Direction

Basic landscape. Notice the foreground, the middleground, the background. Picture yourself navigating from birth through life to death like walking through a landscape: further away from one and closer to another, all the while perspective shifting. And suddenly you stop, that horizon line still so far away, or so it seems, and wonder, did I go anywhere at all? Did I achieve anything? Am I lost? Will I ever get there?

Yesterday, I attended a funeral for a lovely woman I did not know particularly well. And yet, she made a strong impression. Yesterday her friends cried, her brother gave a funny and poignant eulogy and, I imagine, her elderly parents felt like they were silently drowning. Two months ago they celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary with her.

Work colleagues, only periodically did our paths cross. And yet, I noticed she was some of my absolutely favourite things: humble, respectful, witty, encouraging, a good listener. And above all, a dedicated teacher.

The card from her celebration of life reads, "successful is the person who has lived well, laughed often and loved much, who has gained the respect of children, who leaves the world better than they found it, who has never lacked appreciation for the Earth's beauty, who never fails to look for the best in others or give the best of themselves."

Exactly. Imagine our lives are like landscapes. And wouldn't it be something if we painted these little lives with purpose? So someday, when others really examine them, they could use these landscapes to find their own way, to find direction? Now that's a legacy.

Sorry?

source

I always feel like I should apologize for being sincere.

Many years ago a woman told me that I was too nice, that she and some of her friends had decided that no one could be that nice. I felt a little offended at the time. Um, was this some sort of really bad compliment? Did you have a meeting about me? And which friends? And am I supposed to conjure up some rudeness for you and your friends? What is so wrong with being nice? But I listened and nodded and agreed, "ya, I'm probably a little too nice." Essentially, I apologized for being nice. Canadian much eh?

Stereotypes (and women who struggle to trust kind men) aside, I never forgot that comment because it taught me to pay attention to niceties and how people use them and I still wonder if there were an imaginary scale, when would being too nice tip the balance the wrong way, with whom and why?

I've learned both publicly and privately, I'm not that nice. Frankly, who is? I can be sarcastic, callous, opinionated, and selfish plus I tend to laugh too easily about things I should take more seriously. I've made many mistakes with people's feelings, some irreparable. I know a few people who might think this is total bull. And yet, overall, it's true: I tend to default to kindness, optimism and idealism. And mostly, I like people to feel comfortable and happy. Sorry. I just do.

Cynics might call nice smarmy. But I'm no sycophant. I have no dual intentions. And this isn't about "approving" some and not others either.

My entire work life revolves around communication skills. Thus I have lots of opportunities to both model and reflect on effective communication. Despite many years of practice, I am by no means an expert at any part of it and yet I have come to one conclusion: we humans--from the day we arrive--crave human contact and we thrive when others honour our dignity. In verb form, to honour means to regard with respect. It also means to fulfill an obligation, a duty. In my interactions with people, I feel obligated to start there. Why start anywhere else?

Why can't we see that?

The little prince's drawing demonstrates
how blind we grown-ups can be.

Sunday: A few minutes ago I watched my teen son through my office window. As I write this he's down the street skating at our local neighbourhood outdoor rink. It's a warm winter Sunday afternoon here and watching him, I noticed someone else is skating there now too, and together they are shooting a puck around.

Saturday: Yesterday, I visited a store to buy a gift, and the boss and his employees surprised me by offering to assemble it while I did my other shopping. I know the boss, he's a good guy and sometimes we talk about our Scottish heritage plus our daughters went to school together. I returned later to thank them and pay my bill.

Friday: After a great day at work, a friend asked me if I'd heard about the school shooting in Connecticut. I hadn't. A group of us sat together in disbelief, frustration, confusion, and then in debate and then finally, in silent bewildered respect for those teachers and those children. Later, I had my first migraine. I hope it's my last. Struggling through that pain, I thought about my brother and his daily battle with cancer, what he endures and how he copes and how thankful I am for his unconditionally devoted wife and how much I wish we could be together and how much I wish there was something more I could do. And then my wife joined me where I sat in the dark and she gently massaged my hands; her touch soothed the ache in my head and she sat with me while I endured essentially nothing in comparison to what my brother faces every day. I also thought about those grieving in Connecticut and how my wife's pure compassion was so soothing and transforming for me.

