“Full Circle”

Tomorrow would have been my mother’s 89^th birthday. Actually, it will still be her birthday; she’s just not here to celebrate it.

Ter and I used to call her on the day and sing a silly birthday song we learned in church. Maybe we’ll do it this year, too, only without the telephone. Last year, instead of taking her and Dad to lunch, we drove out to the house, where Wee Sis and Boy Sister joined us for tea and cake in an impromptu party. It was one of the happiest times I’ve had. No one suspected it would be our last birthday with Mum.

I’ve spent this whole summer trying to write a poem that would do her justice. I’ve played with phrases and couplets, seeking to describe the “something special” that Dad says existed between Mum and me from the day I was born. Who am I kidding? A proper poetic tribute would have to be an epic to rival the Viking sagas, except it exceeds my ability to compose one.

And yet, perhaps an epic ode is unnecessary. In this instance, perhaps less is truly more. A single line that came to me on the day of her passing seems to say it all. It certainly feels that way.

You were there when I arrived

And I was there to say good bye.

Happy Birthday, Mum.

Piercing

Wee Sis holding me together - I couldn't stop laughing

The hardest part of dressing for work is figuring out what earrings to wear, then allowing for time to separate the winners from their fellows. When I was a kid, I had no inclination whatsoever to get my ears pierced; neither my mother nor my older sister had theirs done ... but my wee sister was different.

She had hers done at sixteen. I think it gave her something of her own, something that wasn’t emulating either of her older sisters. Of Dad’s three girls, she played more with makeup and was constantly rearranging her room—if anyone in the clan could have been an artist or an interior designer, it’s my little sister. She has the eye for it. She’s also responsible for my daily bling dilemma. She’s the reason why I got my ears pierced.

She won’t remember it this way, but here’s my story and I’m sticking to it:

I was nineteen and had a summer job with the CNIB, so it must have been 1981. One day wee sis met me at noon and we went somewhere for eats. I don’t remember where or what, but it was fast enough that we were left with a half hour before I had to get back to the office. She looked at me and asked, “What do we want to do until then?”

“Let’s get my ears pierced,” I replied.

I was joking, but when she lit up and said, “Okay!” I was—gak!—committed. We have always loved each other, but we could be brutal when we were younger, and if I chickened out, I’d never hear the end of it. Actually, that may yet be the case in some circumstances. Anyway, we got into the car (she was already driving; I had yet to get my license) and headed to the shop where her ears had been pierced a year or so earlier.

The place was empty. No customers and, better yet, no staff. To impress wee sis with my pseudo-sincerity, I made a point of perusing the merchandise as if contemplating my first purchase. In truth, I was counting the seconds in hope of escaping with my lobes intact. I almost made it, too. I was about to suggest that time was running short when the clerk appeared like a phantom menace and asked if we needed help.

I opened my mouth to say, “No, thanks.”

The words never left my lips. Wee sister took me by the shoulders, turned me to face the salesperson, and said, “My sister wants to get her ears pierced.” She gave me a little shove for emphasis and I was officially doomed.

I vaguely remember hyperventilating in front of a mirror while the clerk drew dots on my earlobes and my sister watched from a strategic spot near the door, no doubt in case I decided to make a run for it. Make a run for it? I could barely breathe, let alone make my limbs work. I closed my eyes as the loaded stapler hovered near my right ear. A sharp pop!, and warming blood rushed to the offended lobe. A few seconds later, the entire deed was done. As we walked back to the car, my little sister put her arm around my shoulders and declared, “I’m so proud of you!”

So tomorrow morning, when I’m pawing through my tangled box of studs and snarled hoops, I will remind myself of those precious words and how good it made me feel to hear them.

Impressing your older sister can be tricky enough. Impressing your younger sister? Now that’s a coup!

Love you, wee ’un.

Duty Calls

People love to complain about things, but in a democracy the responsibility for change sits squarely on our shoulders. You may not get the candidate you vote for, but the act of voting itself is a show of respect for those who fought (and died) to ensure you have a say at all. On this Remembrance Day weekend, it’s more important than ever to honour their sacrifice at every opportunity.

