State Funeral

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

With love,

HM Queen Elizabeth II

 

I am a Royalist. Have been for most of my lives. It feels strange to have a third King Charles on the throne when I had taken for granted that my Charles would be the last of his name. He and his father were Stuarts, and both of their reigns were fraught with tragedy and tumult as the country tore itself apart then experimented with having no monarch at all. One might suppose that they had it coming, believing that the divine right of kings set them apart from the common folk ... but doesn’t it? Each of us has a destiny determined before we are born. If the Stuarts had been more humble about it, the Commonwealth period may not have happened and Charles I could have kept his head but, as I say, the destiny of a person or a country, even of the world, is predetermined.

I digress.

This past summer saw the celebration of Queen Elizabeth II’s Platinum Jubilee. At ninety-six, she had been our queen for seventy years, the longest reigning sovereign in English history (and given the struggles of past monarchs to keep the throne, that’s quite the achievement). Talk about destiny. At the time of her birth, Princess Elizabeth of York was not expected to be Queen. If her uncle Edward VIII hadn’t abdicated, she likely would have lived a relatively private life, certainly one with less responsibility.

But her uncle did abdicate, and at the age of twenty-one she made a vow to serve the people of the realm for as long as she lived. Against all odds, through public and personal challenges, and the tenures of fourteen prime ministers, she kept her word. She was an exemplary public servant. She never quit, never gave up. She made the best of bad days and maintained her public face, a face that was calm, kind, and so similar to my own mother’s that I liked to claim the Queen actually was my mother, but there had been a mix up in the royal nursery and I ended up in the custody of a nice middle class Scottish family. When I was invited to reclaim my royal birthright as an adult, I refused. I loved my adopted family far more than I desired to be a princess of the blood. As any cherished daughter will tell you, being a princess isn’t exclusive to lineage.

I digress again.

It’s no longer news that the Queen passed away on September 8, 2022. Ter and I have been on vacation, so we’ve had the luxury of being glued to the TV as events unfold. Given Her Majesty’s advanced age, of course it’s no surprise that she’s gone, yet it came as a surprise when she went. Maybe because the end came so quickly—on September 6, she had welcomed Liz Truss as the next Prime Minister and forty-eight hours later, I woke up to reports that she was under medical supervision and the family had been summoned. I was stunned. Shortly afterward, the announcement came that Her Majesty had passed away, whereupon time assumed that odd elastic quality of being at once real and surreal. The expected becomes unexpected and we respond by running through a gamut of emotion that defies explanation.

It was almost like a death in the family. Shock, sadness, compassion for her immediate family and especially the new King, followed by a thirst for details about what happens next. I don’t know anyone who remembers when the Queen’s father died, so how is this going to work? Making a plan is not the same as implementing it. Even step by step instructions require physical action to manifest. I’m sure glad it’s not my job. All I have to do is get up at 3:00 a.m. PST on September 19 to watch the funeral. I can only imagine the stress running rampant at Buckingham Palace.

Am I digressing again? Maybe. I’m still running that gamut of emotion. I have been impressed with the King’s candour in his first speech as King. I’ve always considered him to be a gentle man, affable and kind with a genuine interest in the betterment of all people. I think he’ll do well enough. He’ll do best by following his mother’s example, which he has vowed to do though no one left on the planet can hope to meet the standard Queen Elizabeth II set during the course of her incredible lifetime.

She was quite simply the most valuable jewel in the Crown.

Buckle Up

 

Last week my chiropractor asked me if I was planning any trips to Vancouver now that BC is thisssss close to achieving herd immunity. I said no way; even before COVID, I was done with Vancouver. These days, I think Victoria is too crowded! Besides, as I get older, the hassle of travel outweighs the benefits of being there.

The doctor didn’t disagree—but he’s also booked a golfing trip to Arizona next March. He’ll get there in three days, driving a “doable” (so he says) 900 kms a day, and will enjoy the trip more on the road than being squished into a fully loaded airplane for a few hours.

“Hey,” I said brightly, “in two or three years, if you’ve got two hundred thousand dollars, you can book a seat on Virgin Galactic’s sub-orbital flight from YVR to Phoenix and get there before you leave!”

He paused in rearranging my vertebrae. “What’s that?”

I explained about the FAA approving Richard Branson’s company to begin commercial operations in the next few years. “They flew the prototype last weekend,” I said. “Now they just have to build the actual space plane.”

