A Different Christmas Story

It’s quiet; it’s after midnight and the only sounds in my office are that of the keyboard as I type, and behind that the steady backbeat of the clock, layered over the constant humming of the furnace fan.  Our little family’s early Christmas Eve is now over for another year – the meal has been prepared, eaten, and put away; the presents shared, opened, and enjoyed, then stacked neatly under the tree; the traditional nightcap watching of It’s A Wonderful Life behind us now too, George Bailey back in his rightful place adored by his small community still singing Auld Lang Syne with Zuzu in his arms…

I should be sleeping – I’ve been up since 4:30 with only a slight dozy sleep just before dawn – a headache keeping me company these last few days as I wind down into the holidays, tapped out or under the weather – it’s too early to tell, and I’m not sure it makes a bit of difference one way or the other the net result the same – but there are more Christmas events ahead so I soldier on.

The Christmas Story. Isabelle Brent

A look back at this time of year is common, seeing where we’ve come from and how far we actually made it from a year ago vs. where we thought we’d be.  Some have had very rough stretches compared to you, so you’re thankful for where you are – it could have been worse, so it must not have been that bad.  I know I’m not where I thought I’d be from my view last year looking forward, but at the same time I’m not sure I could have told you where exactly I’d thought I’d be.  Most days I’d say I might have thought I’d be happier than how I feel these days, not entirely certain I know what that means as I write it – but sure it’s how I really feel, my sense of purpose strained in the latter half of the year.  And now as I stand at a self-imposed crossroads of sorts I feel enough alone that I’m nervous about the next step.

Not paralyzed by fear, but not head-down charging forward with a Devil-may-care attitude either.  Somewhere in between trying to rationalize decisions while searching for a path in the darkness, the shackles of prior commitments weighing down my progress and keeping me prisoner for a while longer still.  But I can taste the sweetness of the air on the other side of the bars, and hear the birds softly singing in the morning sun, and if I close my eyes I can feel the radiant warmth as it feeds my soul.  Another day crossed off on the wall; another day closer to freedom. 

We create these walls that keep us in, masters of our own destinies, but we blame others for there existence because it’s easier than having to face the truth that we’re not perfect yet despite our delusions.  And we’re not alone, the more we reach out and connect with others the more we understand none of us is being honest about who we are and where we fit, our stories thrown together hastily in our youth and added to as we matured but never purposefully scrapped and rewritten, so we carry with us pages from each revision and cut and paste them together into some patchwork quilt of deception but its comfortable and familiar and so we hide beneath it’s weight and pretend we are safe when deep down we know we are in need of a good and honest editor with a fresh red pen and a willing heart.

Some find that editor too late and their book ends with jumbled pages; a few are keen and continually edit as they write, perfecting the story as it is written, but the majority are too stuck reading the words of their lives to be able to see that they are the author behind them and that the ending isn’t waiting for them behind the next page but rather sits in front of them on the blank page – the adventure yet to be chosen. 

It’s Christmas; a time for celebration with friends and families, and a time for traditions and routines that bind the Holidays into memories to be shared and cherished.  And while the turkey and mistletoe and carols and bells maintain the past and carry it into the present and on to the future, perhaps we should take a moment or two this season to reflect about those routines and traditions we have been carrying along personally, privately, the ones deep inside that only we know about, and see if they are serving us or if we are serving them.  Too often we forget that we have choices in how to think, act, decide and believe and instead continue holding on to what we have always known, never questioning the validity or truthfulness of our values and our ways; blindly following the pack instead of blazing our own new trails.

It’s Christmas – or it soon will be – and as you go about your familiar routines of the season take a moment and stop and take stock of exactly where you are as opposed to where you think you are – do it while you’re opening that present from Aunt Mildred – the one you can feign excitement over without missing a beat – no one will notice if you take an extra minute and maybe lose yourself in a stare as you sort out your place at that very moment – there will be plenty of time for wrapping paper and bows and too much food and drink – but how many more pages of your story will you write before you pay a bit more attention to the author and stop to see if what is being written makes sense to you?

George Bailey was lucky.  He had Clarence to wake him from his delusion and allow him to see the reality that was his Wonderful Life.  Most of us never recognize our guardian angels, and miss the hints they keep dropping for us.  Maybe I’m not tapped out or under the weather at all, maybe I’m being urged to stop these days to see what it is that I’ve been missing right in front of me.  As you open your presents this Christmas, take the time to open your eyes to the reality around you.  You might be surprised at the gifts you find…

Christmas Wonder

Frosty white trees line the dark street, and snow banks loom on either side, waiting to envelope cars should they stray too far to one side or the other.  The cold snap of last week is now behind us, that too-early blast of arctic crispness reminding us we are indeed alive, a question you ask yourself more often when you can’t feel your extremities.

We’ve shoveled and brushed and broomed the driveways and sidewalks and have put Mother Nature back in her orderly place; thanks for coming, but just stay out of the way a little and we’ll all get along just fine, thank you very much.

The calendar says we’re getting close to Christmas, the media are relentless in their reminders of the dwindling number of shopping days and the avalanche of flyers and ads that arrive daily in the mailbox should provide me with enough wrapping paper for more than a few Christmases, and I’d be green and saving the environment at the same time, never mind a White Christmas these days, just to counter-balance the marketing and redundant packaging of goods we’d all be better off just skipping the wrapping paper altogether.

But that defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? The surprise, the mystery, the wonder of what awaits inside the present? Imagine a world where gifts were placed under the tree in all their naked glory – no wonderful streams of coloured ribbon, no tangled mass of bows, and sticky tape and textured papers to woo the senses and slow down the curious child inside.  No suspense, no wonderment – just instant gratification.  Immediate consumption of yet another consumer good, the meaning and message behind the gift lost in the swell of more and more and more please!

The lights on the Christmas Tree throw layers of tiny shadows to the wall beyond, creating a wonderfully soft glow to the room.  I’m sitting trying to recapture the feeling of Christmases past, remembering the details, the people, the places, the presents, the fun and honest easiness of family gathering together.  It hasn’t felt like Christmas yet this year, and I don’t know why. 

The decorations have been up in the house as long as they usually are, both trees decorated and slowly filling beneath with shiny parcels and festive gift bags; the malls and stores are filled with stressed shoppers and tired carols blasting from tired speakers somewhere overhead.  The snow and cold and darkened skies have all arrived on time.  The reminders are all there, but I’m still missing something.

Maybe the fact that the boy is now in high school and we don’t have take home art projects and concerts to remind us of the fast approaching deadline is important, or maybe we’re not bombarded these days as we were in the past with requests for Santa and letters and stories at bedtime…

The world stands currently saddened by unthinkable tragedy, and tries to make sense out of the senseless.  A nation mourns and wrings its hands, and wonders where it went so wrong.  Everyone can relate this time, and the unfathomable pain at this time of year sends many to a deeper silence attempting to find some tiny thread of meaningful purpose amid the confusion and loss.

There is no making sense of this, there is only acceptance of the reality, and the need for compassion and caring words of wisdom in a time where many will attempt to use the events for personal motives and political traction – a direct disconnect from the shared human experience we were meant to shoulder together at times like these, when communities were smaller and more isolated from the rest of the world, when the healing could start more quickly and there didn’t exist a need for the play-by-play of the events so openly discussed and broadcast as freely as a ballgame on some warm summer evening…

The silent stillness outside calls my soul.  It’s quest for remembrance of seasons past still strong, but tempered now with thoughts of others.  I’ve been looking for signs of the season outside it seems, waiting for something beyond to trigger a feeling inside, instead of the other way around.  It’s not about the appearance of things that signals Christmas, or the date on the calendar long circled in red, or the baking and presents and traveling plans – those are all part of the equation, it’s true, but it is the reminder that this is a time for Joyful celebration and Hope and Faith all surrounded and wrapped up with Love; of Goodwill to all men, and Peace on Earth - timely wishes to be sure.

