Shaken, not stirred

October 2, 2021 by
 I’m off again. 

But there will be no sitting in an outdoor cafe in the 4th arrondissement in Paris, a string of long pearls draped around my neck, sipping a cool Reisling. 

Instead there are clouds floating in an azure sky like dollops of whip cream, rolling fields, barns and silos, spotty herds of grazing cows along a slanted horizon of vacuous prairie sky, empty wheat fields. The land, eerily silent, derelict with once verdant grasslands. Granaries droop in ridiculous isolation, gullies intercepted with blotches of dying wildflowers: Queens Ann’s lace, fading puffy tufts of goldenrod , purple asters, and pale stalks of brown-eyed Susan’s. Overhead, a dry windless heat hosts smooth flights of Canada geese with their tuneless cry.  

I’m aiming for the ocean where my body and soul can speak with more consideration, more constancy. Maybe it will be a reset to wonder, to be blissful: to live in tree time, indifferent to news. To ‘un-languish.’

That alone should be compelling enough to undertake a “expedition”. 

A woman can go for a little to collect herself. Disencumbered. Free. Space. Life whittled down to the bone.

Don’t get me wrong. I live for cities—its libraries, bookshops, cafes, public art, architecture, and apricot cocktails. But I need both – urban and wild. 

Julia Baird writes in her book Phosphorescence: “When you shrink, your ability to see somehow sharpens. When you see the beauty, vastness and fragility of nature, you want to preserve it. You see what we share, and how we connect.”

Historically I have missed more turn-offs than you have probably had opportunities. Finding the right one was usually slower than time. Squinting at my navigation system, it  stared at me like a threat. It was the first time I realized what a traitor it could be.

But there was freedom between my ears, and I don’t mean what you think I mean. I

like getting lost as much I like banging my head on a beam. And today, I was the hungriest in the history of my stomach. And tired. 

My eyebrows started to go in opposite directions. I felt they were going to be consequences, and one of them was not going to be bursting into glory like a fountain at Schönbrunn.

But wrong turns change you, because either you change, stay the same, or something in between. And me, I may have been staying beyond my welcome. So I thought, I may not have personality, but I do have promise. So, I exchanged minor pleasantries with my car, geared up and promptly slid backwards into a ditch. At best, a bleak little place. Mud and water and rocks. One white birch stuck out at an angle. At worst, stuck. 

I thought that this experience may, in the future, if I ever get out, be substantially appropriate to recount (as some of us weather difficulties better than others), but at present, I found no material evidence of it. 

Some of us believe in bad luck and take appropriate measures to guard against it.     

Just thinking about this makes me short of breath.  

I have always made a business of mostly ignoring what goes on around me, like not looking up while taking garbage into the back alley, and nodding imperceptibly instead of acknowledging, having learned the potency of mystery and silence. Suffice it to say, I’m not a general-public fan. This practice, admittedly and at present, is not serving me well. 

So when you are at a particularly uncomfortable junction, you have to decide. What are you going to do next? What’s the next move? Decide. 

After all, when you stop and think about it, there isn’t really much of an alternative. When else can you cross a bridge, or go in a ditch, except when you come to it?

Pondering my dilemma, sitting there completely alone, no noise, I realized I was  actually found, not stuck. (Metaphorically speaking only – I was still in the ditch). I thought then, that maybe I could just drive absolutely forever in what Colette called “…the necklace of my days.”  I was doing what I wanted to do; and I wasn’t totally sure how to feel about that. 

Except that this experience was now becoming as pleasant and relaxed as one might find the cleaning of a polar bear’s teeth to be. Let the records show that this was becoming a wee bit nerve-racking intense, as I recounted that I hadn’t seen nary a car or cow for hours. So I sulked. Sulking is a big effort. 

I’m sure you are relieved to know, and I won’t bore you with details, I eventually managed to extricate myself, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this – unless there was some kind of powerful cell service in Some Ditch, Alberta.

Ocean-wards. Ho.
Thank you for reading.
Filed Under: Blog

Abstract-d

October 2, 2021 by
Sometimes you just have to make a jailbreak.  

Not that I was planning anything over the top or risqué like bored Felice Benuzzi who, on January 24, 1943, escaped with two other bored compatriots from their prison camp with the aid of a skilfully copied key and some deceptive costuming. Their ambition: to climb Mt. Kenya and return back to the prison undetected. (Escape was not an option; neutral Mozambique was more than 1,000 km. away through British and wildebeests-held territory.) Anyway, that wasn’t the point. This was for boredom’s sake. Seventeen days later they were triumphantly back in their cells.  

