The Kindest Thing

Mum and Ru 2005

During a creative exercise some years ago, I was asked: “What was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you?”

Gee. Kind things are done for me all the time, even when I don’t see them. A few examples popped immediately to mind, but none of them were more than moments—strangers stopping to see if I was okay after I slipped on a frosty sidewalk; friends dropping a box of non-perishable foodstuffs on our doorstep when Ter and I were broke; coffees bought or hugs exchanged or smiles offered all counted if I simply wanted to answer the question, but I thought seriously about it because the kindest thing ever suggested selecting a single item from a half-century stuffed with possibilities.

I actually came up with one. The kindest thing anyone has ever done for me?

My mother wanted me.

She didn’t just want me; she contrived to get me, and once she had me, I lacked for nothing. I wasn’t spoiled with material things, but from my first breath I was loved. In a world where children are too often born by accident or nefarious design, my mother made her kids the center of her universe. I was luckier than my sibs—I came just after my older sister began kindergarten and my parents’ best friends welcomed a newbie to their family. Timing is everything, so I scored big.

Nelson Mandela said that you can tell a lot about a society by the way it treats its children. Even in the poorest conditions, children can be loved and taught to believe in themselves. Regrettably, this is not always the case. I see the evidence in my job and in the people around me; in the adult children of women who did the best they could, but perhaps lacked the focus my mother possessed. Raising children is so hard that I’m glad I don’t have any of my own, but if I had become a mother, I hope I’d have been as wonderful to my daughter as mine has been to me.

Happy Mother’s Day.

“Where Stars Go When They Fall”

The boys power out in the morning to round up as many as they can. Grandpa says when the family first started collectin’ ’em, we had to make the nets smaller ’cause the mesh was too loose and the littler ones kept slippin’ through the holes. Even now there’s times when they can’t  scoop ’em all, so mostly we use the regular nets and leave the tiny ones be.

I can’t get over how small they really are, they look so big sparklin’ on the water. They make a big splash in the night, too; you can hear the smack! when they land. You’d think a big smack and a wincin’ light would make for a bigger critter but it ain’t always so. Pa says the water makes ’em sparkle bigger and I reckon he’s right ’cause there’s never one so big that I can’t hold it in my hands. I need both, sometimes, and there’s others that’ll fit two or three in my palm.

They’re sure purty, though. I keep a box of ’em in my room and sometimes I’ll sprinkle some in the tub and turn out the light so I can take a bath in the night sky.

Accepting Impermanence

One of my molars lost its crown last week. Diagnosis: advanced decay in the tooth under the porcelain, I think due to a buggered root canal but no one at the dentist’s office was saying. Prognosis: not good. Resolution: yank the tooth and build a bridge between the flanking teeth. Since I’m all for keeping as many teeth for as long as I can, I’ve committed to the plan and the first step happened yesterday: the tooth was extracted.

No one likes dental work—if they do, they need more help than a dentist can give them. I have spent years getting over my childhood, but the last tooth I had pulled was wildly painful (and also the result of a root canal gone bad). It’s hard to get past it until you get past it, right? Fortunately, my recent adoption of the “be here now” and “worry is a waste of time” policies helped immensely in getting me through the wait time over the weekend. I hardly thought at all about what awaited on Monday, and when I did, I acknowledged the anxiety, then boxed it up and set it aside.

On Monday morning, however, Ter read my mind and handed me Your True Home—the Everyday Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh. I sat with the book in my hands and asked myself: “What wisdom will help me today?” I then performed my thumbing ritual, eventually opening the book to page 361:

“Offering Flowers to the Buddah”

When I began this little ritual a few weeks back, I would often look at a heading and think, Seriously? I have learned to restrain judgement (and dismissal) until I’ve read the piece—as I did yesterday morning.

It was all about the importance of accepting impermanence. Nothing lasts forever. Everything changes. Accepting impermanence enables us to suffer less and enjoy life more. I’m paraphrasing, of course, but the nugget in this piece really helped me. I was upset at losing the tooth because I was afraid of how much it would hurt to have it pulled. Soooo … accept that the tooth has to go. Accept that it will be painful (pain is inevitable; suffering is optional), but this too shall pass. Breathe. And know that all will be well.