The Christmas Tree lights still twinkle in the dim light of morning.  The darkness will be followed by the light; it always has and always will.  A mourning nation will feel differently this year, perhaps not as jolly or merry as in year’s past – and that’s a good thing.  Maybe it’s time to feel a little more subdued this season, less Santa and more Saviour, less festive and more Faith, less presents and more Present.

May you all find what you truly need this Holiday Season – whether wrapped in paper and tied with ribbon; hidden in a stranger’s face as you pass on a busy street; or safely tucked inside memories of year’s past, and may the true Spirit of the Season reside in you and stay with you.

Winter Storm Warnings

Winter arrived yesterday – not unusual to receive the first real snowfall of the year in mid-November – but what was unusual was that we got 6 inches of the white stuff all at once – instant Christmas Card! Luckily we took advantage of the storm warning to prepare: a stop at Costco for enough food to last until Spring; a stop at the liquor store in case we are actually all stuck inside together for any extended period of time; time spent Friday night getting the backyard rink ready; and a little bit of forethought yesterday to hang the garland and lights on the front of the house.  Nothing like a warning from Mother Nature to get you moving.

So the outside looks like Christmas – the inside? Not so much.  The last of the Fall and Halloween decorations have just been put away, and the chaos that is our slowly-being-renovated-house ensures Better Homes and Gardens will not be stopping by any time soon to do that photo-shoot.  The additional hour this week thanks to the time change was barely felt, and we have a list of to-do’s a mile long that we want to tackle, but time seems to escape us – work, school, the boy’s hockey schedule: it blurs together and before you know it another month has passed and you find yourself pretty much where you were 6 or 8 weeks earlier. Only older.

Life happens.  And it doesn’t wait until you’re ready. Ask the East Coast.  Or better yet, just look outside. We know winter will come – it’s no surprise given where we live – this isn’t Texas – it’s always a matter of when.  This year it was yesterday and we were mostly ready, maybe not with all the little details like draining the gas and putting the lawn mower away for the winter; or that one final clean of the shed and putting away the last of the planters and pots which are now buried by the gazebo deck. But we did enough while we had the time to be able to sit down today and feel content with where we are.

There’s change on the horizon – change in all sorts of places. I’m giving you fair warning now that it’s there, waiting for me, waiting for me to accept that it will come and when it does things will have to adjust around here to suit.  And that’s okay.  I’m making my peace with that.  Looking forward to it actually, needing it in many ways.  You’ll hear more about that in the weeks and months to come – but suffice it to say one of the reasons I haven’t been ‘here’ much the past few months is also one of the forces pushing things forward.

We resist change pretty well – I think we’re taught that that skill at a young age – to push back and hold on to things the way they are currently instead of feeling the natural ebb and flow of time and accepting the current of the stream as it carries us along.  Not sure if that’s our ego thinking it’s in charge and able to finally have control by making time stand still, or if it’s the common human tie that binds us all – facing the reality that we too are mortal and will someday pass.  Some people really struggle with that idea, that they won’t be around forever – they dismiss it entirely and live with a fear constantly a palpable part of their days, a fear that drives them.  A fear that consumes them quietly inside, gnawing and eating at them, cloaked in illness or mental health issues, or maybe in that classic catch-all ‘stress’ – its all the same; its one emotion pushing the buttons and until it’s met and looked at clearly with no assumptions and no illusions, it will continue to run the show.

But if it’s uncovered and examined for what it really is, that emotion is a pretty harmless thing – it’s a survival mechanism of sorts alerting us to immediate or certain dangers – helpful tools when we lived off the land like wild animals – not always terrible useful now that we’ve seemingly mastered our environment – but in that definition of “alerting us to immediate or certain danger” we can find the seeds of why so many of us fail to act or refuse to accept the inevitable – the danger isn’t immediate enough to force us to change.  It’s off in the distance, like retirement or old age – ideas to a child that seem fuzzy and cloudy, not in any need of clarity or processing because they are so far away in time from the here and now.  But time is sneaky that way.  These eyes still see the world with the memory of that child, and that teen, and it is easy to pretend we aren’t who we are becoming.  But the signs are there – more of them everyday – if we’re willing to slow down and pay attention.

It’s November, it’s snowed and it’s giving me a chance to sit here and reflect while looking forward.  A reminder today that we all have time enough to do what needs to be done now, to be able to sit down later and feel content with where we are.  Now help me shovel the driveway…

And then it was gone.

It’s a quiet start to another Sunday, the cats and I quietly watching the day begin, coffee close at hand, neither cat is all that interested beyond laying a furry head down and occasionally throwing a glance my way, but they both stay close.   I say both cats, but we only have one – the other is from across the street, the neighbor’s cat who has adopted us as his second family; his second home - free and welcome to come and go as he pleases through the back cat-door the boy and I installed earlier this summer – a means of allowing our own old cat to head outside at those God-awful times in the middle of the night by himself without human assistance or attention - and for the most part he’s figured it out.

You can teach an old cat new tricks apparently. 

And then there is Pepper, the cute little grey and white cat from across the street who loves attention and wanders among the 4 or 5 houses around his own, getting treats and a good belly scritch from Mr. Monk next door or hiding in Rhonda’s flowers waiting for her to arrive with her gardening tools, or patiently sitting on our front stoop – eager to welcome us back home, and hopeful we’ll allow him in to partake of some food in the second cat bowl in the kitchen.  Chris, his rightful owner, was aghast when she learned that he was eating at our house - she knew we loved him as one of our own and had no qualms with seeing him in our front window and not her own – but never realized he’d adopted us so fully as to think of himself as being ‘home’ over here.  But he knows where his true home is, and comes and goes through our doors like the welcome friend that he is.

Our cat more than tolerates him, and if he sees the familiar face peeking in through the new glass front door, he’ll give out a meow reserved for the very purpose of announcing his friend is here and should be let in at once.  And if one of us is paying attention, we’ll dutifully open the door and usher the purring guest into our home.

Cats can teach old humans new tricks too.

So there they sit, or lay or whatever it is that cats do when they curl up and tuck everything in and look so damn comfortable just existing in the sun.  A chiropractor’s dream client – if it weren’t for that spring of a back bone that allows them to contort every which way, and to do so with such ease and just a hint of showing off - you can’t help but admire their attitude.

It’s been hot out lately – too hot – dangerously hot in fact this week to the point where outdoor activities were cancelled Wednesday – the heat and that damn humidity making it medically unsafe for much exertion outdoors.  But we know that’s not going to last, so we endure it and manage through and accept that with little rain this summer the trees and leaves are drying out too soon – the acorns have been falling for a good week already – the pumpkins already orange – the calendar must be wrong.  It can’t be that time yet – we exclaim, hoping we’re right but knowing we’re wrong – nature doesn’t watch the calendar – it is what it is and this is what we’ve got, so better to deal with the reality and keep moving forward than to morn the loss of what was and be mired in self pity and denial.

It is September and we can’t run away from that – though the kids would love to stretch another week or two of summer vacation in there somehow – wasn’t it just June? - School starts Thursday and for us it means High School starts this week.

High School.  Really?

Where did it go?  How did it happen? Why didn’t we see this coming?  We’re not ready for this, are we?  Didn’t we just finish walking him to Kindergarten last year? That smiling happy little face, excited for the chance to go to school and meet new friends and learn new things; the one who happily played all day and loved to have books read to him at bedtime, in that cozy room at the end of the hall, with the Noah’s Ark décor and the huge collection of stuffed animal friends that overtook the bed and left little room under the covers for him let alone us as well to cuddle and snuggle and play pretend.

