Monday, November 29, 2010

WikiWhat?


"The best argument against democracy
is a five-minute conversation
 with the average voter."


~Winston Churchill~

Our news needs some work. A little tweaking and re-prioritizing. You know get out your hammer-saw-and- 95-piece-screwdriver-set-tweaking.

First of all I have to admit to falling off the intellectual band wagon today people.  I succumbed to the convenience of the Toronto Star while picking up a coffee after a rather harrying appointment this morning. My most sincere apologies to the writers, editors and publisher of the greater than great Globe and Mail.

Having worked for a newspaper in the much over-romanticized "objective" (bullcrap) news business, I know that what comes above the fold is the most sensational newsworthy "news" of the day.  Did you know by the way that NEWS is an acronym for NORTH, EAST, WEST and SOUTH?  Yes? No? Well, that's the educational piece of this blog for today.

Anyway since the Toronto Star has pimped it's Saturday edition out to the seventh level of hell advertising Gods, it's become unclear (during the weekends ) what's news, and what's evil consumerism propaganda.  Today I decided that it was news above the fold, or what we have come to expect as news in our latte sipping, apathetic way.  "Diplomatic disaster for U.S." read the headline just below a photo obituary tribute to Leslie Nielson, and Grey Cup shot.  Under the headline (commentary to come regarding the headline), was a colour photo of the election protests in Haiti. 

Welcome to Monday morning Toronto, and enjoy your coffee.

"Diplomatic disaster for U.S." Seriously? Which editing genius came up with this?  Perhaps a more apt and true headline could have read, "Further Diplomatic Disaster for U.S." or "U.S. Still Diplomatic Dunce", or, "U.S. Foreign Policy - LOL".  Please don't think that I'm truly criticizing the editor here. I mean I know what kind of job it is to spin meaningless drivel into news on a regular basis.

WikiLeaks. Honestly.  Have we not yet evolved from our global political adolescence?  Are we really surprised that the U.S., or any other country for that matter is spying on it's neighbours, allies and enemies?  Do we really care that Moammar Gadhafi has a penchant for buxom blondes?  Hell, I might just line up for that free ticket around the world. 

Does it surprise anyone that Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP) will twist words about whiskey and lies about U.S. military operations to serve it's own purpose? Come on people!!! This is not news - it's typical human thoughtlessness in speech. Heck, I take more care in my speech to long time friends about my own business than these quasi-Hollywood-world-leaders do in theirs.  Although, I do secretly and arrogantly think that my life is absolutely sensational. 

Four world leaders are pictured on the third page of the equivalent of grade-eleven-he-said-she-said-I-recorded-it-in-the-locker-room-high-school-smut;  Nicolas Sarkozy - named the Emperor with no clothes, but a populous with a centuries long tradition of good old fashioned frenchie-outspokenness-and-crassness-that-only-the french-can-get-away-with-non?  There's the "Risk Aversive" German Chancellor Angela Merkel, Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin or "Alpha Dog". Alpha What?! Quite.  Alpha Dog only at a club after four of five The Dude/Big Lebowski-White Russians-and-a-spliff. Give. Me. A. Break. Finally there's Hamid Karzai, (whom incidentally I secretly think is uber-sexy, right up there with septuagenarian Leonard Cohen). The Star refers to him as "Driven by Paranoia". Whatever. 

All I have to say is shame on WikiLeaks for even existing. Shame on "us" for allowing them to exist. Right Speech?  "P-e-o-p-le"....as my grade nine science teacher used to drone, "think!". Think hard....speak the truth, speak with compassion, be encouraging and helpful in your speech. We elected these folks, or at least have not opposed their leadership in great numbers. This is our mess too. We suppported it and helped to create and sustain it.

The election in Haiti, and the mass uprising of the populace to right a wrong. This is news. This is news we, as privileged, over-indulged, ignorant CNN sucking North Americans had better perk up and pay attention to.  This is how to affect change.

Personally, I found the Canadian Tire flyer way more intriguing than the headlines today. We know the political leaders of the world feed off of some weird narcissistic aphrodisiac, but what the heck do men do with 95 piece screwdriver sets? I mean - really. Do all 95 ever get used? Think about it.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Gatsby Socializing and The Real World

"Life may not be the party we hoped for,
but while we're here we should dance."
~Author Unknown~
I used to be fabulous. I used to be ballsy, and fun and outgoing, and well, just plain fabulous. Anything I wore I made look even more stunning. Anyone I met was intrigued by me. All of the lounges and pubs and clubs and bars I went to were the best.

Gatsby socializing is what I called it. Everyone dressed to be looked at. Everyone was fabulous, fascinating and desirable.  EVERYONE was perfect. I drank martinis, had bottles of wine or the best tequila ordered for me. We all smiled, feigned interest in each other's pretentious lives just long enough so we could tell them how fascinating and fabulous we were. Life was great. There was no threat of carrying anything meaningful in that backpack of a soul we were blessed with. It was empty, save for a tube of fabulous lipstick, the number of a cab company, and our real lives crumpled up somewhere in a side pocket like the homework the dog ate last week.

Gatsby socializing is exactly what I needed in my 20's, and I was good at it. Like really good. I read the paper, watched the news, travelled solo, knew the best places to dance, eat and play. Men actually dated me. I had fabulous meals, surprises, flowers, love letters. You name it. It was all fabulous. After all, when you're that good, who needs a meaningful relationship?

