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 ...

RAIN

 

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

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

Anyway, I learned a new acronym the other day:

Recognize

Accept/Allow

Investigate

Nurture

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

So, here’s how it works:

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

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

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

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

So are you.

With love,

Sunday in the Park with Ru

 

This is my soul food. Sitting on a park bench, overlooking snow-capped mountains and a tranquil ocean, listening to birdsong on the breeze that stirs my hair, scenting the sea in each conscious breath. I am warm in the sun and caressed by the wind, connected at once to the earth and the divine, a tiny (but significant) part of a greater whole.

Sometimes I’m too restless to sit, so I walk among the trees. It’s a different kind of soul food in the forest. While the infinite horizon and big sky are cleansing, the forest is nurturing and intimate. Tender in a manner that eludes even a calm day by the water. I feel present and presence, as if the trees themselves are welcoming me into their company. Whether I’m by the ocean or in the woods, I always emerge from the park with a renewed sense of strength, hope and peace of mind.

It’s become a weekly ritual. Ter drops me on Sunday morning and I spend some time feeding my soul. It’s been sunny through most of May, but this morning I woke to clouds and a damp chill in the air. I’d planned to bring the Canon this week, so when Ter asked if I still wanted to go, I said why not? No rain was predicted and my camera has a “cloudy day” setting. I put on my hoodie and off we went.

I sat for a while by the water, marvelling at the mirror surface of an ocean that’s rarely so still. There was no wind to speak of, though the birds across the cove were almost hysterical in making such a racket that meditation was darned near impossible. I spied an eagle cruising close to their trees—didn’t get a photo, but concluded that warning shots were being fired in defence of offspring. Nature isn’t always benign and peaceful.

When the not-predicted rain started to sprinkle, I left the open ocean for the shelter of the wood. I have to say, the woods might be my favourite place on a damp day; the foliage is lush and the scent intoxicating, not to mention that wondrous sense of being alive within a living entity. It’s utterly remarkable. Anyway, I wandered the trails and took a bunch of photos, particularly fascinated by the tiny bursts of colour amid the omnipresent green, until my phone binked to advise that Ter was on her way. By then I had hiked around the park’s perimeter, even finding myself on the street when the trail I was on took me between residential properties.

“Did you have a good time?” Ter asked when I got into the car.

“Yep,” I replied. “Time for tea!”

Because the best thing about this cloudy chilly sprinkly Sunday in the park was knowing that a warm, dry home awaited when I was done.

With love and gratitude,

Soul Food?

 

Quitting sugar is a bit like quitting booze. It can be awkward in a social situation. My office tea buddy is a treat freak who can rationalize herself into committing any form of dietary misdemeanour. “I’ve earned it” or “I deserve it” are two of her favourites, and she is notorious – or was, in the before times – for enticing co-workers with bowls of chips, boxes of cookies, and plates of gourmet doughnuts cut into bite-sized pieces (aka “quarters”). She’d often IM me with alluring details of a new chocolate bar she discovered at lunch, ending with a coy “Want some?” that I rarely resisted.

In truth, my powers of resistance are stronger than everything except my desire to please, so when the offer of some new sugary discovery was extended, I accepted to be polite. I do hate to disappoint people.

Still, when I recently told her that I’m off sugar for health reasons, she made all the right supportive noises before she said, “Well, the time will come when you have to surrender—just once—for the sake of your soul.”

Treats are comfort food, and comfort food is comforting for a reason. It’s emotionally gratifying. Soul food, as it were, being good for your soul because it feels good, period.

Oh, but wait a minute. As I understand it, my soul resides in but is not part of the compostable container. Being the spark of divinity that binds me to the Universe and all living things, it’s the one thing I will take with me when I leave. My soul needs attention, sure, but not in the form of food. It needs no physical nourishment. It certainly isn’t prone to sugar cravings that will wreck my mind and my body for hours after a treat is consumed in seconds. It just isn’t.

What is, however, is the sneaky little part of my brain that resides just out of sight behind my ears. Known to neurologists as the amygdale, it’s been described by one expert as “the toddler in the room” where demands, tantrums, addictions, and primal emotions like fear and anger reside. It’s the part of my makeup that claims comfort from food and will say anything to get it. Including “I’ve earned this”, “I deserve this”, or “My soul needs this”.

