Rain and Parades

Nobody likes rain during a parade.

Big, ugly, unwelcome water droplets sent in spite.

It really, REALLY bothers me when someone makes a point of extinguishing another person’s enthusiasm. I’ve learned over the years, or hardened (become indifferent?) to most other people’s criticisms and cynicisms.

There are people in my life who have proven, through their own ambition and enlightenment, to be my inspiration and my mentors. And NEVER once have they ever made me feel beneath them or inadequate. Oh don’t get me wrong, there have been those who have tried to squash my optimism, but I’ve learned that most often such behaviour

is usually a result of their own feelings of inadequacy or misplaced sense of self-importance.

There are the ones who wait around for OTHERS to request their “expertise” or their “presence” and when they are not asked, berate the system or the criticize the community….

…I’m sorry the world doesn’t work that way. You have to look and sound and want to be engaged for people to consult or collaborate with you.

Sure, you may have had your own parade rained upon in the past and therefore view potential for future interaction as threatening and “not worth your while”. And that’s fine,

but

if your pride won’t allow you to get over your own disappointment

you don’t have any right to rain on anyone else’s parade.

It’s especially disheartening when you see this happening to young people. They are the ones who will find the damage more difficult to overcome. We have to encourage positivity

even if any sort of manifestation seems impossible.

To gently caution is different than cynical, or worse yet, arrogant dismissal.

Encore: Wrecking Havoc or Creating Miracles

Time heals what reason cannot. ~Seneca

It’s interesting how much difference a day can make.

I’m sure I’ve written about this phenomenon before but I am continually amazed at how,

over the course of a measly twelve hours

a person can go from being mired in the deepest darkest pit of disappointment

to walking on sunshine.

Without being diagnosed with a bipolar disorder.

This change cannot merely be a matter of perspective.

Maybe it’s the alignment of stars

or a shower of meteors

or

the pull of the earths gravity with the passing of night into day.

“Time” has to play a part.

True, the passing of time wrecks havoc

but

it also creates miracles.

Time doesn’t mean the erasing of memories, never the erasing of memories,

but the blurring

and sanding

and softening the harshness some memories can bring.

Patience is the key to living the cliché “this too shall pass”.

Because it does.

In the meantime you just need to remember to breathe.

And wait with hope.

Encore: A Suitcase Sits

A little grey suitcase sits on the floor of my bedroom. It’s been sitting there since my trip to Victoria over a month ago.  Actually it hasn’t been sitting there the ENTIRE time. It did take a jaunt with me to Edmonton and then again to Calgary. But I don’t feel like putting it away and out of sight.

Just yet.

It reminds me that I always have places to go. That there are always places to see.

Locales where I have already planned to go. Tickets are bought, hotel rooms are booked. The suitcase reminds me of the future. A future dot to connect to in a life full of connect the dots.

When I feel trapped by work or by life (which are, at times, interchangeable) or if I feel claustrophobic by limits put on me by time and obligations I look at the little case and I know that I can throw in it a change of clothing and a toothbrush (if I remember) and just pick up and go when the next available fissure in a packed schedule occurs.

The ability to run away.

Which I almost never do because the claustrophobia dissipates eventually. But I could run away if I wanted to. And the suitcase proves it.

I do move it to one side when I vacuum. But I always place it back, against the wall, just inside the door to my bedroom. Eventually it will go back inside the closet in the spare room…

…when I don’t need it as a visual cue to stop and breathe and realize that merely knowing I can run away if I want to is enough.

“I know well what I am fleeing from but not what I am in search of.” ~Michel de Montaigne

Encore: Seems as Though I’m on a “Rantpage”

“Self pity easily is the most destructive of the non-pharmaceutical narcotics; it is addictive, give s momentary pleasure, and separates the victim from reality.”

John W. Gardner

Ever known someone who is consistently disappointed, unhappy, or discontent? For them, most days at work are stressful, relationships are disappointing and everyone they come into contact with is to blame for failures that exist. What these people fail to realize that the common denominator in all of this woe is,

well

themselves.

You would think that after a while a person would clue in that not only do they have the capacity to make different choices and thus alter their reality, but they also can choose their own attitude. Sure, easier said than done

but

not impossible.

Most of us don’t like the self-reflection because if we recognize our capacity to change for the better than we’ll feel obliged to change…and that might take time and effort. Some of us just live in a state of denial and devote most of our energy into preserving the image that we are never at fault and always “hard done by”.

And then wonder why we don’t have any friends.

I don’t believe this “playing the victim” is a personality trait. I don’t even think it’s learned behaviour. I think it’s a choice some people make in order to shirk the responsibility of creating their own happiness. Or, sadly, have the misperception that happiness is when someone is feeling sorry for you.

So, how does a person actually stop feeling sorry for themselves? Easy, look to those who have larger burdens to bear but yet face each day with a smile and an infectious appreciation for life. Those who suffer from critical illnesses but yet have hope enough to move mountains. Those who suffer heartbreak after heartbreak but yet possess a faith and optimism in their fellow-man that, although childlike in its naivety, is heroic and inspiring.

