Category: emotion

Re: Tender

When my mind is in a whirl over things domestic or international, I try a little tenderness. Which is not just a classic Otis Redding song but a way to shift my attitude. Music helps me set the course for a new perspective that is more harmonious because of its positivity.

Tender is a word that can be viewed from many perspectives. For instance, I like to think of myself in this word’s noun form; as in, One Who Tends. I like to tend to my tiny garden occasionally. I like to take care of business by tending to the bills and other finances of our household. I love tending to my lover. I think every work-er is also a tend-er since he or she cares for the final product of their labour. When I was a teacher of small kids I loved attending to the instructional needs of the members of my classroom. In that situation I also tried to be tender in the performance of my duty towards the little rascals.

Many of my wee students once had a liking for the Care Bears, a heavily advertised multi-media marketing bonanza that started with a delightful series of paintings by Elena Kucharik in 1981. The collection was an inspiration for expansive commercialization (cards, dolls, clothes, toys, records, books, television, etc.) but the central theme of friendship, community, and caring was touching for many folks, young or old. One of the ten original Care Bear characters was Tender Heart. The stuffed toy version was a favourite of my youngest son for so long he wore the fabric heart off of his plush chest. After so much hugging and squeezing you might say that this comfort-toy became tenderized.

I find the use of the restaurant item Chicken Tenders rather disturbing even though they are delicious. Recently our BC Ferries ‘put out a tender’ inviting bids for construction of a new line of coastal ships, which had me thinking about their intent. Perhaps the management team was hoping only ship builders promising tender-loving-care would apply. Maybe the winning bidder would have proven to employ the tenderest engineers when it came to their craft. Hard to say.

Showing tenderness towards an object like a kitchen appliance is one thing, but having tender thoughts towards another human being isn’t always easy. If we are a caregiver, for example, we may still be tender from wounds inflicted by the very person we currently look after. Treating ourselves with tenderness may be even more difficult if we suffer guilt from past performance. When my emotional scars ache I surprise myself by finding stable ground in a musical phrase. A key word like tender can lead me to songs containing that word or sentiment. I can move from Grumpy Care Bear to Tenderheart by searching Youtube for musical references. The Beegees asked for tenderness from Fanny. Elvis Presley pleaded, Love Me Tender. The group General Public wondered where it was and Paul Simon couldn’t find any. Otis Redding had tenderness right when he crooned, “It makes it easier, easier to bear.”

Re: Announcement

Bugles once announced the arrival of invited guests to a fairytale ball. A red carpet is still occasionally used to indicate the presence of VIPs at a notable function. I’m a cinephile so I like the grand entrance of Hollywood movie stars as they strut their stuff and take their places before the year’s winners of an Oscar are revealed. The envelope please!

Folks love to be the first to tell the Big News. Others love to be the first to hear an announcement of importance. I haven’t been to a wedding in a while so I wonder if the tapping of the drinking glass is still the start to delivering a toast; to the bride, to the groom, or later whoever happens to be still in the banquet room. Parties are times of announcements, pronouncements, or opportunities to gossip. We all love hearing the latest news, especially when it makes us happy.

Recently I published my first collection of newspaper columns. I sent a copy of the beautifully bound book to the library in my old hometown. They accepted it with grace and sent me a picture of it sitting on a shelf, where book lovers might see it. A bit of me is in general circulation! I felt like trumpeting my accomplishment from the highest hilltop. Perhaps I was a Town Crier in another lifetime, reading from the scroll provided by the palace; ‘Hear ye, Hear ye! Gather round all who wish to be enlightened, informed, or otherwise amused.’ Newspaper boys used to shout, ‘Read all about it!’ Most news comes online now but you can still find artistic cards that are decorated to announce a birth, death, wedding, illness, or achievement. With the Canadian postal situation being in a state of disarray, one wonders how long the tradition of handwritten messaging will continue. Yet it still holds that even a word of condolence can feel like a gift when delivered to the mailbox right outside your door.

Announcements, good or bad, generate a buzz that we human bees transmit with glee. There was talk for weeks after Queen Elizabeth died. The recent meeting between our new PM Mark Carney and that Donald fellow had all Canadians feverish with expectation. People leaned in, metaphorically at least, to catch any body mannerisms or speech inflections that might reveal the truth behind the politics. Honestly though, it’s often hard to collect the courage to make a personal announcement.

Spreading the news can be premature. No one wants to let the proverbial cat out of the bag. Something may change between the time you choose to share your thoughts and what you’re anticipating will come true. There have been many times when I’ve said, “Guess what?” Then finding myself regretting giving the message. No one wants to jinx the future, even if we understand that we have no power over what comes next. The new world order, our personal world order, will evolve regardless of our excitement to be the herald of happiness or the bringer of bad tidings. It comes down to sharing what matters to us. That’s what counts.

