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.