Category: love

Re: Loving

Verbs have power in any language. This part of speech can provide clarity by showing an active intent. I’ve written before of Love and what it means to me; love as a concept, as a value, or as a thing we sometimes wrestle with. Loving is different.

Some say that hope is inspirational: But only when we start actively hoping, does anything change. Kindness, as a word, sort of sits there. When we see displays of loving kindness then a visual comes to mind and a goal can be set for us to respond. Loving can become part of our lifestyle choice, if we let it. Working, parenting, studying, creating, jogging, reading, and praying are all part of a sustainable and healthy lifestyle. When it comes to loving, we get sort of shy even though we want it to be part of our daily experience.

I’m not necessarily referring to the skin-to-skin type of loving (though I won’t exclude it). No, I’m looking for signs that I know what love has to do with it. And by It, I mean life. I believe the act of living requires loving. Otherwise it’s just something we talk about or try to conceptualize. In other words, if Love is something we value then Loving is something we must consciously do.

Sometimes we may catch ourselves saying, “I’m loving you” to a partner or special friend and it is so much more present tense than the standard “I love you”. Hopefully the recipient of your declaration can understand that you aren’t suggesting that you didn’t love them yesterday or way before the modern era of your relationship. What you want to get across is that you haven’t lost that loving feeling, you are in fact loving this very second of time with whoever happens to be sharing it with you.

Perhaps that’s why people resist making love an active thing, because your revelations may be misconstrued. As with all feelings, in order to communicate them accurately the folks involved have to at least agree on the definitions. This is beautifully made clear in the television series Somebody, Somewhere. The writing for this show is all about loving. The dialogue around Love is not conceptual but flowing with feeling. Characters describe with little effort how they are loving (or sometimes hating) how an event or circumstance is making them feel. The situations are laid out in the active tense, if you catch my meaning. One actor is loving their ice cream treat, another is hating going to church, another is loving discovering she can feel love again.

When I can hold space for loving thoughts my breathing changes. I become calmer, knowing that my loving attitude stops me from dismissing an idea, or an individual, out of hand. Likewise, if I can see that someone is loving me, it changes my perspective and makes me feel safer somehow in that given situation. Loving is a performance in this way, not a fake attempt to get along, but a horizon to keep in mind while navigating life.

Re: Wed

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the abbreviation of Wednesday is Wed., especially when you think how the mid-week day is affectionately called Hump Day. I’m being cheeky of course, because there is more to being wed than having sex, or whatever day you choose to enjoy that activity. To be wedded implies a union like no other, a bond that is more than just the sum of its parts.

My 95 year old special mom got me thinking about this word when she commented how the flavours of the stew my bride was making needed to take time to marry. “It’s always better the next day.” She stated. I thought about my marriage in that context and made her laugh by suggesting that her daughter and I, after twenty years together, must be very tasty indeed. Our conversation went to tales of marriages of convenience, shotgun weddings and also fairy tale romances, like in the film Princess Bride. I told her about a neighbour of mine who once had a delightfully amusing remarriage on the front lawn of their suburban home. They dressed in hillbilly clothes and, instead of kissing his renewed wife, the aging groom was encouraged to throw his bride over his shoulder and “Git!”

In some religions, marriage is a sacrament. To me, it’s a loving attachment that is mutually beneficial. I don’t believe that deciding to live together with others in a shared experience can be any less holy simply because of a lack of paperwork or an official stamp of approval. Being unwed used to carry a stigma and usually women suffered the disparaging remarks associated with shacking-up with someone or, gods forbid, not finding a mate and thus becoming a spinster! Society can be cruel when judgement defines its culture. My own children have taken marital arrangements in the broad sense of finding someone with whom they wish to share life.

I’ve had two different marriages: One was traditional with church service and reception followed by a honeymoon. A wedding so old fashioned in ceremony that my best man even read out telegrams we received from far away lands. We had a tiered cake. We lit two candles for ourselves, then used that light for a single candle to represent our union. The singing of hymns proclaimed our love. My second marriage was an elopement to a distant island where days were spent holding hands while strolling barefoot on the beach. Just the two of us, the music in our hearts. Some of our friends and family sent candles in our luggage as a beautiful form of blessing which added historical connection. Idyllic. Eden-like. A twinning experience. We faced the future together.