No, that wasn’t last year, or the one before that, no, that was a few too many moons ago, and this week we’ll take a new ‘back to school picture’ this time from in front of the renovated front entry – another sign of the changes that have been quietly and constantly evolving through our lives – that once little boy with the oversized backpack and goofy grin will have been replaced with a giant version of himself, a confident young man embarking on the next stage of his scholastic journey, and we’ll watch him walk down the street that morning and know that he’s well on his way, and that he’ll be fine.

We know this – we’ve seen him grow and change all this time, and we’ve enjoyed every minute – even the tough ones – and we’ll remind ourselves that this is how it is meant to be – whether we want to admit it to ourselves or not.  He’s a good kid, we’ve done a decent job of getting him ready to face the world, and now he’s beginning to step out there on his own.

It’s September, and that means it’s time to begin getting ready for fall, for packing up the summer life and putting it all away neatly and safely for next year, while preparing for the next guest to arrive, the one that doesn’t seem to stay quite long enough – the one you want to overstay their welcome but never quite seems to.  Maybe that’s why you miss them more than the others – they know how to quietly arrive with little fanfare and how to suddenly depart unannounced, leaving you wanting just one more day with them; one more quiet morning sharing stories and listening to each other’s silence.

So it’s time for boxes of ripening tomatoes, for back to school shopping, for school pictures and timetables, hockey registration and football practices, earlier bedtimes and fewer hours of sunlight.  Cooler evenings and warmer clothes, thicker blankets and heated floors, comfort foods and community halls.  The cats are getting restless – it’s time to shift again.

The cats, the Boy, the seasons.  Constantly changing, constantly moving forward, constantly welcome. It’s not the change that brings the uncertainty; it’s the longing to not let go of the past that creates the fear of the future.  We need to be mindful that it has always worked out just fine before, there’s no need to think otherwise looking ahead – so embrace the change, accept the reality and enjoy the moments as they unfold around you.  Those moments are what makes your life.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Hey.  How have you been?  I know, I know, it’s been too long, we’ve managed to let life get in the way again and let the important things slide.  We keep doing that, taking the other for granted when things become hurried and frantic and you can’t tell up from down or night from day – hell, who are we kidding, it can happen even if it’s a perfectly quiet Sunday morning on the deck listening to the birds and enjoying that first cup of coffee watching the sun wake up the sky.  We’re lazy and we know it.  The things that keep us grounded the most are the ones we allow to shift out of focus on a regular basis until such time as we stop long enough to notice what’s missing.

It’s still warm, too warm for us up here, and I know you have it worse, but we were never meant to live with the AC running 24/7 – that’s not healthy and I don’t know how you do it.  I need my window open at night to sleep in that deep, restful sleep that has been eluding me for far too long now, and a closed up stale house just isn’t cutting it.

Yes, I know we’ve only got a few more months of this and then it’s back to the dark chill, and you know I’m perfectly fine with that.  I’ve never once said I didn’t like that.  Yes I know I complain about it once it’s here and caught us in it’s icy grasp, but deep down I still love it, and would dearly miss it if this wasn’t where we called home.

There’s comfort in those changes, a rhythm, a cadence that marks time perfectly, measuring the months while we pretend not to notice, eyes diverted while the grass grows and darkens, slows and browns, cools then stops.  It’s an assurance that things are fine the way they are, without your intervention, that nature has it all figured out and if you’d only quit trying to fool yourself, you’d see you need only to fall into step and allow it to be just the way it is.

But we’ve never really been good at that have we?

We’re fortunate to live in a time where (for most of us) opportunity and choice are almost endless, we’re god-like in every respect and ancient royalty by any measure of historical context, but we’re caught in a shift of ideology that has us anxious and fearful of losing everything we have.  Sounds like the same issues historical royalty faced too, but ours is ingrained into our being now even the poorest among us expect things to be a certain way, the threshold higher than at any time before, the dream just beyond our grasp. 

Few though recognize the reality, which is not new, only magnified by the unlimited amount of information we have at our disposal through which to shift to find it.  It was easier to remain ignorant when information was more tightly controlled by the ruling classes of Church and State, easier too to be led and controlled, and don’t think that lesson has been lost on those who seek to gain at the expense of others.  Dumb it down and keep them numb and the world is your oyster.

We have only ourselves to blame – seeking refuge from our daily stresses in mindless fluff and pointless pastimes, allowing others to carry the load and do the heavy lifting, preferring to sit and rest a spell, thinking we’ll catch up and help out when we’re ready.  But if we can’t even make time for the ones closest to us, the ones who mean the most, what makes us think we’ll make any time for issues that might not concern us presently but will surely impact us later?  We’ve been conditioned to live in the here and now, and that’s exactly where we’ll be damned.

But how do you balance the here and now acceptance of allowing things to be the way they are naturally with attempting to provide guidance and leadership for a future course through unknown waters?  The two seem directly opposed. Perhaps within each is the solution to the other – a measured allowance of latitude within the wheel to wander across the waves while we occasionally scan the horizon for perils and obstacles?  Except that it was far easier to spot the hazards when you were alone at sea as opposed to traversing the woodlands at high speed where both the forest and trees look identical.

Perhaps that’s where the change of season comes in, clearing the forest of the leafy cover come fall, allowing more light to filter through until we’re uncovered and bare, able to see great distances now in the cooler air, poised to take advantage of the clarity.  And with calculated decisions made, we continue on back into spring, where the green returns and multiplies soon to provide us with much needed shade to hide us from the midsummer’s sun.  We slow our pace somewhat in the heat but soldier on, the rich bounty of the coming harvest steering us forward, waiting to replenish our bodies and souls.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose…

Words to ponder this morning before that dark, oppressive heat settles in for another day.  And maybe our routine of finding and losing each other again is just the way it is meant to be. 

Maybe, but I’d prefer to keep the losing part to a minimum.

Disillusioned Acorns

It’s July, it’s hot out there, has been for some time now – not as hot of course as a little further south of us – but hot nonetheless, and throw in that humidity and I don’t care where you are from, it’s not pleasant out there.  It’s sticky and muggy and then the sun rises higher in the sky and we bake, and scorch and we take it personally. 

We’re fortunate – we have air conditioning – I feel for those who do not, or the elderly or shut-ins who have no real means to escape from the heat, and I feel for the pets that seek shade and water and a cool place to lie down and hide from the daytime.  It’s funny; we long for summer during those cold, dark days in winter when we’d give almost everything to wear shorts outside – but now that it’s here we’re struggling to keep a stiff lip and say nothing, content to enjoy this hell we’ve longed for, despite the sweat and sun-stroke and the stale conditioned air.

Its July and that means I’m bach-ing it.  The family off back home helping with the annual garage sale and the gardening and maintenance around the house that is becoming more and more work for an ever aging parent – a reality that in and of itself is causing some conflict and stress between mother and daughter, and when you add a grandson who is practically grown even though his birth certificate says he’s only 13, and a grandmother who thinks he should be entitled to laze around and enjoy his summer vacation while his mother feels she is the one expected to do most of the heavy lifting… well, you can see I’m quite happy to be home alone.

And I would normally say I am, happy to be here that is, except I’m not.  I’m lost if truth be told, and I think I have been for some time.  I have no drive, no motivation, and projects started earlier that once held my attention and desire to complete with care and concern just sit there and wait.  Wait for me to return.  But I didn’t know I had left.  No, that’s not true, I knew I was slowly leaving and I blame the meds we’ve be using to try and stop or lessen the migraines, the ones that seemed to be helping until they weren’t any longer, at which point we upped the dose to try and slow the 2 or 3 episodes a week over 3 weeks to something more human.  But that just served to catapult me into some upper level of lethargy from which I have yet to return.