Compassion: even outside of our closest, trusted relationships it's the very thing that joins us and also dissolves what divides us, strangers or not.

People: dissolve what divides you from others. Start small in the biggest, biggest place: your own family. Leave some compassion here and there in your life too. On a skating rink, in a store, at work.

And leaders: we need a society based on compassion.  Compassionate health care. Compassionate use of power. Compassionate policy. Preventative compassion. Is it really that difficult? Is it really that complicated? Isn't that what you want too? Isn't that what we all want? Isn't this what we need to do to protect our children? Why can't we see that?

"Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction." ~Antoine St-Exupery in The Little Prince

Than You

Everyone has a father. Or had one. You might look just like him. You might have his eyebrows or his cleft chin. Or his eyes. Or maybe not. Maybe he isn't even related to you. Maybe your Mom found a better one for you. Maybe you had to pick him.

You can honor him one way: by becoming the best person you can be. (You can also give him chocolate chips, hugs, a back-scratcher and an ice-cream cake from Dairy Queen, or you can insert your own idea here, but mostly just become a good person.) Show some respect. A little goes a long way. Believe me.

You can also honor him by thinking about him because if he's a good father he thinks about you. All. The. Time. Even and especially when you wish he wouldn't, when you wish he would just cut you some slack. Because fathers can be annoying. Or demanding. Or disappointing. Or unreasonable at times. We aren't perfect. We're human. But the majority of us are doing the best we can, so shouldn't you too?

So think about your father. Think about the good moments. Those were the moments he was investing in you. (There were many moments behind the scenes you may never even know about.) Sure, maybe he didn't always invest in the ways you wanted, maybe he invested more money than time, maybe he invested more in demands than in diversions. Maybe this, maybe that. Someday you'll know things you don't know now and someday you'll know just how complicated life can be. Try to forgive him for the mistakes he made. Try. If he's a good father, he's forgiven you at least once for every sunset you've shared.

Think gratitude. Collage it in your mind. Or write it down. Or better yet, make art in all the things that you do. Thank him. Kiss him on the cheek. Engage him in a talk. Ask his advice. Invite him to walk by the river. Make him laugh. Come home when he told you to. Do something without being asked. Listen. Make your words match your actions. But above all this: become the best person you can. And then say, "Look at me Dad" because he loves that. Believe me. There's nothing more beautiful for his eyes than you. Than you.

Things one should never outgrow:

"Morning is when the wick is lit." ~Jeb Dickerson

Until the Rain Comes

It's been raining all day. Driving through rain today felt right. Finally. We all needed a rain. Not just to nourish the plants and crops around here but also to amplify the spring green from jade to something more like kelly. Only rain seems to do that. We can pour water on things repeatedly but they just don't flourish the same way until the rain comes.

I think sometimes that being a parent is like that. Like pouring water on things. It seems we parents are either pouring water on fires or watering potential. Planting a few seeds from an unmarked package, and trying to decide just how much water they need. How much warmth. Hoping we got it right. Doting. And doubting. And yet beyond what we do is this world, this baffling sublime life waters like nothing else. Right when we least expect it. Or exactly when it's needed.

I guess I'm talking about life experience. Impossible to control, life rains down sometimes in much needed showers or even a deluge on those we're raising. Either way the sun comes out after. And it still surprises me every time.

Sometimes

Sometimes I dream about this place because I love it.

It's such a secret.

Very few people know about this place but I have met people from Ottawa to Argentina here; and yet I always encounter someone I know too. (I love that; it makes the world so much smaller.)

The lodge is classic rustic. The benches are the kind we all had to make in shop class in junior high. There's no fireplace but attached to a wall is a truly ancient pair of skiis. (Think 1x4s with leather straps.) And this lodge smells like homemade soup. Plus the cinnamon buns here? Whoa.

What else can I say? My favourite run is dancing hill. And if heaven exists, I know it has chairlifts.

#seeyoulaterwinter

Sometimes

This sticky note is on my desktop. Sometimes I just like to think about that.

Just in case...

you didn't get a valentine today, don't worry: the kids at the post office love us all.

#thereislotsofloveintheworld
#mostdays
#rememberthat
#rememberthistoo

Sometimes

Sometimes, for me, hearing a new song is like a troubled dream where I'm hiking and hiking and hiking up a mountain and then finally, finally I am able to turn around and see exactly where I am.

