Author: catchmydrift.blog

I've had a career as an elementary school teacher. During that time I wrote for newspapers and magazines. Writing is a part of my daily life: It's a way to understand my thoughts, reach out to the world, offer an opinion and record my passage. I take joy in words as other artists express themselves through dance, acting, sculpture or paint. A single word can evoke powerful visions. I see life as a celebration. Like all humans I am complex and curious even while some have called me conventional. I follow my father's belief that everything can be awesome, if you choose it to be. I'm a work in progress, just like this blog, now with 300 postings of thought and ideas. Social media, like pen palling or ham radio connections of yore, can be a positive way to build that great, vast realm that is human consciousness. Leave me a comment if you are so moved or Substack https://mrrobertthompson.substack.com/ or on Bluesky @wh0n0z.bsky.social

Re: Communication

In grade six I was a prolific penpal writer. The best teacher I had had so far in my schooling, a Mr. Stroud, thought he could teach almost any subject through the craft of writing. I wanted to make him proud so I churned out all sorts of correspondence, mailing letters to a record high number of countries. When I graduated to junior high my dad’s friend introduced me to the wonders of international ham radio, so I got to talk to a new batch of people through that medium. Towards the end of high school and on into university, I was an eager letter writer for Amnesty International. This desire to communicate with the global society continued as I became a teacher, encouraging my students to use the power of their pen, or keyboard, or their voice to reach out to the world. Like my grade six teacher before me, I carried his instructional technique to stretch the conventional three Rs.

When it came to social media, I didn’t register with Facebook on account of questions about privacy. At the suggestion of an artist friend I started a Twitter account. I soon grew to love communing with like-minded souls who wished to amplify good vibes, while sharing their tastes in various art forms. Those were good years until the messaging on that platform became darker, less inclusive, and ultimately soul-sucking. When Elon Musk took over I joined the Xodus, closing my account, and switched to another of Jack Dorsey’s creations: Bluesky.

These on-line communities have been disparaged by some. The central joke seems to be that if you spend too much time with computer messaging, then you forget how to talk to a real person. Nah! During the Covid years I found my social media buddies to be a life-line. I’m naturally an introvert so I didn’t mind sheltering in place. I was not one of those who baked endless loaves of bread. I continued to use my favourite artistic skill, writing, to broaden my days of regulated isolation amidst the continually updated health advisories. I used my laptop as a bridge to friends in other countries, connecting me with stories of other governments’ approaches to quarantine, vaccines, and the public protests that followed.

When we all got back to face-to-face socializing I confess I did feel rusty. The eyes of another real person can make anyone feel a tad off-balance. Slowly I remembered my instincts/training to listen, digest, then speak my point-of-view in the politically correct order. I’m enjoying learning how my grandchildren are sharing their messages of discovery and hope. Their ways of communicating will be very different from my personal history. Yet the common thread will be to send out a signal, “Is anyone out there?” When a child shouts, ‘Grandpa look at me!’ I know they really mean ‘Can you see that I exist!’ It’s not that they need validation. Acceptance is really all that’s required. Then we can make a confident leap to ‘Let’s play together.’

Re: Estrangement

Estrangement is one of those awesome words that can spice up a discussion. It’s a pretty deep conversation starter but I’d bet that it’s a more common topic than you would think. Most people set boundaries when it comes to who they let into their lives. If the relationship goes south, it’s often best to cut the tie that binds before further problems arise. It could take a drastic measure like a restraining order, or it can be a more mild form of restricted access like refusing to text back. Our modern phones are set up to show the incoming call giving us the opportunity to decide if we want to engage. That helps with robo-calls but it can also provide a buffer for when we just can’t handle an engagement at that particular moment. Anyone who has gone through a break-up can understand the conflicting needs of desire and distance. A parting of the ways is often required for the heart to mend.