Besides I’m afraid of heights. 

Boredom is a powerful motivator, making us reach for something, anything, for a world unraveled from the familiar. But this may not be necessarily better, though; because boredom can prompt all kinds of unhealthy behaviours, like burning chilies to ward off evil spirits to eating a whole tub of jujubes in one sitting – except the black ones.  

If you’re after a reset, or just plain bored of looking at your drapes (which incidentally should be replaced), a solo trip may be just what the doctor ordered.

Again, I’m not suggesting feasting in Italy, praying in India, and finding amour in Indonesia. Just somewhere, anywhere, because sometimes NOT going isn’t really an option.  

There are so many reasons to say yes to a peripatetic adventure.   

That said, a nomad at heart, my ideal trip is one with no turbulence and a safe landing. Meaningful, productive and spectacular. Not that that has ever happened.  

For one, traveling solo automatically makes me of a certain quality, a certain ambience, a certain joie de vivre. i.e. a very arousing person with a cache of exhilarating stories to tell anyone who will listen, so I always capitalize on that. (I made a vow early in life to make others happy.) And I always make sure to tell the story from my point of view.  

Secondly, I am free to ignore all street signs and landmarks. I can double-dip my chips in the guacamole. I can sing to my favorite tunes with no one asking to change the playlist or to please stop singing. It’s cathartic. 
I’m “the Emirates effect” companion for myself as I don’t argue with myself and I don’t disagree. We’ve grown to enjoy each other’s company with vibrancy and care.  Although sometimes it’s a breeding ground for competition.  

Hobo traveling allows me to reenact my reclusive tendencies and be as antisocial and ornery as I want to be. Or more than usual.  

Sartorial success can be minimal. I just tend to keep away from “uninteresting” floral blouses and tarantula-like fake eyelashes.  

I also prefer to seek diaspora populations where I can stay in one place and consume. Like six latkes. No one rushes me; I can be as pokey as walking with a turtle on a leash. 

Traveling alone gives us the capacity to develop our “real” likes (seeing 10 museums in a weekend) and dislikes (seeing 10 museums in a weekend). 

Gypsying can manifest in becoming a trenchant problem-solver exacerbated to imagine a kinder, gentler reality. It can give you a sense of optimism, of determination, of unity. And judge away, but sometimes there’s often nothing more restorative than causing a little light carnage along the way…it’s more than a little intoxicating.  


Nonetheless, solo travel does have its own baggage. For one, it gives you ample time to consider what you need to work on to improve as a person. And who needs that? 

Though it may sound like something you’d find inside a fortune cookie, bad Wi-fi, getting attacked by bandits, the importance of a colourful hotel gym and a deep longing for room service; sometimes traveling like a gypsy is just not that much fun. Anyone who tells you differently, is lying. 

Traveling alone can test a person’s sense of whimsy and sparkle, cunning, intellect, and the realization that their study of German did not actually make them useful at communicating in the language. 

People ask me all the time – don’t you ever get lonely?  No, not really. I’ve never had a bout of loneliness that lasted more than a few years. Also, in a world of 7 billion people, you’re going to meet someone you connect with eventually.   

So go. Now. Wide-eyed wanderers.  
Filed Under: Blog

Artfully, yours.

September 1, 2021 by
Poorly hung art is like a character in a movie wearing a really bad toupee…you can’t help but notice it and you just want to tear it off, knowing they would be so much better without it.
 
In 99% of the homes I go in to stage or decorate, the art is hung poorly. These rooms don’t stand a chance. 
 
Most of us are used to seeing art hung crazy high, taking up the top 1/4 of the wall where you practically have to use binoculars to view them. This is still happening. 
 
So how DO you hang art?

TIPS and TRICKS:

Hang single artwork 57″ from centre of the image to the floor. But don’t be afraid of going lower  – if it works.

Art is hung between 6-8″ above a sofa. 

Art above a sofa or console should be a minimum of 2/3 width of the piece of furniture. NOTE: An updated look is more than 2/3 width.
 
Generally the art you hang should be in the same shape and orientation as the wall it’s trying to fill.
Slightly too big art is always better than too small. If you have to choose – go bigger.
Space multiple pieces about 2.5″ apart, so they don’t look disconnected.