And then suddenly here, here, all that struggling was worth it.

And everything else has melted away or it's hidden by fog. And it doesn't matter anymore. At all....

If you could choose someone to live forever, who would you choose?

Forget all the variables that would affect your decision. Don't worry about everyone else; they would still have the opportunity to live long, happy lives. Don't worry about the potential problems with living forever either. Don't worry about goodbyes. Don't worry about anything. Imagine it's your one opportunity to save that one person. The one. Forever.

Who would it be?

The Walk Between

I can't stop thinking about Terrence Malick's film The Tree of Life.

Apparently this film polarizes people. I can see why. It's probably a love it or hate it experience. No meh. I think I loved it. It's so beautiful. It's so strange too. But it immersed me, even absorbed me at times. I can't recall a film that was such an intrapersonal experience for me. The film is so...fraught.

Maybe it was timing but I couldn't stop thinking about my deceased father, my childhood, my personal struggle to be a good father. Moreover, I couldn't stop thinking about my own combination of grace and nature, the concepts on which the film seems hinged. In Mrs. O'Brien's words:

"The nuns taught us there were two ways through life--the way of nature and the way of grace. You have to choose which one you'll follow. Grace doesn't try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries. Nature only wants to please itself. Get others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them. To have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it. And love smiling through all things."

There were several scenes and one recurring image that captured me. First the image: water. Water uncontained and water contained, such as early in the film when Mr. O'Brien kinks the water-hose. In one scene, a dining room chair seems to move on its own. In another scene Mr. O'Brien does repairs underneath a car so very precariously perched on a jack while his son stalks back and forth. That silent scene terrified me. So did the scene where Jack's mother ministers to the criminals. And I still wonder what was going on in the attic?

There's also a tender scene where one brother kisses his kid brother's arm seeking forgiveness for cruelty. His brother wipes his saliva away. He kisses his arm again. Again, it's wiped away.

For me, this scene represents the film's clearest meaning. Humanity. Our inhumanity. Our isolation. Our inter-connectness. And the timeless wayward sad line we all walk in life between tenderness and ruthlessness.

Press the bell.

The motivational speakers say that I am in control of my destiny. If I want to change my life, I possess the power to do that. If I want to achieve my dreams, I should write them down and then make them happen.

This is true. Mostly.

It's like pressing a doorbell. It's like knocking on a door. What exists beyond is attainable yet my initiation is required.

I am familiar with the doorbell. I know the door. Several doors. I've been invited in. I've pushed my way through. Scared, I've run my hands through my hair and waited until the courage rose from somewhere like a dandelion flower pushing it's way out of a crack in the pavement. I have also hesitated too long. I've even slinked away, ashamed. Despite my pitiful failures, I've had such success.

But that is my story.

What of the dreams I have for others? For someone who needs a dream. For someone whose potential is the umbrella needed for her rain. For someone who can't find the door. For someone blind and stubborn? For someone wandering. For someone lost?

To lead someone else to the door, to compel them to press the bell, to convince them...it's exhausting. And futile. Or is it futile? How many times does a person try? There should be a number for that. Like 99 times. But there's no number. So when does a person stop trying? And how?

Things one should never outgrow:

Just lower your standards.

Some people don’t believe in miracles. I guess I understand that. I can’t prove miracles happen any more than the next person. Nor can I disprove them and that’s why I’m open to them. In theory.

Now don't think I dismiss theories as less important than facts. For example, we all drive down the highway based on the theory that drivers are going to remain on their own side of the line. Sadly, that is a theory, not a fact. And yet we keep on driving, sometimes even blissfully singing to the music as we go. 

So anyway, since miracles are not really provable, I wonder if we should be more interested in the miracles' effects rather than the miracles themselves. You know what I mean right? That appreciation for the wonders. That sudden rush. That joyfulness. Isn't that what's more important? And we need plenty of that in our lives. We just do. So here's my pea-brained suggestion: just lower your miracle standards and then I honestly think you will see miracles do indeed happen. All. The. Time. Examples: 

True story: we were sitting around the campfire one evening not long ago when someone pulled out the fixings for s’mores and then suddenly out come these JUMBO marshmallows. Have you seen these things?! They look like toilet-paper rolls! I had to take pictures. Miracle!

