Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 739 – Day 752)
When I first entered University, I was a physics major and I loved nuclear physics almost as much as astronomy. In nuclear physics, we have the concept of the half-life or what might be considered the time for an element to decay and become unstable or simply to diminish to half its former size.
Living in a country where the cookie was trumped by the noble biscuit, I haven’t eaten a chocolate chip cookie in some 20 years. The exact date when I last ate a chocloate chip cookie is not something I have recorded in a notebook. But let’s say 20 years – roughly the time I’ve been away from this city – for argument’s sake.
Tonight, I sat down with a cup of coffee (tea is a thing of the other side of the pond) and a couple of chocolate chip cookies. They looked sort of like chocolate chip cookies. They were round, beige and sprinkled with dark spots where the chocolate would be. They certainly didn’t taste like the chocolate chip cookies of my childhood. And rather than the size of my palm, they were the size of my thumb. I think we can safely say that the half-life of the commercially produced chocolate chip cookie is less than twenty years.
But what of the human?
Years ago, I left this country and I abandoned all of my household goods that I did not pack with me. I gave them to my father because they were my mother’s things and a few old day planners I no longer needed. I assumed the planners would be shredded and my father would take what he wanted and pitch the rest in the charity bin. He didn’t. He avoided dealing with my mother’s things. When I returned, he gave it all back to me to deal with and to send to charity.
I have spent the last two weeks moving these boxes into my space and opening them to uncover their secrets. And while they have been boxed away for 20 years, they trigger memories and grief.
Mixed in with the lot are the things I brought from the UK. In those boxes are my treasures, including photos and journals from long ago that I haven’t read since they were written, but which I could never bear to shred.
Friends say I talk a lot about death and not having much time anymore. My mother was my age when she moved to this city, just as I have now done. And a couple of years later she fell sick. And not long after, she died. I was just a teen when she got ill and just coming of age when she died. It has been probably the single most important defining experience of my life. And I am smack dab in the middle of it again – revisiting my mother’s things and remembering the sound of her voice, the way she walked, and the crazy pink sweater she always wore. And in my journals, I am meeting again the girl, coming of age, and so full of dreams and ambition – most of which never came true. We can add ‘yet’ to that sentence, but there are some dreams that are too late to be fulfilled.
There is a lot of grief in these boxes. It is not only the grief of a life half-lived by being cut so short, but the grief of the half-lived life of the one left behind.
I was texting a long-time friend today while I drank my coffee and we were talking about men as we always have; or at least we have, for as long as the half life of a chocolate chip cookie. Men, she said, only fall in love with young women. She continued on about the need for perky breasts and of sexual attractiveness being a thing of youth, for women.
I have known her a long time and I value her opinion. I felt punched in the chest. Is that it, then? I am not old, but I am not young. Is it over for me, then? Should I pack up my sexuality and my love and put them in the charity bin with my mother’s clothes and other ‘items no longer needed?’
What is the half life of a human?
Is it the time it takes to go from well to ill to death? Is it the time it takes to let one’s goals get detached from one’s dreams? Or is it something perhaps more subtle than that?
As we think, so we become. We will decay with time – that is the nature of things. But the rate of decay is dependant on our inner and outer environments. I am sad for the girl who forgot her dreams. I am sad for the woman whose life was cut short. Loss is a part of life and grief comes with that loss. There is loss and grief that comes with middle age. But our beliefs shape our reality.
Recently the young SP-, who unwittingly challenges me to face myself and my dreams in a bittersweet fashion, said to me of my dreams: “it’s never too late.” Whether, from his position of youth, he believed what he said or not, I do.
The half-life of the human comes when we make the decision to let our beliefs rob us of the remaining half our life because we don’t believe that it is ours for the taking, any more.
I am grateful for SP- who not only throws up the mirror of who I might have been, but inspires me to start again. And I am grateful for Addila and CM who remind me all the time that people our age are highly productive and that dreams are just wishes unless they are our life’s purpose. Wishes are not to be taken seriously, but purpose ought to become our guiding force.
