“The first step in understanding is not to try and fit it into what you already know.”

Spazmically Perfect

It’s official, I’m a threat to society…..

Not all of society, for that would keep me way too busy. In actual fact, I’m a passive threat so to speak. I am not the aggressor but remain perfectly innocent until a volunteer matching my profile approaches me.

I will not deny that my persona easily attracts potential victims. After all, compared to most people walking around in the busy down town area, I do stick out with my friendly and alert eyes, so it is understandable that strangers feel less intimidated approaching me rather than the rest of the mentally absent crowd.

It starts out rather unassuming:
“Excuse me,…….”

Over the years I’ve perfected my assessment criteria and can with certainty recognise a victim. I’ll stop to listen to what I already know is coming:
“…… do you know where _____________ is?”

Some victims are more clear about their true goals and will instead ask:
“…..can you tell me how to get to ____________?”

But in the end they all want the same. And I am more than willing to give it to them. Like this morning for example (for people familiar with the downtown Toronto core, they will be able to follow easily, for the less informed crowd, I’ve supplied a Google map of the area):

I have just crossed a street walking north when I am stopped by a young woman, asking for Richmond Street. All my sensors perk up as the sweet smell of fresh blood fills the air.
“Oh, it’s just down this road”, I point south.
I can see the next east-west street which is Adelaide.
“Hang on”, I stop my explanation, after all, as far as I can remember, Richmond isn’t south of Adelaide. I turn around to look north for the next parallel road:
Queen street.
This is where my stunt has the potential of failing as it is vital that the victim remains confident that I can indeed help him or her out. I’m at the top of my morning mental capacity so my thoughts are racing:
‘No, it’s definitely not north of Queen. So if it isn’t south and it isn’t north than is it even around here? Yes, I know it’s around here! Ah – must be a north-south street then. Now is it left or right from here? ‘

Victim is still staring at me with her large, hopeful eyes. Good. Then, out of nowhere a Higher Being decides to have mercy with her and shows me the sign of the street I just finished crossing.
“Actually, you’ve arrived, it’s this street right here”.

Now, I could be frustrated that I didn’t manage to send this one on a two hour gruelling march to a destination which she may or may not ever arrive at. But I am satisfied with the number of people I’ve given completely wrong directions to in the past - this not out of menace but due to a genetic incapacity to give proper directions or remember where anything is. This combined with a severe case of ‘good Samaritan’-complex turns me into lethal combination for anybody who has lost their way.

And no, I don’t feel bad nor do my actions rob me of my peaceful sleep. After all, I’m not the one actively seeking them out, so if indeed there is any victim in these situations, it should be me.

As for you, consider yourself warned and get yourself a GPS!

Almost got there a little late. Hope you had a fantastic day.

I’ll call you next week, when you’re cooking .

Love,

S.

I remember how I felt a year ago having been married for 7 years. As I re-read last year’s post, there’s a question in the back of my head.

“How has year 8 made us stronger, wiser, more loving and how will we keep it going for the coming years?”

Some may say that question is silly. Being a person whose life is all about growth, I can’t help but ask it. There have been friends and family members who have over years suggested, that I try too hard to get something too work, to make things better, that I deserve to relax, be happy, and that the whole world is at my reach. This not just speaking about my marriage but other relationships, work, society etc.

Truth is as wacky as that may be in this day and age, I am one of those people who does not believe in the easy way out. In a society that seems quick to throw things away and buy new, I’m one that hangs on to things, not junk, but things, people, experiences that have been good to me, that now may take a little more effort but still are full of satisfaction and joy. I’ve almost turned mental trying to live life the smart way, challenging my every decision, asking myself whether this is truly what I want, whether I’m on a sinking ship or the one that will prevail and discover places few eyes have ever seen before. I am not a smart person and probably don’t live a smart life. But for me it’s not about smart, cause that lasts about as long as the next decision. It’s about what I believe (in). Other than that I don’t really know what else there is to hang on to.

