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: Raise

While providing eldercare, I find myself reflecting on memories of raising three sons. The age difference is obvious, but the similarities are there in terms of care needs: food, shelter, encouragement, stimulation, mobility, medicine, and companionship. With children we say we are raising them, to assist in their growth to adulthood. With an elder (in my case my mother-in-law is 97) I wonder what outcome I’m working towards. What’s the end game?

My wife and I have shared our small home with her mother for three years. I really play a small role in her daily care so these reflections are not meant to inflate my responsibility. Next door in our townhouse complex, parents of two young girls are working hard to provide needs for health and happiness. As neighbours we often talk in the carpark about the trials of raising kids. My comparisons to working with my special mom seem the same to me, since I want to help make her life rewarding, enjoyable, even educational. But I’m very aware she will die sooner rather than later. Unlike my neighbours’ two lovely children, the objective is clear, while my special mom doesn’t need to be raised (per se).

The family is the first unit of social life and I’m glad for institutions like schools for the support provided to teach children. Similar supports for eldercare are hard to find however, often hard to access, and, when I’ve gone looking, come with commentary (even judgement). Sometimes body language suggests that caregivers for elders are on their own. There is a dismissive attitude amongst some professionals in the care field that hints that no help will be forthcoming. My wife and I have been told some respite is available but it will cost. We have placed our mother on a wait-list for a room in a local nursing home. The wait time makes me feel like raising Cain!

As a community when we feel a need, we join hands and volunteer to raise awareness and money for a good cause. When we feel our work is under appreciated we seek out the boss and ask for a raise in salary. Raising your standard of living as a working class person is a constant struggle. That effort seems contrary to the goal of raising us up so we can stand on mountains. We look for a little help from our friends, just to get by sometimes. Heck, even the wind can give us a welcome if we’re on a boat with sail raised, searching the horizon, looking for safe travel to friendly shores. I’m not looking to soar like an eagle, but I’d appreciate some birds of a feather to flock together with in my time of need.

It’s easy to get sidetracked. We live in a time that baffles me regarding the plethora of issues that are raised on a daily basis. Solutions are proposed and then decisions are stalled due to all the subsequent whataboutism talk. This posting allowed me to raise a little howl over eldercare deficiencies in our country. Thanks for reading. I feel better already.

Re: Clench

There is an exchange between two characters in the television series Lanterns where one person asks the other to, “Unclench already!” I could immediately relate to the one who was clenching. I think I have been in a clenched mode most of my life. Not hyper, not tightly wound, not quivering in the corner, not nervous or fearful, and not even uptight. Clench? As I examine the word and what it means to me –– I’d say it’s more like a state of amber alert.

My Boy Scout leader, noticing the mildly timid boy I was, taught me how to be prepared. My best elementary school teachers encouraged my talents so that I could gain confidence. I was always wary of the moods of others, particularly my mother, so I learned to blend into the background. I practised stealth techniques. I found it easier to surprise people with my abilities rather than have them expect too much of me. My youthful comfort level found me often on the sidelines, working for the good of the cause, watching for the right time to step in with an opinion or a helping hand.

Fighters have clenched fists. My fingers were always fully extended so I could catch what was thrown my way. Pacifism felt safer to me than pugilism. Yet my mother enjoyed telling visitors (while embarrassing me) with the story of when I balled-up my fingers at age twelve, ready to tell my peace-loving father not to give my younger sister a mother-mandated spanking for her latest misdemeanour. Such are the contradictions of growing into maturity. It’s a wonder my teeth are in the good shape they are in, what with all my jaw clenching while trying to sort things out in my early years.

