A week of Gratitude

I have been nominated by a good friend Teresa Roy to write a post each day for the next week listing 3 things for which I am grateful. The goal of these kinds of challenges is to quietly and slowly change the way we see our world; shifting away from the consumer-oriented “more stuff equals happiness” towards the centered, inward focused appreciation of all that surrounds us on a regular basis. By taking stock of the abundance around us which we often take for granted, we can change our perspective and our clarity and ultimately manifest a more balanced interaction with our world.

It is easy to do these types of personal inventories with little regard to their outcomes or to quickly write down the first things that pop into your head (not a bad way to begin if you’re stuck) or to hide behind the cover of humor instead of really digging into who we are and learning more about what makes us tick. We’ve all been guilty of doing this at one time or another. It is far easier to just skim the surface of a personal reflection than to get in there and do the heavy lifting. But we’re only cheating ourselves if we take the short cut.

If you’ve been following my Random reidings for any period of time you know that I’m not usually afraid to dig deeper into those dark recesses of my self to expand my understanding of my world, and on the way by, draw conclusions and summaries of what I’ve seen or pieced together hoping you can find some greater understanding of yourself through my observations. I have always seen and watched my world through some observational role, constantly making notes of everything; processing it all on subconscious levels, finding patterns, drawing conclusions, testing theories – without once thinking about it. It’s what I’ve always done, it’s what I’ve always known.

And you wonder why I get migraines?

So in that vein, come with me over the next 7 days as I dig down into what I am really grateful for in my life. No, this won’t be just a quick three line post each day – I think you know me better than that by now. I’ll provide some depth and reflection to this to help take advantage of the exercise and to cement those feelings of gratitude so they become real, daily reminders of the important things around me. And hopefully I’ll jog something in you on the way by, something that causes you to stop and reflect and notice things more closely. If you can, don’t just read and then like my post, but comment on it, provide some feedback and some context so we can discuss things as we go. That way we can all progress together.

Because really, that’s my ultimate goal: To help everyone around me (by starting with myself first) grow and learn more about themselves and each other so we can all move forward together making our world a better place as we go.

The Play's the Thing

A steady slow soaking rain to start the Sunday, the summer slipping away again.  The tops of the trees are showing more yellows and browns than a week ago and the over-night lows are back in the 'almost need a light jacket' range.  Students heading back to school next week and though the calendar insists we still have another 3 weeks, it seems like Fall is ready to return to her throne to ease us back into the comforts and certainty of our routines and schedules.

We took advantage of the city's cultural offerings these last couple weeks, theatre to be exact, first catching a stunning performance of Wicked, as the latest North American tour set up shop in town for almost 2 weeks at the Centennial Concert Hall.  Then last  Wednesday we enjoyed a local production of Disney's the Little Mermaid at the semi-outdoor Rainbow Stage in Kildonan Park.  A contrast of audiences and show types to be sure, but both shows reminded us of the depth and variety of talents our fellow humans possess, and of the power of story telling to entertain and distract, and why the arts are important.

Transporting audiences to another conscious level through acting, song and accompanied orchestral score is no small feat.  The talents and skills of hundreds of people are needed to successfully produce a 2 plus hour show flawlessly night after night, performance after performance, teamwork of the highest order that culminates in a seamless journey into the fantasy world created on stage. Behind the costumes and make up, ordinary people delve deep to find the passion and the poise to become something or someone other than who they normally are, slipping into and out of characters to delight and amaze, to tell stories and to entertain audiences familiar with their roles.

We get lost in their performances, and accept the absurd and the fantastical without question, delighting in the dialogue, the humour and the banter. Transfixed, we watch in awe as soaring voices and mastered instruments become one in song; solo and ensemble furthering the storyline in grand, and at times unbelievable, fashion.  Until, at the show's finale, we stand and applaud their efforts, selflessly giving our approval and acceptance and heartfelt gratitude for their hard work and determined effort, and then we return to the familiar and routine, enriched by the experience and moved on levels we weren't expecting.
The theatre. A grand art form of shared experience.

