Fiddy

 Had a talk with my old man

Said, "Help me understand"

He said "Turn 68, oh, you'll re-negotiate"

"Don't stop this train

Don't for a minute change the place you're in

And don't think I couldn't ever understand

I tried my hand

John, honestly we'll never stop this train"

["Stop this Train", John Mayer]

I woke to cuddles and kisses and birthday well-wishes.  Lying in bed, I put on the "Fiddy" playlist I'd compiled over the last few weeks.  LA and I argued over whether I was the one who introduced her to John Mayer when the above song came on (I didn't).  When "Glory Days" by Springstein came on, she asked what age I considered mine, and I didn't give it much thought before assuming my early 20s.

But that's not the truth.  It's always been my sort of "go to" answer, my gut reaction.  But it's not really the truth.  It's always easy to look into the past and romanticize it.  We tend to forget the bad and remember the good.  It's instinctive.  It's how the human brain is hardwired.  When I think "20s" I think summers in Greenwood:  girlfriends, crud, classroom and drill instruction.  I remember feeling powerful and well-respected and having some great friendships.  I was healthy and full of energy.  We worked hard and played even harder.  But I don't think of apartment living, working retail or being unemployed, struggling to make bills, of mourning my mother, of living away and moving home, or of going through difficult breakups.

Nostalgia is self-deception.

At a sober second look, I'd have to dare suggest I'm in the best part of my life right now.  If I could be at any time in my life, it would be this one.  It's not carefree (when was?) or stress-free (when was?).  I'm not in perfect health (was I ever really though?) and yeah, we're in the middle of a global pandemic and all that, but... I'm pretty content.  I've forgiven myself for most of the mistakes of my past, come to terms with who I am, and generally found a fair deal of comfort in my life.  I don't think there's another time of my life I'd rather be in than in this very moment.

Now, I've been thinking about writing today for weeks now.  I felt like it was almost expected.  Turning fifty.  Wow.  I find it hard to believe.  I knew I'd have to come change the tagline at the top, if nothing else, and figured it was the sort of milestone that people would expect me to have an opinion or insight on.  That said, I... don't really?  I didn't have much in mind when I sat down, so today is "gardening", not "architecture", if you catch my drift.

Fifty.  Wow.

At forty, it's easy to think of older relatives and think things like "well Dad lived into his 80s", but at fifty, the idea that your life is half-over seems pretty undeniable.  What are my odds of seeing 100?  Would I even want to?  (Probably, at 99.)  My playlist - it's largely tongue-in-cheek - starts with "All Down Hill from Here" by Candlebox, followed by "Halfway There" by Soundgarden.

At fifty, I think this is where I'm supposed to be having a mid-life crisis, but I feel like all the questions I'm supposed to be wallowing in are things I largely dealt with long ago.  

The question of the divine?  Reconciling the "ineffable" plans of a Christian god against my mother's condition pretty much sorted that for me in my teens.  I've been a spiritual Taoist since my early 20s and two of my five tattoos are Taijitu.  Clearly, I've long felt I'm unlikely to change my mind about that.  I don't believe in heaven or hell, nor do I feel compelled to or that I'm somehow missing something by not.  It doesn't answer a question I'm asking.  I have a different concept of immortality or of legacy, and it doesn't require me to be rich, powerful, famous, or religious.  It's far simpler.

My mother's death in my early 20s was a harsh introduction to the concept of mortality.  I've contemplated my own death many times, and what it would mean for me (nothing - I stop existing) and those around me (mostly that they'll get over it, but I'd like Dan to be a bit older, I'm not in a hurry or anything).  The notion of being terribly ill for a long time is far more frightening to me (especially after watching what my mother experienced).

I've never been keen on fast cars or fancy stereos.  There were enough oats and we'll leave it at that.

As for the existential question, I read "Doing Nothing: Coming to the End of the Spiritual Search" by Steven Harrison many years ago, and agreed with most of what he said.  Well, I read most of the book.  He started babbling about quantum mechanics toward the end.  I highly recommend the first half of the book but when it stops making sense, stop worrying yourself over it and give up.  He shouldn't be offended, since giving up on asking is kind of the point of the book anyway, so I think not finishing it... well, I think I'm ahead of the curve.  [tl;dr Your concept of 'self' is a fictional prison your brain constructs at around age five, and the existential question is of longing to return to the whole from which you've only ever been separated by the lies you've told your 'self'.  If instead you watch the film Revolver enough times that it starts to make sense, you can probably skip this book.]

