Update: Please help find a missing child - FOUND!

The details are few, so I won't delve into conjecture, but want to thank everyone who read this and sent a prayer this way. The missing girl has been found safe, in the company of an adult male, in a neighbouring town.

Please don't jump to conclusions, or speculate on motives or intentions; the truth will be difficult enough to uncover without adding personal subjective emotions to the situation.

Tonight, remember who the important people are in your life, why they are important to you, and why you want to keep them in your life.

Then tell them.

No one is exactly who we think they are, not even our own children at times. And what you don't know can cost you - and them, big time. Open, loving, honest communication, no matter how painful it may be at times, is what we all need whether we want to admit it or not. But even that is not enough where teenaged emotions and hormones are concerned.

For parents there are no easy answers, and thankfully today's events ended with a child being found safe. We know all too well that it could have been a different outcome.

* * *

K, I know that your little family is hurting tonight, and I pray that you can all find the strength and guidance you need to solidify its foundations. Know that you all are in our thoughts and prayers and will continue to be so forever.

Love you,

Reid

It Begins with the End

It's Sunday, it's quiet, and it's winter again.

Friday night it was fall still, a few flakes of new snow stuck around after last weeks attempt at getting us prepared for the upcoming season change, but the weather was still nice, in the 50's during the day, but with nightfall a front slipped in and we woke to a Saturday morning of Charlie Brown snow falling softly from above. Those big, wet, heavy white flakes slowly danced toward the ground like they always do for Linus and Charlie Brown in Schulz's Christmas classic cartoon, A Charlie Brown Christmas, that loveable story of the search for the true meaning of Christmas, amid the strings of lights and shiny aluminum trees and commercialism of 1965.

Its been 46 years since The Peanuts gang held their first Christmas school play, with Charlie Brown attempting to direct the story of Christmas, back when you could call things what they were, but the commercialism and showiness of Christmas light displays certainly hasn't subsided in the years since, though I wonder if Charlie Brown's search for the true meaning of Christmas has become less relevant to today's society.

In our attempts to not offend anyone who might believe something different, we seem to have forgotten what it is we ourselves actually believe. If we believe anything at all. And we certainly do not wear our opinions and beliefs as openly as we once did, and maybe that's not a bad thing, for as much as we might believe there's nothing wrong with proclaiming our faith, our freedom of speech legislation seems to also cover those who would proclaim their right to hate certain groups just as openly. I doubt our forefather's considered such radical thought when drafting those original laws.

I'll let you mull over what you believe and where that belief should live in your life - it's not my place to question it for you, merely mine to ask you to think about it and what it means to you, and how it affects your ability to live your life as fully and as completely as you would like in today's society.

What would you change? If you could, about the things in your life? You've had your days of Remembrance and before that (or after that for my American friends) your time of Thanksgiving and hopefully you used those times to reflect and ask questions of yourself about what it is that you are truly thankful for, and how your life today pays homage (if at all) to those you fought so bravely on your behalf, so you may sit in quiet contemplation today and examine your beliefs.

Would you change anything?

Maybe its merely a philosophical question, since you can't change anything that's happened already, but if you could, what would it be? Besides making summer vacation longer and work weeks shorter and staying thinner and keeping your hair... Are you happy with who you've become? Are you who you were meant to be? Do you even care? Can you do anything about it if you aren't happy with who and where you are?

I've been thinking about these things as I've been busy building the garage addition - I know, I know, I really need to update the other blog, I will this week I promise - and I've learned a few things about myself that I think are universal in their application to others as well. For starters the more you resist something, the more of that something you'll find in your life to resist - this is all a matter of focus, and what you focus on, you'll see, and since you can't be focussed on more than one or two things at a time, its imperative that you focus on those things that are important to you and those things which will bring you to where you'd like to be.

There's also the realization that you are where you are today based on your beliefs and your actions of the past. That should be obvious, but it's not at first. You only make decisions based on your attitudes and beliefs about situations and how those may possibly affect you in the future. Control your beliefs and attitudes and you control your actions and therefore you control your future.

As I stood outside and looked at the almost completed exterior of my renovation project, it struck me that none of this would have been here today if I hadn't first thought about it, and what it would look like, how the parts would fit together and in what order I'd have to complete the steps to get to where the project is today. And I certainly could not have completed it if I hadn't been focussed on each of those steps and the details along the way.

Imagine the alternative - you want a new garage but you have no plan in place when you order the materials - how would you know what to order? And what would the standard be for the carpenters to build toward, and check their progress against? They'd be lost. It would be like throwing all those materials in the air at once and hoping they'd land just so, and you'd have your garage.

And how would you know when to do which steps? And what steps are required anyway? You don't have a plan, you haven't thought about it at all, you just knew you wanted a garage...

Rarely do we get exactly what we want by complete, random chance. Life doesn't work that way.

What struck me most was the suddenly obvious parallel between this renovation project and my life, and your life too. We live our lives mostly by random chance, blindly following the way things have always been done, not really giving much thought to the process, living day by day. Days turn into weeks turn into years and suddenly you realize you are no where near where you though you'd be. How could this be? you ask. Where did we go wrong? We had such great plans, such grand visions!

No. You didn't, you didn't have plans or visions, you had dreams. Wonderful imaginary pictures of what you'd like; Fantastic images of Make-believe and Wishes; Hopes and Dreams. No one taught you how to use those Dreams and Wishes to create them in reality. You've always known how to do that, how to make something from nothing, you just never knew to do it where your life was concerned.

We can do anything we set our minds to - theres that focus idea again - we put men on the Moon. We can take seemingly unrelated objects and make something completely new and amazing out of them - step into the kitchen and open that cook book - bet you couldn't make a cake just by thinking about cake, could you? Believing you can do something is important or you'd never consider making a cake in the first place. But beliefs alone won't cut it.

No, you'd need first to think about that cake, what it would look like, what type of cake, what size etc. Then you'd have a plan - a recipe for that type and size of cake, and then you'd gather the ingredients and combine them in the proper quantities and in the right order and you'd bake it in an oven at the correct temperature for a predetermined length of time, and then you'd open that oven door and once it had cooled, you'd have your cake. Not by accident or random chance, but by actively creating what you wanted.

You got cake by thinking about cake - thinking about the final product, the end result: cake, and then acting on that thinking.

I've built a garage not by thinking about cake, but by thinking about building a garage and by working back from the completed garage in my mind and on paper back through the steps and stages of construction and design until I identified the first action to be taken towards the final outcome, then I proceeded forward through those steps...

I'll ask you again.
What would you change? If you could, about the things in your life?
Are you happy with who you've become? Are you who you were meant to be? Do you even care? Can you do anything about it if you aren't happy with who and where you are?
Where you are today is where you are thanks to the beliefs and focus of your past. But where you go from here is up to you. You can continue blindly following what got you to where you are today, or you can decide to plot a new course.

You can be the Actors in that school Christmas play of life, dancing and goofing off, or you can ask instead what is the true meaning of the play's theme and become the Director and with the end result in mind write the script that tells the story, your story, your life.

Deep down inside we're alot like that sad, scrawny little tree Charlie Brown finds in the tree lot. Compared to the bright, shiny, flashy trees surrounding it, we may not look like much, but with a careful hand (focus) and a guided heart (beliefs) our true potential can be revealed.

As Linus said while looking at the little tree, "I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It's not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love."

Passing Time

How are you?

It’s been awhile since I sat down and did this, write about things happening around here and how those things affect me or me them, and I find that I miss it, the reflection and pondering and trying to make sense of it all. That is usually what my early Sunday mornings were for, sitting quietly listening and thinking, a cup of coffee not too far away and random thoughts passing through me for consideration.

But of late I’ve been busy building the addition and haven’t taken the time I know I need for myself, the time we all need to slow life down to a more manageable pace so we can catch our collective breath and remember who we are and why we are here. I read a short piece the other morning from my email inbox, the weekly Prairie Home Companion email, that normally details the upcoming episode’s guests and location etc, but this week the show’s host and mainstay Garrison Keillor wrote a fitting tribute to his long time friend and sound effects genius, Tom Keith, who passed away suddenly this week at the age of 65 due to a heart attack.

It was the kind of piece you’d love to have written about you when your time finally comes, a matter of factly written take on the man’s professional life as known and shared with the show’s listeners – it didn’t delve into his personal or private side – and reading it you knew for certain that the man will be missed dearly.

Andy Rooney passed away this week as well, another man who will be missed; a familiar face who visited with us every week and offered up a view of his world for our entertainment and education. Pointed, caustic and witty, his opinions provoked many. Whether you agreed with his point of view or not wasn’t important so much as his point of view, expressed so obviously as only Mr. Rooney could, got you thinking.