True story: I recall at least once my wife told introverted me that I had no choice but to go to some big social event that I absolutely did not want to attend and then what happened? It was cancelled. Miracle!

True story: I was nervous about a meeting I had to go to recently but when I returned home for supper my wife was actually DEEP-FRYING potatoes. Miracle!

True story: our plumber told us our new dishwasher would magically stop leaking. It did. (I think it did.) Miracle!

True story: my son lost his wallet a few times so when my wife noticed it in some random location yet again, she hid it. Her goal was to teach him to be more conscientious and responsible but when he finally noticed it was missing, she couldn’t remember where she hid it. The “lesson” sort of failed but then about a week later, he found it. Miracle! 

True story: sometimes people read my blogging drivel. Miracle!

Zoetic (Lucy)

Written by Lucy, my grandmother. [1913-1985]

Just a few days ago I was thinking about my cousin Jo and then what happens? A letter in the mail. I haven't corresponded with her for at least five years, maybe more. We live so far away from each other. She's a terrific person: kind and funny and supportive and empathetic and one of those people who conspires to make others happy. Including me. (I hope I've done the same for her a few times.) Jo is a tiny blonde with curly hair and a bottomless heart. Our Grandma Stewart died when we were still kids and even though I've never told her this, Jo always reminds me of our shared grandmother so when she sent me our grandmother's written history it seemed especially appropriate.

I never saw my grandmother stand. The entire time I knew her she was stricken with multiple sclerosis and wheel-chair bound. My first memory of her is in front of the TV, me on the floor, her in the wheelchair, Grover debating with Cookie Monster.

Before the M.S. changed her life so drastically, I knew she was an artist but Jo's gift taught me things I didn't know. Most astonishing to me is that she wanted to be a writer but all of it ambushed me. Here are some of her words:

          "I was born in the Markinch area (a Scottish settlement in Saskatchewan) on February 25, 1913 in the biggest snowstorm that year. There was a lot of excitement about my birth because there were twins. First a little boy was born. The little boy was dead. Mom and Dad were not expecting me. When I came along, all four pounds of me, Aunt Lucie said, 'what are you going to do with that wee little doll? Why, she can sit in my hand!'
          Mom smiled and said, 'I'll wrap her in a blanket first and then a pillow, so she's an armful.'
          Aunt Lucie gave me my first bath while Mom shed a few tears for the dead little boy...when Dad returned a couple of days later from Regina, there I was. The baby boy had been put out in snow. Dad cried, as he hated to have to bury the baby. Aunt Lucie cried too. She suggested Mom and Dad call me after her so they named me Lucy."

I knew none of this. Not that she was a twin. Not how she came to be Lucy. Not even her birthday. Reading the 39 page document and the attached news articles was like discovering a room in the attic, like opening a place in my life that had been there all along but I didn't even know I'd been living with it. Thanks Jo.

Zoetic (Gratitude)

"Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour."
~Robert Frost

My little family and I visited beautiful Prince Edward Island one summer and marveled at the huge maple leaves we found there. So we brought one home in a suitcase pressed between the pages of a book. Last fall, it began to fall apart. My kids wouldn't let me throw it away. So I drew it on lino and made an ink print of it so we could have that leaf forever. In fact, we could have hundreds of them if we wanted.

This leaf is memory. It's a family experience preserved. It's also a promise.

So much has changed since then but this leaf, just ink printed on paper, remains. Ink on paper...it's a little story itself, isn't it?

And this leaf will always be green. It will always be new. Like today. Today is green and golden. Wide and open. And for that, I'm grateful.

This is where I was yesterday.

This is where I will be today. Again.
*imagines you having a green-eyed monster moment
of jealous rage until I reveal that this happened yesterday as well.*

And then...

Image from here.

Sometimes crappy stuff just happens. Right in the middle of everything. And the world darkens a little. Just one lightbulb among a bunch of others. People probably wouldn't notice. So you keep it inside. But it makes a person tired.

And then there's a sun-dog.

And then you discover there are people in the world who invent things like this.

And then you help your kids with a problem. (Or someone else.)

And then they look at you like you're a big piece of chocolate cake.

And then friends come over. With guacamole.

And then someone writes something kind on your blog.

And then someone brings you a blanket, just because.

And then you notice that sometimes, somehow, the world just conspires to make you happy.

And I deserve it.