I’m wedded to the idea of the possible. Aspects of cultural formality in the eyes of society and church may have their place yet I prefer to think that structures are often arbitrary. I enjoy stories of humans who overcome convention in their work, recreation, and love lives. I still feel newly-wed. Learning about another soul takes a lifetime of Wednesdays.

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: Crush

The emotion of love has many synonyms but crush is my favourite. I’ve been in love with the female gender for all my life. I sat in the grade two row of a one room school house in rural Ontario when I was so overcome with infatuation that I blew a loud kiss to a beautiful girl in the sixth row. The much older girl had helped me make awesome structures out of piles of fragrant leaves during recess. I was smitten by her giggles. The teacher caught my love gesture and made me come to the front of the class where I was made to kiss the length of the blackboard. I sat back in my place, lips all chalky and feeling the blush of shame.

Later, now a student in a suburban school, I chose to share brown bag lunches with a gorgeous brunette. She was in my grade but in the class across the hall. We both sat at the back of our room so when the doors were open we could wave to each other. She was my one and only valentine. When my mother expressed alarm at a Parent/Teacher meeting about my crush, she was told not to worry as it was only puppy love. I think she thought I was obsessed for a while but it was really, singularly, merely a friendship. We liked teaching each other card games. I cheered her on at hopscotch or while she dazzled me with double dutch skipping. When I stepped up to the plate in baseball I could hear her calls of encouragement. I went to her house on fireworks day but felt regret later for missing our family’s traditional balcony extravaganza. I remember the pang of ending our relationship, whatever it was. My heart wasn’t broken. I felt relief that summer’s freedom was within reach. A shrug seems cruel.

Interesting how the word Crush seems apt for the unexplainable emotions connected to the first blossoming of romantic feelings. When we are older we may get a crusher of a headache or feel the crushing weight of responsibilities. In our youth holding hands can be enough to send our thoughts to the moon and back, smashing all thoughts of school projects/tests or parents’ demands to clean our rooms. I can see why some cultures are afraid of the notion of adolescent crushes. Kids are still kids in many ways, yet the maturation process is an uneven thing.

I don’t recall any connection to my sexuality with my crushes. One gal broke up with me because I didn’t want to take things “to the next level”. Phewff, she was aggressive. I was a late bloomer that way and was likely naive to any girl who showed physical attraction towards me. When I look back through grade school my connections were about friendships, first and primarily. In adulthood too the intensity of my love for another is of the steady beating kind; not necessarily measured by explosive fireworks but like the consistent lap of waves upon a shore.

Re: Picnic

The word Picnic is so cute I just have to smile when I say it out loud. I’ve been on many picnics in my lifetime and they’ve all been perfect in their own way. Where ever you live, a meal enjoyed alfresco improves the taste of the food, no question. I’ve enjoyed outdoor feasts, snacks, suppers, barbecues and fireside weeny roasts. I’ve joined with others in traditional parks, in wayside rest areas, in rugged forests, poolside or on beaches. As a youngster I anticipated my father’s Company Picnic as a full summer’s day of free food, races, games, clowns and balloons.

In northern Ontario taking advantage of the great outdoors is a cultural imperative. My young family used to love gathering with other young families for winter picnics. We loved getting the spring season started early by tromping on skiis and snowshoes through sodden snow in mid April, digging out the picnic tables and making a blazing fire to summon the summer gods. On one such occasion we were startled by the sound of thunder in the distance. Our little kids thought we had disturbed a sleeping giant, when much to our surprise, rain poured down on our gathering while lightning gave the setting an electric light. Magical!

Another picnic tradition we held at that time in our lives was the annual day-before-school-starts-picnic. We kept the meal prep simple by getting a Family Pack Combo from KFC. Back then it came with a generously sized Sarah Lee chocolate cake. The five of us would consult on a favourite spot to dine. The mood was always mixed since I was a teacher losing my holidays, my homemaker wife would miss the daily joy of all of us being together, the boys would be mired in their own thoughts of new classmates, grade level expectations and having to wake up to an alarm. Somehow this early September picnic would soothe some of this drama.

