Problem Solving

The late Wayne Dyer had an affirmation on his desk. Paraphrasing, it went something like this:

“Good morning! This is God speaking. Today, I am working on solving all your problems, and I don’t need your help. Have a spectacular day!”

It was a cue for him to live the moment and trust in a loving, friendly and generous Universe to work on the larger issues. When his action was required, he would be told.

“Surrender to Source,” advises the daily calendar in our kitchen. Yeah, right. Only “surrender” doesn’t mean “give up”. It means “get out of the way.” Meddling in the Universe’s process creates resistance, hinders the flow, and frustrates me into the bargain.

Problem is, I spend eight hours a day solving problems. Math problems, Sharepoint problems, policy problems, formatting problems, problems, problems, problems. It’s what I get paid to do. It often drives me crazy, but it’s my job. I’m also a Virgo, analytical to a fault and naturally inclined to solving puzzles. So how, after a day of solving other people’s problems, do I stop trying to solve my own? How do I let go of the wheel and trust all will be well without me figuring out some way to make it so?

The problem isn’t the problem. My attitude toward the problem is the problem. In fact, the problem may not even be a problem, it’s just that I perceive it as a problem. And, because I am already (constantly) in problem-solving mode, I feel responsible to, well, solve it.

But some problems are simply too big for me to solve. There are too many moving parts, or the solution will involve more people, or more information may be required before I can act. It may not even be my problem; it might only look like it because it belongs to someone I love.

I must develop an attitude similar to that of the work folks who trust me to have the answers. I must trust my loving, friendly and generous Universe to have all the answers, and to pass them along in the proper time (rather than when I think it’s time). I know life unfolds according to a plan that doesn’t always align with mine, but if I can “let go and let God”, as Dr Wayne liked to say, all will be well. I don’t need to get a grip. I need to relax my grip while the Universe does its thing without me interfering.

All is well now.

Problem solved.

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,

Heavenward

Why do we look up at Heaven?

When we address the Almighty, we are taught to bow our heads in a show of submission to a higher authority, but I no longer consider myself subordinate to God. I am born of Divinity; not exactly on equal terms, but most definitely worthy of eye contact with the Creator.

Assuming the Creator has eyes. I am unsure of the form one takes outside this physical dimension. It seems likelier that man has made God in his image rather than the other way around, and though I can’t say for sure what God looks like, I recognize without question that he exists in some form or other.

I also digress.

Despite my preference for face to face conversation, one day I found myself looking at the ceiling while speaking to (insert iconic nomenclature here), and the question occurred: Why?

Well, I thought, the heavens are above, aren’t they?

Are they?

“Parallel dimension” means side by side, not above or below, so doesn’t it make sense that our otherworldly ancestors, angels, spirit guides, deities, etc. occupy the same space with us albeit in a different realm? Why else do I look at the empty chair by the fireplace when tossing off a comment aimed at the other side? I must sense my guardian angel seated there, otherwise my gaze would go elsewhere.

Like “up”.

If you believe Heaven lies on the far side of the sky, by all means, look up when you seek it … but what about the folks in the southern hemisphere? Our Up is their Down, so where the heck is Heaven?

I think it might be here.

It’s in the taste of chocolate. It’s reflected in a stranger’s smile. It rings in a child’s laughter. It warms the hug of a friend. It smells of sun on hot pavement. It chimes in birdsong. It lingers in silence.

Why do we seek Heaven above when it’s present with us? Look around instead of up—and you just might catch an angel’s eye.

With love,

Saved By Zero

I wrapped up the last task of the fiscal year end crazies on Friday. While it’s still high anxiety for the real finance folks at the office, at last it’s over for me.

Thank the gods.

The first three months of the calendar year are the worst three months of the government fiscal. I return to work after Christmas holidays and am thrust headlong into hell. It’s fast, it’s furious, and this year it nearly killed me.

Maybe it’s the non-stop number-crunching. Left Brain is in full control and she is a tyrant. Creativity takes a beating. I can’t write more than a terse email, let alone a philosophical blog post. And laughing is not an option unless it rings with hysteria.

Granted, the past twelve months as a whole were out to destroy me. Not only was my personal life in turmoil, my work life was equally volatile. When I am stressed, I lose myself. I become inflexible. I am resentful and impatient with others. I have spontaneous crying jags. I develop seasonal alcoholic disorder. I crash at nine p.m. though sleep eludes me well into the wee hours, and when I do sleep, my dreams are nightmarish.

I stop being me. I don’t know who I become, but I don’t like her very much. I’m just relieved when she goes away. She started packing at the end of last week, once the last invoices were paid and the quarter reconciled. After the forecast and the final tally zeroed out, I felt Ru come out of hiding.

There’s yet a ton of cleanup in the aftermath, and I don’t just mean at the office. I must also sift through the wreckage and pull out what worked for me when all else worked against me. Amidst the storming were moments worth preserving: gold stars for remembering to breathe, to recalibrate, to take care of myself wherever possible. I also acknowledge the support I had during the worst of it, from Ter, from my wee sister, my friends, and my brilliant colleagues at work. Work, work, work. Yup, Q4 is the absolute worst time of the annual cycle—

—and now that it’s over, I look back and wonder why I was so fraught. Nobody died. Nobody was at risk. Everything got done, and if it didn’t, oh, well.

