Category: life

Re: Finite

Some things end. Some things are irreplaceable. Some things are lost forever. Our planet is finite: It has an expiry date. We mere humans do not know when the world will end but it-will-end. Memento mori needs to be part of a school board’s curricula.

In art class I used to enjoy inspiring my students with the thought that their ideas could create infinite possibilities. I never had the heart to tell them to get on with it because their life, in the grand scheme of things, is very short. Procrastination might be something to avoid but it’s easy to get a manyana attitude. A recent film titled The Life of Chuck points out that reality. Here we are shown how preciously fragile humans are, compared to natural processes of more cosmic proportions.

I believe death is absolute; it is final. You may leave pieces of you in your will, your legacy, or in the hearts of others, but otherwise you will vanish. You can only exist for so long: That is what finite means. I had a German-born childhood friend who used to announce the end of things by using a Spanish sounding word: Finito. My mom used to be amused by his casual dismissiveness. Once as we were enjoying P&J sandwiches in my childhood kitchen, and as we came close to the end of the jam Mom said, “When it’s gone, it’s gone!” I like the simplicity of the French word Fin to indicate the end of things. At the end of an artsy film with subtitles, I’ll get a certain comfort when the credits scroll to a completion and FIN is displayed in bold letters telling us it’s over now, time to go home.

Many natural resources can be renewable with the right degree of stewardship. In our nonchalant attitude to climate change we forget that many things are non-renewable. Species themselves are finite. When a certain type of living thing becomes extinct that is a clear end-of-the-line. Despite tales of harvesting DNA to clone bygone beasts as in Jurassic Park filmology, the likelihood that our declining planet can even support another T-Rex is improbable.

My best friend advises me to not squander my time. I know I’m finite. In art, science or politics there is room for your work to live on after you have ceased to be, but we are not immortal in the sense of the roman or greek gods. Historically some cultures have theorized an afterlife. Some had tombs built and their bodies carefully preserved, like the ancient Egyptians, to enable transport to the great beyond. Viking folk believed Valhalla would let them live eternally. I wonder if there are still cryogenic chambers available for 21st century billionaires who imagine a flight to infinity and beyond.

We can’t predict when we’ll expire. Sadly some of us will go before our time, leaving others in shock while they commiserate and consider what the rest of their lives might hold for them. We have a shelf-life. Hopefully we won’t just sit there wondering what comes next.

Re: Perfect

Pronouncing this meaningful word can produce a wonderful shift in perspective. For example, when I write this essay I reread, edit and change many parts of its structure to perfect the final result. I am active in my pursuit of a readable piece of writing. Meanwhile, if I’m being honest, there are only a few times when I can say the result of this writing process could be called perfect.

I enjoy the act of perfecting something to a point. I admire those who have the discipline to achieve a top score in their fields. For example in the sport of gymnastics, I remember Nadia Comăneci achieving the impossible in the Montreal Olympics of 1976. It was such an unusual feat that the scoreboard wasn’t enabled to display a Perfect Ten. Her achievement still generates debate about athletic scoring to this day. There are philosophical arguments suggesting that if you remove the goal, by saying the highest level can actually be achieved, then you have done a disservice to the human impulse to strive. When I was a teacher, I liked to advise my young friends to; “Have a go!”, “Give it your best shot.”, or “Reach for the stars!” The beauty is in the attempt. The outcome will take care of itself.

Seeking perfection is a noble goal, sometimes achieved, but requires a devotion to daily practise. The fictional character Mary Poppins may pronounce that she is, “Practically perfect in every way.” Whereas most of us characters are mere mortals and prone to error. We wish to have a perfect life, a perfect body, a perfect performance report at work, or a perfect partner. I have agency for the first three in that list but the latter is more a matter of luck, which I have, praise be!

My life is not perfect, except if I say it is. Others might see that my standing in the world is to be envied. In this same way, I can get a rise in my heart when I hear someone describe their life with high notes of glee. I sometimes can create a perfect day, other times I just have the planets in my favour. Joy comes when I recognize that near-perfection is achievable, even when it occurs through a series of mysterious connections. Consider for a moment how we sometimes say, “This is perfect timing.” We are excited when things go our way. I used to think, after a run of bad luck, that I was somehow more deserving of a treat. I guess that might be how gamblers fool themselves when they consider the odds of winning.

If practise makes perfect then after much effort I trust we can tell ourselves that we shined for a moment, however brief. Each feeling of satisfaction over a job well done, is a moment in the sun, so I feel we are allowed to bask for a while. We don’t need someone to caution us about getting a swelled head, nor do we need applause. Just a healthy dose of self-satisfaction.