Clever, eh? How it uses first-person logic to negotiate and get its way? It actually tries to trick me into believing that a brownie will make me feel better when in truth that brownie will a) not taste as good as I remember and b) make me sluggish and crabby for the rest of the day. Why would my soul want to feel like crap? Well, it doesn’t. My soul knows what’s good for me and my body, and my prefrontal cortex (aka “the parent in the room”) concurs. It’s the voice that says,

“Away with you, Princess Amygdale. You’re busted.”

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,

Our Lady

I am the spire that stood for 850 years. A beacon of hope, a symbol of faith, a call to God. A steadfast, enduring testament to a greater, unconditional, universal love.

A billion lives have been lived around me. I am a marker from all sides, a destination for some, a sanctuary for others, never changing and ever present to all. I have survived rebellion, revolution, conquest and occupation. I have witnessed violence against the innocents and man’s inhumanity to man.

I bear my own scars, evidence of repair and recovery over decades of existence.

I am beautiful. Magical. Wondrous. Beloved. Admired. Appreciated for my age, my art, and the comfort in my presence. You may not share my faith, yet you’ve known me all your life. I have always been and always will be.

So you thought.

When the flames came too close, when the fire burned too hot, I was consumed. I toppled.

I fell through the roof and disappeared from sight.

Am I no more?

With love, with time, with compassion and support, with my gods’ help, I will stand once more.

Not as I was. I will be changed for the better. I will be stronger. Brighter. Built to code for a world bent on grinding me to dust.

My purpose remains though my remains be gone.

Avec plus d’amour,

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,

It’s a Tapsalteerie World

My parents would occasionally ask me if I kent what a particular word or phrase means in the Scottish vernacular. Having been raised by a pair of Fife accents, I consider myself fairly familiar with the day to day lingo, and much of what I grew up hearing is now part of my own patter. Hence I was often able to respond with the correct definition. “Peelie-wally”, for instance, was how Mum once described the maraschino cherry in a tin of fruit cocktail, so when they tried it on me some years ago, my answer came easily. “It means puny and pathetic.”

According to my copy of The Pocket Guide to Scottish Words, it actually means “pale and ill-looking”, which is close enough.

A couple of years ago, one of them (I don’t remember which, but they were both present and smiling) asked me, “Do you know of ‘tapsalteerie’?”

I had to stop laughing before I answered. “No, that’s a new one!”

“What do ye think it means?”

I didn’t have to think for long. Sounding it out first, I took a stab with, “Topsy-turvy?”

Bingo! It means upside down, in a muddle, and confusion.

It also describes my world of late. My dear mother was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer shortly after my June 10 post and on the 29^th ... well, the world went tapsalteerie.

It’s righting itself one step at a time – closer to two steps forward and one back, really – but eight weeks on, there is progress... I think. It’s a process, right? The spiritual being having a human experience? Well, shoot. What is more human than birth and death? I’ve just been lucky to avoid dealing directly with the latter until a couple of months ago. I had hoped, perhaps with some hubris, that my belief in the Big Picture would have eased the grief of mortality. Colour me humbled. Despite my unshakeable faith that she is safe, loved, and more available to me now than she ever was in the flesh, the vacuum of Mum’s absence from this world still sucks out loud. I haven’t cried so much since forever.

She left orders that I neither weep nor wail, to which I confess, “So much for that!” None of it at CR, though. This not the place—but if anything I learn as a result of wading through what seems an insurmountable loss can help somebody else, it’s worth sharing. I began this blog four months before my mother knew about it, and while she may have been my greatest fan (not to mention a quarter of my audience), my quest for enlightenment and creative expression must continue for as long as I am here. It’s my journey, after all. I’m so grateful she was with me for the greater part of it. She taught me to be wonderful. She let me be myself, yet she lent me traits so reminiscent of her that the best compliment I can receive is, “You’re just like your mother.” Whether or not she understood or agreed with me, she read every post on this darned blog and took pride in my gift with the written word. She was exactly what I needed. She was the best.

