32. Respect the thorns

In my part of the world—the southwest tip of Vancouver Island—three types of blackberries grow in the wild. There’s one indigenous variety, Rubus ursinus, which appears sparsely on long single low-growing vines close to the ground and produces tiny but sweet fruit. Then there are two invasive species. Rubus laciniatus has darker, more jaggedly serrated leaves, and is thornier than the most common specimen, Rubus armeniacus, also known as the Himalayan blackberry. This type goes by three other Latin names, probably because although it originated in the Middle East, it now grows just about everywhere across the world. It has grown in every garden I’ve had, and is incredibly difficult to get rid of. But it’s delicious. So let me say: I am grateful for this abundant, free food and —the opportunity to work through my anger.

When I was growing up, anger was never expressed in a healthy way in my family. I was expected to comply and not complain. My father, normally composed, occasionally blew his top suddenly and unexpectedly, without much explanation and certainly without apology. This frightened me, but was told it was my fault for upsetting him, and my fault for being “oversensitive”.  This didn’t seem fair. It confused me, outraged me. I felt trapped, so I avoided him whenever possible. Now, many years after his death, I have more insight into his character, and I hold no grudges. What I remember most is how he sang sweetly to me when I was little, and what fun we had together picking blackberries, just the two of us.  

The quiet residential neighbourhood we lived in was near beach and forest. In a secluded corner of a nearby park there was one particular blackberry thicket that seemed like a forest itself. This is where my dad, on our yearly foraging jaunt, impressed me with daring feats amidst the gnarly vines. I had never known him to be a particularly athletic person, but here he was agile, strong, impervious.

Dad’s fondness for blackberries went back to his own childhood. The story I remember him telling is that when he was a kid during the Great Depression, his father was sickly, and the family struggled to make ends meet. During the summers they rented their house out and spent months in a tent in the bush, living off fish and blackberries. Hardship may have spawned Dad’s relationship with blackberries, but better times never changed his unabashed love for them.

Every summer we’d make three or four trips to our special blackberry forest, each equipped with one leather glove for grabbing thorny vines, and a wire coat hanger bent into a long hook—my dad’s special invention—for reaching the higher clusters of berries. I was dressed in a pair of thick jeans, rubber boots, and a sturdy raincoat, for prickle protection. Dad sported his old army khakis, boots, and cap. He’d enlisted for service after university but WW2 came to an end before he was ever called to duty. I’m sure he was thankful of this, as he was certainly cut out more for intellectual pursuits than armed conflict. His strikes were always verbal ones.

We hopped into our green Austin Mini knowing we’d return with a haul more voluminous than the two of us could manage to carry back by hand. In the trunk, my father stowed several large aluminum buckety things that he called kettles. (We also used them at Christmas for brewing mulled wine on the stove.) Onto the roof of the car he strapped a long, lightweight aluminum stepladder, and then off we went.

Two minutes later Dad would be hoisting the ladder onto his shoulder, and I’d be swinging the kettles as we made our way along the trail to the edge of the most dense thicket of berries, our special spot. Once there, dad didn’t set up the ladder; instead he leaned it up against the tall wall of canes. Then he’d step on a rung and push hard so that the whole ladder took down the vines in its path. He’d repeat this manoeuvre, gaining several feet or yards each time, until he’d cleared a large circle in the middle of the thicket, where the juiciest berries grew. Then he would set up the ladder properly, climb up, and begin picking. I’d pick the lower branches. Sometimes we’d trade places, especially after I outgrew him in height and could reach farther than he could.

As we picked, I’d get him to tell me about when he was young. He had loved swimming, and watching the paddlewheelers taking cargo and passengers up and down the inland lakes of British Columbia. He told me about how he had yearned to be an opera singer, but he’d had to take care of his mother. I was always so struck by his sense of duty, but saddened by his thwarted ambitions. Here in the bush though, my dad entered into a kind of reverie, and we became so engrossed in the work that eventually we stopped talking and just picked. The only thing that sent us home was when our stomachs and buckets were full. It was always so much fun to burst through the front door proudly displaying our overflowing kettles.

In the kitchen, army gear off and aprons on, we were joined by Mum for canning. This involved another of my dad’s special techniques. Since we preferred jelly to jam, we needed to strain out the tough seeds. For this, my dad used a pillowcase, the same dedicated one every year. Its hue deepened every year until it was almost black.

Mum tumbled the berries into the pillowcase and my father would squeeze and wring the squishy mass. Thick, gelatinous berry goo would ooze out through the weave, dripping and drizzling down into one of those big aluminum kettles. Mum would scoop out the detritus from the pillowcase and then pour in more berries. Sometimes my brother would show up and take part in the squeezing too, or help Mum later with measuring sugar later.

Eventually, when no more juice was forthcoming, Dad would stop, his huge hands appearing blood-soaked. He’d grin maniacally and threaten to chase me around the house like a zombie, his eyes flashing. This was his theatrical side. I loved how playful he could be. There were several more steps in the jelly-making process, but this was the best part.

As years went by, relationships grew more strained in the family, and this good kid became a defiant teen, although any outsider would have thought me polite and well-behaved. I dared to express myself verbally on occasion, but mostly I channelled my anger through shaving my hair short, wearing black, and embracing punk rock. I harboured a seething resentment of my father that didn’t abate until decades later. But blackberry picking season signalled our temporary truce. Even after Mum died we’d make our annual excursion, but never did we try making jelly without her.

I still pick blackberries every year, wherever I am in the world. By now, after over 50 years of picking, I know them well, and have a few more tricks and rules, like: wear black jeans, so the stains blend in. I can tell from a distance whether a berry is ripe, from colour, the gloss, and the size—not of the berry itself so much as the size of the little round drupelets it’s composed of, the sacs that hold the juice. Small berries can have big full, tasty drupelets, but a huge berry with big shiny drupelets is bound to be the most sweet and delicious of all.

Invariably, like the seductions of an old lover, blackberries are too sweet to resist, despite their inevitable barbs, and once I start picking, it’s hard to stop, as I pluck each fat juicy berry I can find and then spy more bunches—just out of reach. The challenge compels me to reach farther than I should, which means consequences, as I get tangled and pricked, having to tear myself away, literally, from the vines. I lick off the blood, along with sticky red juice, from my hands, and laugh at myself.

What I still don’t understand is the adaptive value of thorns on a plant with berries. Everyone—two legged, four legged or winged—who eats the fruit, will poop out seeds which can take root just about anywhere. So why make it harder for us to get to those seeds?

I am fascinated with the effects that terroir can have on blackberries. Like wine grapes (but probably not to the same degree) the soil acidity, moisture levels, timing of rain, light conditions, heat, and angle of light can all affect the fruit’s appearance, texture, and taste. I’ve found that south-facing drainage ditches provide just about the ideal growing conditions, providing optimal levels of moisture and light. The hugest, juiciest berries can be found on semi-shaded branches away from extreme heat.

Last year, the first in my partner’s and my new home, thousands of berries appeared in a huge mountainous tangle of bushes in the middle of our property. I used my ladder trick, bashing back the front vines to get to the heavily laden ones. Then, climbing up the ladder to reach high vines, I felt the ladder shift, and suddenly I was in the air. I toppled backwards, in slow motion, thinking I’d always wondered what it might feel like to fall into blackberries. I landed on my backside, cushioned by a thick layer of vines. “OUCH!!!!” I yelled. No one came running. I lay there for a few minutes, stunned. All my limbs were in working order, my back was fine, and nothing really hurt but small areas of exposed flesh. My ankles were scratched and oozing blood, because I’d worn short boots, not high ones as I usually do. My right hand was bleeding too, and one huge thorn had torn a hole in my raincoat straight through to my elbow, part of it still lodged under a welt in my skin. This was all my fault. But I wanted revenge. “You’re coming down!” I yelled, turning my back on the berries as I walked to the house to wash and dress my wounds.