Re: Walk

In my time at University it was popular to hang posters with inspirational sayings. I remember seeing the one with a set of footprints in the sand describing how someone might walk with you in times of trouble. Another poster showed various pathways to talk about the road less travelled. Still another suggested the end result was not as important as the journey itself. Walking was central to many of these themes, and woe be the person who didn’t walk their talk, ideologically or in campus conversation. No one wants to be labelled a hypocrite!

There are many songs that depend on the word Walk to drive the message: Who among us has had boots made for walking, or been advised to just walk away like Renée. Maybe we’ve walked like an Egyptian after two many drinks or walked 500 miles just to be the one who falls down by your door. I’ve walked the line between good and evil, just to please the one I wanted to love me back. In the olden days if a boy walked you to the car or to your doorstep he was considered a keeper.

My 95 year old special mom sets a good example by going on a daily walk around the block. She takes seeds in a bag for any bird friends she finds along the way. As do other elders, she has a stable walker with handles suited to her height, a seat, and wheels she can brake so she doesn’t roll away when she chooses to sit and take a rest. I go with her sometimes but I find her slow pace a challenge to my balance. In a metaphorical sense I am taking a walk with her during this twilight part of her life. Watching her deal with the changes that come with aging is a privileged learning experience.

I’ve felt fortunate to have legs that can carry me to where I wish to go. Now in my eightieth decade I neither have the will nor the ability I once had to cover great distances. I have a friend who has mastered the famed Camino de Santiago trail. My son has tramped the beautiful West Coast Trail of Vancouver Island. My hikes have been much less impressive but I have enjoyed the ground I’ve covered. I have taken part in fund-raising walks and once, in late elementary school, I spent time training on a track in the manner of Olympic walking. I wasn’t fast enough to make the team but my hip-work impressed my weekend extra-curricular dancing instructor so much that he designed a special dance character for me. I was a cop-on-the-beat in a dance recital routine that had me walking around a Paris neighbourhood dressed Charlie Chaplin style: Rubber legged, bum waggling, and twirling my truncheon. The audience loved it!

Alas my 15 minutes of fame on that stage would not have propelled me to a career in show business or to be noted on Toronto’s Walk of Fame. But here I am talking about my walks.

Re: Stories

While talking to my 95 year old special mom about a newspaper story of a neighbour who is lost, I became lost myself, in the flimsy gauze between truth and fiction. The report of the missing man has details that beg to be filled in with only my conjecture. My mom asks questions that I can’t objectively answer, yet a conclusion to the story had to be reached before we could move on with our day. Thus, the story in our community becomes wedded to our own story, even while the resolution to the story is pending. Even with her advanced age and experience, my mom found this hard to bear.

Bedtime stories are precious in the way they invite imagination. The child being read to goes on fantastical journeys with only a few words of script. Sometimes only a picture is enough to provoke multiple questions of why, how and where. The stories live on after the sleepy-head has been tucked in and the reader has left the room. Stories are meant to persist just as the witness to a life event takes in information and transforms the data into something relevant and understandable. In that way, life itself is a never ending story containing multitudes of chapters and possibilities.

A building starts with a foundation. Stories are added to this physical structure to accommodate people and things. Sometimes in poorer countries the extra floors take time to build. I remember asking a tour-guide, while on a bus trip in Peru, about some buildings having rebar sticking out at the top of rows of cinder block. She told me it was a sign of hope in her community that one day enough money would be available to add a second floor onto the house, to make space for expanding families. A case of another story creating room for more stories.

Recently Andrea Skinner, a daughter of Alice Munro, made public her story of abuse at the hands of her step-father. Readers of Munro’s work talked and wrote about the revelation as though it was their story. Some couldn’t see themselves ever reading this Nobel Prize winning author’s stories ever again because of this new, real life chapter insertion into the Munro bibliography. Ms.Skinner’s misfortune reminded me when I was a toddler and being admonished never to tell tales on the family. I took that to mean; Don’t lie. Yet when I saw my mom talking with others she would often start a conversation with another adult by asking for gossip. I still find the difference between privacy and secrets confusing.

Any bit of fact can be turned into a story. I believe conspiracy theories are an attempt to make our imaginations come to life. We want to understand things so desperately that we join in the story making with other like-minded folk to explain the unfathomable. Every culture is built on stories. Sometimes the truth is hidden to get on with other things we think are more important.