My chiro was amazed, not just about the concept, but that I actually knew about it.

To be fair, I only know about it because Ter was already glued to CNN when I got up last Sunday morning. The test flight was airborne—with Sir Richard aboard—and I missed the part when they reached zero gravity, but at least I was able to watch the landing in real time. I love flying and I love going fast and I love aerodynamically designed anything, so I felt the rush of history being made when the plane landed safely.

Pretty darned cool, before you start thinking about it. I mean, billionaires floating around in the stratosphere for fun seems like a gargantuan waste of money, possibly environmentally irresponsible, and yet another example of the increasing disparity between the rich and the rest of us. At least Branson isn’t reserving seats solely for those who have more money than sense. He’s partnered with a non-profit to cover the cost for some ordinary people to take a trip beneath the stars. So there’s hope for some little kids who dream of getting there but who could never afford it on their own.

I say “beneath the stars” because it seems the intention here is to establish a sub-orbital commuting service, albeit a hella expensive one, rather than visiting space itself. One small step for a billionaire philanthropist may actually be one giant leap for inter-continental travel. So, if I had the cash, would I sign up for this once-in-a-lifetime über-experience?

No, thanks. Despite the thrill of travelling faster than the speed of sound, I doubt my body would respond well to zero gravity. Though I wonder what kind of in-flight snacks would be offered ...

Oh, I know! Fast food!

Poke Check

 

These days, people sound like kids trick or treating on Hallowe’en night:

“I got Pfizer.”

“I got Moderna”

“I got AstraZeneca.”

“I got a rock.”

Now that the greater number of people I know have had their first dose of vaccine, the subject has changed though the format is the same:

“I got a headache.”

“I had nausea.”

“I was super-fatigued.”

“I got a rock.”

I’m not anti-vaccine by any means. I’m more “pro-healthy immune system”. I was also somewhat concerned that being vaccinated might worsen my current auto-immune issue, my logic being that rubella caused my rheumatoid arthritis when I was a kid, and the homeopathic flu program in 2016 ignited whatever it is I’ve been dealing with ever since. Not to mention some distrust of a vaccine so new in its development that the potential for serious side effects down the road cannot be predicted. Call me old school; I wasn’t buying it.

The Universe has a clever way of coaxing me into changing my mind. It takes its time, dropping breadcrumbs designed to present another point of view and I, being a perceiving type who tries to keep an open mind, will often consider new information before adjusting—or not—my original opinion.

When Ter eventually decided to get the jab, I supported her because she felt it was important that one of us “take it for the team”, and her immune system isn’t fighting an ongoing battle like mine. Once she made her appointment, however, I began to wonder at the wisdom of relying on herd immunity as my protection against contracting COVID-19. For one thing, I know a couple of people with auto-immune conditions who’ve had their first dose and suffered nothing more than a sore arm and a day or two of feeling slightly under the weather.

Then, during an email thread on another subject, my siblings each mentioned having received their first dose. I explained my rationale for not being vaccinated, whereupon my older older brother metaphorically took me aside and suggested that I might be misinformed. Neither Pfizer nor Moderna contains the coronavirus, and while he respected the logic behind my decision, he hoped I might reconsider given this information.

At this point, I asked Ter what she thought about me being jabbed despite our earlier agreement. She replied that she’d been rethinking the plan but hadn’t known how to broach it with me—so thank you, older older brother, for opening the door to that conversation.

It also helped to remind myself that new technology is as much a miracle as an untried property, and since I live in a loving, friendly and generous Universe, why not accept the vaccine as a miracle and trust that I would be safe? That sealed the deal.

I had my first dose of Moderna on May 21. When I told the nurse (Michaela—she was great) that I had RA, she said I might have some joint pain after the shot, but it wasn’t likely to be severe. Within minutes, I was getting what felt like tiny carpet shocks in my left hip—most strange. It didn’t last long, but during the next thirty-six hours, a weird little zitzit struck random joints without developing into anything more sinister. Otherwise and so far, I’ve skipped the headache but not the nausea, slept like a super-predator for 16 hours a day, and had a touch of vertigo if I move my head too fast. In other words, nothing much different from the usual!

In fact, I now harbour the wild idea that the vaccine might cure my present condition ...

Resistance is Futile

 

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

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

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

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

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

Normal.