Symmetry is good, but not necessary. Don’t be afraid to break the rules by hanging a smaller piece off centre, or various pieces at different heights. 
Large art is impressive and makes a statement, but it requires room to be admired. Smaller artwork, on the other hand, is perfect for wall space in between doors and windows or creating a group to display together.
Hang art in unexpected places. There are so many spots that are often overlooked: the end of a long hallway, above doorways, behind a night table lamp, at the end or beginning of a stairwell, etc. Turning the corner and seeing the unexpected is always fun.

Go beyond the walls. Smaller pieces look great on a bookshelf or leaning against a wall, shelf or mantle. 
Filed Under: Blog

Alberta bound and around – Part 2

August 9, 2021 by
Tiny treasures for the pendulum swing of your days.

Since my last penning, I have been asked two questions numerous times.

First – what stood out in my peregrinations around Alberta?

And the second – “Why, for God’s sake?”
Well, as Will Ferguson penned, to drive across Canada once may be regarded as misfortune. To drive across twice looks like carelessness. 

Guilty as charged. 

Ditto, Alberta for the most part.
 
Youngstown

Thus, paraphrasing Rilke, dear Readers, one must for the sake of a few lines, see many towns, villages, hamlets and destitute granaries; know the spit of gravel, the feel of dodging potholes, and the heart-stopping sight of a black bear crossing the road.

I like to think I’ve used curiosity as my life compass – a life of adding new strings to my bow, choosing challenge over compliance, and to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Usually because I missed the exit.

 
Curiosity is the mother of finding out things.

I ask questions. For example, why is there a handle on that log?
 

One can never be too curious. Only by continuing to open logs can we hope to garner an appetite for self-improvement, whether that means driving around Alberta, going to museums, or learning to stuff gophers and dress them as a cowboys. 
 
Gopher Hole Museum, Torrington

We should be curious; to question what is happening, how many people are now running for mayor and why; and to never lose that curiosity. 

We could be forgiven for having more modest personal expectations for our output during the pestilence of our time. But that doesn’t mean we should be content to curl up with Netflix, Doritos, and i-technology.
I know I didn’t, but that may have been because my cell phone had been tragically killed in a drinking accident the week before.
All things being equal, I’m hardwired to prefer peace and quiet. Solitude in dimly lit rooms is my preferred habitat.
 
Paradise Valley Museum

There – the toothpaste is out of the tube. 

Take that Albert Einstone.
Curiosity makes me fluently and with ease, change my opinions, direction…and find out that to get onto the Mackenzie Highway from Fort Vermillion, you have to take the La Crete ferry across the Peace River, and to get home from Dorothy, you have to take the Finnegan ferry across the Red Deer River.

And that there are four other ferries in Alberta. Who knew?
 
                    La Crete ferry                                            Finnegan ferry 
We don’t necessarily need passion in our lives, but we do need curiosity. It’s what keeps us alive, as well as the ability to know when to gracefully let go of those things that no longer serve us. It also helps to not formulate a concrete plan, hang out in different places, push the boundaries, and pay attention.
Can I get a ‘Hallelu’ here?
 
                     Armena                                                        Lomond
                      Patricia                                                   Rochon Sands
                  Saddle Lake                                                    Cold Lake

It means you don’t have to always know what’s going to happen, you stop being embarrassed, and you listen better.

I’ll admit, that part isn’t going that well.
 
Filed Under: Blog

Alberta Bound and Around

August 5, 2021 by
ME:  “I’m back.” 

YOU: “What?”, you say quizzically at the Other across the breakfast table crunching almost burnt toast. “I didn’t know she was away.” 

ME:  “Yessss…I completed my goal of hitting every city, town, village, hamlet, gas station, and gopher hole on the AMA Alberta map!”            
“I mean – you didn’t even miss me?” 

YOU: “Ummm….”

In a flurry of peripatetic solipsism, curiosity and just plain cabin fever given we have been province-locked since Jesus wore ankle shoes, I seized my opportunity to scour places not previously visited during my illustrious career as an Albertan, black sharpie in hand marking the stops.

I believe Socrates called this “The Creative Process.”

It wasn’t that hard. I spoke the language and didn’t have to confront any angry beavers.

As Churchill said, where there’s a will, I want to be in it

I do need to let you know that there were some difficult times prior to leaving for two weeks to finish off the last bits.

Like deciding how many pairs of socks to take on a trip labelled “Who knows?” Three. And the size of a tube of toothpaste – 100 ml. (When completing such an illustrious affair, it’s important to stress the hardships you went through.)