Truth is, when that ship that I’ve stayed on too long goes down, I am the one who will get wet . Yet I’ll be too busy swimming to think about it. If I land somewhere, I’ll start anew. I won’t have to wonder what could have been had I ………. . And if I don’t make it? I’ll call myself a dumb ass. But I’ll die knowing that I fought for what I believed in. As much of a waste as that may be.

There was a time where my marriage ship didn’t look as if it was going to make it. Now I am truly proud of the relationship my husband and I have. And it’s not because I’m proud of everything I’ve done within it, for I am not. What I am proud of is that we never gave up, individually and together. Because of that, we’ve reached a level that doesn’t feel like anything I’ve ever experienced before. It’s not ‘just’ the feeling of ‘I have never felt like this towards another person’. It’s that and the sense of pride, satisfaction, love when looking at us as a couple, being able to celebrate his accomplishments as well as my own in creating what we have, through the good and the especially the not so good.

I remember early stages of our marriage, where the concept of ‘us’ seemed so abstract. I didn’t feel like ‘us’. I felt like I, me and mine. I still feel like I, me and mine. But I also know what ‘us’ feels like. And that is something that was worth every growing pain, every argument, every thing he said to me that was initially hard to hear. Now that I’m here I cannot imagine a life without the chance to experience that. I do believe that there are couples who are blessed to find that instantly. I believe I had to work for it, not because I’m not blessed (cause I am), but because this is who I am.

When I listen to younger couples they often seem so ‘young’ . When they ask me about my opinion, I always smile. It’s never my opinion. It’s ‘our’ opinion that has become mine. There are words of wisdom that without my husband I could have never come up with.

So what has year 8 brought? More wisdom. More love. More appreciation. More silliness.
And the next year? Who knows, maybe children………. apparently another source of more of the above.

Happy Anniversary my Love. And re ‘True Companion’, thanks for helping me not only love the song but also believe it. I love you

I remember daydreaming about the future when I was younger. I never dreamt about being married, yet I always saw myself in a relationship. Mostly I ‘saw’ the same image: a long couch, my beau sitting on one end reading a book, me on the other side doing the same. Our legs extended towards the middle of the couch, crossing with the other’s. Once in a while we’d share what we just read.

Hubby doesn’t read books. He reads news papers, travel-,woodworking-, financial-magazines. And yes sometimes we are both reading at the same time, and yes often we share what we are reading. Due to the layout of our family room, the sectional couch has been replaced by a love seat and a full couch. We mostly don’t share couches, it’s not comfy.

So, my fantasy hasn’t quite come true but close enough. One thing that I never imagined was both of us writing. Hubby isn’t into writing, although when he has to, he’s very good at it. And he doesn’t read everything I write. When I ask him to, he will. But he rarely does so out of his own accord.

I used to have expectations around it. “If he loved me, he would be interested” , “if he were interested, he’d devour every line I write” or “Since writing is such a big part of my life, he needs to be interested in it, for if he isn’t then…….. “ .

We did have a conversation about this a few years back:
“But I am interested and I do like your writing”, he insisted.
“No you are not.” I responded.
“Ok, so what you are saying is that in order for me to be interested, I have to fulfill your expectation of what that looks like? How would you like me to react differently next time so that you recognise that I’m interested?”
I didn’t quite get his point and left it at him not getting mine either.

A few weeks later he was working in the garage on a table.
“Love, can you come see what I’ve done? The legs are finished!”
“I’m in the middle of something!”
“What are you doing?”
“Folding socks”.
“Pluuuueeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze!”
So it toddled to the garage.
“Very nice” I said.
“See, here’s what I had to do. See that piece of wood over there? That’s what I started out from. First I had to feed it through the plainer until I got it to the right thickness. Then through the jointer, it was tough for it’s hard wood. See how the legs are tapered. I did all that with the table saw”.
“Good work dear! Looks very good. Anything else?”
I was eager to get back to something else more interesting.
“What do you think, which router bit should I use for the edge of the table?”
“Whatever you think is best, it’s your table project”.
“Check out the suggestions made here on these photos, which one?”
I was already somewhere else in thought and didn’t answer.
“You are not in the least bit interested!”
“Yes I am”. I tried to save his feelings.
“No you are not, I can see it. Guess you don’t love me. Or maybe we aren’t made for each other.”
I was about to protest loudly, when I saw his eyes giving his approaching grin away.