That winter we began clearing. We left the ones that were growing up and around the perimeter fences, to discourage deer intrusions, but Bill went to work on the rest, wielding an electric hedge-trimmer. He made quick work of the dormant canes, and where there had been a nearly impenetrable forest with fruit even draping down from fir boughs over 30 ft high, there were now unadorned firs and some smaller trees I hadn’t even noticed before. We could now see she shape of the land, and it looked naked. But I was also excited to imagine a little tea house standing where the blackberries had reigned. I knew, however, that as the plants would begin growing again in spring, which they do without fail unless you dig up the roots in entirety. It’s just their modus operandi. My partner said, “Piece of cake. We can dig them out by hand.” I knew, from experience, that it wouldn’t be that easy. The plants were likely here long before the house was built, which means roots that are thick, deep and wide.

We didn’t get around to it until months later, when we saw shoots coming up out of the dry, hard-packed clay soil. I am not sure why we didn’t hire a digger at that point. Maybe because we both need the catharsis of digging by hand. After many hours, we’ve each made a few impressive extractions. He showed off a couple of tenacious, gnarled roots that were well over 6 feet long. There’s still more to do, and I’ll take my beautiful red-handled shovel with the sharply-pointed blade, and a pickaxe that’s almost too heavy for me to wield, and begin the slow assault. The therapeutic effects set in immediately, and afterwards, I’m euphoric.

I’ve been upset a lot this past year. Apart from the obvious worldwide situations (Covid and climate change), I have felt overwhelmed by the amount of work this property demands. How could I have not seen how overrun with weeds and invasive species it was? There is no one to blame but ourselves, but sometimes I’m angry at myself, or my partner, for reasons I can’t easily explain. I try to remind myself there’s no hurry, and how cathartic and rewarding the work can be. Suffice it to say that blackberries are not only one of the triggers but also one of the treatments for my rage, and a delicious treat after hard work.   

This week, the blackberries in our local drainage ditches are at their peak. We’ve had only a few days of scant rain here since April, and our summer has been hot, so they’ve ripened early. I’ll bet the harvest doesn’t last beyond September, but last year I was picking until October. Late into the season, it takes careful work to cull ripe berries from those at every other stage of ripeness: hard, red and not likely to ripen; shriveled and shrouded in white must; withered to almost dust. I love the earthy smell of decomposing berries. It’s so evocative of the last warm days when one wants to keep living outside, but as soon as the sun goes down, the dew descends and I need to bundle up.

I picked a huge ice cream bucket full of berries yesterday in only half an hour—a personal best to be sure. They were falling right off the vine into my bucket. At home I concocted a new treat. Hauling out my old Champion juicer, I poured the berries down its gullet, slowly, and out came a rich, thick, velvety dark liquid. I spooned some into a tiny liqueur glass and had a sip. Pure nectar! And full of antioxidants, I’m sure.

Today, I did a little anger therapy today. I went out to my recently planted Zen garden, where newly sprouting blackberries are coming up in the most inconvenient spots. They seem to have a knack for it: in between rocks, from underneath stepping stones, in the middle of delicate plants whose roots shouldn’t be disturbed. So this kind of therapy requires some thought and finesse.

A few years before my father died, I realized that I couldn’t expect him to change, and that I’d have to make an effort to improve our relationship. So I did, and he softened, as did I, and we rediscovered how to spend time together. The last summer we went out picking, he gave me his old army shirt, which by then was frayed at the cuffs and had holes in the elbows.

31. Get closer when we’re supposed to be distancing?

I notice that I have not written a blog post in over a year. Some time ago I began to feel limited by the contrivance of why, who, where, etc. I am still curious, but I am feeling bolder about making statements, and needing to ask fewer questions, so this may be the last time I use this format.

Today is United Nations International Day of Peace. Now, more than ever, we need to stop fighting each other and come together. Except, we’re supposed to stay apart because of Covid, right? What a paradox.

I have been struggling on and off since March to put into words how I feel about this worldwide crisis, but as it has been morphing, so has my response, which I’ve been reticent to share. I frequently take time to imagine what my greatest teacher, Derek, would say, which is easier than revealing into my own mixed thoughts and feelings. But I believe, as he did, in speaking the unspeakable, and getting closer to what I fear, so I’ll move ahead and delve into both.

Maybe, some say, this is the Earth’s way of dealing with overpopulation, or our own souls’ way of evolving us spiritually. I don’t know, but both sound right to me. And perhaps it doesn’t matter. I would speculate that Derek would be in that camp. It doesn’t matter why we’re suffering; what matters is how we move ahead and the choices we make.

I can hear him now, saying that it seems we are giving a teeny little microscopic entity a heck of a lot of power. Covid is like a scapegoat, a proxy on which to project the existential fear that’s already there in each one of us. Creating enemies is how we divert and divest ourselves of responsibility. Derek was a lover, not a fighter, even in the face of his wife’s cancer, even looking down the barrel of a gun pointed straight at him. He strengthens my resolve to do what feels right. I want to feel empowered by love, in whatever choices lie before me. Wearing a mask is one example. I am shocked to hear about threats and shaming that are going on, whether you’re for or against.

Derek wear a mask? Uhh…not likely. Well, let me qualify that. He’d chuckle gently and shake his head, but then—he’d look right at me and say, “But of course I will if you need me to.” He wouldn’t do it for himself; he would do it for others. But he was not afraid of getting sick. Some might call this foolhardy, risky, or irresponsible. But he was not even afraid of dying. Really and truly. After tasting life’s sweetest nectar, squeezing each moment of enjoyment and fulfilment out of his earthly life, he really did live each day as if it was his last. “Hoka hey,” he would say. “It’s a good day to die.”

This virus is testing us all, stretching our limits of patience and tolerance and trust. We all know someone (or know someone that knows someone) who has lost a family member, lost a job, lost a home, lost faith, lost sanity. To varying degrees we are tired of this, we’re alone, angry, or scared. And as we are having to face our worst nightmares (not just Covid, but wildfires, political upheaval, and other tragedies and atrocities) we are being divided, asked or ordered to physically distance ourselves from each other. What we actually need right now is uniting, but we can’t even disagree politely about how to act in the face of this pandemic. Often there’s disparity in how we prioritize individual freedoms and the collective good, and these times are no exception.  

This has been an amazing opportunity for us all to step back and reassess what is important. Health care, shelter, clean air and water, soap and toilet paper all come to mind! But, also, togetherness. I am a little concerned that as we’ve taken this enforced step back, our literal steps back from each other (which my partner and I the “Covid Recoil”) will have a lasting impact, and will take us a long time to recover from, with more serious implications than the virus itself.

We’re social animals, mammals, who require intimacy to learn and grow and thrive, emotionally, cognitively, physically, and even on an immune level. What we receive, and create, and experience, when we get together in pairs and in groups, is crucial to our survival as a species. And now we’re frightened of touching each other. We’re frightened of breathing someone’s infected air droplets or spreading the virus to others by getting too close, even when we don’t have symptoms. I understand we all run the chance of being asymptomatic carriers. But how do you calculate the risk, the cost/benefit ratio of distancing? We’ve already taught our children that strangers are not to be trusted. Now, can we not even get close to our friends safely? Are masks going to become as common as underwear? I think it’s kind of ironic that while many Westerners have been criticizing and condemning the wearing of the hijab and burqa, we are now covering ourselves up similarly.

These are the thoughts and questions that run through my mind. Perhaps, although the pandemic is bringing some of the worst out in us, it’s bring out the best too—our altruism and ingenuity, as we create new ways to serve each other’s needs, and connect “safely”. We will always find how to come into relationship.

It’s clear that relationship was always Derek’s main focus. And after all his miles of walking with others in community, and having to learn to get along with people under pressure, he knew the healing power of intimacy. And he experienced that the way to peace was to come together, when often it’s the last thing you want is to get closer to someone you disagree with or distrust. But you take the leap of faith, and you talk and listen and talk and listen some more, and you will find common ground. Sometimes that common ground might simply be, to begin with, the shared experience of frustration. Or—the shared threat of a new and unpredictable virus.

Derek’s experiences taught him that any time he had resistance to something, it probably meant he was afraid of it in some way, and had built a wall to protect himself from that thing or person. He continually worked on breaking down his walls, and even helping break those that others—institutions and individuals—had built. He would do this by asking permission, or gently provoking, or even by blatantly defying. I wouldn’t always have the nerve or impulse to do the same, but I found it remarkable how keenly he discerned how close he could get, and at what pace he could go, with love as his guide.  