Sandwiched between the two shows last week, we learned of my aunt's passing after suffering a massive heart attack, likely linked to the stroke she had suffered 2 weeks earlier at home, where she and her husband were valiantly dealing with her progressively worsening condition.  Like my mom, my aunt had inherited one of the genetic mutations recently discovered to be somehow responsible for ALS, and in this mutation's case, with or without Fronto-temporal Dementia, and or with or without Parkinsonian symptoms.

My aunt battled breast cancer before the signs and symptoms of Parkinson's appeared, and then the dementia slowly crept in too... The timing of her passing in the midst of this summer's ALS Ice Bucket Challenge campaign is notable, especially in our family where the disease(s) are now known to exist.

We attended her funeral last Thursday and in the soaring spaces of the church's sanctuary we listened as her children shared their stories and recollections of her life, working through their loss to find meaning and purpose in their mother's time here with them.  Friends and colleagues shared stories of their times together, of her many years touching lives if children as an early years educator, front and center in the development of future character.  Through song and scripture we sat and contemplated her life and our remembrances of her, of them, of family.

The formality of service makes for quiet contemplation, and as I sat and listened to the outpouring of emotion and the sharing of lessons learned and the ways in which she had affected those around her, I was struck by how different the person being portrayed at the front of the church seemed from the person I had known personally, my interactions and memories influenced and affected by my experiences no doubt, and also I'm sure, by the distance both physical in terms of growing up in different cities, but also spiritually as well - my aunt and uncle having "found Jesus Christ in 1963" as we would be reminded on numerous occasions during the funeral and afterward as we enjoyed refreshments and mingled communally in the church gymnasium...

Whatever you need to help you deal with this reality, I guess.  If it works for you and brings you peace and happiness? Go for it.  

Of course no funeral has ever truly allowed those in the pews to fully realize the nature and true character of the dearly departed. We gloss over the less than pretty warts and scars to which all lives are prone, and we focus instead on the virtues and traits that elevate our final memories of our loved one and serve to give us comfort and closure; meaning and sense from the pain and sorrow.  A life reduced to summary, edited for detail and milestones, punctuated with personal insight and anecdote. Music and song and verses and scripture to tell the story of a life well lived.  An audience solemnly seated in the wooden rows, listening to shared private experiences.

Shakespeare was correct:

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances..."
As You Like It, Act II Scene VII


The theatre.  A funeral. The arts.  Costumes and characters and make up and elaborate sets. Scores and scripts and scenery. Song and dance and storey lines; Joy and sorrow, drama and comedy.  This play has it all.  Let's see what talents we possess.  Show them what you can do. You don't have all day though, get out of the audience and up on stage before the curtain falls.  There won't be an encore...

I just won the lottery!

Some days change your life in ways you never fully expect or understand until some time has passed and things can be seen with greater clarity.  The day I had my table saw accident and subsequently had a good portion of my middle finger removed by the plastic surgeon is one of those days.  You learn things about yourself and how you view the world and your place in it at times like that.  At least I know I did.  Other days you life changes instantly and you know it right then and there.  No need to wait and ponder the events, no deeper understanding needs to be developed.

Today was one of those days. I won the lottery this morning.

I know, it doesn’t sound real.  Trust me.  I had to pinch myself to make sure I heard the news correctly at first too.  Oh wait – no – not THAT lottery – don’t come asking for money or camping out on our front step pretending to be related to us – and for those of you who are related to us – yeah, even if it were THAT lottery you’d still be SOL.  No I’m talking about a bigger lottery and one that many people would gladly pay enormous sums to win if they could have the opportunity to do things over.