I wore my resume like a badge.  In all of those Gatsby moments, I was fabulous. I was not a single mother.  I was not lonely, or insecure, or tired from the demands of working, parenting and making ends meet that were never really long enough to tie a nice, neat, beautiful bow around my life.  And then it all ended. Kind of like a car crash that only dings the car a bit, but rattles the driver to the point they just can't drive any more. It didn't kill me like the Gatsby crash, but it definitely sent me into shock.

During the Gatsby socializing stage of life, I was looking for Mr. Right.  Mr. Right Hair Colour. Mr. Right Amount of Hair. Mr. Right Education. Mr. Right Height. Mr. Right Resume. Mr. Right Romantic. Mr. Right Traveller. Mr. Sweep Me Off My Feet In Every Possible Way. Times have changed.  Mr. Right's packaging looks a lot different these days.  Back then I had forgotten about Mr. Right Morals, Mr. Right Values, Mr. Right Kindness, Mr. Right Gentleness, Mr. Right Sense of Humour and Mr. Right My Intellectual Match.

Just today, two of my girlfriends came to my office door bemoaning their love lives.  One is in the early stages of dating a few different men. One of the guys is an old flame from years ago, and the other's new love interests she barely knows. My other friend is negotiating her way through a rocky relationship that she desperately wants to work out, but is struggling.  Personally, I don't know what the heck is going on with my romantic life, but I do know I'm home blogging in my flannel pj's with no testosterone filled man ready to snuggle up and keep me warm tonight. Not unless you count my cat Leonard. Even Leonard has been rendered useless to the opposite feline sex, and besides that, he's a little too hairy for my liking.

So, back to my girlfriends. One is on a dating bonanza, or hopes to be soon. We've talked, and I'm ready to go on yet another of my famous manbaticals (ironically the spell checker recommends "monastic" to replace my manbatical word!). I'll dig in and spend a very long winter with my electric blanket and full flannels alone with a few good books and needlework. My friend says she's had a bit of a lull in her love life , and is ready for, "another string of losers".  Nothing like a positive attitude going forward.

My other friend, on the rocks, and up and down with her man says he's loving, attentive, good with a foot and back massage, but a bit of bum and too protective.  She admits to just not wanting to be alone any more, and knows that she's going to take this guy back, that they'll work things out and carry on.

I'm jealous frankly.  I'm in a manlimbo-batical.  I just don't feel like cranking it up and cranking it out on a million and one dates.  As I said to my friend the other night, "It's a complete waste of make-up."  My friends, especially the married ones ironically think I should just go for the night out and meal.  Honestly, I think I'd rather just stay in and heat up some gourmet cat food than subject myself to awkward company. 

Dating is a lot like a job interview.  You always leave wondering whether you had something in your teeth, and either praying they do call, or pleading with the merciless-dating-gods that he loses your number faster than you can pull your car out of the parking lot. I do have to admit that I do hope the man I last dated calls. (Keep it all crossed for me).

There are very few "good" dates that I've had.  I've had numerous dates that I recall making me squeal in laughter, or roll my eyes and and hold my head in embarrassment.  Like the time I thought I'd go on a quick date before going out to another party. I ran into the restaurant from the windy parking lot, and proceeded to have a conversation with a piece of hair sticking up just like Alfalfa from the Little Rascals.  Or, there was the time that on a third date the guy asked me for a loan, just until he got paid of course. What on earth?! Then there's the classic, I-thought-we-were-friends-but-this-guy-thinks-it's-a-date, very awkward date.

Unless there's some very handsome man who randomly knocks on my door after dinner, and has a penchant for women who do needlework and grade school homework while making dinner and doing the dishes,I will likely not be meeting Mr. Right Anything, any time soon. 

My friends and I are as likely to go to a club or bar now as a form of recreation as we are to stay up all night  drinking pop, eating potato chips, chocolate and doing one another's hair. We just don't do that any more. We get together a few times a year for a yummy lunch, or quiet dinner. We go to the art gallery, or to a cute bakery, or quaint jazz bar.  Don't get me wrong, we still have our outrageous moments, we just weigh the pro's and con's a little bit more wisely. We know what it's like to wake up the following morning and want to pull the covers WAY up over our heads when we remember the night before, or just vaguely remember the night before.

Do you remember my Gatsby days girls?  When I'd come into work with the most outrageous stories and then go out that night and do it all over again? Remember the remote control, the pants pockets, the staying out all night?

I used to be fabulous. I'm still fabulous, just not that fabulous. I, and many of my comrades have become fabulous in a more subdued, confident, casual way.  I'm ballsy still, but not edgy (please don't take a poll on this because I know I have some work to do here).  Fun and outgoing? Check - Tick.  I'm even intriguing still, but not because I'm out there Gatsbying full throttle. Just the opposite. I'm loving the simple things in my life more and more. Some might say I'm becoming more "reclusive". I say "selective". That makes me more mysterious and therefore more fabulous - right?

Sunday, November 21, 2010

This Buddhism is Very Serious Stuff



"Love is an attachment to another self.
Humour is a form of self-detachment;
 a way of looking at one's existence, 
one's misfortune, or one's discomfort. 
If you really love,
if you really know how to laugh,
the result is the same:
you forget yourself."

~Author Unkown~
Please sit down before you read this. I have something to write that will surprise, if not shock you into feeling disappointed, and possibly disillusioned. No. Really. Make sure you're sitting down before you read any further.

I have not yet attained enlightenment.  Are you ok!? Still with me?

As a matter of fact, today I think the only thing I attained was a cup of coffee at Starbucks and a copy of weekend edition of the Globe and Mail. Wait. Maybe that's obtained. Oh boy.