It took 45 minutes and four, count ʼem four, needles to numb me sufficiently for him to do the job. When I was finally frozen solid, I closed my eyes, felt a little pressure, heard a little scraping, thought, Good bye tooth, I’m letting you go—and it was done. No pain, no noise … and a lot of bloody gauze. Yikes, recovery is the brutal part.

It too shall pass.

Auto Biography XI

“Das Bomb”

Fourteen years after buying Jules, it was time to replace him. Ter was now commuting up the highway to work, through a micro-climate infamous for weather that made the low-slung Camaro a hydroplaning hazard. She also spent a lot of time looking up tailpipes and being blinded by bullying headlights in the mirror, so she began talking about an SUV. A larger, higher vehicle would make her feel safer on the road, and since my whole life goes with her whenever she drives away, I was fine with her decision. The tricky part was finding a vehicle that we both liked.

Not that we conducted a coordinated search. Truth is, I liked not having a car payment every month, and we were still so fond of Jules that parting with him seemed like a betrayal. It helped that nobody was producing an SUV that matched our individual wants with mutual needs; we saw nothing on the street that inspired us to further investigation. They all looked the same. They were too big, too boxy, too ordinary, too not right. Typically, as Jules got Ter through one more winter commute, the notion of a new vehicle started fading as spring approached.

Then the Vancouver Olympics happened. A new Volkswagen commercial began running during the evening TV coverage. I have always enjoyed VW commercials, though their bugs and bunnies are not remotely attractive as a means of transport. Besides, everyone knows that Volkswagen drivers are idiots; they’re all over the road, dodging through lanes and trying to get ahead of everyone else—annoying as heck and not that fashionable to boot. But VW TV ads are great. This one in particular:

Aside from showcasing the way I normally drive, I liked the compact look of the vehicle. I liked its strange little name, too: “Tiguan” – a smaller SUV with the power of a tiger and the reflexes of an iguana. Big fun for me, boy. I could spin some fab donuts in that little guy. But did I say anything aloud? Heck, no. It was a Volkswagen. No way would one of them wind up in my driveway.

Uh huh.

Ter got serious about wanting a new vehicle shortly after the Games ended. We talked about trucks ad nauseum but I wrinkled my nose at anything she suggested, and vice versa. Finally, she said, “I haven’t really liked anything except that little Volkswagen.”

Uh oh.

Turned out we’d been in agreement from mid-February and hadn’t known it. She called me at work one day: “I’m looking at the Volkswagen website …” which was basically a call to arms. We pored over specifications and argued about colours (I preferred white, she wanted black). I put a pic of a Tiguan on my computer desktop.

“What’s that?” a co-worker inquired, bending over my shoulder for a closer look.

“My new car,” I replied.

“What is it?”

Saying “Tiguan” only earned a puzzled look, so I resorted to answering, “A Volkswagen.”

We brought Tiggy home on May 1, 2010. They were good about moving Jules while our backs were turned; I recall patting his rear fender on my way into the dealership, and when we saw daylight again, the stall where we’d left him was empty. And there, all puffed up and proud like the vehicular version of Moon Pie, was Tiggy.

The joy of a Tiguan in 2010 was that few other people in town owned one. Ours was rare enough to prompt total strangers to ask what it was. Gradually, more of them appeared on the street and nowadays, I see them in bunches every week. But people still ask about ours. Even Tiguan owners will ask. “How do you like it?”

“We love it,” is our standard reply.

Aside from the annual service curse, he’s exceeded my wildest expectations. He hauled the weight of an ex-husband to the recycling depot in 2011. He helped us move house twice. He has delivered new furniture, carried bags of books and groceries, and most importantly, he has transported Ter safely to work through three soggy winters without the slightest skid. He grips the road and growls before he pounces; if I’m at the wheel, he’s the first away when the light goes green. He’s cute and zippy and he has a kick-ass boss stereo system.

He das bomb.

“Prince of Cats”

I am no friend of Montague.

My heart lies with Capulet—the mad one, my sister said, warning me too late as if I would have heeded her. She favoured my love’s enemy, on the strength of a wink in the marketplace. The flicker of a passing eye and she was sworn.

No such gentle flirtation for me. I was pinned by a black fire stare, which I freely met and held, and was hunted through the streets until I tired of the chase; too soon, some would say, but I am a kitten with claws.

