Unexpected

My daughter got married last month. I've always told my children that the most important decision they'll ever make is whom they choose to marry. She chose well. But marriage is a choice too. I didn't expect this. Any of it.

I didn't expect my daughter would wear her mother's wedding dress. I didn't expect my daughter would ask me to read Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese." I didn't expect those vows, with hints of tender history and romance and humour. I didn't expect my wife's uncle to whisper this to me just before I went to the podium to speak, "Don't. Fuck. This. Up." I didn't expect to laugh so much, and cry, and laugh again. Or that they would sing that song, carefree and full-throated at times because that's what musicians do I guess. I didn't expect them to swing each other around in a circle during the first dance. As my sister-in-law remarked through joyful tears and laughter, "Who does that except L & P?" I didn't expect people from all over Canada, even the world. I didn't expect people to tell me how much our daughter means to them. I didn't even expect the father-daughter dance. I didn't expect to be the last one to leave the dance hall. I didn't expect that even though I've been a Dad for a long time, it will always be new, again.

I didn't expect to feel this content. Isn't it a wonder that we are always surprised by love? Forgive me: even though I've been parenting for 25 years, I've never done this before. And I'm grateful.

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

going through the wash.

If you blur your eyes, that's me in Grade 4. I went through the wash. No big deal, right? We've all been through the wash at one point or another and another and maybe another too. But we're still here. Faded. Or pixelated. A little worn, but still here.

After several months working on another course, I have some time off. And I'm nearing the end of this Master's degree. So, for about three weeks, I am going to read (what I want). And write. And sleep late. And watch movies. And talk. And talk to myself. And walk. And laugh. And ponder the sky. And ski? And be silent. And be thankful. And be.

Sound

What’s your favourite sound?

I love sound: honest music, belly laughs, kittens purring, faraway skidoos, loved-one’s voices, rivers flowing, birds singing, ukulele strums, stomach gurgles and soft heartbeats. And more. It’s all great. But my favourite sound? Silence.

Around us everywhere is sound. And we are constantly processing it. We may filter some, but sound is hard to ignore. Worse yet is the chatter. It distracts us, it demands, it chastises, it confuses, it weakens: the radio, the TV, the texts, the constant updates and news flashes, the global cycle of doom, gloom, renewal, and resume. All these sound-waves impact us. They reverberate. We absorb them. Once they’re inside us, we process that discord and it churns. We’re distracted, we’re frustrated, we’re confused, we’re anxious, we’re worried, and we may not even know why. Whatever or whoever the din, we must continually swim in this steady stream of noise.

Therefore I wish you silence. In other words, I wish you peace. What’s more valuable than peace? Think about it. Don’t we all deserve a little peace? Peace of mind? To be peaceful. It soothes. It balms. It bolsters. What’s better than that?

That’s the thing: we can make peace. We can find it. We can choose it. In small ways and big ways. For most of us, it’s not that far away. And for those whose peace is distant, we can make peace for others. There are a million ways. Go offline. Go outside. Be pure of heart. Have good intentions. Apologize. Walk. Pull your sheets out the dryer and crawl inside them. Seek ways to be on good terms with others. Stop comparing yourself to others. Compromise. Forgive. Empower someone else and bask in their happiness. Surrender something. Learn something. Be honest and open and real and vulnerable. Stop trying to solve everything, at least for a while. Accept that determining blame is unproductive. Be humble. Sneak away for a while. Stay in bed an extra hour. Spend time with someone you trust and tell them what’s troubling you. Like cats do, sit in the sun. Give away cookies. Think about what you’ve accomplished instead of what you haven’t. Wander for a while. Slow down. Recharge. Breathe. Make peace with someone and it might hardly make a sound and yet it will be heard in the most important places in the heart. 

Grr.

source

Everyone has a dark(ish) side. Even me. Sure, I’m a nice guy. Almost always. Someone actually gave me this advice once: “you’re too nice.” Well well. There are worse things to be accused of, so I have chosen to live with that diagnosis. Yet, as with everyone, my dark side surfaces. It lifts its furrowed head and looks around. And what does it see?

Idiots.

Let me explain. People claim that true selves emerge in trying circumstances. Like in a disaster. Like when threatened with death. Like when faced with a grizzly, or a very large snake or a massive tax-bill or especially a turkey. (Sorry. That last example is a little more science-ish than science.) According to real science, there is truth to this reactive behaviour. During calm, we typically manage our lives using the frontal lobe, the rational decision-making portion of the brain. However, during great threat, the amygdala, the small inner core of the brain, trumps all rational thinking and instead, we act based on intense emotion: fight, flight, or freeze. This is designed to save our lives but yet also ruin our lives, because well, idiots idiot things up.

So when does the amygdala transform us into idiots? Is it when our grandparents ask us to fix their computers? Is it when surveys are requested during supper? Is it when our phones are missing? All of the above. And more. Quite honestly, we’ve all lost our shit here and there and that one time at that family reunion. Ahem. But I digress.