Re: Inflammation

It’s entirely possible that a person can have inflammation of the psyche. I know because I have been feeling it lately. My symptoms include: Redness of the face when ever I see a picture of The Donald, Swelling of the chest as I pace about the rooms of my vindictive mind imagining what might be an appropriate punishment for these perpetrators of injustice, Pain in my brain as I try to rationalize how the state of the world came to be so scary for my grandchildren. I fear that I have lost control of my moral compass. Most alarmingly, my soul is feeling the heat of all these conflicted emotions.

The political world has been set on fire by our faux leaders, billionaires, and capitalist conglomerates. Meanwhile many parts of the natural world are aflame with the results of human induced climate change. The Anthropocene was a recent term used to define humankind’s dominance over our planetary systems. I suggest that our planet’s destruction at the hands of Homo sapiens is rapidly resulting in a new geological period. Let’s call it The Inflammatory Age. It’s clear to me that everything on this globe called Earth is suffering from a sickness quite like the illnesses that spring up in our body systems. Earth has been keeping the score of multiple abuses to its structure. Constant extraction of its minerals, pollution of its water, air, and lands have taken a toll on its health. Warring nations have been inflaming the hearts and minds of youth to the point they are absorbing the negative energy and losing all sense of peaceful solutions. When does acute illness, become chronic; leading to death or extinction?

My health care advisors tell me the inflammation in our physical body is responsible for many of our ailments.  With every infection, inflammation of the nearby cells is initially involved as a protective measure. It could make things worse however, complicating the healing process. The original injury is therefore harder to manage. Sometimes through my life I have felt feverish for no apparent reason. My joints get swollen and uncomfortable. Pain relievers can help me through these spells of an aching body. This fever can be brought on by stress which can be a contributing factor to my discomfort. If our body is electric, and of a chemical nature, then it’s no wonder we short-circuit every once in a while during the natural course of living.

A bull cannot be inflamed by the sight of red. He is tortured into a rage by the constant twisting of the matador’s cape. So too am I enraged by the antics of people intent on bullying for the sport of it all. The answer is not by fighting fire with fire. Not in my peace-loving book anyway!

Once upon a time during Covid-19 our provincial health officer, Dr, Bonnie Henry called on our population to be kind, be calm, and be safe. She sensed that fear inflames during times of crisis. I agree with that wisdom: Inflammatory comments don’t help, only hinder, our return to healthy living.

Re: Booth

If words had scent, I suspect Booth would have the aroma of grandpa’s sweater, soft leather, or maybe pipe tobacco. This word popped into my head one morning as I was waking. Booth is not a versatile word like bandage, beverage, or even British. You can replace it with box, or kiosk perhaps but the word Booth has a vintage character.

In days gone by it was a place to find a phone. It was a communications site, a depot, a word station if you like. The last time I used a phone booth was in New Zealand, where I almost lost a phone card. Were it not for a scrounged safety pin I wouldn’t have been able to retrieve my pay card from the slot.  My earliest recollection of a proper phone booth was in England where my mom took my 2 year old sister to change her nappy. Much later, in Canada when I was a teen, I would go to a local mini-mall to make calls to girlfriends. We would exchange confidences and plan run-a-ways. Despite my avoidance of small spaces, these outmoded cabinets of conversation enabled me to escape from the prying ears of my mother who would tease me mercilessly if I used the home phone line.

On those dates I might have prearranged with a favourite restaurant to reserve a cozy booth in the corner, near the back, where my date and I could have more privacy. I believe there was a television game show about setting up a date night. It involved a sound proof booth where contestants had to wait in seclusion while the audience got the scoop on what would happen next, who would choose who, or if the answers matched the questions enough for compatibility or prize money. Strangely, some of these features can be found in the interrogation one gets when having a hearing test.

A phone booth has been featured often in television and film. The scene of Hitchcock mayhem comes to mind in The Birds. Why Clark Kent chooses to transform into Superman while inside one, I’ll never understand! I’ve never been a fan of Doctor Who, yet the concept of the Tardis fascinates me. It was designed after a commonly seen police box on London streets. It’s small in size but as expansive as time & space once you step inside. This long running British series is an expensive long distance call indeed! Joel Schumacher directed a superb suspense thriller titled Phone Booth. It nicely captured two of my worst fears whenever I made use of one of these curious glassed cubicles: claustrophobia, and paranoia of not having enough change.

