Tag: behaviour

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: Gracious

Grace is the highest form of being human. If I were tasked with choosing a single goal for living I would select the act of being gracious. I believe graciousness to be a key element of societal connection. Seeing an act of grace, and being gracious ourselves, creates a peaceful worldview.

Being kind to another is an act of grace. My 96 year old special mom recently required professional emergency service. When ambulance crew came to our door I witnessed first responders providing healthcare concurrently with abundant grace. In an intense situation, if you are the caregiver, it’s an expectation that you put yourself last. In a selfish world that can be seen as saintly, but it is very human to give and very rewarding too.

I went downtown to do some errands. My first stop was at the licensing bureau so I could renew my health card and driver’s ID. The line-up at the agency was a long one. As I waited my turn, I heard a service clerk make one customer after another feel heard and valued. When my number was called and I was shown the same respect and attention, I complimented the employee for his gracious manner under pressure. He smiled in gratitude and said, “When I help people I feel better about myself.” The old axiom that a customer is always right is not lost on this fellow. On hearing this awesome response, I wanted to exclaim, “Goodness gracious!”

Art in all its forms can remind us of our humanity. In the television series The Tattooist of Auschwitz many acts of grace under fire are depicted. In one profound scene a prisoner takes the place of another in full knowledge that the gas chambers will be the consequence of their gesture. On the spectrum of unselfish-ness, this type of self-sacrifice is the ultimate expression of graciousness. “You live while I die”

I can only imagine what strength of character this moment would require. I may come close when I say; “Here, you go first.” Or “You take this last seat.” Or “I will wait.” Showing or telling someone that they matter more than you, may be an anomaly in our time. In the 21st century selfishness is sexy: We get told in advertising that we are worth it. That we count. That we’ve earned it. After that messaging we can conclude that being gracious is for suckers, losers, or saints. Showing grace isn’t carrying a cross. It isn’t a burden at all—merely an offering of help.

If grace is the highest level of being human, then by acting gracefully you have found a way to connect with your own soul. The body is then secondary and you fully recognize the infinite within all humans. Helping to provide eldercare has taught me much about letting myself be a smaller part of the Big Equation. I can feel of value, by giving value. As in childcare, the needs of an elder may never be quenched yet I’ve come to know that giving has a higher priority than getting.

Re: Hospital

My dad hated hospitals and I wished I had probed his reasons why. Everyone has a different experience when it comes to seeking or getting medical care. I view hospitals as places to get repairs for the hard knocks of life, however I’ve never needed to go to one in an emergency. Lucky me; I go when I feel it’s time for mending.

My heart needed correcting for atrial fibrillation so I opted for a surgical approach. The wait was longer than a year so that added to my jubilation when I got cleared for the procedure. My bride escorted me to the correct wing of the complex and I was patient Number Five for my turn with the medical team. The plaque above the nurse’s station said CSS; Cardiac Short Stay. This ward had 18 beds with a ratio of three beds per nurse. The place was a constant buzz of activity from my arrival at 7:30 a.m. to my departure at 8 p.m.

I had lots of time to witness what a hospital (at least in this section) was all about. Computer monitors and tech-looking machines were everywhere but it became clear to me that people still drive this institution. I witnessed many types of workers with things to do, surprisingly most had a piece of paper, or a folder of papers, in one hand. Many papers were filed with other papers, which were then located and typed into an available computer to create what I imagined to be a permanent record. As time passed slowly, I pushed boredom aside by creating stories, most of which were true. I was prepped in several ways for my Pulsed Field Ablation (a new computer assisted technique). I was shaved in areas I’m too shy to mention. An IV that meant business was hooked up to my arm. In one instance a four-foot-tall nurse in full PPE hooked me up for an ECG. Meanwhile several nurses clustered nearby laughing hysterically over a gift shop novelty bag filled with stationary items, and labelled “For Those on a Diary Diet.”

