Tag: behaviour

Re: Comfort

Discomfort is what I abhor. Some carry a cross believing that what pains us, gives us gain. Not me. Comfort and Joy could be a hymn I’d sing all year. I might get nasty looks though, which would make me feel uncomfortable.

I take medication to reduce persistent childhood anxiety. Back then I was more resilient, but now life is easier if I can access calm inner-harmony before blaming another. Yes, I know all about the ways to reduce stress without resorting to a prescription. I can often get out of a panic by using my breath training, or finding a place to meditate. However, when the wheel of fear keeps spinning in my head it’s hard to make a rational decision. My medication keeps me on an even keel. Sailing straight is actually a normal part of my personality, but into everyone’s life a little rain must fall, or even heavy seas, where we might find ourselves marooned. Avoidance is a good strategy, but not always possible.

My anxiety can prevent access to the better part of me. When we have pleasant thoughts, un-muddied by hamster-harried misgivings, we experience comfort. Sometimes I find comfort in music. I use the Youtube channel to let the melodies sooth my savage beast. Even a Super Being needs some creature-comforts.

Some people swear by a daily cup of coffee. That liquid medication can set the chemistry straight for a productive day of work or recreation. Meaningful relationships, even with pets, can make us feel comforted. I depend on my bride to be there for me when I need a comforting touch. When we bring comfort to another it feels mighty good. I admire the folks in my community who give their time volunteering in various ways. I’ve contributed that way through my lifetime reaping the quiet rewards of knowing I’ve made a difference to another. I also know it’s important not to override your own comfort in a good-samaritan way. Once, I took the overnight shift on a Help-Phone service. My involvement in this altruistic activity contributed to a sustained bought of anxiety that led to depression. Neither comfortable, nor healthy!

In my neighbourhood there is often the smell of cannabis in the air, which might also explain the abundance of food trucks. I’m neither a foodie nor a pot-user so I have find other sources to help me wind-down from upset. I have empathy for those who are without a place to feel safe. Being unhoused is the ultimate in discomfort. It bothers me that folks-of-means feel the answer to getting vagrants off the streets is though police action. I support the position that drug dependency is a health issue. I relate to policies of harm reduction because I know that addiction evolves exponentially, when comfort needs have not been met.

When I’m feeling cozy, my world is less scary. I don’t wish to take cold-comfort from knowing I have it better than others. As a global citizen, contributing to the well-being of all is a worthy aspiration.

Re: First

I love the surge of energy I feel from being first. I fully accept it when it happens by accident because the achievement of first place, or being first in line, is often overshadowed by the thought that someone else has to be second. That schoolyard memory of being picked for a team at recess weighs heavily on any empathic person’s heart. Being chosen first carries great responsibility. Being overlooked is crushing to the spirit.

In any planning session, as a kid or adult, I appreciated doing first-things-first, because I’m a first and foremost sort of guy. It’s structure that is important to me, not necessarily the idea that my thoughts or opinions have to come first. Everybody’s definition, as a feeling of First, may be amusing. For example my 97 year old special mom places high importance on the first of every month. She tells me that it keeps her mind on track for what the month will bring. She will count down the days, building routine, visualizing the little squares on a calendar, remembering birthdays, holidays, and appointments until number 30 or 31 occurs. She takes special delight in February because it’s her birthday month. 

This elder in my life told me that she can’t remember if she’s ever won an award. I recited my list: two firsts in elementary school public speaking and a gold ribbon in breast stroke. I asked my bride if she remembered if I’d ever won anything during our time together and she said, “You won me!” (It’s no wonder why this woman must always come first in my life). Schoolchildren often shout “No budging!” as they monitor their order in a line waiting for their turn. They learn early that being first is great but it’s not nice to elbow your way into prominence. That’s what bugs me most about rich folk thinking they earned their way to the top.  In my record book, FLOTUS is not real. I think you need a certain kind of ambition to be first at something. I love the experience of claiming the gold medal, but I’ll admit I’m kind of lazy trying to achieve a trophy of any sort. Coming in first is great in the Olympics, or the Academy Awards. The reality is that most of us have to settle for being among-the-pack, embracing the joy of participation.