Will it happen again in 2020? Probably … but I have nine months to sharpen my coping skills!

Giving Up for Lent

I’m learning that being better and being different are not the same thing. I can choose to be better than I am, but I cannot make myself be different from what I am.

What I am is, as you are, human.

When Spirit Ru ordered her compostable container for this go-round, she chose the Virgo options package—the gory details available in any astrological writing, but the best description I’ve found being in The Secret Language of Birthdays by Gary Goldschneider and Joost Elffers. While reading the profile of those born on September 2, I wondered how two complete strangers could possibly have nailed every facet of my personality. At my mortal worst, I can be fussy, judgemental, cynical, moody, unyielding and/or explosive. Not pretty.

I can also be generous, compassionate, loving, fair and authentic. The pros might make a shorter list than the cons, but the items indicated on the former weigh more than those on the latter. (My story and I’m sticking to it). I suspect most of the pros came with me from Before. The real challenge lies in mastering my dark side. I can be brutally intolerant, and authenticity is not always a positive trait. Staying on top of my human is truly a practice and some days are doomed. I am especially harsh at fiscal year end, when the stress of balancing the books at work chisels away at my sense of humour, not to mention my patience and normally egalitarian nature.

So, for Lent this year, I thought I’d try to dial it back a bit. Despite neither of us being Catholic, Ter has been studying up on it, and her research suggested that, rather than giving up something like sugar or cigarettes, why not try to be better at something like, say, forgiveness? What a great idea! Don’t make it a sacrificial, negative thing. Put a positive spin on it and improve in a more spiritual way. I can do this, I thought, especially since I’m already working on being more Zen!

Alas, by 7:45 a.m. on Ash Wednesday, Ter had said to me, “There you go again,” three times.

Then I arrived at work. During our mid-morning check in, I burst out ranting about some hare-brained new policy and she said, “There you go again.”

D-oh! Recalibrating ...

I realized something in the following few days. Good bad or indifferent, Virgo Ru is apparently here to stay. I can practice improving on my human, but I will not be able to change it. Nor should I; it’s part of what I am, if not who, and the beauty of this life lies in its flexibility. Every day is a fresh start. The day before doesn’t count and tomorrow doesn’t matter. I’ll never be different from what I am, but by being more mindful, I can be better than I am.

Wish me luck.

With love,

Save Me From Daylight Savings

I am a night owl. I can’t be one right now, but once I am retired and can claim my life 24/7, I’ll be up all night, or most of it, and the clock will cease to matter.

I know, I know. It shouldn’t matter now, but it does—never more than on those notorious weekends known for the infamous “time change”. Like this one. I started winding up a week ago, grumbling and muttering at folks cheerily espousing the extra hour of daylight as if it’s a gift. There is no “extra hour” of daylight, people. There’s just a shift in the distribution.

Being a night owl, I am by default not a morning person. A sun that was up before me last week will rise tomorrow after I get to work ... and that vexes me. Terribly.

I know, I know. If I relax and wait a few weeks, the sun will once more be up before I am. In fact, the birds will be awake before the three-year-old who lives downstairs, and by either means, I will still be dragged from dreamland against my preference to sleep until I can’t sleep anymore. Someone who gets into her jammies as soon as she gets home from work doesn’t need the sun to set after nine o’clock. I need it to set before nine o’clock, when I go to bed!

Some night owl. I can’t stay awake past the three-year-old who lives downstairs. That’s my love/hate relationship with time. I get up at crap o’clock because my job demands it—the best job (if not the best money) I ever had was working the graveyard at the local radio station. I’d get home at 6:30 a.m., go straight to bed, get up at 1:00 p.m. and have a life until I left for work at 11:00 p.m. On days off, I kept the routine and stayed up to write all night. I was never more prolific than I was in those days. If only the salary had been as good as my current day job’s. I guess we all make sacrifices to get ahead.

But the spectre of daylight savings continues to goad me. I’m not wild about the return to standard time, either, except it gives me back the hour I’ve missed since early March. Every spring, I ask the question: Why? Why why why why do we continue with this stupid ritual?

It seems I am not alone. There is finally talk of abandoning the time change. The west coast States are considering it, and if they go ahead, BC will follow because of trade agreements and partnerships that demand we all work within the same time zone. California has already voted overwhelmingly in favour of staying on DST starting in 2022. Whatever, guys, just bring it.

Wait a minute. Staying on DST? That means turning the clocks forward in March and not turning them back in November! WTF?

Remember, Ru, says my inside voice, there is no “extra hour” of daylight. There’s just a shift in the distribution. Eventually, the days shorten on their own and it will be dark well in time for bed. Staying on DST means you’ll be walking home from the bus stop at twilight instead of pitch black in December.

Yeah, but it also means the sun will be coming up at nine in the morning! I’m all for abandoning daylight savings time, but let’s switch back to standard first. I mean—wait a minute. 2022? Oh. Okay. Whatever works.

I’ll be retired and a night owl by then.