In adulthood, after explaining my history to my first personal GP doctor, I was diagnosed with a mild anxiety condition. I researched, as anxious folk do, to understand what level of trouble I was in. Turned out condition was the lesser of syndrome, or disorder. Thank goodness for that! I wouldn’t want my symptoms to be outlined in the latest DSM. I’ll admit, there is certainly a degree of urgency behind my thoughts, which can be expressed as clenching when I’m waiting to get my way. For instance job interviews used to give me fits of insecurity combined with salivating lust for work I really wanted. The desperate feeling that my professional life would be over if I didn’t get hired would torment my consciousness.

Recovering from trauma has been something I seem to manage. It’s the before fantasies that ball me up faster than any regretful scenarios. I don’t do doubt. I can be quick to visualize a comforting blanket or even a rope tethering me from stormy seas. I have discovered ways to unclench from the need for immediate gratification. When life piles on more stress than I want to handle, I have prescribed medication that smooths the waters while still giving my mind full scope to navigate or problem solve. I can survive to see another day.

Re: Organization

As a principle I like to be organized. When my thoughts are well structured I can get more things done. I try not to obsess about details but I can get anal when it comes to things being a certain way. The proverb, everything in its place and a place for everything has a lovely symmetry but it’s sometimes hard to keep in practise. I don’t feel organized being disorganized. Hence the conundrum.

Stepping outside my personal preferences, community organizations are built on plans, mottos, precepts, manifests, etc. The ways to shape a collective of interested parties start with a desire to belong to something bigger than the individual members. The goals maybe short term, like raising money for a cause, or long term, like challenging government policies. I’ve been involved to a lesser or greater extent in both durations of execution and been unpaid in all situations, unless you count the gratification found in helping others as being the reward. Volunteering must be valued for making any organization a success. It’s one thing to have lofty aspirations to inspire a collective of eager souls, it’s quite another to maintain the energy to fulfill the outcome.

A government is an organization. I’ve canvassed for political parties or for candidates whom I admire for their personal philosophy. Municipal government comes in many shapes and sizes; from the formally elected Council to local neighbourhood associations. There are opportunities to get involved. I get curiously attached to groups that step away from protocol when their governments aren’t listening to their needs. During the Winnipeg General Strike of 1919 an alternative governing mandate was created. The Black Panther Party founded in 1966 was a structured attempt for more community control by disaffected citizens.

Some organizations wish to maintain their status in time and place. Heritage groups for example, hold firm to tradition. Religious groups see themselves as separate from populist ruling structures. Many organizations are interested in action, even revolution. I was fascinated to learn of The Janes and their determination to circumvent existing birth control laws in the U.S.A.. An organization is only as good as its principles, mandate, or banner headline. Successful labour strikes by labour have strong organizing committees. A well executed plan brings confidence to the members. Communication is key for an all hands on deck response. For longevity it must have people with an ambition to make things better. In marches everywhere you may hear a similar cry: “Where do we stand? What do we want? How do we get it?”

Social media and .org websites have been a modern way to stimulate involvement in organizational frameworks. This applies to those who work for good or evil. Currently we are witnessing the rise of trumpism. This modern form of fascism has been wrapped in a clever disguise of lies, deception, obfuscation, and virtue signalling –– As well planned and executed as a Las Vegas magic show.

The Untied Nations, founded and organized to prevent WWIII, has been left with only words. This is entertaining for the few, while a tragedy for the many.

Re: Tide

Understanding rhythms is what comes with living by the sea. I can grasp what must have gone through the mind of the person who saw an ocean for the first time. Awe inspiring was a term invented that day. It’s no wonder to me that early civilizations created a god for the liquid part of the planet. Stand for a while by a shore and you will swear the planet is breathing.

We keep time artificially. It is only a representation of what the planet is doing naturally. The passing of the sun and the impact of the moon make me aware of my lack of superiority in natural things, even though I am part of cosmos. In early grade school, learning about geography, I questioned the label of our planet as Earth. The ocean clearly takes up more space. The seas have mastery. One of the first books I read to myself was The Sea Around Us, by Rachel Carson. Her tales of seaside rambles captivated my imagination. A bit later I read Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea and I think I saw my future.