After my first wife died it was a 5 star picnic that healed my wounded heart. When I discovered the courage to venture into the world of dating I was asked by a local beauty to a picnic that I will never forget. I went imagining hotdogs and beer. When we arrived at one of my favourite kettle lakes, she popped the trunk of her car to reveal a wicker picnic basket, colour coded bowls & containers, blankets & bottles: It was the real deal! I kid you not, there were six courses to this particular picnic du jour, yet there were many more courses of love to come.

Picnics make my heart lighten, remembering times with friends and family. Times of fresh air, abundant food shared with plenty of relish. I suppose there were ants, blackflies or other metaphorical pests to take some of the edge off the joy of the experience yet the dominant memory for me is of moments of bliss. A sniff of barbecued chicken, watermelon, a hot dog with mustard can transport me to a checkered blanket somewhere in time: My Happy Place.

Re: Feel

‘Feelings, Wo -o -o-, feelings’ This was a saccharine sweet song written by Morris Albert that was on regular radio rotation in the seventies. That decade promoted feelings as though they were a product meant to be experienced as one might sniff perfume: The Scent of Life.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-iW0FVLd-3M

A family friend once told me that she thought I was more female than my sister. I understood how she could make that observation because I was not averse to expressing the contents of my heart and yes, my sister had many characteristics often attributed to maleness. I shared this comment with my mom and she wanted no further discussion on the matter because she thought that meant her two offspring were Gay. The irony here is that Mom nicknamed this friend Bagel on account of the fact that she was Jewish and a Lesbian. We three treated her as part of the family. After the comment incident, Bagel was disowned by my mother. It wouldn’t be the first time that feelings bubbled over in her heart from things that were said or imagined.

I have an angel of a wife who takes emotion seriously. I would say she doesn’t just live life, she feels it, much like the alien Empath Deanna Troi on Star Trek: TNG played by actress Marina Sirtis. Whereas I don’t have a problem acknowledging my feelings, and I am not puzzled by their presence, my wife is often so surprised by her feelings that she wants to get to the root of their existence. I take them for granted and roll with them. The only feeling I consciously try to avoid is anger, all the other ones make my life wonderfully interesting.

Love is wonderful. Especially first love, new love, when you are astonished all the time. You tell everyone who will listen; ‘I never felt this way before!’ Your heart beats to a fresh rhythm. Hundreds of years ago we believed that emotion sprung from the heart because that’s where we feel those feelings most; at the heart of the matter. I recently felt surprised by my emotional reaction to leaving an apartment I rented to be closer to my loving partner while she attended to her dying father. My feelings about my temporary relocation started out with noble acceptance, moved to necessary confinement, then to peaceful resignation. On moving day I was sad to leave, grateful for the shelter: What had seemed a prison turned out to be a much needed sanctuary.

We can relate to another’s feelings. We can walk a bit in their shoes. We can empathize due to our past experiences. We can try to understand through mutual circumstances, but we can’t logically feel as another feels because we aren’t in their body. We may all have felt love, hate, disappointment or anxiety but feelings are uniquely situational. I alone, own my feelings. I can share them. People can say they get me, yet I’ll bristle if someone says. “I know how you feel.”

That’s simply impossible!

Re: Film

My parents got me hooked on film as entertainment. Over the years I learned about my folks based on their enthusiasm for a movie. My dad loved adventure stories and my mom was all about the musicals. Debates about actors/actresses were common in our household when I was growing up. Judgements were made on who was the most beautiful, who danced the best, and who really looked like they meant it when they said, ‘I Love You’ on the big screen.

When my dad danced at parties he pretended to move like Fred Astaire. My mom proclaimed (many times) that Lauren Bacall was a bitch. I found it interesting that she mimicked Ms.Bacall’s screen persona around the house. During my formative years we lived in an apartment block right across a parking lot from a theatre. You could read what was playing on the neon display from our balcony. We were working poor but always had enough for the cheap tickets of that time. I remember the first Sunday that Ontario cinemas were allowed to open. Ironically on that particular Lord’s Day I watched Charlton Heston act like Moses in the epic film, ‘The Ten Commandments’.