It’s a tapsalteerie world without her, but I’ll get used to it in time.

Thanks, Mum.

With love,

Jesus is My Guy

When you collect spiritual teachers as if they’re butterflies or stamps, it’s easy to be considered a bit of an addict. Take Wayne Dyer. Add Eckhart Tolle. Discover Thich Nhat Hanh. Around and in between are Denise Linn, Brian Weiss, Deepak Chopra, Gregg Braden, Louise Hay, and a heavenly host of others, including – believe it or not – Albert Einstein. There are others whose names are lost to me now, though what nuggets of wisdom they dispensed at the time have likely become part of my present day vernacular. But it started with Jesus.

He was the first of my spiritual teachers, though what I learned in church wasn’t so much about him as it was about following the rules in order to be worthy of his sacrifice. He was not presented as a teacher. He was the Son of God and I was the sinning scum whose hopeless imperfection doomed me to eternal darkness, except he gave his life to ensure my ticket to heaven. He was a remote figure, an icon used to keep me humble, obedient, and paying my tithe. I was told that Jesus loved me ... but only if I behaved. Did I resent that message? Sometimes. Did I blame Jesus?

Doesn’t matter. Compared to Ter, I was a Philistine. She actually knew the gospel. You couldn’t fool her with doctrine. She embraced the religion, but she didn’t really need it because she is a naturally spiritual person. Despite being from a distinctly non-religious family, she has felt close to Jesus since she was tiny. She is fascinated by the time in which he lived, by the historic and archaeological evidence of his existence, and by the lost gospels conveniently kept out of the Bible. She’s read lots of books and watched countless documentaries. She speaks of him with familiarity and genuine affection, but never, ever, with disrespect. His position in her spiritual pantheon is unshakeably secure. Her regard for him is wonderful and amazing and inspiring. It also borders on the comical when she happily announces that her Jesus package is on its way from Amazon and she hopes it arrives by the Easter weekend. “Your ‘Jesus package’?” I ask, arching a sardonic eyebrow.

She’s sparkling in her seat. “Yep! The 40^th anniversary edition of Jesus of Nazareth, and (three other films).” The titles escape me at this writing, and the package, alas, did not make it by the Easter weekend.

Let me be clear. There is absolutely nothing wrong with what Jesus taught. In fact, everyone on the planet throughout history, now, and in the future should follow what he taught because what he taught pretty much aligns with what Mohammed and the Buddah taught, which is to practice the higher virtues of honesty, kindness, tolerance and charity. These virtues were on the spiritual Hit Parade long before Jesus was born. He didn’t invent them. He practiced them. He lived them to the best of his ability in a world as chaotic then as it is crazy now, and his hope was –I believe – to impress upon his disciples the importance of carrying them forward after he was gone. It’s not his fault that things went seriously sideways within a generation of his death, or that the religion spawned in his name has fragmented and festered over centuries. The message is still out there, but Jesus’ association with it is no longer so prevalent.

During one of our spontaneous Philosophy Quests, Ter and I fell into a discussion of what I call our “guru collection”. I occasionally wonder about the vast cast of principals in our pursuit of spiritual enlightenment, and Ter had clearly been pondering the same thing when she said, “At the end of the day, which one do I choose?”

“Do you have to choose one?” I asked. “Their philosophies are almost identical. Every day has a new spin, so what’s wrong with having a guru du jour?”

We talked about common elements and different points of view. After all, every philosopher has a unique perspective compared to other philosophers, though the subject is always the same. We pick out the pertinent info and apply it to our own philosophies. In the end, we hope we make the world a better place by practicing what we learn.

A lot of what we learn, no matter who we learn it from, is the same. Honesty, kindness, love, forgiveness and compassion. “So,” Ter concluded when we had talked ourselves full circle, “it’s okay if I quote Dr Wayne today and Jesus is my guy tomorrow.”

I laughed, but I think she’s right. Jesus is her guy. Her reverence for him has lasted her entire lifetime. She has shown me to appreciate him, to respect and revere him, by making him real. I suppose some might see it as a demotion for the Son of God to be made human, but referring to him in the familiar hardly negates his historical importance. He was a hugely influential figure with a massive destiny and daunting purpose to his short time on earth. I think of him a lot and I think a lot of him—certainly more than I did when I went to church. Without Ter’s example, such would not be the case.