Their passings this week got me thinking, since we all will pass along that way one day, perhaps better to think of these things while I’m still able, and not provide my family with a hurried, scrambled collection of thoughts on my deathbed – should I be so lucky to pass in that manner.

I’ve always had questions that no one ever had concrete answers for, call me a Devil’s Advocate if you wish, but I always saw a few sides to most stories, but being as stubborn as bull might not have allowed the second or third side of a story to change my mind once it was made up, but I’m a bit wiser now, perhaps, or maybe my experiences have coloured those shades of grey and those black and white absolutes with a bit more latitude.

Riddle me these:

Why are we here?
What’s our purpose?
Where are we going?
If God exists where did God come from?
If nothing lasts forever, then what does nothing eventually become? Something?
What if the colours of objects I see aren’t the way they really are? What if what I call blue is actually green to everyone else?
If energy is neither gained nor lost – where did all this energy originate in the first place, and where will it eventually end up?
Infinity doesn’t exist (Right, Buzz Lightyear?)– you can always add one more. And by that thinking there could never be a “first” anything; there had to be something before.

I could keep going. But there’s one question that I have that I know one day I will find out:
What happens when you die?

Of course that brings about a great deal of related questions: What happens to “me” when I die? Where does my “being part” go? Are we like flickering candles slowly burning down to the bottom of the wick, and then in that one very final, very last moment, a puff of smoke and we are no more? A flame extinguished of its own consummation? And does our being linger then slowly float away on the curling wisps of smoke, ever expanding?

It’s easier of course to believe in something, rather than question everything, but a life unquestioned is a pitiful excuse and squandered use of your time here. What’s your legacy going to be? What will ‘they’ say when you finally pass that way, when they stand up and say a few words about you, about how you lived, and what you did, and they kind of person they thought you were…

What do you want them to say?

Tom Keith and Andy Rooney left us this week, and both spoke nothing but the ‘truth’ as they saw (or heard it) Tom Keith entertained with an amazing ability to re-create sounds we all knew, through the use of some props but mostly with his body and unbelievable vocal skills, and Andy Rooney didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know or hadn’t thought ourselves, but he presented that truth in a manner that we will always remember.

Maybe that’s the answer to a lot of those questions I have (well, not ‘the’ answer but a compelling way to view those questions.) Maybe it’s not about why or what or when, but it all boils down to ‘how.’

How we spend our time, and how we live our lives, and how we express the ‘truths’ of our work, our beliefs, our ideas, and our creations; that’s what our legacy truly will be.

Not who we were, but how we were.

Ponder that the next time you meet somehow and they honesty ask you: “How are you?”

Innocent Wonder

It’s crisp now in the morning, the sky still deathly dark but we’re showered with thousands of pinpricks of starlight through the night’s curtain. Orion in the southern sky overhead means the season has turned once more, this time towards the slowing down and turning back inside of autumn and as sure as the slowly breaking dawn on the eastern horizon, the silence of winter beyond. A risk of frost they say, but they seem to think we all reside near the airport where the forecast originates and not in geometric lines of houses in the suburbs far removed from the openness and flatness of fields and runways. The car windows are heavy with the coming morning’s dew, but it hasn’t frozen into that elaborate film of crystals that dances away so quickly when you turn up the airflow to the windshield defrost.

A jacket is comfort again, not a stifling bother, and gloves are now optional, edging closer to necessity – especially for me and my shortened finger – it likes to remind me of its presence on mornings like this, intolerant of cold for the first while, like many of us here, but soon enough it too will have become accustomed to the changes.

I’m out watering the newly poured garage slab, helping slow the hydration of the chemical reaction that is new concrete, allowing it to gain as much strength as slowly as it can – the cooler temps have slowed the process to a crawl, and frost and the ice crystals it brings are a worst case scenario for concrete this green, causing the as-yet unbonded water within the mix to expand and stress the young crystalline structure of the hardening slab. A lack of moisture will stop the curing process as well, and if that happens the final product will not have as much strength as it could have, and cracks are more likely to form sooner under loading. And so I water a few times throughout the day for the first week, keeping the surface moistened and the hydration process continuing as long as possible.

Yes, the scientist in me is alive and well this early fall morning, protecting my investment and planning the remainder of the project with one eye on the calendar and the other on the weather forecast. The days are getting much shorter again, the sun falling out of the sky after dinner now, and more hesitant to return each morning. But confident in the amount of work required to get us weather tight before the first snowfall, I’m at peace with it all. Contented.

The windows for the renovation arrived yesterday, and got unloaded and slid into the existing garage to live with the new front door for a while, getting to know each other better before being thrust into a lifelong partnership to keep the elements of nature out, but the goodness of the sunlight in. It marks another milestone in the project, and its one more checkmark on the list of things still to do.

Life has a checklist like that, though we never get to see it or decide what items get placed on the list. A twisted, cosmic scavenger hunt without a list of items to find. And you go along living your life, minding your own business, making a living, raising a family, being a good citizen and then one day you’ve arrived at the end of your list, and that’s it.

You’re done.

Game over.

But you never saw it coming. You had no warning.

This bothers many people. They need to be in control. They need to know exactly what they should be doing right now, right this very instant, what they should be doing, and maybe more importantly, what they shouldn’t be doing. And those people also like to know what you’re doing right now too, and seem to delight in telling you that you’re not doing it right, whatever it is. They scurry nervously, anxiously about, like frenzied ants around an opened anthill, flitting from task to task, stressed and stressing those around them with their uncertain certainty, and their repetitive habits and their pessimistic attitudes.

They didn’t start that way. No, they started out like everyone else, an innocent child, possessing no bad habits or attitudes at all, a young mind and soul ready to be molded and nurtured and shown the wonders of the world.

And then fate stepped in. The formless mind began to collect knowledge and learn from its surroundings and from its relationships and close encounters with other young minds and it developed patterns of behavior that served it at the time. And over time these habits and patterns of behavior were either supported or rebuked by the world around this mind, and ties strengthened to certain ideals, while others were left to wither away, their lessons forgotten. And so the young mind and soul begin to see their world differently from the other young minds and souls around them, differently than from anyone around them, though they believe all others view the world much like they do, with similar lenses and distortions; a commonality necessary for community. Though each is independently creating their own reality, their own version of history, each to suit their own purposes and lives ahead; similar, yet different. They long for connection with each other, to be part of something larger, isolated within that community.

It’s a search that will lead them in many different directions over time, into new connections with new minds and souls, new stories and histories to learn from and share. Some minds and souls take to this newness with ease, immersing themselves in the challenges of new beginnings, soaking up the changes and differences, adding something of themselves to their world; co-creating their future.

Others resist the changes and newness, longing for the safety and familiarity of the past; the known is comforting and secure; the unknown a dangerous, dark abyss, where worry and anxiety are the only comforts. Distrust and scorn protect the weary mind and soul, building barriers to connection, isolating them further; the want and the need for commonality and connection now at odds with the safety and survival of the soul. And so they flitter about, testing the boundaries with nervous anticipation of the worst, never hoping for the best, certain that failure is just around the bend. The vastness of the universe conspires against them.

Life is a mystery to most people. It doesn’t make much sense. There’s no reason to it – as far as they can tell – why are we here? Where are we going? When will we get there? How will we know? Like the innocent child safely strapped to the car-seat in the backseat of the car, asking questions as the world passes by outside in a blur; a passenger without control over his or her destiny, trusting that the driver knows what’s going on, and where they’re going.

A toddler asking questions, curious, ambitious and then distracted by the Cheerios wedged beside them between their legs and the car-seat. Trusting. Questioning. Seeking understanding, but ultimately, completely contented.

Falling

It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Depending, of course, on where you stand, and how you choose to view things.

A cold front blew in last week and nearly knocked us sideways. A high of 52 degrees with a low down to a frosty 28 overnight brought us all back to reality with a quick jerk like a yappy little dog on a short leash running for the front sidewalk. You could see it in everyone's eyes that morning, you couldn't miss it, their eyes were all wide open with a stunned look of disbelief, as they scraped the car windshield and ran the car a bit longer than usual before driving in to work.

It always happens. We get lost in the lust of summer's heat, pretending it's the real thing, a lasting relationship instead of just a torrid fling, drunk with promises of more and better days ahead. Then we wake, alone, deserted in a cold bed, aware but not acknowledging the truth just yet.

It's easier this way, convincing ourselves summer still loves us, that she's coming back; that the changing colour of the leaves is only a bad dream, that the wisps of sweet smoke curling up from the chimneys in the cool morning nothing more than dramatic imagery for our private play. And she may yet return, briefly for certain if she does, but in the back of our minds we know. The curtain falls slowly but hard.