My amygdala typically gets rage-y when I’m driving. It’s emotional. People cut you off. They don’t always remember their signal lights. They drive too slowly. So no offence but I probably called you an idiot. I’m not the only one though. See, I conducted an official math(ish) poll and it turns out that literally seven out of ten people also think you drivers are idiots. You do not want to know what the other three people called you.

Hmm. I discovered yesterday that I’ve been driving with only one headlight. I wonder what you called me?

See? Everyone does have a dark(ish) side.

Things one should never outgrow:

family road trips.

Determined not to go down that road. What's the worst that could happen? (I will make a list if once we return.)

Stumbling Sock

A sock turned inside-out is still a sock.

Even if it has a hole.

Even if the dryer ate the other one.

Even if it’s on your foot.

Even if you complain about it to anyone and everyone.

In other words, a thing is still a thing even if you don’t want it to be a thing.

This likely seems quite abstract and random but think about this, think carefully: what is it that you are not willing to face? Or what is holding you back? Or what do you finally need to do/try/adjust/admit/let go of/surrender to/stop/change to have the life you need? (Note that I said need, not necessarily want.) What?

A very wise woman once asked me to write down three scenarios:

1.      The worst-case scenario.

2.      The middle-of-the-road scenario.

3.      The best-case scenario.

What I learned from that task was that my worst fears probably don’t exist, and may never exist. Feeling stuck or helpless or whatever is just that, a feeling. It’s not a fact.

That sock might feel like a fact, an overwhelming fact but what if it isn’t? What if you CAN do something about it besides dwelling on it? Even if it takes a long time because 

1. Even though we all love quick fixes, great things take a long time.

2. We only really grow when we face and overcome tough challenges.

3. You were born with the ability to change someone's life. Even your own. 

Tufts

We have this weird cactus. We've had it for over a year. Last summer it grew the strangest buds. They looked like thistle-tufts that were about to go to seed. Like grey cotton balls after they visit their hairstylists gave them all some sort of mini mohawks. Like tiny Truffula trees without their trunks. (Dr. Seuss would have loved this cactus.) Sadly, they also reminded me of creepy baby mice. 

And then it got even weirder.

They blossomed. This long arm reached out from that grey fuzz on that cactus and then a day or two later it bloomed this white lily type flower. It looked like paper origami, petals cut very carefully. The smell? Like the softest whisper of the most alluring perfume. I’m not sure I've smelled much better than that smell.

After a day or two: gone.

Cut to over a year later. We forgot about this cactus after its odd blooms. Then one day we noticed it in another room. My wife suggested we throw it out. It was no longer round and full. It had shrunken and wrinkled a bit. I’m the one in the family who keeps the plants alive (or revives them after neglect) so I protested and by protested I mean I gave it approximately a measly ¼ cup of water and put it on my desk.

And then a few weeks ago it began to grow. Seriously grow. Three or four centimeters at least so far. And it’s changing shape, no longer round and squat but taller and thinner, a green triangle. I’m kind of jealous in fact. And one more thing: it’s covered it tiny tufts.

Two things about our freaky little cactus:

1. What the crap is this thing?!

2. Don't ever give up. Things do change.

(I have been afraid to believe #2 for a long long time now. But I think, mostly, some days, here and there, even though I am probably wrong, I'm starting to believe again. I hope the same for you if you need the same hope, I do.)

I miss when...

my daughter was still a little girl.

#highschoolgraduationday

?

Source.

Pictures have always spoken to me. I think in pictures. I tote pictures around in my head like carry-on luggage, I keep them close so they are safe. Because for me they whisper and yell and nudge and assault. In silence. I feel tethered to them. One of my favourite quotes is by artist Paul Klee: "a line is a dot that went for a walk." I feel that pull.

I stumbled upon this picture this morning and it is exactly how I feel today. So succinct. Exactly.

And I'm curious...what does it mean to you?

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?

Hardest Hue to Hold

A happy family?

Caution: I'm in a serious mood.

I love this photo. The young woman is my Grandmother. It's probably 1945, early Spring. She's in her early twenties. The child on the bike is my Mom. The little boy pointing is her older brother.

Don't they look carefree? Don't they look happy? This is a photo of a happy family.

Or is it? Sometimes it takes 40 years to learn a lesson.

My Grandmother gave me this photo about five years ago. I scanned all her photos and feel privileged to have them. As far as I know, she gave them only to me. It's the special sort of relationship we have. It's a special bond we have.

At first, I dismissed this photo seeking the close-ups in Grandma's collection. But then I returned to it and noticed how beautifully it told a story. My Grandma's easy-going nature seems evident to me in the way she uses just one hand to balance her toddler daughter on that adult bike. My mother's characteristic determination seems evident already. Who or what is my uncle pointing at? Is something tied to the bike functioning like a sled? Who snapped the photo?

Not my Grandfather. As I understand it, he was still stationed in Montreal at the time, doing his part in World War 2.

I need to ask my Grandmother all these questions. Before it's too late.

And yet, what does it really matter?

