It's All Relative ...

Yesterday marked Vancouver’s coldest November 23^rd on record. Thermometers plummeted to temperatures that, in other parts of the country, would be considered balmy.

When human beings react to weather extremes it has less to do with temperature scales and more to do with the degree of deviation from that which would be considered ‘normal’ for their part of the country. That makes perfect sense: what’s ‘cold’ in southern BC is very different from what’s ‘cold’ in Whitehorse.

But, what I find more surprising is that it is not only humans that adapt to their environments—becoming softer in warmer regions and tougher in colder ones—I’m beginning to think that even our technology develops variable thresholds of tolerance.

For example: after 5+ consecutive days of average minimum temperatures below -5°C, Vancouverites were advised to look out for burst pipes. People living on the Prairies or in the North don’t even think about their pipes until the mercury drops 20 or 30 more degrees. It makes one wonder … are not all pipes created equal?

Another example is our vehicles: this is my first winter with my current car. It was a sunny -14°C when I put the key in the ignition this morning and, with a reluctant diva-like moan, she finally deigned to turn over. I have driven the same make of vehicle for nearly three decades. I have lived in the North, kept my vehicle out of doors and, only on very rare occasions, have I had difficulty starting a car. This younger version that I now own was clearly born and raised on the West Coast. Would she even survive in a northern Ontario winter?

My final example to support my theory that even technology goes ‘soft’ in warmer climes also occurred this morning. I was checking out at my local supermarket when, after four unsuccessful attempts to use my debit card to pay for my purchases, the cashier told me the system was down because of the cold weather! So, how on earth do the residents in places like Winnipeg, Prince George, or Calgary—currently basking in -30º temperatures before the wind chill factor—buy milk?

How do they coax their vehicles out of bed in the morning, or convince their plumbing to just grin and bear it?

Well, I’m heading out again. I’m going to talk to Mildred—that’s my car—about her older and tougher predecessors and the winters they endured in the North ... just maybe I can appeal to her sense of pride and convince her to be a bit more stoical.

Bookmark This Moment

Bookmark This Moment

Once in a while, there are moments in our lives we need to hold onto. In my experience, these worthy moments are not those associated with events or achievement, they are the moments when there is nothing—nothing but the naked moment itself.

A couple of years ago, I sat in an Eighth Century chapel in the middle of a field somewhere in Tuscany. I wasn’t alone by any means. There were a couple of charter buses noisily exhaling diesel out in the car park and a number of Nike-soled tourists strolling through the chapel looking puzzled—wondering why they were there if they weren’t allowed to take photos.

Amid it all, I sat in my own quiet bubble on a well-worn pew where presumably thousands before me had also rested. I could hear monks chanting through, or from, the ancient stone walls (probably on cassette tape, but it was still beautiful). At some point and without warning or gloomy thought, a small warm tear coasted down my right cheek. I knew then that I was supposed to pay attention and that this was one of those worthy moments. Maybe it lasted a few minutes, or just a few seconds, but I reined in my thoughts and took note, consciously filing the smells and sounds and dim lighting in my memory bank forever. It was just an ordinary moment waiting to be noticed and, fortunately, I was lucky enough to be present.

My most recent bookmark was found much closer to home and took a little more work.

My younger son is at home for a few weeks. Most evenings he ventures off into the mountains to his personal nature reserve where, with immeasurable ease and patience he sits, waits and watches for wildlife activity. When he returns after dark, he tells me what he has seen—bears munching their way through meadows of fresh clover, elk chewing on tender saplings on the opposite hillside—untroubled creatures quietly going about their business completely oblivious to any human presence.

“I want to see this too,” I say.

And so, after work one evening, my son and I head for the hills. Once we turn off the main highway, we cut back into a valley, climbing gently on a logging road. Twenty minutes later, we park the truck and begin a short, but dreadful, climb on foot to the sitting place. We are traversing the side of a very steep hill that is in the early stages of recovery after being clear-cut. Covered in a thick, green, spongy mat of clover, holes, abandoned logs and juicy piles of bear poop are hidden like booby-traps and landmines. Not only that, it has been raining for days and the clover is as slippery as a waterslide.