Earlier this year I decided that the conditions would be right for me to attend Dharma classes at my local Buddhist temple.  I've always wanted to have the time to do this, but what with working and parenting, I never seemed to have the time to really commit.  This was my chance. 

One morning each week, I trundle off to temple with my books, clipboard, bottle of water and a little bit of trepidation.   You see, I know I'm a long way from Nirvana.  Every time I "bite the hook", and become engaged in an argument, or lose my temper, or say something harsh, or in a harsh way (or, the triple gem of screwing up - doing all three at the same time), I know I've got a long, long, long way to go.  Boy, do I have a long way to go.

Hope lies in the teaching I'm receiving from Shifo, my teacher. She has the most pure, beautiful smile, all the while teaching the Dharma to an idiot like myself. I've never loved, feared, admired or wondered about a short, bald, puce-robe wearing woman so much in my life.

I've got the five precepts down I think...I can get by without killing, stealing, lying, sexual misconduct and even taking intoxicants (in a pinch). Does a glass of wine, half a beer or the occasional bottle of bubbly really count after all? This sexual misconduct thing....is it ok if it's two consenting monogamous adults? I mean, I'm just saying....

After my traditional coffee and newspaper outing....

Ok, I have an aside here folks. What the heck is it about people thinking that my newspaper is free game?! I mean, if I had my tattered copy of the The Great Gatsby sitting on the table next to my coffee, would someone assume it was for public perusal? Or, for that matter that my coffee was for randomly shared public consumption? Today a couple grabbed my paper and was just going to take it ( the very copy of the Globe that took me three stops to find yesterday). That is, until my fearlessness (one of the Buddhist three kinds of gifts - NOT this kind of fearlessness I'm assuming) got the better of me, and I let them know that that copy of the paper was spoken for.  They were offended that I actually wanted to read that paper. Perhaps I should have let them take it AND offered them  a taste of my coffee. Yum, yum, yum! Perhaps they should have at least asked if I'd mind if they read it. Which I would have minded since I read it and re-read it and refer back to it, but I would have let them share  anyway 'cause sometimes I'm nice like that.

Where was I? Oh yah, my Dharma classes, and what I got up to after my coffee stop.  I decided to study for my upcoming exam. It's stressing me out a bit. In the best way possible of course, because it's motivating me to study and learn.  I have always taken classes and earned degrees, diplomas, certificates and the like. The reason I'm taking this "course" is much different.  I like the principles involved, and how they apply to my every-day-living-working-parenting-friending-being-impatient-life.  

Learning the Dharma of Buddha in a community like the temple is a rich, life-changing, thought-changing experience. Learning about Buddhism in university, and afterward brought me to a much deeper and meaningful understanding of the Christian faith that I was raised in.  The conversations my classmates and I share after class while eating our lunch are deep, and funny. We talk and laugh a lot.

As much as I need to learn patience, mindfulness and even kindness, I believe humour is an important element in my own life that has served me well. Is humour joy? Joyfulness???  One of the quotes I studied today while preparing for my exam, "Happiness grows when shared. Affinity grows when discrimination vanishes." This idea is at the heart of the concepts of interdependence and interconnectedness of all beings.    My goodness, what on earth will I find funny now? I guess I will continue laughing at myself, and try to laugh with others.

I'll tell you what I found funny today....the way I looked in this sequined tunic today while I was shopping for a little somthin' somthin' to wear out to a few holiday parties.  Yet again aliens abducted me, and they held me against my will in a women's department store changing room! Can you believe it?  I absolutely cannot believe that I'm the only woman I know that this happens to. Then these shopping aliens brought in this sexy sequined tunic, and when I put it on (gasp!), I looked like a 5'8" snake with hips. The horror!  Thank goodness a saleslady heard my giggling cries for help, or I may never have escaped. Or worse, I escaped with only that hippy snakeskin and a pair of tights on...Run McDishy! Run!

Studying today I had a moment of pause thinking I'd have to give up laughing, what with this practice and serious study of the Dharma.  That moment passed. 

Saturday, November 20, 2010

"Beautiful Catastrophe" Days

“There must be quite a few things
that a hot bath won't cure,
but I don't know many of them.”


~Sylvia Plath~


Every writer has a ritual. For the great inspirational mentor of my heart (Mr. Leonard Cohen himself), it was to sketch every day before he started to write. This was one of the gateways to his higher art. 

So, fancying myself a quasi-writer at least, I realized that I too had my own ritual. A bath. Not just any bath, but a well planned, finely tuned bath.  First of all, I turn on the power to my wireless speakers, and then I putz around in the kitchen getting a glass of wine, or cup of tea, or, on those rare occasions when I'm desperate for a bath time-getaway-fantasy, I pour a tumbler full of pre-mixed Mai-Tai. 

I then connect a well chosen playlist, maybe some Leonard Cohen, maybe some John Mayer or a mix of "McDishy's Old Skool" (ok, I'm a geek), and  I make my towel-clad way to the bathroom where I fiddle around trying to get my wireless speakers to work.

Last night, as I watched one of the most depressing movies on the planet, I thought, "Gee, that lady looks like my neighbour. I should go and take her some Christmas cookies or something neighbourly like that." 

So, tonight when I was mid-ritual, trying to get my speaker to receive the lovely jazz Christmas playlist I had selected, instead of hearing music come out of the speaker, I heard my neighbour's voice.  Standing in the candlelit bathroom naked, it just felt a little weird.