And speaking of tense scenarios, I always thought it was curious that John Wilkes Booth managed to assassinate Lincoln while the President sat in a theatre booth. Death by booth squared! There now; I’ve given the word Booth a boost. Now I’ll consider ordering an old-timey British phone box on eBay and installing it in my back yard as a sentimental gesture.

“In for a penny, in for a pound.”eh?

Re: Claudia

In any journey to understand words, in whatever language you use, I feel that emotion often supersedes meaning. For instance, some of us might have trouble even saying a word like Love, let alone trying to define it. The word Love is rich with meaning within the context of a sentence and exquisitely profound when used to understand the depth of a relationship. Let’s face it, some words are utile only. Other words are magical enough to carry a spirit.

Proper nouns are amazing in that regard. The naming of someone immediately makes the qualities of that person unique. Claudia is a Spirit Grandma to three beautiful grandchildren who were born after she died. I love the way her being is honoured with this evocative title. Claudia was once my best friend, my wife and a mother to three precious sons. She and I shared a quarter of a century together before she succumbed to a quickly spreading cancer. To the very end, Claudia was resolute that she had had a good life; one filled with activities, challenges and people who mattered.

Claudia is an uncommon name, befitting a woman unusual for her time. She loved things that resonated with the past. In a time when being a homemaker was losing its efficacy, even looked down upon as a career choice, Claudia enrolled in a University program focussing on Home Economics subjects. In the early seventies, the Macdonald Institute at Guelph University was often derided as leading to a Mrs. Degree. One of the first things that fascinated me about this woman with an old fashioned name was that she made her own clothes. She had been doing it since elementary school, won several contests, entered many fashion shows and was now specializing in the textile arts. I met her at a party, hosted by her friends, where she told me all this as I fell in love with her. Later, when we were planning our marriage, she stated emphatically that she aspired to being a homemaker. I couldn’t have asked for a better mate in that regard. Our house was a very, very, very fine house.

I wonder when a word becomes more than a word. A person’s name is an extraordinary use of a single word. It’s when a noun becomes a proper noun, almost giving it more value. When parents struggle over what word to use to describe their child no wonder there is much to debate and decide. Claudia is indistinguishable to me. Probably because I loved the person attached to that name. I’m sure there are other folks with the name Claudia, but none come to mind when I think of that word.

On paper, in text, Claudia is just a word. It is hard for me to type this word without all sorts of sights, sounds and feelings tumbling out of my brain. Before her death at age fifty, Claudia told me that she had lived the life she wanted, however short. Others, who knew of this particular Claudia, could tell you their own marvellous stories.

Re: Empty

Emptiness can be both positive and negative. For example an empty calendar can be refreshing: There is no responsibility or must-do event waiting to corral your attention. Under those blank circumstances you can empty your thoughts if you wish or cram them with long denied pleasures. The negative part of emptiness suggests a void: A vast expanse of nothingness. I’ve had that feeling after a relationship break-up or a sudden loss. I felt so empty of ambition in those moments, my head seemed vacant of all ideas except a nagging question, “What am I going to do now?”

Generally speaking, I’ve been a ‘Glass half full’ sort of fellow, so if my vessel empties it’s because I need a rest, not because I’ve adopted a negative vibe. A soul can be depleted, that’s for sure, so it’s important to always check your levels to see if a top-up is required. I’m a guy who likes to keep the gas tank above the half-full line. I remember being highly anxious over a song that showed exultation over driving a car while ‘running on empty’. I imagine that scenario casting me into a void of no return. Not my kind of fun.

In my teens my mom admitted to being numb, emptied of emotion, because her relationship with my dad had been depleted. It was a sad time for all of us in the family that had once enjoyed relative abundance within the restrictions of a low-budget existence. Looking back on those depressing months before reconciliation, we all could have been described as walking wounded, barren of possibilities, grasping for mere survival. Board games had once been our favourite group activity. Now, in real life, we were playing a zero-sum game.

Most will run away from emptiness because we equate it to loneliness.  But an empty space or even a brief expanse of time can beckon. An empty container is often pictured on a still-life visual art canvas. It has beauty in form and structure all on its own. Being empty means the light can shine through and around in fascinating ways. A container can be full-some, in and of itself. Forms of yoga or meditation allow us to realize that an empty mind can be a starting point to new ideas. Going blank can lead to a refreshed way of thinking and understanding. There is a new car freshness to having a clean slate. An empty vessel can also suggest an expectation of forthcoming change or the approach of being filled with a hopeful breath of new life. Metaphors abound!