BC is currently conducting a mail-in referendum on electoral reform. We have been given a chance to change a system that many of us have griped about for-seeming-ever. I won’t try to describe the options here because the details are irrelevant for anyone outside of BC, and anyone inside BC has until November 30 to mail your ballot to Elections BC—only you’d better mail it in well before the 30^th because postal service is hiccupping on Canada Post’s rotating strike. And it’s important that your ballot is counted. This is what democracy is all about, Charlie Brown.

There’s been a buzz about something in the wind for the past few weeks, but not much in the media besides advertisements for and against electoral reform, neither of which did much to unravel the mystery of the alternatives to the system we have now.

The system that’s literally been in place for centuries. The system that, with some alteration, is why Hillary Clinton won the popular vote in the States, but lost the presidential election. That’s why I’ve paid attention to this referendum. I don’t want something similar to happen here.

I know, I know. It’s confusing. I dislike recommendations to visit anyone’s website for more information because I don’t spend a lot of time on the Internet. Government websites aren’t always easy to navigate, and the 1-800 toll free phone number generally advises me that “our call volume has exceeded our capacity, so please try again later.” Information can been spotty and not very well explained. In truth, I was so befuddled by the options to “first past the post” that I almost declined to vote at all. Then I thought, No, I have to vote; it’s a privilege and my responsibility, but figured I’d stay with the status quo. But then I realized I’m unhappy with the status quo, and maybe I should consider the options—or at least watch the news blurb wherein the options were, as it turned out, sorta kinda outlined and didn’t impress me into changing my mind.

Ter and I watched the televised debate between the Premier and the Leader of the Opposition a couple of days ago. That was where the three alternatives being offered were explained in a way that chimed. It helped me make up my mind not only to vote at all, but to think about the choices and consciously decide which one aligns with my sense of how government should look.

It didn’t take that long. Sure, it took some effort because I had to use my brain, but when I gave myself five minutes to focus, some things became clear. Better yet, when I finally opened the referendum package that came in the mail, I understood what I was reading. I almost messed up the ballot, but I caught myself and got it safely in the mail this afternoon. “Look at us,” I said to Ter, “participating in the democratic process!” Considering that women weren’t allowed to vote a hundred years ago, it’s more precious to me than ever.

Truly, BC reader, you didn’t have to have watched the debate to comprehend the write up in the package you received; just give yourself five minutes to focus. Think about whether or not you’re okay with where we’re at. If you are, say so. If you’re not, do the work, then make it count.

From now on, complaining is not an option.

Chances Are

Stop trying to scare me! I am fed up with news stories and advertisements designed to freak me out. Everywhere I turn, monsters lurk in the shadows. Cybercrime. Extreme weather. Economic disaster. Road rage. Housing crises. Someone wants to rob me. Something wants to kill me. Someone wants to be me.

I have no idea when the rules changed, but in broadcasting school, the first one was to keep my tone optimistic. One day while on the air, the weather forecast predicted an 80% chance of rain and I reported that we had a 20% chance of sun. It rained that day, but not the entire day and I dunno about you, but I appreciate a break in the drizzle.

In my mid-thirties, after passing a particularly stubborn kidney stone, the doctor warned that I had a 30% chance of having a second one. At first I thought, crap. Then I thought, wait a minute. The odds actually favoured a happier prospect. I had a 70% chance of not having a second one (and so far, so good). But why didn’t he say so? Why did he emphasize the lesser chance? It couldn’t have been to give me hope. We can’t have people believing that all will be well. There’s more money and more power in keeping people fearful.

Cancer is everywhere and has been everywhere for seemingly ever. But since it executed a hit-and-run on my mother that still has me reeling, I am particularly sensitive about it. I haven’t been driven to donate money to the related charities, though they’ve certainly upped their fundraising game. October is awareness month, after all, and I am more acutely aware of it than usual.

When I hear that one in sixty-four women will develop breast cancer, it’s hard not to panic immediately that I will be the one. Or that Ter will. Or my wee sister. Or my poet laureate. Or my office roomie.