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

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

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

With love (and fries),

This Radiant World

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This radiant world.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

 

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

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

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

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

Fog? I thought. In this heat?

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

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

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

Honestly, Ru, really???

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

59

 

The Year of WTF??? My annual reflection on where I am versus where I thought I’d be has been derailed by my father’s death, a global pandemic, and what appears to be the precursor to a second civil war in America. History is being made even as it’s being erased. Change is not only happening. Change has happened. There is no going back now—not that going back is ever an option. We don’t go backward; we go into retrograde. Maybe this time, the changes will stick. Maybe this time, real change will result. Healthy change. Universal change. Change for the betterment of all.

While I’m dreaming ... I’d like a pony.

Oh, it’s easy to be cynical. Even I, trippy hippy Ru, have slipped off course in the past twelve months. Change on the heels of change in the teeth of change has taxed my coping skills to the max. Exhausted, I lie by the side of the road and watch the landscape undulate like a stormy sea and wonder how the heck will I find the strength to adapt, assuming the storm will pass?

It will pass. It has to. It always does—but man, this sustained assault has me questioning my own sanity as much as anyone else’s. The world has gone mad ... and yet how many generations have looked at their world and expressed this same sentiment?

All of them, I bet.

Finally, finally, my sightline is starting to level. It’s hard not to look back, to stop reiterating the litany of struggle against, yep, change that began years ago with Ter’s retirement (but probably goes even farther back) and ends (one hopes) with Dad’s passing this past June. In between? Chaos. Massive continual upheaval in my family, home and professional life, not to mention the effect of COVID-19 on all of the above. A category four onslaught of a metaphysical nature that could have—and very nearly did—destroy me.

Melodrama, you say? Could be. I am a writer, after all. That has not changed, thank the gods. At times I wondered, even feared, it was not so, but in my soul, it’s what I am. Still and forever, whether or not I am productive.

Yeah, this past year has been a bit of a gong show. I’ve lost some ground, but I can get it back. It likely won’t take as much energy as I fear, either. With energy at a premium these days, this fear seems legitimate, but I also know fear is the means by which my mind tries to control me. My mind, and CNN.

Having accepted that I am not remotely close to where I had thought to be at the end of my fifty-ninth year (today being the first day in my sixtieth on the planet), it’s time to look ahead. I’ve no idea and even less control over how the greater world will look this time next year, but I do have a say in my corner of it. In my year to come, I hope for inner peace. For more serenity, more success, more love, more creativity, more kindness ... more me. By reclaiming Ru, I know I will be the better for it, and I kinda think the world will be, too.

A windshield take up significantly more space than the rearview mirror, so eyes front and bring me that horizon. Happy birthday, Ru.

With love,

Athletic Supporters

 

The Flyers have made it to the second round of the playoffs for the first time since 2012. They got past Montreal in round one, but now they’re duking it out with the hated New York Islanders, who are a much better team than the Habs. They’re also similarly matched with Philly—though the Flyers offense, which is more powerful on paper, would give us the edge if it was a bit more effective on the ice. We lost a meagre lead and ultimately lost game three, which shattered Basher’s confidence and means the Isles lead the best of seven series two games to one. Game four happens tonight.

I sincerely hope that Philly blows NY outta the arena.

As a pinheaded hockey fan, I wonder if the suspension of play for a couple of days messed with the Flyers’ momentum because they fought (and won) a super second game. Game three was scheduled for the very next day, then word came down that the NHL players were joining the NBA, MLS and (I think) MLB in support of their non-white teammates by suspending play for a couple of days. It’s messiest in the States right now, but systemic racism is an ongoing issue everywhere. Pro sports is as diverse an example as any—so while I may be a pinheaded hockey fan, I also applaud the players who stand in support of racial equality and justice for all.

Hockey, one may argue, isn’t that diverse given the vast majority of players are of European descent, but it’s also a very expensive sport and economic disparity is a product of systemic racism. Kids from economically disadvantaged families can’t get on the ice unless non-profits step up to help them with equipment etc. The number of non-white kids playing pro hockey is growing, but it’s almost painfully slow in comparison to other sports leagues.

How did we explain to Basher, who’d spent all day Thursday gearing up for it, why game three was cancelled on Thursday night?

