There may be people for whom New Year’s Resolutions are kept for longer than three sessions in the gym, but I assume these people become nuclear physicists, pro Frisbee players, or heads of state. But for most of us, it’s a comically ineffective tool for changing course, as we convince ourself that we will definitely keep all our self-promises, and even sort of mean it. However, our Future Self has its own over-enthusiams and it will conduct itself as it sees fit: something like complicated wallpaper, eager to entertain, but all too frequently unable to oblige. We humans tend to be optimistic in the face of real evidence. I once read in National Esquire that 156,000,000 people give up on their self-betterment adventure by the middle of New Year’s Day brunch. I mean, even Bridget Jones was a fail.

After all, the road to failure is paved with good intentions. Which brings me to mine. First, I thought I would be more sucessful if I started on February 1 (in order to avoid the January rush). So far, it’s working.

To confess, over the past hundred years, my heroic efforts have gone notably awry, and with lightning speed.  For example, one year my New Year’s Resolution was to become a better hugger. A good hug is a wonderful thing, and I’d always felt awkward about them. The year was 2020, and I think we all know how that went.

Then there was the year where I was determined to absolutely lose 10 pounds by Feb. 29. There was no Feb. 29 that year.

Then my vow to not have any ‘Made by Marcus” vegan mandarin olive oil and black misson ice cream for a year. That one was sucessful.

So this year, I reckoned that instead of wasting my precious time on 2023 intentions, I’m going to do the exact opposite. Make a Don’t-Do List.

First off, in that I’ve spent a good amount of my time recently sulking, I thought I could give that up.

Secondly, not to buy clothes retail. This can probably work, except at Aritzia. Because somehow you can breathe in that store and accidentally spend $150. Also, if I’m invited to the Oscars, which probably lets me off the hook anyways, as I wouldn’t go unless I could sit next to Meryl Streep.

So here’s my DO NOT list. You are free to help yourself to any of these. Become fluent in conversational Portuguese Sponge paint my bathroom walls Eliminate carbs after 6 p.m Exercise every day instead of doing the exact opposite Run the New York City marathon Dress up, be charming, and have clean hair Know the three letter code for major airports Put socks into pairs Go to bed at a reasonable hour Eat two less pieces of pizza at a sitting Find the elusive bulb causing the lights not to work on my Christmas tree Hiking (I’m an adult, I have a drivers license) Floss every day

Take a deep breath and tell me your Triumph of Hope over Experience. Get it off your chest and into my inbox. I won’t divulge identities and I won’t judge. Much.

Walking in the inky darkness to my glamping tent in somewhere Karongwe Private Game Reserve, a four-legged beast rushes in front of me. I tell myself it’s a leopard. More importantly, I tell myself there is absolutely zero chance it’s a leopard. I have a weak heart and my doctor recommends keeping my life-to-leopard ratio strictly in favour of Team Leopard. It’s close to midnight, the ideal time for a leopard to show its spots, literally. But I’m escorted by Leopard Security Guard in hand with giant flashlight, so I conjecture that since he’s ahead, he will get eaten first, while I will have time to…what?

Yes, I’ve recently upgraded my bucket list to my higher-priority-to-do list. This is the reason I jumped at the spontaneous opportunity to go on safari in South Africa.

Here I will warn you that my bucket list is a bit sad. Yes, I’ve been to the south of rural Spain wondering what on earth possessed me to sign up to meander forlornly alone, mostly lost, among olive groves for four months. Yes, I swam in the azure waters in Turks and Caicos – with i-Pod securely attached to said bathing suit. Yes, I’ve climbed the Chilkoot Pass, but left my water supply on the White Pass train. And yes, I’ve climbed the Petit Piton in St. Lucia, but sprained my ankle on the way down.

But that was all pre-pandemic. It’s a new day, and I can be a new me.  So this new me liberally douses myself with mosquito repellent, plops on a slouchy hat, perches a pair of sunglasses on my nose, and smooths down my greige clothes. And you know how I feel about incomprehensible fashion decisions.  Hakuna matata I climb up into the ‘middliest‘ seat in the jeep (as I’m not kidding about that weak heart), at the crack of dawn, ready for a long day of “African massage”. It’s not that I’m not adventurous (some would say too much so, or more accurately, poor decision-so) – I just prefer my sense of adventure channelled into something like a chocolate tasting or a blind date. And I will miss my bathtub.