And you do too. (Notice.)

Thomas

Today I met Thomas.
Total strangers, we shared a chair lift to the top of Whispering Pines Ski Hill this afternoon and in the mere minutes I spent with him, this 7ish year-old-boy left a strong impression.

Thomas: (ascending in the chair lift) Put the bar down. Put it down. NOW. We don't wanna fall out. (I secure the bar then he extends his mitten-covered hand.) Hello. I'm Thomas. (We shake hands.)
Me: Hello Thomas. I like your name.
Thomas: Thanks. I do too. It's my name. Some people don't say my name right. I'm Thomas with an H. Some people say my name Th-omas, like "thhh" (rolling his eyes, shaking his head).
Me: (smiling, shaking my head too) I like your name with an H. I think that's the best way. Say Thomas, do you know what your name means?
Thomas: I am named after a famous actor: Thomas Allan Eldwood (?) Did you know that he does all his own stunts? We watched a show. There was a show. On TV. We watched it and (shaking his head like a tired old man) he went flying over the trees in his motorbike, (pointing) look at these trees. Some of them are like 20 feet tall. Look. I bet those ones over there are 30 feet tall. LOOK!
Me: (looking) I see. Thomas, what grade are you in?
Thomas: I'm in Grade 2. He flew so high but you know what? He didn't make it. He fell. But he didn't even hurt himself. I'm like him. I don't get hurt. But mostly I don't get hurt 'cause I'm careful.
Me: He didn't get hurt? Wow. I'm glad you're careful Thomas. Are you going to be a stunt-man someday?
Thomas: Yes (like he just realized it), I am. (Barely a pause) No, (rethinking) I'm not. Stunt men are crazy. What does my name mean?
Me: It means twin. Cool, eh?
Thomas: Twin?
Me: Do you have a twin brother or sister?
Thomas: No. But a kid in my class has a twin. But I'M NOT a twin. I think you're mistaken.
Me: (chuckling at his word-choice) Well, oh I know. Is your Dad's name Thomas too? Are you named after your Dad? Maybe you're like his twin?
Thomas: NO! MY name is Thomas, (like I'm an idiot) I'M THOMAS. That's my name. My Dad's name is Calvin. (Approaching the end of the chair lift) Put the bar up. Put it up. We have to get off now (wiping snot across his face). Now don't forget. I'M Thomas. And tips up. (pointing at my skis) TIPS UP. Be careful out there, will ya?
Me: (chuckling) Thanks for the advice. It was nice to meet you Thomas.
Thomas: You too.

Albert Schweitzer said, "In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being." Thanks Albert, for introducing me to Thomas. And peeps: be careful out there, will ya?

The Weight Against the Door

Sometimes it seems to me that we forget we're alive. I do. I forget. It's so subtle. How does that happen? Familiarity breeds complacency I guess.

And yet, I'm not complacent. Not really. And I don't know anyone else who isn't struggling at times either.

I think of it this way. I grew up with older brothers. They shared a room, yet I had my own. Sometimes I had to keep one or the other (or both) from entering my room to do any or all of the things brothers sometimes so callously do to each other: steal, bully, intimidate.

But my room was my room, my safe zone. They weren't allowed. So I would bar the door with my weight on my side and one (or the other) would push from the outside. Eventually we would grow weary and then sit with our backs against each other, the door between us. Equally stubborn and competitive, neither wanted to be the first to surrender and thus that pressure, that strain against the door, that burden became familiar.

Bills. Family problems. Work stress. Uncertainty. Changes. These are the familiar burdens now. So we do what we can under the circumstances. We manage. We cope with the strain and eventually, it seems no wonder to me that we get so familiar with coping we may even forget why we're leaning so hard and maybe even what we're leaning against. It's just the cumulative weight of the world on the other side of the door. Like Atlas, we endure.

But this interferes with truly living.

And then something happens.

Might be good: suddenly the weight on the other side of the door shifts and there's an opening inside, we see anew. Might be bad: and we are forced to open the door ourselves.

Either way, I believe this opening is when we suddenly feel alive again, alive enough that we recognize the exertion, recognize the ache, recognize the opening.

And whether it's good or bad, isn't it ultimately still an opportunity? We can invite something into our lives or perhaps go somewhere we haven't gone before. Or sadly we could just choose to remain leaning into the weight against the door.