Between the slick vegetation and the brutal angle of the hillside, it is virtually impossible to find dependable footholds. Three yards into this adventure and both my feet are already paddling in their own private puddles. My son, of course, has tromped this route several times and has the appropriate footwear and the confidence of youth on his side; I don’t. I stumble along struggling to hold myself up with two crudely fashioned walking sticks knowing I dare not trust the ground beneath my feet. Without warning, it betrays me several times. All of a sudden I am flat on my face sliding downwards, desperate to grab on to something … anything; or I’m flat on my back flailing my walking sticks around in the hopes that one of them will catch on something solid. I’m really not enjoying it. In fact, I am terrified that I won’t be able to complete the walk.

“Just imagine how you’ll feel when this is over,” my son offers. The trouble is, I am imagining … imagining all too vividly. The picture in my head involves a continuous morphine drip and plenty of splints and bandages.

There are moments when I just want to cry but there’s nowhere I can stand upright for long enough to do so properly. In fact, I haven’t taken my eyes off the ground since we began; I have no idea how far we’ve come or where we’re headed.

“Are we nearly there?” I ask, sounding just like the child he once was.

“We’re never ‘there’,” he replies patiently, “we’re only ever ‘here’”.

Perhaps he’s very wise but, as I fight to remain erect one dubious step after another, I find his platitudes more annoying than insightful.

Eventually, of course, we do get ‘there’. Tentatively, I perch on a bit of a twig praying I don’t lose my balance and disappear rapidly down the hillside never to be seen again.

“Stay low," I’m told. “We don’t want the animals to be spooked by your blue jacket”.

Of course, my son is sporting a fine suit of camouflaged manmade fibres that keeps him dry, warm and virtually invisible. I, on the other hand, am already soaked to the skin from stress sweat and wearing only my everyday blue rain jacket. I’m now concerned that the hungry bears might mistake me for a juicy blueberry bush.

We sit for over an hour. During that time, we see a couple of beautiful golden bears calmly enjoying their evening browse and, with the binoculars, observe a few elk on the opposite hillside. Unfortunately, because I am so preoccupied with my new fear (that is, how in hell are we going to get down from here), it takes my mind most of this precious hour to settle.

But, eventually, the bookmark-worthy moment arrives. I am finally stable and numb enough on my perch to raise my head and gaze out at the mountains. I feel a wee hint of sun warming me up as it casts a magnificent glow over the mountaintops. Most importantly, I turn to my left and catch a glimpse of the look on my son’s face. He is truly in his element bathed in a most eloquent silence. He looks at me and smiles: “isn’t this the best place on earth?” he asks.

Yes.

Yes, this is the moment. I am clearly privileged to be sitting up here beside this fine young man who, somehow, knew I’d make it and knew I’d be glad that I did. I’m almost ready to forgive him … but not quite yet, that will have to wait until we are back on terra horizontalis.

The descent, of course, is much quicker—partly because we choose a more direct vertical route and partly because, for the last couple of metres, I spontaneously shoot down on my backside unencumbered by either restraint or dignity. Eventually, I come to an abrupt halt as the gravel road rises up to meet my astonished feet. Slowly, I survey the damage—a couple of bruises, a few bug bites, plenty of mud and soggy feet, but there’ll be no call for splints and bandages, just a hot bath and a stiff brandy when we get home.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever go up there again. I won’t need to. Somewhere in the middle of what has now become an amusing and soon-to-be embellished anecdote, I’ve bookmarked the important part forever.

What is Truth?

What is Truth? That’s a pretty heavy question to pose, but it is one that has intrigued me most of my life.

As a child I remember being told repeatedly to tell the truth: “Do not lie. We won’t be cross as long as you tell us the truth” – (as it turned out, that very statement itself was not a truth either).

Like most children, however, I learned more from adult bahaviour than from threats and reprimands. Grown-ups seemed to enjoy telling, tweaking and re-telling stories of personal bravery, victory and achievement that weren’t always entirely plausible. I listened to well-honed tales of war and extraordinary accounts of athletic prowess that didn’t match the demeanour and disposition of the teller. I soon decided that verbal truth was, in fact, whatever a person wanted or needed it to be; and, the more one told a particular story—even as it slowly slid, inch by inch, further and further from the original kernel of absolute truth—the more the story became the teller’s truth to which he or she was totally committed and poised to defend.

Like most youngsters, I experimented with the boundaries of truth to varying degrees of success, including some unforgettable and humiliating moments when my delivery failed to convince, or when obvious facts and circumstances failed to support me. At other times, to my amazement, I seemed to ‘get away with it’ and so the tale would slide quietly into my truth trunk to be retrieved with ease at any time as part and parcel of my official legend.