I sometimes have sat long enough on a beachfront to witness the tide come in or go out. The natural rhythm of it creates a relationship to my own body. The gradual change in the shoreline as waves creep (or crash) in and out, awakens my perception of my own autonomic nervous system. In those moments I feel an ancient tidal pull. This communion helps me appreciate the aboriginal teaching of connecting with my siblings of the earth, in the sea, and of the sky. We are one form. We must reconstitute these feelings of connection if we are to heal ourselves and our environment.

Time and tide wait for no man is an oft quoted line from Geoffrey Chaucer. In those times the word tide related to any seasonal magic. I try to see the wonders of the natural world in micro versions. How amazing the environment must have been before humans began their conquest. Now, even the seasons are at risk around the world as climate change creates aberrations of the natural state. Some geographical regions are more sensitive and thus more susceptible to change in weather patterns. Temperature rising in glacial areas is more significant than in equatorial spots. I find myself regularly grieving over reports of coral reef loss, desertification and general species decline. My moods can become tidal.

Long ago I was a child feeling kinship with the creatures found in tide pools. As my fingers caressed anemones, starfish, rockweed, and barnacles, my face reflected off the water’s surface. In those childhood adventures, the barrier between me and what lived below this fluid mirror seemed thin. As an adult, returning to the same area is a sad experience as the tide line has become a place of struggle. The intertidal zones around the world are suffering from pollution, rising heat, and shoreline degradation.

Time and tide continue as folks ponder their existence. Humanity waits and wonders.

Re: Predator

This word has triggers galore. Normally I would think of sexual predators, the likes of Epstein and Maxwell. But there are plenty of predatory types out in the world who have yet to have an adjective to specify them. Whoever desires something, or someone, can resort to predation to satisfy their lust. It’s truly a jungle out there. Shields up!

My education surrounding the beasts of the world has thankfully not been because of being preyed upon. I am a white male after all! I have had the unexpected privilege of my race and sexual chromosomes. What information I have picked up regarding the wolves of the human world is from those who have been less fortunate by birth: women, POC, the poor, the less educated.

Every woman I have ever met has told me tales of being preyed upon by aggressive actors. In pornographic films the predator takes what it needs and the victims are left lying about; in various states of distress, undress and duress. In many cultures it gets muddy whether truth is following fiction or vice versa. My special mom is still wary at 97, “It’s never a good situation to have someone follow you.” I asked her to qualify her declaration so she tapped her finger on the arm of her chair telling me that many men are often “Up to no good.” I felt shamed.

In the wild there are many examples of predator/prey interactions. My students in elementary school learned about the food chain by pretending to be a creature on the menu for the lion on the lawn. The shrieks of children being chased and tagged in the schoolyard still ring in my ears. After the game we would plot graphs, draw pictures and study biomes to show just how wondrous is the web of life in a healthy world. At the end of the day even my 8 year olds could see that humans don’t play by the same rules of nature.

In the world of cinema there are many symbolic predators coming from space, the comic pages, or from an imaginary underworld. I was fascinated by the documentary Black Zombies which informed me of the roots of the horror film genre going back to slavery on the Island of Saint Domingue (now Haiti). In Vodou folklore the undead at least have a measure of peace from all the depravity of being stalked, hunted, bound, and sold.

Testosterone is not to blame. I was taught to never hit a girl, and to always show respect for the downtrodden. But even in sport you’ll hear aggression as though it is acceptable. Like a commentator who suggests that the team experiencing a wide lead on their opponents should “Kick them while they’re down.” In finance, the über wealthy are quick to take advantage of a floundering company. The political predators search for inconsistencies and perceived hypocrisies within the opposing candidates. Making the kill in these cases is about the predator breaking the will, not the bones, of those targeted.

Glorifying the predator, is no better than victimizing the prey. Grace must guide our way.