Near the end, I may have ended up grumpy, opinionated, disparaging, and maybe even anti-social in parts. At least I hope so.I also had an horrifying experience of looking into a hotel magnifying mirror. As God is my witness, I thought I was seeing an old man with a huge liver spotted forehead. 

And I ate too many pierogies.



“So many roads. So many detours. So many choices. So many mistakes.” – Carrie Bradshaw

Along my nomadic travels, there were roads that seemed to mimic the flight path of a drunken moth, and roads that a CF-188 Hornet could land on with room to spare.



Accommodations varied. Some rooms had dirt going back to the Roman Conquest; one specimen, I thought, was becoming sentient.And some were so clean, they may have had a small specialty in Venetian blinds.

Some had boisterous wallpaper, which had once, for a brief and unfortunate moment, been very much in vogue. Others, where the whole colour scheme of the room looked like was based on mottled liver.

Some rooms were so small, it gave one pause whether a chessboard was too much furniture.

Some were only mildly disappointing; with fake wood paneling and vases of washable flowers.

Then there was a windowless room. Well, not exactly window-less. There were three. One window was jammed and the other two looked out on to an air vent. 

And then there was the Room That Was Locked in Time. 1969 to be precise.


Yes, I know. Life is grand and I am spoiled. I say this so often, it has become my mantra.

To be a great experiential and voyeuristic traveller, I believe, one has to get lost – a lot. Thus one has to be equipped with the inability to read a map, compass, or follow verbal Google directions. Ditto for gas gauges. 

One also must have child-like enthusiasm for scary-looking food, know the proper way to use chopsticks, and to have a glass of vodka before every meal, as it kills off bugs. 

It also doesn’t hurt to know where the spare tire is in your car, have the super power ability to sleep anywhere, as well as the gene that allows you to fall back asleep at the drop of hat, know three good jokes in a couple of languages, and the Heimlich maneuver.

Lastly, one should look good in breathable fleece, be comfortable wearing the same clothes for three consecutive days, and know enough to stay away from anyone named Maxmillion or Hugo. 

 Sincerely,

The Lady Who Drove to 19 cities, 106 towns, 81 villages, and endless hamlets hoping to find the 41 Big Things.

 

Filed Under: Blog

What the Hygge should you do?

July 10, 2021 by
There comes a time in every adult’s life where they have to reckon with their faults.

I’ll go first. 

First, I get really crabby when I look at my follicle challenged hair in the morning and secondly, I have a variety of disturbing addictions such as being emotionally demonstrative as a mound of hay, a lifelong love of listening to my own voice, and periodically screaming incoherently into a pillow. 

Now, I do not want to speak for anyone else because I don’t remember what anyone else looks like, but this may be a wee bit intense.

Believe me, I lay awake at night thinking about this.

Now two months and a thousand years later, having endured this tsunami of anxiety, we have to go back to being responsible members of society. 



Our homes have a memorializing function, and what they are helping us to remember is, strangely enough, ourselves.                                      

So many of us have been working from home, going out less or not at all, consequently staring at our spaces: giving us a chance to notice the things we may have previously been too busy to pay attention to.

We now have developed a new appreciation for having a comfortable space to call home, because there’s nothing like being stuck in one place to make you realize that investing time and money in one’s living space is a worthy investment – coupled with an added impact of lessening our crazies. 

Consequently I have found that many of my clients have been clearing out meaningless clutter and filling their homes with prettier, more sentimental things to look at. 

Essentially the ultimate ‘trend’ this past year really isn’t a trend — it’s something that we designers have been trying to achieve since Moses was a boy – creating a space that looks and feels good to be in.

From visuals like wallpaper or a piece of art, to elements like velvety fabrics and cozy blankets, to comfortable chairs and adjustable lighting, we seek to create comfort and a serene, but interesting, sanctuary to live your best life. 



The Danes know a thing or two about this, and it starts with one small word, HYGGE: roughly translated to ‘cosiness’. 
For the Danes, it’s all about creating an ambient atmosphere and enjoying the good things of life: some material, some more important.

It’s now, more than ever, that we are hungry for anything that provides the feel-good neurotransmitter serotonin boost.Hygge is the feeling of hands cupping a warm mug of tea; sheepskin rugs thrown over chairs; a thick down duvet on the bed; glowing candles and lamps; fresh flowers on the dresser; a bowl of popcorn in the family room, sweet cardamon jam set on the kitchen counter, chocolate truffles on the night stand, a tub of buttered pecan ice cream in the freezer, a plate of churros on the kitchen island, bags of Doritos in the pantry.  The tragedy of a literal mind and a missed meal.