As I continued to grow and observe the world about me, I soon decided that truth is less about content and more about context, purpose and intention—just another marketing project when you get right down to it.

Tooth fairies and Easter bunnies are temporary truths whose roles, we have collectively agreed, justify the deception … as does telling your hostess you enjoyed her (disgusting, inedible) dessert.

Then there are the truths we adopt in order to make ourselves feel better, or to explain away our insecurities. These are the stories that protect us from doing things we are afraid of, or justify our poor behaviour. These are the truths that become part of who we are, as etched upon us as the obvious, indisputable truths like the (original) colour of our hair and the number of toes on our left foot.

Recently, I experienced the sanctioned interpretation of truth as it plays out in a court of law. We—the plaintiff and the defendant—both vowed to tell “the whole truth and nothing but”, yet our truths were very different. Both our deliveries appeared reasonable and credible and I almost believed the words spilling out from my opponent even though I knew them to be as flawed as I believed mine to be true.

It all comes down to presentation and performance. It’s not what you say; it’s how you say it and what you are fighting for. For those who are on the receiving end, it’s also about what they hear and what they choose to hear. Truth, therefore, is compromised at both ends—at its source as well as where it lands.

There is no absolute truth in the words we speak, write, or hear and we should never be forced to promise to provide it. Truth gets squeezed, stretched, manipulated, softened, sharpened, twisted … whatever it takes to achieve its purpose. Even in its purest form, it has a tenuous hold on reality—it’s always subject to possible challenge, dismissal, ridicule, doubt and reinvention.

It reminds me of the work of a potter: truth begins as malleable workable clay. Soon it is spinning on the wheel and off the tongue. Once the potter is pleased with its form and it appears able to fulfill its purpose, it is placed in a kiln to harden and cure. After that and forever more the creator expects it to be a pot, or an urn, or an irrefutable truth … that is, until someone shatters it to pieces.

So, don’t get comfortable in truth. Don’t fool yourself into thinking your virtuous nature is protected and in tact because you uttered a truth. It’s not the solid foundation we make it out to be. It’s not the dependable ally we can necessarily rely upon. Truth, delivered in words, is elusive, innately flawed and subject to interpretation. At its best, it will do no harm … at it’s worst, it can be sanctimonious and downright misleading.

Real truth lies in, and emerges from, our actions and behaviour: the proof is in the pudding; walk your talk; actions speak louder than words …

Opening the 2010 Winter Games

I’m not much of a sports fan but I must confess the Opening Ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver was a spectacle worth seeing—even on TV.

Full marks go to the ceremony organizers who rewrote their speeches and seamlessly adjusted the programme to respectfully acknowledge the tragic death of one of the athletes just hours before.

The parade of athletic teams took a while so I managed to catch a bit of ‘Coronation Street’ before returning to CTV just in time to see the three Uzbekistan team members emerge sandwiched between the mighty U S of A and 206 ‘glowing hearts’ from Canada. I immediately ‘googled’ Uzbekistan and was surprised to discover it has a population of nearly 28 million all living within an area less than 500 thousand square kilometers (compare that to Canada where 33 million share close to 10 million square kilometers).

As always, Canada dusted off and brought out her First Nations People to perform. After it is all over, presumably they will return to neglect and obscurity until another national event comes up that needs a splash of pomp and ceremonial colour.

I was a little startled by the gigantic phallic totem figures that erupted from the floor of BC Place at the beginning of the event but, from then on, remained mesmerised by the magnificence and eloquence of the programme. The flawlessly choreographed lighting, special effects and talented performers were exquisite. The Northern Lights, the Spirit Bear, the Orcas and the dangling skiers must have been breathtaking for those lucky enough to occupy a seat in the audience. I thought the great expanse of central Canada was beautifully and expediently dealt with by the delightful acrobat who spun, twirled and tiptoed his way through and over waves of golden prairie grasses.

But the highlight of the entire evening, in my opinion, was when KD Lang took centre stage. She stood solidly planted in her bare feet, draped loosely in a cumbersome white 3-piece suit and filled that huge venue, millions of living rooms and millions of hearts around the world with her confident, deep and soul-stirring voice. It was an experience I was unprepared for and one I shall never forget.