My story is not like yours but we have chapters in common, let’s build on that.

Re: Insurance

The insurance business is an industry that depends on our fears & doubts to drive its operating model. Buying insurance is clearly an example of damned if you do/damned if you don’t. Either way it’s hard to come out of any exchange/interaction with this business without feeling like a chump.

Seven years ago my wife and I bought a new car. It was a great deal until we sat down with the fellow in charge of wrapping up the sale. He convinced me to put another two grand into insuring the purchase against future repairs. “For peace of mind.” he asserted. “You would want to protect your investment.” He said this money could be viewed as a hedge against accidental repair costs. At the end of seven years I could get my money back if I didn’t make a claim. I signed the paperwork while foreseeing a future out of my control. It was a trap!

I’m compulsive when it comes to paperwork. I’ve spent plenty of time assembling documents, affidavits, testimonials for a variety of purchases gone wrong in my life. Air travel reimbursements, plumbing conflicts, health care overpayments, warrantee disputes, car accident confusions all have a file in my trusty steel cabinet. But the devil is in the details. During those seven years my wife and I had lots of distractions, both good and bad. I ended up misreading the refund date amidst the fine print. I called the insurance company to be told I had missed my window for a refund. But I had extenuating circumstances! They were sorry but they were bound by their policy. I stewed some more. I kicked myself for betting on a negative outcome. I said to myself, “I knew it!”, so many times I lost count. I had to find a way to forgive myself for not being on top of my affairs.

In my country there are laws against NOT having home or auto insurance. Insurance agents promote buying insurance as a smart thing while making profits on our distrust of a product’s viability. We are advised to believe the machine we buy will not last, the device might be a factory lemon or, worse yet, the thing we have spent our hard earned money on will get stolen. If you are insured against loss/damage or theft there will be no worries, or so we’re made to believe. Sounds like a smart thing to do, until you have to make a claim and then you wished you had read all the fine print.

In principle I want value for my dollar but I don’t wish to put a price on my being. Life insurance strikes me as just plain evil. I don’t want to think that a death settlement would be compensation for my lack of presence. I know I am approaching my expiry date but my body is not insurable in the sense that my loss can be put on some corporate ledger. Insurance doesn’t provide balance. Keep your policies! My value is intrinsic.

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: Wallet

I’ve never lost my wallet, but I’ve thought I had lost it many times. I check for the presence of my wallet frequently, sometimes obsessively. When I’m on holiday it is always on my mind. I’ll pat my back pocket and check the drawers or shelf of the room I’m staying in. When I am secure in knowing its presence I’m calmer. On occasion, I may even kiss it for luck to ward off evil spirits.

My son lost his wallet while moving his belongings to a new apartment. In the busy-ness of loading and packing he put it gingerly on the car’s rooftop. The obvious happened when he got behind the wheel and merged with other traffic. The shock of picturing what he had done wrong must have been numbing. He went back through his trip, in a futile attempt to rescue his wallet from the road where it must have fallen but to no avail. His credit cards had to be cancelled but luckily he had only $40 in cash. A couple of week’s later he got a call from his local police department saying the wallet had been turned in! Much to his amazement the wallet’s contents were intact! When he shared this story with me, we both commented on how our faith in humanity had been enhanced by this simple act of unselfishness.

Some folk say the cell phone has become their most highly valued object to carry everywhere. When I told others of my son’s mishap they related by saying how they had lost their phones and had been bereft as to what to do when a record of their identity had gone AWOL. Indeed, when you consider what is loaded onto our devices they become a veritable code to who we are in this world. Comparatively, the wallet with its old timey paper access cards, wrinkled photos, bills, receipts, bus passes, loyalty IDs & embossed business cards becomes a relic you might see on display at a museum of not so modern culture.

I made my first wallet when I was nine from a craft kit I got for Christmas. It came with pre-cut leather and strands of gimp plastic lace. When constructed it looked a bit like a folding moccasin with a side gash for paper cash (I never had any of that), a snap pouch for coins and a cool slit for bus tickets. There was a single clear plastic window under which I put my library card and my swimming pool registration card. With this wallet, fully loaded, I could get access anywhere.

Throughout my life other wallets have not lived up to the level of self confidence given to me by that first homemade beauty. However I still choose each new wallet by giving it a smell test. The leather scent knocks me out. A wallet has always given me a sense of importance. It contains a bit of my past and present and some assurance that my future is secured. A cell phone seems cold in comparison.