Fortune favours the bold, though. Karongwe, as the dawn breaks, is breathtaking. The undulating terrain; bushveld with grass savannah, tough shrubs, riverine vegetation and rocky outcrops interrupted by sporadic purple flowers; the landscape changes on a dime. Dirt, the colour of pottery.

We head out as the burnished glory of the sun peeks out over the majesty of sleeping thorny acacias, supported with a quick cup of coffee and a tee shirt on backwards, anticipating the “Big Show”, envisioning the iconic picture of the one tree in the distance with a giraffe in silhouette.

We dream of herds of wildebeests off in the distance, the drama of black-maned lions stalking their prey, buffalo wandering to a waterhole, and wonder about the mating habits of Africian ants.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen Out of Africa or if you have always felt comfortable in dun coloured clothes, what is the most difficult to comprehend is that embarking on a safari is literally ecaping into another realm. The very first time moment you see Africian animals in the wild will be unforgettable.  You are travelling into a world where the concert of nature’s elements envelopes your senses, where you are in the animal’s natural habitat taking a guest peek into their world, channelling the romantic allure of Blixen and Hemingway, sans Dr. Livingstone pith helmet.

Some animals rustle away as we drive pass, others don’t even acknowlege our presence and continue munching on whatever they were munching on, or go back to staring into the distance with more purpose than we can ever hope to perceive.

Nothing prepares you for the first time you are within 9 feet of a 500 pound lion in the wild – the king of the African savanna with retractable claws and powerful haunches any weight lifter would envy, the only thing between us, a few tins of jeep.  But luckily he doesn’t care about us, he’s snoozing, and besides a Land Rover doesn’t offer much sustenance unless you’re wearing a red jacket and jump out to get that Kodak moment. Don’t do that.

Notihng prepares you for the splintering crack of 25-foot tree as Daddy Elephant single-trunkedly takes it down for lunch.

And nothing prepares you when your Guide abruptly stops the jeep, instructing us to walk into the bush silently in single file, and then stopping us short where three cheetahs lay camoflaged in the grass! Nervous awe, to say the least.

There is a world of difference coming up close to a wandering herd of elephants, observing a duo of hippos submerged in a murky watering hole, watching a lion sense her ‘McDonalds’ fast food impala breakfast, sighting a white-striped and spiral-horned kudu behind some trees, to sipping wine while watching various Attenborough-esque documentaries in zebra-striped slippers.

We had our rules: don’t make a lot of noise, keep arms and cameras inside the jeep, and never get between a hippo and the water, as they are the most dangerous African animals after mosquitoes.

Magical experiences of unpredictability and amazement unfolded every day.  From the spectacle of how elephants shake their grass before they eat, seeing a baboon baring its bone-breaking incisors, impalas and warthogs strolling through camp, zebras whose tails had been biten off in a fight over females, and a tiny beetle that doesn’t drink or eat anything except dung.

Yes, I have now seen the real Circle of Life for myself. Magical, exhilarating and life changing.

Holiday Staging Ideas to Get it Noticed and SOLD!

Holiday home staging is certainly an art, but it’s also a fantastic opportunity to transform a listing into a festive showroom, tugging at prospective buyers’ heartstrings.

Normally, overt yuletide enthusiasm is commendable, but not when the home is on the market. Decorations should be an extra layer after the home is prepared for buyers, not a part of the core staging strategy.

Over-the-top decorations is like wrapping a house in an “ugly holiday sweater”, because when a listing looks like a holiday hoarder’s idea of paradise, it could send prospective buyers mumbling “bah humbug”, as they quickly drive away.

Now isn’t the time for embracing an inner Clark Griswold by inflating a 10-foot tall dancing snowman, dragging Santa and all his reindeer up to the roof, displaying little Jerry’s paper mache manger scene from the second grade, or setting out cousin Annie’s army of cotton ball snowmen.

But you also don’t want to be a scrooge with no seasonal decorations.

The key is to maintain a subtle, neutral environment that accentuates the homes features, not one mired with a gazillion singing angels.