I’m glad of it. I guess he’s kind of my guy, too. I hope he’s okay with that.

Soul Mates

Many years ago, I took one of those silly quizzes that asked me to name five people who were important to me. They had to be people I knew, i.e., no rock stars or favourite authors. I didn’t want to think too much, as overthinking can mess with the results, so I followed my instinct and wrote down five names.

Ter was one of them.

The next task was to assign a colour to each name. Again, without thinking too much, I pictured each person and let the colour assign itself.

Ter’s was white.

In the end, the colour was said to determine what role each person played in my life. One of them was an outright WTF? and I don’t remember the other three—but I have always remembered Ter’s because white meant “soul mate”.

Well, duh. If course she was—and is, and always will be. She and I are irrevocably linked and likely have been so since before The Big Bang. We will likely be so into however many futures are left to us, until we say “enough already!” and move onto our next gigs as technicians, planners or spirit guides—whatever other employment opportunities exist in the Great Beyond.

Even then, we’ll always be friends. Sisters. Soul sisters and soul mates. I can’t imagine any life without her, and I’m fine with that. I’ve never been so fine about anything, in fact. She is simply as vital to my survival as air, though I won’t take her for granted until I can’t breathe anymore. Nope, she’s a part of me and I’m a part of her and there you go.

We have this limiting misconception that a soul mate must be the one you marry. I could very well be wrong, but I only know one couple where that seems to be true. I know of many more folks who thought they’d married their soul mate, then met someone else and immediately gone, oops. Serial weddings ensue as romantic misconception reigns, but here’s the kick: A soul mate can be anything in one’s life—not necessarily a spouse, but a friend, a sibling, a co-worker, a neighbour, a poet (*waves at Beanie*), a healer or a hairdresser or a barista. It can even be—get this—your arch nemesis. Yes, Virginia, your worst enemy may very well be your soul mate. After all, lessons are to be learned, and who better to teach them than a soul who has known yours from the dawn of Time?

There is a theory that suggests we exist in “soul groups”. This is especially plausible if you believe in reincarnation or parallel lives, or any of the other trippy hippy alternatives I’ve encountered during the past few years. Everyone in this group can be considered a soul mate. This explains why I feel more connected to a select few than I do for the entire cast of characters I will meet in this life. These are the people with whom I have solid, enduring (sometimes frustrating) relationships, but the term “soul mate” also includes the handful of power people who have crossed my path during their own journeys; those individuals who drop in to make a difference ranging from improving my day to testing my boundaries to changing the course of my entire life.

It took me twenty years to find my Ter. I wasn’t without soul mates before then, but those who served their purpose in my childhood and teenage years had moved on to make room for her. She got into the car one fateful evening, we started talking, and we haven’t stopped since.

Soul sisters. Soul mates. Forever. What a wonderful thought!

With love,

Fragile?

The Olympics are done for another four years. I prefer the winter over the summer, probably because I spent the entire 2002 winter games on the couch with a back injury. This afforded me the opportunity to acquaint myself with the intricacies of speed skating and snowboarding, as well as the stuff I grew up watching on Wide World of Sports—alpine skiing, figure skating and the like.

The games in Pyeong Chang were riddled with the usual assortment of political scandal, heartbreak, and upsets (some happy, some not). They also featured swan songs for a number of athletes who have been staples in competition for years, and showcased the next generation of champions who will follow them. Ter and I watched the hockey (no gold medal game should be settled by a shootout) and the figure skating, the latter being a favourite because of the artistry as well as the technical skill. Truly, I can’t tell a salchow from an axel or a lutz, never mind counting the number of rotations in midair, but the beauty of the human form in flight rivals that of a horse at full gallop.

Our compostable containers are miraculous works of engineering. The things they can do on an Olympic scale are astonishing. Strength, agility, flexibility, speed, endurance ... in every competition, I saw something amazing. The slow motion replays only accentuated the marvel that is the human body.