I've been battling a pretty good round of headaches over the last few weeks, after having had an amazing run of summer symptom-free. My eyesight took a great big hit, knocking me down and almost out, lost in a shadowy fog that would give way to an inordinate amount of visual noise that was ever present (and still is to a large degree) like the static on the old black and white tv after the late show ended and the station went off the air.

In my case it was faint, but still there, behind or in front of everything I saw - because it wasn't 'out there' it was and is 'in here,' not a sight related issue, but a perception one, something interfering with my brains ability to properly process what images my eyes were providing. Coupled with the shadows and faint bursts of light mixed in with the silky fibers of the floaters that have always been a part of my world...

The headaches were the easy part. You can take the edge off those with meds.

But when you close your eyes and seek refuge in darkness, hoping to hide away from the kaleidoscope turning constantly around you, and instead of peaceful, closed-eye stillness find those shadows and flashes of colour and motion have followed you inside, you fall into a hole of helplessness that takes some getting used to, and no idea how to climb out.

The constant, steady pounding is almost a relief at that point, as it lulls you nearer to acceptance and offers an escape should you be able to fall alseep, free from the codeine-induced itch and nausea and queasiness and heavy headed imbalance you've subjected yourself to in the hopes of finding that peaceful state of lowered consciousness.

It's an amazing perspective. People pay good money to find these hallucinations through chemical means, but they know they will come off that high and return to a new normal, never quite the same again, perhaps, but it's the risk they take.

I didn't choose to take that risk, but I'm playing the odds whether I like it or not, so I may as well enjoy the ride if I can. It would be a hell of alot more interesting if it were happening to someone else though.

Welcome to my fall so far. I'm longing for the pain-free days with that temptress and her scorching, empty promises, and hollow lies. But I'm also desperately in need of that steady, undying, real love that has always and will always be there for me, waiting patiently in the wings, for me to leave the childishness of summer behind for the realities of fall and the good and just changes she brings. When she wraps me in her tender embrace and holds and keeps me, safe, secure, and warm, as the cool air tickles the back of my neck and I adjust my collar and pull her closer as we walk, slowly towards home and its comfortable warmth.

If I stop and close my eyes, I know I can see it, if I try hard enough, and can block the rest of it out, I can see her and its all perfect, and I'm falling for her again.

Leftovers

The experts must be right, women must really outlive men - at least married women vs their spouses. I'm not going to speculate on why that may be - insert your own joke here - far be it from me to lob an easy one at you this morning!

We were looking for a sympathy card yesterday for a family friend who lost her husband. He, the last of the fathers and dad's from my wife's neighbourhood group of close family friends back home, passed away this week after a lengthy struggle with various illnesses including strokes and diabetes. I could discuss the drama surrounding their only child, a son, who when informed of his father's impending fate, passed on coming home right then as he didn't want to remember his father 'that' way - I could, but I won't beyond just that - it's not my place to say what's right or wrong for individuals when facing the final pages of the book of life. I feel for his mother though, that's a cruel and cold way to leave her in her time of need.

About that sympathy card, there were not many cards in the long racks of Sympathy cards for "On the loss of your husband" there were plenty the other way around, and for fathers, mothers, children, pets and likely imaginary friends - the greeting card industry is almost as bad as the insurance industry in profiting from tragedy and misfortune - but we found only three cards for those who have lost their husbands, and that got us thinking.

What if you really didn't love your husband or spouse by that point in your lives? What if you'd just become faithful to the idea of living with this person after all those years? Oh sure, maybe you were madly in love back in the day and got carried away and next thing you know there's the wedding the cake the white dress and then the raising of the family and one day you woke up and realized that, by god, this isn't what it was supposed to be like... but by then it seemed like too much trouble to shake things up and pursue your dream of singing opera in Europe, or travelling through the desert on camel-back, or writing novellas from your beachside apartment overlooking the California coast...

What if, in that situation, the more appropriate card would be "On the loss of the man who dragged you down and kept your spirit hidden all these years" or "Sorry for your loss, but here's to a new start!"

Maybe we should have been looking in the Congratulations section...

Change is never easy. Doesn't matter how old you are or what the situation is, we are creatures of habit and become very comfortable in our routines. Did I mention school started again this week for us? The boy is off to grade 8.

Grade 8?!? how did that happen? wasn't he just starting school a couple years ago? How does life do that to us, and why aren't we more aware of the passing of time like that? I think its like the leftovers on the second shelf in the back of the fridge. You had great intentions of getting back to them; to enjoying them again, but things happened, you got busy, stuff got in the way - literally, and you got used to them being there and then one day you forgot what that container was, and how long it had been there, until you bravely (or stupidly) opened it up and examined the contents, and then BAM! you shut that lid as quick as you can, and toss the whole contaminated thing in the trash before the authorities call the HAZMAT team in to secure the premises.

We do the same thing is most areas of our lives, cluttering our minds (and desks and junk drawers and closets etc) with useless trivial details, objects and facts, while letting the important things and people get pushed to the back, where they get misplaced, forgotten, comfortably ignored, until one day they resurface, and then we're forced to deal with the importance of these issues or events or people and finally find some closure. That's true peace of mind - closure on so many open loops in your life - anything that has your attention will continue to drag and bog you down until you give that, whatever it is, its due process and decide once and for all what it means to you and where it belongs in your life, if at all.

I cleaned my office this week, and forced myself to go through all the inboxes, stacking trays, folders and piles of "stuff" on, in, and under my desk and deal with all their contents in that very same manner - what is it?, what does it mean?, what do I do with it? I have David Allen and his Getting Things Done approach to life organization to thank (or blame) for this process and I am currently enjoying much more clarity and focus again having gotten alot of the "stuff' that was on my mind off it and put in its rightful place and able to be retrieved and reviewed as needed to ensure that I am on-top of all my commitments in every aspect of my personal, professional and private life. The overflowing recycling bin is a testament to my efforts.

I'd like to think I've gotten all the clutter out of my brain, but I know it will take discipline and patience to watch that I am not allowing "stuff" to collect in those dusty corners of my brain, and to trust that I've made the necessary decisions about what things mean and what I need to do about them to keep that peace of mind.

Maybe that's the cause of my migraines...

An old friend found me through Facebook this week, and I accepted her friend request, with a moment of hesitation - not because I'm not or don't want to be friends with her - we've kept and lost contact off and on over the years more to do with distance and life in general than conflict or personal disinterest - my hesitation had everything to do with having left alot of my past on that second shelf of life's fridge as the years passed, and not being certain I wanted to decide what those containers might hold or what they might mean to me or what, if anything, I should do with them. There's that GTD methodology at work again.

Facebook and her list of our old mutual friends might mean more requests from people left behind for whatever reason as life moved forward. Do I want to deal with that? Do I really care one way or the other? I think there's more to this story than I know or am letting on to myself, and I have a feeling I'll need to wade through some of life's leftovers on my shelf and take real stock of what's there and why, and what I want to do with it moving forward.

It's too easy to close that door and keep those containers left where they are right now, the way they have been, the way they slowly became that way, and not do anything with them. That's the routine we build for ourselves everyday living within our comfort zones and going about our business and watching time pass by without really noticing it. It's easy too, to open more new containers and clutter our mental and social surroundings with them and stay comfortably satiated in our busy-ness without digging a little deeper to really develop a true and lasting, deep connection to them, allowing them to become a meaningful part of our lives.

Like my desk and the boy starting grade 8, it's better to dig deep now and wade through that kind of clutter and find some peace of mind and acceptance with our leftovers than to wake up one day and realize you've spent the majority of life up to this point not being who you were meant to be or being with someone you really didn't like or even know because it was easier that way than facing your second shelf on the fridge of life.

Make it a great day, I'll catch you a bit later - I have an old friend to check in with.

Discarded Characters

I think sometimes I'm wandering around in someone else's story, written into the pages of some worn out novel, my surroundings concocted to suit the author's needs, the world around me not my own. The characters all have their own stories, their own backgrounds, each one deep and dark enough to hold sufficient weight in their own right, and together a jumbled cast that could only appear through the fantasies of a warped mind.

How else to explain an early holiday Monday morning, the sun already risen in the blue eastern sky, the streets deserted save for the desperate few headed to work on the only day left in the year where most workers are given the day off, yet I find myself with them, one of them, stopping at the mostly empty mall, bound to a duty that requires I be there too? Hell, even the janitors aren't working today. The cold tile floors of the mall echo with faint sounds of workers replacing a rotted, potted tree, its terra cotta pot upturned on its side, the trunk cut just above the rim of the pot, foliage piled on the cart beside, and three burly men in green uniformed shirts wrestle the pot, the tree, and the cart to the waiting van outside the mall doors.