What starts out as a small piece of seasonal decor here and there, can easily escalate and feel like clutter.

Neutral doesn’t mean boring, but generic helps prospective buyers envision themselves in the home, while appealing to the broadest market segment possible.

The ultimate goal is to romance the buyer, not invite them to a Christmas party.

It is advisable to avoid displaying overtly religious decor, as that can reveal cultural information that may be off-putting to some buyers.

Deck the halls and exterior Filling containers with evergreen boughs and branches is a classic look that has the advantage of remaining through the winter listing time.

Blame it on the mistletoe Fresh or faux garland draped across the fireplace mantle with pine cones, battery-operated candles or Christmas balls will give instant ambiance while accenting this not naughty but nice, selling feature.

No stockings hung with care

Avoid hanging personalized stockings from the mantle or displaying Christmas cards–it just makes it harder for buyers to see themselves in the home.  It’s very easy to go from just right to distracting, with prospective buyers lamenting, “Was there a fireplace in the living room? I was so busy looking at all the stuff, I can’t remember.”

Cuddle up, cozy down

Pass on the holiday-themed towels in the bathrooms and candy cane shaped pillows in the bedroom.

Buyers want to fall in love with a space they can see themselves in, and what better way than providing various vignettes of coziness to make buyers want to curl up and stay for a while.

Adding deep, rich tones of wintery accessories creates a sophisticated, cozy ambiance. This means chunky, textured wool throws, fluffy pillows, and touches of fur layered and strategically placed in the living room and bedrooms.

This also keeps listing photos relevant after the Christmas season.

Blinded by the lights Use warm white fairy lights, instead of a frenzy of flashing or multi-coloured lights so it doesn’t look like Christmas exploded. If they compete with their neighbours every year over who has the most outdoors lights, this year they should definitely cede the award. Hang an elegant wreath on the front door, rather than a “Santa stops here!” sign.

Rockin’ around the Christmas tree The tree will be the focal point in the room, but it shouldn’t be in a place where it is eating up precious floor space, impeding a traffic path, or concealing pertinent selling features. A piece of furniture may have to be removed to make adequate space.  But a tall tree could be just the thing to draw attention to a two-storey living area. Keeping the tree simple with a neutral colour palette, eliminates it overpowering the room.

Santa tell me Accessorizing the kitchen countertop with a bowl of pomegranates or mandarin oranges, oversized hurricane vases with votives, or large festive hot chocolate mugs, sets the stage for an ambient experience.

Pretty Paper

Don’t leave out gifts, as this can make the home feel too personal and difficult for buyers to imagine their own family in the home.

Do you hear what I hear?

Spinning instrumental Christmas music on shuffle (or the dulcet tones of Mariah Carey) at a low but audible volume makes the home feel peaceful and remarkable.

Baby, it’s cold outside

Turn the heat up a few degrees and make the home so inviting your buyers will never want to leave.

Soon, the only decoration added will be a “SOLD” sign.

DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200

Life really is like Monopoly: You win by acquiring as much money and possessions as possible, but at the end, it all goes back in the box.  Or your flight is cancelled. It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, considering we were sitting at plus 25 and Calgary was shivering in minus 25. After two delays at the airport and running out of beer money, we now had to wait for instructions. Like picking up a gainful COMMUNITY CHEST card, it helped to assemble a tribe. Now the most anxious of us could relax, the most organized could lead, and the quickest of us could hold the elevator doors open.

I have to get past GO and collect my 200 bucks. Finally getting to our chosen hotel, we were not so politely dismayed to learn that they had no knowledge of our Monopoly money – in other words, no little red hotel or meal tokens recognized. Were we going to get the BOOT?

After numerous failed attempts with technology, the hotel graciously offered to honour the WestJet price and sell us each a room. So disposable toothbrush in hand, set and organized for our early morning flight, we realized that we neglected to check if there was a bar in the hotel.Is there any mercy?

But sometimes, JAIL is the best place to be.