Many of you will know that last year we lost my mom to ALS and FTD – a combination of motor neuron disease that steals away muscle’s ability to grow and thrive until eventually you are left in some state of paralysis and certain respiratory failure, and also a nasty form of brain atrophy that affects an individual’s cognitive and decision making abilities depending on areas affected, robbing them of their former character and personality.  It is a brutal spectrum-type disorder that can also manifest Parkisonian symptoms as well.

What many of you didn’t know is that her condition was inherited and she received mutated genetic material from her father who suffered a similar fate years earlier.  In this genetic mutation’s case, the traits are passed down in an autosomal dominant fashion, meaning that children of an afflicted individual will have a 50/50 chance of having that same affliction.  

This particular genetic mutation is rare.  And from all research to date having the mutation means one will develop the disease spectrum at some point in their lifetime.  No cure.  No known treatment or drugs to help alleviate symptoms.  No idea when it will begin to strike, or in what capacity.  And if you have it, you are at risk of passing it on to your children.

So for me (and my brothers and sister) I either got mom’s corrupted gene, or I got dad’s, which by all accounts and anecdotal family medical history should be clean. 

A 50/50 chance.

A flip of life’s coin.

Not just for me, but also for my son potentially.

It’s been news that I have sat with, lived with, thought about and pondered for a year and a half since we got the news about mom’s positive test results months before she passed away.

I apologize for not being as present during that period of time as maybe I should have been or could have been.  You’ll forgive me if I seemed distracted or distant or if maybe my behavior seemed ‘different’ or ‘odd.’  I didn’t mean to be.  I was dealing with a decision that needed careful thought and deliberate intention.

Genetic testing was offered to all at-risk family members.  I was an early proponent for being tested, as soon as I knew I was at risk, I wanted to know what I might be dealing with.  Not everyone in my family shared my desire for knowledge, and I respect that.  We each have our own road to travel in this lifetime.  What is right for me may not be right for anyone else.

I get that totally, and completely respect the decision not to get tested.  It is a difficult choice for many to try and make.  It isn’t easy navigating the possible outcomes or ramifications of the disease and it’s effect on those around you, on your lifestyle, on your career…

But for me, I HAD to know. I need information in order to make decisions – I trust my intuition only so far – and I can’t plan if I don’t have all the facts.  So after ensuring I knew as much as I possibly could about the science and the disease pathology and similar genetic testing methodologies and in consultation with the Medical Director of Genetics and Metabolism at our largest hospital, I chose to get tested this past spring.

I got my results this morning in person.  Karen and I waiting as the doctor opened the sealed envelope and read the results to himself before turning to us.

“Congratulations! You just won the lottery.”

I am not at risk.  I am not a carrier of the mutated section of genetics.  I did not pass this disease along to Riley…

For the past few months I have been moving forward in life with a gut level sense of the results coming back positive.  Not in an anxious, worrying about the results kind of way, but I think as a means of preparing myself for the possibility of what I might have heard this morning if I had lost the coin toss.  A way of dealing with the possible eventuality should it come to pass.  A way of sorting out the issues for myself and providing a sense of understanding what it all means in the grandest scheme possible.

It was not a waste of my time or my energy to do so.  In fact, it was what I absolutely needed to do to be prepared to face the news one way or the other.  And now I know.

I won the lottery today.  The bank account doesn’t look any different than it did yesterday, but the future looks considerably brighter, and I am far more richer than I was.    

The nature of things

A slightly breezy June morning, the sun trying to find its way around and through the light cloud cover, the trees dancing in time to the music in the wind – everything is green again and it seems like maybe we’re safe to say it will soon be summer.  The evenings are still cool but the mid-day sun is packing a punch of refreshing warmth that will later intensify to the point where we may dare to call it too hot, but after the winter we experienced, we’ll take our chances.  And so it’s June, school here is almost done for another year and I’ve been gone from here too long, busy with changes again.