The bears tend to disregard anything I tell them so Ter, being the Bear Whisperer, got down to eye level and gave Basher the news. She described the unrest and protests happening beyond our bubble, and how people are doing what they can to offer support where they can, including pro athletes. He’s a little, er, slow on the uptake, but as she talked, the other bears gradually abandoned their soccer game and gathered around to listen. Burl and Elliot are the troublemakers, but they’re also the quickest to grasp a concept. They were pretty blunt with their opinion of racist attitudes, but they are also part of a multi-hued ursine community and will notice another bear before they notice the colour of its fur. They just don’t understand social injustice or racial inequality.

They understand solidarity, though. When I got them out of bed on Friday morning, they had rallied the whole gang to the cause. I was unanimously advised to leave the soccer ball in the drawer of my nightstand. No football was played until the playoffs resumed.

First World Problems

my bangs need a trim ...

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

Rats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With love,

Social Distance

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

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

Except for me.

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

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

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

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

Strange Days

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

It’s getting stranger.

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

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

And every day, the number of confirmed cases increases.

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

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

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

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

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

I hope.

Make One Mistake ...

As the entire galaxy knows, I’ve been a Flyer fan for forty-plus years. I watched Kate Smith sing “God Bless America” live at their home games during the Stanley Cup playoffs. I thought it was hilarious that this woman, this unblemished model of manners and conservative ideals, was a good luck charm for the Broad Street Bullies. By then she was an icon, a legend lauded—even decorated—for her work raising funds to aid the US war effort during WWII. She was up there on the pedestal with motherhood and apple pie, representing America in all her fine, upstanding, life-liberty-and-justice-for-all glory. Up until the last time the team made the playoffs, she was posthumously present at home games, belting out a duet with current anthem singer, Lauren Hart, that always brought down the house.

And now, she’s gone. Her video archived, her reputation besmirched, her statue removed from outside the arena. All because some unknown someone wormed their way as far back as 1931 to discredit her. Yup, eighty-nine years ago, Miss Kate Smith recorded a song that has either offended or might offend someone in 2019. And now her legacy means nothing. Her good deeds, her sterling reputation, her place in Flyers history—poof! Null and void, nixed, erased, eradicated, negated, meaningless.

I’m not saying it would be okay for the same song to be recorded today. It probably wouldn’t. (I say ‘probably’ because many of the lyrics recorded these days are offensive to the point of obscene, and I’m fairly open-minded.)We’re supposedly more enlightened in 2019 than we were in 1931, though, honestly, I’m not so sure. If we can’t keep a little perspective when considering our history, then we haven’t progressed much at all. If the Flyers organization can’t stand by their icon for the good things she accomplished but will delete her on the mewl of a mistake that no one at the time would even have called a mistake, then we’re all screwed. We all deserve—or will deserve—banishment from the annals of mankind because every one of us at some time in our lives either did or will do something ignorant as judged by another’s set of rules.

Can we please focus on the offences being perpetrated today? Can we please acknowledge that yes, historic wrongs must be righted, yet all things must also be put into correct context? Can we please forgive and move on without destroying a legacy of good works? Can we please respect the families of those we decry as sinners of the worst sort simply because of something they did in a time when it was okay to do it? Even if it’s not okay now, forgiveness is the first step to reconciling the races. You don’t move forward by erasing the past. You accept it and pledge not to repeat it.

A lot of other Flyer fans are so outraged they say they’re not fans anymore. They’ll be cheering for Boston or Washington or Pittsburgh next season. Since these folks were obviously looking for a reason to switch team allegiance, it seems they found it.

As for me ... I shall retire to Bedlam.

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,

Shadow the Sun

Everyone was talking about it. The news constantly updated us on where to go, what time to be there, and what degree of eye protection was required to view last week’s solar eclipse. It was such a significant event that I almost took the day off to watch it from the beach across the street. I would have done it, too, had Monday been Ter’s scheduled day off. As she’s been an integral part of the HQ wildfire response all summer, taking an errant vacation day wasn’t likely to be approved, so off we went to our respective workplaces, me trying to convince myself that it wasn’t such a big deal, it was only an eclipse, for Pete’s sake, the world was not going to stop just to watch a shadow fall over the sun.

Only it kinda sorta did.

Happily, the timing for totality in Victoria coincided with mid-morning coffee. If I couldn’t experience the event with Ter, I decided, the next best person was my wee sister. The library courtyard where she takes her breaks (and where we have coffee on Thursdays) faces east. The sun would be in full view when it all went dark.