In Monopoly, if you go to JAIL at the beginning of the game, you want to immediately pay the 50 bucks so you can get out on your next turn. You need to be buying property and collecting your $200, not contemplating prison tattoos and whether or not you can turn your stay into a Netflix series. But once there are monopolies on the board, sometimes JAIL is the best place you can be because while you’re sitting pretty (in a warm hotel room), your opponent is still out there hopefully landing on your properties for which you can still collect rent, or flying in a huge snowstorm that may end up landing in Whitehorse, where it is even colder. There are people, like in playing Monopoly, who wait for things to happen. They only want to buy a certain PROPERTY and nothing else interests them. At the beginning of the game they are the richest because they don’t spend money. Now in Monopoly, whoever is not investing remains in the same place instead of going forward. In other words, in the airport drinking overpriced gin tonics and eating bar-b-que chips tasting like sawdust soaked in cherry Kool-Aid. Like the woman standing zombiefied staring up at the departure screen, or the man with a face that looked like it had been clamped by two sliding doors staring lifelessly into his empty coffee cup, or two people oblivious to the drama unfolding droning on about some sports team they worshiped, some consulting the oracle of their iPhone with a certain anguished diligence, and others milling around like empty bottles waiting for collection.

FREE PARKINGIn the middle of all the action, sometimes it’s not so bad to go to JAIL. If you start to look at the benefits, you can begin to enjoy and appreciate your circumstances. It just takes patience and a lot of snacks. It can also be time to do some deep thinking, like how to approach civilization without your hair brushed. So at the crack of dawn, sans coffee, we stumbled aboard the first of many various and sundry transports back to the Atlanta airport. The drive from the first drop off to our gate was so long, I swear the driver missed a turn and I was back in South Carolina.

GAME CHANGER In life, we have to fly frequently in order to learn and move forward. We can’t play it safe and have it easy all the time. The more we experience life as an unapologetic voyeur, and the more CHANCES we take, the more we learn. We can walk away from the game at any time, but there’s a big wide world to explore we may have forgotten existed while we were fixated on every role of the dice.  Most of us are free to move, explore, learn, thrive…to get up from the board and change things, but often we don’t know it, losing future wealth. Sometimes a roll of the dice puts us on an unscheduled flight and we have to wait while the scheduled move past us. And sometimes all sorts of things have to be lined up until we can move again, like SUITCASES, ramps and ground workers. All we can do now is patiently count our accruing memories and fill out the paperwork.

Darling, it may not seem that way to you now, but there is an outside chance you will not live forever. You probably won’t spend all of your money, but it’s guaranteed you will spend all of your time. So collect your $200, but every so often, wait it out in JAIL.

Oh how I value the sanctity and sagacity of a small routine.Albeit a staunch advocate of vagrancy and spontaneity, my morning routine of a different coffee venue each day has been my way of combining structure with exploration.It’s been a way of acquiring a picture of life in a place, to be faintly immersed in it, allowing me to discover new areas; finding the beauty of its nature, its architecture, it’s location.  And Charleston, known for horse-drawn carriages, family-style beach weekends, and lines of high-society ancestry, does not fail in the java department.

Yes, coffee culture has been an intangible heritage for me anywhere I travel, from parking myself in Cafe Central in Vienna, which opened in 1876, to sampling third-wave roasts at Melbourne cafés, to lining up in the rain for my morning libation at the original Starbucks at Seattles Pike Place. Every day for three months in a small Spanish village, I walked on an ancient Camino path for my one euro café con leche. I drank Turkish coffee boiled in a cezve while eating my weight in pastries in a dank Parisian apartment in the 5th arrondissement (Did you know that eating pastries make your clothes shrink?), struggled to shoot morning espressos with my hosts in Lisbon, and in Italy, where they take their coffee very seriously.I have almost been up to the famous Jamaican Blue Mountains coffee plantation because nearing the top, our bus had to slowly back down the winding one lane road as a car had stalled out at the top and needed to be somehow brought down. I have ceremonially sipped “kava”, which basically tastes like a mixture of muddy water and liniment, on a remote Fijian island, sitting on the hard ground for hours, the community bowl continually circling. And I have thrown clothes out of my suitcase in order to smuggle back bags of Kona coffee from the Big Island. So you see, I am somewhat a staunch and steady champion. And I also relish the sea.