Standing in the bathroom naked the same day I went to dharma class, unwittingly eavesdropping on a private telephone conversation,  just felt, well, kinda wrong.  I pressed the little frequency button (or whatever the hell that thing is), only to get a more clearly amplified continuation of the same private conversation.  Holy crap!  I was inadvertently hearing another woman's ranting about the man in her life. This didn't just feel wrong, it felt a little dirty.

I hit the button again. And again. And again. I felt like I was caught in a twilight zone episode, where any moment, my neighbour would find out I could hear her private conversation about how angry she was that  her boyfriend is an emotionally unavailable channel surfer and she was going to come bursting through my locked door to find me standing naked in my candlelit bathroom, clutching my speaker and looking, well, naked and pathetic.

After abusing the channel button, and hearing WAY more about her flubbed Friday night with this dude, I turned the darn thing off, and decided I would just play my Christmas jazz music really loud.  As I toddled my naked chubby self back to the bathtub, I imagined that if I turned my "spy speaker" back on I would hear my neighbour go on about what an ass her neighbour was because she played Christmas jazz music way too loud, way too late at night.

To top it all off, I had to leave the bathroom door open in order to hear the music, and I knew that as I relaxed in the tub with my head back and eyes closed,  my cat would be perched on the side of the bathtub staring at me like he was burning a hole in my third eye. Creepy and oddly enough, an assault on my privacy. Besides that, this cat's crazy and I'm always afraid he's going to chew my nipple off as I float there, eyes closed and unaware. 

When he was a kitten, Leonard the cat set his outrageously enormous tail on fire, and ran around our apartment with me wet and naked chasing him, all the while my six year old child yelling from the bunk bed, "What's that smell mommy? It smells like something's burning". To which I answered as any great mom would, "It's ok honey. It's just the kitty. Don't come out mommy's not dressed. Go to sleep baby." Yes, there will be many reasons my child needs therapy when he's my age.

So, although tonight wasn't a typical ritual bath, you get the picture. I soak, listen to some great tunes in my poor man's candlelit sanctuary, and let my mind go.

Tonight my bath-soaked mind drifted to temple, and what a beautiful catastrophe it was that my plans to go downtown to see the latest art gallery exhibit fell through.  After all, the cover of the Globe and Mail featured a piece on the exhibit, which I plan to read tomorrow morning in my favourite coffee spot, right before I knuckle down and study for my impending exam. Because my gallery trip was a bust,  I turned around and lunched with my classmates discussing consciousness and karma and all of those things that are rare conversational indulgence.

My evening plans took a massive dump last night, and I was upset about that to say the least.  Broken hearted and sad, I was relieved when one of my friends asked me to go with her and her young daughter to a local Christmas parade. At the last minute, I put on my grandma's Christmas socks, and bundled up.  We watched the parade, and caught up with old colleagues. I got to spoil a little four year old girl who was wiggly-giggly happy to see Santa Claus, and who shared my affinity for cotton candy, hot chocolate, and marching bands. 

So, my plans for the day went to hell in a hand basket, but as I soaked in the tub, with my freaky cat staring at me, I was incredibly grateful for my life and everyone in it. 

Maybe these rituals aren't just for writers or artists, but for everyone. A chance to slow down, take a few deep breaths - breathing in gratitude, breathing out our sorrows.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

I Got You A Little Something


"Christmas gift suggestions:
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, service.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourself, respect.”
~Oren Arnold~
 
OR
 
"Don't give
 ceramic-golfing-monkey-door-stops
 as Christmas gifts"
~McDishy~

When I was a little girl, I used to beg my parents to open their gifts early.  Please, please, pul-ease!!!

When I was a little girl, I used to get so excited about giving a gift that I'd almost go into seizure mode trying not to tell the recipient what it was.

When I was a little girl, a six year old little girl, I had my father convinced that I had out-done my six year old self when it came to giving the perfect gift.  I had single-handedly, -brilliantly- if you will, hunted down and purchased the perfect gift for my father. For any father for that matter.

For weeks I would squeal in delight about how much he was going to love his gift. How it reminded me of him, how it was just soooooooo perfect.  He tried to guess what colour it was, whether it was clothes, or food, or music, or something for the house, or the car, or something he could use at work.

He guessed and guessed and guessed until finally it was Christmas morning, and it was time to open the gift.  I was so excited as he held the  "ultimate gift" in his hands.  He held his ear up to the package as he shook it.  I danced from bare foot to bare foot, nightie dancing all over the place as I trembled in delighted anticipation. Oh man! This was it! He was going to loooooooove this gift! I was the best daughter EVER! 

He tore the paper away! Ripped open the box! Plowed through the bubble wrap to unveil.....DRUM ROLL PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE-The! Most! Gorgeous! Ceramic-golfing-monkey-door-stop-you've-ever-seen!  When I looked at his face, the unabashed awe was unmistakable. He was speechless. He loved it. I was six years old, and the best Christmas-gift-giver ever.

Just as a point of interest the ceramic-golfing-monkey-door-stop was no match for the painted ceramic plate with a mill scene which I purchased for him the following year. What can I say, I had a thing for brightly painted ceramics. We were barely out of the 1970's after all.

The ceramics were topped a year later after my grandmother taught me to crochet. I crocheted a light blue "hammer warmer" for my father. He gracefully accepted the gift with a look of extreme unabashed awe, followed by ripples and ripples of laughter from my mother and grandmother. You see, the blue crocheted hammer warmer looked exactly like a blue, well, like a crocheted condom. Yes, yet again, I had outdone myself as the gift-giving-empress.