Estrangement is no stranger to me. From my adolescence onward, I watched the back and forth between my sister and our mother. Wicked, at times, it was. Sometimes there was humour, even beauty in the ugliness. I learned early to separate myself from the ongoing  dissections of motive, anger, resentment, and expectational failure that unfolded from our childhood home, into adult directions. Several times (more than I can count) I cheered from the sidelines as seeds of reconciliation appeared to germinate. More often than not it was merely an armistice declared from the exhaustion of it all. My young sister might proclaim, “I never want to speak to you again!” While my mom would search for support to prove that she was in the right. My dad was ineffectual as he tried endlessly to calm the waters. I was often asked to be an ally to either side but my signature on that memorandum of understanding had to be avoided for my own sanity.

Estrangement came too late for the first two women in my life. My sister felt shunned, berated, or both in equal measure. I watched her try harder to patch things up when she got older, but to no avail. She turned to alcohol to ease the pain of rejection and died early, being unable to reconcile with our mother who had died before her. Their’s was a toxic relationship to be sure! In the later years of my mom’s life I tended to her needs, just barely. I was able to bring her across the country to a nursing home, hoping to give my sister a break from our mom’s endless criticism. Tragically, that wasn’t enough. I have regrets that I couldn’t have found a way to intervene earlier. I was never on the front lines of fire during these family wars, but I still suffer from shell-shock.

Close to the end of my mom’s life she asked me to hold her hand. I could not grasp that strange five-fingered thing because the mother-in-it had disappeared long ago.

Re: Chemistry

It’s true that a human body is composed of chemicals. Depending on who you ask or what process is used to extract them, our physical elements could be valued at anywhere from $100 to $150,000 dollars. Perhaps we are not far from giving our consent to harvest these resources as part of our estate for distribution to our beneficiaries: A step up from our current ability to will our body parts, so to speak.

I adjust my body chemistry all the time. When I eat or drink I change my chemistry. I’m baffled that after I start eating something I cough, or sneeze and have to blow my nose. It’s so irritating! I’ve been told that this surge of mucus is the result of my body reacting to the input. I picture it as similar to a transplanted organ being prone to rejection: My body says no to that foreign stuff coming down through my gullet! My allergy, to any food it seems, is an example of how whatever passes into me changes my chemistry. My initial response passes quickly, so I’ve gotten used to it. It does make me reflect on the phrase, “We are what we eat.”

We are also what we feel. Our emotional being is evident when we are exposed to other humans. I enjoy feeling a chemical attraction to another. We are all aware of evaluating a relationship based on whether or not it exhibits ‘Chemistry’. A rom-com movie review may depend on two lead actors displaying chemistry at least in their love scenes, if not when they first meet in the grocery aisle. In real life I contend that this initial spark can be maintained as long as the ingredients of curiosity, compassion, respect, and play are regularly added to fuel the fire of love. In that sense the US of a relationship is a chemical compound made of YOU and ME.

A slogan for homes built in the late 1960’s was ‘Live Better Electrically’. I think we can live better chemically by acknowledging the role that chemical elements play in our existence. We get to know ourselves through our relationships, our upbringing, and our choices. Our experience defines us in ways both unique and complementary to the rest of society.

When I’ve got pain, I take an analgesic. Some people choose to use cannabis to affect their chemistry. Others may find other ways to reduce their annoyance with all manner of disturbances. I’ve known many people who can’t start their day without a cup of coffee. The point here is that we all ingest substances to help us travel the road of life. I refuse to be hypocritical by showing anger towards street-drug users because we all use chemicals to cope. I’m currently taking a low dose of escitalopram for general anxiety. I support decriminalizing drug use. Safety of intake of risky chemicals can be controlled more effectively by education and distribution through health care services.

Medication is not a crutch: It can be an aid to a healthy lifestyle.

Re: Sacrifice

On Remembrance Day, every year, we hear about the ultimate sacrifice. It’s one of the mythologies we practice religiously in hopes of feeling comfort within our cultural choices. Every holiday in my history has had collections of clichés over which I’ve puzzled while searching for meaning. I’ve wondered if my quest for understanding could be considered a sacrifice; as in a waste of time.