There's Reg, the lone Mall security officer, holding the door and making pleasant small talk, a skill he's perfected for his line of work. Always near, only a two-way radio's crackle away, ready to assist with a smile and a genuine caring twinkle in his eye. He catches mine as I approach hoping to pull him away from the men and the tree, and his face lights up and he turns my way and extends his hand and its obvious he's happy to see a familiar face - or maybe he's just that good at the routine by now - and in his exuberance he calls me 'Rick' and asks "What brings you down here on a holiday Monday?" knowing full well I'd never be around a closed shopping centre if I didn't have to be.

I've become predictable that way. I manage my jobs with enough distance and hands off to fully drive home the fact I'm not one of the trades; that I've left the tools behind; that it's not my job anymore to crank the widgets and actively build the structures or install the pieces. I've been there, done that, and though never fully one of 'them' I did what I had to do to fill in the holes and get to where I am now, knowing enough to be able to schedule the actions and dictate the terms upon which projects will happen, but not enough to think I'll ever have it figured out just right. And so I make the calls, and ask the questions and barter and play both sides as much as is needed to grease the wheels into motion to slide progress ever closer to completion.

Which explains why I'm here this morning, meeting my millwork contractor who has found me a 2-man crew willing to work on a holiday removing, relocating and the re-installing that horizontal grooved maple panelling (we know it as slatwall) from the now empty used-record store (the owner prefers vintage or pre-owned to used) that is relocating to the other side of the mall to make room for future expansion of a key tenant. The store owner complains in passive aggressive tones about 'my guys' apparent confusion about what they should be doing, his way of handling the stress that is a store closing and reopening over a long weekend, and being unable to merchandise his shelves until the 2-man crew finishes putting up the panelling in the new location.

He complains like its our fault he's stressed, when we're doing everything in our power to help him out of a jam, brought on in part by his unwillingness to spend the money on new panels that could have been installed during the week while we painted his new space, combined with a Mall Operations Manager who 'just assumed' we'd be able to relocate that slatwall on a moment's notice, himself stressed beyond his normal means thanks to the constant state of constructional flux his mall is currently mired in, as areas get demolished and reconstructed to suit relocating tenants, some permanently in those new locations, others temporarily until yet further demolition and construction finally creates their eventual homes.

Bill is one of those constantly stressed types, nervously thin, who walks a million miles an hour, making you dizzy with his confusion and indecision, the resident all-knowing, all-seeing sage, who has outlived three or four Mall administration changes, who knows all the tenants quirks and habits and is really the glue that holds this odd community together. He trusts us and likes us and we've worked with him 'forever' it seems, and its one of the reasons why we get trapped like today, we've always been there for him before, and why would this time be any different...

And so I leave Chad, my millwork contractor with his 2 hired men, to figure out and sort out their day's chore and make my way over to another one of my sites where Bill has agreed to take down the construction hoarding wall (that drywall and plywood barrier put up while we've been busy beyond, keeping prying eyes and ears out of our business and safe from the calamity on the other side) for Tuesday morning, even though the tenant won't have telephone or data lines run to her space yet - something the landlord and tenant both overlooked yet something both figure we should have a hand at solving since we're the landlord's contractor on this project, and we've built the tenant's space on their behalf - without phones she won't have access to credit card or banking POS systems which effectively keeps her out of business at least one more day.

I poke my head in around the now-removed doorway to find a pile of construction and moving debris growing between the new storefront glass and the hoarding wall; off cuts and discarded ceiling panels, snips of metal ducting and vinyl baseboard, adhesive tubes and styrofoam packing cubes, coffee cups and paint can lids, plastic bags and sawdust piles, all thrown together in a few boxes or swept into a pile, waiting for someone else to take them away. I shake my head at the trades inability to clean up after themselves, adult children too lazy to take responsibility for themselves, too rushed and too ignorant to care about the image they are leaving behind, too stupid to think that leaving boxes and papers behind that bear their company logos and names would somehow make them invisible.

At least they've left me a shovel and a broom, and I search out Reg once more to ask if I can borrow the large grey plastic wheeled janitors bin parked back by the Security office, and ask if he minds if I use one of the Mall's garbage bins to dispose of my trades messes. He gladly offers whatever help he can, short of driving the bin to the hoarding himself, which he likely would have done if he weren't needed back with the three men in green hoisiting that rotted tree back into the large van out front, and he hustles off down the main mall hall.

Chad has arrived back to offer his help, his three young kids in tow. It's his weekend with the three, an appointment he hasn't always been able to keep in weeks past, the burden of working for himself always forcing him to make wrong choices, and these are the ones who pay the largest price, two girls and a boy, the youngest is about 6 and acts it, wandering around the deserted hallways lost in her own kingdom of fancy scrubbed sights and canned musical soundtracks, the oldest is apparently 12 but the poor boy can't be 5 feet tall if he tried, and looks more like he's 8 or 9, his middle sister taller than he is, though that's no surprise. Chad tells me his son and mine were in the same class two years ago, the 5-6 split, which means his son is headed into grade 7 this week and they could indeed be part of the 7-8 split this year, though mine is almost 5 foot 10, the strong side linebacker with the hairy legs, deep voice and adult sense of humor worlds apart of this child in front of me now.

Chad bargains with his three to go play 'down at the other end of the mall' as I turn my attention to the pile of garbage inside the hoarding, picking and placing items into the plastic bin, careful not to up-end a half-full coffee cup, or topple a paint can onto the newly placed floors. Together we transfer the mess into the bin and roll it all out side and into the blue BFI bin out behind the theatres. Chad sheepishly admits part of the mess belongs to him, hoping his admission might lessen my mood towards the offenders, but I'm not stupid, I now who's put what where, it's what I do, I watch, I see, and I take mental notes as the jobs progress, the small talk and banter a front to my real intent, to discover where the job is really at, to see first hand what still needs doing, who hasn't yet arrived when they said they would last week, and who has done what they shouldn't have, and what needs doing now to make ammends.

I thank him for his honesty, but confide that I already knew, making sure he isn't fooling himself about what I know and what I've let go in order to hit the deadlines, massaging the details as required to allow limited budgets and tight timelines to co-exist efficiently. We place the janitor's bin back where I found it, and dusting off, part ways one last time, him to coral his kids and check on his installers, me to drop the broom and shovel back inside the hoarding where we found it earlier. I toss Reg a goodbye nod and wave from down that way as I see him hustling back to the Security office, another crisis in midstep, before I exit through the west end doors and back out into the mid morning sunshine as it falls across the parking lot of a September holiday Monday, leaving behind a collection of characters I couldn't make up if I tried, and the beginnings of a story just waiting to be written.

Summer Storms

It's September, it's the long weekend, and it's all changed.

After an amazing summer of record heat and unheard of limited rain, which has left most lawns brown and stunted and most children (and those adults fortunate enough to have enjoyed vacation time themselves with nothing else to do but laze around or putter in the yard) various shades of deep dark tanned brown, the weather turned this past week and now instead of low 70's overnight we're met with low 50's when we step out to grab the paper from the mailbox first thing.

The drop in temperatures was accompanied by a weather system that hit us with some wicked thunder storms with intense winds and lightning and lots of rain - so much so that the sump pump is running again as it tries to keep up with the water that has seeped down to the footings of the basement. Some neighbours were watering their foundations of late, hoping to avoid having the clays shift and exert pressure in new locations once they got wet again - which we knew they would eventually - it couldn't stay that dry that long. Not here.

No, the grass is green this morning, and lush and thick and needs a trim - something we've done so infrequently this summer that I wonder if I've even bought gas for the mower, or if what's left in the red plastic gas can was left over from last year... Remind me to get new gas before the snow flies - something tells me we'll need it for the snow blower come January.

I actually missed the changes this week, sorta - not missed as in the emotional longing for them, but as in not being present for them, thanks to the changes in my brain that I'm still trying to deal with and understand, as I spent most of the week fighting a series of headaches and related issues, alternating between seeking silence and solace beneath the blankets in bed, and fighting through the cloudy, constant, clatter inside my head while trying to help bring 4 jobs to a close at the same time for month's end. That's the trouble of being the only one who knows the intricacies of projects and having to hand them off to someone else while in a diminished state.

We managed, we always do, and things always get done. Though I really could have done without the dizziness and constant motion issues and seeing spots and that ringing in my ears that is always there like some demon on my shoulder, most times ignored, but in those moments when you need peace and quiet the most it rises above the din to take centre stage and become almost deafening. And then theres the stabbing brightness from within, jolting you with intensity and then instantly fading away through muted tones back to black, coupled with a never-ending loop of static like on the old tv, constant fuzziness in the background, my brain unable to properly organize and process the multitude of inputs being received.