So—right now, Derek would be out there walking, talking, and hugging, getting as close as anyone would let him. Me—I feel the same, but I am not sure I behave the same. I am more careful, more cautious, perhaps more sensitive. On a philosophical / spiritual level, I can easily say hoka hey. But, I am grateful for this life, and want MORE! On a practical level, I want to finish turning my landscaping fantasy into reality, and I’ve been told by my garden guru neighbour that it’s likely a ten year project. So—I’m not ready to go yet! Besides, I still have to update my will. So, I’d like some reassurance, please. But I know that there is none.

There really is NONE. There are NO GUARANTEES. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow crossing the street with my Covid mask on. I could die from anaphylaxis by eating an innocent piece of cashew by mistake. I have to be ready to let go. All the personal work I do, every day, each time I examine my thoughts and behaviour, all points to this place. Am I ready to let go? There have been times that I have said hoka hey, and meant it, and not in a morose or resigned way but an empowered, liberated one. I want to find that peaceful place again within. Letting go every day is a good exercise. Do I need all the control that I am struggling to keep?

Making peace with each other, making peace with ourselves, is all about admitting our own vulnerability and immortality, facing our powerlessness in the shadow of the great unknown. So yeah, I’ve heard it all before, but I need to remember, every day, that this life is a gift. I will choose not to squander it and sully my days with squabbles and greed and pettiness. If you disagree with me, come to me, get closer, and we will talk. And perhaps breathe a little of each other’s air if we dare.

30. Why social media? (Part 2)

Descriptions of breakfasts, upbeat sentiments about life, humorous anecdotes, upsetting news stories, simple updates on health or mood — these are all things I’ve noted in this morning’s survey of Facebook. And these are all the things we used to share with each other in person. Now, we have them all scrolled out before us like a buffet. We get to pick and choose which friends and which posts to focus on, which makes it really easy not to relate in any deep fashion with anyone. Perhaps I haven’t embraced FB, but still I go to it, almost every night, and scroll, scroll, scroll, hoping to be reeled in by something. I admit I often zoom past certain things. I know the look of reposted aphorisms and misquotations and I avoid them. I keep an eye out for original ideas, photographs, writing, and music, but there’s much to wade through. This can be frustrating. I feel like I’ve binged on junk food but am going to bed hungry.

What I really want, of course, is connection. But media does not give this to me. It gives me a platform, a tool, which is better than nothing. But in fact, I think FB can create distance between me and what I seek, by substituting a facsimile for the real thing I crave. And, it is causing me problems maintaining attention, which is essential for real connection. These deficits or difficulties are not necessarily inherent in the media, but are the result of its colliding with my brain. I am not wired for this kind of stimulation.

So, am I looking in the wrong place? Maybe I should pick up the phone! Remember that thing? I still have the kind with a long curly cord and rotary dial. It’s just another tool, but the sound quality is amazing! The difference between that and the delayed, echoey, scratchy quality of cell-phone calls is remarkable. That kind of quality will keep me on the line.

People don’t expect phone calls. They text, which is something I loathe. It often takes me more time to text that it would to call, so my mobile phone is turned off most of the time, and I don’t give out my number. I’m still a landline lover. But I only have one friend who calls regularly, every day or two —another dinosaur like me. If we’ve already spoken though, and the phone rings unexpectedly, I am inclined to ignore it. I don’t like to be interrupted. I am not good at being spontaneous. But yikes, I’m digging myself a nice rut!

It seems many of us enjoy the comfort of operating within the confines of Facebook, where we can exercise control, post and comment at our leisure, and choose when and how often we share responses. We can get away with assuming little response-ability for our posts. How people react is up to them. We can even badmouth total strangers and get away with it. However, I think enough people recognize the widespread damage that this can cause, and we are calling for change.

So why do I not pick up the phone more often? Why have I not developed closer relationships here in the town where I’ve lived for 9 years? Being widowed and getting PTSD changed everything, including my communication habits. As a newcomer I didn’t have a community I could turn to for comfort and help. I didn’t want to overburden the few folks I did know. Additionally, they didn’t necessarily know what I needed, because I myself didn’t really know; it changed from day to day. It took less energy just to try get along by myself and then pay professionals to do the rest. I’m talking practically and emotionally.

I don’t want to give the impression I’m friendless. In fact, I gradually made a good many pals through choir, a bereavement group, and a meditation group. I now have dozens of folks here whom I love (and like!) but still, very few I consider bosom buddies. It takes time to develop deeper relationships, and people don’t have time, myself included. I have commitments scheduled weeks, and sometimes months, ahead. But it has become clear to me that my busy-ness, although it has enabled me to get a lot done (I’ve really impressed myself by what I can do) doesn’t leave a lot of room for just BEING. And just being with friends.

I remember as a teen and young adult, just hanging out with friends, doing nothing but chatting, or perhaps playing cards or listening to music, and saying little. In retrospect, I can see how formative these experiences were. We were developing our tastes and discernment in music, allowing room for our imagination, and perhaps most importantly, cultivating trusted bonds between us. Would I consider hanging out a good investment of my time now? Probably not. I’d be restless. I’d be trying to think of smart things to say to fill the empty conversational space. I rarely even allow myself the discomfort of going out for coffee with a friend. Yeah, that’s right — it’s not a comfort to me. I think about the waste of money and time. The analytical part of my brain doesn’t see the value in it. But it should: emotionally, psychologically, spiritually, perhaps coffee dates are a much better investment than scrolling and bitching and feeling lonely.

It’s all too easy to stay home and be “comfortable”. In fact, I’ve gotten so comfortable here in this lovely city, in my beautiful home, that I’ve been longing to escape it again, and am contemplating moving away. There’s not enough going on, I feel trapped, and unrooted. I can list a myriad of reasons to flee. But am I seeking breadth as a substitute for depth? Why can’t I have both? Why move? Why not risk deepening my friendships here? Why not dig even deeper into the options that are at my fingertips here?

I speculate that having lost so many loved ones — my parents, dear friends, and my husband — I’ve been frightened from becoming too attached to any one person. Maybe on some subconscious level I worry that ultimately, I’ll be abandoned. And part of it may be that I compare everyone to my late husband, who was not perfect, but as close as they come (in my eyes, of course!). He had a way of making you feel like you were the only one in the room. He had infinite time for real face to face contact.

Another aspect of it is that I’m keenly aware that I can never find the unconditional love that spiritual connection gives me. I believe we all suffer from a kind of existential longing that arises when we’re born into these physical bodies. I do recall having that knowledge, if not in so many words, since I was very young. Since then I have come to discover that what a truly successful intimate partnership or marriage can do is give us the opportunity to channel love —unconditional and universal— toward ourselves. This is the most healing of all.

I wonder if, for all of us, social media connectivity is just a replacement for the unconditional love we all long for. It’s there day or night, and we can reach out and elicit responses that can mimic love. But how real is this?

I know that when I spend time away from the internet, it’s tough at first. I get jittery, and then begin to feel empty and lonely. But this is happens when I deprive myself of the substitute (AKA addiction). I have a plethora of other ways to occupy my time. But it’s even more uncomfortable to do nothing for a while, and just allow the feelings to express fully. Let’s hear it for sitting with discomfort! It can be a really good thing. And then, after some time, when I choose to engage with the real world, to read, or sing, or hike up the mountain, or cook, or stroll with a friend, time begins to stretch out, and I see and hear and feel more deeply into my environment, and every connection, whether with plant or animal or real human being, feels more rewarding than anything online.

I know these aren’t just my own thoughts. These aren’t new questions. But I challenge you all to make different choices on occasion. Shut off the computer. Pick up the phone and invite a friend out (to your own home, even!) for coffee. See how your investment pays off.