To state that we loved would be too generous, for cats do not love. They can be fond and show affection, though mine preferred to tease when in a lighter mood. Such moods were rare. He came to me hungry, he came to me in anger, and, I think on occasion, in jealousy, testing my loyalty when he made no public claim. Unlike him for me, I was neither his first nor his only.

I was his last.

What demon drove him to loathe so fiercely a rival house when they had done him no ill that I could see? I ask this now, once all is said and done; to ask it sooner did not occur and surely would have been my end. It makes no matter now. He slew Mercutio—he of the flirtatious wink—and was slain in turn, by the unlikeliest of villains if the truth be known. The boy Romeo did avenge his kinsman with an unlucky thrust, but ’twas vengeance after all, spurred by love of kin over hate for an enemy. Even I, whilst choked with horror at the scene before the Prince, did see cause for mercy though Lady Capulet demanded more than banishment.

It makes no matter now. He is gone. They are all gone: Tybalt, Mercutio, Romeo—and Juliet, the Capulet cousin whose unfortunate passion brought untimely ends to all but the blood feud. Peace has finally come, but at such a price. A sorrowful peace, born of tragedy and loss too heavy to bear.

I do not trust this peace. I too must be gone.

And his child will go with me.

Present Moment, Wonderful Moment

Finally! I’ve wanted a morning picture of the Olympic Mountains for weeks, but the weather has only cooperated on workdays when I’m dashing to the car. The sun sharpens the snowy peaks and shadowy hollows in a way unmatched by any other time of day, and this morning—my day off—I seized the moment.

I am not a morning person. Being forced to rise before my preferred time, however, has taught me to appreciate the glory of a sunrise and the quiet moments before the rest of the world awakens. Now that spring/summer is here, my treasured morning meanderings are about to resume. Sometimes I sit by the water, other times I stroll through the neighbourhood with all senses attuned. I smell the salty tang of the sea, watch the sun pull colour from the gardens, listen to the music of birdsong and the whispering breeze in the leaves. I lose myself in the moment, walking and marvelling until my big joints start to whine. Then it’s time for home and tea in the Ocean Room, where I can sit and watch the world cruise by outside my window.

Or, as in today’s case, do some blogging, listen to some smooth jazz, and decide where the day will take me from here. Writing figures prominently, of course. As I expected, Cristal’s angel story is coming to the surface—I’ve already written a ton of stuff for her, so right now I’m pondering what I can use and what I must dump. I’d rather not dump any of it, since every word represents a flash of inspiration and a bucket of sweat. That said, what I don’t use with her may be useful in another story. It happens, sometimes. Because I write without a definite plan, sometimes two tales begin as one and eventually I have to determine what piece belongs where. It’s as much a puzzle as it is a conjuring and if I relax and go with it, I have more fun. It’s magical when the pieces fall into place and a story emerges. The ending often comes halfway through the project; until then, I am quietly freaking out as I wonder where I’m going. Again, relax and go with it, Ru. Geez. It’s not like I’m defusing a bomb or anything.

I’m just playin’.

Flyers Flop

$22.50 @ Game 7

To quote my hero, George RR Martin, life is meaningless and full of pain.

Despite a third period adrenaline rush on Wednesday, the boys couldn’t beat the $%#@&ing Rangers. New York hardly set the bar beyond reach, either – they scored two goals in the second period and we couldn’t beat that???? Honestly. My father said he restrained himself from calling at the intermission to suggest that I rub the juju beads a little harder. Nice idea, Dad, but what I really needed was a Henrik Lundqvist voodoo doll.

Ah, well. It only hurts for a day. I hope they don’t do too much messing in the offseason, except maybe to get a new GM—one who isn’t inclined to sign older stars to lengthy contracts, for instance. (I thought the Flyers had been moved to Vancouver when 34-year-old Vinnie Lecavalier was signed for five years, and I can’t even speak about the Bryzgalov debacle.) Otherwise they have a good mix of vets and young ʼuns on all four lines. The blue line needs shoring up, especially since Kimmo Timmonen is retiring, but whose defence corps doesn’t need a stud?

So now I join the family Canucks and Leafs fans, able to watch the playoffs without blowing a blood vessel, secure in the knowledge that, come October, the boys in black and orange are once again Cup contenders.

In the meantime, I’ve got stories to write, summer to enjoy, and who knows what all else to keep me occupied until the 2014/15 season. Oh, yeah—and, for as long as they’re in it, I’m a Pittsburgh Penguins fan.