Blame is an easy game.  It takes the onus off you and shifts it to whatever is handy and able to be pointed at with conviction and purpose.  All the better if that thing is unable to defend itself or point back at you – if it can’t protest, it must be guilty.  But the truth is that blame is just an excuse.  Blame has a negative connotation, where a sense of moral judgment is attached, and accepting blame seems to also warrant some degree of shame or guilt, and thus blame serves to devalue the person or persons responsible for whatever wrong has been attributed to them.  Since the meds can’t feel shame or devaluation, they are a pretty easy target at which for me to point and shoot.

But I know better.  The meds have certainly exposed the conditions to a greater degree than before, but they are not the sole cause for my malaise.  The fact is I’m tired.  And some days I feel more tired than others, and even on my best days this last while it seems I’m still a pretty good amount of tired.

Tired of what you ask?  Everything.  And nothing.  Doesn’t matter which, some days they are the same.  Or so it seems.  I’m just tired of the daily routines and pressures that go along with them and tired of the seemingly lack of progress in so many areas and directions around me at the same time.  Maybe I’m getting older and taking stock more honestly about what I see.  Maybe I’m realizing things aren’t what I thought they would be, certain they should be, believed they had to be – than what they are.

It’s an overwhelming sense of inner conflict that I can’t subdue.  I know I can be and do more than I am, give and contribute more meaningfully in many areas and ways, and yet I feel stuck; frozen; stationary when I feel like I should be moving, in any direction. Like I’m no longer a human ‘be’ing and just a human have-ing and do-ing.

In some ways I think I’ve forgotten what my true human nature is, what it means to be human at its very basic level.  An acorn doesn’t have that issue – it falls to the ground one day and does acorn things, waiting until conditions are right for it to begin to change and become what it has always been intended to be: an oak. 

But it doesn’t just pop open and spring into a full-grown oak tree just like that. No, it happens very gradually, like some film on photosynthesis back in 7^th grade science class (yes kids, I said film, not video – Google it) where the time lapse speeds up the painfully slow process and you watch the seed sprout up and grow toward the sky, it’s tender shoot twisting and turning and it’s first leaves curling and bending as it sprouts ever upward.  Roots break downward at the same time, capturing a foothold in the earth and nutrient-rich soil below.  Together the roots and shoots provide the nourishment and means for the acorn to develop slowly into a sapling, and with the passage of many years, into the hardy, knurled-barked, mature oak, where it takes it’s place in the cycle of life and lives in balance and harmony with it’s surroundings.

That’s acorn nature, but what of human nature?  What are we destined to become when our roots take hold and we’ve grown upwards and become more hardy and mature and taken our place in the cycle of life?  Are we merely here to serve as consumers of every commodity and product shoved in front of our faces? Are we providers too? If so, then of what? Do we each have different natures inherent in our inner coding, natures that direct each one of us differently towards our fates? Do we have common attributes together all of us, and together with all other living things?

I’m finding it harder each day to believe my nature is to wake every morning and manage other people’s routines and processes, working together as a group for a common goal, motivated more by survival and less by purpose, a thoughtless bunch of labour inputs in some economic model of commercialism…

There must be something more.

And I use to feel it, whatever it was, that sense of guidance and purpose, a right-ness of time and place and knowing I was where I was meant to be. But now I’m not so sure anymore.  And with that uncertainty comes my sense of being lost. Listless.  Adrift on the waves of time.

I say I blame the meds, but I know that’s not the case.  That’s just an easy way out of trying to settle things down around me or maybe overturn them completely.   And as much as I like to believe I have things more or less sorted out most of the time, these days I’m not willing to place any bets.  What I’m seeing these days is that I’m longing to just be, and stop having and doing so much, but not sure how that works or whether we can right the ship and chart a course in that direction – if only I had a compass with that heading.

I’m tired.  It’s July.  It’s hot.  What I wouldn’t give for some quiet peace of mind and shade under that oak tree…

The Growing Season

It’s dark now; the day over for most, ending for many, another set to arrive before we’re ready.  Chance of showers overnight, they say, fingers crossed we don’t find ourselves in the presence of another of those glorious spring storms like we did last Friday evening – the kind where the skies grow eerily quiet and still, then suddenly erupt in a rage of wind and downpour.  The kind that wash away hours of hard work and carefully planted lawn seed and deposit both in the gutter at the end of the driveway and down the street.

But that’s how it works.  You get a beautifully hot, summer day over May long-weekend and you’re liable to pay for it with a thunderstorm – nature’s way of keeping the balance.  Mother Nature also likes to remind you of how short your memory is too, especially on those too-early, hot, summer days that arrive in May and you forget to consider sunscreen while you’re raking and seeding your renewed front lawn…

We know better.  And Mother Nature knows we know better too – that’s why she keeps throwing those same lessons at us over and over and over again.  She’s just proving a point.

School’s beginning to end for many of my friends to the south, though our kids still have a month and a bit left on their sentences before the educational warden grants them parole.  It’s the season of outdoor education now, with field days and track meets and trips to the park for the youngest ones, for dancing and fun in the warm weather.  The grade 8 classes are planning their ‘graduation’ farewells before leaving middle school behind for good and entering the hallways of high school for the first time this fall.

Call me old fashioned, but I just don’t understand the pomp and ceremony of moving from one grade into another – this is how it is supposed to work kids.  You don’t need a dinner and dance and grad photos to mark the occasion – you save that for the end of high school when many will exit the halls of education never to return, and those that choose to continue their pursuit of knowledge will find themselves thrust into a world for which they may not be prepared.   This is just the end of the eighth grade; four more to go until you’ve accomplished something. 

But still, there they are, the 13 and 14 year olds, too young to be adults, and too old to be kids, yet wanting both at the same time.  The girls have chosen their gowns and corsages, hoping, longing, needing to be asked to the dance by the cute object of their wistful affection; he’s oblivious to them of course, a pack animal coming into his own, surrounded by a gang of similar-minded, young man-boys, their thoughts alternating constantly between music, video games, sports and girls, caught in a dizzying whirl of adolescent inattention.  All of them squarely in the sights of life’s best and worst times.

But we’ve made them this way, all of us: parents and teachers and the media and society in general.  We’ve coddled them, given them false hopes and empty, hollow promises when what they needed to learn were some harsh, hard realities.  The real world doesn’t reward mediocrity, it’s an unfair collection of lessons and suffering, survived by those that can ride the waves and chart a course despite the storms and bad weather.  It offers riches and joy and prosperity to those willing to seek them – in whatever form they take – but it just doesn’t hand them over because you managed to stumble across them.  Hard work and doing what is required to get the job done aren’t necessarily for the faint of heart, but they shouldn’t be shied away from or looked down upon, and they certainly shouldn’t be concepts foreign to our children, lest we want to keep housing them and feeding them until they turn forty…

Kids aren’t stupid, they understand the game of life, and they play a mean hand when forced.  The trouble is not enough of us are forcing them to play those hands.  Lavish celebrations for passing grade 8? Please. I’m surprised we aren’t paying them for test scores.  I understand wanting to celebrate the end of that portion of your school life but let’s keep things in perspective, shall we?  Why do we feel the need to rush the adult world on them?  I know they want to become a part of that world as quickly as they can, God knows the media thrives on feeding them images and stereotypes of adult needs and wants and desires, but that’s no excuse. 

As parents we want to keep our children safe and free from harm and pain if we can – that’s the job and responsibility we signed up for.  But we were also charged with shaping them into productive members of society, who will be able to think and act for themselves, guided by principles of fairness and empathy, respect and responsibility.  And part of that guidance means letting them fall every now and then so they can learn to get back up on their own.  We do it when we teach them to ride a bicycle – we don’t wrap them in bubble wrap and pillows and send them off to wobble down the street without training wheels – no, we watch their progress and remove those wheels when they demonstrate the right amount of skill and aptitude, then run along side guiding the seat, providing just enough trust and encouragement to keep them pedaling forward, and then we slowly let go…

They will fall.  They may get hurt.  But they will learn to ride.  And they will be successful at it.  It’s the same with life.  Kids need to fall, they need to get hurt, and they need to learn from their mistakes.  But they need those things in a constructive framework that supports their growth and development, from everyone who has a share at stake in their final outcome – parents, teachers, society at large, all of us.