At the same time, it doesn’t take much to knock us out of whack. A twist in the wrong direction will tear a tendon. A sneeze will cause a muscle spasm to seize us in our tracks. A hard fall will break a bone. A hard hit will scramble a brain. A crash in training will sideline an athlete for years and maybe kill their dream of Olympic gold. That’s how fragile our flesh and blood forms are.

Then there’s Mark McMorris, who recovered from a broken pelvis to compete in the snowboard event this year. The British pairs skater who shattered a kneecap and came back to skate in Pyeong Chang. The hockey player who broke his neck a year ago and won bronze for Canada. I can’t even name the others, and there were more than a few. They came from all nations with the same story: debilitating injury and a refusal to concede. So while the human body may be fragile, it seems the human spirit is far from it.

And that’s not only true for Olympians. It’s true of every soul inhabiting the planet. The indomitable power in each of us can rise to the most daunting challenge. The nature of this mortal coil means we can’t overcome everything, which presents a challenge of a different sort: the challenge of acceptance, which can be as difficult as fighting back from injury. Knowing when to stop may be the toughest hurdle of all.

Us? Fragile? Nah.

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.

Orange is the New Black

In no way, shape or form do I support, condone or agree with the outcome of the US election. I haven’t felt that sick in front of the TV since I watched the Twin Towers collapse on 9/11. I am a democratic socialist who supported Bernie Sanders, so I admit to harbouring reservations about Hillary in office, but still—the lesser of two evils, right?

Moot point, Ru. Despite the effect this singular decision will have on the entire planet, only a select number among the global population had a say in making it. The American people have spoken. The rest of us (and those who voted for the unsuccessful candidates) will have to live with it.

Ironically, they wanted change in 2008, and they got it. Maybe it wasn’t what they’d envisioned, or there was too much of it with too little time to adjust (humans are not as progressive as we think), or maybe those descendants of the original settlers are freaked out by their former majority becoming the new minority—whatever the case, the end result of yesterday’s vote is necessary.

You can only duct-tape a leaky system for so long before it blows completely, and I suspect a Democratic win last night would have been just another Band-Aid on the bleed. Well, we called down the thunder, so get ready for the BOOM!

I say “we” because it’s been my experience that humans, much as we whine about wanting change, really prefer things to stay the same. Institutional failure may be partly responsible for the orange outcome of this ground-rattling election, but the devolution of society has as great a part to play in the demise of what came before it.

True change is often painful. Disasters, whether natural or man-made, always precede a rebuild of some sort; we only choose to improve our toys. Improving conditions for the poor, for refugees and immigrants, for the working class, even for the earth itself, isn’t usually in anyone’s self-interest until it becomes imperative. No one who voted for Obama’s successor was voting for the good of others. They were voting for themselves … and that’s pretty well what they got. Those who voted for the other candidates (remote as the independents’ chances were, they still deserve to be recognized) were likely more community-minded and globally aware, but were shown to be in the minority.

America is broken. Of course it can be fixed. It can rise from the ashes and emerge stronger, better, and braver than it was yesterday. Did they pick the guy to get it to that place? Hell, no! Healing a wound never begins on the top. It begins deep down, close to the bone; that’s where the rebuild begins. Recovery is up to the people. It’s up to families and neighbours and co-workers and community leaders to make a difference at the local level. They will have to get each other through the next few years. They can do it; they just have to be willing to do the work themselves rather than relying on the tangerine head to do it for them.

I am sympathetic, truly. I appreciate the fear and desperation of the folks who voted as I would have voted; alas for them, the democratic process must be respected even when you don’t get who you want.

As for the crashing of Canada’s immigration website when the numbers started firming up, I guess socialism is looking pretty good to some of our neighbours now, eh?

I wish them well. I believe they can do better. I hope the people will join and become a stronger nation by working together, by showing kindness and compassion to themselves and each other. The human spirit, when focused and tuned in, is fiercely inspiring. We are capable of great and wondrous things.