Needless to say a few years have passed since then, and I think (hope) that my gift giving savy has been somewhat more finely tuned.  In those "few years", I have become a parent myself, and have shared that same unabashed expression of awe unwrapping gifts from my own child.  I think that look is one that every parent owns, or at least rents from time to time.

With Christmas looming in the not too distant future, there are a few gifts that I must buy. I am bound by duty and obligation.  Generally my friends and I have a meal together and make time for one another -what better gift to a friend who appreciates the value of time as a working mother.  A few glasses of bubbly are obligatory.

I would like to say that I scour the gift giving guides in all of the magazines to which I subscribe. I'm a magazine junkie, and although I do scan the gift guides, I don't think that spending fifty dollars on four square inches of lemon yellow, jasmine and citrus scented sachets really makes sense.  I do think spending fifty dollars to make a delicious fruitcake or two makes sense.  My friends would slap me if I bought them a one-hundred and eighty dollar Wedgwood pitcher, but they'd think that spending that much on a meal for a group of us was money well spent.

The simple things are what are most important to me. A homemade pie and cozy jammies, or, eating cake at the dinner table surrounded by the kids for my birthday are what makes the moments special; an afternoon out being made up and eating lunch, drinking beer, eating cupcakes, and gazing at world-class art....these are the moment that I treasure.

In the past I have been the recipient of; gorilla slippers, a vibrating pillow, sugar-free chocolate (that person turned out to be a dud...run if  you ever get sugar-free chocolate from man. Trust me on this one), tacky plastic jewelry that was found not purchased, really stinky soap, candles that ignited themselves entirely, a rabbit (?!), and broken piece of resin decor.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciated these gifts. I appreciate the sentiment more.  Someone told me recently that I was difficult to satisfy.  Not if you really know me.  I think that we're all easy to satisfy if we feel valued, understood and cherished. 

When I was a little girl, as much as I relished opening my presents, the anticipation of just looking at the wrapped gifts underneath the Christmas tree lights made me excited. I would sit in the before bed-time-quiet in my flannel nightie, blond pigtails hanging down, staring, as if at a miracle, at all of the fancy paper and bows.  I would walk up the stairs to my bedroom, taking one last look at that beautiful tree, and snuggle under my covers feeling like the luckiest kid in the world.

To this day, after everyone else is in bed, the magic of Christmas is somehow translated by the glow of the lights on the tree, and the deep peace of silence.  The presents under the tree are for my child now. He goes off to bed with the solitary lights of the Christmas tree glowing down the hallway. I'm left to lock up and unplug the lights before our home closes shop for the night. Still, the possibilities, the hope, the warmth of all that I know and am grateful for becomes clear in that magic space between the twinkling lights and the darkness.




Friday, November 12, 2010

We Need to Talk


Go to fullsize image
"Conversation about the weather is
the last refuge of the unimaginative."
~Oscar Wilde~

Someone sent me a list of over 200 "Thoughtful Questions" today. 

Often in my line of work, the business of "health-caring", we get lost in numbers. 


It's important to stop and reflect often. 

I'm challenging you to ponder just one question, and post your feedback here to share with others.





1. If you could express in a motto how you have lived your life, what would that motto be?


2. What does it take to reveal who you are?


3. In the expression, “Do whatever it takes” , what does it take?


4. What engages you?


5. How do we know that our network is getting too big?


6. They say that failure is a good thing. What is your best failure?


7. What would you like most to change about yourself?


8. What are you most daring about?


9. How do our children hold us back?


10. What is the best way to deal with friends who are not life enhancing?


11. When do you want to be misunderstood?


12. Describe a recent “eureka” moment.


13. What burns you out the quickest?


14. What have you done that you hope your kids will never do?


15. Why were you put on this earth?


16. What has shaped the choices you have made?


17. What does beauty mean to you?


18. Describe a pleasure that you do not regularly indulge.


19. Why do we like the words “thank you” so much?


20. What are the advantages of being anonymous?


21. Where do you feel a sense of place?


22. How do you deal with the remains of resentment?


23. What is the most rewarding thing you have done lately?


24. What gives you goose bumps?


25. Name one universal rule for growing old gracefully.

Wouldn't it be interesting to have a conversation with your friends, spouse, lover, children (etc.).....about these things???

Tuesday, November 09, 2010

Look out She's Gonna Blow!!!


"... love dares you to care
For people on the edge of the night

And love dares you to change our way

Of caring about ourselves

This is our last dance

This is our last dance

This is ourselves under pressure."
~Queen/David Bowie~




 Lack of patience begets frustration. Frustration is akin to a spiritual pressure cooking disaster resulting in all kinds of weird outbursts.

I have been told I'm a very patient and calm person, that I lend balance to conversation, and offer a very deep sense of calm to any issue at hand. Oh wait. WAIT! Nope. Wrong person. I think that was something said of Gandhi, or the Dali Lama, or Maya Angelou. Yep, pretty sure that wasn't about me.

I have been trained to listen, trained to mediate, trained to crisis intervene. Alas, it is all in direct opposition to my natural persuasion to be; Passionate! Creative! and  Fearless!, and an  it's-ok-everything-is-just-fine-I-have-it-all-under-control leader.  When I feel helpless to affect the change I want to see in my own life, I withdraw, focus inwardly, and think...think...think...and not always that rationally. Like Winnie the Pooh, sometimes I am a bear of very little brain. Usually, after some thought, some bubbly, and the inevitable,what-the-hell-I'm-going-to-jump-in-with-both-feet moment, I feel better.

