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: Tray

About three years ago I looked in a bathroom mirror and shrieked like a deranged lemur. For some reason, and apparently almost overnight, my lower middle incisors had crowded together like those crossed cement barriers on WWII’s Juno Beach. That moment was a decisive turning point in my dithering campaign to solve my peg-tooth issue. This ‘dental action’ rivals some military ops and will involve modern prosthetics at some point, so brace yourself.

A tray was once, only something I would get at a cafeteria to load plates onto as I selected my food in high school. A trey in cards doesn’t count because of spelling. I had considered no other use for the word until I discovered trays are the new braces used to realign teeth. When he was barely a teenager, my eldest son had such a painful experience with those old-timey metal devices he actually tried to cut them off with kitchen scissors. The poor lad also had something called a Neo-blastoma that is still being talked about at dental conferences throughout North America. His history was my history so I was a bit squeamish about ‘braces’. But hooray for technology! I was glad when I saw these clear plastic form-fitting trays so I relaxed a bit. But first I had to get an extraction (cue ominous music).

I had never visited a dentist until I was 18. I learned two things back then: I had a strangeIy angled molar which the dentist at the time wanted to pull-out. I said no thanks, but was grateful he had pointed out I had strong enamel. So time passed and I found myself a career as a teacher, which came with a dandy dental plan. With my champion enamel (I kept being told), I have had only three cavities, so I never viewed going to the dental offices with trepidation. 

But now I had to sacrifice one of my pearly-whites so the rest of my teeth could stand at attention properly. I had a 360 degree head scan that captured an amazing view of my jaw, making me look like my head had been found in an archeological dig, and carbon dated to sometime in the BC years. These neanderthal features showed the tooth-that-must-be-pulled, along with my tipping over band of soldiers. I chose to be anesthetized to minimize the trauma. It was done in a second! My bride drove me home while I floated beside her on roads made of marshmallows. 

Why was I making such a fuss, I had to ask myself when I came back to full consciousness. Weeks later I had a better attitude when I was fitted for my trays which would continue the realignment of my smile. I was pumped for the novelty of being in my seventies and wearing invisible braces. Wearing them 22 hours a day made for a readjusted eating schedule. Each time I graduate to a new set of trays I suffer growing-pains but it’s bearable. I like the thought that I have some control over my body as it returns to dust. After all, we’re just part of a celestial wind.

Re: Canvas

Lovely are the days when the sky is like canvas: It can be milky white, soft grey, or baby blue, as any base colour will do. It’s the expectancy that’s magical. You might be thinking specifics (ex. visual art) but I am going to explore all of life as a canvas, where the individual can make a uniquely authoritative impression. 

We have the ultimate authority to decide once the accident of our birth has passed. Some have advantage. Some are squelched. Some are burdened by culture. Some must push against obstacles while others leap over them. The world is not fair and restrictions exist, but our personal authority is what matters. This is freedom: we get to decide. I wish that all humanity had the same opportunities to decide that I have felt through my existence. Freedom means choice, and I have had a lot of free choice when it has come to painting my canvas. 

While you are canvassing your thoughts about this idea of personal authority, consider how we do that during an election. I’ve volunteered to canvas my neighbourhood for various political parties. Anyone who has done this knows it can be risky. You are making yourself vulnerable to another person’s opinion. We may not all reside under the same canvas tent. Some of my favourite interactions have been when I’ve been allowed as a canvasser to respectfully present my view while the canvas-ee shows how they’ve painted their life in a pleasing way. We can agree to disagree because I believe Politics is like Art: It’s subjective.

My dad was a visual artist. He would get excited over a fresh square of canvas. The placement of the equipment was deliberate. He needed time to see his work before he had even begun to outline it. Inspiration and planning; all rolled into a single musical thought. I would watch him humming as he made his first brushstroke, much like a sailor might raise his canvas sail hoping that the wind would blow, just right, to send his craft onward. A baby must feel this same sensation on rising onto two legs for the first time. With new height comes an expanded view, with unknown possibilities. “Wait!” thinks the tot, “I’d better sit down for a minute to process.” Parents, anxiously watching, may have their own designs on this blank canvas they’ve recently birthed, but their authority won’t last long.

Ultimately the decisions will be ours to make. Some of our choices will depend on current fashion. What we display on our conscious canvas may be at odds with current trends or we may wish to seek a common thread. Likely, who we are will be a work-in-progress. Some may have their canvas damaged like a storm distorts the peaceful blue of the sky. But most things can be mended with time. We may choose to cover-over what came before, so we can make a space for what is yet-to-be. Or we can quilt the fragments of our past to blend with what is now. It’s up to us.