Oh, and deep fried Mars bars.
Filed Under: Blog

Goodbye Things!

April 25, 2021 by
When I was seven, I told my mother I wanted to be a Russian spy when I grew up. She said that it would be difficult as I wasn’t Russian. I thought that was just splitting hairs. I still think I would be a fantastic spy, but my friends say I’d be totally bad at it, as I am always mistakenly recognizing people I’ve never met.Apparently, there are a couple of other requirements to being a Russian spy, such as being brave and fluent in foreign languages. Well, I know English…Later, mitigating my disappointment at not being able to be a spy, I tried channelling Sherlock Holmes, where I wandered around town studying people intensely and memorizing details, all of which was of no avail, because I solved zero crimes. So I gave that up, opting for a more perspicacious andlucrative gig – helping people let go of stuff. Actually, it’s more like sticking a multitude of bright Post-it notes on stuff that needs to go before I can hang their art. Again – splitting hairs. 

As Scott Galloway said, it’s best to become good at something that other people will pay you for.

Believe me, I lay awake at night thinking about this.
 
To let go is not to lose, but to gain.  – Fumio Sasaki
Letting go can be really hard, even scary. In the 107+ years that I’ve been on this earth, I’ve had to let go of many things I thought I needed in order to survive, except a large flagon of whiskey that I carry in case of snake bite. (And I always carry a small snake.) Other than that, I have managed to survive quite nicely.

 So why do we have such a hard time letting go of our stuff?

Scientists and interior decorators cite many creative excuses, I mean, hurdles.We could blame it on the “Endowment Effect”, the tendency to overvalue the things we own, which would explain why we have such hard time letting go of our high school yearbooks and that Mexican sombrero.

It also could be tied to our sense of self-worth. It is often the items that fuel our self-worth that wehold onto the longest. Instead of viewing objects as “mine,” we think of them as “me.” We all measure our self-worth differently.

Some may link their self-worth to physical appearance, and have a hard time letting go of clothes that people stopped wearing at the end of the second world war. Some value other people’s approval, hanging onto items that they perceive raise them in esteem. Some place a lot of value on success and may have difficulty letting go of their bowling trophies. Others value relationships more and have trouble throwing away gifts, feeling they prove they are meaningful to others.

 If we try hard enough, we can probably convince ourself to keep just about anything.
 I don’t want to hurt so and so’s feelings…
I don’t want to seem ungrateful…
I don’t have time…
I’m too tired…
I’ll find the missing parts and fix it…
I’ll sell them on eBay…
I won’t have enough if I give it away…
I might need it…just in case.
 

Take the “Just in Case” hurdle. This stems from a poverty mentality or mindset of lack.

Is it realistic that the “just in case” will ever happen? Is is possible that you could borrow the item if you ever need it? Rent it? Make do without it? Has this ever happened to you before? How likely is it that you’ll really need it in the future?

Often when the time (if ever), comes to use it, you either forgot you have it, or you can’t find it among all the stuff. 

                                  MORE HURDLES 101 

“But I can still use it!”  Yes, even though the dried parsley tastes like grass and you have enough make-up to paint a small yacht. Most everything has an expiration date, especially sky blue polyester leisure suits.    
“It’s perfectly good!”  Just because something is still “perfectly good”, doesn’t mean it’s perfectly good for you.

“I may need it.”  There’s a difference between needing something, and “possibly” needing something. When was the last time you consulted the instruction manual for your lawnmower? Or the bundt pan that comes out once a year to ruin a perfectly good cake.

“It was a gift.”  The purpose of a gift is to show love from the person giving the gift to the person receiving it (except maybe that framed photo of your aunt’s cat). Now the gift belongs to you, and it’s up to you what you do with it. 

“My children may want it.”  Times and lifestyles have changed, so don’t take it personally. Younger people typically don’t have the time or inclination to polish silver, hand wash china, or iron linens. Nor do they want a souvenir spoon collection, photo albums of people they don’t know, or heavy dark wood furniture. Can you imagine a millennial wanting an atavistic oak hutch filled with teacups with flowers painted on them?

“It still fits.”  Just because it fits, doesn’t mean that it actually fits. Like the fuchsia bridesmaid dress from your cousin’s first wedding that has been in your closet four times longer than the length of her marriage. I will also bet that you have yet to be invited to an event at which a fuchsia dress with taffeta bows might seem appropriate.
 