I was there long enough to feel part of the gang. And then it was my turn. Anaesthetic is no laughing matter but somehow I managed to spill some unintentional jokes in the operating room. Through the mental fog, I shouted to all who were near that I was a man of words, not of numbers. Once in the doctors’ Total Control, a snake-like device entered my body to find its way to my heart where it corrected my arhythmic heart’s cadence. Seconds later (or so it seemed) I was coming out of that dreamland with difficulty; sore throat, disorientation. I even made manic calls for an imaginary chiropractor when my neck refused to work. Traumatic!

In conclusion, hospitals are institutions that rely on professional integrity. Real people seemed determined to help me feel better and I felt like an adventurer choosing a brand new medical procedure to lengthen the quality of my life. In short, it was a pretty decent way to spend a day.

Re: Crime

I watched the film A Real Pain and came away with many thoughts related to how we make judgements in our modern world. In this movie people are taken on a tour that examines historical trauma. The characters visit sites in Poland where atrocities were committed; human against human. Some of the tourists in the film are seen experiencing the ongoing pain of dealing with the circumstances in their own lives. Judgements are made.

The morning paper brought more news of conflict, this time in Ukraine and Gaza and Lebanon. I read the headlines recalling the dialogue from last night’s dramatization of conflict and I struggled with the notion of crime. It was an aquarium experience: I was looking at events, both historic and current, as if through a barrier of glass. My looking only gave me a visual. I tried to understand the feelings of the other side but I couldn’t because I lacked immersion. A scuba diver can swim amongst dangerous fishes, an astronaut can experience inhospitable space and a soldier can merge with the horrific realities of war, but to enter these unknown environments you need protective gear. The world beyond the glass of this metaphorical aquarium holds uncertainty at the very least, and terror at worst.

From this vantage point I could observe the pain and suffering of crimes committed against humanity but seeing without Being, just dulled my understanding. I couldn’t draw any conclusions, let alone make judgements. Our judicial systems are set up to evaluate crimes, categorize their depth of destruction and apply a suitable punishment. I am neither a lawyer, nor a criminologist but some things I know to be true: Murder is wrong, Revenge is wrong, Despoiling our planet is wrong, Abuse is wrong.

Criminology holds a fascination for me: Motives for criminal behaviour, prerequisites for becoming a criminal and reasons why some areas of the world are more crime ridden, make me wonder about what it means to be human. We are not animals in fancy linen. Humans are imperfect. Religions have debated, conflated, obfuscated, excused and hidden sins of their institutions and of the societies they profess to protect. Israel, as a state, has to answer to the world court for its abuses in Palestine and Lebanon. Russia abuses politics when it suggests that Ukraine isn’t even a country. Crime cannot be justified. Crime exists separate from what came before and what is yet to come. Crime cannot be allowed to beget crime.

I believe some form of restorative justice is the peaceful way out of repetitive crime. Grace can be an antidote to the sadness of the human condition. This isn’t dream-scaping. It’s aspirational to plan for healing the pains that come with Being. While there is a comparative depth of pain, if we judge pain to be less or worse then we risk committing the crime of not caring. The suffering in Hitler’s Warsaw ghetto is no different from Netanyahu’s Gaza Strip. Both are crimes against humanity.

We must do something positive when we reach a conclusion, not create a new problem.

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: Choice

I’ve just finished a provocative book by Robert Sapolski called Determined: A Science of Life Without Free Will. Its main point is that there is no such thing as independent choice. The author gives many examples and even scientific data to show that the act of choosing is not possible, even if we are determined to believe it to be true. Choice comes with so much baggage; personal, genetic, historical, cultural and generational. He argues that these patterns in our lives determine our characteristics and behaviour.

When I was in university the common-area lounge debate was often Nature vs Nurture. Looking back on those times it seems the imperative was to take a side. One fellow, I recall clearly, telling us all that he had a right Not to choose. He gave the example of the election held the week before our discussion. He shocked us by declaring he didn’t vote, and probably never would, as his form of protest against the system. I thought at the time that he was an example of anarchy, which was a side without a side I suppose.