Re: Belong

The tribal nature of human beings is a curiosity. Studies have shown that babies learn to discriminate between those who may be part of their club, or not. Evidence shows we are hardwired to desire belonging. Watching the world cup soccer events on television was as much about waving your country’s flag as it was discussing the art of the sport.

I taught in elementary schools in Northern Ontario. Small remote towns have a code of loyalty. Folks living there grumble about larger cities, they have favourite activities, and cheer sports teams. New residents must buy into these preferences to be quickly accepted. In some circles I was considered safe, in other parts of town I always felt my credibility would only be improved if I could show that one of my kin had once been born in the area. Birthright is a strong claim to belonging. Merit takes second place when it comes to achieving accordance.

There was a scene in the television series Task where a geeky member of the police force described how sewing patches on her team’s uniforms helped members win more games. It reminded me of how biker gangs have patches to denote the level of membership in their club. I was once proud to wear Boy Scout badges even though I was shy to be so visibly seen to belong to a group. Even at that young age I was aware that belonging requires a sort of obligation. In tandem, I’m never sure I want to conform to other folks ideas of me.

We have to prove we belong sometimes. Citizenship requires government certification. I had to renew my library card recently by showing I still belonged to my neighbourhood. Without the numerous cards and other documentation I would be unable to access many of the benefits of living in Canada. I think of these things when news of immigration, mass migration, and the building of walls to exclude comes to me from various media sources. I wonder how my rights to belong can be in conflict with those who wish to be part of my comfortable collective. Borders are only recognized successfully when people agree that I belong here and you belong over there.

We can only claim ownership of ourselves. That makes us responsible for our actions. Americans lay claim to being open to others but only to the extent that immigrants will assimilate into the big melting pot where all become one, united and indivisible. Historically, Canadian colonists wished the same to happen with the indigenous who occupied the land they coveted, “Come into our fold, learn our ways, then will you be accepted” We forget (or were taught it wasn’t important) that they already belonged to a tribe, and a culture going back to the beginning of time. You can’t break a genealogical belonging.

I belong to myself first, I may wish to belong to a cause, I can be lucky and belong to another through love, but I can never be coerced to belong against my will, without losing myself somewhere along the way.

Re: Philanthropy

Words that automatically show both sides of the coined value intrigue me. Examples of someone’s act of altruism bring warmth: Someone risked their life to safe a moose calf caught in the melting ice of spring. This was a real story I read in my local newspaper when I lived in Timmins, Ontario. I also feel hope for humanity when I read of benevolence: like the time residents of Gander Newfoundland helped airline passengers stranded due to the 9/11 tragedy.

Yet the practise of philanthropy gives me mixed feeling. On the one hand I appreciate whenever I hear the wealthy are intent on sharing their money. On the other hand I question a millionaire’s motive. I want to know if there is a catch to their generosity. “No strings attached.” is a phrase that comes from the 18th century practise of tailors asking for fabric that was not marked with strings (ie flawed). Hence ‘no strings attached’ has become synonymous with no additional requirements or ‘catches’ in a contract.

Our community has honoured the artist David Foster as a favoured son. His portfolio for musical composition, managing other artists, and producing memorable recordings is amazing. A recent free concert in Victoria proved to me his talent at the piano. The music in the open air shared with tens of thousands of citizens was exhilarating! Foster made a joke about it being free, not once but twice, which made me wince. Is this a price to be paid when a philanthropist offers a gift? How low must we bow?

In the news, L. DiCapprio and J. Bezos  are involved with other rich folk in a 200 million dollar project to save endangered species. W.Buffet has urged other moneyed people to give away a portion of their fortunes while they live, or when they die, to “address real societal needs.” These well meaning folk have made a Giving Pledge in order to establish a charitable social norm. But my mind twists to think of the working class as an endangered group within humanity. I smirk at that thought, wondering what strings are attached. Perhaps the rich will stay benevolent only as long as the minimum wage doesn’t rise to a living wage.