Don’t sweet-talk your child – they can see right through that, and they will take advantage of it and ride that wave as long as it keeps cresting.  And the further they float down stream, the harder it becomes to pull them back to this side of shore.  Don’t pander to them in the name of safety and dangerous, scary worlds – that’s fear based guidance and it has never developed anything except more fear.  You reap what you sow.  So why not sow some kindness and attention and respect and honesty.  You owe them at much.

Sometimes you may have to scrape those seeds off the neighbor’s driveway and put them back where they belong, where they can grow into healthy, strong, shoots, under your watchful, caring eyes.  Is it the easy way? Hell no.  But it’s doing what is required to get the job done.  Enjoy the grade eight graduation dinners and dances, celebrate the fact that your children are growing up, but let’s not forget the lessons we’ve known all along, though we seem to keep forgetting again and again. 

Nature loves balance; kids need to fall, and I need to remember sunscreen. 

Crumbling Walls

The sun is slow to rise this morning, yawning as it stretches and twists and turns to loosen itself up for another full day, the morning clouds wispy and sparse, drops of dew collected on blades of grass keep the lawns cool and wet to the touch.  The birds are still early morning active – not having sat down for their ritual rest yet – the red squirrels dance in the branches overhead, the trees finally greening up nicely.

It’s a perfect late spring morning, I’m up early to take advantage of what is presented each day but missed in favor of the blankets and pillows: the quiet solitude of the back yard, a city yet to emerge from its restful slumber, the beginnings of another day.  In the distances a car engine starts and a fan belt squeals until it finds its rhythm, an early riser off to work, about to join an ever-increasing morning rush.  The paper has already been dissected and parsed, a cup of coffee keeps me company, and I wonder what the day will hold.

The remainder of the 3 yards of topsoil sits waiting under a blue tarp on the driveway – half of the original delivery has been shoveled and spread, raked and rolled, seeded and watered – the front yard once again resembling itself, though it sits reduced in size somewhat because of the relocated driveway. I finally had the last of the stone blocks removed this week, they sat there at the curb all winter, waiting to be salvaged and repurposed, but no takers could be found, and Monday they met their next fate and were loaded into a trailer and hauled off to be dumped as fill. 

Quarried fifty some years ago they adorned our home’s façade until last fall, when I chiseled and hammered them loose and carted them away from the site and neatly arranged them in squareish piles by the new driveway.  Our new plans call for a different direction in exterior finishes, perhaps a cultured man-made stone in places, and with that the old stone with its fractures and fossils became obsolete.

As I raked and leveled the ground where the stones had been stacked I thought about the choices we make on a regular basis, design and décor choices, purchasing habits and tastes, updates and redo’s.  We are an ever-changing people wanting ever-current surroundings, with the latest technology, the newest model of car, the trending social media stories, and the next big app.  We wonder about our children’s ability to read and write with any fluency given their seemingly innate abilities on tiny touch screens and miniscule keypads, banging out 140 character updates to an increasingly self-obsessed society of online friends, words mangled into cryptic shortcuts for those pressed for time and attention.

The local school board complains the grade 8 math scores are lower than low, the board members and Education Minister moan and wail about decreased ability and functional cognition of basic facts, afraid we’re turning out graduates who can’t balance their cheque-books – if those still exist. But it seems the real objective is not to be better for the sake of the students so much as to not be behind the pack of peers tested. Even at that level the concern is about the comparison to others, not the comparison to self.  Where do we rank? Instead of Are they learning the skills they require?

To my untrained eye it seems we’ve grown as a society into something we didn’t wish to be. 40 is the new 20, and we’re being led by business and governments with no perspective and less maturity than ever before.  Facebook’s IPO is set to launch this morning to the tune of $18 Billion. Not bad for a company formed only a few years ago by a college kid looking to more easily hook-up, doubtful he was concerned about grade 8 math scores or gave any thought as to how his creation would serve society.   But there they are this morning, the media story of the day, people turning over fortunes to them to buy a piece of the action, another 3 card Monte, pulled off in a boardroom and not on a street corner.

Maybe I’m just getting older and more cynical of a world I still don’t understand.  I’m not sure.  As I leaned on my rake and chatted with my elder neighbor from across the street, I asked him if he was staying out of trouble but I already knew the answer – he was far too busy to be in any trouble, bowling and soccer and curling and more social engagements than you would have thought possible to cram into a weekly schedule.  He didn’t need a computer to connect with his world, he was too busy being a part of it.  He congratulated me on the addition and said he was impressed how well it fit in to the existing look and feel of the street; I thanked him for the compliment and went back to the raking.

I looked once more at the house and thought about the new stonework we would be putting up – man-made to look like the real thing, but lighter and less expensive, with no long-term knowledge of how well it will serve its purpose.  And then I wondered about the Facebook IPO and those math scores and texting and Twitter.  Maybe a return to real stone is the right choice for my future…

April Showers

A cool quiet start to another Sunday, this one the final one of April, the smell of rain in the air, lingering, waiting, allowing the morning’s rituals to begin without interruption.  There goes the family from down the street, off to their regular Sunday service, a tradition that is slowly dying a lonely death; it’s comfort and lessons and sense of community a thing of the past.  The sparrows, a mated pair, dance along the ground in front of the house, picking through bits of sand and gravel together, singing happy songs to one another as they pick the sidewalk clean.  The Robins, Mr and Mrs have chosen our little spruce tree out front as the suitable kind of tree for a nest, and have been spotted occasionally this week pushing bits of string and dry grasses into a shrouded, secluded, section of spruce boughs, safe from the cats, getting ready for the arrival of offspring. 

The blue-jay is breaking the quiet now with his shrieking call, and the cat who can’t decide if he wants in or out or both, is crying to be let back in, having just wanted out, presumably to trample the sprouting shoots in the back flower garden and enrich the soil with his own unique fertilizer.  The kids from down the street are playing in their back yard, and much like the cat, are sounding like they don’t know on which side of the door they’d prefer to be.

At least my coffee is safe and provides enough reassurance to see me through the beginnings of the day.  The end of April is a mixed bag for me, taxes are due, a birthday awaits, and as has been the case for the past few years, a headache calls and wants to keep me company.  A skeptic might say the three are related, and might even throw in the season’s uncertain weather as a factor for my casually caustic mood, with it’s shorter than normal fuse and nerves more closer to the surface. Maybe.  But I’m still in the mood to disagree regardless, and know its best to keep my distance lest I find myself in the midst of an argument I don’t want any part of, but with a disposition that wills me to win.

I refer to the episodes as headaches, but that’s entirely incorrect, as it would suggest the only manifestation is some head-related pain, and would that it were so, but no, its an entire body-mind affliction – like all ailments are though we choose to focus on the most dominant symptom – and I’m learning to recognize the changes and though so far I have been powerless to prevent them from assembling into a much larger force, I am comforted in the knowledge that by being present in the moment and conscious of the process as it evolves, my being aware of the altered states allows me to lessen their effect somewhat.