If I choose to believe I have no choice I guess I join those who figure that Fate determines our lives. My 95 year old special mom likes to use the phrase, “What will be will be!” That dismissive comment might work for small burps in our existence but I’d hate to use that notion when it comes to global issues like climate change, inequity, famine, or war. Those who argue that something, as serious as humanity’s deterioration, is inevitable get me angry. When I can’t logically explain that choice is inherent to my being, then I’ll get emotional. And emotion will get me nowhere in a debate regarding my freedom of choice.

We can excuse our actions by complaining that we had no choice. To some that is a cop-out, to others who have less advantage, even from the moment of birth, it is a reason to connect A to B. That great David Lean film Lawrence of Arabia contains a narrative arc that illustrates this point dramatically. Lawrence saves a traveller in his caravan apparently destined to die and boasts that choice changes the outcome. In a following scene, that same man commits a deadly act ordained by the instructions of his god. Lawrence must then execute the very man he saved by his own hand.

Sometimes it’s enough to shrug your shoulders at the conundrum of the decision making process. My sister used to ignore the warning signs of a bad situation while I tend to masticate over every detail before picking the ‘best’ course of action. I’m guilty of shaming others by thinking “Well it’s your own damn fault.” I suspect that might be one of the rationals behind bombing Gaza into oblivion, because of the events of October 7, 2023. Choosing to rebel is considered less holy a crusade than an act of retribution. Therein lies the crime against humanity. Alternatively, when we choose something as important as peace we can make good on the promise of creation.

Re: Most

“You’re the most!” Is a declaration that someone once said to me after I delivered on a promise. This cliched phrase (a relative of ‘you’re too much’) was delivered as a thank you when I held up my end of a bargain. It was one of those humbling moments because I didn’t think I had done all that much. Apparently I went beyond much, into the superlative Most!

The word Most is related to the word Best and can be used to describe all the things you really like. Extreme yet simple words like these appeal to the novice wordsmith and to aged writers who can still relate to the wonders of life. My grandson recently learned this word and wants to use it in his daily speech. He wants to know all the Most things; like who had the most fun, the most dessert, who got the most candies. I tell him I love him the most.

If I were to list the times in my life when I did my utmost, those events would be few. I tend to be a lazy guy, lacking what some might call ambition. The time I had to travel across the Atlantic Ocean to my very ill father comes to mind quickly as an example of superior effort. When I had to respond to a leaking hot water tank required a lot of quick thinking. Sometimes I find large gatherings rather taxing, but I wouldn’t describe my efforts to show patience on those occasions as herculean. In other words, it is probably true that my life is mostly moderate instead of extreme. While I try to get the most out of any circumstance I wouldn’t say that I go overboard to create drama or intrigue. That doesn’t mean I lack enthusiasm. For example, if I say “That’s the most fun I ever had!” someone is bound to point out that I said the very same thing last week. I sometimes, usually, regularly, and predictably live as a character in the film Groundhog Day.

My 95 year old special mom just filled out her MOST form. Medical Orders for Scope of Treatment is a document that directs others to respect her wishes in the event of a life threatening medical situation. Some jurisdictions use DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) paperwork. MOST sounds more positive somehow. The majority of us would like our last moments to be peaceful, I suspect. Most of all my mom wanted to make her medical wishes clear to anyone who might wonder how to proceed on her behalf. She tells her daughter that she has had a satisfactory life and doesn’t want to be anyone’s bother when it comes right down to it.

When Ella Fitzgerald sang the great Cole porter song ’You’re the top!’ she’s giving the highest accolade while feeling joy in the moment. and to my ears she is the mostest. I hope the best I can say, when I reach my special mom’s age, is that I did the most with what I had been given.

Re: Evil

Like most people, I choose to hear no evil, speak no evil and see no evil. But it’s hard these days not to at least ponder the use of this word. Evil seems to be all around us right now. It’s written about in our newspapers, it’s demonstrated on our nightly news, it pops up on our social media sites. I think evil holds some kind of attraction yet I am puzzled as to why.

One genre of film or book I least like is horror. I shy away from tales of the bad deeds that humans do onto others. My recreational viewing and reading is a search for the best we humans can be while overcoming the restrictions of existence. Stories of evil are prevalent in any historical age and no nation is immune from showing inhumanity in policy or deed. Sometimes we Canadians get sanctimonious when it comes to our presence on the world stage yet one only needs to turn to our government’s record regarding the treatment of indigenous populations to put us in our place.