Hell must be like this.

When all you want is to be able to close your eyes and get away from it all, to find that perfect stillness that is, and when that's the place where you find relief the least. That's just cruel. For its not an external storm that you're watching through the front window of the house, the purple skies rolling and rumbling pierced with forks of yellow-white electrically charged lightning, and the sideways hammering of driving rain against the walls. This is your own private thunderstorm, inside your head, behind your eyes, and its got you trapped, caged, prisoner. That lightning is your own doing, and its brought its own hammering, pounding thunder and rain, and the drugs only do so much to knock the edge off and muffle the echos of pain, the rest is up to you, and all you have left is to wait out the storm...

I hope this changes too.

The Art and Science of Perspective

It's another quiet Sunday morning and I'm up earlier than I'd like - I always seem to be - my companion cup of coffee by my side, my thoughts scattered across a multitude of work projects and personal to-do lists; of changing seasons and new beginnings and comforts in the smallest things. The gazebo beckons, but I'm hesitant, though a sit down, listen-to-the-world type morning might be just what I need to still the turbulence inside.

The neighbour's cat pops in through the broken screen on our front door, helping himself to our hospitality and the bowl of dry cat food on the kitchen floor belonging to our resident feline, who allows this with mostly indifference but sometimes makes an effort to display his dominance and reminds the free-loading neighbour who the real boss is. I would fix that screen, but the door is slated to be replaced soon (we hope) with the upcoming renovation - it has been upcoming for quite some time, hasn't it? - and, really, the other cat is pretty darned cute and loveable, and purrs when you pick him up, and you know how that goes...

The boy's football season is underway again, and after 2 games the Falcon's sit atop the standings at 2-0, a great start but they haven't really been tested yet.

He's playing strong-side linebacker and is a punishing defender with amazing closing speed who loves to hit. And you know he's still 12, right? His defensive coach came over from another city team that didn't have enough players to field their own squad this season, and I think the boy has caught his eye. I'm not coaching this year, and it's nice not to be so close to the team; to be able to enjoy the games from the stands and not from the sidelines. I think the distance helps him too, and allows him to develop within his own comfort zone and personality far enough out of our eyes and ears to become who he will be. But it's still nice when he asks for my take on his performance after games and practices, and I try to be a supportive parent first and a former football coach second.

* * *

Spent last Sunday afternoon checking out the touring Da Vinci exhibition downtown. An inspirational couple of hours spent walking in the footsteps of an amazing, inquiring mind. His desire to completely understand his world led to scientific and artist breakthroughs that we take for granted today. A visionary who over 500 years ago had designs for a parachute, a diving suit and tank-like vehicle, also gave the world the genius of his talents with a brush and paint. His detailed notes and sketches of his ideas are fascinating to behold, and his anatomical investigations and subsequent renderings pioneered and forever altered the world of physiology and started us on our journey towards understanding how the human body works.

Say nothing of great works of art like The Mona Lisa or The Last Supper.

We walked through rooms full of recreations of his inventions and mock-ups of some of simple machines that would forever change our world. Things we take for granted today like ball bearings and meshed gears; eccentric cams and pulleys and levers. The boy enjoyed trying to understand how they worked, and you could see his mind's gears and wheels turning as he studied and handled the wooden contraptions.

It was difficult not to walk away from that exhibition in awe of Da Vinci's vision and understanding of his world. As we drove home we discussed what we had just learned and I wondered how many more discoveries were waiting to be unearthed from the everyday around us, and whether another mind of Da Vinci's genius would ever grace our time.

* * *

I was on the road this week for work, overseeing the final weeks of a new retail store build out a couple hours away, while trying to finish 3 more back here in the city at the same time. It's the 'feast or famine' scenario, and even though we knew it would likely be like this, the delays and changes and unforeseen issues that inevitably pop up on all the sites take their toll on me. It's a delicate balance, and it's easy to feel overwhelmed and out of control. The detail oriented perfectionist who understands and respects the designer's and client's needs and concerns but can't deliver as he'd like due to conditions beyond his control, can easily forget that this is all really just business, and solutions will present themselves and things will work out with patience and an open mind.

Especially when it seems the people onsite directly responsible for creating the final product appear not to share the outcome-driven focus and willingness to accept challenges as a means for creative problem solving. Herding cats would be easier most days...

It's nice to return home after a stressful few days on the road where everything gets magnified by your proximity to the situation, back to the familiar surroundings of comforts like your own bed, the slightly worn bearing in the kitchen exhaust fan that squeals just so as you try to nap on the couch, the disorganized desk that calls for you to get it back in order (which you dutifully ignore) and the welcome-home-how-do-you-do of a hot water heater that waited for your arrival before leaking water all over the laundry room floor and the dishwasher that decided you needed to investigate the flashing error code on its display...

Disconnecting and checking the dishwasher's electrical and water supply/drainage lines is straightforward mechanical logic rooted in science. As is the replacement of the worn hot water tank's temperature/pressure relief valve. Identify the problem, locate the required resources to correct said problem, then proceed through the necessary series of actions to solve said problem. Managing others to do the same or similar on a jobsite within a myriad of fluctuating timelines, external conditions and agendas under the constant constraints of time and money takes a different set of skills and a different mindset. And a huge dose of patience and an ability to and willingness to work well with others. Some days I have them. Some days I don't so much.

I didn't make it to the gazebo - not yet anyway - but I've found some solace in the week's events. Da Vinci reminded me that art and science aren't separate entities but rather share a relationship within the framework of form and function. Perspective is the key to understanding in all areas, whether it be trying to solve a logistics issue on a commercial jobsite or the reason why gallons of hot water are running across the floor. How you view a problem directly determines how you will find a solution for it. Da Vinci was blessed with the ability of exceptional perspective and it allowed him to uncover many mysteries of his world. He used it to create amazing works of art and a multitude of scientific inventions and designs that helped get us where we are today.

The familiar comforts of home and family, whatever they may be for you, can and should be used to better frame your perspective of the world, from which you can move forward confidently and with purpose, knowing you can solve the problems you will undoubtably face. Identifying those issues and solving those problems is really a science. Finding comfort in the face of those problems and issues?

Well, that parts the art.

A Gardener's Lawn

It's Tuesday, it's cloudy, and we need rain. Of course it's no guarantee that we'll get any moisture out of the system currently hovering over us, and the cracks in the yard are getting larger and more numerous everyday. Some neighbours are watering religiously, trying to maintain that lush green lawn that normally takes little management beyond weeding and mowing, but this year they are fighting mother nature, and she usually wins. Lawns in the shade seem to be doing well, but those in direct sunlight are scorched and brown and dusty, to the point where we wonder if the grass will survive and grow again next year

We know better.

Grass can look after itself. It has millions of years of history on it's side to attest to it's tenacity and perseverance. Give it a little water and some bright sun shine, and it will grow, slowly at first maybe, but then it sends out roots and establishes new plants and over time sets in and turns a brown or black landscape green. Yes weeds are a natural part of that process; establishing more quickly than the seeded grasses, holding nutrients in the soil and preventing everything from blowing into the neighbour's yard. Over time the grass fills in and with help from a careful gardener whose timely plucking of the undesirable, naturally occurring vegetation, shifts the balance in favour of the grass, and a lawn is born.

Of course a weed-free lawn is the perfection, and only exists in the mind of the gardener. The reality is something altogether different, and involves a war-like arsenal of tools and chemicals or back-breaking stooping and pulling. A constant struggle to one-up mother nature and her amazing ability to keep hiding dandelions and thistles amongst the blades of grass.

Yes, grass can look after itself, but it finds a natural balance with other plants and species in a confined space; a natural harmony that escapes man's quest for perfection and order.

It's like my desk.

I like a clean desk, with its organized spaces and open flat surfaces upon which to spread files and plans and papers; the filing drawers filled with neatly arranged and properly labelled folders, everything and anything available to me at a moments notice with minimal effort and maximum efficiency.

Let's backtrack.

I like THE IDEA of a clean desk. Just like the gardener likes THE IDEA of a weed-free lawn. But I seem to have more paper dandelions and thistles on my desk these days than lush green lawn spaces of organization. If I try with enough effort, I can convince myself that my desk is a natural balance of work harmony, a glorious scene of colour and foliage, ripe with blooms and life, a thing of beauty to be treasured and admired as I sit and enjoy the surroundings.

Yes, I can be delusional with the best of them.