The truth is that we are all first-editions. We get a chance to write our unique story and claim any award we wish for our efforts. For example, I love being the first to show up at a party (it means I can be the first to leave). It’s exhilarating to think I’m the first to greet a sunrise (even though I’m not a morning person). After a snowfall, it is so refreshing to be the first to make a boot imprint in the cold winter powder. Sometimes, in the quiet of a beachside sunset, I want to shout ownership by announcing, “I claim this land in the name of Berto the Explorer!”

Re: Abuse

A friend showed surprise when she saw that I was reading Nobody’s Girl by Virginia Roberts Giuffre. I told her I wanted to know one person’s account of the daily sound track that is the Jeffrey Epstein File. She admitted that she had to create a boundary to protect herself from the bombardment of reports of abuse from the United States of America. I could see her point.

Abuse happens when our boundaries are violated. The Giuffre memoir records her sexual abuse starting at age 8 from the hands of her father and subsequently her father’s friend. Those opening pages reminded me of my 9 year old sister being sexually touched by a neighbour in our apartment block. There were tears, shrieks of anger, police were called and then the drama all seemed to vanish. The trauma remained as it does for all who have been trespassed. At age 11, while in Boy Scouts, a fellow troop member tried to fondle me. I felt fear but couldn’t bring myself to report the incident to our leader. There is guilt, shame, and other complex emotions connected to incidents like these. Society’s view doesn’t often help. 

The Epsteins&Maxwells of this world are fortunately not many. In Canada the names of Bernardo&Homolka (The Ken&Barbie Killers) are familiar for similar sexual abuses. Yet these extremely selfish individuals have many enablers. All it can take is an off-hand remark or a nudge-nudge, wink-wink attitude. Those who joke about victims of abuse can live right next door, or work in the next office cubical.

Society failed Giuffre for not responding to several reports of abuse. Communities often look the other way when it comes to something regarded as unpleasant. When it comes to a person making themselves more important than another, I title that abuse. The simplicity of that definition stops my mind from playing a game of ‘Just how bad was it?’ Fundamentally, abuse is about power over another. Intimidation is abuse. Taking more resources than you need is abuse. Lying is abuse. Denying someone a chance to speak is abuse. Crowding another’s space is abuse. “I didn’t know.” Or “I didn’t mean it” will never be an excuse to me. Simply put, if you took advantage of the situation you have been abusive. 

In this regard it doesn’t matter to me what type of abuse we are discussing; sexual, mental, physical, financial, social, or emotional. Abuse can be subtle manipulation, gas lighting, or ghosting someone by not texting. If the only way your needs can be met is by trashing another, then that’s abuse. I used to say to my sons when they became teens and were subjected to the horrors of peer pressure that they could count on me for support. We talked a lot in those days about fairness and justice. I told them if they were ever in a compromising situation they could invoke my presence in their lives to others with, “My dad would kill me!” They could use me that way and I would be happier for it, because they might gain a measure of safety.

Re: Routine

This month my wife and I will celebrate her mom’s 97th birthday. Since July of 2023 she has been part of our home-life. After her husband of 68 years died we couldn’t, in our hearts & minds, consign her to a nursing home so we brought her from Ontario, across the country to B.C. Since then I have been amazed at how similar the reality of her intimate presence has been to nurturing a child. There is wonder in this great responsibility. There is also struggle.

Because she is an intimate addition to our household, the routine of our lives must revolve around someone who relies on routine to give her a sense of place and pace. Like a child, anything out of the ordinary shakes her understanding. Complicating things is her poor vision, unpredictable hearing, and lapses in thinking. A regular routine of napping helps, as does keeping her appraised of appointments. We know things are working well when she sees her habits blending in with the daily household schedule.