Minor depression-like symptoms coupled with feelings of pressure in the head and facial region, acute headache on one side or the other, usually the left, unless preceded by visual aura which almost exclusively affects the left field of vision but carries a right-sided pain.  Days before my neck will ache deeply into my spine, and you’ll find me tilting my head from side to side, slowly stretching to relieve the tensioned spring that runs from the top of my head to the middle of my back.  Then come the carb and salt cravings, like some bovine-induced spirit, I seek starchy foods and snacks to placate my mood and my uneasiness.  Keep an eye on the ego during this stage, as it’s apt to want to drive the emotional bus for a few days, self-centered analysis of issues, and an overwhelming inward focus dominate my thinking which will be cloudy to a degree, the ability to concentrate on fine details gets lost in the shifting priorities of self and connection to others.  And once that’s set in, then the pain builds and the eyes become light sensitive; all sensory inputs are overloaded really, smells induce aversion, and sounds, while not amplified, seem to linger longer in my head, muddying into a ringing of sorts, a frequency high enough to cause discomfort should I focus on it, but low enough to become lost in the mix.

I think I would be able to handle that combination on its own, but fate prefers to throw me a larger than fair share of lack of motivation along with a reduced capacity for feeling joy or happiness beyond not feeling pain, and that pushes me over an edge where I stay for awhile, stumbling blindly through the mess my mind-body has created, waiting for the curtains to be pulled back again (as long as my eyes can tolerate it) until things clear again and life returns to its wonderfully simple ways.

Disease? Sickness? Mental defect? Disorder?

No, its all part of how I’m wired.  I’m pretty sure I’ve been like this since day one, though I’ve had ups and downs through the years, where parts of the whole affliction were missing altogether, or others much more dominant than the rest, and able to be passed off as something else, treated as symptoms of something altogether unrelated, calmed by medicated shrapnel that happened to hit on the way by.  Moody and misunderstood; quiet and distant, brooding and seemingly solemn, preferring to thrive inwardly, letting few inside; that’s how it would read to an outsider, though the reality, as always, is something entirely different.

No, you’re right, I don’t get too excited at life’s events – unless I’m there in that darkened state, when I’m more apt to respond with something cutting and sharp, the attacking protection of a wounded animal – nor do I get too low, preferring to keep an even keel, riding the waves for what they are, returning to a fairly normal emotional baseline as soon as possible, but able to find nourishment and happiness in even the smallest detail, the tiniest speck of light, trying to carry those with me for the inevitable times when I’ll need them again, waiting it out.

The sparrows are still singing, and its getting cooler out there, as is my coffee, the Robins are puffing up as they sit on the wires, the rain clouds are slowly settling in.  Luckily for me my clouds are finally parting, though it may be a few days until I get that comforting feeling of community back where it belongs. I’ll just stand back awhile and let this storm roll through, then we’ll see what begins to blossom afterward.  After all, April showers bring May flowers, right? 

Returning Home

Its Saturday, the Saturday sandwiched between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, and we're back home - our childhood home - taking advantage of the long weekend to visit family and friends we haven't seen in awhile. I'm up early, no surprise, the open window of the bedroom allowing the wonderful sounds of Spring to filter through untouched, the robins and sparrows singing morning songs, the dog across the back-lane barking quietly to be let back in, a lone car driving past in the distance, a small prairie town slow to stir on a holiday weekend.

 The cat and I have emerged from our room, him eager to eat, me trying silently to find the essentials to make coffee in a kitchen that isnt mine, yet isnt quite foreign either, belonging to Karen's mom, and I succeed after a few wrong turns and locate the paper filters without waking the house. Missions accomplished, cat and I head to the front room and establish our personal territories, me in the green chair and ottoman beside the picture window, cat now on my lap, paws crossed, alert and attentive, but able to sleep should the lack of stimulation warrant.

 The sun is slowly rising, a few wisps of cloud linger from the storms that flirted with us overnight, the streets and driveways still dry. Its cooler this morning, great sleeping weather with the bedroom window open, if you can ignore the first birds of the day, but its Easter and a time for renewal and rebirth, and so the day beckons to make best use of the silence.

 Returning 'home' means different things to different people, depending of course on your age and stage in life: the recently graduated will soon be coming back from University in the cities, starting work in summer jobs to help pay for next September's schooling, returning to familiar rooms and routines, families happy to have their children back under the same roof once more, clinging to the remaining strands of the fraying family unit. Those that have moved on and started families of their own elsewhere, return for brief visits and for cherished memories in the making, the stuff of future photo albums and remember-whens. 

But while the house and location are still the same, the rooms - perhaps the same as the ones you occupied while growing up, or maybe thats now the sewing room or craft room, and now you're banished to the guest room in the basement or some second floor, the same room aunts and uncles share when they stop by to visit - the rooms have been repurposed in any case, no longer 'yours' but still you've got first dibs, and a childhood of memories linger in the old wood panelled walls, and tiny closets, the wooden rods grooved and worn from years of sliding wire hangers, of expanding wardrobes and style changes, today the home to spare summer dresses and fall and winter coats, but with just enough room left for your things when you return.

 Theres a slower pace to this place now, the storefronts on Main Street have changed since you cruised the streets on Friday nights, looking for friends and something to do. The old facades have been updated, some have been torn down, others remain unchanged, decaying while providing a glimpse of their past. Storefront signs now boast the sons and daughters of the original shop and office owners, businesses that still operate under the names you remember, now run by new owners, the inevitable pace of progress moving forward.

 We delude ourselves when we move from home that we're off to build a better life than the one that raised us into who we are today, with our bigger houses, more toys, and grander lifestyles than the ones we left behind, proving to ourselves and the rest of the world that we demand and deserves respect for who we are today, despite where we started, running from the small towns and little opportunities to the cities with their bright lights and constant hum, multitude of choices and options and promises galore. Like our parents before us who left farms and rural homesteads for a better life in the towns, we're doing what we know, moving on and moving up, but we know its just a game.

 We can pretend on these long weekends that we aren't from this place anymore, that we're different people somehow, with bigger and different problems served by a different and larger distant population, but when you stand out in that back yard now, the one that now seems so much smaller than when you were a child and days lasted forever, and you watch the neighbors working in their yards, tending to the massive garden plots that back onto that common lane, the piles of yard clippings and compost standing there waiting for a turn with the fork, or you listen to the familiar ticking of that anniversary clock in the front room, its pendulum keeping perfect time, you know its all a grand illusion, that while time and distance may have taken you from this place, this place was never taken from you, and in these tree-lined streets and wide deep lots still beats your heart, the seeds of who you've become were sewn here all those years ago.

 The boy and cat see this place as slower and more quiet, with different things to see and do, and memories here from visits past but they each prefer the familiar comforts and routines of the certainty they find when we return back home. And you know what? So do we. Home is always good for the soul, no matter how much its changed.

Spring Storms

Stormy

Not once have I ever said I hate rain, even if it ruined plans, stopped a picnic, or just going to the playground to fool around. The way it's hits your window pane, the amazing feeling as it rushes down your face, or just the way it dances as it hits the ground. The way you can look up at the sky and see a million raindrops coming down. You can see the beautiful flashes of lightning and hear the huge bang of the thunder, you just stand there at the window as you count how long it takes for the second flash of light to come or skipping a heartbeat listening to the thunder shake you from under your feet. Everyone talks about dancing in the rain but no one truly does it. As I'm outside enjoying the whole experience of the peaceful silence, and finally letting all my thoughts run through my mind and singing my heart out because no one cares to listen, I look out at the street full of cars because people are so busy with their lives to remember to enjoy those little moments that make a life time worth living. As you sit there in your house warm and dry, I'll be outside letting my imagination explore and my heart flow and everything In between. Have fun for that little moment, I’ll let my hair down as it’s soaking wet, let my make up run down my cheeks and becoming so heavy I can barley move. I'll be in my flip flops and my blue shorts with the same old ripped up sweater from all the other times I decided to jump into deep puddles and become muddy because nothing else mattered at that moment. As you enjoy your life the way you want to through a window, I will enjoy mine through those hard, tough storms!