Spent the weekend back home - small-town, childhood-memories, home - celebrating the 25th wedding anniversary of my brother and sister-in-law at a come-and-go-tea at the local Senior's Centre. Rows of tables and chairs set out to welcome old friends and neighbours, with trays of cookies and dessert squares over by the barrel of juice; the silver industrial-sized pots of coffee and tea on the other paper-clothed table in front of the Centre's kitchen pass-thru window with a plate of teaspoons and ranks of cups stationed to their right, the staple of a community gathering, constantly filled and refilled over the course of a summer afternoon.

We visited with familiar faces and caught up with old friends and gazed around the room trying to place the as yet unrecognized, wondering if we should know them, if we ever did know them, and with hushed lean-ins, whispered queries to each other hoping to prop up fading memories of a different time. The children, dreading an afternoon trapped in a ancient museum of a place, all had their electronic comforts close by, likely texting each other a table or two away, but eventually the nieces and nephews broke through the boredom and conversed and laughed, the younger set chasing around the perimeter, burning abundant energy until crashing for a well deserved nap later; the older set even playing cards, while the guests of honour worked the room and shared congratulatory conversations and listened to and told the same old stories.

A digital photo slideshow on an infinite loop played in the background, showcasing the couple from their childhood years through to courtship and marriage and into the family stages, a lifetime's worth of memories compressed into a few minutes of ooh's and aw's and remember-when's.

The wedding album from that day 25 year's ago sat on a table near the Centre's entrance, and a quick thumb through before the guests arrived confirmed that we were all kids back then; skinnier, with more and bigger hair, and very questionable fashion choices. The children of course loved that. The boy was amused that dad ever looked like that and thought it terribly humorous to continually remind me all afternoon - of course I pointed out that he has my genes, and karma's a bitch, so tread lightly young padawan. Enjoy it while you can.

I looked around the room at the faces of people I once knew, and of those I still do, trying to find the order and neatness of the event which my brain craves. Some faces are gone, missing in time, the reminder that fate plays no favorites; others have remained mostly unchanged from how I remembered them, many more have changed beyond memory, and some have grown into those of their fathers or mothers. I watched the children of friends, themselves becoming adults before my eyes, and time stood still for awhile and the voices around me faded away and I saw a room full of energy at every stage of life, a constant process, marked only by the effects of time.

It wasn't that long ago we were the ones chasing each other around the room, or those bored beyond belief in that self-centered ego filled world of teenagerdom, and the pictures prove we most certainly were those wide eyed kids in the tuxedos with the big hair and the stiff poses, and it seems like yesterday we had the toddlers in tow, and now we're the ones closing in on milestone anniversaries ourselves. Soon we'll be the faces of those couples and individuals shaking hands and giving hugs and wishing the happy couple well.

Like the slideshow on the projector in the back of the hall, a lifetime gets reduced to minutes of memories, the smiles, the moments captured and remembered forever, treasured, admired. Time carries us along on it's journey, and the distant forgotten moments are left behind, like the gardeners weeds plucked out of the lush green lawn, removed in hopes of creating the perfect ordered life. But we know the weeds are there, just like those stray dandelions and thistles hiding under the blades of grass, and the wise gardeners know it's the contrast between them that makes the lawn seem more vibrant and fuller.

Happy gardening.

Much ado about Nothing

Do you hear that?

Right. Neither do I!

That's the sound of a very quiet early Sunday morning of a long-weekend, and I have nothing to do. Nothing planned, nothing pressing, and most importantly, nothing work-related rumbling around my stressed brain fighting for priority, needing sorting out, sucking all my energy and creativity in the process.

It's a bit disconcerting actually.

I'm not used to nothingness like this.

I know it's what I long for and want so badly during those times of peak focus and frazzled commitments, but finally realizing nothingness is so foreign that I feel ill-prepared to deal with it.

I know that's the point; to not deal with it, to just let it ride and be in the moment, i get that! But understanding the process and adapting to it are two totally different things.

The past few weeks have been extremely stressful - work has been a series of scheduling and rescheduling trades to accomodate delays and unforseen site conditions, working the phones with supervisors and site personnel and owners and designers and inspectors while watching a schedule disappear before my eyes and mediating between all parties to resolve the conflicts and bring the job in as quickly as possible, as effectively as possible. The homefront wasn't so dramatic, though after a couple weeks of having the family away, it took some time to readjust to the additional demands of my time and attention which work had already maxed out.

Something had to give.

And unfortunately, like is usually the case in times like these, its the ones closest to you that take the brunt of the fallout. Not on purpose of course, but we tend to give strangers more room and understanding when we're stressed, than the people who are always there for us, the ones who tirelessly support us and put up with our annoying habits and personality quirks that make us who we are - even when we aren't being distant and sullen and quiet. Throw in feelings of being overwhelmed and pulled to your limits, and yeah, it doesn't always make for a relaxing, peaceful existence.

But if you're fortunate, and have someone who will call you on your behavior when you've gone into your shell, or whatever it is you do when you retreat from everything and everyone around you while you flail at your world; someone who is willing to tell it to you like it is, who is willing to be patient and understanding and be there for you - but not sugarcoat things - if you have someone like that beside you, you'll be able to discuss those things that are troubling you and together find a way through them, guiding each other as need be, until you find your footing once more.

And then, with your clarity and focus restored, you'll be able to handle life's stresses the way you were meant to, and suddenly you'll find yourself on a quiet, long-weekend Sunday morning, sitting in the shade of the gazebo, coffee in hand, thinking about your world with nothing to do.

Except remember and be grateful for the people around you who are always there for you, even when you feel isolated and alone. The ones who care so deeply and perfectly and effortlessly that make it possible for you to feel like there's nothing you can't do.

The Waiting Room

"What if the rest of society ran the way your Doctor's office ran? You'd never get anything accomplished unless it happened by chance or you managed to wait long enough for something to occur. I think half of all illnesses could be eradicated if you didn't have to spend three hours in the germ-infested waiting room beside the child with what sounds like TB, or the woman who appears just slightly beyond quarantine. Certainly we'd all be less bitchy and our blood pressure would be much lower if somehow physicians better managed their client times."

I wrote that Thursday while seated in my doctor's waiting room, after having just checked in, and mere moments after having accepted my fate of waiting upon being told he was running "...at least an hour and a half behind schedule."

It's easy to be put out when you have an appointed time, and the keeper of that appointment is behind. It's easy to, but we shouldn't. We've all been taught to "do unto others as we'd have done unto ourselves" but doesn't it seem like that doesn't apply to family physicians? It seems they do it on purpose, a control issues perhaps, you say, asserting their supposed superiority over the common-folk. Or maybe they just book too many patients for the time available, knowing that their day will stretch into the evening, your plans be damned.

Maybe.

Friday morning I returned to the clinic to have bloodwork done - a routine to see where we're at with these migraines, which for the record, have been near non-existent in the last three months - the lab opens at 8:30 and there were already 3 or 4 patients waiting in the room when I arrived moments after the official opening time. The walk-in portion of the clinic doesn't open until 9, but that doesn't stop some walk-ins from arriving well before, hoping to get that first appointment slot so they can get on with their day and maybe get relief from their ailments or answers to their questions.

On this morning a young woman was already filling in the information sheet on the clipboard in anticipation of being the first one in, though no clinic staff were to be seen - though the lights behind the reception desk were illuminated. When the lone staff member finally appeared back at the desk from down the hall where she had been prepping the exam rooms, she was pounced on by the waiting woman, demanding to see the doctor.

"I'm sorry, the clinic doesn't open until 9 o'clock."

My ears perked up. This should be interesting...

"But I've been here since just after 8, waiting." Her voice already had an irritating tone, the type that develops from years of experience and use, and her body language screamed impatience. "And why do I have to fill out this form everytime I come her, don't you have my information on file?"

"I'm sorry, but the doctor isn't in yet. And if you have been here before as a walk-in and not a patient, your information is not kept and recorded in a permanent file, this sheet gets added to the previous file"

"Well, when will he be here?"

"I don't honestly, know." came the receptionist's reply.

"Well that's just stupid! Why can't he show up for his shift like everyone else? If the clinic opens at 9 he should be here..."

And off she went, berating the receptionist until she realized she wasn't being listened too, so she took a seat in the waiting and room and continued her angry critique of all things wrong with society to her boyfriend (God help him) who seemed amused by her take on things, and nodded in affirmation when she turned to him for support of her position. It appeared she'd been angry for a good portion of her life and wasn't in any mood to change that just yet.

I chuckled at her immaturity and air of superiority that allowed her to make herself look like a complete boob in front of a room full of strangers, and duly noted life's ability to give me exactly what I needed at this moment. I looked at my phone, at the passage I had composed just the day before in this very waiting room, and let the lesson sink in.