This arrangement makes me question things like predictability, regimen, and system. I never did like rote-learning as a student, so I didn’t use it when I became a teacher. Drills, cycles, and patterns can soon become a treadmill existence. For some, like my special mom, there is comfort in customs: The usual formula brings a rhythm that is familiar to her. However, when I watch her eat a form of porridge, every single day, I cringe at the thought of ever being in such a rut. Mind you, I’m not so adventurous that I want to tread on every unbeaten path, but I like to think that my routines are flexible enough to be unafraid of novelty. 

I can be a creature of habit. It may seem ironic that in the midst of the methodical, sometimes ritual can be a chosen way-out of the mundane. For example, my wife and I love film so we carve-out time at the end of our busy day to watch a video. Our mom has to be set up with earphones that tap her into a much-loved audio book. The three of us can share the living room this way, without the constant demands of interaction. When I want to pursue ‘just me’ time I enjoy a book, a crossword, or writing an essay like this. My wife may take a solo walk on the breakwater near our home to recapture the extraordinariness of nature.

There is a daily grind to eldercare. My wife knows this fact all too well. From my somewhat removed perch I can more easily see a few upsides. I am getting to practise some values that I hold dear: Patience, Truth, Compassion, Empathy, Humour, Sacrifice. When my very dependent special mom ponders what I have read to her from the newspaper, then pauses to take a breath, and gives me a relatable story from her long-ago past, then, in that moment, I marvel at the value of Connection, and I am grateful for it in my life.

Re: Sacrifice

On Remembrance Day, every year, we hear about the ultimate sacrifice. It’s one of the mythologies we practice religiously in hopes of feeling comfort within our cultural choices. Every holiday in my history has had collections of clichés over which I’ve puzzled while searching for meaning. I’ve wondered if my quest for understanding could be considered a sacrifice; as in a waste of time.

Giving of one’s self can be seen as a sacrifice if a life is lost. Many societies have rationalized the offering of the vestal virgin, the first born son, the sacrificial lamb, or the oath of allegiance to signify a desire to please the gods or confirm the relevance of the greater good. Jesus (or any other innocent soul for that matter) didn’t die for my sins, but because of them. I think it is pathetic that Abraham (if he ever existed) would ever be asked to kill his son as a gift to a god. Some of these old notions were based on ignorance regarding the movement of the planets, the changing of the seasons, who represented the accepted deity, or who was in charge at the time. In our modern world, I can’t accept unconditionally that one must die before their time so that another may live.

To give our lives in war is a death sacrifice. Honour, tradition, and cultural correctness play a part here. We reward, in memory and ceremony, those who have given so others may carry on. I’ve just rewatched the classic 1939 anti-war film The Four Feathers. The main character chooses not to go to war and his former friends and lovers give him a white feather (a symbol of cowardliness) as a rebuke for his choice. He goes on to prove what courage and sacrifice really look like.

In an economical sense, citizens are often asked to make sacrifices when times are lean. I think this can be called a living sacrifice. Parents providing for their children first, seems natural. Looking after our elders need not be legislated. In just societies I would hope that government provides support for those who choose to put others’ needs first, before their own. In my perfect world the innocents would be protected rather than be the first to feel the sting of want. Alas the wealthy and powerful are often the last to sacrifice even a tiny portion of their abundance. Indeed, it is those in power who persuade us to sign-up for the good of all. Their propaganda hides them from their own accountability.

On Christmas Day, every year, we are invited to hope for goodwill towards others. Most folk are examples to me of living-in-sacrifice: they give parts of themselves generously in work, play, and care. I learn by these examples of altruism. I am moved when this comes naturally, as part of being human. The reward for such behaviour doesn’t come in heaven (as some might preach). I believe it’s up to all of us to see service from others as a personal sacrifice, freely given, and needing acknowledgment right this very minute.

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?