Giving of one’s self can be seen as a sacrifice if a life is lost. Many societies have rationalized the offering of the vestal virgin, the first born son, the sacrificial lamb, or the oath of allegiance to signify a desire to please the gods or confirm the relevance of the greater good. Jesus (or any other innocent soul for that matter) didn’t die for my sins, but because of them. I think it is pathetic that Abraham (if he ever existed) would ever be asked to kill his son as a gift to a god. Some of these old notions were based on ignorance regarding the movement of the planets, the changing of the seasons, who represented the accepted deity, or who was in charge at the time. In our modern world, I can’t accept unconditionally that one must die before their time so that another may live.

To give our lives in war is a death sacrifice. Honour, tradition, and cultural correctness play a part here. We reward, in memory and ceremony, those who have given so others may carry on. I’ve just rewatched the classic 1939 anti-war film The Four Feathers. The main character chooses not to go to war and his former friends and lovers give him a white feather (a symbol of cowardliness) as a rebuke for his choice. He goes on to prove what courage and sacrifice really look like.

In an economical sense, citizens are often asked to make sacrifices when times are lean. I think this can be called a living sacrifice. Parents providing for their children first, seems natural. Looking after our elders need not be legislated. In just societies I would hope that government provides support for those who choose to put others’ needs first, before their own. In my perfect world the innocents would be protected rather than be the first to feel the sting of want. Alas the wealthy and powerful are often the last to sacrifice even a tiny portion of their abundance. Indeed, it is those in power who persuade us to sign-up for the good of all. Their propaganda hides them from their own accountability.

On Christmas Day, every year, we are invited to hope for goodwill towards others. Most folk are examples to me of living-in-sacrifice: they give parts of themselves generously in work, play, and care. I learn by these examples of altruism. I am moved when this comes naturally, as part of being human. The reward for such behaviour doesn’t come in heaven (as some might preach). I believe it’s up to all of us to see service from others as a personal sacrifice, freely given, and needing acknowledgment right this very minute.

Re: Imagination

Imagine for a moment you are enthralled by a young mind telling you a story from their imagination. In this context facts are unimportant, only the drama and wonder of thinking how this idea could possibly have begun in the first place.

There I was one afternoon relating the story of the big bad wolf and the three little pigs to my three year old imaginative friend. He was rapt as I told him that some versions of this fairytale had the wolf EAT the pigs (my listener has a vegetarian mother). He stopped me several times to repeat sections. A couple of times I had to assure him that every character was doing what came naturally. At the end of my tale I asked what he thought of eating meat from pigs (we had had sausage for lunch) or chicken (he concluded that birds don’t count). He said he didn’t care about fish.

Any teacher will tell you it’s a perk of the job to listen to examples of imaginary thought from their students. I remember my mom always saying the phrase “out of the mouths of babes” whenever she concluded a story about my sister or me to her friends. Back then there was a television program Kid’s Say The Darndest Things hosted by Art Linkletter. Later the program was rebooted with Bill Cosby posing as the questioner of the kids. Imagine!

My young friend ruminated on my fairytale for a moment (bathroom break). The house continued to buzz with kitchen clean-up and quiet adult conversation when he came back and sat beside me on the couch. I thought he was going to ask for another fairy tale but no, he began to tell me something that sounded like a recipe for baked horse. Allow me to provide a condensed version of his culinary how-to: You have to put on gloves and get all the poop out. Next (he instructed) you cut off the tail and chop the horse into pieces that will fit into the oven. Keep everything clean (he emphasized). When it’s all very hot then you spread on some mayonnaise (at this point he smacked his lips!)

After the first narration my young friend was clearly impressed by the attention he was getting (by now his parents had joined in, listening with a measure of shock & awe). The show must go on! He raised his arms and asked if I would remember his horsey story (I assured him that I would never forget it). He then stepped onto the floor and performed an interpretive dance version of The Baked Horse Recipe. His hands got rid of all the poop, the snipped tail miraculously flew into the air on sprouted wings, the horse bits were pushed into the oven, and the spreading of the mayonnaise was the piece de resistance! He could have bowed because we all wanted to give him a standing ovation. I suggested to his parents that he must be enrolled in acting classes immediately, or at least chef school.