Sometimes it pays to bite your tongue and let things be what they are, without wading emotionally into the middle of the events before you. Time has a way of bringing things into clearer focus, and in that light, maybe waiting isn't such a bad thing; indeed maybe we could all use a bit more practice at it.

And maybe, just maybe, that's why at your Doctor's office, it's called a waiting room. Only in the Grand Scheme of things, it's life's lessons we're waiting for and not just the doctor.

Garden Stories

It's a beautiful summer's morning this early Sunday morning, and I share the quiet stillness with only a few song birds. Even the wind is silent, save for the odd rustle at treetop height, those upper brances currently crowned in sunshine, the long cool shade below keeps the morning dew on the grass.

A cup of coffee enjoyed in moments like these, helps one slow down to a more natural rythym; a return to center for the soul after the hurried week of 9 to 5, which for most has become from morning till night. Watching the little garden spider weave its perfect web between the jewel-like shine of the stained glass dragonfly and the the smaller golden gazing orb in the flowerbed, you wonder if nature intended for clocks to be invented, for time to be captured and kept prisoner in an a never-ending spiral. Is there a deadline for that web? Penalties if it doesn't get finished before the shadows slip past and it takes the full assault of the midday heat?

I suspect we all crave control, of even the smallest details in our lives, and it's that craving, that desire for certainty in something, anything, that brings about our quest for peace of mind. But maybe it isn't 'peace' of mind we seek so much as the ability to know that whatever we are doing right now is what we should be doing, not worrying about any of the multitude of items on our lists of things to do, those yet undone actions that if left unthought of might threaten to topple our day.

Afterall, all we really NEED to do in the next moment is breathe.

Beyond that we have choices of actions, a 'choose-your-own-adventure' book that becomes the story of your life. For some it helps to believe that no matter which page they choose next to turn, the outcome of the story remains unchanged; predetermined before the introduction. For others every turn of the page leads to new discoveries and an abundance of possibilities, and though they know not where they may end up, they've learned to never ask what-if about the choices they've made, knowing you can't be focussed on the road ahead with one eye in the rear view mirror.

Most of us however, are more likely oblivious to the pages in our story; that we even have the ability to turn them at all, instead we're mired in the day-to-day details that create a story of survival, instead of writing a tale of adventure and discovery. And feeling powerless and not in control, we flail, instead of taking certain action, and find ourselves hurried and stressed and exhausted from our struggles.

Just breathe.

And then decide.

We have that power at our command, every moment of every day. It's our constant companion, available whenever we need it, whenever we feel lost or swamped or all alone. Take a step, a baby step at first if you're unsure, but trust that you are heading the direction you need to move. Secure in the knowledge that you are making a choice, a decision that will open doors of possibilities and adventure, if you are willing to see them. Every moment is overflowing with opportunity.

Seize it, and like my little garden spider, let's see what kind of amazing web you can weave.

The Sounds of Silence

A great summer thunder storm rolled across the prairies this afternoon; the churning skies rumbled off in the distance and grew darker as they approached. It went from clear and sunny and hot and humid to overcast and hot and humid and completely still in a matter of minutes. And that stillness is as ominous today as it was when you were a child and summer lasted forever and when you realized and felt the wind stop and the world grow silent you stopped too, and listened, and watched and you knew you were in the presence of greatness.

The thunder crashed louder and louder as it quickly enveloped us, the greys turning to purples and greens - colours no sky should ever turn - and then the temperature dropped; an icy cold front in the middle of a summer's day; a reminder that you are not in control no matter how much you delude yourself into thinking you are, or should be. Then those huge drops fell. Great, big, massive bucketfulls of water in single drops the size of water balloons. Then faster they came, and then the sound on the roof was not just of an aerial assault of water, but a more solid, sinister sound; the hollow knock of frozen water, hail, marble-sized and smaller, and it looked like it might be snowing - if it wasn't July - though that's never stopped Mother Nature up here before - and you looked out the window in anticipation, with a joyful anxiety, a curious stare from safety, as the pellets bounced and popped and rattled off the gutters, the gazebo and the garden of flowers.

And then, just like that, it was done.

Silence once more.

Then the clouds drifted, parted, and disappeared as the sun returned to brighten the afternoon and bake the rain and hail into the ground, evaporating more than absorbing, and you knew how hot and sticky it must be out there, and you dared not leave your quiet, air-conditioned womb.

School's out for the summer; the streets are quiet in the mornings - no mad rush to get them off to that scholarly jail, no yellow busses on the roads. The backpack returned overflowing with the contents of a grade 7 locker - I'm sure we could return that dictionary if we tried - it hasn't been cracked; and those gym clothes in the green sack? I'm not touching those. The boy can wash them - if they don't walk away on their own beforehand.

Stacks of homework and assignments - some we've seen, and others are news to us - we're becoming more at ease with being shut out bit by bit when it comes to school and friends and teenagerdom - we're still engaged in the boy's life, it's just now he has more ownership of it than before, and we respect that and attempt to foster that respect so it flows both ways. The report card, in all its sanitized informative passages tells us the bare minimum of how he did this past year - though we know in which subjects he excels and which ones he'd rather not have to face. He's got a Math and Science brain, though he's not convinced all Sciences deserve his equal attention yet. He has a wonderful vocabulary and creative mind - he just hasn't found his inner voice or confidence to be able to write it down.

It will come.

He has the same teacher for most of his courses in the fall that the had this past year - the benefit of the Grade 7/8 splits at the local junior high. His English teacher is his Math teacher and French too - as well as a few others - and she knows what he is capable of when he applies himself - a parent's ally she is - and she'll ride him and nurture him as if he were her own, and he will grow to her challenges, and one day he will thank her, though he may not acknowledge her role for years.

He'll find those gifts one day in contemplative silence. And I think he'll smile as he looks back on these days. When summer seems to last forever.

Silence. It can be a warning of dangers ahead, or it can signal a period of refuge, relaxation and rebirth. Like the empty halls of school over the summer, the silence speaks loudest when there's no one there to hear.

Talk about Renovations!

What do you think? Not bad huh? A little bit of paint and trim and you can make even an old blog look like new!

Okay, okay. You got me, it's not a renovation. I haven't been up nights, working till the wee hours trying to get the last bit of mudding done, or the final piece of moulding over there in the corner to fit just right. No, I haven't been painting and finishing stuff. Nothing like that really.

In fact, I didn't even think of remodelling.

I just moved.

That's right. Moved.

You see, I'm not really here. I'm actually over there but you just can't tell the difference yet. Confused? Sorry. It's about to become clear (I hope!)

You see when I started writing this I didn't know where it was going to take me, or where we'd end up. I wanted to document the changes we were proposing for the house, and I have, but I've also discovered that I need a voice to let those other randomreidings out, and at times they can overshadow the renovation stuff. They are very important to me, but so is the house project, and so I've decided to carve off the renovation chronicles and give them their own space - someplace where it will be easier to follow the progress and see what's what.


Chicobuilds

That's what I've called it.

I've copied over the posts from randomreidings that are about the house or mostly about the house, and that's where the new information and pictures and bitching about the project will take place.

Back here, I'll free up some room to explore other things, like why some people think it's okay to throw cigarette butts out their car window. Or why KFC thinks 2 chicken filets, 2 slices of bacon and 2 slices of cheese is actually a meal? and why you couldn't have made up a better name for Weinergate if you tried! Who knows? I may even get back to more snarky commentary if the spirit moves me.

I hope its the spirit and not all that pineapple...

Let me know what you think, what you've liked about the past, and what you'd like to see in the future. Challenge me, make me think, and let's see what kind of trouble we can get into together.

C'mon, let's go stir it up.

A Bunch of Little Things

It's been a mixed bag of late-Spring weather this past week or so - days that seemed much like summer gave way to rolling thunderstorms that lit up the evening sky with purples and greens and left behind streets littered with branches and then we got days of steady dreary rains - the kind we certainly do not need as swollen rivers are still an issue and bloated beaches have claimed the cottages and houses that line their shores.  But it all serves the greater purpose I suppose, as the lilacs out front can attest, as they shot up at least two feet with the mixed blessing that is our weather.

We spent last weekend in the brutal summer heat washing and sanding and staining the deck, and it looks better than new - well, maybe not quite that good, but it's certainly better than what it was before the back breaking work.  It's now a cafe au lait type of colour, and not the aging silver-grey that those green pressure-treated deck boards turn when you leave them to their own devices.  I made up a pair of crumbles with the rhubarb I picked - one with blueberries, the other with strawberries, and I'm not sure which was better - if I had to choose I think I'd go with the blueberries though it's not fair to force one into such dilemmas.  I'm not sure you can find a more refreshing dessert after a days work than a rhubarb crumble with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting through its golden crusted toppings.  But if you'd like to share a recipe, I'm sure I'd be up for the challenge!

