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.

Bibliography 15

 “Diary of a Bookseller” – Shaun Bythell

It seems I’ve read a ton of autobiographies this summer: Elton John’s Me, Tina Turner’s My Love Story, Stewart Copeland’s Strange Things Happen. I also read a bio of Freddie Mercury and Chris Heath’s fly-on-the-wall account of life with Robbie Williams. If you see a theme here, you’re right on the mark—the rock stars who have provided the soundtrack to my life are telling their stories and I’m devouring them. Each of the aforementioned is a worthy read. As laugh out loud funny as Copeland’s brash American POV is, Dame Elton’s voice is particularly enjoyable for its honesty and humour; the British tendency toward self-deprecation is as hilarious as it is harrowing ... which leads me to the subject of this post.

Shaun Bythell is a fellow from Scotland who returned to his hometown in 2001 and somehow ended up buying a used bookshop. At one point, given the daily dramas encountered with quirky staff and regular customers, not to mention the antics of rogue patrons as observed from behind the counter, he decided to keep a diary, the end result of which was first published in 2017 as Diary of a Bookseller.

It may be a keeper. The copy I read was loaned to me by a friend and I’m unsure if I will purchase my own, though after reading Shaun’s experience with online selling and the insatiable monster that is Amazon, I feel somewhat compelled to support the bookselling industry by amassing as many hard copies as possible, even if I don’t have room for more than a hundred volumes in my reduced living space. That’s one reason why I have a Kindle—I’ve been seduced into the space-saving advantage of e-books even though the original hype of “books at lower cost” is no longer true. These days a new release download costs the same as the paperback edition; the primary bonus to the buyer is the convenience of an entire library contained on a device the size of a drugstore pocket book. Only thinner.

I digress.

This is a great book for those moments “in between”: when waiting for tea to steep, my hair to dry, or Ter to get her shoes on. If I had a half-hour to spare, I’d pick it up and read a few entries. Some are longer than others, as is the way of diaries. Some days are busier than others. If nothing else, the overall glimpse into the world of used bookselling, particularly in a small town, gave me a greater appreciation for the stalwart souls determined to endure in a world of on demand print, cutthroat competition and online conglomerates. Or impossible customers, come to that. I try to be pleasant with store clerks, recognizing that dealing with random members of the public is hard work. Not everyone shares my perspective. The beauty of this book is that the author, who could easily swing from objective to objectionable, simply notes the customer’s tone and general mien during any exchange. Rarely does he descend to disparaging criticism of any individual, no matter how appalling the individual’s attitude. The echo of his inside voice is tempered by diplomacy for the PG-13 audience while being, in my opinion, completely justified. Oh, some incidents are hysterical.

The funniest observations, however, are of his staff, particularly his regular (opposed to seasonal) employee, who gives as good as she gets both to her boss and to the customers. It’s a slice-of-life-in-a-small-town story as much as a view from behind the counter. My overall impression is that bookselling is not to be undertaken lightly. It takes a special breed to take up the profession ... but if you’re not worried about making ends meet and have the people skills to manage characters too colourful to be invented, then selling used books might be the job for you.

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.

One’s Own Path

 

I am the protagonist in my own story. I am also a sister, neighbour, friend, colleague, aunt, and life partner. I play “random stranger” in countless other stories, too. Sometimes I forget and try to solve another person’s problem, but ultimately, and as difficult as it is when I would take someone else’s burden on myself, I can’t walk a path set for someone else. I can only walk alongside.

The path analogy is certainly not new, but it became more clear to me during a flânerie some weeks ago. It was a gorgeous sunny day in the urban forest. The light was gloriously dappled a dozen shades of green. I was surrounded by towering firs and abundant foliage, yet I plainly heard other people’s voices all around me. Strangely (or maybe not, to those who know me), I thought of those who have gone before, the unseen souls whom I have loved and who yet linger to help me navigate my way through this weighty, challenging, fleeting and paradoxically interminable third dimensional existence. I felt their combined presence beside me on the spongy cedar path, but when I glanced around, I was alone.

I didn’t feel alone, though. That was comforting ... to a point. I realized facing front that even if I can’t see them, they stay a step or two behind because the path before me is mine. My hand will not be held and the obstacles removed before I encounter them. I have to test the footing and trip over the roots and choose which way to go when I reach a fork in the trail. The best they can do—the best any of us can do—is lend support and encouragement from the sidelines.

It’s a hard lesson. I can’t imagine what a parent feels like when their child falls ill. My mother blamed herself when my arthritis was diagnosed; she thought God was punishing her through me. I distinctly remember telling her this was not so, that my bones were my challenge. She felt the ripple effect, as did the entire family to varying degrees, but in the end all she could do was help me while I tackled the problem.