I am grateful for the friend who exposed her limiting beliefs so that I had the opportunity to take the time to examine my own. And, I am grateful for the crazy, messy, non-linear narrative that has been my life. It didn’t go the way I dreamed it would but it has been eventful and made me the insightful, loving and grateful person with sore knees and laugh lines, that I am, today. It isn’t over yet and if I don’t fall victim to my mother’s genetics, I have a long way to go, yet.
Joy is hard to come by at this moment and that nostalgic rest break with a chocolate chip cookie sure fell short of it, like much of nostalgia does. It is a melancholy state. But, I anticipate being on the other side of this traumatic process and setting off on those dreams again and that will be a joy.
As I look at my mother’s things, I feel that she is around me and that Oneness with her is a gift, albeit one that comes with rust. My service is to honour the ghosts that this time in my life has presented me – my mother and my youth. They’re both gone now, but in being remembered, their half life can serve as a reminder that life is short and the end comes unpredictably and all too soon. Although we are in the process of decay from the day of our birth, we make the choice, with the beliefs we choose to hold on to, about whether we live each day fully.
It is that choice which gives the meaning to the half of our lives we have left.
For what are you grateful this week?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 725 – Day 738)
Last month we celebrated our first year as TTDOG and 2 years of personal gratitude practice. When we reached the first milestone of a year of personal gratitude practice, I threw a party in London. This year has been much more subdued in terms of celebrations. This milestone comes in the midst of the most stressful, chaotic and manic-paced 4 months of recent memory. The pace may slow down soon (I hope) and while I had anticipated this would be a challenging time, and tried to set things in motion to cover my absence from TTDOG, things don’t always work out as we plan. We haven’t been posting much here at TTDOG.
When we hit 365 days, I was grateful for all the people in my life because without them, there would be nothing to write. I am even more so, now. We knew that keeping up with the website during this challenging time would be difficult but we wanted to do something meaningful to mark the milestone. Since community has been a key theme in the past year, we put a call out to the community to help create a milestone post and you responded.
With gratitude, we are delighted to present the voices of TTDOG’s community on our gratitudeaversary!
URSPO is one of TTDOG’s most dedicated readers and a writer in his own right. We have followed one another’s writing for nearly a decade. I am personally delighted each time he takes a few moments to write a comment. His words are always well considered, insightful and advance the conversation. Candidly, it means a lot to me to know that the time I take in reflective practice and in writing about it publicly is having an impact on others – even if it is only one person. I would still do the practice, but doing it publicly is a vulnerable action that I need not undertake. While there are likely lurkers out there reading and not commenting, it is satisfying to know that it means something to someone. We are grateful for all the comments from URSPO since our first day of practice and we asked him to share a little about what being part of this community has meant to him:
“I have been a regular reader of TTDOG for some time. I am very glad to be part of the blog. I’ve had many delights from reading its prose; I have greatly benefited from the entries. The chief lesson from Tania’s blog is gratitude, of course. She continually reminds us to look for the gratitude in all that happens in our lives.
There is always something for which to be grateful. This is not mere complacent wish-thinking. Studies show when we focus on the positive it trains our brains to think positively and be healthy in our approaches.
A happy consequence of her posts is I do not lose touch of gratitude. She comforts me; she stiffens my spine when I feel despondent. I start each day with the prayer “I thank thee lord for thou hast given me another day’. When I need help I evoke Tania and find the gratitude. I feel grateful for her and her journey. I am honored to be part of it.”