The Coast is Clean I lie on the sand listening to the anonymous heartbeat of waves against the shoreline, the sound so slow and rhythmic, it seems like the beach is sleeping.For me, being by the ocean is a time of personal renaissance, an opportunity to think about reinvesting in things that truly matter, to dialogue between the man-made and the natural. To ask – What matters right now?At the ocean, I am a proud member of The Do Nothing Club. Most don’t understand the importance of doing nothing, assuming that it’s either procrastination or laziness, but in truth, it’s one of the best things you can do, because doing nothing can give us the energy to do something.It takes time to do nothing. “Slow drip” efforts applied consistently over time is the real game changer, and the ability to completely enjoy and savour a moment is pure sweetness. In an age of speed, nothing could be more invigorating than going slow. The most ridiculous of all is to be brisk about our food and our friends and our work and our surroundings. Doing this, we habitually miss most of what it going on around us. The time that is un-rushed has the most beautiful harvest, deep and profound moments.  I don’t know about you, but I stake my soul on beauty. And the sea. And coffee.

No bones about it. The key to decorating for Halloween for a home on the market is to keep things subtle.Vampires aren’t my usual subject, but when they become prominent in Halloween curb appeal, well, it’s time for wicked ways to stage a house that “haunts well”.My best advise is to keep the majority of the Halloween decor outside. Going overboard may make buyers feel like they’re going in a haunted house – scaring away more than you attract.It’s not that harrowing to conjure up the perfect mix of classy and Halloween-y with bewitching results. Because on Halloween, you only get one chance to make the “worst” impression.

Pumpkins and gourds and mums…oh my!Pumpkins, mums, and gourds are some of the most popular additions to the exterior of a home. These are inexpensive, colourful and easily available. Buyers will go batty over them.One of the best things about pumpkins is that you can put them on the porch, on the front steps, in the yard, going up the driveway or lining the walkway.

The devil’s in the detailsTo keep the autumnal Halloween vibes alive, go for the deep browns, rust oranges, and greens in a fall foliage wreath instead of flashy purples and blacks to create a “frightfully friendly” welcome.

Watch your stepThink more “chic” than “creep”. Although it’s for Halloween, keep it neutral and classy, rather than quirky and humorous to upgrade the aesthetic of the home.

Show your spirit(s)Is there entryway seating? Instead of Halloween-ify the foyer, skip the spooky decor. Opt instead for a classic fall front porch for folks who may be sensitive to scares or aren’t fans of Halloween’s more macabre aspects altogether. Planters filled with a a battery candle lantern and an assortment of pumpkins, gourds and fall foliage will suit the season.

Screamin’ great lightingFollowing pumpkins, lights are probably the next-most spooktacular item to display, adding a great vibe to the Halloween aesthetic. Lighting has a huge impact on curb appeal, especially now that the days are getting shorter. These can be string lights strung from an entrance-way, along a fence, framing a door, wrapped around bushes or pillars, or lights around a group of pumpkins to ensnare buyers, ghostly or not.

Baby spiders sold separately. Happy Halloween Selling!

Well, it’s Week Two and I’m already down to the Michelin Guide 2-stars of Greater Charleston. Having trolled plantations, beaches, “duelling” alleys where the heat was blamed on making men say and do things thoughtlessly, dived into dank dungeons, and took selfies at all the “The Notebook” movie locations, I may soon have to seek higher ground, literally. On my agenda may be a water tower sculpted and painted to look like a gigantic peach, a dental chair museum, probably the only kazoo factory in the world, and I can’t wait to see this – “The Button Museum”.The proud papa of this edifice is a man after my own heart – an insomniac. (Which is exactly when and why I write most of missives – like now.)Bored by not being able to sleep, he decided to find a hobby – sewing buttons to one of his suits. Before he could return to his senses, two years had passed and his suit was covered in 16,000 buttons. He has now buttoned up a few caskets, shoes, guitars, and the best – a hearse. Bet you wish you were coming with me. As per Churchill’s paraprosdokian, where there’s a will, I want to be in it.Nevertheless, my morning ritual will continue. A different caffeine hit every day. Let’s just call it Coffee Curiosity, a sort of liquid exploration. Although if truth be told, I prefer to seek diaspora populations where I can stay in one place and consume. Like four cappuccinos. No one rushes me; I can be as pokey as walking with a turtle on a leash. Extra hot. Two sugars. (I have oft heard that caffeine will disabuse you of your ugliest mannerisms and turn you into a better person.)