The ceremonies concluded not without difficulty but despite some erectile dysfunction at centre stage after the torch arrived, Wayne Gretzky’s perpetually worried expression and the miserable weather outside, the ‘Great One’ pulled it off, successfully lighting the magnificent Olympic flame for all to see.

The Opening Ceremonies were a delightful distraction. For a couple of hours we could all forgot about the costs, inconveniences, politics and danger that come with the dubious honour of hosting the Games in the 21^st Century.

Good on ya, Canada—this peculiar country of geographical and climatic extremes, veggie bars and greasy spoons, kilts and fiddles. Apparently we’re still known for our good manners, humility and ties to the Queen. I hope none of that changes although, after this event, I suspect there may be fewer gibes and references to Canada as the great ‘white’ north.

Post-Holiday Meltdown

Well, I think I’m just about over it: ‘it’ being Christmas, holidays and other welcome and not-so-welcome interruptions to my dull, but comfortable routine. I’m not alone in my quiet post-festive melt down. I have spoken to other depleted mothers whose homes burst at the seams for a week or so and who are now left feeling hollow, quiet and flaccid.

At my age and stage, Christmas becomes less and less about gifts, turkey dinners, drunken relatives and Father Christmas. For me, it is the long awaited, greatly anticipated, once-a-year return of my two grown up sons. I begin preparing early—not baking or making crafts—just getting excited about the impending visit.

I have done this for a few years now and am no longer naive enough to imagine that when they arrive we are going to sing Carols around a fake tree, challenge one another over a cosy game of Snakes ‘n Ladders, or even enjoy more than one or two significant meals together. They come home to rest, unravel, share a cold, ‘party’ and are soon bored—particularly during the daylight hours. Each one nurses his own laptop, cell phone in hand, texting people the rest of us have never met. There’s usually a hockey game on TV in the background with general whelps of delight or anger coming from the couch at regular intervals. The couch becomes the centre of our universe. Eventually, I wander off to bed and the youngsters begin their evening of debauchery, often returning home as the sun and I get up to begin another day.

For most of the year I live alone but for seven intense days around Christmas time my house is full of large feet, lads coming and going at all hours, rap music and profanity, bottles being opened, glassware and dishes disappearing from kitchen cupboards, and laughter – lots of it. My fridge hinges are exhausted—there’s always someone opening and closing the door, peering within to see if the shelves have grown some new food since they last checked … just minutes earlier.

We pass one another somewhere around the couch. I carefully try not to ask too many questions or repeat my offers of food, tea and Scrabble. I try not to appear to need to know if they will be remaining home for dinner or that it matters to me if they do or don’t. Through absolutely no fault of their own, they have enough juggling to do as they tactfully divide themselves between two households.

Then, all too soon it’s over. The last son slams the front door and drives off into God-knows-what kind of weather and I burst into tears—the tears I have so carefully restrained for the past few days as I have anticipated their departure.

I’m exhausted. It’s completely quiet now as if the very heart of the house has been sucked out. Part of me is angry—angry at how easily they can just come and go, grunt and tussle, leaving bedrooms that look like bombs went off in them. Wasn’t something ‘meaningful’ supposed to happen between us all? Like what? I ask myself.

And then I remember, it was all meaningful. It was time spent together. It was everyone on their best behaviour slowly and inevitably reverting to their less-best behaviour. It’s what safety, comfort and familiarity are all about. It’s a blessing. I miss them awfully and yet I am relieved the concentrated few days are over and that my sons are returning to the lives I’m so proud I helped prepare them for.

The post-Christmas meltdown is about all the mixed feelings that go with continually having to redefine my role and position as a parent. It is about the intensity of my anticipation before their arrival; the expectations that were exceeded and the expectations that weren’t met; the realization that there are places in their lives I no longer belong and places in my life they no longer fit. It is love at its most raw and most vulnerable. It is the culmination of all I ever wanted and much of what I feared.

I call my women friends whose grown up children are also somewhere on the snowy mountain passes. They too have been weeping. We understand it together. One of my friends says she feels like a trampled doormat. Another complains that she feels as though she’s been working as a chambermaid for the past week and a half without tips. Obviously, we only have ourselves to blame if we feel like that. Obviously, we set it up that way. And obviously, if we’re blessed, we’ll get do it all over again next year. I’m already beginning to look forward to it!