Accomplishments?  Purpose?

The purpose of your life, who you are, is whatever you choose it to be.  I'm not my job.  I'm not how much money I have in the bank.  I'm not the car I drive.  I'm not the contents of my wallet.  I'm not my fucking khakis.  Thank you, Tyler Durden.

I only ever had one thing on my bucket list, and I've crossed it off.  That's not to say I won't find something else to put on there.  And it wasn't an accomplishment, it was something I wanted to experience.

What's my purpose?  What will I leave behind?  What will I accomplish?

Leave it better than I found it.

It's that simple.  And already I feel like there has to be people out there who remember some little bit of wisdom I passed on, some idea or tidbit, some splinter-of-the-mind I gave them, blessing or curse, that repeats itself in their head in a way that makes their life just a tiny bit better for it.   Maybe it's someone who read something I wrote.  Maybe it's a student I taught years ago and made an impression on.  And most of all, most of all... I hope years after I'm gone, Dan's life will still be guided by cherished bits of wisdom I've tried to share with him, particularly those passed to me by my own parents.

But as for now:  don't stop this train.

I look forward to the future.  I look forward to some day retiring.  I like the idea of having more time to write, more time to play, more time to travel.  Liza-Ann thinks I'll get bored quickly and want to do something.  She's quite right, but it won't be more work.  It'll be putting energy into causes, into things I believe in, and not something to financially support my current lifestyle.  Maybe I'll do a Tedx talk.  Maybe I'll volunteer with some local organizations I believe in.

Whatever it is, there's time, and there's options.  So many options.  

I may need to buy shades.

"Look, I don't want to wax philosophic, 

but I will say that if you're alive 

you've got to flap your arms and legs. 

You've got to jump around a lot, 

for life is the very opposite of death, 

and therefore you must at very least think noisy

and colorfully, or you're not alive."

[Mel Brooks]

Dear Men

“I’m very much in awe of her. Through it all she remained steady, 

she remained constant while the system stumbled around her. 

She was the one who remained constant.”

[Crown Prosecutor Lloyd Strickland]

Before I get into this, let me say that I understand and respect the fact that conversations around gender-based violence are conversations where ideally, men should not be the one leading, and in which men need to sit down and really listen.  I get that.  And if anyone is upset at my writing this, I apologize, but...  

I noticed on Facebook how few of the men I know did any more than simply click 'Like' over the last few days (apologies to those who did do more), and I've spent those days wondering why.  And to that end, I sat down to write this and share some ideas "man to man", you might say, for two reasons:

First, because maybe men will hear it better coming from 'one of their own' even if that really shouldn't be necessary.  Second because of a point I'd like to make below about civil suits and credibility that I never see addressed anywhere.  It's a myth I see often, and most often propagated by men (but not exclusively) and which I'd really like to see dispelled.

So.

Gentlemen,

A few years ago I read "Know My Name" by Chanel Miller.  Afterward I had an odd thought:  I've never before wanted to be part of a 'book club', to sit around drinking/sipping tea/whatever it is people do at these things, and discuss a book.  Not until that book.  I've wanted to be able to sit around, with male friends, and discuss the many tiny details Chanel taught me which I'd never before considered.  There are so many small but important details in the bigger picture that one seldom hears about, seldom thinks about - as a man, anyway.  Many of these details are probably things with which most women are already familiar, through their own experiences or through those of close friends.  

Sprinkled throughout the book there was a list of paradoxes the survivors find themselves trapped in which I'd never even considered.  Some seemed obvious when stated, I'd just never reflected on them.  Her insobriety would be asserted as evidence of his innocence; his insobriety would also be asserted as evidence of his innocence.  Others were downright horrendous and not something I would have ever thought of:  Her sister - her best friend - was a witness, so she was told to never discuss the experience with her, lest they be accused of conspiring, so for the years awaiting trial, her ability to process the trauma was being hampered.