- Paige

A springtime Sunday morning, the house quiet and still again, Mother Nature brought back some cooler weather these last few days, reminding us that She really does have a sense of humour; those summer-like temps we had at the beginning of the week were a tease, the kind you pulled on the little brown-haired girl who sat in front of you in grade three because you knew you kinda liked her, and you waited for that eventual tease in return, a cat and mouse game children understand and naturally take to with ease.  Mother Nature is still a child at heart – she has to be – it’s 23 degrees out this morning and the furnace is quietly churning out comfort and heat, when the other day we considered turning on the air conditioning, and Tuesday evening we had a lovely, rare March thunderstorm, the kind normally reserved for summer, with purple clouds and bright streaks of yellow lightning and rolling thunder, the kind that makes you stop what you are doing and open the doors and head outside to experience it all firsthand.

You might have noticed the poetic musings of Paige at the top of today’s post, writing inspired by that same thunderstorm, her viewpoint coming from the heart of a 14 year old girl also making sense of her world these days.  I’ve been fortunate this week to have a number of conversations with her, in person and via text and email about life and beliefs and spirituality and everything that runs through our heads as we try to find where we fit into this constantly changing world.  And I’ve learned as much or more than I’ve taught and shared, the benefit of being a good listener and approaching any exchange of ideas with an open mind and an appetite for another perspective. 

Our children know far more than we give them credit for, and they understand things much more complex than we realize, some of it matter-of-factly in the way only children can, gleaning the true essence of concepts without the baggage of a lifetime’s worth of cluttered ideas and cynical jading.  True, context and application of concepts is required to move closer to actual understanding and mastery of ideas, but we shouldn’t be surprised that our kids have been paying attention and asking questions of their world, much like we did and still do.

Paige has the gift of insight already, and she’s able to communicate her ideas and her impressions of the world in a way that caught me off guard; unexpected to say the least, proud and extremely happy for her at the same time.  I coached her in hockey a few years ago and we had a connection – as a coach you try to reach every child to understand how to best provide them with the information they need to learn to play the game.  Some kids are eager students, some will only listen to their own mom or dad, and some take a while to warm up to your style and personality.  That’s just life. Paige and I clicked and bonded to the point where for the next few years when our hockey paths diverged and Riley played on different teams than her, if she saw me at the rink she’d run through and over people to come and give me a huge hug. We’d sit together at the games and catch up. She's a great kid and a good influence on me! 

She's had some troubles at school, bullies, mean girls, the whole teenage drama - she's a bit of a tomboy (hello? She plays boys hockey and loves to hit!) and so the girls had turned on her, and some of her guy friends had too - she's shared some of her experiences and feelings with me, and I've talked with her mom about the two of us keeping an open dialogue so she can express herself when she feels no one else is listening. She's turning a corner and finding her way back to who she used to be.

As parents we too often forget that our children are growing up everyday, changing and becoming who they will be, influenced by everything around them including us, and we may neglect to nurture that bond as closely as we once did, forgetting they still need that love and support in the most obvious ways, and that they need our ears much more now than ever before, but also our trust and compassion maybe even more.  But we know, as do they, that it’s a two way street, that we need their trust and compassion to do what we think is right and best in their interests as we make decisions that seem harsh and unfair, though guided by experience and wisdom – although we all know that will get called into question regardless. 

Will they make mistakes? Absolutely! That’s how they will learn the valuable life lessons – we can teach and preach and lecture as much as we want, and they may listen and hear and understand what we’re saying, but they will still need to experience it firsthand (sometimes more than once, sadly) in order to learn the lessons. That’s where their personal wisdom will come from.

Will we make mistakes as parents? You bet! We’re not perfect either, and that’s how we will learn, and how we will be able to become better parents as we grow and progress together with our children.  It takes strength and courage on both sides to get through the teenaged years without one or the other threatening to move out or be thrown out – that’s the way love goes – emotions, any emotions, are a sign of human connection with another, and a sign of the love we all share.

Be honest with your kids, let them see that you’re human, allow them into your world when they are ready and able to understand how and why you do what you do for them – they are likely figuring this out without your input right now – better you give them some of your own insight to guide their understanding, lest they write you off as being one dimensional and not engaged or interested in their problems and concerns. The sooner the better.  Worst case, they get distracted by the shiny objects while you’re talking with them, best case? You each learn a little more about each other.

Don’t watch your children’s lives from behind the glass, get out there with them in those puddles, splash around and let your guard down, enjoy who they are becoming and help them figure out the pieces and give them the space and time to get wet and dry off again.

A little rain never hurt anyone…

     *     *     *

Could you do me a favor?  Could you leave me your feedback on Paige’s writing?

I’d like to pass it on to her, to let her know your thoughts.  It would mean a lot to me, and be invaluable to her.  Thanks!

March Madness

Another Sunday morning, the house quiet except for the echo of the ticking clock, the heartbeat of the house keeping score of the moments.  The sunlight is pouring through the east and south windows this morning, still low in the sky thanks to it being March, but the intensity of the light is both a blessing and a curse.  It’s been a strange winter for us this year, mild temperatures, little snow – except for that 3 or 4 inches we got a few weeks back, seemingly out of spite – but the past week has seen all that disappear, the grass greening up nicely now, the birds singing happily overhead, those red squirrels busier than ever.

It’s the middle of March! Much too soon for highs in the 80’s, but that’s what we’re heading for today, decks and patios are being cleaned and tidied and the gas grills are getting a good workout, I swear I hear a lawnmower out there in the distance – we know this is an illusion of early Summer, but we’re enjoying it all the same – t-shirts and shorts feel so liberating after all these months, but the boots and heavier jackets still wait patiently in the front closet, just in case.

We had good friends over last evening for some great food and drinks and even better company, a spur of the moment decision thanks to the beautiful weather, something we never would have done on a normal March day, but we’ve learned to take advantage of opportunities that way. Something about making hay while the sun shines.

picture by Marco Langbroek

That low bright sun and I are having our annual fight right now, the Spring may bring April showers and May flowers, but for me it also brings the reality of a migraine at some point, and usually one that arrives and sits and stays with me a while, like an old friend who stops by for a visit to catch up on things.  I like my old friends just fine, though this one could use a refresher course on how to treat the host.  I can’t really argue though, as the severity of the headaches has diminished with the help of a preventative course of a low dose anti-depressant.  Too low a dose to be called Happy Pills, but enough it seems to keep things manageable, but still there have been times the last few days where nothing I do seems to help, my head feeling like it weighs 300 pounds and might fall to the floor if I move the wrong way – and I fully understand the ancients who drilled holes in the skulls of sufferers to try and release the pressure – if only it were that simple…

The meds have knocked things down just enough so I don’t have any aura warnings, well, not the visual ones I truthfully sort of enjoy – at least I knew what was coming next – now I wake one day with a stiff neck that is trying to pull my tailbone through my shoulders, and my shoulders together through my ears.  Stretching helps, but only so much and I know its only a matter of time until the headache will arrive to keep me company.

It’s March, and another season of hockey has come and gone, sad on one hand to see it go, happy on the other to have all that time back, though we don’t quite know what to do with that much freedom all at once.  Like a healed animal returned to the wild, when that cage door opens we bolt for cover, quickly away from our captors, into whatever hiding spot we can find.  Then at some point we stop and look around, getting our bearings, adjusting to the real light, looking with new eyes at the reality surrounding us…

Good Lord the house is a mess!  When’s the last time we seriously cleaned up around here? And why are the Christmas lights still coming on at 4:30 in the afternoon?  And wasn’t yesterday St Patrick’s Day? I don’t think the Santa Welcome Mat at the front door really works with all the emerald green shamrocks… Hey, when’s the last time these widows were washed? I can barely see across the street – I just thought those were flurries we always saw through the front windows!