Or maybe still.  The changes this time around are many and at times have overlapped to the point where we’ve been forced to just accept life is lived inside a construction site some times, and I’m grateful that no one has plotted a mutiny, not that anyone could blame them – but still, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been spared this long only because they need me around to finish the job…

Change for the sake of change is what this appears to those on the outside, enlarging the kitchen by way of relocating the stairs and walls that originally kept this house a series of distinct rooms, each with a singular purpose, connected yet still apart.  A few weeks of coordinated demolition took care of that, and after careful reconstruction we have the bones of a unified space that flows between areas, allowing light and air to circulate and for us to be everywhere and nowhere all at once.  I was looking at old pictures of the house from when we bought it 19 years ago, and save for 3 original doorway locations, it doesn’t resemble it’s former self in any respect.  By the time I finish this project, there will not be any space we haven’t touched, altered, refined or relocated. 

I’m reminded of that philosophical question all first-year students are asked to consider: if you take your brand-new car and replace it piece by piece with new and identical parts – at what point does it cease to be the same car?  Or does it remain the same regardless?  From the street, from the aerial view, and from almost every vantage point inside this building, it is not the same house it was before it became ours.  But yet it is and always will be. Gradual changes do not seem to reduce the nature of things, though we know on some level that things are not what they were, not different, not the same.

And so it is with us – like the car in that philosophy question, physically we have undergone many complete changes of the basic building blocks of human existence as our cells die and get replaced, yet we are still who we were, just older perhaps, age and growth of course alter appearances, but the underlying you-ness remains.  Mentally though I’m not sure the comparison remains valid, as this seems to be the area in which we can more easily measure larger changes over time, and where it seems more likely you could argue that we do not remain that which we were.  We age and we grow, but we’re still us.  Same, but different. 

And so it is with the house, to those of us who see the changes day by day and who will experience the results of those changes for years to come, that this round of changes is not just for the sake of change but has been planned and designed to increase our enjoyment and efficiency of our time here, mindful of what we had and what we endured along the way inside these walls, all the while maintaining the history of the structure in balance with the new additions. 

Bigger, more useful spaces offset by reductions in areas that create more intimate spaces.  Growth and alterations that remove signs of age yet will, in time, show their age.  Postponing the inevitable perhaps. Different, but same.

Like Spring now turning into Summer, life is all about changes.  Many small, gradual ones that over time amount to something bigger and more noticeable, like the bare trees, which are now green.  The petals from the blossoms have fallen, about to be replaced with fruit; the flowers busy bursting with color and texture.  The grass grows high and we mow it down to size to keep it manageable.  Exams are being written, and soon the school doors will be thrown open and the kids will be free for a few months to forget what they learned over the previous ten, until they return in the Fall.

It’s June.  And we’re talking changes.  Constant, natural, evident ones in the trees and flowers on the outside, and for some of us deliberate, planned, and sometimes less obvious ones on the inside.  Both types move us forward closer to our goals, further to the ultimate design and when the dust settles long enough for us to see things clearly, it’s obvious that we are all really just carpenters in this lifetime, each of us building lives as we go. Hopefully we finish the job before our deadline.

