I could, given the pin-headed contrast in this enlightened age. We chatted for a minute, catching up, then he introduced me to his sister, who is in a lesbian relationship. If his compassion had not made sense to me before—which it had; he’s a truly lovely guy—it made complete sense to me then.

Whether you know it or not, at some point in your life, a friend, co-worker, neighbour, or family member has either been attracted to the same sex or wanted to be a member of the opposite. If you knew and you were okay with it, kudos to you. If you’re running through a list of everyone you’ve ever known and wondering, please stop wasting your time. It’s obvious that you wouldn’t have been okay.

In my opinion, as long as it’s consensual and the players are of legal age, there is no shame in loving where your heart leads you. The shame is in the shaming.

You can’t convince me that the percentage of gay, lesbian, bi- or trans-gender people in society has increased over the years. I’m pretty sure they have always lived among us; they just haven’t been free to express it the way they are fighting to express it in the twenty-first century.

Personally, I consider them among the bravest people in the world. Nor do I condemn the folks who hid their true natures from fear of persecution and/or prosecution in times not so long past. It must have been—and still must be—horrible to pretend to be someone you’re not because being yourself might cost your family/job/reputation/life.

Our so-cool-it’s-painful Prime Minister recently marched in Toronto’s pride parade. This guy is so together, so enlightened, so necessary for the future of our country and society as a whole. He’s a great example of what Canadians not only are, but what we can be if we choose love over hate and acceptance instead of fear. Gay men are not predators and lesbian women are not mutants. Trans-gender people (and I have known one myself) only seek to be happy in their own skin. It’s not about carnal relations—or it shouldn’t be. It’s about the freedom to love where our hearts, not our minds, take us.

And so, with love,

The Greatest Love of All

Bill Maher recently had a bit of a rant about narcissism and the dangers of self-love. One thing that stuck was his story about a five-year-old kid behind him kicking his seat during a cross-country flight and the parent explaining that “Logan is only exploring.”

“No,” Bill said, “Logan is being a dick, and if you’re not going to stuff him in the overhead luggage compartment, I will!”

After I stopped laughing, I realized that the concept of loving oneself has become, as is inevitable with mortals, somewhat warped with time.

The Greatest Love of All, when performed by George Benson in the 1970s, was sung gently and with compassion, as he entreats the listener to instill confidence and self-respect in our children.

The same song, performed by Whitney Houston in 1985, is a totally different animal. A fan of Benson’s version, I winced when the diva belted it out at full volume because Whitney was nothing if not a narcissist. She made everything into a “look at me” anthem when I believe this particular song was meant to encourage us to teach our kids not about self-love, but about selfless love.

Love in its mortal form is conditional. I love you because:

You love me.

You feed me.

You give me things.

You do things for me.

You ask nothing of me.

And if you stop, I won’t love you anymore.

Love in its purest form, the love that every child brings with him at birth, is the wellspring of kindness and generosity, of sincerity and compassion and respect for ourselves, for each other, and for the planet that sustains us.

There is nothing at all wrong with reminding that child of his divinity. There is, however, a grave injustice in cossetting that kid and letting him run riot. That’s doing him as much a disservice as it is annoying the heck out of the guy whose seat the kid is kicking. Darn this compostable container. It’s tricked us into teaching an entire generation that every one of them can have whatever they want whenever and wherever they want it because they are entitled. The era of instant gratification has made our children selfish, petulant, demanding, and incapable of fending for themselves in the real world.

On the flipside, however, because contrast is a universal law, there are millennials who band together for the greater good, who run bottle drives and raise funds for hurricane relief and apply themselves to their lessons so they can find the cure for cancer or champion clean energy. Those kids have got the message. They have healthy self-esteems and not only do they respect society, they want to improve it. Kudos to those kids, and to their parents for keeping them in tune with their inherent natures.

The song is true. If it gives a child the courage and confidence to make a positive difference in the world, then learning to love himself can be the greatest gift of all.