When I pass a hotel or apartment complex and see a No Vacancy sign I usually feel sad. I wonder why there is no more room to shelter someone in need. I feel badly for those missing out on a chance to stay, even for a little while, and experience what that place has to offer. But a flashing Vacancy is invitational. This place is Open for Business! Those in-between spaces, neither full nor empty, need our attention.

Re: Anxiety

A week ago, I had an episode of high anxiety. It woke me up; A feeling of dread. There was nothing imminently dangerous. I lay still, controlling my breathing until I fell back to sleep. And now, just last night, my bride comforted me in the dark when I woke her with a vocal exclamation loud enough to wake the neighbourhood. I had had a feeling of someone, a body, falling on me. My voice gave a “Huh!”grunt. It was an affront!

When does worry merge with the high traffic lane of anxiety? I can be fretful but I’m not necessarily anxious. With all the stressors in this present time it is easy to be filled with angst. Yet that is what makes a feeling of panic so confounding: When there is no real monster at the door it feels stupid for being fearful. Feeling threatened is different from being threatened. I have no reticence to talk about the fear within because feeling scared is real. Any counsellor will tell you that if you feel it then it exists. Trouble is you can’t grab this particular monster and wrestle it to the ground.

There is debate in our community over a school program allowing police to be present, within the halls of learning, serving as liaison officers. Such programs have been in existence before and are still active in other municipalities. The trouble is that many students are learning from other sources that police officers are not to be trusted. Media continually has news of armed forces going beyond the notion of serving and protecting. The appearance of an authoritative state makes me and others nervous. Thus, the anxiety in the school community is justified. We all have a role to play in educating children how to interact confidently with strangers. It’s not the job of someone wearing a badge, a protective vest and carrying a gun. That’s not a comforting presence, it’s intimidating.

Protesters and police. Liberals and Conservatives. Workers and Rich Folk. We are a class society and school has been cancelled. We have trouble getting useful information because we are bombarded with manufactured truth. Science and Education are no longer respected. Everyone is choosing a slogan and getting it tattooed on their skin or printed on an item of clothing. Our self labelling lowers the anxiety level because now we feel defined and less alone with our thoughts of impending doom. Still, trying to decide which side you’re on or who to vote for or where to shop creates tension that we may be taking for granted.

There are valid reasons to be a nervous Nellie or Norman in our stratified culture. Our technology puts us all up close and personal to global struggles. On a good day, a day when all things seem smoothly running, that’s sometimes the day when I suddenly feel surrounded by doubt, then doubt feeds worry and worry brings anxiety. I’m internalizing a vast amount of shared grief.

Good thing I have someone to lean on, when I’m not strong.

Re: Balance

Riding a two wheel bicycle takes balance. The spinning wheels help you keep on your determined path by creating centripetal and centrifugal forces. This feeling of being in motion while creating the power of locomotion is exhilarating and never gets emotionally tiring even if your aging body gets physically zonked.

Many self help books provide guidance about life balance. Keeping your body active is on the list of must dos to reach that daily goal of mixing your life up enough for maximal fulfillment. The sugar laden cereals of my childhood pronounced similar advice on the box’s colourful sides. “Part of a balanced breakfast” was a common nutritional slogan that merged with “Prize inside!” All promises designed to create an illusion of a better you. Buy our product, use your willpower and add a healthy dose of good fortune. In this regard Lucky Charms was a well named cereal even if most of the nutrition came from the milk you sloshed into the bowl.

Everybody has an opinion about a proper work/life balance these days. In reality that goal is about as easy to achieve as getting plates spinning on sticks (current record 108) like performers used to do on the Ed Sullivan Show. Many entertaining acts from the big top days were all about balancing skills: Jugglers, trapeze artists, tightrope walkers and horseback riders all had to have a finely tuned and trained sense of balance. We don’t work in a circus, although we may wish to run away to one sometimes.

Checking my bank balance can make me dizzy, especially if the news of the day has set my mind spinning. I’ll start to worry over the future and the state of imbalance on our planet. The one percent and the poorer 99 percent statistics show clearly how we are a Have and Have-not World. Then I suppose our Earth has never been scaled to justice. To mix the metaphor, the great pendulum of human history always keeps swinging and by virtue of momentum never stays at the mid point of the arc long enough for the common working folk to take a healthy breath before we have to get our bearings set on the next big thing.

And don’t get me started on the notion of balanced reporting when those of evil intent define that to mean that the hate mongers of the world get equal time with the peacemakers. It is being irresponsible to equate freedom of speech to equality of divisive rhetoric. Three minutes of misinformation does not balance three minutes of scientific fact. I try to consider the messenger when a news item comes up. Journalists have an important job to do, without them we would be at the mercy of the most powerful.