 

29. Me too?

What do you do when you’re snowed in? I eat all the food I’ve been squirreling away in the freezer and catch up on my favourite video podcasts. There’s a show I tune into regularly, which I won’t name, a one-on-one interview of often up to two hours. The host talks to the most interesting guests in a variety of fields—spirituality and personal growth, technology, fitness—the cream of the crop. I started off the day well, with Anita Moorjani talking about her healing journey through cancer. She, like I do, believes that we’re all Spirit, living in physical bodies, taking on challenges to advance not only our own lives, but our collective human evolution. So affirming! But the next episode was something else….

This one was a “inspirational” boot-camp guru. Apparently he has a huge following of (mostly) men, who pay to be whipped into shape, body and mind. At first he struck me as a self-possessed, well-composed, clear-thinking person. I was impressed by his commitment to help empower boys. But as he went along, I began to have doubts. My first warning sign was his repeated use of the phrase, “As a man….” When people set themselves apart by gender, or in other ways, it makes me wonder. I am very careful to monitor my own use of this kind of language, as it can reveal a mindset and world-view of separation. Even though we have our differences, and I find them highly interesting, I think I seek first to stand together with, not apart from. The distinction is important to me. Yes, I happen to be a woman, but I don’t consider it a hugely defining aspect of who I am. Call me a traitor to my sex, call me naïve, or worse, but I don’t necessarily believe that being female has made a huge difference to my life choices or experiences. I live in a woman’s body, but more importantly, I am other things first: sensitive, creative, musical, etc.

What the guru said in the following hour had me shaking my head in disbelief and sadness. The host brought up the Me Too movement, and the new era of feminism and identity politics. The guest asserted that men are being painted as the bad guy. “That’s all of us,” he said, and what we want is unity,  but “division is created when one side tries to gain power by being the victim.” Ironic how he revealed his true colours, by saying “side”, demonstrating the division he’d just referred to a moment earlier, and, oh yeah—blaming the victim.

I believe division is created when one person fails to see another as anything less than equal. And this can lead to violence—physical, emotional or energetic—when a kernel of instinctive aggression, which resides in us all, isn’t channeled in a healthy way. There are people out there, men and women, who commit terrible acts. But, no one can refute the statistics: men perpetrate more violence on women than vice versa. And women haven’t had the physical or social power to fight back. Until now. This is what Me Too is all about. And I can see that its time has come, to catalyze major cultural shifts.

But how about men’s violence against men? I’d venture to say that statistically this vastly outweighs violence against women. For this reason, I can get behind boot camps. That’s how to channel aggression in a healthy way. And I understand if it is more personally productive for the boot-camp guru to focus on educating men. That’s fine. I don’t mind that some women want women-only events either, but personally I don’t relate to this.

The boot-camp guru is part of a trend—one that I try to ignore, but it’s very alarming to me. There’s obviously a reason why his regressive ideas, and those of others in the neo-conservative men’s movement, are gaining traction. It’s the same reason we got Trump and Brexit. I believe it’s fear. We are searching for answers, because what was once safe and familiar and reliable is no longer relevant, which is confusing for a lot of us. Humanity is at a crossroads. We are reaching a critical mass for our next step in evolution, and those who are afraid are clinging to “tradition”.

The interview got worse, as the interviewee’s misogyny was revealed in no uncertain terms. “I Iost the power of my word with men,” he said, when he began letting women attend his events, because he was “trying to be agreeable”. He “dimmed his light”. He became more “feminine”. He didn’t like who he was becoming when he was training women. “It is in our nature to provide and protect and to posture, when even only one woman is present,” he says. He prides himself on being “alpha”, implying that it’s distasteful to be “beta”, and saying that men need to be leaders, and need rules to learn how to be men. How reductionistic and insulting. Not only is this blaming women for his weakness, but it’s shaming other men, those who embody less assertive traits, and those who follow their own inner compass. He said, with a smirk, when asked to comment on whether women should have the right to vote, “I’ll pass on that one.” Are you f*cking kidding me? Really?

I nearly choked on my Cheerios next when he said that women are natural consumers and men are producers. Um…what? Women make babies. Isn’t that kind of the ultimate in productivity? And apparently, girls learn how to be women from having blood in their panties. He said, pointing to his crotch, that when girls get their period, “it’s right there”, and for that reason, he extrapolated, boys need to be taught how to be men. What? Could his reasoning be any fuzzier? So the penis isn’t “right there” too? If girls learn all they need to simply from having periods, then men should learn all they need to from having wet dreams, right?

Boys AND girls, young people of all stripes, need guidance on how to navigate the changes in their bodies and brain chemistry. And we ALL need help learning how to get along in an increasingly complicated world.

At any rate, I am so very very tired of gender politics. YES, sex is a real thing. And by sex, I mean being male or female. Approximately half of all humans are born with male organs and hormones, and the other with female. There is a very small percentage of humans whose chromosomes are a little wonky and they have a mix of sexual traits. Some of these folks choose to call themselves “intersex”, and there are, I am sure, other terms I’m not aware of. But GENDER is most definitely a construct—one that has morphed out of the roles we naturally took back in prehistoric days— women as nurturers and gatherers, men as hunters and protectors — but I don’t believe these roles were always exclusive and sharply defined. Not even the animal world is predictable that way: there are all sorts of mammals and birds and insects who perform “non-traditional” roles.

More important is where we are NOW. We are no longer dwelling in caves. We have evolved, and are all a mix of traits, and we can be fluid and flexible. In the past, certain qualities were labeled “masculine” and “feminine”, but these terms are no longer relevant. I find the terms “yin” and “yang” much more helpful in this regard, Men might happen to be more aggressive than nurturing on the whole (more yang), and women vice versa (more yin), but it is indeed a rich and colourful spectrum. We all just different shades of human. And we have the right to express ourselves, respectfully, however the f*ck we want to!

I have to see all this cultural backlash as a predictable swing of the ol’ pendulum, but it’s tiresome. Why do we still take sides? Why do we still need labels? And although I am clearly irate about this, and disagree heartily with the boot-camp guru, I must still send this brother off with love. And in doing so I renew my commitment to the evolution of humanity, and to myself, to be as fully realized as I can, standing in my own power, without making anybody else responsible, or wrong, and celebrating all that is good about being alive.

28. What do I say when there’s too much, and nothing, to say?

I have been feeling ambivalent about blogging for some time now. Sometimes I feel like I have nothing to say. There’s just so much going on in the world that I am overwhelmed to the point of speechlessness. Every day when I walk, though, my head fills with ideas and words—most recently a long tirade about a misogynistic neo-conservative hero of the new men’s movement—but by the time I get back home, there’s a “To Do” list to tackle, and the words drain out of my head, my idea fizzles, and sitting down to write feels like more effort than I have time or energy for. I am sure there are thousands of writers out there who can relate.

Lately, I’ve been busy battling demons. It’s tough to share this, but I have been feeling shaky and vulnerable, not as robust and resourceful as I often do. It’s a bit of a mental health thingy. A bit of a confidence thingy. A bit of the ol’ PTSD coming back to bite me on the bum. I thought I had it licked. I thought I’d waved it “bye bye”. But no, it was lurking there in the shadows all the time.

I can’t even tell you exactly what set it off. But at some point in mid-December I had a weird health glitch, and I got triggered. This issue has been glitching on and off for almost 8 weeks now, and it has improved a lot. But, for a while there, it got to the point where I could not separate the issue itself from the panic it set off. Those of you who’ve had panic attacks may relate to what I mean. Before I started having them 8 years ago, I judged people who used the phrase “panic attack”, thinking, oh stop being so dramatic and just get over it! As if they were making the whole thing up. But no, I found out—it feels very very real, like you’re choking, like you’re fainting, about to die, even. It is VERY, VERY physical. It is debilitating, and affects every part of my life—physical, emotional, mental, social. I have had to work really really hard this past while, researching my health glitch, and more importantly, quelling the fear it has stirred up.

And now, on top of all this, it has come to the time of year when everyone dies on me. The months of February and March are when my mom, dad, best friend, another good friend, and husband died. I don’t think about it a lot ahead of time. I don’t dread February or March at all. I love celebrating my friends, and I love going through old photo albums and feeling so very grateful to have been blessed by their presence in my life. But perhaps my body still remembers the trauma, and that creates stress in ways I am not conscious of.

