Category: borders

Re: Peace

The first thought that comes to my mind when I read the word Peace is Mahatma Gandhi, then John Lennon. Both of these distinguished fellows died by a fanatic’s hand. While Gandhi perished before I was born, his writings and perception have been a large part of my life. The notion of passive resistance is integrated into my philosophy and my behaviour. Likewise Lennon eschewed violence and in his own way contributed to the resurrection of peaceful civil disobedience as a powerful form of protest. His music lives on as a guide to what might be. He and others in the peace movement of that time invited us all to Imagine.

I used to feel lucky that I didn’t have to experience a global war. I was being naive really because there were serious conflicts between peoples of the world in each of the decades of my existence. I think I looked at those of my parent’s generation as having survived WWII as an accomplishment, yet something that had happened back then; a burden I didn’t have to shoulder. I’ve never had to go to war as a soldier. That is not true for millions of people. Now there is no denying, regardless of what bafflegab you use, that world peace is in jeopardy. The ill conceived tragedy that was Vietnam transformed into Afghanistan which has bled into the invasion of Ukraine. Now, as the daily death toll in the Israel/Palestine region mounts, who in the wide world of empathy can say they are not affected by the turmoil unleashed when rigid sides are taken in the name of Property, Religion or Nationalism. We can all say we are at war so long as we see peace as being unrealistic. The label Soldier or Citizen will not protect you.

My father used Calm as an effective form of protest whenever his world turned upside down. My mother viewed this manner as Detachment but I grew to learn that my dad was a very empathetic soul. He was a Peacenik before the term was coined. He taught me that outward emotion could sometimes cloud an issue or interfere with peacemaking. In a perfect world people like my dad would be called upon to suggest remedies to conflict at an idolized United Nations type forum. Instituted in 1945, the UN has yet to live up to its potential for peacekeeping although it is not without trying. As a young boy I thought I’d like to wear a blue beret and join others in a peaceful pursuit of global harmony (while passing out cold bottles of cola of course). The current UN Secretary General António Guterres is being sincere when he directs us to have a global perspective.

Peace activists are often ridiculed for not knowing the whole story, or looking at the world through rose coloured glasses. We are told to ‘pick a side’ or ‘be on the right side of history’. As long as we inhabit a Me/You world it is hard to talk about Us.

There now! I’ve said my peace.

Re: Think

Some might tell you they’re thinking all the time. I believe them. I get lost in my thoughts regularly, in a daydreamy sense. If someone asks me what I think I’m very flattered because I feel my view of the world is just as significant as the other guy. I don’t very often come to conclusions with my thinking, at least not in the sense that mine are better than yours. It’s the variety of thoughts that can spin off to holy shit moments that intrigue me enough to ask myself, “Where did that come from?”

Formal education helped me to organize my thinking. I’ve no doubt that significant teachers pointed the way to help me understand my world. When a teacher responded to my hand in the air, I felt empowered to share what was on my mind. The words Thank and Think are nicely related that way since I feel grateful for my ability to think through a problem or be thoughtful about another person’s situation. I sometimes wonder where the thoughts come from that link us as a human race.

My wife has convinced me that all creatures have ideas about their environment. Just because we have trouble communicating with other living things doesn’t mean they aren’t thinking about what they might do next. Some evidence shows that trees (aided by fungi) form an underground network of signals for food sourcing and defence. I believe in a collective consciousness: That mysterious force that delivers inspiration, insight and direction. I don’t believe that it comes from a divine source, as an answer to a prayer, but more likely from an unknowable cloud of electrical transmissions.

We humans have an electric field even when we don’t have our thinking cap on. There are billions of us on this planet continually discharging energy. We are a collection of charged particles bouncing about in a sea of chemicals. We might be called Sparkles in an alternative universe. In that sense I might wish to call a grandchild Ethereal in recognition of our lightness of being. This collection of atoms that is us, by any other name, is sweet and remains after we die. I can easily think that these motes, atoms, ions and microscopic bits constitute what some call a soul. So I wonder where the soul goes, when I cease to be Robert.

It’s tempting for me to suggest that these specks of me will become thoughts after I am gone. After all, what else will be left of me, except that which is discovered in someone else’s thinking. My grandkids might think of their grandpa when they are in the midst of story time at school. Likewise, someone reading these words might think of a living soul they haven’t seen in a while or recollect thoughts of an ancestor long dead but still alive in this manner of thinking.

I can’t be alone to think on the meaning behind 13.7+ billion years of stardust. I’ll be careful the next time I rub my eyes. Who’d a thunk it?