One of the best parts about historic Charleston is that I can jump in “Rav” and drive in any direction south or east of the city and have my toes in the sand of some of the best Atlantic Coast beaches in the Southeast in less than an hour.

I have spent hours languishing on washboard sun-bleached piers watching white egrets wade in the saltwater marshes, armadas of brown pelicans flying low among the moored shrimp boats eagerly awaiting the cast off from the trawlers, and fishermen throw out their lures. And drinking sweet tea vodkas.

I have visited the magnificent Angel Oak on James Island that is unlike any other tree on the planet and walked the grounds of historic plantations that stop you in your tracks. It’s like opening a time capsule from the early to mid-nineteenth century; from the 200-year old live oak trees to its gardens to the rice “fields” to original slave cabins.

This is the picture of present and past life in a place so unlike my own.You know, when I’m walking on these paths, I think about what foot prints I’m walking on that have walked these paths before me. People that have never had the privileges and life I have now. Coming to these plantations, seeing the slave markets, knowing the tragic, inhumane history, I think the real test is not in the coming here, but what we do after we leave. It’s pointless if it is only another form of entertainment, of saying that we have been here, serving as a small blip in our lives.We can either change, stay the same, or something in between.  As for me, I hope someday I’ll wake up to see that I live on a beach.

First of all, I’m not sure that you know this about me, but hiking isn’t my first choice of a vacation activity. I prefer shopping. Which is why I’m in Charleston, the perfect Southern escape where art, architecture and history collide under a veil of Spanish moss, dialoguing between the natural – and stores. Travelling solo.

When you picture the kind of person who might embark on an expedition such as this, visions of burly men might come to mind: the sort of individuals who wear scratchy wool pants and exclusively eat their meat on the bone. But don’t worry, I use a knife to cut my meat. 

Friends of mine tell me that the mystical jungle drug ayahuasca can also help, but it seems to me that gin is simpler, more convenient and on the whole, less risky.

Hobo travelling means I can sing to my favorite tunes with no one asking to change the playlist or to please stop singing. It’s cathartic. It also allows me to reenact my reclusive tendencies and be as antisocial and ornery as I want to be. Or more than usual. 

Although it can be nice to have a non-whiny companion for such a solo adventure, like Tom Hank’s “Wilson”, or Dervla Murphy’s bicycle “Roz”, so in leu of a basketball or bike, I have tenderly named my rental car, “Rav Four”. (Incidentally, the back of the driver’s mirror already fell off, and it’s still not complaining.)
 

 Here, look at this.
 

So every day I take to the streets, giving myself over to the art of seeing. I remind myself to linger, to not consume a lot of images, but to savour a select few. It’s a function of selection. No words are necessary; there are no conversation partners. 
 

I venture in all directions, fuelled by serendipity. I turn corners following my unsuspecting feet, elated at discovering and uncovering. Wonder can thrive in the most unexpected places. Because I’m just wandering, my focus shifts from getting somewhere to just being there.
 

But there’s a huge difference between spontaneous exploration and that unnerving feeling when I don’t know where I am, or how to get back to where “Rav” is parked. Which unfortunately, happens a lot. My sense of direction and knowledge of my left from right is, for the most part, nonexistent. I have long given up hope for someone to invent a GPS that points. 

Nevertheless, I roam in Charleston’s famous alleys, straying away from sidewalks and ordinary touristy expectations. After all, what does it mean to have our choices curated by others? How does it impact us to have been told in advance whether a certain location is recommended or necessary; to see a star rating? There’s a certain dystopian quality to the notion that every aspect of life has been evaluated and scored.
 

One of my first jaunts, after stocking up on wine and Cheetos, is to find the woven wonder of the unique and beautiful sweetgrass baskets, as Charleston is the geographic home base for this tradition of Gullah basket weaving, a craft transported by West Africans first brought in slavery, which has evolved to a singular decorative art. 