That's tip of the iceberg.  (You really should read this book.)

Now, a few years later, as I read the news about Jane Doe's fight for justice here in Newfoundland, and read the excellent play-by-play accounting by Rhea Rollman, I am reminded of many of these lessons from Chanel's excellent book, and find myself squirming at how closely some of what I'm reading now mirrors this other case, as just how systemic and erroneous some of these things are.

One of the things from Chanel's book (sorry, perhaps I should have said 'spoiler' a while ago) was that being the survivor of a sexual assault is financially punitive.  I won't get into all the ways how, but at the very least ask yourself 'who pays for therapy?'  (And in some places 'who pays for the rape kit?' is a disgusting question with an even more disgusting answer.)  Stop.  Think about that for a second.  Being the survivor of a sexual assault also means being punished financially.  It's the most egregious example of the pink tax I can think of.

In Snelgrove's trial, Jane Doe was grilled on whether she'd be pursuing a civil suit as if to suggest - as society so often does - that any hint of a financial motive infers questionable credibility.

How do you reconcile these two ideas?

If there is just ONE thing you take away from what I'm writing today, just one, let it be this:  assuming that anyone launching a civil suit is less credible is a backward way of thinking.  If anything, it should make them more credible.  There are a number of reasons one might pursue a civil suit.  Even setting aside the desire to (rightly) cover the financial burden placed on the survivor, you are talking about two very different systems with different rules and ways of operating, and punishing the assailant financially is still another possible way to punish the assailant.  In fact, given how closely prosecutions and police work together, and how reluctant police and prosecutions might be to investigate 'one of their own', going after Snelgrove in civil court actually strikes me as quite possibly the easier route to some form of justice.  That Jane Doe - as she repeatedly said under questioning - postponed such considerations to pursue the matter first criminally really speaks to her determination.  And when any survivor chooses to pursue the matter civilly, it means some lawyer somewhere who probably only gets paid out with a win has chosen to put their time and energy into their belief in their client.  How does that not add to the credibility, instead of detract from it?  Easy.  Because abusers have peddled the excuse of 'she's just in it for the money' to discredit their accusers so often and for so long that we've fallen for it and continue to perpetuated this grossly oversimplified myth.  If it's truth that the courts are after, then frankly, it's a line of questioning that shouldn't even be permitted.

But with regards to 'why aren't more men participating in this conversation?' I gave it a lot of thought, gents, here's all I could come up with, and my response to each:

Isn't this a women's issue?

If you think it's not your concern, you're simply wrong, and frankly whatever excuse you're using to bury your head in the sand is just a shitty rationalization to excuse your discomfort on the subject.  I don't need to explain to you why it's everyone's business.  Do not be so disingenuous.  You know the 'everyone has a mother/sister/daughter' argument.  You know your life is filled with female friends, acquaintances, and coworkers.  Are you unconcerned with their plight?  How is it you can find yourself concerned with and share articles about break-ins and shoplifting and 'does anyone recognize this person who stole from this local shop?' without ever finding yourself wondering about the gender of the people involved I might add, without ever hesitating to click Share, and yet when it comes to subjects like sexual assault, you're so strangely silent?  Do you have more concern for those random shop owners than the women in your life?  How is what criminals are doing at that gas station is suddenly 'your business' but somehow gender-based violence is not?

If this was your honest answer, goddamn, I feel like I shouldn't even have had to say that.

This.  Is.  Your.  Business.

These days you can't say anything, sure!

"We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented."  (Elie Wiesel)

If anyone jumps down your throat for saying something as simple as "I believe women", I'll eat my hat.

I understand some trepidation about what to say, and how, and to who - I totally get that.  I'm genuinely fearful here writing this that I might somehow step on toes, or be accused of hogging or shifting the conversation.  I am trying to be careful in my choice of words.  And I will do my damn best to keep the focus where it needs to be.  

But saying nothing is not 'being neutral', not that being neutral would be an acceptable position anyway.  Saying nothing is a tacit approval of the status quo.