Re: Choose

My niece as a young girl loved to have a choose meal: a buffet of food items laid out by her mother for grazing. That little girl could not be still in her chair when other members of the family gathered to dine. That come and go arrangement used to irk her grandad, whom she called Popop (coincidentally a name that unintentionally yet neatly labelled her behaviour of popping up and down).

For a while there was a popular series of children’s books styled as Choose Your Own Adventure. The construction of the pages allowed the reader to decide, at the bottom of the page or end of a chapter, which page to turn to, for the narrative to continue. Sometimes your choice would lead to a quick ending, or a multiple series of back and forth page flips before the action was resolved. Reminiscent of game shows on television that ask if you might choose between door number one etc.

I watched a riveting two person play recently, called Armstrong’s War. A young wheelchair-riding girl guide chooses to read to a youngish army veteran to gain her Service merit badge. In the narrative we learn that circumstances beyond both characters’ control required choices of life-changing proportions. Playwright Colleen Murphy’s script examines how complicated it can be to select a course of action. It’s an anti-war tale without cliché and a strong message about how our society could make better choices. With the current rise globally of authoritarian governments, I watched this play unfold amid a background thought of the meaning of democracy. I wondered how much choice we really have in this context.

We think we are choosing all the time; what to eat, who to partner with, how to fill our days, what to watch on TV, or when to walk in the park. Choosing feels like an active pursuit, we know in our minds that we always have a choice but choosing means we have to go from the abstract to the real. Sometimes choice feels like a burden, an obligation even. Other times we get riled if our choices are restricted because we equate choosing with freedom. We can choose from a menu board that’s presented (as in a slate of candidates) or the menu board that we have built in our minds to cope with everyday decision making (when to do the laundry). I confess that as my age increases I try to purposefully reduce the options in my brain so that the stress of choice is minimized. However, when outside pressures reduce my personal authority I can rise up tall in human right’s fashion. Currently I join the MAiD debate, proclaiming my right to choose a dignified death.

My niece has grown into a responsible adult, despite her Poppop’s concerns over her eating habits. She’s making great decisions on how to raise her almost three year old. He gets to choose but he minds his mom enough to consider a healthy path. I watch from the comfort of my elder chair and continue to learn.

Re: Revelation

“Caw!” Quoth the raven Evermore. He was joined in harmony by his siblings Always, Persistently, and Perpetually. These four trickster birds congregate around our townhouse, pecking at the seams of the concrete parking area, searching for grubs in the exposed cracks. Their presence is measured, methodical, and eerily portentous. My fearless 96 year old special mom does not see the poet Poe in the bird’s beady black eyes. She arrived back from her walk yesterday as I was opening the front door. Around her ankles, like excited little children, were five crows trick-or-treating for more peanuts. “Caw! Who’s the smart one eh?”

Seers, prophets, and soothsayers have always held a fascination for me. Especially in times of high anxiety I will be on the lookout for signs of someone knowing. Knowledge brings me comfort and if news can come in the guise of a forecast then all the better to ease my tension. Even getting a hint of warning will give me some direction since I like to plan for the worst, while maintaining a hope for the best.

These days it’s hard to avoid news of the rise of fascism. In many parts of the world politicians are no longer hiding their true colours. Trumpism is the latest version of autocratic rule. POTUS 45 may have been the clown we liked to mock but POTUS 47 is on the attack, denying every valid criticism, and claiming victory where no praise is warranted. The Donald’s craziness is no longer funny (even the comedians at SNL are appearing to be having a hard time satirizing his global-threatening behaviour). Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Octavio-Cortez are teaming up at many NO-KINGS rallies in an effort to reveal the danger faced in the USA, and throughout the world. I was buoyed at the support provided to Zohran Mamdani in the race for the mayoralty of New York City. Here is a politician with a vision for a metropolis that puts working people first, not wealthy speculators.