Those that are consistently content with what they have chosen in life,

those who don’t rail against a fate they can’t control,

but rather embrace their reality

with grace

and dignity.

Encore: It’s Not Always About Me

I like to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen. ~ Ernest Hemingway

A while back I was at a gathering with a multitude of friends but I wasn’t feeling all that sociable so I decided to just sit back and watch the conversing and the interactions of those around me. And what I observed was rather interesting. There were so many people who fought to make themselves the center of attention. Laughing loud, trying to “one up” people with stories that are more “over the top”, more controversial, funnier than others. And I wondered

“Do I do ever do that?’

And I think sometimes I do.

You know what I mean, when someone is relating a story or sharing an anecdote and you find yourself not really paying attention or listening closely because what they are saying has reminded you of a story and now you’re formulating it in your own head perhaps adding embellishments and colourful adjectives hoping it becomes, bigger and funnier and more grandiose than the one being told at the moment.

We’ve all done it.

And sadly we’re totally missing out on what is being shared, not appreciating the person or the narrative of the moment. How selfish is that? What is it about human nature that causes us to do this? To strut with our peacock feathers and be viewed as the most entertaining or the most engaging because, heaven forbid, we go unnoticed.

Now there’s nothing wrong with telling a good story. There’s nothing wrong with being engaging and entertaining and the life of the party but not at the expense of squelching the contributions, or the attempt at sharing by those who have something to offer but aren’t quite so aggressive. When you dismiss the anecdotes of those you perceive aren’t as interesting as your own then you miss out on getting to know some pretty interesting people in their own right.

What if we resolved to listen. To listen carefully. Listen to really hear what is being told instead of trying to figure out how to make someone else’s story all about “me”.

Encore: To Knit or Knot to Knit

I’m feeling the need to create. I actually went to the craft store the other day and spent twenty minutes perusing the yarn aisle looking for inspiration. Yes, I’ve been known to knit. My first foray into the realm of all things kitschy was when I was six or seven. My mom bought my sisters and I a spool knitting kit. I created a nice long, snake-like rope and kept it wound in a ball in the drawer of my bedside nightstand until I twirled and sewed it into a rug to fit into my Barbie Beach Mobile.

Then Mom taught me how to REALLY knit. I had a ball of yarn dyed in an array of various hues of blue. I proceeded to knit my stuffed dog a scarf.

Next, mittens. The left mitten had a thumb that was twice as long as the right mitten but I was proud of them nonetheless.

Years passed and I decided to knit my boyfriend a sweater. It was a navy blue pullover with raglan sleeves. It was beautiful. I finished it just in time for Christmas. He was pretty pleased with it, and so was I…

until he ruined it upon the first washing.

Later on still, I knit each of my nieces a doll. Each had different coloured jumpers and various shades of hair. I tried to make each look like their little owner. One with short blonde hair, the others brunette. I stuffed them with cotton balls. Lots and lots of cotton balls.

I took a long hiatus from knitting after that until a year ago when I started knitting scarves. An easy project from an easy set of directions. The wonkier the yarn the more likely it is to hide dropped stitches and any other mistakes.

Knitting is mindless. Knitting lets me feel as though I’m accomplishing something without having to invest too much brainpower or emotional investment. Also, it’s a stress release; I think the repetitive motion keeps the part of the brain that houses “histrionics” distracted.

Interestingly enough I didn’t buy any yarn at the craft store this time. No. Nothing seemed to be calling out to me from the bins. So I wandered down the stamp aisle, then the paper and charcoal aisles. Still nothing. I’m still entertaining the idea of enrolling in a stain glass workshop. I wonder what creative outlet will capture me this month? Some sort of opportunity that will allow me to form and mold and shape something from the beginning and see it evolve into something that is truly my own.

Encore: The Lionhearted

When I was young, I believed in knights in shining armour. Men who would put their lives on the line in order to protect and defend that which they loved.

They would be bold and handsome.

With a lion heart, they’d go to faraway lands and fight dragons and save princesses.

These knights would valiantly oppose injustice putting their own life on the line to rescue the oppressed.

And if they didn’t die, they would come home heroes.

I believed such men were the stuff found in fairy tales.

But I was wrong.  They exist among us.

In senior homes, hospitals, retirement villages.

Or  younger heroes struggling for normalcy after nightmares.

And most today are wearing red poppies on their lapels and medals on their breasts.

The Glaring “No” in “Snow”.

Northern Alberta is picturesque throughout most of the year.  Spring brings pussy willows and baby mallards.  Summer, green grasses and flowering Canola fields.  Fall, blazing sunsets and golden wheat fields. Winter….

Winter?

Winter. The month that brings the most beautiful scenery of all…or at least I’m trying to convince myself this is so.

A manical snowstorm has occured outside my window over the last twenty four hours.  And try as I might to appreciate what it might feel like to live in a snow globe, my heart is just not in it.