I hesitate even writing all this because the last thing I want is pity. But I do want to be real. I do have things to say, and I want to keep writing, even if it’s sporadic.

There are lots of good things happening for me. I am singing new songs, and loving a new person. I am blessed, but yes, even that creates stress. I will tell you more soon. I may have some ranting to do first, though. Stay tuned…

 

 

27. Why think about death?

It’s October 31st — Hallowe’en, time of ghosts and goblins, skeletons and spirits, aka All Hallow’s Eve.

What’s hallowed is holy, and this festival, along with the Christian feasts of All Saints’ & All Souls’ Days, morphed out of Samhain, the ancient pagan festival marking the beginning of winter and the new year. Samhain is said to be the time when the veil between this world and the “other side” is thinnest, and when departed souls are said to be especially receptive to our prayers and entreaties.

Tonight is also the eve of my birthday. So that makes me a Scorpio. This sign is supposed to be all about sex and death. Well—blush—perhaps this is true. But since my Virgo ascendent precludes my getting too graphic about my practices in bed, I must talk about death instead!  🙂

If I remember back to when I was a pre-verbal tot, I can recall a sense of separation—from what I now recognize as the other side—the Beloved, Spirit, Source, God. There was something not quite right about life on Earth, especially after I saw how people behaved and treated each other. It’s not that I wanted to be dead. It’s just that I still had one foot still firmly planted on the other side, where I was completely surrounded by love. I had a lot to learn about being human, and it wasn’t always fun.

Death is a difficult concept for children to grasp, but I had no occasion even to entertain the idea until 1973. Before then, nobody was conspicuously missing from my sphere. And then suddenly, when I was seven, my grandmother, who lived in our basement, was gone. Dad told me she’d gone to the hospital and wouldn’t be coming home. She was now “in heaven”. I had heard about that concept in church once or twice, but now I had reason to lie awake at night contemplating death and eternity. It frightened me. The possibility that a body could dissappear, but life could still could go on in some invisible, infinite way, forever and ever and ever and ever… was simply inconceivable. I know that seems to contradict what I said about having one foot in Spirit. But as I grew older, and lost touch with the other side, my conceptions of the afterlife were styled by my experiences of life on Earth.

My next brush with death was tripping over a dead cat on my walk home from school a few months later. The cat was black. I reached down to touch it. Still soft. But lifeless. I was terrified. More sleepless nights.

And then, for a friend’s birthday, we were taken to see the film Jesus Christ Superstar. Imagine taking Grade 3 children to witness the graphic lashing of their beloved savior’s bleeding back. WTF?? I cowered behind the row of seats in front of me. Death loomed even larger now in my nighttime fears, and remained a niggling gap in my understanding for some time.

I am not alone in being a death-traumatized kid. But it’s somewhat beyond the statistical norm how death continued to touch me throughout my life.

My cousin was next. He was a young university student, living in that same basement my grandmother had. He was a talented musician. I used to love listening to him play “Bridge Over Troubled Water” on our piano. Such a sensitive touch. He himself was “troubled,” so my dad said. One day he moved out, into his own apartment, and the next week he was found asphyxiated in his car, in the building’s parking garage.

It had never occurred to me that someone would want to end their own life. I’d learned about war and murder, which seemed ridiculous, and caused me to weep, but in a general way. No one in my immediate circle had died as the result of either. Now I had to learn about suicide, and I was angry. What could have been done to prevent it? Why didn’t he love us enough to stay on the planet? So many questions.

Death continued to punctuate my life after my cousin died, with the loss of aunts and uncles, other cousins, parents, dear friends, and my husband Derek. He and I used to talk about death often. It was a huge part of our relationship. We had both lost significant people in our lives, and his wife’s death in 2007 actually brought us together when I cared for her during her terminal illness. Watching her physical decline was difficult but educational, but bearing witness to her emotional and spiritual transformation in the months before her death, was a pivotal experience for me, one I feel incredibly humble to have been a part of. Derek’s grieving was an important element in our relationship, and not a day went by without our voicing gratitude, and acknowledging how fragile and precious life is. When he died, I had a number of very powerful, very real experiences of visiting with him in Spirit, and now I remember, beyond all doubt, where I come from.

But even for those who do not believe in an afterlife, thinking about death is a useful practice. I learned recently about the term “Premeditatio Mallorum“. It comes from the Greek philosophers called Stoics, who lived a couple of centuries either side of year 0. You may have heard of the more famous ones like Marcus Aurelius Epictetus and Seneca. Premeditario Mallorum is the practice of contemplating “evil”. Essentially, it is negative visualization. I love this! I have done this for years and not known there was a name for it.

This isn’t to say I don’t believe in the power of positive visualization. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of good books on the subject. And I could certainly jump on that bandwagon more often. But, there can be something really empowering about pondering the worst. When we can allow ourselves explore the farthest reaches of our fears, and confront our mortality in a very practical way, we are in a sense rehearsing our own death. When we can witness our own regret, sadness, grief, fear, disappointment, panic, we are moved to the heart of what’s important: love, kindness, beauty, truth—in the here and now. And, we are also motivated to take care of business. Make a list, write your last will and testament, clear the clutter, share your wealth, spend time with your loved ones, write a bucket list.

I made a bucket list a few years ago and it’s short. This isn’t because I’ve crossed a lot off; there were not many things on it to begin with. There is so very much to do in this world, and I know I will never do it all. I have come to understand that it’s not what I do that is important, it’s how I am being. I have no regrets. I know I could have done some things differently at times in my life, but I can’t change the past. I can only choose to behave differently today, and entertain different thoughts today so that I may have the experiences I desire tomorrow. But there’s never a guarantee.

I could always die tomorrow. So, carpe diem! Even if I receive the news that I’m gonna be hit by that proverbial bus on my birthday, I know that whatever I choose to do today, I will take great pleasure in it, whether it’s phoning my best friend, walking in the forest, baking and eating (an entire) chocolate cake, listening to my favourite LP records, or even washing the dishes. “Seize the day” doesn’t necessarily mean go out there and make it happen. It can simply mean: make the most out of what is real, right here and in this moment.

Now that I don’t have enough fingers or toes to keep track of my loved ones in the great beyond, death doesn’t scare me. I don’t mean to say that I’m some kind of enlightened guru or fool, willing to stand in the eye of a hurricane. My body still reacts to threats. It very much wants to keep itself alive. Life is good! But I have revisited, ever so briefly in dreams and visions, the “other side”, and it’s beautiful. It is a thousand-hued rainbow, it’s a choir in perfect harmony, it’s an everlasting orgasm of sheer bliss. Sex and death —not so different. And that’s just the beginning, I’m sure. It makes me giddy just thinking about it!

Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to me, every day we are born, and every day we are free…

26. How still?

Still.

It’s so still.

Sunday morning. The sky is overcast, a solid grey. Nothing is moving. There’s a soft, formless, quality to this moment.I sit and sip my tea, gazing out at the garden. No flitting birds, no scampering squirrel. It seems everyone’s sleeping in, even the wind. Nothing is quite awake yet or sure of what to do, where to go, how to be. Gentleness is required. No reason to hurry.

 

I see a leaf begin to quiver on the bamboo by the fence. And then, I can see some of the branches on the oaks across the street begin to gently sway. I hear a dog bark, a bird chirp. Everything is beginning to remember what it’s supposed to do.

 

I know I’ve said it many times after concerts, but last night was truly extraordinary. What happens in a concert is NOT ordinary. What goes on behind the scenes in the months before a concert is still not all that ordinary, but for musicians it’s the nuts and bolts. For me it has been 5 hours a week over the last three months, mastering the taxing, unmetered rhythms of Rachmaninoff’s “Vespers”, and learning to pronounce the mouthful of unfamiliar guttural vowels and consonants that’s known as Slavonic. Unfamiliar, unsetting, hard to grasp the form.