​Contained
 

I find rows of these baskets in all sizes stretched out across tables at the historic City Market. Basket weaver beside basket weaver, bundling and coiling dried sweetgrass, pine needles and palmetto fronds in circles, the craft passed down from generation to generation, from mother to daughter since the 1700’s. The grasses are pretty in soft yellows and greens, their scent like freshly mowed hay. Truly, works of art. It’s hard to decide on just one – until I see the prices. 

Now if you’ve never seen the masterpiece of a movie, “Steel Magnolias”, you need to hunt it down right now so you understand the magnificence that I am about to describe to you. Note: Julia Roberts is in it, the patron saint of airplane movies.

Certain cities have distinctive colour palettes. And the “Holy City” is one of those places. From the pastel milk-paint hues of pinks, yellows, peaches, corals, greens, violets and blues, reminders of colonial Caribbean, to the infamous dark “Charleston Green” on trims, doors, and shutters, to a light blue called “haint blue”, painted mainly on ceilings, which is believed to ward off spirits in the Gullah culture. 

There are swaying palmettos, the tremendous Angel Oaks, and Spanish moss dripping off the cypress trees, but I’m sorely missing the heavenly perfume of the magnolias and my favourite – gardenias. 
 

Swig and Swine
 

I have to rest from the interminable number of wrong turns taken, so I stop for the staple beverage of the South – sweet tea. Now if you think sweet tea is something similar to iced tea, you are very much mistaken, my friend. True sweet tea has to be tasted to be believed, as it involves at least six bags of sugar.

I also order the “She Crab” Soup, a staple for Charleston, as fall is it’s peak season. Orange roe tops it to make it specifically a soup made with female crabs. Don’t even ask me how they know the difference between male and female. 

Nightly Spirits
 

No, not rum. Ghosts. Charleston is also known for being one of the most haunted cities in America. Apparently it’s hard to find an area that doesn’t have some creepy, chilling tale associated with it, from it’s ties with voodoo, pirates and superstition. 

We will see come October 31. Known for my allergic reaction to captured spirits, I’m staying in that night and watching an old movie someone recommended. I think they said it has Anthony Hopkins in it. 

Until next week, I’m wishing you a thousand glimmering spider webs along the way.
 

We are in the season of gratitude, and thank goodness for that.

I don’t remember exactly how I got the idea. It could have been from Sarah ban Breathnach, Oprah, Jesus, or the new Conservative leader, but twenty years ago, all I knew is that I needed to do something, anything.  My life was in a frightening 360 degrees and I was plummeting like a grouse full of birdshot. Sometimes we get stuck in the woods and can’t get out. Really, to use theological terms, it was just too frigging scary. So I started a gratitude journal with a nightly discipline of penning a minimum of five things for which I was grateful. For a very long time it was like stirring concrete with my eyelashes, a struggle to even to come up with anything more than “The sun shone today.” Or that I found the lid to a Tupperware container on the first try. Or a pair of clean socks. But bit by bit, day by day, I started to notice what previously would never have registered on my attention scale, either running around like a hamster on steroids fuelled by a diet of white sugar, or so desiccated, I lacked the impetus to look up, down, or even around.

The Goldilocks Option

In hindsight, it was probably the single most important thing I did to get me through some difficult years and trials. Literally.

Yes, gratitude can evoke thoughts of Etsy hand-painted signs and warm-and-fuzzy Intragram posts, especially during this Thanksgiving season. But this Thanksgiving, I’ve desided to switch disciplines to focus my time and attention on “awe” instead. Awe requires the same amount of focused attention as gratitude, but ‘awe’ is more all-encompassing; it encourages wonder, curiouisity, enthrallment, maybe even stupefaction.

Nowadays most of us move in the world pretty much immersed in our own weird, unfathomable, ordinary everyday lives, with our responsibilities, our committments. Sometimes it can be hard to keep a sense of perspective in the big scheme of things.

No mountain required.

You don’t need to visit the Grand Canyon, fly over the Great Barrier Reef in a small plane, walk through a Redwood Forest, stand in front of Michelangelo’s ”David”, or savour the fudgiest double chocolate brownie with melted chocolate lava chunks throughout to experience awe. You see where I’m going here.

“We must look for a long time before we can see.” – Thoreau

Here’s the thing about awe. Awe reminds us to be an unapologetic voyeur, to step outside ourselves and that we are not the centre of the universe, much to our obvious disappointment.