Business studies have shown that effective people are not necessarily those who make the "right" decisions, but those people who can be decisive. It is said that those folks who  think things through to the best of their ability, and regardless of equally weighted benefits, drawbacks, and the great number of what-ifs, can make a decision and take action. In work and in life I have been known to take great leaps of faith, and as my great kiwi friend says, "Trish, I don't think it matters what you do. You're like a cat - you always land on your feet".

However, every once in a while no amount of decisiveness, planning or drive can make a dent in my  frustration.  I briefly did the math, and I've decided that about once or twice a decade the lid on the pressure cooker of my frustration blows high enough and hard enough to architecturally rearrange my life. 

This weekend the lid went through the roof. Metaphorically speaking the skylight that it created gives me a great view, and a fresh perspective on the sunshine I need in my life.

Feeling misunderstood at work and home at the same time is a great stress. When words are exhausted, time has passed and there's no solution, movement or resolution in sight.....frustration abounds and multiplies exponentially.

Despite my four dharma classes, deep breathing, and silent commitment to myself to just carry on along my own path and let the aftermath fall where it may, I completely lost it a few days ago.  I mean snapped. I mean completely snapped.  I'm surprised my head didn't spin, my eyes didn't pop out, or that I didn't begin speaking in tongues with the dulcet bass tones of satan.  The damage is done. Sorry doesn't take it away. Repeating what's been repeated in an effort to be understood is useless, and what led to the whole damn mess anyway.  But boy oh boy do I feel better.

Like the pathetic sounds of air coming out of a bagpipe after the last hurrah, I cried for almost two days after my lid popped.  Tears rolled down my face during meditation, and again in dharma class. Some lovely fellow whom I don't know came over and handed me a most unceremonious gob of tissues,  for which I was (and still am) sincerely grateful.  Thank you, thank you, thank you. Omitofu.

My adopted mom spent an afternoon with me being made up at MAC cosmetics and lunching. She had to suffer through me trying not to cry. Which of course is an awkward process of intermittent silence and verbal spewing.  Kind of the weird mood that goes just right with fish tacos and bananas wrapped in sugar-coated, deep-fried tortillas.

The victim of my totally-blowing-my-cool (and whom shall remain nameless), had a chance (I think) to clear their mind and have their say afterward, and I had to just let it all be. I was wrong. Ewwww....I hate having to admit that.  Wrong?  That's worse than being the "B" word.

Let me be absolutely crystal clear here; I was wrong to snap, but not wrong to feel the way I felt/feel.

Causes and Conditions eh?  Dependent Origination you say?  Absolutely. The conditions were perfect for the perfect storm as it were.   As I told my story to my friend Tish over a delicious sampling of a premium Belgian beer and blowing out a candle on a giant cupcake, I realized that feeling badly about the situation was going to do me no good.  An apology was all I could do to try and repair any damage.   Patience, and learning from my mistakes and past transgressions would take me much further. After all, it wasn't a total loss; the new skylight created by blowing my top provides a much needed new perspective. Cheers to that. Now make a wish and blow out the candle.



Thursday, November 04, 2010

Holiday Nostalgia

“I always knew looking back on my tears would bring me laughter,

but I never knew looking back on my laughter would make me cry.”

~ Cat Stevens~
 
I've thought a lot about this Cat Stevens quote since I read it a few months ago. It's the same kind of thought that my friend Terri expressed when I told her about my trip to France. She said to me, "Go make your memories now."    
 
An image of my totally spent and diapered eighty year old body slouched in a chair in a publicly funded long term care facility flashed through my mind.   I  pictured myself grinning like an idiot as my mind lost itself in all of the shenanigans I've managed to get myself into. (Side note here; there are moments in my memory that I hope stay clear as my mind deteriorates, like that little jewelry shop in Montmartre, and sitting by the shoreline in my cork heels and brown dress planning my future.....)
 
As evergreen displays and shiny Christmas decorations make their way to window displays and store shelves, thoughts and memories of the holidays can't help but trickle into consciousness.  I smell cinnamon pine cones and think of my friend Jan.  I see those animated, press-button decorations that sing and do some tacky dance, and I think of my friend Sandy.  In October, I buy my fruitcake ingredients and think of my grandmother. When I see ribbon candy I think of what a treat that was when my mom bought it, and tangerines always make me think of the year my dad did the shopping because mom was in the hospital, and he let me eat all of the tangerines I wanted.  Back then, in a small town, tangerines were a treat, you couldn't get them but for that time of year.  When I see old-fashioned french cream candies I always buy a few, not because I love eating them, but because I love the memories of my maternal grandmother that they invoke.
 
Regardless of how we spend the holidays in our adult years we always measure them by our memories from childhood. I have surrounded myself over the years with a wonderful set of friends who commit to spending every Christmas together.  It's become our tradition, and what I refer to as the "misfit" Christmas. My paternal grandmother always had enough (of everything), for "one more". I've followed in those footsteps, and I open my home to anyone else who would otherwise spend the holidays alone.
 
We all bring our old traditions to the table. The fun, happy traditions, like how they make their mom's gravy, or a jello mold on the table, or Christmas Crackers.  We also bring the nostalgia of the past to share as well, like the joy of being a kid and opening that one gift from Santa that you'll never forget.
 