Revelation can be a light bulb, eureka-shouting moment. Or it can be a quiet dawning. However the truth gets to us we have to do our part by keeping the blinds open. In order for something to be revealed to us we must be alert to the messaging. I’m reading from many sources as I try to wrap my head around what’s going on. Some just trust FoxNews, Rachel Maddow, or John Oliver. I also seek valued counsel in the many Canadian journalists named Mark (as in ‘mark -my-words’). Investigative reporters like Heather Cox Richardson, Chris Hedges, and Abilio James Acosta have earned my respect for their remarkable precognition. Knowing things are bad can be depressing. Of course I will try to put a shine on the news, as is my nature to balance the good with the bad. I will listen to musical prophets like Alanis Morrisette, who artistically place ideas in their lyrics that give me guidance. I’ll keep one hand in my pocket while the other is giving the peace sign. Then everything will be fine, fine, fine.

Re: Secret

Hooray for me! I kept a secret while being a painfully honest person. That’s hard to do because with secrets come lies. To preserve the secret, a fib can feel inevitable. And I told several white lies. That’s how it went for me anyway, when I tried to surprise my bride of almost twenty years.

The story of this secret starts with me being pulled into a gallery by my wife to see, “The most amazing painting for our wall!” It was colourful and big, the original painting that is, but the lie became that size too. I went back to the gallery privately a total of six times to arrange the acquisition of my lover’s desire. Gallery staff became quickly amused by my instructions to keep everything Top Secret (at first it seemed like fun but I realized later that I was putting a lot on their shoulders). One employee actually offered to make up a story if ever she encountered my wife on a subsequent visit. Spies are needed in the secrecy business I guess. I insisted that all receipts and communication came to me through a selected email. Even with these well-laid plans I tried not to wince whenever it looked like I may have been discovered by the birthday girl. Long story short; the secret survived until the reveal of the gift. I was a hero but somewhat dazed and confused.

I read once that a secret was like carrying a fresh egg in the palm of your hand for days. My birthday secret was joyous but after months of deception I wondered about secrets that may cause injury. Secrets aren’t always a happy thing. For example we may see someone, a friend of a friend perhaps, in a compromising position. We may wonder if we should tell others involved about the secret being displayed. We may wonder if it’s our business to do so. There was a Jumbotron video capture at a Coldplay concert recently that led to someone being fired. What happened in Boston, didn’t stay in Boston.

Gossip is like a confidence that a friend has shared with us in the way that we must decide to be part of the secret or not. I wouldn’t trust a friend who told me never to share what he/she/they just told me. I don’t want that responsibility. I don’t want to be a confidante. If the secret is that precious I don’t know if I could be trustworthy enough to carry that fragile thing around with me. Being Cis, I can only imagine the turmoil that is a daily part of life for someone with gender dysphoria. What does one do with feeling constantly apart while trying to understand oneself? Society and its rules are responsible for making confidentiality ok sometimes, or a matter for public consumption depending on circumstance.

When my mom had to keep a secret she would confide that she wasn’t sure if her deodorant would hold up. I’m wondering now if that’s why antiperspirants were originally marketed to women. Sexist! My brand is Mennen. Don’t tell anyone.

Re: Poetry

I believe that Art (the essential practise, not the person) saves the world. From what, you might ask. Well, some may deny it, but the world would be a darker place without Art in its many forms. And I’m not talking about the art only accessed through galleries, theatres, or museums. I’m referring to the art that comes from within us; that creative process that can drive our imaginations. Art is found in nature, is replicated by human, and is a particle of the soul. By definition, Art was present at the moment of creation, and will remain to be witnessed long after humans have become extinct.

Poetry is an art form; an item on a page to be read, an expressive line to be spoken, an incantation to soothe, or a melody to be sung. Poetry is a practise, a methodology, and a natural response to our environment. A poem is often the first piece of writing read aloud to young children. When a mother sings a lullaby to her child, she is evoking a rhythmic talisman of love that was born centuries before and will light up lives for centuries to come. Blessed are the children who are encouraged to find the Art within.