Cats and crooked oaks

It's after 4 and I'm awake thanks to the low rolling rumble of that massive Russian transport plane that lands here monthly or thereabouts, a refuelling stop on its journey over the top of the world; a middle of the night, under the cover of darkness pitstop for a tired crew but now the stale sleepless air of the darkened room seems heavier and more uncomfortable, and my foggy brain contemplates returning to sleep as I shift and turn and flip the pillow to uncover the cool fresh side, hoping to quell the rising storm of random thoughts beginning to call for my attention.      I know it's pointless so I shuffle into the blackness and down the hall, a sliver of moon or maybe streetlight falling across the far end, giving me just enough hope of not stubbing my toe as I navigate the shadows to the front room.  In the shadows I can make out the black cat curled upon his post and he lifts a furry head at my hand's direction and satisfied at finding me at the other end of the outstretched arm, returns his head between his paws and turns deeper into his unfinished task.  The darkness outside is beginning to lighten, revealing the crooked oak across the street, stars still dot the sky above and twinkle through the swaying branches, though the morning's dawn will soon begin to consume them and I think about the day ahead, the possibilities and responsibilities and wonder if once it concludes if I'll feel more content with where I am and what I'm doing, or if maybe tomorrow will just bring more of the same.  The other cat silently appears and joins me on the couch, kneading and pulling at my blanket as he searches for the perfect spot to settle somewhere on my feet, taking more of my discomfort with every longer stretch until he's buried deep between the folds.  It's simple really if you watch them and their approach to life, just being what they are without any pretense or airs or questioning of its validity.  Meeting needs as they arise, fulfilling their purpose ever-present, sliding simply between being and doing until the line blurs to perfection.  A muted yawn and one last stretch and he slips back into sleep not yet prepared to face a day that hasn't yet arrived, and it becomes clear that we could learn much if we'd only get out of our own way...

Renovating your Reality

It’s been a long, cold, ugly winter out there. Mountains of shoveled snow line the driveways and intersections; streets become frozen lakes when the water mains freeze and burst open throwing their pressurized contents upwards and into the frozen ice-world above like some Disney movie heroine struggling to find her identity; and as the season progresses the streets crumble and give way from below - the gaping potholes lie in wait to damage tires and rims and turn the daily commute into a trek across some Arctic minefield.

We've had enough.

That temptress Spring returned briefly last week, showing just enough leg and bare concrete to entice the winter-weary, stirring forgotten passions and lustful yearnings for garden centers and potting soils and just as quickly as she turned our heads she disappeared, taking with her our last, dying hope of getting through March unscathed.

The winter carnivals are over and gone, Spring break is on the horizon, and if you believe the calendar the new Season has officially arrived, but we know better, and we aren’t fooled, though we want to be.  The high school does its best to lift ailing hearts with Spirit Week and the annual career symposium, but we all know we’re stuck in that dreary in-between world, not quite where we want to be, and not quite free from the holds of our pasts, prisoners of time and place.  Cold and flu season adds insult to injury, robbing us of what little energy and motivation we have left, mopping running noses and soothing sore throats and coughs, mired in medications that dull the aches and pains.

And so we wait again.

The renovations are in full swing and progress has been plenty on all fronts – though this past week saw nothing moving forward until around Friday morning, thanks to a sinus infection that had me praying for a simple migraine to ease my suffering, but illness-induced rest and plenty of fluids and I’m almost feeling human again – enough to begin planning the upcoming week’s schedule and thinking about where I’d like to see this project in a week’s time.  The structure has been removed and replaced with engineered lintels to carry the roof loads as planned and we’re enjoying the increased space and abundance of natural light that had been trapped and blocked by the original house design. 

We’ve become accustomed to the chaos and upheaval that is construction – the missing areas of finished floor, the dangled wires and exposed framing, the relocated services and storage and the dance to find the things we need that are no longer where they once were.  And more than once each of us has turned the old direction to head downstairs and found ourselves standing in the middle of the kitchen like an Alzheimer’s patient searching for the unseen.  But we catch ourselves and turn the right way, the new way, and continue on, adapting to the new route and reinforcing the muscle and mental memory of how to navigate our own home.

Change is a grand thing if you can survive the transition period.  It has taken me a long time but I think I’ve finally begun to understand that critical life lesson.  While we are naturally resistant to it we crave it just the same and somewhere along that spectrum of same-different new-unknown, we each find our level of comfort and freedom to be who we are meant to be.  Understanding that each of us has varying levels of change tolerance is critical too for we can’t force others to accept change at more than their comfortable pace – though we can all grow and tolerate more change if we take our time and move forward slowly together.  It helps if everyone involved is on the same page and has the same vision of the future – but that relies on shared communication and mutual interests and we know how difficult it can be to get a group (never mind family) consensus on anything.