Evil lives in people’s minds. Ignorance can be manipulated by someone to promote and nurture an evil intention. Evil is present whenever I think I can use someone else to attain my goals. Use can quickly turn to abuse if the result of a personal or professional transaction is not satisfactory. Beyond the individual, entire community power structures can be created to maintain the status quo. Society quickly becomes a Them against Us scenario. The abusive power invokes fear through threats and intimidations. An evil power thrives when the community is uneducated. Even majority populations can be cowed into believing things that are not true. False narratives become integral to the structure of Evil.

Prejudice forms part of the root of Evil: That creeping thought that enters the mind suggesting that you, or we, are better than those others, over there. Evil grows. It’s an egregious event to see and hear folks suddenly turn against each other. Sides are chosen by leaders spouting rhetoric that fans the hatred. If you are not with us then you might be considered stupid, or worse, like animals. The road to expressions of indecency towards our fellow creatures is not winding, nor is it as short a distance as we might wish to believe. Thoughts of defence, turn to acts of revenge, turn to denial of the very existence of the other, all too quickly.

Blame is cloaked evil. Many could be named as prophets of hell: Hitler is often invoked yet there are others who have taken a leadership role in acts of inexcusable terror throughout history. Measuring the severity of the crime against humanity gets us a list of who to blame but doesn’t absolve those who clapped, who made deals, who saluted, who perpetrated the policy, who cast their vote. Few can say they had no role. When the finger pointing is done we are still not absolved of responsibility.

Ideologically, we are no better than our neighbour, even if someone tries to convince us it’s true.

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: Coat

My dad owned a heavy dark camel hair overcoat when I was a teenager. During those times of pride and prejudice, he cut an impressive figure. He once came to give me a message while I was in the school cafeteria. My friends murmured, as adolescents do, when he walked towards me looking very official. To this day, I regret feeling embarrassed by his presence; when I chose to exchange only the necessary few words of acknowledgement with a man deserving of the distinguished aura he created. 

Reality can’t be disguised with a metaphorical coat of paint. But we try don’t we, with the things we go into debt buying, with the ways we choose to adorn ourselves, with the people we fawn over while ignoring those who matter most. Charades. Facades. A bit of bunting might hide the pretence. What we wear is still considered an indicator of ascendence. The clothes still denote the wealth of the man/woman who wears them. We all strive for and feel we deserve our own coat of many colours.

There was a folky English tradition amongst my parent’s generation to acquire a family Coat of Arms. You would send your last name and any details you could remember of your ancestors to some company. Weeks later you would receive a fancy printing of a heraldic emblem befitting your royal station. We four Thompsons of Canada, newly immigrated from the mother country, were distinctly lower class. Any chance to raise our status, to coat us with a veneer of respectability, was a challenge to be accepted. My dad accomplished this by behaving in the ways of a kind British Gentleman. My mother sought to climb the social ladder in ways that made me doubt her sincerity and question her motivation. 

These two hosted many parties. When my sister and I were young we lived in a small two bedroom apartment where our folks found space to entertain hoards of scary adults in various states of revelry. The noise would keep us awake, so we would wander between the legs of dancers in the living room. We might venture onto the balcony to find people kissing or saluting the moon. We saw frowns, heard swears, and recognized tears from the serious ones talking dramatically in the kitchen. My sister had the ability to fall asleep curled between guests on the couch. I would venture wearily down the narrow hallway to find my parents’ bed, covered with a mound of coats. Predictably, in the absence of adequate closet space, coats were tossed here at the moment of greeting. Fur coats, trench coats, leather jackets, satiny shoulder wraps, knitted, woven, quilted and stitched items smelling of tobacco, perfume and sweat, all flung in a heap and mysteriously reclaimed at the end of a night’s celebrations. I would squirrel my way into this fragrant mass of fabric escaping the mayhem while finding comfort in the arms, collars, buttons, pockets and belts. I would wake in my bunk next morning wondering of the magic of adulthood.