Re: Flight

When my thoughts take flight I am lifted above clouds of doubt. My thinking sets me free to soar above conflicting emotions. I can see more clearly the path ahead.

I happened to be in our parking lot when our neighbour, I now call him Captain, was just coming home from work. I learned that he was accumulating hours for a commercial pilot’s licence that would get him an elite job back in his home country. We got talking about my time with the Dept. of Fish & Wildlife in Ontario, since that was the last time that I was a passenger in a small aircraft. I told him I had never been in the co-pilot’s seat and he said, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

He rapped on my door at 10:30 the next morning. At the airport, the Captain had to check-in so I filled in time with a look around a part of our airport dedicated to pilots and the Victoria Flight Club. I gazed out to the tarmac curiously wondering which of the planes parked there would be ours to fly.

All the paper work done, we walked to our plane and I took pictures while he did a circle check. Finally I got strapped into my seat, headset on, engine started, then more checklist items. I was beginning to wonder if we would ever lift off! As we taxied down the runway there was a lot of incomprehensible chatter from the tower and other pilots: “Delta, Victor, 3, Bravo, Romeo this and Alfa, 4, Sierra, something, something”. I just counted backwards from ten slowly and silently until we were off the ground. I wasn’t really nervous just in awe that such a tiny bit of chattering metal could hold two people aloft. I commented after gaining altitude that it didn’t seem like we were going very fast and my Captain laughed and showed me the airspeed indicator. We were cruising at 110kph.

I thought of my dad, who had once invested a chunk of his hard earned money to take flight lessons, only long enough to take one solo flight. Being in the air, feeling how fragile that existence is, sparked a memory of watching him land at Buttonville Airport, near Toronto. I was probably about 8 or 9 years old, and can recall his beaming face as he shook hands with his instructor. He spread his wings again at 70, while parachuting, ticking another box. When I see a solitary cloud in the sky I think of him sitting on it, grinning at me.

As the Captain and I dropped altitude for our runway approach I felt surreal. In our three dimensional world we hovered as a falling leaf awaiting touchdown. I was aware of my two dimensional existence as we drove home yet the feeling of being transported to another world has never left me. Flight gives you a vantage point unlike any other. Seeing my world from another perspective boosted my understanding of my place in it.

Re: Transition

Death is a transition. I’m not about to suggest what might be found on the other side of life, but I do feel that anyone’s death causes a ripple in the cosmic fabric. My father-in-law died. His death caused his immediate family to pause and consider; “What comes next?” While he is in transit, who knows where, we living souls must decide how and where to continue our existence.

My wife’s mother, after 68 years with the same fella, after living almost 40 plus years in the same place, has decided she wants to come home with us to Victoria, BC. There will be many stages to this transition. As my special mom comes to terms with no longer being a wife she appears to be open to the probability of forming new relationships. There may be time for assisted living. Some of her friends have said they are enjoying the experience. Another scenario might be a new home to accommodate the three of us. We will have to tread slowly as we respectfully navigate each other’s preferences while adapting to any new possibilities. Decisions will have to be made with sometimes conflicting emotional interests: sentimentality, practicality, comfort, personalities, individual abilities and disabilities will all have to be balanced to find a new normal.

A physical move is often difficult: packing, a relocation road trip and unpacking! There’s an endless need to analyze information to determine the best course of action. Everyone has a moving story that fits somewhere on a spectrum of Hell to Mildly Annoying. Time can modify the worst of these experiences so they can eventually become humorous. The mental and emotional toll is never easy to cleanse. The psychological transition may require metaphorical bandaids to patch over ruffled feathers. Dismissive words that belittle real worries can add to the trauma of transit from point A to point B.

It is in this regard that I can find empathy with Transexual individuals. Their journey requires a movement of realms beyond my comprehension. It is a monumental transition, not entered into lightly. I have taken my sexuality for granted, yet I can empathize with the journey required to find peace within your own body. Elders, like me, can certainly relate to a body that changes with age. As our parts deteriorate we moan that we don’t like what we see. Those wealthy enough will choose surgery to pull their saggy bits back into place. We’ve all looked in the mirror and been judgemental: Society’s gaze can be crippling especially as you transition into a new you.

From birth to death we are constantly in a transitory state. There are times when we feel stagnant. In all the times of my life, I have hated stasis the most. Whether we are moving through time or space we can make our experience easier or harder. I’ve learned to seek people and advice like I would opening a book. Information assists me in making better decisions. Other’s stories can enable a smoother transition regardless of the nature of the change.