In the case of a renovation good plans and shared design sense are key to a harmonious transition from the old to the new and improved, else one of you is going to get what they want and have in mind and the other is just going to get what they get – now depending on which one of you ‘cares’ most about the outcome and whose level of unhappiness with the current state of affairs is greatest might dictate the direction and degree of change involved. There’s nothing worse than an apathetic stakeholder in the change process however – they’ll maintain and swear they really don’t care about the details along the way – despite repeated queries and assurances, but you know they’ll be the first to voice displeasure with the final outcome for any of a number of possible reasons: emotional inaccessibility, passive-aggressive tendencies, lack of commitment to the planned changes or pure bull-head stubbornness. 

Open, honest, shared communication is key. 

And really when you boil it all down, that’s true no matter what the nature of the change.  We know at our very basic core that we must change and grow in order to survive – that’s just the reality of being human – and accepting that fact can be scary and unsettling and it might bring out fears and emotional scars of past changes that didn’t work well or didn’t provide obvious improvements – but we can not stay where we are for any length of time without dying and withering in some way.  Preparation is key – we need to have a general understanding of where we want to get to before we begin or we won’t have any idea how to get there, or when we’ve arrived.

Funny how some of us forget that, and blindly dive into changing things around us for the sake of change; for the thrill and uncertainty of making things new and different around us, to live on the edge and push the envelop of safety and security we normally operate inside.  A new paint colour, new hair style, new relationship – you know who you are – anything to feel different than how we do presently, but without really digging deeper into understanding what it is about the current reality that has us feeling trapped or fearful or unhappy and in search of change.  Without knowing why you want change, and moving toward a vague, undefined goal, you are apt to find yourself in exactly the same mental and emotional state you left – just surrounded with new things and places and people.  And soon you’ll be looking to make another change…

Some of us are quite content to exist like dust in the wind, happily being thrown along life’s path, tossed and turned this way and that as situations and opportunities change and fluctuate around them, easily able to adapt to the new and unknown and seemingly able to thrive no matter where they end up.  Others prefer to live like rocks, anchored and stable and content to be just as they are currently, seeing no need for new and improved when the tried and true have been just fine, thank you very much, fighting even the most basic changes around them, clinging to the familiar.  Most however are somewhere between the two extremes, holding on here and letting go there, shifting from being in control of the change process to being changed by the process no matter how hard they fight it, struggling to exist between the two and make it work along the way.  We’re blind to it and don’t understand why we feel the stress we do, ignorant of the battle that rages around us constantly, not becoming an active partner in the process that will ultimately determine who we become and where we end up.

And so we curse our current situations and long for new and better and explain away our limitations to chance or location or outside influence instead of owning up to what we’ve done to get us to where we are today.

It will be a few more months until we can say we’ve entered the home stretch in these renovations; until we will be able to truly see the end in sight and begin to get excited about the future way we’ll exist inside the re-created and expanded spaces.  For now we’re content to see the progress in little stages bit by bit, knowing we’re heading toward something better and more able to suit the way we live in this house; something that will give us more room to be who we are and who we are becoming.

But just to be human, we’ll still find it easier to stand and look out the front window complaining that the temptress Spring hasn’t returned than to accept and embrace the cold reality of winter, shoveling be damned.

Stuck at Home

Peering out the high window in the back door, the swirling, tumbling curtains of snow blow down off the roof and onto the deck, or what used to be the deck until Mother Nature decided we needed fairly constant reminders of the date on the calendar and provided us with endless opportunities for free, productive exercise on the end of a shovel.  It’s become old hat now, an old tale that we know by heart, we wake and it will be cold; at some point it will snow and before long people will be complaining about the City not clearing the roads quickly enough…

Welcome to January!  Somehow it’s become awhile since we last talked and caught up on things – that’s my fault – distracted by vacation in late November, then the allure of Christmas though this year we hit the road, well air, and spent the Holidays elsewhere hoping to distract and numb the realities of the past year rather than face them head on during a time filled with so many memories of year’s and better times past.  And then this bitter arctic loneliness descended and stayed here as it usually does but not so early, January is one thing, but early December is quite another, and now we find ourselves a week from expecting a groundhog to tell us the forecast.