Re: Ego

If having a fragile ego means you’re sensitive to criticism then I guess that is one of my many maladies. My exploration of this word is sort of relating to The Donald who is riding a wave of ‘Make Narcissism Respectable Again’ (nazism, consumerism, and sexism also). My whole psyche is fragile since Trumpet’s Team took over amurca. The white house of horrors holds egotists all, so I’m perplexed how my healthy self-esteem fits into this puzzle that’s so Mar-a-la-go-first.

I was taught to be humble, and also to be proud of my achievements. I learned in Kindergarten that it’s better not to budge into line. In high school I saw value in advocating for myself. In a competition I feel better if I’ve won yet I want to acknowledge, with sincerity, the efforts of my opponent. Joining self with others is a complicated maneuver. It would be nice if a trusted AI could pose in a Freud persona so I could grill the robot questions about Ego, Id, and Super-Ego (I still can’t sort them out). I suppose that makes me a failure (or conversely I could  just blame the whole school-of-psychology movement for not making things clearer). It’s all their fault, because I’m perfect just the way I am!

Being a self-published author, I question whether my writing is good, since I haven’t been assessed by the literati. Of course my ego gets boosted when someone compliments me. Don’t we all? My mom used to warn me not to inflate my self-image lest my head get too fat to fit through the door. The big theme right now suggests that a person shouldn’t need others to validate them, yet even loners like me are connected somehow.

There is a decent film called Freud’s Last Session where the titular character and C.S. Lewis debate the existence/relevance of God. It is a contrived meeting yet beautifully imagined. Both actors get their egos stroked as they spar over the consequences of their conclusions. Lines from the script are illuminated to show weakness, fears, bravado, and compulsion. The conclusion I drew while watching this duet was that humans are fragile yet resilient. We must be patient enough to discover our own value while acknowledging the value of others.

Which leads me to the vintage television show that depicts this human conundrum expertly, ‘Cheers’. Bartenders are stereotyped to be expert at counselling, but amusingly, in this show if Sam Malone can’t help you then there is always Dr. Frazier Crane. Over the course of the series the characters learn from, and about, each other. The braggarts get their comeuppance and the meek get their moment in the sun. Tangentially, amidst the laughter, the mindful viewer gets to analyze their own self-esteem, self concept, self-loathing, and self deprecation without the heavy financial cost of psychoanalysis. Seek and ye shall find! Just don’t let the beer get in your way.

A healthy sense of self-respect is warranted when it comes to making your way in the world. You don’t need to be a braggadocio, just love others as you would like to be loved.

Re: Help

In the television series Abbot Elementary we are confronted with scenes of children streaming into a primary-school classroom full of energy for learning. The creators of this excellent show are also helping the viewer to understand maybe he/she/they didn’t learn all the lessons to be discovered when they were young. After the first season I realized I was being taught; that help comes in different packages, you can’t judge a book by its cover, and yes, you can teach old dogs new tricks.

Helpfulness is a wondrous value that can be taught, just ask any Kindergarten teacher. It starts with filtering our language so that helpful comments emerge rather than sarcasm. We grow as we extend helping hands to those in need. We can be curious in new situations rather than jumping to conclusions, then saying something discourteous. We don’t need to gain superiority by putdowns: It’s better to Boost than Boast. Anyone who has felt helpless (and that must be all of us at one time or another), knows how great it feels to be given assistance.

I believe that when you ask, you shall receive. I’m not bent in a religious manner, yet I understand the power behind prayer, even though I wouldn’t call a request for help a prayer, but you may think differently after I tell you the story of the lost glove. This particular glove had personal meaning, so when it went missing during a shopping trip with my wife, a search was initiated. The parking lot was scanned, the interior of our car searched, then my wife went back to the store to see what help might be found. As I stood leaning against the back of the car, I relaxed into wishful thinking. I honestly asked the forces-that-be to direct my thoughts and my senses. My eyes fell upon some early crocus bursting through the edge of the pavement by the sidewalk nearby. As I celebrated the wonder of spring –– the glove! There it was, just lying inches away from that flower, yet far away from any transit my wife or I had taken, as though it had been purposefully placed as a gift.

‘How can I help?’ Is the best question I hear whenever I am out in the big wide world. It can diffuse a bad situation or help me find the right aisle when I’m wandering aimlessly around a mall. As a teacher I know the power of that question to release a student’s anxiety or suffering. I used to make parents laugh when I observed that if schools were factories we wouldn’t make widgets, but smiles: Smiles of joy found by learning in a safe environment. All Helping Professionals use skills of empathy to reconstruct souls damaged by life. The help provided may be quick like a band-aid, or the answer to a life-long personal conundrum. As individuals we have a similar natural talent to care for each other. 

To receive help, the first step is to ask for it. The gift will be there, waiting.