Wait a minute. One in sixty-four will means sixty-three in sixty-four won’t—and I’m not jamming my head into the sand on this. I’m just deciding to be positive. To protect myself from manifesting a fearful intention. Thoughts are energy, positive and negative. Like attracts like. I’m certainly not saying that someone who fears cancer is doomed to be the one in sixty-four, but isn’t it more hopeful to focus on being in the healthy majority? Isn’t it more hopeful to focus on the positive side of everything? Contrast is a fact; there is no light without dark. If you flip that somewhat negative thought, however, then there is no dark without light. Life happens according to plan. That is also a fact. But we choose how we live it, be it in love or in fear.

I choose love. I choose to be positive. I choose optimism. I choose to deflect the negativity wherever possible, whenever possible. Of course I have off days. Mood swings and massive occasions of WTF? Contrast, right? Human. Things I must live with because living with them is why I’m here. I will not, however, allow myself to be intimidated by a society bent on intimidating me.

Being positive takes effort. It takes conscious thought. It takes persistence and courage and a host of other things that escape me right this second – but it can be done! And because for most of the time I live in a friendly, generous and loving universe, it works. Try it sometime. When you think or hear something negative, flip it and see what you get.

I bet the odds end up in your favour.

With love,

Word O’ the Day

Once in a while, I come across a word – like “flânerie” or “cozen” – that is so good it becomes part of my vocabulary. My all-time favourite board game is Balderdash, where players try to guess the definition of a lesser known word. Everyone writes down what they think, and the options are read aloud along with the true meaning. The player who guesses the correct one gets a point. (The same game was known in ye olden days as “Dictionary” and played with, you guessed it, a dictionary and scrap paper.) Some meanings are obvious. Others, not so much. Therein lies the fun of the game.

People are extremely creative when it comes to supposing what a word might mean. One of my favourites was my brother-in-law’s attempt at “costard”: the villainous offspring of an aunt or uncle. Or words to that effect.

Another was my older older brother’s shot at “pyrope”: a rope for lassoing runaway pies.

And incorrect though it is, I still use the word “bagge” when referring to the ground crew who handle luggage at the airport.

Each morning, I open my email to discover Merriam-Webster’s word of the day. Many of them I already know. Others go straight to the delete folder (I am at work, after all). But there are occasions when the WOTD is so intriguing that I have to know what it means.

The best one last week was “crapulous”, an adjective that sounded so applicable to my life of late that I had to pursue it. But does it mean what it sounds to mean? In the tradition of Balderdash, choose one of these three definitions:

“sick from excessive indulgence in liquor”

“requiring skimming, as in a soup or stock”

“the opposite of fabulous”

On your marks, get set … Look it up!

Make It Count

Finally! Def Leppard is nominated for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame! At last! How many anniversary editions of Hysteria did they have to release to make the list?

“We have to get online and vote,” Ter said, and I agree. But wait. We can vote as often as we like—daily, if we choose. What the ...?

The same thing is happening on PBS with The Great American Read. People are encouraged to go online and vote for their favourite novel—or novels (yes, more than one can be a favourite)—from a shortlist of 100, as many times as they want before the deadline. The most votes wins, so vote now and vote often.

Huh?? Imagine if the same rule applied to political elections. And why doesn’t it? If I can tip the scales in the Leppard King’s favour by clicking OK a dozen times a day, why do I only get one crack at the House of Parliament?

Give me a mittful of ballots. The most votes would still win, right? And I can say I participated in the democratic process. Never mind if I vote for three separate candidates eight times apiece. Okay, maybe one will get nine votes and the other two will get, say, three and six, respectively. Do the math and my first choice will clearly be the one who got nine votes. Meanwhile, my crazy neighbour votes twenty times for one candidate and guess what? Nutbar’s guy gets in by two votes. How is that fair?

I doubt fairness to the candidate/nominee (or at all) is the point. It seems these online polls are geared toward empowering the voter, specifically the chronically indecisive voter with a nervous tic in his index finger. I understand the challenge of naming a favourite anything—my favourite Leppard song depends on the day—but come on. If you want the Leps in the RnR Hall of Fame, by all means, say so; however ...

Once is enough!

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),