I can handle observing winter as a bystander, warm and comfy from the inside of my condo- hot cup of cocoa complete with a shot of Baileys in hand observing the twirling dance of the snowflakes and inches of accumulation on the roof tops.  I live in a condo.  There is no obligation to shovel.  I will have NO choice, however, in the morning but to dig out my mittens, make sure the vehicle is equippped with a snow brush, and be prepared to pop the buggy into four wheeldrive if the need arises.  And if the dumpage continues as it is now four wheel drive will NOT an option but rather a necessity.

A life time of living in this province and I’ve finally come to realize that in order to thoroughly enjoy winter, I have to figure out a way to play in it.

I’ve bought myself some cross country skis.

This will be my second year cross country skiing .  No, I will never be a diehard cross country ski fanatic like my friend Chriss who literally revels in the coldness and seems to find glee in her snot encrusted balaclava.  She’s outside .  She’s moving. She’s bonding with her dogs. I follow behind, somewhat enjoying the scenery, but mostly just worried about waxing out on that one hairpin turn at the bottom of that one hill that is ALWAYS icy. I’ll bust a hip, or worse yet, get a monstrous face licking from the dogs.

Aesthetically speaking, winter is pretty.  I just wish I could have the glorious snow with the warmth of the sunshine.  But isn’t THAT just life.  You can’t enjoy happiness unless you have truly been sad.  You appreciate real contentment only when you’ve experienced anxiety.

Maybe that’s what the seasons are all about.  Juxtaposition.  We find loveliness in spring because it’s placed beside the harshness of winter.  We are silenced by the brazenness of fall because it’s placed beside the gentleness of summer.

When I think about how wonderful it would be to live in a warmer climate year round and block ice and snow and “blizzard like conditions” out of my frame of reference, I realize I would really miss “seasons”.  An obvious, moving, tangible evidence of change.  Change in weather. Change in environment.  Change in life. An accumulation of experience and an evolution of wisdom.

I’ll remind myself of this tomorrow when I “appreciate” the dump of snow we’re expecting.  In the meantime I’m going out to buy myself a pretty pair of mittens.

Encore: Car Wash Conundrums

I washed my RAV the other day.  It’s the first longish spell of springtime weather and I’ve got the windows opened, the condo is clean the vehicle…the RAV WAS clean.

I KNEW it was going to happen.

That little niggling voice at the back of my brain kept warning me “don’t do it.  It’s puddley out.  The forecast calls for more snow.  Water is running down the streets”.  All the evidence pointed towards a shiny vehicle short-lived.  Mother Nature was shouting “DON”T DO IT!  IT”S NOT TIME!”  But did I listen?

No.

I wanted shine and sparkle to go along with the opened sunroof.  Instead I got dirt grime and muddied windows.

I spent the time and energy (and $11.95 I’ll have you know) on something that only lasted two days.

And as I came to this understanding I realized that quite often this type of thing happens in life.

Remember when you were in high school and you liked a certain boy.  So you make sure you’re in his line of vision in class or at a game.  You buy a new shirt that you just happen to know is his favorite colour.  Day after day you wake up two hours earlier so you can curl your hair (or I guess the girls nowadays are straightening theirs) and look as pretty as can be and…

…. back to the car wash you go, because he asked out ANOTHER girl.

As a teacher, you spend time and time and time preparing a lesson on, oh, lets say, how to write a thematic statement.  You practice in class.  You coach and encourage and create opportunities for learning and then an exam comes along and…

…back to the carwash you go to revamp the lesson.

Or you decide to be domestic and bake a batch of banana bread.  You let the bananas get to the optimum ripeness required for baking.  You buy the ingredients. Carefully follow the recipe.  Make batter large enough so every member of your family and the entire floor of your condo (hey, you have moments of neighborliness) can have a loaf.  Then you pull the pans out of the oven and realize you forgot to put in backing soda so you now have copious amounts of what looks like banana biscuits instead of banana loaf so…

…back to the carwash you go, this time just to dispose of the catastrophe and eat handfuls of leftover chocolate chips.

So, I figure if life is filled with returns to the carwash, you might as well go through the really BIG puddles and make it worth your while.

Like a Visitor From Another Planet

Some days I feel temporary.

Like I’m just a visitor from another planet. Just here until the Mother Ship comes and takes me home.

And I think, “I have so much to do in such a small amount of time”. Spending more time making a list of all the important things that need to be done before I go.

Just to lose the list.

Or a holographic image. Seeming lifelike and tangible from a distance but the closer you get you see the fragility of my existence.

An image without substance.

Other days I feel sturdy and rooted and permanent. Absorbing information. Dendrites growing. Emitting my learning and my expertise. Building something of importance. Strong and sturdy for those who need to use me for support or for reference or for ingenuity. Creating stories, strengthening relationships.

Contributing more than just carbon dioxide.

Neither feeling upsets or confuses me. I merely note the incongruity between the two and wonder what I will feel tomorrow and if anyone ever feels the same.

But most days I feel as though I just think too much about how I feel.

And I’m tempted to be “sexist” and blame it on my gender.

Or “Freudian” and blame it on my upbringing.

Or “Catholic” and blame it on an examination of conscience.

And I realize that there is no one or nothing to blame.

It just is.

And I find amusement in that fact.