Re: Abuse

A friend showed surprise when she saw that I was reading Nobody’s Girl by Virginia Roberts Giuffre. I told her I wanted to know one person’s account of the daily sound track that is the Jeffrey Epstein File. She admitted that she had to create a boundary to protect herself from the bombardment of reports of abuse from the United States of America. I could see her point.

Abuse happens when our boundaries are violated. The Giuffre memoir records her sexual abuse starting at age 8 from the hands of her father and subsequently her father’s friend. Those opening pages reminded me of my 9 year old sister being sexually touched by a neighbour in our apartment block. There were tears, shrieks of anger, police were called and then the drama all seemed to vanish. The trauma remained as it does for all who have been trespassed. At age 11, while in Boy Scouts, a fellow troop member tried to fondle me. I felt fear but couldn’t bring myself to report the incident to our leader. There is guilt, shame, and other complex emotions connected to incidents like these. Society’s view doesn’t often help. 

The Epsteins&Maxwells of this world are fortunately not many. In Canada the names of Bernardo&Homolka (The Ken&Barbie Killers) are familiar for similar sexual abuses. Yet these extremely selfish individuals have many enablers. All it can take is an off-hand remark or a nudge-nudge, wink-wink attitude. Those who joke about victims of abuse can live right next door, or work in the next office cubical.

Society failed Giuffre for not responding to several reports of abuse. Communities often look the other way when it comes to something regarded as unpleasant. When it comes to a person making themselves more important than another, I title that abuse. The simplicity of that definition stops my mind from playing a game of ‘Just how bad was it?’ Fundamentally, abuse is about power over another. Intimidation is abuse. Taking more resources than you need is abuse. Lying is abuse. Denying someone a chance to speak is abuse. Crowding another’s space is abuse. “I didn’t know.” Or “I didn’t mean it” will never be an excuse to me. Simply put, if you took advantage of the situation you have been abusive. 

In this regard it doesn’t matter to me what type of abuse we are discussing; sexual, mental, physical, financial, social, or emotional. Abuse can be subtle manipulation, gas lighting, or ghosting someone by not texting. If the only way your needs can be met is by trashing another, then that’s abuse. I used to say to my sons when they became teens and were subjected to the horrors of peer pressure that they could count on me for support. We talked a lot in those days about fairness and justice. I told them if they were ever in a compromising situation they could invoke my presence in their lives to others with, “My dad would kill me!” They could use me that way and I would be happier for it, because they might gain a measure of safety.

Re: Lobby

I walked through a swanky hotel lobby today. I was passing through to make a reservation at their guest restaurant for my 97 year old special mom’s birthday surprise. Lobbies are among my favourite places because they are usually decorated in a welcoming fashion. This makes me feel chill, and when I’m actually staying in a hotel I need to feel soothed from my travel anxieties. 

The comforting old word vestibule comes to mind as getting close to the feeling I get while in a lobby. These gathering places can be found in railway stations, libraries, theatres, legislative buildings, and even court houses. When I’m standing in grand, high-ceilinged vestibules I want to whisper, for fear of waking any traveller-spirit who might have come through this portal before I arrived on the scene. One of my favourite spots is Union Station in Toronto. Even if I don’t have a ticket to go somewhere, I have often sat on a bench in that building filling myself with the many stories swirling ethereal all around me. 

Years ago, my wife and I managed a condo building with a simple, yet elegant lobby. She took on the task of keeping it spotless, while I did the less-noticed backroom stuff. The building had security cameras located there so comings & goings were recorded. One early morning while mopping the slate floors, she witnessed a bold robbery of a Federal Postal Key. She challenged the thief, he tried to smooth talk his way out of the whole affair, eventually leaving. The entire moment was caught on tape, and eventually so was the perpetrator. My wife was a prime witness in court. It was a big deal! I remember the government lawyer (referring to the crook as the Lobby Lothario) telling my bride that she was made of tough stuff. Indeed she is.

Speaking of scenes on film, that song, “Let’s all go to the lobby…” is lodged in my childhood brain from numerous trips to the drive-in on a summer’s night. I wouldn’t call the soda fountain type, confection-stocked area, that is really a small shack in a parking lot, a lobby. But there we go playing around with words and muddling their meaning! Really!

Some people call themselves Lobbyists, which sounds more akin to an historical military division. While I think of it, there is a combat-style approach taken when lobbying the government for favours. Behind the glad-handing and off-side bribery there is a desire by Lobby Groups to circumvent the democratic process and seek special compensations for all manner of shady operations. The National Rifle Association is one of the darker operatives spending millions each year to persuade elected government officials to see things their way. Amidst all the swirling official papers, memoranda, and protocols the highly valued 2nd Amendment of their flawed Constitution lives on, thanks to the Gun Lobby. Meanwhile, the stories of many are lost to fixable violence (2025 statistics record over 40,000 deaths). 