Of course the boy was no where to be seen during the deck renewal process - and I can't really blame him - it's not exactly kid-friendly work, nor is the job of sufficient size to warrant an extra set of complaining hands.  Though to his credit he did help me dispose of half the pile of branches as I fed them into the hopper of the yard shredder.  Honestly that machine scares the hell out of me - maybe I'm a bit more cautious after having had the table saw and my middle finger become so well acquainted - but still, no God-fearing person in their right mind would knowingly feed branches into a hopper that suddenly latches onto the woody stem and swiftly swirls it around and around while the hidden spinning knives inside its belly mince the shards into bite size wood bits and deposits them at its feet.

That's just wrong.  Or incredibly cool if you're twelve. I think he was disappointed I wouldn't let him feed the beast. Or over heated. Or both.  He asked if he could get a glass of water.  That was the last I saw of him all afternoon...

I called the City on Thursday, wondering if our building permit was stuck in the bureaucratic vortex of the Planning Department downtown, like so many of my commercial ones, and Joanne answered and asked me if I had a sixth sense, because it had just arrived on her desk from upstairs! I told her I had a feeling it was ready - and she filled me in on the outstanding balance and I said I'd be down before 4:30 to pick it up.  She called back a few minutes later to say that she couldn't locate the plans that were to accompany the permit - but if I wanted I could still get the permit and pay for it.  I thanked her for the heads-up and said I'd be down late Thursday or first thing Friday.  It's nice to have the level of personal service I get when I deal with the folks in the Planning Department - I know many of them by name, and some, like Joanne who it turns out is the next door neighbour to a family relation, have become like family themselves, and we share stories when we meet and catch up while I wait for my appointments with the permit techs.  On our way down to get the permit she called once more to say she had found the missing plans, and when I picked everything up from her, I thanked her for her help, and she laughed as she shared the spectacle of a great deal of the office staff buzzing around looking for "Reid's Plans"  I'm not sure many people have had that kind of personal attention from this staff - but I'm very grateful for it.

So it's all systems go for the renovation now - time to book the trades and verify the window and door orders; revisit the plans and make sure the elevations and layouts are going to work as I designed them so many months ago.  This past Saturday was spent in the yard with a string line, measuring tape, marking paint, flagging tape, a bundle of lath for stakes and my copy of the plans - already folded and worn and marked up the way a set of blueprints should be. So far so good. I'll post soon with the beginning pics.

Sunday was Father's Day, and around here that also means its Manitoba Marathon Day - so it was an early rise and shine for 2 of us - Karen and I registered in the 10K this year - due to her less than hoped for performance at last year's half marathon where she hit the wall at mile 7; and my first ever instance of plantar fasciitis a few months ago - we decided that while we maybe couldn't run, we certainly could walk, and so we joined 14000 other runners and walkers and helped make the day another amazing success!  Kudos to the amazing army of volunteers who make the event such a fun and fantastic way to spend Father's Day. In keeping with our family tradition - we returned home and woke the boy and went out for breakfast and enjoyed the pleasure of his company.

Tonight after dinner we watched some old trip video of our first visit to Orlando back in 2001. I can't believe the mini-man was ever that small, or that cute!    It was so much fun revisiting those days: our first ever visit to the Magic Kingdom with him in his stroller, having to carry him and hold him during the afternoon parade; the way his face lit up at all the magic and make believe around him (and yeah, us too!) and it was so tremendously satisfying to see the deep bonds he shared with us back then - the ones we take for granted these days in the midst of teenagerdom and a never-ending growth spurt, but which we know will always reside there, in part because of the times we've shared together and the decisions we've consciously made to strengthen those bonds important to us all.  He watched the 2 1/2 year old him with a mix of pride and embarrassment (we've all been there before) and allowed his mother to miss that part of him that she's lost forever but which she keeps alive in her heart, and when she needed a hug he was there to give it to her.

You sometimes wonder during weeks like these, where so many things are happening at once, whether anything you're doing is really making a difference.  Is spending a Saturday staining the deck or weeding the flowers or shredding trees really what we should be doing, or could we be doing something more worthy with our time? Is this renovation going to take us to where we need to be, or are we just chasing our tails trying to capture something eluding us?  Before tonight I don't know that I could have told you, but after I sat out by the fire and listened to the quiet evening and watched the family of blue jays playing together through the treetops, I thought about that little boy in the video, holding hands with his mommy as they played in the resort pool with the "Big Water" fountains shooting up to shrieks of pure delight, as they turn and wave to "Daddy" and the video camera, his entire face lit up in one gigantic genuine smile,   everything is exactly how it's supposed to be, and I wouldn't change one little thing.

Have a great week!

Summer Evenings

It's a Thursday evening in the beginning of June, and even though it isn't summer, you can feel it out there in the long shadows as you go out after 10 and feel the heat radiating back up at you from the pavement, the sky dark, the sun hidden behind the western horizon, and a slice of white moon hides in the leaves of the giant maple out behind the back yard fence.

I went back out to the car to get the rhubarb I'd cut from Paul's plants earlier this evening, when we stopped to borrow the pressure washer and the wood chipper - tools for a productive June weekend if ever there were any.  He'd had them out waiting for us as Karen and I pulled into the driveway, there they were, standing in front of the garage waiting for a purpose.

As I loaded them into the back of the car, Karen visited with Paul and Blue, his dog, and then we ventured through the garage, past my chainsaw and 1/2" drill - both borrowed earlier for projects he had undertaken when work was slower - through the workshop with its long wooden counters and shelves more bare than workshop shelves should be allowed; past the row of nails holding shovels and rakes and hand tools, and out into his large backyard with ample grassed areas for a dog to run and chase a ball.

I threw the old ratty tennis ball for Blue, but maybe being new to this, not knowing the unspoken rules, I didn't follow their set routine - I threw the ball across the yard towards the tall spruce in the north corner - Blue instinctively ran for the western edge of the yard, his head turning from side to side, searching for what didn't come that way at all.  He stopped.  And I had to walk across the grass to the far side to retrieve the ball.

Something about having to fetch the ball you've thrown for a dog is just so wrong.

That's when I saw the rhubarb.  Growing low behind the house, away from the deck and the flower bed in the centre of the yard; out of sight from the sitting room's large, floor-to-ceiling, sliding patio doors, it's dark large leaves shielding the red and green stalks from the sun.  Paul went to get a knife so I could choose enough for a crisp or a pie or a crumble - I haven't decided which - and I chose the larger, older stems - knowing most people prefer the sweeter, less tart, more slender young ones.

Its habit from my youth, when as kids we'd take rhubarb and eat it raw right from the patch, dipping the cut end in a small bowl of white sugar, and savouring the jolt of contrasting tastes.  Those older, larger canes provided more area for the sugar to stick and cake around the edges, and you learned quickly how long to leave the pieces in the bowl, and how to turn them just so, to pack a good thick crusty layer on the end.

Back home, almost ready for bed, I remembered the rhubarb in the car, so I brought it in and cleaned it.  Standing at the kitchen sink, the window dark with only the street light's pale yellow illumination giving outside objects any shape.  I washed it down and cut it into more or less equal sized cubes and packed them away in a Tupperware bowl and snapped the lid shut and slid them into the fridge for the night.  A simple domestic ritual, preparing fresh fruit for a meal to be made the next day - something your parents likely did when you were a child, and it seemed normal, regular, common back then, expected to a degree.  After an evening spent weeding or tilling or tending the garden and yard, the final act before settling in for the night took place in the kitchen, usually centred around the sink and its dark window.  The sweet, quiet, summer air wafting slowly through the open window screen, the distant hum of the day receding.

I popped a cube of the cut rhubarb into my mouth, hesitating at first, but drawn in, knowing what to expect, but still excited to find out, and as that tangy tartness hit my tongue, childhood memories of summers past flooded in.

When the days lasted forever and you rode your bike all over town, hanging out with your friends and filling the hours with laughter and fun, being called in when the sky got too dark to see anymore, knowing you were getting away with something special, staying up past your normal winter and school driven bedtime.

Those days were sweet, like the sugar we dipped the rhubarb in, and while the years have brought us more responsibilities and concerns, like the tangy rhubarb tartness that stands you up and lets you know you're alive, we carry on with simple domestic rituals as we take our parent's places, knowing that the crisp, or pie or crumble will taste that much sweeter after a June evening spent working in the yard pressure washing the deck, or chipping the pile of trimmed tree branches.

I wonder if the boy wants some rhubarb and a small bowl of sugar?