I still sometimes wish he’d be completely passionate about everything I’m passionate about. But since that woodworking experience, I know I can’t live up to that tall order myself. I understand his interest in what I do, his interest which he shows, because it’s me, and because he loves me. I understand that this interest cannot be compared to the passion I feel about my writing. Plus having two writers in the house would drive me insane.

I remember my mother often complaining about my father not taking her artsy side or her opinions seriously. I also remember hearing my Dad sooner or later talking to his friends about my mother, the cool things she did, how talented she was. Or her ‘ridiculous’ opinion about something magically became ‘his’ opinion. He’d never admit it. But hearing my father talk about my mother in public, I knew he not only loved her but also what she did. Not her way, but his way.

While getting ready for work the other morning, Hubby says:
“Oh – Michelle (colleague at his work) thinks your writing is great.”
“Why would she say that, she hasn’t read anything of mine.”
“Oh, she did. I showed her your blog.”

Turns out, most of his office knows about my blog.

(Image by Harry Richardson)

I know life has no room for regrets, at least that’s what the reigning society likes to let me know. I am not very good at regretting, like so many other things that are easy to do, intellectually it seems like a complete waste of my time.

However there are a few things I do regret.

While working on another piece of writing, I remembered my grandmother, better yet something she had told me once. Looking back at that moment I wish I had been older, wiser, had known the questions that plague me nowadays so that I could have asked her. Or I wish she could be here right now , sitting in the family room, giving me her experienced angle .

My grandparents were good at stories, yet rather reserved around feelings and personal experiences that didn’t result in laughter. I do recall them telling me that they loved their spouse, yet I have no idea what they thought about marriage, what they struggled with, what they feared, what they’d do differently a next time around. I didn’t ask either. Frankly, it wasn’t something I thought about, after all my own life was a challenge enough. Plus I guess that generation wasn’t used to sharing personal information.

It’s only been over the last few years that I’ve begun to have these kinds of conversations with my parents. At times these conversations are difficult, the relationship almost seems too close to remain untainted by feelings of guilt, disappointment, love, expectations and assumptions. Still, I ask and still there are more questions I’d like to ask . Unlike before, I don’t want the sugar coated version. It’s no longer about me wanting to hear what a pleasure it was having me or how they married their soul mate. The days of believing in perfect are over. So are the days of thinking that perfect is important. I’ve tried my damn hardest and failed. And if I can’t do it, nobody else can.

I’m also over ‘having to make my own mistakes’. Growing requires mistakes, but mistakes also take time. One thing about getting older is realising that time is valuable, and so I’d like to eliminate or better make an educated decision on which mistakes I’m going to make.

How many teenagers, even people in their twenties, truly believe that their parents know best? I know I didn’t. “That maybe applied to the time where you were young, but today is a whole new ball game”. I still don’t believe that they know best. What I cannot deny are the experiences they have made.

I know a young man who is far advanced in his maturity level compared to his years. At barely twenty he has accomplished things many people don’t manage in a whole life time. He’s a very optimistic person, seeing not challenges but opportunities. He has very few friends for as he puts it “it’s hard for others to understand the way I live my life and it’s impossible for me to live theirs”. The general population sees him as an overachiever, a guy who knows what he wants and lives by his own rules.”