In Victoria we can boast of the second oldest charitable foundation in Canada. Wage disparity is easy to spot in this beautiful part of the world. In olden days poor folk gathered at the castle gates to beg for alms, here in my city those without homes line Pandora Avenue. The Elon Musks of the world could solve our homeless crisis, but I don’t wish them to. I don’t enjoy being at the whim of an entrepreneur, regardless of their talents, who has forgotten that wealth is created by all of us. The trouble with normalizing philanthropy is that charity is not really a gift if those presents are basic human needs. Society as a whole is responsible for addressing essential life issues. The United Nations has identified 6 core elements that must be present for well being. That’s where we must begin.

Re: Trauma

Trauma is talked about today. Film stars use the word, there are whole novels written on the subject, most people would be able to say what the acronym PTSD stands for, regular folk are opening up about the role trauma has played in their own lives. We sometimes define ourselves by it, and this may be a problem to navigating our future selves.

On the living room floor my wife displayed a chunk of tree limb that my father once carved a face into. I gaze at it sometimes and remember how he died in Portugal in 1997. He was alone on the street in the early morning, getting a take-out coffee for my mother. I wasn’t there. On the sidewalk where he fell, few people were present. He died alone. When this news was delivered to me in Canada, I only felt surprise. 30 years later I know I’m still traumatized.

I’ve enjoyed the message of Gurdeep Pandher, The Dancing Philosopher (my title), whose philosophy promotes joy, hope, and positivity. I respect the way he suggests that sorrow, pain, and anxiety can be part of the human condition. Pandher’s teaching helps me understand that all emotions are valid. Trauma cannot be ranked because then some experiences might be trivialized. This idea is also explored in the documentary film ‘The Case Against Cosby’, especially in the powerful scenes where victim Andrea Constand works with trauma specialist Dr. Gabor Maté.

Overcoming trauma is different for every person. Like grief, there is no timetable or standard to navigating the deeper wounds of our lives. We don’t rise above our traumatization, but we learn to accommodate it. Bessel Van Der Kolk is a professional of note on this topic. His immensely popular book, The Body Keeps the Score, makes strong connections between the body, mind, feeling, and spirit that can lead the reader, who is suffering, towards a path to healing. Kolk confirms for me that, “We belong to an extremely resilient species.”

When I get excited about art I think my response is therapeutic. I recognize now that I wish I had spent more time with my father, feeling his joy of expression before he could no longer express that part of himself, or any part for that matter. In that moment of acknowledging my trauma I can feel myself there on that sidewalk, holding him as he takes his last breath. I tell him how grateful I am for his teachings about art.

The many sources of trauma can include death, rape, childhood abuse, military service, or bullying. I suspect no human can live without being victimized, at some point, and in some way. The accepted truth is that trauma never goes away. We find ways to deal with this deep multi-layered experience. I’m not unique in trying to understand my traumas.

My dad was a writer and I find practising this art form helps me fill in the cracks of my psyche. I have proof in my life that practising, participating, and promoting art have eased my pain.

Re: Vice

I was working in the yard and I needed an extra hand to hold a length of bamboo that I was sawing into 6 inch sections. I ended up using my knee as a clamp, but I’m getting old and raising my leg up to the bench height was a bit taxing. I could have used a vice.

In the basement workshop of my previous house sat a vice to remember. My dad had passed it on to me, all 50 pounds of it. For anyone who has had a vice, you know the value of it. This one was not quite of blacksmith proportions but for holding wood, metal, or plastic secure while you fiddled away. It surpassed those C-clamps you can buy at the dollar store. Alas, I passed it on to my son and it ended up a great mass of rustled steel, only worthy of its scrap metal price.