Only it didn’t all go dark. At around nine-thirty, the sky went a little weird, like the planetarium light before the show starts. Half an hour later, I headed to the library, where wee sis was indeed parked in place on the wall. The light hadn’t changed much. In fact, the sun seemed as bright and furious as ever—to the naked eye, anyway. People had gathered in groups for the momentous occasion, equipped with NASA-approved dark glasses, projectors made of cereal boxes, or the infamous paper with a hole poked in the middle (I’ve never understood how that works). Wee sis and I were unarmed. I had my phone to track the timing, but she only had her coffee. She seemed less excited about the event than I was, though she smiled when I said I wanted to share it with someone I love. I wasn’t so driven to see the eclipse itself; I wanted to feel it. You know, to feel the wonder of dwindling daylight on a mid-summer morning, and to experience a rare and extraordinary event in the company of my fellow humans.

Canada was outside the so-called “band of totality”; in Victoria, the sun was only ninety percent obscured by the moon. As peak time neared, wee sis shaded her eyes and risked a peripheral glance in the general direction of the sun. “It doesn’t look any darker to me,” she said.

I concurred. Despite knowing we wouldn’t get a total eclipse, I’d hoped for something more dramatic in the light department, like a ninety percent drop from what’s normal for the time. I, too, chanced a glance at the sun, but all I glimpsed was the usual glare. “It’s gotten cold, though,” said the friend who had joined us.

She was right. A definite chill had descended though the light remained the same. In fact, the temperature plunged in those few minutes. It seems obvious now, but I hadn’t anticipated a chill. That was—literally and figuratively—cool!

Back at the office, folks were a little disappointed that complete darkness hadn’t dropped on the day. A couple of my co-workers were discussing it when I stopped in the kitchen to make tea. After listening to a minute of them puzzling over why it didn’t go darker outside, I suddenly said, “It’s a good metaphor, though, don’t you think?”

They looked even more puzzled. “How do you mean?” one of them asked.

“Well, the moon blocked out ninety percent of the sun, yet the light was as bright as if it had only blocked ten percent. So, metaphorically, one bright spirit will shed more light than nine cast in shadow. ‘How far that little candle throws its beam’, you know?”

Admittedly, I got a couple of odd looks, but after they thought about it, they also got my point. It was later said that, for a couple of minutes on August 21, the violence and hatred stopped as everyone looked up at the sky in a shared moment of purest awe. We are all connected. We are all rays of light. Ninety percent of us can falter in the shadows, but so long as the other ten stay strong, the world will not go totally dark.

With love,

Give Peace a Chance

“Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding” – Albert Einstein

“We must live together as brothers or perish together as fools” – Martin Luther King Jr.

“The day the power of love overrules the love of power, the world will know peace” – Gandhi

“Our prime purpose in this life is to help others—and if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them” – the Dalai Lama

Something horrifying happened as a result of Charlottesville, last weekend. I agreed—to a point—with Donald Trump. Violence only escalates with participants on both sides.

Now that you’ve regained consciousness, my thought is actually more expansive than the single incident of protesters getting into it with white supremacists at that rally. People who bring weapons to a gathering for any reason may try to plead self defence, but that’s an extremely loose interpretation of America’s Second Amendment, “arms” being anything that will do more damage in a confrontation than bare hands. Neither is a street brawl inevitable, since violence—like peace—is a choice. The math is simple enough: weapons = intent to harm.

Were the protesters in Virginia there to perpetrate violence? Only the individuals know for sure. Did they expect to encounter resistance from the other side? Considering the collective nature of that side, you’d have to be a moron to expect otherwise.

The white supremacists, on the other hand ... I can’t begin to guess their group intention, but protesting the removal of a statue seems like an excuse to act out their fear-based self-loathing on anybody and everybody else. “We’re taking back our country,” one of them declared. Um, excuse me, sir, but the country was never yours to begin with. White men took it from the original inhabitants by trickery and force, so even the excuse that you’re reclaiming what you’ve lost is a piss-poor one.

I read a quote the other day: “We are all human. Why can’t we live together?”

Because we’re human, that’s why. We are biologically linked to the earth and all the elements; we are ruled by intellect and bullied by ego, subject to fear and driven by the emotion resulting from all of the above. Our spirit selves are a little lost amid the tumult. Rising above it takes more internal fortitude than many of us believe we have, so we resort to violence when we feel threatened. Those white supremacists in Charlottesville arrived feeling brave in their numbers, but every one of them is a fragile, fearful, wounded soul more pathetic than powerful.