This is not a photo of a happy family. I'm finally realizing the myth of the happy family. Sure, my Grandma's little family looks happy in this photo but she must have been missing her husband, she must have been tired of raising demanding kids alone. Plus I know the future for this family. Both my Mom and her as yet unborn sister would be pregnant teen brides. My uncle would die before he turned 40. And his son would die before he turned 40. Many tears yet to shed.

When I struggle with being a good father and a good husband and a good man, I think I must learn to remember the myth of the happy family. My little family has had so many happy years. So many blessings. Naively, I assumed that would always be. I should have remembered Robert Frost's caution: "nature's first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold."

There are no happy families. No one is perfect. Nothing lasts forever. Like my Grandmother's photo, there are only happy family moments. And some days, I take what I can get.

The Bus Dream

There’s this dream I have. There are different versions but I call it the bus dream.

It’s a city bus. It’s big. It’s cumbersome. So many windows. Everyone can see.

There’s no one on it but me. Watching myself. Driving it.

And I’m  required to drive it. It’s my bus. I am responsible. It may appear empty to those who might be looking from the sidewalk (yet no one ever seems to be on the sidewalk anyway). But my bus is not empty. It’s filled with everything I am responsible for, everything I’m trying to manage.

And I’ve been driving this bus for so long.

Which explains why I get distracted and I forget how big the bus is. Truthfully though, I know how big the bus is. I don’t kid myself. This job is important: everything I’m absolutely steering in life is on this bus. I’ve just been driving it for a while. When a person drives something so immense, after so many years even it becomes small. And stupidly, one can forget. Or get complacent.

(Do not think this means I have ever truly grown comfortable driving this ten ton behemoth.)

So I’m driving down this street and I’m half way through some sort of cage before I even notice there is no possible way the bus can fit into this cage. Think of a cage like the construction cages they put below skyscrapers along the sidewalks; they narrow the passage and prevent pedestrians from being hit with a hammer (or other debris) and possibly to hide the new facade. It’s supposed to provide protection but anything could happen to someone who gets trapped in there. By someone. Or something. So the bus I’m driving, it’s plowing through this cage, (could someone be in there?!) and it’s cutting through the sides of the bus and I’m cutting through the cage and that’s when I realize I'm not. Nothing is happening. Nothing. There’s no sound, no scraping of metal on metal, no windows exploding as these objects collide because I’m driving through it like a ghost slipping through a solid wood door.

Finally I’m beyond the cage and it’s like I need to keep going and that’s when I recognize where I am: my old street, 1^st Street West, in the town where I grew up. It’s a familiar place but it’s not home. And I’m shaking so badly so I crank that bus right and then I wake up like I’m choking.

Could be.

I'm hoping for a brand new day today.

Not a day like yesterday. Or the day before. A new day.

I really am.

So I asked my wife if I could put the pot of purple flowers on the front step. She shrugged yes.

And today, looking outside, gazing at the clouds, and staring at the hills at the end of our street and letting the wind wind its fingers in my hair, my eyes sting like it could be.

Could be.

I hope against hope. And I wish I knew for sure.

A word or two my friend
There's no telling how the day might end
We'll never know until we see
That there's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills
So don't lose heart
Give the day a chance to start
There's gold in them hills
There's gold in them hills.
~lyrics by Ron Sexsmith

This is my hood.

This is the huge ornamental crab-apple tree flowering in my yard today. It's a beaut. And it smells drunk. Seriously. Anyway, what you can't see or hear are the bees. LOTS OF BEES.

I don't have a problem with bees. Bees essentially keep the planet alive. Therefore bees are good, except for the timing. I happened to read this just before I discovered the bees: Bee swarm shuts down portion of Ottawa.

And now I'm wondering: who tells bees what to do?

Necessary.

Seeds hide orchards.

Sometimes random and shocking and hurtful things just seem to happen. And those events seem so pointless and overwhelming and frustrating. Mother's Day last year was awful. For my wife and for me. I couldn't even write about it. And I still can't. Not yet. It doesn't matter anyway; it's not the point of this. We've all had heartbreaking experiences. Sometimes what can we do but cry?

And then a year goes by.

This Mother's Day was much different. I planted a tree. It was not intended to be symbolic. It had nothing to do with my Mom or my wife or with anything really. Our Mayday was dying. I knew I had to remove it but, maybe we could save it somehow? For the past ten years, that tree would typically bud close to my daughter's birthday in April and flower by my son's birthday in May. That tree meant something to me. And everything in life is supposed to mean something, isn't it?

But my son and I cut it down, chopped out the roots with an axe. It was all so violent. And I realize now, necessary.

Just like last year. Necessary.

Bumblebee

It's before 7 a.m. and I can hear the bumblebee trapped in our living room. I noticed the bee yesterday but the buzzing subsided and I forgot to find a jar.

This happens in our home sometimes. Somehow, especially in Spring, a few bumblebees will find their way into our home and become trapped.
Such a fierce little creature, seeking freedom, struggling, looking for any way out.

Did you know bumblebees can sting and bite? Repeatedly.

I think I know this bumblebee.