“I feel guilty giving it away.”  One of my clients inherited a collection of 27 rusty knives, a warped cookie sheet, and a copper bracelet from her grandmother’s estate. She kept all of these for over twenty years. Eventually she realized that if her grandmother were alive, she would have long replaced the cookie sheet and knife set, as well as been mortified that she had passed on such accruements.

“I will use it one day.”  Sometimes when we say goodbye to an item, we’re also saying goodbye to the high hope that that item represents for us: the boxes full of fabric because someday we’ll make quilts, the stacks of cooking magazines because we’ll start gourmet cooking any day now, an acoustic guitar because one day we’ll take some lessons, and the too-small jeans because we are going to lose 15 pounds.

“It was so expensive!”  The pricey takes-up-a-lot-of-room blender, the panini maker you bought 11 years ago that has barely seen the light of day, the lambswool coat that is a bad colour on you, the leather sofa too big for the room. Just because you spent a lot of money on it, doesn’t mean it still has that same dollar value – or worth the space it takes up.
 Remember what George Carlin said – nothing over 6 feet ever comes back.
 

One size does not fit all. 

Give yourself grace to be comfortable with the amount of “stuff” you have in your home.

Everybody’s result will look different, but the end goal is the same: a home that feels cozy and welcoming to you where you can easily find and use all of your items, and where you aren’t feeling bogged down by the amount of “stuff” around you.

Find your size. You’ll feel it when it fits.

Unless it doesn’t.
 
Filed Under: Blog

Her Height in lipstick

April 2, 2021 by
A couple of years ago, I read this gem of requisite information on a bathroom cubicle wall.

Every 5 years a woman uses her height in lipstick.

I mean, how would you even measure that? Are the tubes lying flat or stacked on top of each other? And then I wondered, do taller women use more lipstick than short women?This is enough to send you reeling.But never in my wildest dreams did I ever think there would come a time when I wouldn’t have the need to wear lipstick?
How are we all managing to keep stitching ourselves together in this time of constant upheavals and the omnipresence of uncertainty?

We are good at many things, but managing change usually isn’t one of them. We are basically creatures of habit, taking comfort in knowing what to expect. When we consider how COVID has flipped our lives upside down, it’s safe to say that we’re all still struggling. We are grieving our lost normalcy and forced to abandon traditions to fit these new circumstances.

If there’s anything that underscores the interdependence we all have, it’s this situation.
Fortunately, I rolled into this without much of a social life, so my strategy so far has been to continue not having much of a social life.

It’s been a pretty smooth transition.
Thinking back on the decades I have been wobbling over this planet, I feel I have undoubtedly picked up a smattering of invaluable life experiences and non-essential information, coupled with an even greater tendency to offer advice, opinions and dubious philosophies.
In this vein, I have come up with some suggestions that may aid in this challenging time. 
1. Exercise. Some of us are allergic to sports or physical efforts, but it is important. Running is good, although I have long given it up because at the end of the run, essential body parts hurt. 

Instead, I walk. I especially like to walk in a dog park and pretend that the dog owners are talking to me instead of their dogs. It really helps my flagging spirit to be regaled as a ‘good girl’ or a ‘gorgeous’ pup. I also do most of my grocery shopping on foot, choosing things I like to eat, like red liquorice and not-dark chocolate.

2. Tidy a little area every day. Personally, I like order more than chaos, invariably finding more dust than I thought ever existed.

3. Keep expectations low and wants simple. One task accomplished a day is sufficient, like cleaning the small parts of your electric kettle with a toothbrush, rinsing your shoelaces, or hanging a garage door.

4. Sleep. A few afternoon naps can save the day…darn, I just burned 2000 calories. That’s the last time I leave brownies in the oven while I nap.

5. Snack between meals. I read that Health Canada recommends we do at least 30 minutes a day of eating to reduce stress and boost our mood. Then I read it again and realized it said exercising, not eating. That was disappointing.

6. Practice delayed gratification. We need to take a page out of the book of cuttlefish. Cuttlefish are experts at delayed gratification. Scientists have found that can they keep track of what they’re eating, where they’ve eaten it, and how long ago they ate it. This type of memory is called episodic-like memory. It was once thought to be unique to humans, but all sorts of brainy cuttlefish are capable of it. They know the benefits of holding tight. 
7. Find a new activity. I attempted a 4,000 piece puzzle that kept me busy for at least an hour. I’ve also taken up razoring eyebrows, as salon waxing and tweezing services sporadically get suspended. Fortunately, nose whiskers grow slowly.