So it is with life. Each of us has a map to follow, sometimes with company, sometimes not. People come and go according to their own maps, and when all is said and done, a magical story will have been told.

Lightning Up

 

Sometime during the night following the Flyers’ elimination from the Stanley Cup playoffs, I decided to root full bore for the Tampa Bay Lightning. Originally, I only supported the Bolts until they served their purpose by punting the Bruins in their second round series, but I had also hoped Philly would do in the Islanders and proceed to face Tampa in the eastern conference final.

Dreamer! Silly little dreamer!

Without getting into it (because it still makes me furious), the Flyers pushed their series against New York to a seventh game, but it was only by the grace of Carter Hart that they got that far. We had no offense unless you count lucky bounces, though the defense was solid (Ivan Provorov’s got a great future), and we had a fairly effective penalty kill—but an utterly piss poor power play. The PP was so pp, in fact, that I groaned aloud whenever we drew a penalty. It got worse when, hoping to break the NYI shutout, Alain Vigneault pulled Hart with six minutes to go in the third period. “What are you doing, you fool?” I screamed. “The goalie’s the best man on our power play!”

So, the boys are off to the golf course and Basher is off to post-playoff therapy. Of course I’m a Bolts fan for the eastern final—I can’t abide the Islanders in any way shape or form. And in the west, I’d have chosen Vegas over Dallas, but now I don’t care. My Plan B preference had been for Vegas to go all the way, until I witnessed a cheap-o WTF? move by the Knights when they put out Vancouver in game seven of their series.

Give the Canucks credit—they went further than any other Canadian team and I’d have been delighted to cheer them to the Cup, if only. They had to call on their backup goalie when Markstrom was hurt in game four, and darned if Thatcher Demko didn’t stop all but one of something like a hundred and twenty shots over two games. You start to believe anything is possible when a team comes back from a three game deficit to force a seventh. But Vegas came to play, and they play rough. Not good rough, either. Not only did they out-bang the Canucks, they got away with some sneaky shots and won by a score of 3 – 0. They only beat Demko once, though. The insurance goal was into the empty net after Vancouver pulled him to get the extra man on in the last few minutes of regulation time. With eighty-some seconds left in the game, Vegas potted a second empty-netter and celebrated like they’d come from behind in the nick of time.

Really? A second empty net goal? Talk about rubbing it in—and while I may be a fan of the old Broad Street Bullies, I vehemently disagree with such poor sportsmanship. In my mind, what the Knights did in that last minute was naught but a poke in the collective eye of Canuck players and fans alike. Boo, hiss!

But, Ru, you ask, what happens if the Islanders beat the Bolts?

Don’t ask.

The bears console Basher after the Flyers are eliminated

Gardening

 

When Ter and I lived on Rockland Avenue, our little deck between the gables was bright with baskets of fuchsias, pots of pansies, and assorted other vessels containing greenery of some ilk. One year, pepper, tomato and strawberry plants jostled for position with the petunias, azaleas and marigolds. The yield wasn’t great, though what fruit we did get was delicious beyond description, and my lasting memory is of fighting to remove the strawberry plant at the end of its season. The thing had sent runners beneath the planks of the deck and what looked like errant strands of twine actually possessed greater strength than a pair of human hands; alas, we resorted to shears when pride was on the line.

I say “we.” I mean “Ter.” Gardening is a spectator sport for me, but she helped her dad grow veggies in the back forty when she was a little girl. And she enjoyed it! So the Rockland rooftop garden was her doing. As has been my habit from the start of our relationship, I merely enjoyed the fruits of her labour.

Genetics can’t play that big a role in the colour of one’s thumb, however. My wee sister would have a garden to rival Buchart’s if she had the time and energy. She once told me that she enjoys planting random things just to see what pops up, and last spring she created a box garden to grow her own vegetables. I can’t imagine where that impulse comes from. As far as I know, none my other sibs are horticulturists, and the family front yard was rarely more than mowed. I think Mum might have done more, but she had her hands full with everything else domestic, and Dad was not at all interested.

It seems Ter and I have each followed our fathers’ examples. I can’t be bothered to water one indoor plant let alone a bunch of them, yet any time we’ve been house-hunting, she’s hoped for a balcony or a little corner in the yard where she can tend a few herbs and flowers.

I am happy to report that—ta da!—we now have a balcony! It’s not a big one, but Ter has kept it vibrant with a variety of plants that gets switched out as the seasons change. She’s out there every day, watering the tomatoes, trimming the mint, and deadheading the pansies. As one flower fades, she brings another home to replace it. She’s never happier than when she’s puttering with her ... I want to say “pot” garden, but in BC that means something entirely different.

Let’s go with “container.”

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,