Your fear of 'saying something wrong' is nothing compared to the fear women and queer people face every day, answering the door to let a stranger come repair something in their house, or crossing the parking garage to get to their vehicle, fingers gripped tightly around their keys.  Be brave enough to face possible scrutiny and criticism, they're still risking a lot more than you are.  A few harsh words in reaction to your misstep in choice of language won't kill you.  Might someone come after me for using "women" and not "womyn" or "folx" or for saying "queer" instead of "gender non-comforming"?  Maybe, but I seriously doubt it.  Why?  Because they can see the points I'm trying to make and they can easily tell which side I'm on.  But if you're saying nothing at all, do they know which side you're on?

I honestly don't know what to do or say.

And now we get to the heart of it.  I'd like to believe this is where most of you arrive.  Actually, I need to believe that.

Me either.  It breaks my heart.  My eyes welled up with tears just typing that.  To know something is so wrong and to feel so helpless to do anything about it.  

But something Daniel Sloss said in an HBO special has been ringing in my ears for years now:  

"I can't do much.  I just won't do nothing anymore.  I'm just suggesting you do the same."

I don't know what the solution is or where my role is in whatever solutions there may be, but:

I... recognize pieces of the puzzle... and I'm committed to searching for and hearing about more.  And so do you, if you're being honest with yourself.

So do something.  Do.  Anything.  Just don't do nothing.

In the very least, you need to stand and be counted.

You need to let the women in your life know they have your support and the men in your life know that gender-based violence is not acceptable.  I'm really not asking much, nothing more than the same simple things you do every day with cat videos or funny GIFs.  Post a link.  Share a story.  Preferably something told from the female perspective.  Go comment on someone else's shared article about how you hope some rapist dies choking on a turd.  If you can afford it, do something more productive like find an appropriate organization and make a donation, even if it's a small one.  (When I post this on Facebook, feel free to comment with appropriate links.  I've only begun looking, so I'm happy for suggestions myself.)

I'm not asking you to do much.  

I'm not.

I'm only asking you to not do nothing.

And to be clear... just clicking 'like'... is nothing.

-----------

PS:  If you know Jane Doe, please tell her I said "thank you".

Soldiering

I've lost the use of my heart

But I'm still alive

Still looking for the light

And the endless pool on the other side

["Soldier of Love", Sade]

I'm ok.  You're ok.  We're ok.  

It's fine.

The last few years I've been reflecting a lot on which experiences of my early life inform my current behaviours.  This past year has seen me reflect a lot on my time in Air Cadets and the Cadet Instructor Cadre.  I was an Air Cadet from 13 until I aged out at 19.  I then enrolled in the Reserves and got out at 26.  I am still sporting the same haircut for 37 years on, more or less.  More gray.  Less hair.

I was awake until 3am last night (and not for anything most of you might call good reasons, but I found it fun).  It was the first time in ages, and definite proof my iron levels are returning to normal.  And I was up shortly after the alarm went off, having gotten only about four hours sleep.  If there's anything reminiscent of those years in Greenwood in my early 20s, it's that: long hours, little sleep, but up, washed, dressed, pressed, polished, fed, at the parade square on time.  It was there, in the summers of 89 to 95, that I truly learned to soldier.

I wish I could nap.  I wish I could power nap.  Not a skill I ever learned.  There were those who did.  I remember one who could lay perfectly still on his back, in uniform, wedge on his face.  Ten minutes and up again, without so much as an added wrinkle.

Up on time.  At work.  No matter.  Zombie-like state?  Sure!  Easier in a way, really.  Too tired to feel.  Too busy to think.  Just keep going.  Like Dory, swimming.  Just keep swimming!  Just keep swimming!

soldier (sōl-jər)

intransitive verb:

to push doggedly forward —usually used with on

I don't like the word 'soldier'.  It instantly raises a deep-rooted Imposter Syndrome instinct in me.  My battlefields were classrooms and parade squares, not combat zones.  Sure, I spent plenty of time pressing and polishing and marching on.  And yes, Dan my have come into the kitchen a few days ago to catch me checking if I can still perfectly execute a proper right turn.  Leg 45, calf hangs at knee, ankle relaxed, let foot dangle, bring it down naturally so the ball of the foot lands first.  Snap.  Yep.  Still got it.  And my salute?  Dreamy.  I'll salute good-bye on my death bed and that hand will unfurl at breast pocket high, I guarantee it.  Endless time spent demonstrating proper self-discipline by standing perfectly at attention without moving while the drill sergeant du jour screamed at me about everything I was doing wrong.  But I was not shooting or being shot at with bullets, just words.  Ten, twelve, or fourteen hour work days, day after day, day in, day out, four hours sleep per night, weeks on end.  Up on time.  Parade square on time.  Pressed.  Polished.  Or more standing still for the yelling, and possibly additional work added.  I have to remind myself sometimes that most people have probably never had that experience.  I lost count.  Then endured another decade of it.  Nonetheless, I am not soldier (noun), but I do soldier (verb).  We all do that, in our various ways.

I have a nephew who is a soldier, in that 'proper' sense of the word that comes to mind for me.  He's the kind you don't ask those questions because that would just be rude.  That's in the past now, thankfully.  Home.  Wife.  Kids.  House.  Beautiful family.  Still in a uniform though.  He is who I think of when I hear the word 'soldier' (noun).

Somewhere across the city right now, past the snowstorm whipping up a frenzy outside, one of my sisters is mourning the loss of a lifelong friend, a man who was like a second father to her.  She and the women of that family, their spouses, their children won't get the benefit of a wake, funeral, or memorial service, or at least not for a long time to come.  Locked down in our homes at Level 5 for a few more weeks, they will quietly grieve alone.  And they'll do what she and I did in the early days of March of '93.  When I was young I always thought wakes and funerals and burials were harrowing and pointless.  In time I came to understand they were necessary.  I was proud of Dan recently when, unprompted, he went to the wake of a friend's aunt.  He may be too young to yet appreciate the value and importance of that act.   Nevertheless, and without the peculiar benefit these ceremonies bring, my sister and the Greens will do that thing.  They will soldier on.

I got up on time today, despite not having to work, and despite planning (particularly at the aforementioned 3am) to sleep in.  But sleeping in is something I don't do well.  And there was a storm brewing, and when I got up to pee I looked outside and realized I could have Tim's for myself, Liza-Ann, and Dan only if I got up and went right now.  So l did that unsworn duty, getting back to the house just as the wind and snow started thrashing about.

And so - with a brief interlude of panic at not being able to locate my mother's ring - here I am, predictably, sitting, writing, as I so often do on this morning each year.  But a few things are a little different.  I mean...

I'm ok.  You're ok.  We're ok.  

It's fine.

I won't get to have lunch with my sisters today, despite having the day off.  I may phone each later and check in.  I haven't heard their voices for some time.  No guarantees though.  It's the one day of the year I like to 'let take me where it takes me'.  We'll see how I feel.  I wonder how my brother is doing too.  One of his daughters posts Instagram pictures of her cat daily.  Gorgeous animal.  A tiny daily pick-me-up, for her and for the rest of us.  I hope she's doing ok too.  Her version of swimming, I suppose.  She's learning to soldier on.  Her, her sister, Dan, my sisters' kids.  A whole generation will be shaped by having been raised during a pandemic, the way we were shaped by the belief that the Russians would be invading if the nukes didn't take us out first.

Dear Betty, this year is the first time in my life I found myself thinking I'm glad she's not here for this.  I would not want you, or Dad, to have to endure these times, this past year in particular.  Thoughts like that are markers for me.  In my self-awareness I catch myself thinking things I have or have not thought before.  I hear those thoughts arise, and turn that inward eye to see where they have come from and where they have gone.  It's very Litany Against Fear.  We must not fear.  

We must soldier on.

Your ring cut me the other day (too much salt swelled my fingers, maybe?), Mom, so I took it off for the first time in probably a decade or more.  I'm long overdue to have it re-engraved, but I keep forgetting or putting it off.  Every time I try I end up at a shop that tells me they don't do that any more, and refer me to another shop.  (There's a social commentary in there about the nature of modern business, but let's leave that for another time.)  The latest one referred me to Lawlor's, which seems fitting if I do land there, as I believe they were in business engraving trophies back when you were alive.