I asked him once where he got his view of life.
“Growing up I realised that adults and older people were often unhappy. So I started asking them questions. I didn’t want to be like them, and the only way I saw to accomplish that was to understand why they felt the way they did. I soon saw a pattern. The older I got I realised that this pattern was a blue print on how not to live life. Most young people are so concerned about figuring out their own life, that they ignore the wealth of information that is already out there. By the time they figure it out, it’s often too late. Or worse, they never figure it out. “

I understand completely what he’s saying. I too have in many ways missed the boat. For one thing, I’ll never know what my grandmother would do differently next time. Nor do I know what truly made her happy. I assumed her family. But being who I am now, I know there is more than being a wife, a mother, a grandmother. I just wish I had known her better. From woman to woman.

And I hope I won’t think about my parents one day and find myself with the same regrets.

Ok, so I got tagged again, which is fine as long as people don’t expect that I’ll tag others. Plus it’s Michael tagging me and since I owe him most of my readership, I’ll happily comply.

Now, he’s asked for a 6 word memoir, which technically, I already did a few months back, when Enreal invited me to the challenge. Mr. Micheal probably forgot that, mostly because he was more interested in ‘attacking’ another of my dear readers, which then diverted the entire post from my memoir to their Egos ( ).

But I am patient. And although I still like my first one, my life is big enough to fit more than one 6 word memoir.

So without further ado (and no, I was too tired to make a decision, so I’m posting them all):

“Was happy. Then got a blog.”

“Just Am. Everything else is perception.”

“Somewhere in between born and dead.”

“Writing my way towards my soul.”

“On route to death by chocolate.

A ‘tri-moire’:
“Question is, what do I believe?
When do I know I do?
Once that is answered, what next?”

Not two hours ago I awoke to the light of a new day but now as the train continues our journey towards downtown we are driving back into the night.

Or so at least it seems as the approaching thunderstorm has painted the horizon black, carrying heavy raindrops that soon will fall from the sky. A thin underlying coat of clouds travels with us direction east and if it were not for the roof tops of the trees my vision would convince me that I’m flying with them. But for now we remain two travelers, independent, on a journey called life.

Or is ‘life’ only a human concept? How can the wind and the water comprehend the concept of life as life has a beginning and an end. Where does wind begin and does it ever end? Who are we to define it?

When the first settlers arrived in North America, the natives didn’t understand the concept of owning land. In their minds the land owned them, just like any other species. That lack of understanding cost them dearly. Or was it evolution? Did we start owning the land because we had to? And if owning the land is the now, where does evolution go from here?

The first rain drops clash against the window. Thunder erupts drowning the train’s wheezing and suddenly I’m aware that land and life do and always will own us. And my petty questions are about as significant as the next raindrop that bursts against the glass and ceases to exist.

An early summer day greets my worn soul
The five o’clock sun sparkles on my forearms
Triggering instant awareness of being.
If I until now did but merely exist,
It is now that I feel alive.
All that living I have done today and yet
It takes a passive moment of receiving
That enables me to breathe,
Filling my chest with gratitude.

I have often struggled with the expectation of having to live in the present, looking for an explanation of what that exactly means, understanding the idea however not being able to implement it. I always feel like I’m coming up short. The present is so closely connected to the future and somehow always seems to be held hostage by the past.

Trying to keep myself in the present is impossible. “Oops, just thought about yesterday” or “shoot, just remembered to pick up some salad for dinner!” leave me more frustrated than at peace. Being in the present requires thinking, simply because the present is a concept. Thinking automatically shuts out other elements such as feeling or simpler even: being.

Trouble with the past, the present and the future is that they are human concoction, an external and totally separate entity from our being. Somehow we have integrated those terms into who we are. “My past has shaped me” or “I need to be this to do that”. We are always something. We are hungry, we are late, we are in love, we are angry, we are the best or only human.

If it’s a positive something that we are, the moment it doesn’t apply anymore we feel the loss thereof. Is it a negative something, it impacts us negatively. Either way, who or what we are just never seems enough.

So how about “I am” ?

I am.

I am.

I - am.