At the annual gratitude celebration, our friend Faith Romeo took on the task of making sure that everyone wrote 3 things for which they were grateful on the wall at the Canvas Café. For many people this was easy. For some, however, this was deeply challenging and brought up all sorts of emotions. Faith helped me to identify the people who were facing emotional challenges with being grateful so that we could sit together and could come out the other side. Everyone left the event with an understanding that gratitude isn’t about having an ideal life or even a fulfilling life but that by working through the small wonders in our day, we can build our emotional resilience to be able to take on the challenges that keep us from being fulfilled. I would like to believe that the event was the start of a transformational journey for some.
Faith shared with us her thoughts on the journey she has taken alongside TTDOG:
“When I attended the launch of Ten Thousand Days of Gratitude in the Canvas Café last year, things were going well in my personal life but could have been better in my working life. I had left my job as a teaching assistant to look after my son who’s behaviour had become unstable following a diagnosis of ADHD and was working in a unsatisfying job that was personally unrewarding.
Following the party, I decided to adopt a more positive approach to life, an attitude of gratitude, if you will. I applied and was accepted as a volunteer youth wellbeing trainer for a charity that delivers mindfulness and wellbeing sessions to young people. Part of this scheme is that I have to develop my own mindfulness practice, which has been very beneficial to me but also to those around me too. In the last year since the launch of TTDOG there have been a lot of changes in my life.
I got married in November to my long term partner and have never been more happy or fulfilled. I feel very fortunate to have a loving husband and son and never forget how lucky I am to have both. I returned to teaching assistant work in January. It took working under a terrible manager for me to realise that I needed to leave a job I didn’t like. Since returning to teaching assistant work I am working in a lovely school, with some amazing children. I can honestly say that this is my vocation and I feel incredibly lucky to be working in a job that I love.”
Seeing gratitude practice transform others has been one of the highlights of the last two years for me, personally. With gratitude, we added joy, when a long time friend, Paula Montgomery started posting about moments of joy in her life. We noticed that gratitude practice created that joy and so, in the first year of practice, we made that connection more explicit in our writings. TTDOG is grateful to Paula for that prompt. And in turn, it is rewarding to hear that she, too, has gained something from the experience:
“Since being part of the Ten Thousand Days of Gratitude community and having the chance to reflect on gratitude on my life, I have become less angry and judgemental. I find that having gratitude for what I have in my life, instead of focusing on what I don’t have, takes the edge off my demeanor and makes me more understanding. I have some unhappy negative people around me who complain about everything and everyone, and knowing that we all have allot to be grateful for helps me keep a positive perspective, and to feel better about my life.
I am very grateful for a community that reminds me everyday that I have much to be grateful for! Thank you.”
I am delighted to present to you some of the key voices that have been part of this journey. The community that keeps me accountable to keep coming back to the basic practice. This summer has been tough. The last 18 months have been tough. Honestly, the last 3 years have been tough. But this practice really has been like drinking an emotional energy drink. Without taking the time to come back to and reflect upon those things for which I am grateful, the moments of everyday joy, my sense of oneness with something greater than myself and the reminder to give back, life really would be meaningless, for me. When we have meaning, we can withstand any temporary trials, stresses, health concerns and problems because we are living a life of purpose. My purpose, I hope, is to make the world a better place, by the way that I live.
This year, I chose to feature several people who also seem to be living their life on purpose to make the world a better place and to build up that community of positive change makers. And so, we went back to the seminal moment that prompted that series – an article about the charitable work of Dr. Alicia Altorfer-Ong. Writing to us from Asia, she said:
“I think you are the community. The value of the springboard that you’ve given each person is in affirming, encouraging, incubating. I often enjoy the “work” — the gritty and backstage bits — but not so much talking about it, because of the attention. Yet if we don’t tell people about what’s being done out there, we might miss an opportunity to teach touch or inspire.
The world needs connectors: people who seek nothing else than to bring others together.
I am grateful for the chance to have shared an episode/a belief/an anecdote in my life on TTDOG. I also appreciate the power and energy that I felt from reading about the others who were profiled.”