And on the flipside, those standing against them  were similarly equipped, though they surely felt their cause more noble. It’s easy to hate those who behave hatefully. It’s equally easy to ape (and justify) that behaviour when we believe we’re in the right. Remember: the villain is the hero in his own story.

The events of the past week have left me somewhat discouraged and a little bit afraid of a future that seems to be unravelling like a roll of toilet paper in the mouth of a speeding squirrel. Terrorists continue to drive vehicles into crowds at festivals and public markets. Nazis, like overconfident cockroaches, are creeping out of the shadows in our own back yard. Mother Earth continues to rend her garments through weather events of Biblical proportion. We can’t live peacefully with our families, our neighbours, our co-workers, our environment, other drivers—or with ourselves.

Maybe this is the real problem. We are all victims of conditioning, of broken parents and bad relationships and the myth of a god who plays favourites. We justify our misery by blaming others and rely on outside agencies to solve our problems when in truth, we can only be responsible for ourselves. We choose our thoughts, therefore we choose our actions, and ultimately, we choose who we become.

Most of us are good people. Most of us do not appear in video clips of violence and mass hysteria. Most of us are simply doing the best we can, but the time may be coming when each of us must make a choice and stand by it. I’m not saying we each have to go it alone. Of course we don’t. There is strength in numbers, but the strength required to gain peace must not manifest in violence. It must come with kindness, with caring and generosity and understanding. It must also come from within. So start with yourself. Look inward, angel, and see where peace begins. Find it there, or find a way to bring it there. Nurture it. Practice it, and when you’re comfortable with it, let it spread outward, beyond yourself to the realm of others, and once the world alights, watch those cockroaches run for cover.

With love,

Retrograde

It’s a scientific fact that if you take your foot off the gas, you’ll lose momentum. The same applies if you cease to continue applying yourself to forward motion. To your home. To your job. To your relationships. To your physical, mental and/or spiritual health. It’s not all uphill, but ongoing effort is required.

Was it George Washington who said complacency is democracy’s greatest enemy? Somebody said it, and democracy is one thing. A large thing, granted, but the statement fits all to which we mortals aspire. I don’t mean to chide anyone for skipping a nightly prayer or a daily vitamin here; this isn’t a reprimand. It’s a theory.

My favourite villain at present is the bad guy in Sleepy Hollow. He’s a super-successful industry magnate who has recently gained immortality through nefarious means (he sold his soul to the Devil, then reneged on the deal by stealing the Philosopher’s Stone). During a dream sequence at the start of one episode, he pontificated on humanity’s need, nay desire, for a shepherd. He talked of our reluctance to apply ourselves to the labour of self-government, our abhorrence to think for ourselves, and our inherent propensity to take the easy route. That route, regrettably, leads to complacency. From there, society goes downhill pretty steadily. Eventually, we lose what others fought to preserve or achieve in hope of creating a better world for us—their children. Finally, when enough momentum has been lost, things like the US election and Brexit happen, and we all wake up in the 1950s.

Are we truly going backward? Have we allowed our society to regress beyond redemption? Do we really have to start over, to regain ground first broken for us then lost through our own negligence? Sure seems like it ... but maybe it’s a matter of perception.

Every once in a while (too often for my taste), the planet Mercury goes into retrograde. This happens when Mercury’s orbit, which is smaller and faster than Earth’s, takes it past us and into a spin that makes it appear as if the tiny planet is moving backward across our night sky. It messes with technology and communications (don’t ask me how) until Mercury catches up with us ... or we catch up to Mercury. Again, it’s a matter of perception.

And that’s my point. We may appear as if we’re moving backward, but in truth we continue to move forward. Even as hatred and avarice seem to be gaining strength, the majority who oppose these recessive traits are amassing to fight them. At the very least, we’re maintaining orbit, and in time, when enough collective energy gathers to push us ahead once more, we’ll come out of social retrograde.

In the meantime, maintain your cool. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Blame no one. Take responsibility. Work hard. Remember your divinity. Express gratitude. Breathe. Tell someone you love them. Be the change you want to see. Trust your heart. Let’s continue moving forward, wide awake and aware.

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,