Having said all this grand stuff I don’t wish to be imagined as this poetry-reading exclusionist. I don’t believe that a poem a day will keep the boogey-man away. However, I have been calmed by coming across a poem in a magazine, written on a subway wall, or copied onto a social media posting. I have written, mailed, or sung poetry for my lovers, relatives, friends, and once for an enemy. The latter poem –– scribbled in a rage of hateful words on a scrap of paper, spat on, torn into tiny pieces, buried in a muddy stream bank and stomped on –– was never delivered. Poems can relief stress. Poems can heal. Practising poetry can be a form of meditation. Poetry helps us to become our best selves.

I could list poets who have inspired me to recognize that I contain multitudes. Poets, who suggest that we have value because we are unique, need to be heard. Shel Silverstein comes to mind: My skin is sort of brownish/Pinkish yellowish white/My eyes are greyish blueish green/But I’m told they look orange in the night/My hair is reddish blondish brown/But it’s silver when it’s wet/And all the colours I am inside/Have not been invented yet.

During my teaching career, I scheduled poetry time as part of each day. Regardless of the age of my students, joy was found during these periods of word fun. No poem was judged better or worse. Nothin had to rhyme. We all laughed or sighed at the combinations of noun, verb, adjective, adverb, or nonsensical words. Playing with words using pen on paper can be like scribbling on a sketch pad. The outcome is not as important as the process. All you need is your imagination, a few moments, and the encouragement to begin.

Re: Garden

There was a side garden at the home I named Spindrift in Timmins, Ontario. It started out as a strip of lawn I hated to mow, running down the east side of the building. When we first moved there, my wife Claudia suggested it might make a pretty garden path. Over the ensuing years I built a fence & a gate to define its borders. I tore up the sod, then added fresh loam and mulch to the topsoil. My sons helped collect some slate-like stepping stones from an old mine-site nearby. Their mother found bleeding heart, forget-me-not, clover and creeping thyme to plant along the pathway. My father found this secret garden enchanting and sketched it before he died while holidaying in Portugal. His sketch was framed and hung in the front room of Spindrift, where palliative care was provided for my ailing wife. My teacher colleagues volunteered to weed & tend this special garden as Claudia’s death neared. I wonder now, having moved so far away, if this sanctuary garden still provides the delights of spring blossoms.

Currently my special mom is receiving eldercare from her only child and me in a small townhouse in Victoria. My wife Susan likes to call this narrow, three story home Treehouse Towers. A large Douglas Fir, at the west side of our house drops needles onto our small north-facing backyard garden. Black-hooded warblers love to peck and toss these needles looking for tiny forage. Inside the sliding doors leading out on this scene my 96 year old mother-in-law may eat lunch while listening to her audio books. John Steinbeck is one of her favourite authors. When she finished East of Eden she concluded that the story alluded to that first biblical garden, “Only now,” she said, “Eden is surrounded by dark clouds from an easterly wind.” 

I believe life is a garden of earthly delights even though I have never been much of a gardener, of things floral or vegetable. As a former teacher I like to think I helped nourish children in the manner of the original idea behind the Kinder-Garten. My birth mother told stories of how she and her teen girlfriends would create Victory Gardens, which were being promoted as a way of providing much needed food during WWII in England. Amidst the bombing raids she said that working on the land with shovel and hoe provided a sense of hope. Not having a green thumb doesn’t stop me from planting seeds of other sorts to keep my feelings optimistic.

The original story, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett has been visioned in many art forms. In all versions, The Garden is depicted as a transformative place where fears can be overcome and confidence restored. The needs of the plants become metaphor for human basic needs: warmth, sustenance, order, health, and community. There is loss along with new growth found in any garden. Life is discovered here, even amongst tangled weeds. A garden may have a wall, or fence, yet a gate can be found through which joyous secrets can be explored.