It has been a great journey for me, personally, these last two years. In many ways, the first year was so much easier. I was buoyed with the next milestone – one month, three months, six months, a year! Then the spectre of more than 27 years (Ten Thousand Days) of practice hit me, in the second year. This cannot be a project. This must become a way of living, if I am to achieve Ten Thousand Days. And so, in year two, the hard work began.
None of us is an island, and we need to draw inspiration from others. I have been so fortunate to have been able to bring you feature articles about artists and musicians and people living their lives on purpose to make the world a better place. James Wheale completed a crowdfunding campaign to install a sustainable pedal power energy source in the garden, and has brought new life into the world with the birth of his first son, this month. Action for Happiness has celebrated their 5 year anniversary and continues to grow its membership worldwide. Alexandra Jackman has become a contributing writer for Huffington Post and honoured with a university scholarship to be able to continue her education that will ultimately involve advocating for people on the autism spectrum. Elie Calhoun completed her crowd funding campaign and together with Code Innovation, is working on developing a rape crisis counselling app for survivors. Wrdsmth, Matthew Del Degan and Louis Masai have continued to thrive as artists, bringing their messages of inspiration, love and animal welfare across North America and Europe.
There are so many good news stories out there and so many good news moments in our lives. I don’t expect that the next 365 days will be easy. In fact, I anticipate that they will be very personally challenging with changes in my circumstances and personal life. But nobody said that living gratefully was always easy. I am individually grateful to CM, FR and LK who always remind me to come back to my practices when things get too difficult. Although it is difficult to carve out time to sleep, let alone write at the moment, it is a joy to sit with you readers and disclose myself each time. I feel a sense of communion and oneness with you, known and unknown readers and it is my ardent hope that if you’re having a bad day, week, month, or year – coming here gives you that sense of community as well. My service is simply to dedicate myself once again to keep showing up and together, I hope that the process creates meaning, for both of us.
For what are you grateful this week, month, year?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 714 – Day 724)
Recently I had a wonderful but all too short lunch meeting with a close friend. I talked up a storm – more than I normally do – because time was so short and there was so much I wanted to share. As we were dining and talking, the background music seemed to break in and become a part of the conversation, on a number of occasions. He asked me a question and it touched on something emotional for me. Just then, Adele began to sing a very sad song and for a brief moment, I lost my words.
I believe that when something catches our attention like that, we are either selectively creating our own reality or we are being called by Spirit to pay attention, because this is important. In that moment, both were a part of the experience.
I spent many years in a relationship with a man, the second love of my live, P-. After we broke up, we remained friends. He cried on my shoulder when his childhood sweetheart later broke up with him and it was that very song, by Adele, that made him cry for her. It was as though he had lost his soulmate but was trying to deny it, by forcing himself to remember that there will be someone else in his life who will replace her.
P- is a big fan of Tim Minchin and he is a scientist. He does not believe in God, or Spirit or any ‘signs from the universe.’ Tim has a song “If I Didn’t Have You” that debunks the idea of soulmates and someone being “the one.” P- loves that song; I always found that to be rather unflattering, as his girlfriend. I don’t believe we can replace anyone with another person, but I also never really believed that there is only one person we can love in our lifetime. Had I believed that, I never would have dated again, after the breakup with the first love of my life. But then again, I did choose someone very much like him, when I fell in love a second time.
So there I was, sitting with my friend, who is around the same age these men were, when I met them, and the ghosts of these other men were interjecting themselves into the conversation. Why was my attention being called to these men? Certainly, SP- is super intelligent like both of these men, but I don’t think I was being called to pay attention to the similarities between these men. Since that meeting, I have become aware of the way I have, in the past, created a reality that both projected and rejected the reality of “me.” And so it was, with both the first and second loves of my life. My friend SP- is the first remarkable man with whom I can be present and feel confident in being more myself than I ever have been.