A grand movie theatre is like a church. It is an artistic treat to sit in a vintage cinema. Some great drive-in theatres have thrilled me with their cultural ambience. While a setting can provide a sanctuary, I don’t think my joy in the genre is tied to a building or venue. I can get the same feeling of self satisfaction in front of my television. A regular feature on the TVO network was Saturday Night at the Movies with film host extraordinaire Elwy Yost. He would educate us with cool facts about the movie we were about to watch then tell us to turn the lights low and put our feet up. Once the credits were done, I was oblivious to all that was going on in the world. When any movie starts I get the same sense of calming anticipation.

Film, like all art forms, can attract snobs. My mother would never watch a remake of a film just on the principle that you can’t improve upon the original. I follow a cinematic expert on Twitter who refuses to pick a favourite actor/director etc. out of respect for the craft. I admit to favourites, yet I can find great things to say about any bit of celluloid that I watch. My wife and I have volunteered with film societies and festivals in numerous cities. One of the highlights of my life was learning how to prepare and run movies on the old reel to reel projectors only months before most cinemas converted to digital screening technology.

The sound and magic of flickering celluloid will always be part of the poetry of my life.  I’ve watched many shows several times and always find something new to relate to. When I first met my wife, I found it necessary that she learn to love me through my film preferences. In this case the way to my heart was via a message on the screen.

Re: Percent

Mathematics and Language don’t initially seem to go together. My random anecdotal idea regarding the word Percent is that people use it often in an attempt to win an argument. Folks are best off not using math terms if they have little number sense, like me. I refuse to get into a debate with anyone who uses percent as part of their language, not because I don’t choose to believe them but because I’m going to get lost in the numbers. I’ll ask for a print out. With a hard copy in hand I’ll be able to source their point of view in a calm manner before endorsing or denying their position.

Really, I’m more comfortable visualizing a scale of one to ten. There are fewer numbers. Everyone loves it when a friend tells them that they are ‘there for you 150%’ but no one really believes it. You can’t carry around more than the whole 100% of yourself. Percentages can be manipulated just like any other statistic. I understand the math of 100%. That’s a whole thing right there. I am a complete entity, but I have 100% of me to work with as a starting point. Take off, say 10% for poor hearing. If it’s a Monday, deduct another 5%. During the winter, after sundown, my sense of self is reduced by a further 15%. Here you go; 70%. There. That’s all you get. Sorry.

Netflix advised me that I could watch a certain film feature because it was a 95% match to my viewing history. That’s good to know. I enjoy a healthy interest rate on my investments but the interest on my mortgage is worrisome. Because I’m not a smoker I have a lower chance of getting lung cancer. But because I’m lazy my percentile risk of heart disease is as much as 5 times more than an Olympic athlete. I don’t buy lottery tickets so I have 0% chance of winning. I can live with that.

I think it’s cool that percent is used in the dairy aisle in my grocery store. I don’t have to squint to read the nutrition stats. I don’t have to calculate the portion size from the package volume. I don’t have to do any math when I shop for milk: I just use the label that’s handily provided on the package. If I’m thinking heart healthy I’ll go low, say 2%. If I want to feel a bit of luxury for tea time I’ll go 10%. When I’m looking to feel Royal I’ll choose 18% to pour on my sliced bananas. If I’m going the full Herb Alpert then it’s 35% baby!

Relationships often fail because one partner decides that the significant other isn’t doing their share. A 50/50 arrangement is often discussed as the goal but that could be ambitious when one of you is in the dumps (review second paragraph). My partner loans me some of her percentage when my reserves aren’t very rich. I try to reciprocate. 100% can be neared when two share that goal.

Re: Reciprocity

Finding equivalency in a relationship can be frustrating. It’s not like you want metaphorical cash back in your daily exchanges. Yet without a consistent feeling that your love is being reciprocated, I believe it is doomed to fail. We’ve all heard of partnerships where one side feels used or taken advantage of because of their easy going personality. I feel carrying a cross is the quickest way to get crucified.