Last night I watched a film that involved a vice used on a suspect’s hand to force information or a confession. I wasn’t sure about the result because I looked away. That scene was not even remotely amusing. ‘But’ (to use one of Louis CK’s favourite words) it was once entertaining to see that old timey Bond character use titanium teeth to crush his opponents with one deadly chomp. Now that was a new take on the term Jaws of Life, which is kind of like a vice versa device used to open cars that have trapped drivers involved in high speed collisions. Forgive me – my mind wanders.

These days if you use the word vice in conversation, people might look about over their shoulders shouting, “Where?” I think the acronym ICE is too close in name to the film Vice Squad for comfort. I feel for the folks of amurca who probably didn’t bargain on a White House regime that would treat immigrants as though they had every despicable vice known in our society. The ICE force is clamping down on people who have fled terrible life circumstances, only to be treated with inhumane dispassion. My feelings on anything to do with trumpism are extremely visceral. I seethe as I grieve.

In a spectral view we might agree to assign compulsions, addictions, distractions, and obsessions somewhere in a line under the category of vices. Some of these behaviours we can keep under control until we can’t. When I was younger governments tried to help those who couldn’t resist smoking cigarettes by using a “sin tax”, but it didn’t persuade my parents to quit, it only made them poorer. These days the ads for lotteries ask you to ‘gamble responsibly’ but again this intervention may force folks to choose between their vice-of-choice or groceries. I admit to some mild vices: loving my woman, potato chips, cinema, and alcohol (in that order).

When I think about my ancient heavy metal DIY-helper-vice-anvil-tool the word vice in any context seems just too old fashioned; like 007, religion, dating, phone books, or carburetors. But anything can be a vice I guess. Just look at me playing with words!

Re: Zen

In this essay, like all my other lateral thoughts , I don’t intend to define. The words I explore here cause me curiosity. I’ve heard the word zen used many times since I met my bride. She practises complementary medicine, so I get tuned in, and turned on, to alternative ways of treating my many neuroses.

Once I owned a backyard that offered an outdoor bathtub for cooling reflection. Now, I have a tiny garden that offers a path of stone that can be walked in four steps to a baby buddha stone elfin creature. You can tell from that last sentence that I’m not a religious person. While I may respect the teachings and philosophies of religious figures I pick and choose from the world’s spiritual menu in order to find my way. This current garden of mine brings me peace as I stare out my sliding glass door. There is room enough for one gravity chair on the patio. When lounging on it I can scan the horizontal ground-cover within seconds but then gazing vertically I revel in the limitless sky, imagining creatures in the clouds.

I love practising my version of zazen. Traditionalists will sit in a prescribed posture but I can’t pretend to conform to those higher standards. I might catch a moment of tranquility while pausing between the lines of a beautifully written poem. After reading the news in the morning paper, I may lay down the pages and contemplate what the headlines have done to my way of thinking. I’ve spent hours peering into the embers of a satisfying campfire. I’ve pushed a stick into the ground and watched its shadow move slowly as my planet orbits around the sun. Sitting by the sea shore in stillness tightens my awareness of wave and tidal regularity.

Rather than close down my senses, my perceptions blossom when I’m in a zen-like mode of experience. My breathing becomes a thrill to witness rather than an obligation for life maintenance. Windows open, doors lose their locks, boxes shed their packing tape bonds. My memory of past events flows like an unobstructed river. A fresh path is revealed making anything seem possible. Time loses meaning as I become present to the myriad mosaic of the moment. No need for pharmaceuticals to fuel this journey. The now is exhilarating and calming at the same instant.

In high school art class I created a sketch of a boy looking back over his shoulder as he sprinted along a winding path on his way to a horizon. I received attention enough from my teacher and peers that I recall wondering if it depicted my future. Now at 74, I wonder at the looking back/looking forward dichotomy of our existence. As humans invested in past/future pondering we lose the sublime bliss of the moment: that singularity when nothing really matters.

I’ve become acquainted with Japanese death poems thanks to Author and Zen practitioner Ruth Ozeki. Imagine taking your last precious breath while writing a song of hope for all who come after you!