Authenticity is a catchword these days but there are very few truly authentic people. I don’t believe we try to deceive others about who we are. I think we play that game on ourselves. We are all afraid of failure, of being seen as weird, of not being loved, and many of us are afraid of being found fundamentally unloveable if we are really seen for who we really are. Our soul would be annihilated if that were to happen. So we become someone we are not, and we often don’t even know the difference. We become someone ‘like’ ourselves, but not ourselves at all.
There is a concept in psychology that we project the disowned parts of ourselves onto others. When we hate something in someone it is probably because we hate it in ourselves, but we can’t bear to believe it is part of our personality. And similarly, when we love something about someone – it is because we cannot love that part of ourselves.
By loving and losing the first and second loves of my life, I learned to own my intelligence and to walk away from a relationship when it was causing me emotional and psychological harm. I learned that it was okay that I not save someone who is damaged and unwilling to walk through the hell that would lead to their healing. I learned to begin to put my wellbeing at the centre of my life. What I didn’t learn was to accept myself as I am and to accept my destiny as my own.
Someone Like You. What an odd song to act as the vehicle to deliver a message. Yes, SP- is someone like them. Yet what strikes me are the ways he is like ME – he mirrors so many of my own dreams and values. He may not know it because I tend to skate past it when he talks about the dreams and values we share. It freaks me out a little to hear someone speak the things I only aspire to be. It forces me to confront myself.
I was looking at a home today and oddly, the real estate agent started talking about living one’s dreams. This has been on my mind very much for the last few months. It is so easy to settle and let things go and to use the excuse of duty or practicality to let fear push aside our dreams. I did this for most of my life. Life is but an instant and I feel its preciousness now, more than ever. I don’t want to compromise my dreams again. We talked about London and about friends that travel. I told the agent about SP- and how we share many of the same values and dreams and how he is really only beginning the journey of adulthood.
‘I can’t help but think…’ I started.
‘Where was he, when you were 25…?’ she offered.
No, actually. That wasn’t what I was thinking. In fact, I wasn’t ready to pursue my dreams at 25 and I think we would not have been friends, had we met then. I am so grateful we have become friends now, but I feel sad for that woman – so like me – yet unable to give herself permission to be.
I can’t help but think of what she might have achieved.
I hope SP- achieves his potential and fulfills all his dreams. With all my heart, I want the best for him. I want to see him have a life of laughter, love, health and success – as he defines it. And at the same time, I selfishly do feel grief, for myself, for all those years I wasted.
“Who would know how bittersweet this would taste?”
I am grateful for my friendship with SP-. He is so solid and steadfast and without guile or pretense. We work our whole lives to shed all that armour and be who we are. And there he is, simply being. As they say, when the student is ready, the teacher appears.
I am grateful for O- and P- , the first and second loves of my life. They acted as signposts on my journey as I travelled back to the same spot over and over and found someone like that someone I had loved and lost. They were simply holding up the mirror so that I could see that someone was “me.”
I am grateful for the place I am in my life. I feel vulnerable as hell and in a tumult half of the time. Many days I return to that feeling of despair that pervaded my twenties. But something good is possible out of all of this, and as SP- unwittingly holds up the mirror of my un-lived dreams, I find joy in being able – if only for a millisecond – to give myself permission to imagine REALLY leaving the world of expectations, stepping outside of fear, and living the life I was born to live. Why it should be this hard to do, I don’t know…but I was meant to travel this journey this lifetime. I hope I can master the lesson this time around.
With each of these men, I have experienced a different kind of connection and Oneness. With O- and with P-, I really wanted and felt I needed them to be the life partner that would live out our dreams together. But, we had different dreams and so, I was too scared to make a go of mine, alone. Now, I have met a friend who returns me again to that crossroads of opportunity and compromise. Through his fresh perspective, I glimpse again my own dreams, and he inspires me to move beyond my perceived need for a partner, to grow beyond my limits of fear, to consider living my dream on my own terms…and then to invite others to join me, where and when our journeys coincide.
