Attitude Adjustment

It’s often easy to forget my efforts to be Zen in the workplace. I work for government, after all, and if ever a system was designed to drive its employees crazy, government at pretty much every level (municipal, provincial or federal) is it.

The latest WTF? initiative saw the removal of everyone’s deskside garbage cans. The powers above insist that it’s an eco-friendly policy to centralize the office refuse location, but what it means is that, rather than continue with twice-weekly janitorial service, everyone from administrative clerks to executive directors is responsible for transporting their candy wrappers and apple cores to the kitchen (happily—for me—located next to my office).

Anyway, to appease the disgruntled rabble, our branch executive went the extra mile to source inexpensive little desktop bins for everyone on the floor, and the unfortunate employee tasked with distribution found herself faced with the same stupid joke from every workstation she visited.

Including mine.

So when I happened on her in tears later that day, I was appalled that my poor attitude had contributed to making her job harder. She reminded me that I am not responsible for how someone reacts to a comment, and I agree, but it didn’t stop me from regretting my part in the overall drama. It wasn’t her fault that we lost our garbage pickup; she was simply given the impossible job of trying to make it better and nobody, not even I, appreciated her effort.

I thought about it for a couple of days before I worked up the courage to stop by her office and thank her, not for the tiny Starbucks trash bin, but for the gift of witnessing her tears. She started to protest, but I held up a hand to stop her:

“It is never my intention to upset anyone,” I said, “but I realized after the other day that I was taking it all too seriously and my attitude was causing you—who least deserve it—pain. Without that ‘aha’ moment, I’d still be acting like a ratbag, so thank you for allowing me to learn from this experience.”

We all but hugged (neither of us is comfy with raw emotion, especially in the workplace), and we’re back on solid ground. My stuffie, Isbjorn, has appropriated my trash cup for himself, and I am resolved to think twice before the next senseless policy is allowed to alter my attitude with the people I value most.

Wish me luck!

Isbjorn set for winter hibernation

Mutable Earth

A buddy of mine is plagued by Virgos. She has me, for one. Her preteen daughter, just morphing into the ugly years, is another. She’ll often tell me story of the girl’s attitude then say, “Must be a Virgo thing,” which I’ll either confirm or deflect to pubescent hormones.

She recently met a guy whose birthday is the day before mine. It started out great, but went a little weird after a few days, during which she was inclined to some action, but held off for fear he’d “get all defensive” on her.

“Virgos don’t get defensive,” I snapped.

Nonplussed at the interruption, she blinked at me—and burst out laughing.

…

What?

A-OK

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

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

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

I digress.

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

With love,

Tears

Where do tears come from? The head or the heart? I can’t always tell.

In my staunch religious youth, if a song was sung or a prayer said aloud and Ruth cried, it was deemed a winner. Even today, in my not-so-religious middle years, I cry when reminded that I am loved. I dislike crying; it makes my head ache and waters down my resolve to, well, not cry. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears of empathy, tears of frustration, tears of pain, tears of hay fever—I guess they come from everywhere: head, heart and itchy nose.

Seated in a prayer circle during a workshop seminar on addressing the needs of Aboriginal kids in care, I suddenly, unaccountably, welled up and started to weep. Most of the people around me freaked out a little, unnerved by the European show of weakness, but the native facilitator smiled and accepted my apology with words I will always remember:

“Tears are a gift.”

A few years later, when I became a regular at the local tea shop where Joelique worked, he announced one day that he had cried the previous night. “Why?” I asked. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” he replied, philosophically, “I’m teaching myself that it’s okay to cry.” Though he was roughly half my age, his parents, like many of their generation, had employed the Stop it now or I’ll give you something to cry about tactic to turn off the tap in a highly emotional child.

I laughed at his thundering impression of his dad, then I shared my experience in the prayer circle and told him what the facilitator had told me.

“Tears are a gift.”

We held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat, and just as tears rose in both pairs of eyes, the timer went off and saved us.

I wrote this tiny poem as a tribute to the moment:

a confession

I’ve had a day

and you told me you’d cried

so we talked about tears

until duty called

which was probably good

else I’d have dissolved

April 28, 2011

With love,

Reach Up for the Sunrise

Much as I love the fall, I am no fan of getting up before the sun. Hauling the compostable container from my toasty comfy bed to shuffle down a cold dark hallway, flipping on lights as I go, seems to get harder with each successive weekday morning.

We are now past the fall equinox. The sun rises almost an hour after I do, and about twenty minutes before Ter and I leave for work. On a clear morning, I eat my breakfast while watching a spectacular show. On a clear morning, I watch the sun rise from the Ocean Room window.