Re: Cage

One of my first memories of childhood was my dad taking me to the Riverdale Zoo, near the Don Valley in Toronto. It was an old style animal park built in 1894. I remember there were lots of cages and barred enclosures. Another time we went to a private zoo in Maine and I fed peanuts to a curiously charming caged chimpanzee. Much later, as an adult, I was shocked to see the very same primate; fingers grasping rusty bars, woefully swinging back and forth. Penning animals is controversial these days. Back when I was a kid humans had to be protected from the ferocious beasts. Nowadays it would be more appropriate if we kept the flora and fauna sheltered from our influences.

Oh we can be a barbarous species! How terrible is man who imagines two people fighting it out; last man standing. One on one sports like Boxing and UFC are signs of man’s depravity, packaged as entertainment. Being a peace loving fellow, I don’t see getting enjoyment from watching humans bloody one another while literally confined in a cage or ring. Crowds shout encouragement. We bet on a winner. We get trapped in a form of collective mass hysteria. We all lose.

Even the meekest among us can build our own personal enclosures. At their best these are places where we find comfort or security.  If we are lucky we can decorate our homes to our choosing. We can make our private spaces reflect our personality while containing the things we need to survive or flourish. For those with less means, life itself can be confining. Through circumstance or plain bad luck some exist only in a place to escape from. We can sometimes feel trapped in the cages of our own minds. Temple Grandin famously built a hug machine contraption to find reassurance in a confounding world. What others saw as confinement, she found that the device gave her control within her unique autistic world.

It may be a zoo out there and we must learn to share it. There are occasions when misbehaving children are given a time out to think about their transgressions. My sons got used to the limits of a set of stairs until they realized the error of their ways. Older mis-deeders in our society go to prison, often for the wrong reasons and usually without positive outcomes. We can’t hope to correct the penal system until prisons become creative way-stations to a better life rather than models of going nowhere fast.

Having suffered from episodes of depression and anxiety, I can relate to those who find themselves in cages not of their own design. The experience of mental illness is a tiny world where the smallest things need to be protected, where others are to be feared. I admire those who find ways to free themselves of the constraints of conventional life. Folks who climb mountains, both real and metaphorical, have pushed against their personal boundaries. These adventurers have found space to breathe, to create and to live large.

Re: Servant

There is a distinction between being a servant or a slave. A friend of my son once surprised those gathered for a back yard BBQ by stating, “I ain’t nobody’s bitch.” Someone had just asked him how he liked his new job and he was telling us that already he wasn’t getting along with the boss. He worked at a grocery store. He was tasked to keep the floors swept so that customers wouldn’t slip on entry. When he wasn’t doing that he was assigned to bringing in the carts from the parking lot. Basic service work, minimum wage.

Recently deceased Queen Elizabeth II, expressed in speeches and in her actions that she saw her life as service. Her servant salary was quite different to that of a grocery cart boy. As a society, I think most of us place a high value on service to others, even while we underpay the majority. A housewife is a role we take for granted in most of the world. Putting aside the sexual discrimination elements inherent in the title, the job description of a person who makes a home for others is a lengthy list which can cover a number of well paid professions: Cook, Laundry Worker, Psychologist, Teacher, Early Childhood Educator, Personal Care Worker, Financial Planner, Management Coordinator etc. If these services were contracted out separately the monthly expenses for a family of four would be prohibitive. The important role of Homemaker could be supported with a government cheque. A guaranteed wage might resolve this issue, as well as other cases where service goes unsung.

Ironically perhaps, the nobility of being a servant was sensitively portrayed in an episode of the television series The Crown. Sydney Johnson, a real life character who was valet to the abdicated King Edward VIII, was shown as a graciously giving fellow, even though he was only a notch above a slave to every royal whim. I cringed when I saw the Duke make a request for his silver cigarette case. I felt like yelling at the screen, “Get it yourself!”

Full service gas stations used to have lots of employees dashing about checking oil, pumping fuel and washing windshields. DIY is now the language norm in more than just filling up your tank. But I must admit to feeling let down when I can’t find someone to help me when I’m looking for a product in a store I don’t frequent. I get royally indignant wondering why the customer is no longer always right. I can relate to the symbolic Karen in these moments.

My father served with distinction in North Africa during the second world war. Later, through his work in community he taught me by example the value of volunteering. My mother was a Public Servant in the manner of an elected official in her region. Growing up with them, I witnessed how giving service to others is an essential part of being human. Everyone wants to feel a part of something, giving of yourself honours your life as well as those who receive your offerings. Volunteerism builds humanity and humility.