No one should be a door mat to another. It’s true that getting along with someone requires patience and a mature recognition that no one can be exactly like you. And deeper, longer lasting alliances with someone require a mutual commitment to give and take. I hang a lot of my thoughts regarding my bonds with others on the word Reciprocity; 5 syllables, that’s a mouthful yet there is so much here philosophically to work with when you are figuring out matters of the heart.

Often, the expectation of a ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ arrangement can be distorted into a tit for tat exchange. Someone might even venture, “What’s in this for me?”. That phrase sounds callous, however, it’s true that at any point in a relationship one of you’ll wonder what you’re personally getting out of the union. When my partner tells me she loves me I sometimes say, “I love you more.” Even while thinking I do, truly, want to love her more. I know I can’t realistically match every one of her overtures of caring, in breadth or depth.

When I can’t be reciprocal it’s usually because I’m not well. That’s when I count on others going beyond their normal quota of caring. I’ll make an effort to show reciprocation when the shoe is on the other foot. It sounds like I’m making my behaviour conditional and I guess I am in an unspoken way. We have to be careful in our expectation of others while at the same time recognizing a one sided arrangement when we see it.

There are stages and occasions in a lifetime where reciprocity will never be realized. In my book of love, a child must never feel that payback is a requirement of their familial arrangement. Likewise when we contribute to someone’s wellness after an accident/illness, we know our effort can never be matched.

Think of a time when you might have said, “The next one’s on me.” You recognize a gift, want to return the favour, perhaps even work out a repayment plan. Many gifts can’t be repaid in kind. Many favours can’t be replicated. I warmed to the notion of ‘paying it forward’ as represented in a film of the same name. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfW0wCV9iFI

Here, the desire for reciprocity is found in spreading the love. Each caring act builds on the one before it. Here we are, trying to give our 100% knowing full well we can’t sustain that level of mutuality. Thus when we can’t, our mates are there to top us up to wholeness.

Re: Heart

My heart skipped a beat the other day. In fact it skipped several beats, enough to make me wonder what was going on. My son-in-law just happened to be stopping by for lunch so I asked him to take me to the hospital instead.

It was the prudent thing to do. Heart disease claims more lives in Canada than any other illness. I had been having heart palpitations (what I called kittens chasing each other in my chest) with some regularity for the past several months. My wife and I had agreed that, ‘the next incident’ would be the one where I would go to emerg. I considered my father, who died while on holiday in Portugal due to his heart health issues. He was only seven years older than I am right now. Memento mori.

My son is thirty years younger than I am. He and his wife have just bought their first house. After the move they enjoyed reporting a heartfelt sense of permanence, saying the decision was a “coup de coeur” experience. News of their combined joy pulled at my heart strings as though a song of love and longing had just arrived after a commercial break. A song such as this favourite of mine by Tony Bennett. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6DUwMnDxEs

There are many songs written from the heart. Some popped into my head as I waited for a doctor upon entering the hospital’s emergency department. It was a large open area room akin to a Costco warehouse. Direction arrows were taped to the concrete floor, clerks stood at their posts. Instead of food samples or coupons I answered questions and was directed to a succession of stations where I was tested and questioned further. I got labelled then someone came with a wheelchair to take me through the final portal. Here, in a small room, I was told to lay on a bed around which gathered no fewer than seven medics. They stopped my heart twice in an attempt to reset it from a high of 185BPM. I felt well attended to, so I wasn’t frightened.

While being monitored and tested further, I listened to the busy sounds of the ER setting. I contemplated the news cycle since late 2019 of Covid calls to action in hospitals around the world. Many unrelated deaths occurred because folks like me were resisting going for medical attention for other ailments, like the atrial fibrillation which became my diagnosis on this day. Surprisingly my heart beat returned to normal as quickly as it had raced to my attention. Latest incident over, I have appropriate medication to forestall a similar occurrence and an appointment for a follow-up consultation with a cardiologist.

I felt gratitude that I had avoided a stroke which I was told was a potential with my condition. I was heartened to see our health care system work so well on my behalf. I’m happily feeling the beat of a consistent rhythm, giving me hope for what my future may hold.