With love and hope,

Take the Day

The cough medicine commercial is right: a sick day is misnamed. It’s actually a “getting well” day—and I’m taking one. Admitting this may cost me a day’s pay should my boss happen upon this post (a billion to one shot, I’m sure) but it’s worth it to point out that I am not physically ill. I needed a mental health day; a day for self-care and to nurture a spirit that’s been flaring hard against a smothering global darkness and finally conceded defeat last night.

I’m down, but not out.

I may be a little drained from the daily lineup of coworkers who stop by my office to tell me their woes, but on a deeper level, I think I am royally pissed. Not with my colleagues, not with my family, not at home, and not even at life. Life is good. It’s a challenge in contrast, but life is a gift. No one has the right to rob someone else of it.

I digress.

I think that I’m pissed at the folks who sit online and berate the good intentions of others. When Paris happened, I witnessed an explosion of French flags popping up in social media as horrified humans rose to their higher natures and rallied in solidarity with France. Shortly after this surge of collective compassion, a second explosion occurred—of outraged reproach for this show of “selective support”. Beirut had been similarly assaulted on the same day. The same number of deaths and equal amount of terror were suffered there, only few in the western world had risen in that country’s support, hence those who had done so for Paris were called out as hypocrites.

They are not hypocrites. They are uninformed. Is it their fault that the western news outlets did not report the attack on Beirut? I knew nothing of it. I was still reeling from the stupidity of the Starbucks Red Cup Controversy, which got more airtime on my newsfeed than anything out of the Middle East, when I stumbled onto CNN’s coverage of Paris.

The public doesn’t decide what makes the news. Advertisers and programmers decide what we are told and, to some extent, what we’re to do about it. Then they sit back and watch the masses squabble about it all.

So I crashed. The negativity has been overwhelming, and while I believe implicitly in the power of one solitary candle, I also believe that the flame requires tending, else it will burn out completely.

Balance. Contrast. Achieving and maintaining one in the face of the other requires an awareness of your own needs as well as the needs of others. If I am guilty of anything, it’s of assuming that I have superpowers of endurance, resistance, and acceptance. Actually, I do have them, but they are not limitless. A single day should get me back on my feet. A day of green tea, quiet meditation, and gratitude.

A “get well” day.

With love,

The Lesson is Love

Pope Francis is in a precarious position. He is a spiritual man in charge of a monster institution—and apparently he’s considered by some within the Catholic Church to be a bit of a rebel. A radical thinker. A threat, perhaps, to the centuries’ old dogma that, like the American citizens’ “right to bear arms” no longer applies. Society has evolved. The power balance has shifted, and for a long time now, the Church—all religion, really—has been losing respect, credibility, and members.

I was taught in Sunday school that the truth never changes. If that statement originated in a time when the earth was flat and the sun revolved around it, then that particular truth was not true at all … until you consider that truth is not necessarily true in the bigger picture or will remain true in the future, but is most definitely true in the moment.

Perception is everything.

One truth remains eternal:

It’s all about love.

And Pope Francis gets it.

This could be why there are rumblings among the masses. Francis is not out there passing judgment or heaping fire and brimstone on the heads of sinners. He is healing through love and service, teaching both by example, and he seems unconcerned that neither of these principles was copyrighted by the Vatican. In fact, he’s publicly allowed that someone can be of a different faith, race, sexual orientation, you name it, and still be a good person.

Radical thinking, indeed.

I am not a Catholic. I’m unsure that I am even a Christian anymore. Though I accept that Christ lived among us and was a great spiritual teacher, I’ve long grown suspicious of any religion associated with his name—but I believe implicitly in his message.

I believe in love.

I believe in being a good person, and that most of us are good people.

I believe that we are all connected to each other and to the infinite power that created us.

I believe that Pope Francis is not only what the Church needs now. The whole world needs him. He is helping to revive the message that was somehow lost in the struggle for dominance, for power and wealth and influence over kings and peasants alike.

It’s a message of love. Of compassion. Of patience and forgiveness. It’s the same message that Dr Wayne conveyed, and both he and Pope Francis have reminded me of something that’s almost as important as the message itself:

There are great spiritual teachers among us now, in this day and this age. There are also charlatans and wannabes, as there were in the past, but rest assured, if someone is speaking from his heart, your heart will know it.