So earlier, when I started writing this, I realized I wasn't wearing my precious ring, and when I went to retrieve it, did not find it where I left it.  Liza-Ann awoke to me rummaging around the bedroom with the torch on my phone, assuming the cat had probably played it off the dresser and under some furniture.  She immediately leapt from bed to help me search.  Unspoken, she understood the irrational urgency.  After about five minutes of scouring the house together, she located it.  If there's ever someone you want with you when locked down, it's Liza-Ann.  She soldiers as well or better than anyone I know.  There's no one I'd rather be 'trapped with'.  Apropos nothing, she's really been kicking my ass in Catan lately.  Guess I just wanted to record that.  None one else I'd rather lose to, either.

So where was I going with all this today?

Nowhere, really.  Forward.  Ever forward.  It's what we do these days.  It's what we all do.

I'm sorry, my friends.  But we have to keep on swimming.  Just keep swimming!  I know a few people who've lost their jobs of late.  I've reached out to some to get resumes in the hope of helping them find work.  I know a hardship like that at a time like this must feel like being kicked when you're down.  I hope they find the strength to keep swimming.

I'm ok.  You're ok.  We're ok.  

It's fine.

But I'll need to put on the kettle.  I finished my Tim's.

Treasure

 "I have three treasures that I cherish.
The first is compassion.
The second is moderation.
The third is not claiming to be first in the world."

[Tao Te Ching, Lao Tse]

In 1997, "The Beautiful People" was a smash hit, and after initially recoiling in disgust (much as one does) at Marilyn Manson, both as a musician and as a public figure, I happened to catch him on an episode of Politically Incorrect with Bill Maher.  He was well spoken and gave much food for thought.  I became more intrigued and over time became a fan.  

The hit was off the album Antichrist Superstar which, predictably given the name alone, brought him much notoriety and launched a meteoric rise to fame.  The premise of the album, and a fundamental undercurrent of most of his discography, was that America has an unhealthy relationship with hero worship and celebrity.  It raises people to a status where they are afforded far too much power and influence without accountability.  

Now, 23 years later, in an ending so painfully obvious as to rival The Undoing, it turns out he IS, in fact, the very monster he was pretending to be.  It was not so much an act as a preview of things to come, and his behavior has taken its toll on many female victims going back quite a ways.

[I believe them; don't bother trying to convince me otherwise.]

For me, when I find out someone whose work entertains me is also a person guilty of horrible acts, the scales of "art vs artist" usually tip in favor of abandoning the art.  The world is chock full of incredible art.  I can find more and need not continue celebrating someone I despise.  I think of David Bowie as perhaps my sole exception where the scales tipped in his favor.  But needless to say, Marilyn Manson has been removed from my music collection and Spotify playlists.

If, in 2014, Hannibal Buress had merely suggested that there exists a man who has been drugging and sexually assaulting women for years, virtually everyone would have found it all too believable and responded "yeah, I can believe that".  But he suggested that man was Bill Cosby, the world was instead incredulous.  It would be a few more years before it would really reach mainstream news.

A nation that often puts the 10 Commandments on walls of its public buildings struggles over whether to tear down statues of men like Christopher Columbus and fails to see the irony of having erected it in the first place.  And there's plenty of the same here in Canada.

It's not that there is no place for heroism.  But what the world needs is more heroism, but not more heroes.  It's a subtle but extremely important distinction.  Laud the act, but not the actor.  As imperfect beings, every human is guaranteed to inevitably disappoint.  Hear the message and measure its worth, but do not place that worth on the messenger.

From the first commandment, to Buddha's suggestion to 'kill your teacher', to the Taoist ideal of humility, we have been telling ourselves for thousands of years to embrace good ideas without elevating the people who espouse them.  And then turning around and ignoring that (starting with Jesus and Buddha).

Turns out Brian Warner is an asshole.  Cosby too.  And Columbus.  And Spacey.   And... it's a long list.

But if we want to stop being disappointed by our 'fallen heroes', the solution is simple:  stop constructing them.

Frankie Leaves Hollywood

"People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing

Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin

When I say that I'm o.k. they look at me kind of strange

Surely you're not happy now you no longer play the game"

["Watching the Wheels", John Lennon]

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, or as we call it in our house, "Love Day".  Liza-Ann and I don't see it strictly as a "couples thing" and we like to include Dan.  In a roundabout way, you could say it was one of the first things Dan taught me, and by his mere presence.  Many years ago, must be more than a decade now, we chose not to get a babysitter, but instead take him with us when we went to supper.