I am being called to pay attention to myself, in the most fundamental of ways, and to create the reality of my choosing.
My service in all of this is perhaps to recognize and to own my projections and see them for what they are. At the same time, I have been given the gift of being able to see my friend for the glorious, wondrous, gifted and beautiful person that he is, and the opportunity to do for my friend what was not done for me: to do my best to hold space for him and his dreams, and to delight in watching him blossom, without imposing my ideas (I fail sometimes at that, but I can be a bit opinionated). I hope we will be friends for a long long time, and I have even allowed myself to consider what it might be like for him to see me blossom. As my mirror, I am aware that this is also my way of trying out how it would feel for me to see myself living my own dreams.
I can start to see that woman in that picture. She’s not quite there yet, but when that woman finds her way, she will find that she is someone talented, inspiring, beautiful, loving and infinitely loveable. She will find a woman that is someone like me.
For what are you grateful, today?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 704 – Day 713)
In my late twenties, I moved to New York City. I remember seeing a hand crafted metal bracelet in some little boutique. The artist had etched words into the surfaces of grey metal cubes that, as it wrapped around my wrist, told a story over and over again. It was a simple story; the story we all hope to live.
It read: Time passes, life changes, love remains.
I was young but I had already lived enough to know that this was a rare story but it was the story that I wanted for my life. I bought the piece and wore it as a talisman to help draw in the love that I wanted. I am a romantic and an idealist. I hoped to fall in love and have a partnership that would tell that story. Over the years, finding partners was easy. Finding a match, however, was not.
Time passes. This is the cruelest truth of our western existence. We idolize youth but it is such a short span in our lives. When we are young, we believe that time stretches out before us forever. When we have spent some of that precious time, we realize that the next moment has never been guaranteed. The moment has gone and it will never come again. Standing silently, unnoticed in the continual flow from what is next to what is past is the only thing that is real: the present moment. The only right time for anything is ‘now.’
But most of us don’t manage to live in the moment – and if we do, it is for fleeting moments, before we are carried away by our to do list and our regrets. And so, we live forever in a race to the next moment where change is a constant. But it is not the change in our circumstances that matters in our story. It is the way in which our circumstances change us, in this moment, that dictates how we will write our narrative.
I was in Los Angeles just a few days ago. Coming to Vancouver, I have lost the person I worked hard to become. I found her again for long moments in LA – in the gaps in the passing of time. It wasn’t the circumstances of being in Los Angeles or with beloved friends that brought me to life again. It was the way I was able to react to being there. I managed to do the kind of work that I love, while I was there, and it was effortless. I was able to connect with loved ones and I was able to laugh. I was able to look at great art and to let it change me.
I love to look at paintings by Mark Rothko. It is not a quick glance but a long and lingering gaze. It is a meditation. And when I sit for 30 minutes looking at a single painting I could swear that it morphs, before my eyes. His paintings are like portals to another dimension just beyond my perception. Slowly, with enough attention and relaxation, I become present with the painting in the moment. I am able to see through the eyes of the artist that created it, and experience the love of creation. It is me that changes and it is me that is revealed in the looking. Art may seem to change as we look at it. But it is we who can be transformed, if we allow it.
Like that bracelet, time seems to wrap around our life, bringing changes, but we are returned to the same point over and over again. The question is: can we be present to it when it happens? Sometimes there is rough edge on the links that keeps catching and drawing us back. If we can be present and really look, we can see through the eyes of the artist that created our bracelet. We will see where the rough edges need to be smoothed so we can stop catching. If we file the bracelet too aggressively, it will break. It can be mended but there will forever be a weakness where it was broken. If we want to keep the block that reads “Love Remains” we must bring love and care to the snag.
While I was in LA, I had the chance to spend time with old and new friends. It is a joy to have these men in my life. They model for me new ways of relating to men.
I am grateful for a new friendship with TCLA. His caring wisdom has been fortifying for me.