Good luck with that Phil.

The snow banks beside the driveways have grown to the point where adults can now be lost behind them, children stand in awe and proclaim them sovereign territory, and me? I just keep trying to throw the next shovelful over the top though I know it won’t be long before I’ll need a longer shovel or a better plan.

It’s exam week over at the high school and the prisoners are busy memorizing and copying and finally learning what they should have picked up in the fall, some shooting for the honor roll, some aiming just above the bar of futility, most somewhere in between wishing they had taken better notes or asked the wardens a bit more about linear functions and solving by substitution…

The boy is confident he’ll maintain his A average this term and we’re happy to see he’s become interested in his classes and grades and is putting in effort finally.  School had been (and still is) a social gathering place for him, the lessons and studies from the front of the classrooms distractions from the real world issues of friends and fun and fooling around, but somewhere in the transition to high school he shifted focus and accepted he has ability and can use his powers for good instead of evil, and while it continues to be a work in progress regarding respecting the position of authority leading the class – no idea where he gets that from (guilty as charged -  he really is my son) he is finding that inner drive that will serve him going forward.

Sure wish I knew where my inner drive went.  I think it drove away long ago.

That’s not entirely true.  I blame these last two months and this winter’s weather cycle of bitterly stupid cold.  It’s becoming an annual habit, sucking the life out of me creatively and mentally, leaving me in a disinterested stupor of sorts blindly pushing forward until I catch some traction.  It’s what I know, and what I push against to start every year.  The new calendar doesn’t bring surges of wonder and inspired delight at what might lie ahead, instead I find the first few pages monotonous in their sameness, cold and barren cells waiting to be crossed off an endless list.  

Resolutions?  New beginnings? Changes? Yeah, those will have to wait a few more days until I’m finally able to shake off this slump and start hitting the ball out of the park again.  The bat is heavy and the ball seems to dip just as I swing, never quite on it’s mark, and maybe my back elbow is flying a bit too high as I cock it back…  I know it’s something I’m doing and something I can control – it’s not the pitcher and it’s not the ball – so it must be me.  Getting tired of striking out.  Just gotta keep swinging and trying little changes and then I’ll get a hit.

I’m on the verge of starting round two (or is it round three? Four?) of the renovations to the house, and this time it’s real.  Staring with opening up walls and moving the back stairs to enlarge the kitchen.  But first it’s getting the basement area cleaned out so I can build the bar down there that will function as our kitchen while the upstairs area is torn apart.  It was awhile getting to this point, but Monday the demo bin gets delivered and the sledge hammers come out and we’ll make like Miley on her wrecking ball – though I’ll be fully dressed and there won’t be any licking of anything, and, um, let’s just move beyond that disturbing image, shall we?

So it’s demo, then opening for new stairs, tear out old stairs, build bar area, gut kitchen, move walls, reroute electrical and HVAC, rebuild kitchen, refinish hardwoods, baseboards and trim, paint, bring in new furniture and appliances… and somewhere in all that, remember to breathe, take the boy to and from hockey, enjoy the process and keep you up to date on the way by.

The snow continues to swirl down off the roof and it whistles by my window as it drifts across the yard and over the road, smoothing over the angular banks and leveling off the landscape.  There’s no sense in going out and trying to impose my sense of order to the driveway just yet, Nature’s got her mind made up about what I need today.  She’s in charge.  I just need to relax and let her lead the way, and then she’ll throw me an easy pitch and I’ll get my game back on track, you’ll see.  Somewhere in all the upcoming chaos is my chance; I just need to wait for my pitch.