Someone once suggested I also stop watching Netflix, turn off the phone, and spend a little time getting to know my family.

But they’ve never met my family. 
8. Drink lots of liquids. Swallow a glass of Patron tequila after every meal. I’m not a doctor, but I watched a lot of episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, so you can trust me on this.
9. Travel vicariously by binge-watching travel shows. This is the first year I’m not going to Fiji because of COVID. Normally I don’t go because I can’t afford it.

Well, I’m off to spend more time with my opinions.
 
Filed Under: Blog

Post-Parting Depression

March 29, 2021 by

The cure for anything is salt water -–sweat, tears, or the sea.” – Isak Dinesen


  Saying Good-bye

 Tomorrow, my fourth daughter is moving away without my permission following the irritating habit of her two other sisters, one of which even decided to change countries.

Although this may tell more about me, than them.
 
I now only have one progeny left living in my city. She lives down the street and I have tied her to a post with a chain. 
 


My abandonment issues rear their ugly head yet again. (I once went to a support group for this, but I was the only one who showed up.)
 
This defection is particularly traumatic given that my ‘bubble’ has been, and continues to be so small that if it were a room, a chess board would be too big.
 
Feeling cracked, dented, and leaky, I stuff down the panic – another piece of my body gouged and hollowed. 


One would think I’d be used to good-byes by now, or that I’ve somehow figured out how to prepare for the letdown. After all, it’s been almost ten years since I’ve had a full time, live-in offspring, but distance is a fearsome factor.This is another moment, and there will be more, as I am at the age of losses.
  
Do these unaccountable losses ever get easier?  

Mothering is no second-rate ministry. It’s at the sharp edge of everything.

This “letting go” is something we are called to do almost every day of our lives – ambition, ego, envy, energy, people, perfect health, mismatched socks – of a life that never seems to meet our expectations. 
 
The loss of my daughter to a warmer province than ours, is just another “little death”, a letting go. Some losses are heart-rendering, some sad, and some are just realizing that we don’t need to hang on to the sofa we bought when Trudeau was Prime Minister. The first one.
 

 
We fight these losses tooth and nail, dragging self-pity behind us, insisting the world should be a certain way. That is our folly, having expectations and believing that we deserve something because we are kind, we shovel our sidewalk, we donate to the Food Bank, and we pay our taxes on time. We make deals with ourselves, keep talismans on our nightstand, and make red checkmarks on our calendars, in the hope that we will get a Go-Straight–to-Heaven card. 
 
Maybe we could point a finger at Jesus. He seemed to be able to pull off this goodness thing. For example, He took buckets of water from people who lived in the desert and turned them into wine. It probably seemed like a pretty good idea until everyone woke up in the morning with terrific hangovers. 
 
Nothing disappoints us more than our lofty expectations and thinking we deserve something. It’s silly to make ourself miserable, but at least we ought to reserve it for times when we have a really good reason. Discomfort isn’t bad, it’s just uncomfortable.
 

We will always be called on to let go of the things, places and people we love – to do it with grace and maybe even some composure – when the time comes. And practice gratitude not only when our hands are full, but also when our heart is hurting, because I don’t think we can ever love too much.
 
Filed Under: Blog

Getting Lost

March 15, 2021 by
Only those closest to me know my secret.

I believe the politically correct term is directionally challenged, but the commoner usually refers to it as just plain getting lost.

Some may say I take unconventional paths, and by unconventional, they mean wrong. I mostly take the road not traveled – ever – by anyone. And not deliberately.Yes, I’ve been getting lost around the world for decades, living in a cosmos of missed turns, “scenic tours”, and wrong destinations.

 Sometimes the road less traveled is less traveled for a reason. – Jerry Seinfeld

I am the person who stops to look at the giant location mall map, spend two minutes locating the “YOU ARE HERE” guiding star, another five minutes trying to understand exactly which way I need to go to buy a burrito in the Food Court – and then go the opposite direction.

It is not unusual for me to go for a short walk taking just one different street and end up walking an extra hour and a half just to get home.

And I can’t find my seat in church if I go forward for communion.

And if I had a big house, I’d never find the bathroom.Not only do I have trouble exiting my doctor’’s office, I even can get lost INSIDEhis office. I will leave the examining room and invariably turn down the wrong hall, maybe into a closet, or into the doctor’’s private office, “looking like a lobotomized gibbon.