I am grateful to have spent time with CM whose unconditional love is one of the most transformative experiences in my life. I am grateful to have met him and that he remains such a positive force in my life for so long. His wisdom and counsel helps me to approach the snags of my life in a whole-hearted way.
I have tried over and over but life keeps snagging in one particular spot. I find it difficult to be grateful for this. But I am grateful to LK for pointing out that love begets love. That doesn’t mean that love is always reciprocated. But, only by approaching life with love can we attract the love we want. I find myself in the discomfort of anger over the shape and contours of this snag. Anger is the right response and anger – although scary – is a fiery emotion that brings about change. We need fire to forge the metal into the blocks that make up a bracelet and we need fire to solder the metal links of the bracelet, but uncontrolled fire can melt the entire thing into a puddle of molten metal. We must use fire to transform, not destroy. Fire is at the heart of a passion and while passion can be scary, without it, we do not have a very interesting story.
My anger has caused me to be sweary and even to slip into feeling hatred at times. This is uncomfortable. It is not a person I want to be. My service this week is to try to find a way to be open hearted and the loving person I want to be, while feeling my anger and allowing it to burn and transform me so that the situation can shift. As CM points out: transformation is painful. And none of us looks pretty while we are doing it. We make mistakes, we become the person we don’t want to be and then we change again. Love is the only thing that gets us through it.
I am grateful that I got to spend some time with SP in LA. Our friendship is still new, but it is unlike any that I have ever had before. I am grateful that at a time when I am experiencing anger and disorientation, this friendship is gentle and certain. No matter where in the world I am, I am connected to this man, and that certainty of Oneness is a kind of Grace.
Let time pass; it will anyway. But, be present in the moment. Good or bad, it is all we really have. Let life change; but let us choose how we are changed by it. Bring love to every situation and we will see: Love remains.
For what are you grateful this week?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 693 – Day 703)
It’s been just over two weeks since I packed up my life of more than a decade and moved to a place I haven’t lived in over 20 years. I averaged 1.5 hours sleep a night during that last week in London and when I arrived, I fell ill with the typical cold that hits everyone who has run on adrenaline and suddenly comes to a grinding halt. The problem is that I didn’t come to a halt. I’ve been working on getting my goods from the UK, replacing broken luggage, reporting a fraud that happened overseas and the repercussions on all of my banking details, dealing with health insurance, two different tax jurisdictions, filling in government forms and finding a place to live. After two years of discussions with my employer, I landed and found chaos around my job which has obstructed my ability to find a place to live for yet another month. And, all this is going on while I am staying in the basement of my folks’ home, as a fully grown adult.
It has been one hell of a two week churn.
I have had bad timing. Apparently it is in the last 6 weeks that the market for rentals has gone insane in the area. It has now a lower vacancy rate than either London or New York and people are bidding on rentals in a way that the Vancouver area has so far only seen in sales. I’ve seen at least 20 places. Some were very dodgy, and some quite nice but not within my Canadian budget or they have some kind of backhand deal that just feels fishy. I’ve encountered 4 scams (that I spotted) in my two weeks of looking. I feel less secure here than I did in London or New York because in both cases, I found my first place to live within days.
I need very little in an living space – a feeling of safety, light, and the ability to sleep at night. Even with that little in the way of criteria, I haven’t found a place to live.
I’m just trying to swim with the tide but I keep getting churned up.
I’m re-thinking what it is that I really want in my next home. Security is a must – and that includes knowing who I am contracting with, and living below my means. Beyond that, I guess it comes down to this: What does ‘home’ mean? And that is a question I can’t answer or the answer I might have in my heart is not the answer I can easily express to the world.
I once told a friend, in London, that I get sucked into Facebook quite easily – or I used to, anyway. She asked me if I tend to be more on Facebook when I’m away from home. I was unable to answer that. The question pre-supposes that there is this mythical place called ‘home.’