We had come to... see past one of the veils we're all presented with when we're young.  No more did we wish to embrace that illusion that Hollywood loves to paint for us of the dozens of rose and the people running across the airport into one another's arms, etc. etc.

So our Valentine's Days tend to be a little different.  Mostly the same.   But a little different.  Same fundamental understanding though:  an appreciation of the people you love.

And it reminded me of things I'd read before, about the nature of real relationships as opposed to the way they are portrayed in media.  When I started reading The Art of Happiness, I remember the author challenging the Dalai Lama as to how a celibate monk could give married couples relationship advice, and the Dalai Lama's response was simple:  that all healthy relationships are predicated on the same fundamental principles, things like compassion, honesty, respect, and trust.  All the "romantic" ideals were an illusion that inevitably fades, and the marriages (and other relationships that last) are the ones that have those fundamentals, not the ones with the flowers and candy.  The flowers wilt.  The candy gets eaten.  But love, real love... that can be enduring.  He wasn't admonishing the questioner.  Just suggesting that maybe it would be better - clearer - if he regarded relationships a little different.

Much of what we're taught, all our lives, is like this.  We're shown, told, or even sold, a certain version of the world, but realities are always a little messier, a little more complicated, a little different than that.  And I think we're a lot better off when we stop white-knuckling on the illusion and allow ourselves a clearer picture of the truth.  It's not as glossy or tidy, but it's real.  Find the things that are actually important and you'll likely find those things don't change much at all.

We're sold on the idea that our worth is somehow tied to our work productivity, to a point where some brag about the ridiculous number of hours they work in a week.  But when you think of all the reasons you love and appreciate those closest in your lives, what they do for a living probably doesn't factor into it.  So how is your job where your value is derived, if it's not how you measure theirs?  You change jobs and your relationships don't all change, because where you worked was not one of those actually important things.  Consumerism drives us to 'keep up with the Joneses' and we're seldom any happier for that either.  We get on social media to size up one another's carefully curated 'best of' photos and wonder if everyone is as happy as they seem even after the effort we expended presenting our best sides.  Who's to say what 'happy' looks like anyway?  Where is your happy?  What is actually important for you?

Last night Newfoundland received confirmation we have the B117 variant of Covid-19 here (the "UK strain").  Today, everyone is a bit stressed, a little panicky.  Because life is going to be different again for a while.  It's the moment we'd all been dreading for some time, knowing we'd had it easy, waiting breathlessly for the other shoe to drop.

But we'll do - as the good doctor keeps repeating - "what needs to be done".  

No going out for Valentine's Day dinner.  Make one at home or get take out.  A little different.

But different is never necessarily cause for panic.  Your entire life you've been discovering little bit by little bit that things are a little different from what you were raised to believe.  A little bit messier.  A little bit more complicated.  And you've rolled with it, dealt with it, and often came to realize that the reality is even better.

It's always been the simple things like chatting with friends and family that have brought you happiness.  And they still can.  It may be sitting around on Zoom or Discord instead of the dining room table for a bit.  So be it.  It was always about the conversation and not the cards, the friendship and not the football, the boisterous laughs and not the beers.

I've never had a "watch party" but apparently all the cool kids are doing it, which disqualifies me twice but I might give it a whirl at some point regardless.

Relax.  Breathe.  Find your truths.  Discard your illusions.  Hold fast.

Almost every Saturday morning for as long as I can remember, I get up and get dressed and go to Tim's and bring back a coffee for when Liza-Ann wakes.  This morning, instead, I went downstairs and loaded the coffee maker and made her some toast with jam to go with it.

I'm pretty sure she still knows I love her.  I'm pretty sure she still loves me.  None of that changed.

Only the coffee was a little different.

I'll try 5 scoops instead of 6 tomorrow; she said it was a little strong.

"Therefore the Master concerns himself

with the depths and not the surface,

with the fruit and not the flower.

He has no will of his own.

He dwells in reality,

and lets all illusions go."

[Tao Te Ching, Lao Tze]