 

Choir rehearsals can sometimes be so unsatisfying because you never get to sing the thing all the way through. Phrases must corrected and repeated and honed. Before every performance, a choir is uncertain whether all their individual and collective work will coalesce, and do justice to the work, conveying what the composer imagined. If the fates allow, what follows is a co-creation, taking place in a space that transcends the material plane. What’s required is the composer’s vision; the conductor’s imagination, intention, power and respect; the choir’s skill, trust, flexibility; the audience’s willing attention; the space to bring the sound alive; and the time. So many aspects must come together. Will they?

 

Peter, our conductor, stood in front of us as we faced the audience. He gathered himself, and us, energetically. This pregnant moment was palpable. And then, in no hurry, a low, deep sound rose out of the bass section. Our young (almost 7 foot tall!) soloist began the sung prayer in full voice, deeper and lower than I knew anyone could make a noise. It was shockingly beautiful, and it rumbled the floorboards. Seconds later, or maybe minutes, the choir followed, riding the energetic wave for the next hour.

 

Now, what had seemed so incomprehensible became scrutable, not through study but through the singing of it. Peter transformed from conductor to artist, and we truly became his living sculpture, as he shaped us continually for the next hour, submitting to his sometimes gentle and sometimes forceful touch. The rhythm and sound and text became real through us. And then there was silence, and then I softly cried.

 

And the day is still beginning.

25. Is the Earth flat?

Seriously?

Yup. I had no idea until today that there were such people as “Flat Earthers” and there was such a thing as Flat Earth Theory. I was familiar with the idiom, but I had just supposed that we recalling the follies of the Dark Ages. Have I been living in a bubble?

I guess I spend enough time on the internet, learning about other things that fascinate me, that I haven’t dedicated more than a passing thought to conspiracy theories. But I made a Facebook friend recently (I’ll call him Sam) who, I found out when I viewed his timeline, is a Flat Earther. I don’t have many FB friends that I haven’t met in person, but I reached out to this fellow because I have his CD, which I adore. Sam wrote and performed the music on it. It’s gorgeous, and raw, and touching. His music, over the last few months, has become my morning meditation. Little did I know that shortly after perusing my new friend’s posts, I’d be writing to ask him, “WTF??” and then a few hours later, I’d be lost down the rabbit hole on Youtube. By the end of the afternoon, I had to call it quits to sit down and write this post.

So where did this whole thing come from? Who would need to question the validity of the Earth being a beautiful blue (if slightly squished) spinning sphere?

According to Wikipedia, “The flat Earth model is an archaic conception of Earth’s shape as a plane or disk….The idea of a spherical Earth appeared in Greek philosophy with Pythagoras (6th century BC), although most pre-Socratics 6th–5th century BC) retained the flat Earth model. Aristotle provided evidence for the spherical shape of the Earth on empirical grounds by around 330 BC. Knowledge of the spherical Earth gradually began to spread beyond the Hellenistic world from then on.” Since then, figures from Copernicus to Newton to Magellan to the first astronauts have contributed their own proof.

Flat Earth theory was revived— in the 19th century, and again in the mid 50s— with claims that no detectable curvature of the planet can be seen on surfaces of water, nor from a great height in space. Flat Earth proponents on the web show video “evidence” shot from airplanes that show no visible curve. Subject this evidence to rigorous examination and it falls flat (pun intended). This still doesn’t answer the question WHY. Why is Flat Earth even a thing at all?

I don’t think most Flat Earthers get into it from a natural curiosity. I doubt that most of them watched the Earth’s shadow cross the Moon in an eclipse, or water disappearing down a drain, or the shifting horizon from the deck of a boat, or the aurora borealis, and wondered, how is this possible?  I don’t think they decided to exercise their powers of reason and find out for themselves. This may be pure speculation, and even out-and-out prejudice, but it’s very possible they had nothing better to do than to fall down a rabbit hole on Youtube. I’ve done this before when I’m bored (with admittedly lighter fare like Midcentury Modern design) enjoying a certain satisfaction clicking one button after the next, making one comment after another, but it’s ultimately a lost cause. You can find anything you want on the internet, pro or con ANYTHING. For those of us who are prone to obsession, it’s highly flammable kindling!  And for those of us who may live alone, it can be a way to connect with others who share our views, and, ultimately, a way to feel part of a tribe, by separating oneself from those “others” who’ve had the wool pulled over their eyes. I know —this is getting ironic here.

This isn’t about Sam now, but I do in some way feel like there’s something to defend, although I don’t think it’s my job to prove the Earth is spherical. I think that’s part of the Flat Earthers’ schtick; if you try to refute their claims then they demand proof. Of course most of us aren’t as smart as we once were in high school, so we’re left sputtering and getting huffy. Most of us take a spherical earth for granted. So, you’re darn right it’s smart to question things we take for granted. But personally, I have no problems with received wisdom on the matter.

The idea that anyone would take this flat Earth theory seriously, is, to me, disrespecting hundreds of years of tried and true science. It’s disrespecting scientists themselves. I know a few handfuls of them. I am not saying that there are some scientists who, sadly, have become puppets for drug companies and worse, but you’d be hard pressed to find a real scientist who couldn’t disprove any of this Flat Earth stuff quite readily. Real scientists have a passion for uncovering the truth. They make it their business, and a few have gone so far as to risk their careers and sometimes their lives, to do so.

Flat Earthers are not only disrespecting Science, they are disrespecting the majority of people’s lived experience. Virtually everything we take for granted — weather, seasons, day & night, the phases of the moon, air and sea travel, gravity, the tides, satellites crisscrossing the sky, cellphone reception, is possible because the Earth is a globe.

Sam asked if I am open-minded. I certainly think of myself that way. I have spiritual beliefs, based in lived experience, that don’t necessarily fit in with a scientific/materialist view of the Universe. I think that Science just hasn’t developed the tools yet to explain a lot of things. However, Science has developed the tools and methods to explain A LOT, and I am in awe of scientists. What feats, to have solved some of the greatest mysteries of this amazing planet and beyond, and to have invented and built such a myriad of manmade wonders!

I actually believe that anything is possible, but not probable, and that’s the key distinction. The idea that the Earth is flat is highly improbable. There is no evidence of it. That which is being held up as “evidence” is flimsy. It’s anecdotal and pseudoscientfic. However, there’s ample evidence, hundreds of years of experiments and data, and a whole living laboratory of it around us, proving Earth is a globe. From what you can observe in the natural world (the tides!) to what you learn from grade school to grad school, and see in the wonderful videos from NASA, to fun experiments you can do at home with friends, proof is everywhere. But it seems that to Flat Earthers, all this evidence is a hoax. It amazes me that someone could be more inclined to believe that a hoax could be perpetuated on such a massive scale as this, with every government and corporation and school and business in collusion, than believe the elegant proof under our very noses. We don’t know everything about the Universe, by any means, but she what she has revealed to us we have done our utmost to explain, to the best of our abilities, at this time. Science is always in the process of refining its instruments and methods.

Now, if this whole Flat Earth thing is simply a philosophical argument, a device crafted to shake us out of our complacency and lazy thinking, that’s fine. I can go there. They don’t actually seem to be doing much critical thinking themselves, but — philosophically, or spiritually, yes, I agree that everything we experience/ see/ hear/ feel and measure is, in effect, an illusion. But in the material realm, which we live in, and (more or less) agree is “real”, we have proof of Earth as a globe. If you flatten the planet, theoretically, then everything we know about how the Universe works falls apart. OK then. Can a better hypothesis be provided, and testable, measureable proofs? No. If science was doing a lousy job of explaining things, then there would be good reason to seek and offer alternative theories to the globe. But science is doing a splendid job. So why this waste of time?

My FB friend insists that there are pilots, ballistic experts, surveyors, CIA and engineers who support this theory. This is mind-boggling to me. Presumably, they’re university educated, yet they’re buying into this and other conspiracy theories. (Of course, that’s what they’d say about the rest of us.) But I bear in mind that there has always been and always will be a percentage of the population who may be highly intelligent but are also a few coupons short of a toaster oven (as my dear friend Yvette likes to say!)  A few of those nuts, throughout history, have been proven brilliant. Others are just plain nuts. And now, with the Internet, any nut who has the means, and the vocabulary, and knows just enough (remember that phrase: “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing”?) can put him- or herself out there very persuasively and attract followers. It recalls those days before the birth of Christ, when every Joe Blow was proclaiming himself the messiah.