Re: Clearance

Sometimes medical tests take a while to schedule in the province where I live so I felt like I had won the lottery recently, when I got my lab booking sooner than anticipated. It reminded me of the pleasure that can be felt when you approach some congestion on the roadway and an authoritative person is there to wave you through.

If you’ve had to wait for your plane to take off then you’ll know that getting clearance is a delight. In kindergarten we are all taught about lining up and waiting our turn. It comes easy for those with good manners to be patient yet when I get sped through a line I feel so very special. That day at the hospital diagnostic centre everything seemed so streamlined: I arrived on time, my credentials were acknowledged, my appointment was confirmed, I was ushered to the correct wing, my medical technician knew what she was doing, the machines were fully functional, all tests were performed without hiccup, and done. I was cleared to leave.

I’ve enjoyed the feeling of hiking through deep woods. After stepping over fallen trunks and thrashing through tangles of underbrush it is an awesome experience to reach a clearing. Your walking pace can become more even, your balance is more assured, your weight seems lighter, your way is unimpeded and your view is uncluttered. It must feel liberating like this when you have had to be in court, your case has been examined from both sides and the judgement is that you are cleared of all charges. Imagine the relief! You are truly out of the woods and can now go about your life.

When I was a kid, I could see my parents tighten up whenever we approached the border separating Canada from the United States. Guards peered from their tiny huts with serious looks. Questions were asked and answered. The moment our car was waved through the check point, everyone exhaled. I’m no different as an adult when approaching a port of entry. As I surrender my passport I tense, hoping my documentation will measure up. My bride and I have been on many adventures to other countries. In every case I have shown gratitude along with nervousness to those who are authorized to provide clearance.

The other day I saw a vehicle marked with red licence plates being led by a police escort. I wonder what it feels like to have that level of access to the roadway? Or to anything for that matter. I can’t imagine a diplomat or any high level decision maker being troubled if they needed something ASAP.  Fortune 500 folk send their people to get stuff and price is no obstacle. Heck, I don’t normally go shopping unless there is a clearance sale that removes my inhibitions. I need the enticement of ‘the lowest price of the season’ before I feel good to go.

Giving myself permission is the first gateway I must pass through before making my way in this world. It sure is nice to find helpful people at intersections.

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.

Re: Self

I can’t believe this is the 300th word that I’ve examined as it pertains to me, quite selfishly. I think all art is a selfish pursuit. A friend, who has commented on my work, has called it cheap therapy. He’s right in a way, since I get a chance to talk to myself and review my thoughts before sharing them with the world. I have no illusions about being the major benefactor of these essays. When I reread my words the feelings of self reflection can sometimes be powerful enough that I laugh or cry at my own expense.

I’m telling my mom, at this moment (even though she is long dead) that my head is not swelling from false pride. I’m still trying to convince her that I can be self interested and still be caring toward others. A person can be humble and still delight in the things they have created. In my understanding, being selfish is not in the same vein as being self-centred or perpetually self-involved. I try to view myself with the same level of enjoyment as I would the person next to me. In fact I love moments of one to one creative sharing since in that moment of context or conversation we have a mutual connection. Our souls have no borders.

Of course there is a line that some people may cross as they search to exclude others rather than embrace the human community. Making others irrelevant makes you a narcissist. There are many examples of narcissists in the current political landscape. Choosing a candidate to represent your interests in government is tricky enough without someone purposefully trying to manipulate you. Check carefully before you make a Trumpian Bargain: Your self-preservation as a trade for the charlatan’s self-aggrandizement.

Self help books have been a section in most book stores for quite a while. The Do-it-Yourself type can find these guides useful when the way to fix a problem becomes elusive. Many stores are currently promoting self-help options seemingly to speed your shopping experience. The resulting lack of need for cashiers and staff in general pads the corporations bottom line and speaks to the shareholders’ self interest. Yet all that glitters is not gold eh?

One of the responsibilities of a parent is to help their children develop a positive sense of self. It’s a delightful and complicated task to guide a child to see themselves as worthy individuals. I tried to help my boys understand that they had the power to decide the kind of person they wanted to be without becoming self possessed. Equally important to me was that the goal was not to be so selfless that actions became like a cross to bear. We all have needs. Our journey is to become self actualized. To reach for our best selves, we must aspire. Our goal can be accomplished through skill development, thoughtful reflection, watching others, reading, and conversation. Being self absorbed, as an act of personal creation, can awaken vistas of understanding and healing light. We are mighty!