There is also grief at the table.  We grieve our losses every year, and how in moments of nostalgia we long for our lost families.  Just like the quote from Cat Stevens, it's the most joyous times that bring the tears, and the memories of what seemed devastating in the past often summons laughter. There are tears and there is laughter.  It's been a number of years, and although this tradition is not traditional, it is ours, and it is what brings us comfort,meaning and gratitude every December 25th. 
 
I wonder what my son will remember traditions in our home. Will it be our traditional "Night Before Christmas" breakfast? Will it be decorating the tree with the decorations I buy for him every year?  Or will it be the memories that make us laugh, like the blue streak I curse every year when I have to string the lights on the tree? Or the year I chased the cat with the broom for knocking the ornaments off the tree -the wrong cat!? Will it be the giant orange jello goldfish on the table?
 
Nostalgia can be the most lonely place in the world as we grow up and grow older, establishing our own traditions in the wake of what life has presented to us. I have to agree with Cat Stevens on this one, I too never knew looking back on my laughter would make me cry. 
 
I also never knew looking back on my tears would make me laugh. 
 
Let me tell you a story.This is my story. Everyone who was there with me would have their own version, but this is mine;
 
What I remember most about Christmas is the day of Christmas Eve. I loved this day more than Christmas itself, and way more than boxing day.  My mother was a domestic dynamo - kinda like Martha Stewart on crack.  The house had to be immaculate.  The vaccuum ran through the entire house at least once that day, and everything was polished, put away, and ready to go. 
 
Generally on the 24th of December, the guys that worked for my dad would come over, have some drinks and eat from the wonderful trays of food that my mom magically produced out of nowhere.  There were cold cuts and cheeses, crackers and sweets galore. Boy, for all of our differences, I have to say that my mom was one heck of a baker! 
 
My sister and I would clean the house. As well as my mom could bake, she could swear. Holy smokes, sometimes it was like being in the navy, and she was the captain!!!  In those moments, it was awful, but now I look back on it and see the humour - like a bad 70's sitcom.  The cleaning and swearing was all worth it because I knew at the very end of the day, after our regular dinner hour, we would get to bundle up and drive to my gramma's house which was about two blocks away.
 
My grandma's house was humble. She had six children and a bizzillion grandchildren and great grandchilren. None of us were shy or quiet, and the chaos in the house was blissful as a kid.  On Christmas eve we would go over and the first thing we did was go to the tree.  You see, every year my grandmother came up with a new theme for her Christmas tree.  One year it was snowflakes, one year it was popcorn and cranberries that the grandkids strung, and one year it was these hideously ugly cabbage patch look-a-like dolls that she sewed.  We laughed at those dolls until tears rolled down our cheeks, gramma included. Each year she made over 100 decorations to put on the tree, and every year they were different.
 
On Christmas eve, my grandma made a special meal just for the our family, and then she made the traditional meal the next day for everyone else. She was a dynamo. You see, on Christmas day my parents hosted my mom's parents and made it a priority that my sister and I celebrated Christmas in our own home.  So, on Christmas Eve, my grandmother would cook this really great meal - it was often themed as well - just for our visit. One year it was Hawaiian, one year it was German and so on....
 
My grandma was quite a baker too, and she always had coconut cherry balls, mincemeat pie and butter tarts among the many other sweets she made during the holidays. Oh my gawd! My mouth still waters thinking about those tarts.  The mincemeat was another story. I mean what kid can get their head around minced meat as fruit???
 
Grandma handmade our gifts. I still have a beautiful white nightgown tucked away that she made for me when I was in my teens, and a quilt. All of the girls got one pattern, and all of the boys got another.
 
One of my aunts would always be staying at grandma's that night, and I went to church with her every year, along with whichever other cousins, aunts, uncles and friends were around the house at the time.  We sat in a cold country church and sang carols by candlelight, and then wandered home to open gifts. 
 
One very special tradition that we had was to celebrate "Happy Tacky". Each year we would make, buy or often find tacky gifts to give one another.  These are memories of laughter that do not bring tears, just more laughter. The rule aobut "Happy Tacky" was that if you got clothing, you had to try it on for everyone to see.
 
I think about my grandpa putting on an elf hat and posing for a picture, my grandmother donning a bikini, and my mom squeezing into some piece of suck-it-in-undergarment that must have been hiding in a second hand store since 1953.  The year I was engaged, my fiancee was gifted a bowling ball and bowling "helmet" for happy tacky.  My great-aunt saved my first attempt at marzipan from the Christmas before and gave it back to me for the next year for "Happy Tacky". The marzipan was hard as a rock, but still in the shape of a strawberry. 
 
And then there was coming home in the wee hours of the morning, and my mother's annual Christmas melt-down. Only on Christmas did we have "f-ing" potatoes. For the longest time I thought they were a special hybrid only sold during the winter. Needless to say, by 2am, and after peeling every "f-ing" potato in the house, my sister and I were darn glad to get to bed and fall asleep so Santa could come.  It wasn't until I was older that I could appreciate the melt-down, and now that I get thinking about it, what a great strategy to get the kids to actually want to go to bed on Christmas Eve. F-ing brilliant.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Wednesday, November 03, 2010

The Gift of Storytelling


"To share our stories is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller,
 but for those who hear our stories and feel less alone because of it."


~Joyce Maynard~

 Anyone who knows me knows that I love mugs and pens. When I have a good cup of tea or coffee in my left hand, and a pen in my right, I'm usually feeling creative, relaxed and positive. One year my friend Jan gave me a mug at the change of every season. I still use those mugs every day at work.  This summer my friend Vicki bought me a beautiful pottery mug that I save for writing and needlework at home. I remember Jan and Vicki with every sip, and the stories that we've shared.