Dallying — now that’s the key.

When was the last time you looked at anything solely, concentratedly, and for it’s own sake? We consume a lot of images but tend to savour very few. We need to remind ourselves to linger.

It’s not just a matter of paying attention, but of taking attention, of deliberately shifting our attention. It is ultimately about the sacred and has no monetary value. We can’t put a dollar amount on a brilliant red leaf lying on the ground as the wind softly brushes our face. Or crunching though a huge pile of leaves fading away like so many summer afternoons. Or listening to a beautiful piece of music. Or seeing your philodendron growing a new leaf. It’s a function of selection.

To “follow this way or that, as the freak takes you.” – R. L. Stevenson

According to a ton of eminent researchers and scientists, a regular dose of awe is a sure fire way to boost compassion, gratitude, generosity, charity, humility, as well as reducing chocolate urges. Although I have no idea why that would be a benefit.

Awe is basically the wonderment that we feel when we see or here or experience something that we can’t easily explain – and have more bandwidth to notice.

It is one way to quiet that ego, shifting our attention away from ourselves and our self-interest. It makes us feel more connected to the outside world and feel small in a good way, giving us a sense of something much larger than ourselves without diminishing our own existence.

I’m in awe when I watch the construction workers across the street from me BUILD A WHOLE BUILDING, even though the constant pounding is driving me nuts.

I’m in awe every time I turn on my shower and water comes out – and that I can control the water temperature. 1.1 billion people have inadequate access to clean water and will never have this experience. I am more astounded than grateful: awe.

I’m in awe watching bees in my garden…then finding their way home…and that worker bees cannot have sex.

I’m in elegiac awe of the leaves turning from verdant to mustard, falling down and then doing it all over again next year. And the year after that.

Taking these moments to awe-spot adds much more value to our day-to-day lives and connections, releasing the pressure from podcasts and periphery and the counterfeit crowns that come in the lacuna of reposts, retweets and ‘likes’; this perverse hunching down over our devices, heads bent, looking like a congregation of mourners.

I think a little more joy and a little more connectedness with the world around us is something all of us could use these days. Now this is something worthy of our time – and attention.

I don’t know when in Exodus, Moses says “We’re out of here.” But I’m just so hoping it was on a Thursday.

Sidewalks

What makes some people hit the road and others stand their ground?

Summer -– the time we think about traveling down a dusty, maybe not so deserted, road. Now that the skies have opened wider, it’s time. It’s been awhile. There have been cancelled trips, or ones never planned lest they be canceled, family reunions, weddings, lazy beach vacations, or passport banned.  Forgotten habits. Forgotten feelings. The forgotten excitement of the unknown and unseen. Feeling discombobulated. It’s not natural for us to be sedentary. Travel is in our DNA. We humans have always lived as nomads – hunter-gatherers, seekers, moving about in small bands.

So what’s the purpose in the going? Maybe jest to get where you ain’t. Maybe to get to a place more interesting than the one left behind. Maybe, just maybe, to discover, uncover or recover what lies ahead. Or just to take a break from activities that are avoiding our ever diminishing attention span.

I especially savour solo road trips. Sometimes I drive ten hours straight, ending the day looking like a particularly ill-used hostage – and exhausted. For example, once after a particularly long stint, I stopped at a red light in a beautiful town in Oregon. As I admired the storefronts and scenery, I didn’t notice that the light had turned green and back to red again. It was then that a sherrif tapped on my window and said, “That’s all the colors we got here.”

Pleasure-seeking wastrel

I think there are few things more despondent than being alone in a motel; looking like the kind of location a body might be found in an advanced state of decomposition. Aftrer a long day on the road, you slump onto the sagging mattress, soft as pizza-dough. The view – a desolate, puck-marked and crumbling grey parking lot. A smouldering dusk is overtaking the sky. A long, long night is in store, mostly bent on reviewing the central quandaries of your life; sorting out love, crises, relationships, and purpose. Nothing, if not inspiring sadness.

But it doesn’t really matter, as I never particularly had a desire to keep up, or even, frankly, to sit up.

So before the final mustard coloured days of fall before it resembles a grumbling old man, I get in the car – and drive.