Part of Sam’s defense was to inform me that large numbers of Christians and Muslims believe the Earth is flat. This detracts from his argument, in my view. Many religious people believe things that are patently untrue. We’re in a post-religious period in history, when science has been able to explain things much more precisely than religion. Science is about provable theories and laws that are testable and repeatable and accurate to an incredibly high degree. Much of religion is myth and superstition. This isn’t to say there isn’t a place for it, but that’s not what I am writing about.

What I find perhaps the most disturbing is why these people, who clearly have the passion and the time, aren’t spending it more productively —ending poverty, building renewable energy sources (but of course that involves the sun and weather patterns, and if the Earth is flat, then those things are also called into question!) Of course “productivity” is a subjective thing, so I am sorry to have sounded judgmental there. But it’s just so sad to me that these motives seem so good but the target is off.  Skepticism, the urge to search for the truth, the drive to right wrongs, the impulse to get people to question commonly held beliefs— these are all good things. But it’s a shame all this energy isn’t being channeled differently. But perhaps the Flat Earthers are just part of the Big Picture; maybe we need a certain contingent of fringe-thinkers, and they’re doing what they’re meant to be doing, if there is such a thing. To every season….

If there is any conspiracy at all (and this is just a fun thought!) perhaps it’s that these Flat Earthers are actually being used by the government, or the corporations, or aliens, in a gigantic red herring to distract the rest of us from what’s really going on, whatever that is. I do believe that humans are being brainwashed, but in different ways than Sam does, I guess. By corporate interests who are simply exercising their greed, who are training us to rely on them to meet our needs, and to think we can’t live without the latest smart phone or lipstick.

What is it in us humans that causes a need to believe in conspiracies? Here is my theory, after only a few hours of contemptation. I think it manifests from restlessness that in itself is masking greater disturbance. Many of us, myself included, have lost the ability simply to enjoy silence, to sit alone, in nature, or in our homes. We are driven to keep ourselves occupied. And for many of us, the internet fits that bill. But dig a little deeper and—why can’t we sit still?  Sit long enough in silence and it’s painful. Not just for your body but for your mind. We all suffer, as humans, to some degree, with ill health, with poverty, with loneliness, challenges at work and in relationships, and with seeing a world at war and an environment in decline. Who wouldn’t want to spend time doing what feels much better, instead of focusing on our problems? It’s natural. For some, the distractions are innocuous pastimes, like reading or stamp collecting; for others it’s more adventurous like skydiving. Nothing wrong with this! For others though, it gets more addictive, with alcohol, video games, or gambling. Anything can become addictive. We want a panacea that does not exist. So, we may seek a villain to blame, or a conspiracy of villains. That’s a lot more palatable than looking at our own crap. And then, when we find the monsters, or the wizard of Oz, and draw back the curtains to expose the fraud, will a rainbow will appear and reveal a pot of gold, relieving us of our woes? Do we all wish to be saved, in some way?

My diversion, today, was Flat Earth. But what total strangers on the internet have to say is really not actually important to me. But there was value in this day. Though I am not, by nature, much of an arguer, this was a good exercise for me in articulating my thoughts and beliefs. In the past I probably would just have not bothered to write this. Who am I to try and persuade anyone of anything? Why does my opinion count? I realize I don’t have to change anyone’s mind. But I do owe it to myself to explain my views, which matter as much as anyone else’s. And, I believe so firmly in the inherent good of people that I think Sam deserves more than to be just brushed off. I’ve invited him to read this post, but he’s already informed me he won’t read it. I actually admire the guts he must have to share his views, considering how against the grain they are!

To finish, I must be clear that my point here has not been to poke fun at Sam, or those with similar views. I guess it is more personal than that. The thing is, I am puzzled and sad, because I have no idea how I can be actual friends with this person. I am not saying it’s impossible, but it does stretch my imagination!  I respect his right to believe what he wants, but I don’t respect his actual beliefs. And they seem to be a big part of his life —a part I’m not interested in, and a part that could throw the rest of his character into question for me. It’s always good to connect with others who have varying viewpoints, and I am interested to know how the guy who wrote that music can be the same guy who holds these beliefs, but then I have to think about I want to invest my time. I still love his music and I’m happy to keep listening to his CD, as I listen to other music and watch films by people whose work I love but whose beliefs and/or actions I find distasteful (Michael Jackson, Kevin Spacey and Roman Polanski come to mind). I sincerely wish Sam all the best, and that he finds what he is looking for. Perhaps our paths shall cross in real life, and perhaps this is the end of that particular road.

24. Why Social Media? (Part 1)

Most of the time of the time I’d rather be living my experiences than writing about them. This makes it rather challenging to be a “writer”. (I don’t even really consider myself a writer, but that’s another thing I hope to write about soon – ha ha!  I am shocked that this is my first blog post of the year — in April — but I vow the next will follow soon!)

Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat and Facebook, (etc, etc, etc…) have become such an intrinsic part of our culture. Being the dinosaur I am, it’s just this blog and FB for me. I have even more dinosaur-ish friends who engage in no social media whatsoever, and I admire them, just as I cherish the few who don’t have mobile phones. I’m somewhere in the middle. These tools connect me with people and information when I am in need, and, admittedly, sometimes when I am bored. I am grateful, with a soupçon of resentment. I don’t post a lot, so when I do, it’s usually because I have experienced something of such salience to me that it overrides my privacy instincts and my desire to be doing anything but sitting and typing.

My last FB was about book sales. Each time I have presented a reading, nobody goes home empty-handed, and the volume of gratitude and praise I’ve received has been enough to make me overwhelmingly buoyant. But I recently filed my taxes, which required calculations, which revealed actual numbers. I shared the sinking feelings, the disappointment and frustration I felt, realizing that my is selling at a sluggishly slow rate. I knew that sales are only a facet of the big picture, and that as a detail person I can tend to get sidetracked by the little picture, which is constantly in flux. I am very happy about my book, proud of it, myself, my husband, and I do trust that it is carving out its own path, finding where it needs to go. But I didn’t feel like posting about that. I wanted to moan a little.

The content of the responses was so heartening. Some friends assure me how good the book is. Some people share their own experiences of feeling disappointment. Some people remind me to look at the bigger picture.

The volume and tone of comments provoked in me an interesting train of thought, examining motives (mine and others’) for posting and commenting. Overall, the sense I get is that my friends want to ease my suffering. That says a lot about my friends! My inward reflecting reveals a variety of reasons for any post. Sometimes I express myself just for fun. On that odd day when writing comes easily, it seems a shame to keep it to myself.  I hope to bring a smile to someone’s face, and even better, a hearty laugh! I enjoy the process and I enjoy the feedback. Sometimes, though, feedback isn’t just icing on the cake; part of me craves it. I’m attached to there being some kind of result.

In these cases, I may write to elicit concern or interest about something that’s important to me. This in turn makes me feel validated, of course. Occasionally I seek help. More often, empathy. Occasionally I just want to shake things up. Most often though, I want to feel understood. I admit that although I have a very tender heart (or maybe because of this) I can keep people at a distance. For a variety of reasons I often find it easier to be alone. And then of course, because of this, I don’t feel fully seen and known. So sometimes, it’s good to reveal my shadow side.

It’s good to be real, and share my woes and frustrations. I would find it tiresome and dishonest to present only my “best side” all the time. It’s also good to remember that the shadow is just part of the big picture. We all have our own emotional weather system that changes day to day. But underneath that is the core of who we are. It’s not even a cup half-empty or half-full; it’s a cup overflowing.

I encourage you all to look a little more closely at why you post the things you do. What does it mean to you, to share bits of your life in this virtual way, with people you might never have even met? Ultimately, is it a poor substitute for what we’re not getting in “real” life? Or is this real enough? Being the age I am and having lived for decades without social media, it doesn’t feel real enough to me; it’s just a proxy for real. I’ll get into this more with my next post, sooner rather than later, I hope!

23. Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about? …

… says Charlie Brown. I can relate, especially to, “I just don’t understand Christmas, I guess. I like getting presents and sending Christmas cards and decorating trees and all that, but I’m still not happy.”

It’s not that I get sad or depressed. I get confused and grumpy and wistful. Every year, even before December rolls around — I start feeling a sort of ambivalent anxiety about Christmas. How will I spend it this year? The whole affair just seems so fraught with logistical and emotional baggage. I never thought I’d be one of these people!

When holiday ads start playing on TV, and stores begin to deck their halls—sometimes in early November—the feeling starts. This is all wrong, I think to myself. It’s too early. At this rate, we’ll tire of the tinsel and tunes before mid-December! It’s less special and more spend, spend, spend! (I can hear Charlie Brown now … but fortunately this also brings to mind Vince Guaraldi’s music, which always brings the warmth back to my heart.) But what do you as a non-consumer, or a Muslim, or Jew or Buddhist, or…  when Christmassyness is in your face for 6-8 weeks?!

When I was a kid we put the tree up no more than one week before Dec 25th, and then took it down on after the 12th day of Christmas, January 5th. It makes me sad to see trees out in the rubbish piles on Boxing Day, and people rushing out again to buy more STUFF at the sales. Isn’t Christmas about the Prince of Peace? Where’s the peace in all this?

Why celebrate Christmas at all? It’s a consumer trap and it’s politically incorrect. We’re supposed to be inclusively vague and talk about seasonal celebrations. Actually Xmas seems to be making a comeback this year, due perhaps to the world political climate. Maybe far right Christians and Capitalists feel much safer flying their flags overtly, and the rest of us feel driven, in these troubled times, to engage in lively celebration to ward off evil!

Obviously for a very long time Christmas has not been a strictly religious holiday. Although I’m not devout, I am a fan of Jesus for sure. But what would he think about all this fuss? Why not focus more on Solstice? At least we know it’s an actual thing! Arrggg… I really do like Christmas. And that’s why I’m upset!

I was one of the lucky ones, whose childhood Christmases were truly magical. Mum was an artist, and from a very young age I was invited to collaborate in the decorating. We’d make things out of scraps of paper and fabric, pipe cleaners and cotton balls, hauling all the materials out of a gigantic drawer where she’d been squirreling things away all year. The process was fun, and so was the result. No more than two weeks before Christmas we’d put up the tree and spend hours decorating it together, adding our new hand-made ornaments to the ones we’d made in the preceding years, and also antique ones dating back to my great-grandmothers’ time. Fortunately we shared the same decorating ethos. It had to be done methodically. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about giving the care and time needed to create magic. After the final angel was placed on top we all stood back in awe. Could it really possibly be more beautiful than last year’s tree?!

Back in November we made Christmas cake for friends and family. Even though I wasn’t especially fond of eating the stuff, I loved the cake-making ritual. I am not sure where Dad and my brother disappeared to, but for that evening it was just girls, and often Grandma and Mum’s best friend Sheila joined in as well. The excitement began when with a flourish I opened the tubs of candied fruit all colours of the rainbow and dumped them into my old plastic baby bathtub that we used as a giant mixing bowl. Then I got to pour the molasses in, raising the measuring cup up as high as I could and tipping it slowly to see how long a thin black sticky stream I could make. Into the mix went at least one whole sack of flour and carton of eggs. We would each take turns stirring with a huge wooden spoon, and then eventually got our hands right into the mix to thoroughly blend and distribute all the fruit. So gucky. But yum! (I loved the raw batter.) Our hands were tired by time we’d doled portions into empty coffee tins to be baked.

My parents’ carol parties were legendary. At least two dozen friends and neighbours would show up, and often up to fifty people would drop in over the course of the evening. Mum and I would spend days making all the goodies: crackers, cheese dip, truffles, candied citrus peel and pretty gingerbread cookies. It was my job to take a bowlful of navel oranges and poke whole cloves into them for infusing the hot mulled wine that sat in a big pot on the stove. I don’t think anyone ever got drunk on it. I didn’t even know what drunk was, or that it was a common feature of grownup parties.

Such innocent times. People came to participate in a community event and make music. We had enough copies of two or three different editions of carol books so that everyone had one to sing from, and Dad would sit down at our old upright piano and intone in his trained-actor voice, “Joy to the World—page 32 in the green book or page 16 in the red book.” Some of my parents’ friends were professional musicians and some couldn’t hold a tune for the life of them but it all sounded beautiful to me. Of course the highlight of the evening would be Dad singing “O Holy Night”. Everyone knew it was his big solo moment, to nail that A flat. Or not! Either way, my heart swelled with pride. After that I’d go to bed and the singing would continue on, lulling me to sleep. I was never happier.

When Mum died, I was in my early 20s, and in the throes of my first real love. Everything fell apart, including Christmases, and I was not grown-up enough to put any of it back together. I resented Dad’s expectations for me to take up the reins, and my cousins’ kind invitations, and spent the following few years away from home with my boyfriend’s family during the holidays, swept up in completely different traditions. Much later when I was married, I enjoyed reviving and reliving my own holiday rituals and sharing them with my husband.

I love putting up a huge tree at Christmas, and baking, and playing all my holiday record albums, but the older I get, the more physical and emotional energy it takes to do all this, especially since being widowed. For some reason I pressure myself. Why? No one expects anything from me; I have no family to please or entertain. Yet I feel I should either take on the whole enchilada or— do nada and escape to a land without Christmas. I’ve not managed to do either. I dive wholeheartedly into my choral singing commitments but end up too busy and tired to participate in other different holiday activities. I don’t get around to making cards and decorations until early December, alternately bumbling and scurrying, annoyed with myself that I didn’t do it back in September so I’d be freed up for other things. Oh, how hypocritical of me—I’m the one who resents premature Xmas! Of course I’m not starting early!

One of the best Decembers I ever had was in London a few years ago, where I reveled in all of the festivity and none of the responsibility. It was liberating. I recaptured a bit of that feeling recently. One evening after dark, I walked alone through my neighbourhood. Walking in the city at night is one of my favourite things to do. I love glimpsing snippets of people’s lives through half-closed curtains. It’s not particular individuals or stories that interest me; the virtual snapshots create a mood. A smiling face, a flash of tinsel, a fogged-up window, sparkling lights, smoking chimneys … I imagine steaming hot cups of cocoa and parlour games. I guess I’m a bit of a romantic that way. But I think it’s more primitive than that; somehow seeing other people at rest takes the edge off my anxiety. It’s a way of participating in society anonymously and passively, and it gives me a lovely peaceful warm feeling.

Another day I was downtown with a friend, and she needed to pop into a store to buy a couple of stocking stuffers. The young clerk asked me if I’d finished my Christmas shopping and I gleefully, if perhaps a bit smugly, answered, “I don’t do Christmas shopping.” Honestly, the look of puzzlement on her face was hilarious. I looked around the shop at all the glittering goods, and felt relieved. It was fun to be immersed in the hustle-bustle without any obligation to buy anything.

It’s not like I’m a total anti-shopper. I later found a sweet little choir of angel candle-holders at a vintage shop. I brought them home and arranged them on the piano with some mini twinkle-lights, then nestled some origami birds into an arrangement of boughs. I made some sugar-free shortbread and brought out my Vince Guaraldi Christmas sheet music to plunk out on the piano. It felt so good. Aren’t I lucky? However much or little I do at Christmas, my heart is always opened, like the gift it is.

Why, if it brings people joy in these times of turmoil, should I want to curtail the premature jingling bells and the rushing shoppers? Later, I’ll enjoy my tree in January and bless the rest for getting on with the new year. There is no peace in being judgmental. Isn’t part of peacemaking to get closer to those we disagree with? If at worst we forgive and tolerate each other, and at best we join in and celebrate and let our hearts be opened, then we’ve got it pretty good.

So, have I answered my question? I think I’ve gone on a nostalgia trip more than anything, so hopefully you’ll forgive and tolerate.

Merry Christmas everyone. And Happy Solstice. No matter what your spiritual beliefs or cultural practices, we all live on this little blue spinning planet that revolves around the sun. There will be a solstice and the light will return. We each have a heart to be opened.