Yesterday, in a quick but oh-so-necessary pit stop to Starbucks.....ok, ok, I know what you're thinking; "Yah right.  A necessary stop at Starbucks ( reverently referred to by my more left wing acquaintance as Sixbucks).  Yes. Necessary. I was working in the community yesterday, with nowhere to pee but gas stations and coffee shops. I refuse to pee where they sell windshield washer fluid and porn. Feel my pain people.

Anyway, I toddled into Starbucks and after my bee-line to the ladies room, I decided to order  a good-old-fashioned-decaf-non-fat-eggnog-latte.  What with having such a traditional holiday beverage, I got into the Christmas spirit and looked at the display of mugs, over-priced stuffed mice (again very traditionally Christmas - what the heck?!) and an absurd mug that had some weird verse about a squirrel going out and making friends. Who in the world are the marketers trying to kid? Squirrels?! Garden-Nazi-guerrilla-garden-wreckers and demons from hell. Nobody makes friends with squirrels! My girlie side won out, and despite the political squirrel propaganda, the mugs were really cute, and I want one.

It was the rather modern, red and white tall latte mug that caught my attention. Each year the company comes out with a new design for the paper coffee cups. This year it's mimicked by a porcelain one as well. The design is a modern red and white pattern with the usual Starbucksish self righteous and sometimes inspiring or witty comment.  Anyway, the little quip on the perma-version of the mug this year reads something about sharing stories over coffee because stories are gifts.  Sold again Starbucks. Great marketing. Great reminder. Somebody lend me twelve bucks so I can buy a mug and read that quote every day. Better yet, you go out and buy one too, so you remember to share your stories even in the busiest times.

Lately life has become an unlikely machine. Events like breakfast, homework, work, the gym and daily telephone calls have become so time crunched to be rendered almost empty of meaning. The persistent grind has become exhausting, so much so that making an effort to create or take in great creative works of the human spirit is disabled.

Over the years my work has become the calling of listening to the stories of others.  Listening, hearing with my heart, and validating, and then of course the necessary paperwork to justify it all. When I feel like I've become a cog, I need stories. I need to write mine and to hear yours.

I have what some might call an "embarrassment of riches" when it comes to stories I can tell about my life;being held up by the army in Venezuela, outdoor sunrise Quaker services, African Shamans, working as a reporter and funeral director, cake at Les Deux Maggots, hermaphrodite neighbours, Christian mystic relatives....

Everyone on the earth suffers and rejoices in the experience of the human condition in turns. Sometimes laughter, sometimes tears, sometimes wonder and awe. Besides being present in those moments, it is our gift of language and our sharing of stories through which we share and absorb the stories which define the abstract notion of  what it means to be fully physiologically and spiritually human.

We have evolved into a society of people who text in a language decipherable by primates; "ur funny", "ROTFL", "how r u".  At one time, the art of letter writing was highly valued. To think that someone would take the time to sit down, commit the time to put pen to paper and be thoughtful in their communication to another human being was normal.  This thoughtful process evolved into telegrams; "Come home. Mom is sick",  to email (which most closely resembles the lost art of written communication), to texting, tweeting, and a barely decipherable parallel language. 

Language is more than just words. Language is a process, a vehicle and international currency used to analyze and express emotional concepts. This highly sophisticated linguistic expression of emotion is, I suppose, one of the key factors that keep us from living like apes and picking fleas out of one another's hair.  What should we think when language is taken down to a simple, bare, emotionless form of "u's, ur's and luv's"?  Is this the equivalent of our emotional degeneration as a society?

Every culture has it's roots in the muck of oral tradition. Historically storytellers were honoured and respected as great teachers and sages.  The oral tradition gave way to the written tradition. Those who were fortunate enough to have the luxury of learning how to read and write became the editors of society.  Their stories thrived as the oral tradition lost the privilege of time.  Industrialisation, commercialization, paying the mortgage, buying music lessons and hockey practice demand time and energy. 

Books? Who has time to read books?!  Maybe you snuggle up with Kobo or Kindle, maybe you download the classics and listen in 20 minute bursts as you grind on the treadmill or clench the steering wheel through rush hour traffic.  It is the rare individual or community who make time to keep their traditions alive. Storytelling in our twenty-first-century-independent dwellings no longer has a place. Grandpa and Grandma live a thousand miles away, or in a retirement home, and because the family is so busy making ends meet and raising over-indulged, over-stimulated, under-imaginitive children, who has time to listen to  stories?

This year I hope that instead of worrying about small token gifts, I can make time to get together with my friends over one of those pretentiously written paper cups of pseudo-styled coffee and tell our stories.  I hope the joy of the non-fat-decaf-eggnog-latte season lasts the entire year through. 

Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I wore my pyjama top to the office, or waxed half of my left eyebrow off before a first date, or the time I ripped my spanx? Tell me again how your second husband was the streaker who you saw on a date with your first husband.  Please tell me again how you dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the floor and then fed it to your in-laws.  Tell me again how you got your nickname.  Tell me again about that silly wooden sculpture your husband bought for your anniversary.  Do you remember the time you called me the Great Kreskin and we laughed for a week?  Do you remember laughing all night about our coworker in the runaway kids car? Do you remember the Scottish rugby team and the birthday cake buying cab driver?  What about the Polish lady wearing the white boots in the new year's eve Porlamar market? I love these stories. 

All of us have our gift of storytelling immaculately wrapped already. 'Tis the season to start sharing that gift.