Re: Consent

I’ve had close-up visits from my grandchildren recently. Three dimensional interaction is so healthy and healing for all ages, especially after Covid19 quarantines. I loved being climbed upon and snuggled with, as I read stories or played with models of dinosaurs. It’s a treat for a grandparent to see how the next generational family dispenses their rules of engagement. I am always curious. I practise reserving judgement. I know when to keep my thoughts to myself.

Both Family and Societal laws are developed on a consensual basis. Before my first marriage I asked for my father-in-law’s consent to wed his daughter. I once nervously stood before city council to get a building permit. As a group we determine the answers to yes/no questions. It’s the maybes that give us the most trouble. Sometimes the shades of grey can only be worked out in court. Even then the verdict will be definitive and a side will be chosen. With a precedent set, we then try to get on with our lives.

Similarly it is with families; the heart of any society. When I was a child I didn’t have to look hard for direction on how to behave. My parents modelled respectful manners and I generally didn’t need admonishment. My sister was the rebel in the family, so I watched her for clues on what not to do. My father was non committal. I learned to avoid asking for consent because I generally didn’t get it from a mother who would rather be someone else.

I heard my grandson shout, “You made me do it!” He was being truthful. He felt coerced. Sometimes someone can manipulate you to do something. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, our personal autonomy does not remain inviolate. Becoming consenting adults takes a lot of negotiation, within ourselves and with others. Permission, when granted, can also be taken away. Some previously held rules of space and time may need to change as we travel through the gnarliest of intersections. Concessions may be required.

I think of a traffic light. People struggle with complexity. Life can be simpler for people when they know clearly when to stop or go. Societies navigate more easily if a red or green light is showing. But I’ve learned we also need the amber signal of Maybe. In that light, we must be cautious to proceed. Individually, we still seek safety, social acceptance, privacy, personal comfort, etc. That amber beacon slyly suggests we have choice as individuals to negotiate consent. A risk analysis may be required before we can carry on. Still we must pause to consider the pro and con of any situation. Certainly if another is travelling with us then there are matters of mutual consensus to be considered. Others must always be respected.

Teaching moments can present themselves if we are watchful. Observing my grandchildren provides me with a back-to school experience. Their proximity gives me an opportunity to search my life for those memorable intersections. They allow me to amend my map.

Re: Appropriate

Sometimes it is hard to find the appropriate word. I have to take into account the way language evolves over time. Add to that the changing societal norms of acceptable usage, then it takes courage to speak or write what might be on my mind. I believe that freedom of speech requires an appropriate filter if I wish to engage in meaningful conversation. Reading helps me stay on top of current language trends. Writers can suggest uses of words or phrases in ways that sometimes seriously startle me. A challenging author can get to the how of life rather than dwelling on the why.  That’s a grander exploration than the dead end annoyance of why someone did or said something controversial.

Cultural appropriation is in the news. Artists are currently frustrated by criticism when they explore features outside of their domain. I wonder how we can get to that place of cultural understanding if we do not pretend or act out roles that are unfamiliar to us. I think that it is part of the learning process to appropriate ways that may be foreign. Perhaps that can be a way to walk a while in the other’s shoes. If we hold too fast to notions of exclusivity we are in danger of discarding the concepts of openness and inclusivity.

I have often felt outside. Luckily, belonging to a dominant culture allows me more freedom to be an outsider than someone who is already on the fringe or part of a minority. I get that being marginalized would make you hold on to what you have with greater passion, especially when your culture is being appropriated. Historically, The Doctrine of Discovery was a document legitimizing theft. It was a rationale for displacement and slavery. No one has a justifiable right to have their cultures appropriated by another. The appropriate English name we have for that is genocide: The ultimate form of appropriation.

Jesse Wente is a respected thinker and film critic. He has published a memoir called Unreconciled. While reading this book, I felt as though he was in the room with me, challenging my perceptions of inclusivity, patriarchy and colonialism with the gentle persuasion of a man honestly examining his own role in the world. In spite of my white skin and ancestry I recognized the truth of his life experience when I could relate it to the truth of my own existence. I could find a commonality even though we are not of the same tribe. I believe we share and value the importance of story telling in our individual lives. I felt closest to his words when I allowed myself to respectfully, in thought, tread where he had tread.

My high school was full of extracurricular opportunities. The many different clubs I joined helped me to understand my identity. Sometimes I found the membership requirements to be inappropriate to my goals, so I quit. I could always try another club. Sometimes my application to join a group was rejected, then I felt crushed. Words can break bones.