This type of lobby is murderous and is going to require tougher stuff to bring justice.

Re: Routine

This month my wife and I will celebrate her mom’s 97th birthday. Since July of 2023 she has been part of our home-life. After her husband of 68 years died we couldn’t, in our hearts & minds, consign her to a nursing home so we brought her from Ontario, across the country to B.C. Since then I have been amazed at how similar the reality of her intimate presence has been to nurturing a child. There is wonder in this great responsibility. There is also struggle.

Because she is an intimate addition to our household, the routine of our lives must revolve around someone who relies on routine to give her a sense of place and pace. Like a child, anything out of the ordinary shakes her understanding. Complicating things is her poor vision, unpredictable hearing, and lapses in thinking. A regular routine of napping helps, as does keeping her appraised of appointments. We know things are working well when she sees her habits blending in with the daily household schedule.

This arrangement makes me question things like predictability, regimen, and system. I never did like rote-learning as a student, so I didn’t use it when I became a teacher. Drills, cycles, and patterns can soon become a treadmill existence. For some, like my special mom, there is comfort in customs: The usual formula brings a rhythm that is familiar to her. However, when I watch her eat a form of porridge, every single day, I cringe at the thought of ever being in such a rut. Mind you, I’m not so adventurous that I want to tread on every unbeaten path, but I like to think that my routines are flexible enough to be unafraid of novelty. 

I can be a creature of habit. It may seem ironic that in the midst of the methodical, sometimes ritual can be a chosen way-out of the mundane. For example, my wife and I love film so we carve-out time at the end of our busy day to watch a video. Our mom has to be set up with earphones that tap her into a much-loved audio book. The three of us can share the living room this way, without the constant demands of interaction. When I want to pursue ‘just me’ time I enjoy a book, a crossword, or writing an essay like this. My wife may take a solo walk on the breakwater near our home to recapture the extraordinariness of nature.

There is a daily grind to eldercare. My wife knows this fact all too well. From my somewhat removed perch I can more easily see a few upsides. I am getting to practise some values that I hold dear: Patience, Truth, Compassion, Empathy, Humour, Sacrifice. When my very dependent special mom ponders what I have read to her from the newspaper, then pauses to take a breath, and gives me a relatable story from her long-ago past, then, in that moment, I marvel at the value of Connection, and I am grateful for it in my life.

Re: Fair

A writer friend tried to provide me with a definition of this word. We both agreed that, like the word love, trying to pin down the meaning of fairness is often subjective. I can’t believe I haven’t written with this word Fair as a focus before this moment. The word Fair is part of every discussion bordering on disagreement. Children will believe that life is not fair, news stations will report fair or foul weather, and yes we still may be lucky enough to go to a fairgrounds for some country-style amusements.

I watched my finances closely when I was a young father. My three sons may tell you stories of being short-changed. I remember a ritual involving a single chocolate bar (a treat to be respected). The rule was that the bar would be shared, and the one cutting the confection into three parts would be the last one to receive a piece. The one doing the cutting (sometimes it would involve precision steps using a ruler) would be random and the air was always tense. My lads are well into adulthood now, so I get to watch how they demonstrate fairness with their youngsters. I have yet to see them use a Gordian Knot style strategy.

The situation of inequity in the USA under POTUS 45&47 makes me scream unfairness, in the same way that The Donald uses all-caps in his messages on Truth Social. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have thrown my newspaper down in disgust when I read that what is fair for some is not always fair for others. Prejudicial thinking can lead us to decide that the fair-haired are more deserving than brunettes. Fairness must not be subjective, but it always is. If all of life is just not fair, then I think I shall never get over it. I argue in my head that Fair should be like Gravity: A singular truth that exists or not.

My word loving friend equated fairness with justice. I continue to wonder if the two concepts are equal in experience or in tone. Justice comes from law, that much seems clear to me. Fairness seems more arbitrary. The words, ’To be fair’ can often lead to a message of conciliation, contrition, or an outright withdrawal of your previous stubborn stand. The words, ’Let’s be fair here’ (as potentially dangerous as ‘Calm Down’) is another attempt to assuage fears, or buy time from the arguing parties. I just don’t want to believe that all is fair in love and war. Nonsense!

Which leaves me wandering a fairground of memory and possibility. Last time I went I had hoped to rekindle a childhood joy of the CNE in Toronto. I remembered all the choices arranged before me: games of chance, free food, cheap rides, trained animals, and pavilions boasting a bright future. In the sense that country fairs are open to all, they could be a model for what’s fair: unrestricted access regardless of race, colour, or creed. I’m fairly sure that would make a better world.

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.