It’s a remarkable thing when the gold spark winks above the horizon. Time stops. An unexpected serenity settles over me. I stand transfixed in a gradually spreading pool of warm toffee light. Every cell in my being leans toward it. I unfold like a flower. I raise my arms as if to embrace the glory and bring it to my heart. On a good day, I carry it with me. On a not-so-good day, I cherish the moment and head out the door only to pause on the front stoop and marvel once more at the gift of living across the street from a daily miracle.

The sun doesn’t hurry. It comes on its own schedule, with a majesty unparalleled by any other natural phenomenon, and it happens every single day. People complain about the rain and cloud and fog and cold, and every time I say to them, “The sun is up there; you just can’t see it.”

I get a lot of funny looks, but I also get some smiles.

Almost every culture and society throughout history has associated the sun with their most powerful deity. Being a night owl, I haven’t always understood the attraction. I used to enjoy the sunset more, simply because a different kind of magic—my kind of magic—occurs after the light fades and the noisy, bustling, chaotic world goes to sleep. I used to stay up and write all night, and man, I produced a ton of stuff. I plan to do it again, once I retire from my daytime gig. I love the night. For me, it’s the most mysterious and creative and expansive time of the 24 hour cycle, and if I could stay awake past nine p.m., I’d have that darned novel in the can and be two more ahead!

Until then, however … “Sun, sun, sun, here it comes …”

All Good Things

It’s Thanksgiving. I usually celebrate the occasion earlier in the month, on Ter’s birthday because, of all the good things in my life, I am the most thankful for her.

I also mentioned to my sisters—wee and Boy—last week that they are among my top five. I didn’t say where, but they were happy just to have made the list. Sillies. My family is second, third, fourth and fifth, and includes older sister, both brothers and of course my wonderful parents.

After family come my friends—those who have become family, those who get me through my workday, and Nicky Bean, who stands alone as a beacon of inspiration, creativity and writerly support, and who also happens to agree that John Taylor is perfect.

I must also to give the nod to my pit crew—my voodoo medicine man, my massage therapist, my foot man and chiropractor. I wish I could be grateful for my dentist, but despite the miracle of having my own teeth (so far), I remain suspicious of how much work is actually required for my health rather than his home renovations.

Big picture, I am grateful for everything in my life, even the challenging stuff though I’m often snarky while dealing with those challenges (like dental work). Mortality can be a struggle, but it provides a plethora of opportunity to learn, to love, to hope and dream and laugh and cry and taste chocolate.

I am most grateful, perhaps, for gratitude itself, for it being the wellspring of abundance and prosperity, and a reminder that I have it pretty darned good in a world seemingly poised on the lip of the Dark Side.

Now, to give everyone something worth being grateful for, I’ll keep this short! Take a moment to consider the good things in your life. You might have to look for them, but trust me, they’re there, and if you focus on them instead of the things that drive you crazy, you’ll discover yourself to be in better shape than you thought.

With love and gratitude,

Royal Flush

Of course I’m a Royalist. I had an affair with Charles II, didn’t I?

During the recent visit of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to Victoria, almost everyone I know displayed some degree of giddiness at the city’s brush with royalty. A couple of people were aware but not following, and only one rolled her eyes with a dismissive flip of her hand.

Well, fine. Say what you like about Britain’s royals, but I have no problem with my tax dollars going to support a visit to my hometown, or anywhere else in Canada, for that matter. Our nation’s membership in the Commonwealth has helped our global reputation as a diverse people of wit, warmth and welcome. We are a part of something greater than ourselves, which I believe makes us more tolerant and less suspicious of other nations. It also gives us the benefit of representation by a truly great lady in Queen Elizabeth II. She is an inspiring example of loyalty, grace and commitment, and she’s ensured that subsequent generations of her family are similarly aware of the privileged life they lead.

A life of service,

A life of charity.

A life on a gruelling schedule in a relentlessly public eye.

Few celebrities can make any of these claims, let alone all three, plus the royals are excellent ambassadors for any number of causes. They use their super powers for the good of others and not themselves (are you listening, Kardashians?) Better yet, they do it with style and—yes—humility.

I watched Will and Kate’s progress through their week out west and was less impressed by their lineage than by their conduct. “They’re such good people,” Ter remarked during the news clip of the couple breaking formation for an impromptu walkabout in Vancouver.

“That’s because they were raised to have manners,” I replied.

These days, any petulant brat can be a princess; it’s no longer a title of distinction demanding decorum and social grace. In a world of spoiled industry heiresses and overpaid sports stars, it’s refreshing to see monied young people exhibiting genuine class.