Re: Trip

My generation has tons of musical references to trips of the psychedelic sort. We were advised to ‘tune in, turn on and drop out’ by LSD guru Timothy Leary. Author Aldous Huxley advocated for altered states. Television and movies at that time proliferated the conflicting ideas that getting high was either fun, instructive or a slippery slope to mania. In the United States the establishment (The Man) got so worked up about dope fiends and acid freaks that they encouraged their government to wage a war on drugs. In my dorm at Guelph University, drugs were easy to obtain in the early seventies. A fellow nicknamed Blackie was a familiar face at parties, offering a tempting collection of pretty coloured pills. My roommate partook, I resisted. The whole scene frightened me. I have a curious mind and an adventurous spirit yet turning myself over to tripping went against my need for personal control over my behaviour.

Until recently.

Growing up, the highlight of my summer was a camping trip to the beachfront of Maine. This vacation was from one to three weeks long and it marked me for life. My first fish caught with a rod, first kiss, first brush with death, first big purchase, first independent road trip and first long distance girlfriend all happened in this State. My experiences each summer welded together the things I had learned back home. Those trips contributed to my maturation process. I have magnified the importance of these holidays to such an extent that I brought my first wife and three boys to camp in the very spots I had enjoyed. When my current wife and I were planning for retirement, seeing Maine as part of an east coast residency possibility seemed like a natural trip to take.

Now I suddenly find myself at age seventy. I have travelled to many places I had only dreamed of as a youngster. Writing stories and typing pages for this blog is an intellectual trip of sorts. I continue to enjoy armchair travel with the help of film, books and magazines. Several years ago I turned on to ethnobotanist Wade Davis, whose adventurous writing captivates me. His creative reflections made me curious about Psilocybin. Likewise, Michael Pollan and Paul Stamets have added to my understanding of the regrowth of interest in tripping as a therapeutic tool.

Very interesting.

When my eldest son told me he had tried magic mushrooms. I asked if he would go on a trip with me for my 70th birthday. Quite coincidentally I discovered that Johns Hopkins University was conducting research on psychotropic medications. I signed up as a long distance participant. I felt I was ready. We chewed our dried ‘shrooms. My wife checked in on us during our journey. I tuned in, dropping out occasionally by closing my eyes to restore a sense of inner safety. I used a feather as a talisman on my vision quest. It showed me wondrous animations. I got in touch with my dead mother & sister. Why not? Who knew?

This boy will never stop learning.

Re: Media

The first time ever I thought deeply about this word was when my grade ten art teacher started a lesson by using a Marshal McLuhan quote: ‘The medium is the message.’ After the discussion, we chose the medium we felt was appropriate to a theme of our choosing. Back then I believed I was being clever by using plasticine. I wanted to give a cheeky message that media could be molded or manipulated to suit the situation. Today, as a writer, I’m using this blog as my medium of choice. Let me massage your thoughts.

Most people view media as the platform through which any information is delivered. In a free society this means that the message is rarely filtered and can get manipulated. Wars and governments are won or lost on how well the propaganda machine can spew out ‘alternative facts’. The messenger becomes very important when it comes to interpreting the barrage of information. As citizens we must take some time to discover what is believable and who to trust. It has become difficult to discern the truth, especially when we are in such a hurry, yet some subjects are just too important to rely on a swipe right or left methodology.

Courtroom decisions are being made based on media evidence of crimes committed. Darnella Frazier was recognized with a Pulitzer Prize for courageously recording the murder of George Floyd, a video that spurred protests against police brutality around the world, highlighting the crucial role of citizens in journalists’ quest for truth and justice.

Today the options for information and entertainment are vast. My blind mother-in-law is less alone because of the joy she finds in listening to her reliable radio. I cling to a traditional, home delivered newspaper in a similar way. I enjoy television too, perhaps too much, especially now that I can stream programming without the annoyance of commercials. I’ll confess that Twitter has been a remarkable addition to my life. I find this format of social media helps me to see interesting perspectives from all over the world.

Media and reality have never been so blurred. I’m respectful of journalists who sometimes risk their health and safety to bring us important stories. Cellphone technology can transport us live to scenes only passersby used to witness. Film can be uploaded to Facebook or Instagram for millions of users to take a collective gasp, then resent for political action. I remember being shocked by one-day-old film from the war in Vietnam. Now with the war in Ukraine, President Zelenskyy, pictured below, can bring a real time humanitarian message to viewers of the Grammy Awards show. Art imitating life imitating art, was never more true.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cG86Kezt0K0

I won’t take a medial position on this. A spiritual medium may mystically propose that my being and my message are essentially interconnected. I’ll interpret Mr.McLuhan by proffering that we are all, Media. I believe our thoughts/feelings/expressions can be connected to form a singular reliable understanding. Wow!