And so it begins.  Spring cleaning.  Again, or still, I can’t decide which anymore, but its healthy to open up the windows and doors after the winter and let the fresh air back inside, mopping and dusting and going through the piles of stuff that have grown larger bit by bit, that closet you cringe at every time you open its door, the corner of the laundry room where the dust bunnies continue to congregate, now ready to hold general meetings about the state of their environment, ready to petition and march you out of office.

It’s a chance to take stock of what you have, what you need, and what you just plain want to keep in your life – the rest can be set aside for Goodwill or the summer yard sale, or the curb for trash day. It’s the beginnings of change, the kind that we all need in our lives, the constant change of renewal and rebirth, of new beginnings and moving forward again with all things important and dear to us.  We should do all this more often of course, but now’s as good a time as any to start again.

It’s Spring, so let’s use the freedom we’ve been given to make some positive changes this time around.  Be ruthless when you clean, making the tough choices and hard decisions about your ’stuff’ until you’ve arrived with the true essence of what you need.  Some old friends stay with you no matter what, others stop by every now and then for a much needed visit, and some you discover again even though you knew they were there all along. It’s been a good week for me and my friends; I think I’ll leave them all in the keep pile.

Now about that closet…

The Road Back

It's Sunday again, but now its March. The days, weeks and months stopping for no one this winter as we soldier on toward Spring. Six fresh inches of snow the other night reminds us that despite the unseasonably warm weather we've had to date, winter still exists and we still have to work through it; nothing comes for free. The neighbours fired up their snowblowers for the first real use this season, mine being buried behind the house and trapped by the backyard rink I made for the boy, sat quietly as I made my way down the new driveway the old-fashioned way, by shovelling.

 We almost needed that shovel last Sunday night as we made our way home from the hockey tournament in Altoona, WI, winter hitting our return path with fury, stranding cars and trucks and semis in the ditches around Fargo, ND, the interstates like skating rinks, a far cry from the weather we just left behind in Wisconsin, a place where it seemed Old Man Winter had yet to visit - the ground bare and brown everywhere except on the shaded slopes, pavement dry and easy to drive upon, footwear choices simple and comfortable.

 That's the way we found Altoona and neighbouring Eau Claire when we arrived last Thursday after our all day bus trip down. The Metropolis Resort made us feel very welcome and looked after our team's needs and accommodations with familiar Mid-Western hospitality and friendliness; a standard that we encountered everywhere we went during the trip: the local Mall, restaurants, shops and stores, and even at the rink, the central gathering place for our crew, where the coffee was decent, the service first rate, and the tournament well run and on time.

 Of course it helped some of our clan that there was a small local bar just across the street from the arena, one that welcomed us as friends and neighbours with a good stiff drink and a willing smile. It's a good thing the tournament only lasted 3 days - I don't think we could have kept up that pace for much longer!

 The boys fell in love with the water park and amusement centre in the hotel, and spent most of their waking hours in the water Friday although they had a game that evening there were no sanctions imposed by the coaches to stay off the slides or out of the water or eat certain foods so many hours before game time, no, this was a fun weekend away from playing hockey, a chance to be a team of 13 year olds, in a foreign land, experiencing everything together, strengthening the bonds that sport strives to create, away from the realities of everyday life back home. They should have been tired after that long day Thursday and playing in the water park all day Friday (we parents spent our day checking out the deals at the mall) but they didn't show it on the ice that evening, and skated away with a well deserved shut-out victory 6-0 over a team from Lakeland.

 Saturday brought us two scheduled games with time in between for the boys to check out the Adventure City amusement park side of the hotel, a $25 all-day pass gave them each unlimited access to most of the arcade games, laser-tag, batting cages, bumper cars, go carts and whatever else they had hidden back in that massive kid-freindly warehouse of fun! It was great to see them acting like kids in there, away from the pressures that the game places upon them, that we as parents place upon them to play and try and do their best, and win, not at all costs, but in reality at the expense of some childhood innocence for sure; here they could be what they are, kids hanging out doing stupid things together, sharing a laugh and making new friends with the guys that have shared a dressing room and practice ice all season but who somehow, you never quite really got the chance to know.

 Out here on the road, that changes.

 Maybe it's the long bus rides, or the pool or the hallways and hotel rooms away from the parents and coaches or maybe it's the freedom to be what they really are. Whatever it is, they found a way to take that next step and become a tighter, closer group, and we could see it developing Saturday on the ice, where they picked up a second victory 7-1 over host Altoona, then ended the evening with a lopsided 12-0 drummming of a lesser skilled team from River Falls.

 That game taught the boys the life lessons of fairness and respect and compassion in sport, where the mismatch in abilities was obvious from the first puck drop, and thanks to the tournament's rule of only posting a 6 goal differential no one except the time keeper knew the real score. The boys didn't try to run up teh score, or take liberties with hitting their opponents at every turn, no instead they decided on their own to tone it down a bit, to pass more and shoot from the outside lanes, and at the goalie and not the open corners or five-hole, where certain success would be found. They have been on the other end of those score this season together, and know what it feels like. As parents in the stands it was awkward and uncomfortable to watch, and we cheered for both teams good plays to help compensate our uneasiness.

 Afterward, back the hotel, which we found we shared with the River Falls team, their parents and coaches complimented us on our boys' behaviour and composure on the ice, and their respect for the game and their opponents abilities.

 We didn't want to tell them our boys were a year younger than theirs - we'll take that knowledge back home with us.

 Unfortunately in such a meaningless game, the frustration of being outplayed so completely is never lost on the losing team, and one boy on the opposing team took out that frustration on one of our players with a hard hit to the head that resulted in a quick loss of consciousness, and half a night's observation at the hospital and a concussion to take home as a nasty souvenir.

 Sunday's final game was even more meaningless, as our boys had already secured enough points through the round-robin play to take home first place regardless of the day's outcomes, but you have to finish what you started, and so playing a man down they faced Onalaska in a more evenly paced game to start, our boys seemed worn out from the weekend of fun and the early morning wake up and pack up a Sunday game entails, but after the final whistle had sounded, another shut-out victory of 7-0 was in the books and our boys mobbed each other in a group hug / huddle that has been a season in the making. 3 victories in 26 games of a regular season can have that effect on you. After the customary hand shakes between teams at center ice, both teams lined their respective blue lines to be awarded their tournament medals and then the awarding of the first place trophy to the St Vital Victorias, and also the trophy for Best Sportsmanship - earned as a result of taking the fewest number of penalties during the games - but also, I suspect for the way they handled themselves in the obvious mis-matched games.

 We watched the boys congratulate each other and themselves, the smiles difficult to contain, the pride in their accomplishment evident but tempered with humbleness and courtesy for our hosts and opposition, the weekend a success beyond any expectations or hopes just days earlier. For the coaches, another tournament victory to add to their numerous City and Provincial titles over the years, but they were certain to ensure the boys took their time celebrating after the game, posing as a team, posing with the trophies, enjoying the moment, a moment not everyone gets to savour in sport, that of being a champion. For a team that had little success to show for a year of hard work, determination, tremendous growth and personal accountability, a championship trophy and celebration felt like their Stanley Cup. And they deserve to be proud of their achievements.

Sometimes you need to travel a ways to find the very thing you've been searching so hard to find back home. That's the great thing about road trips, about the open road, you never know what you're going to find, or how you'll react. Last weekend we hit the road looking for fun, team growth and a bit of relaxation.

 As our bus pulled back into Winnipeg sometime after midnight Monday morning, we knew that our boys had discovered something much more within themselves, a maturity and responsibility to themselves, each other, and their opponents that will forever change who and what they are, and what they become.

 The season may have been a write-off, but after this trip the road back through the playoffs just got a whole lot more interesting, regardless of the final outcome. Have a great week - Go Vics!