There is no balance to be found in pain and pleasure, regardless of whether you opt into S&M role playing as a hobby. And you don’t need to experience hurt before joy has meaning. Looking for a balance in our world can be frustrating because few things are as simple as those moments when we find ourselves coasting without effort.  That’s finding your bliss!

Re: Dad

Some words stand for a lot of stuff. To me, Dad is exclusive. Well, he was also a dad to my sister but they’re both dead now. In my memory he is the man who led the way. My dad was my elder: The one who made me ponder, made me proud, made me bashful, made me silly, made me ashamed. He patterned me in ways I’m still trying to figure out.

Like sons everywhere, I looked to my dad first as a protector. My first recollection of him is when he came looking for me because I was late for dinner. I believe I was still in diapers, at least I remember my pants were very wet from playing in a puddle, where he found me. He wasn’t angry. He took me by the hand and led me back to the house where my mom would surely give me a talking to. I don’t remember her lecture only that Dad changed my clothes and sat me down at the table in front of something hot to eat.

I rarely think of my dad as a father. There are many words in many languages for the patriarch of the family. Others may call out Pere, Papa, Papi, Apa, Vader, Tati, Baba or other words unrecognizable to my English speaking ears. My Polish born daughter-in-law sometimes calls me Tato. My own son is called Po by his son. My niece used to call my dad Popop when she was little. The word father is very generic sounding to me; as in everyone has a father. It is also religious sounding; as in ‘Our Father’. That father is always in heaven, far away and out of sight.

My father was a busy fellow during my growing up years. He was a shift worker at a factory so I rarely saw him until dinnertime. On weekends he often had another job which brought our family of four enough money to make ends meet. Those ends came together for me during our annual camping trip to the ocean. Dad became a different character altogether during these adventures: More playful. More thoughtful. With up to two weeks to play, my dad would not de-stress so much as re-create. Here at beach side I would learn more of his past life, his dreams, and his wonderings. He had a life before me? As I got older, I discovered I was only part of the timeline for this man I called Dad.

I’m still puzzling over the meaning of my dad in my life. Biologically, I believe there may be a genetic connection when it comes to my curiosity and creativity. I’ve been told I have a calm disposition and that comes from my father too. He demonstrated a love of nature, art and an optimism regarding his fellow humans. I can’t say he actually taught me much other than to be careful who I chose to be my wife.

My dad died alone, on a distant shore. I hope his final thoughts were happy ones.

Re: Joy

My mom was Joy to her mother, for a period of time anyway. Perhaps that’s what joy is; a small glimpse of what might be, a flash of sunlight, something to squint into and smile over so we can continue to look for a more lasting happiness based on a mutually assured place in the sunshine of our thoughts. My mother Joy rarely shared the temperament her name suggests. Joyous she was not. She despised her own mother and barely got along with her own daughter. As a teenager I would ponder that name and wonder what the opposite might be, because surely that would be a better moniker for my mom’s contrarian spirit.

If joy is a notch above happiness then it stands to reason that it is hard to come by. A good mood does not come naturally to most people. I’d like to discover the country where it is common currency. To smile or not to smile; that should have been the Shakespearean question. For it is nobler to soldier-on than to reveal the general humdrum nature of one’s existence. There is a fellow named Gurdeep Pandher who posts regularly on social media encouraging the pursuit of Joy, Hope and Positivity. Along with this wonderful message he dances bhangra which, when joining in, somehow allows the oxygen to blend with the optimism in the bloodstream to metaphorically warm the chambers of even the Scroogiest heart.

I wake to feelings of joy each morning, even if I am kidding myself a little. The euphoria sputters and falls quickly to happy, then with a small breath in I am content, and before touching down on the floor with my cold feet I am convinced I am satisfied. If it is Christmas time I will hum ‘Joy to the World’ as I am shaving. My intention is to make a joyful noise unto the world, even if it sounds like I’m trying too hard. At other times of the year I might think thoughts of tulips, summer picnics, or an autumn romance just to keep embers of hope alive. I believe hope, joy, and faith all come as a combo from some spiritual warehouse but usually something goes wrong with my order and when I open the shipping container a part is missing.

Being in the season of darkness can leave us searching for the sun. At such times as these in a war torn, self-centred world it is hard to find solace or solidarity. When I think about my times of trouble I can recall mysterious moments of clarity. Like a lift in my being, a little leap grows from my heart and I suspect it might be joy. I can’t pin it down. The feeling flutters by. It doesn’t alight long enough for me to examine its structure, weight, colour or dimensions. Its transitory nature makes it difficult to classify yet I know the troubles that had been mine moments before were lightened by this different perspective. Joy to the world.