Coming out of the closet” has an entirely different meaning for people like me.

The most confident I ever feel in terms of getting straight to my destination is in an airport going from one gate to another. But this is only because there are signs literally every five feet basically saying, “Good job! You are nailing this! Just make it another five feet and we’ll give you another arrow telling you that you’re going the right way.”  

But I panic whenever I have to go to an airport bathroom because 11 out of 10 times my travel mate is flipping out as the plane is boarding and I am inevitably 14 gates away, striding off confidently in the wrong direction.

It’s as if I exist in a different world.

 Any family member knows better than to ask me which way to turn if they aren’’t sure. They say “Tell me which way you THINK we should turn, and then I’ll go the opposite way.” 

I would like to report that I use this method myself on me, but whenever I try it, I second guess myself and end up, yup, going the wrong way.

When I think about the fact that people used to be able to figure their way around simply by looking at the sun, I’m like…

Lewis and Clark, David Thompson, Marco Polo – semi-gods to me. 

I figure the only way I can alleviate this affliction is to either marry a homing pigeon or take along a competent family member at all times. My daughter can take 350 turns, walk 5 kilometres in a new city, and find a Starbucks that we passed three hours ago. It has always been humiliating having my seven-year-old tell me I’m going the wrong way. Like all the time.

 “Two roads diverged in a wood and I – I took the one less traveled by, and that has made”… the reason I got lost – again.

If I ever have to participate in a caravan of cars, my people will do anything to make sure I’m somewhere in the middle. If I’m the lead car, everybody’s screwed. If I’m the last car, they know they’ll lose me within fifteen seconds. They have found that it’s best to keep me somewhere in the middle, as the chances of me getting lost go down from 100%, to like 76%.The only time someone’s directions help me, are when they are literally sitting in the passenger seat telling me to “turn right here”. Then, “wait until you get up to this light. Yes, this one. Coming up. Alllllmost there. And turn left here. NOW!”

My nightmare job would be a taxi driver.

It would honestly be better if they just told me to drive for three Rihanna songs and then turn right at the stop sign.

Or leave breadcrumbs.

I sometimes wonder where the people are now who have asked me for directions.
 

I can usually find someone to blame for all this. Google Maps is good. It could be my GPS, or the lady three kilometres ago who leaned out her window and told me to turn left at the big spruce. 

Heck, it could even be my ex-best friend in Grade Four who dropped my book in a puddle and set off an entire chain of events that finished with me, lost, alone, and in the middle of nowhere, next to a gravel pile with two stale granola bars for company.

If I ever ask you for directions, please do not use words like “east” and “north”. Directional instructions are especially traumatic when I am in Oahu, because they use words like “mauna” (mountainside), “makai” (oceanside), “ewa” (to the west), and “Diamond Head” for east.

Who can bloody see mountains on the second floor of Saks in Waikiki, I ask?

Nevertheless, not withstanding my inordinate ability to get lost inside an elevator, this has never stopped me from going on the road.

More specifically, back roads. Because this is where I discover, uncover, and recover…who am I, what do I want, and where the heck am I?

Our freedom of travel has been restricted in a way we have never ever experienced. Now into another year of enforced non-travel, it is almost as if we are all collectively directionally challenged, finding that our map, our very being is forced to change, adapt, commit – moment by moment.

It’s like we were supposed to take a right turn down that road 6 kilometres back on a major highway barreling toward our destination, and suddenly we are on a narrow, gravel road. There’s no town, gas station, grain elevator, or house in sight, our cell coverage dropping faster than the TSX in 2008. We are now feeling lost, misaligned, at odds with our constrained reduced world, heightened all the more by a host of anxieties  – an inability to live our “normal” life in almost every context. 

It feels like being a first grader again, searching and searching for your mom amongst the hordes of children and parents in the school yard.

This isn’t what Jack Kerouac, that self-styled crazy hobo, promised—a hazy, no holds barred, carefree jaunt.

No, this is a road trip disaster. But he also said, “…the road is life”. And this is ours now.

Although I wouldn’t be so chesty as to think that I am channelling Jack Kerouac, I have now risen to an almost panicked, dissatisfied restlessness.

And so I aim to do the best I can – drive to all the villages, hamlets, and towns on the Alberta map as I can this year.

After all, getting lost and the unexpected create the best stories.
 


By the way, which way is the Finnegan ferry?

I’m lost. 
 
Filed Under: Blog
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