I moved 9 times before the age of 12 and then we settled down for what seemed like an eternity – 3 years. But all through that time there was the looming certainty of moving, again. I never got used to having an idea of ‘home.’ We had a house, but roots was not a thing I knew. I lived in London longer than I lived anywhere in my life. Is Canada my home? Is London, where I am a foreigner despite having dual citizenship? I don’t know that I will ever know what it is to call a place ‘home’ other than the limits of my own skin.
I am my only home.
For me, it is about being safe enough in myself and my surroundings to be able to surf the waves of change and chaos and not get churned up. I don’t know this for a fact but from my limited experience of actual surfing, I found that I got churned in the surf when my board went one way and I went the other. The churn happened because I was attached. And so it is in life.
The day I arrived in Canada, my step mother asked me whether it was difficult to leave my friends behind. I had no words for the grief I feel at leaving them. If I were leaving them to go to Singapore or Zurich it would be different still. But I have left friends and a way of life that I’ve come to love to come to a place that is both foreign and full of ghosts – both living and dead. Detachment becomes particularly difficult when we are dealing with ghosts. It is they who seem to have the grip on us, not the other way around.
Two children in any family will have different experiences and this is particularly so when there is a big age difference. My eldest sister is 10 years older than I and the sister closest to me is still 5 years older. I ran away from home when I was 13. I ran away twice that year. And when I was 16 and able to go to University, I went. I moved away from home but it wasn’t until my mother died that I really ‘left.’ She was the closest thing to what I think we all consider ‘home,’ for me. And so I really really left home – First across the continent; and then across the world. In one way or another, I guess I’ve been running away from ‘home’ since I was 13 years old.
I am my only home.
I am here and I am surfing. And that is enough.
I am happy to share my joys, but pain is something I keep private. I’ve asked my friends not to ask me any questions about my life right now. I will share what I feel like sharing when I am ready to share it. My private and my public self are split in a way that they haven’t been, in a very very long time. I am grateful that even if they cannot understand it, they seem to accept it. And I trust that you will, too.
While it is awful, I am grateful that I am in tune with my feelings of discomfort. This discomfort helps me to pause. I need time to process everything right now. And, while I’m doing that, I’m grateful for my ability to draw.
Drawing is helping to keep me calm in a turbulent time. It is a joy to see my drawing improving because I know that I am no longer in my head. I draw portraits of the people I love, because while I am processing all of my anxiety, grief, and hope, it is important to have that connection with people I consider to be my closest allies. That Oneness with them is a great reserve of strength for me right now.
My service is nothing spectacular this week. In fact, I think just keeping my hair on and not disrupting those around me more than is necessary, with this incredible undertow, is a service. Today I walked out of a bad situation and went to my car. For the first time in my life, I let out a primal scream that left me without a voice and gasping for air. The meaning in all of this is that sometimes, it takes everything we have to just try to keep our head above water and it is in those times we most need to look for the things in our lives for which we are grateful, that bring us joy and that connect us with something bigger than ourselves. Swami Satchidananda used to say to us, his students, that it was in these most trying of times that our practice really gets tested and we see how far we’ve come and how far we have yet to journey along the path ‘home.’
For what are you grateful this week?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 678 – Day 692)
I’m not going to talk politics this week. I think there is enough of that going around and we are all in our heads much more than our hearts. Even politics, if we could be honest right now, is all about a sense of what should be, and our deep feeling of betrayal that it is not. Betrayal, as I define it, is that feeling that comes from a circumvention of our entitlement to the world being the way we expected it to be, given the promises we made and that were made to us. Infidelity is the classic instance of betrayal.
I was ‘unfaithful’ once. I was 14 and I kissed another boy over the long summer absence from my boyfriend. It had happened the night of my grandfather’s burial and the start of a 3 day wake. I felt so guilty that I told my boyfriend about the indiscretion as soon as we met. In the face of betrayal, he modeled commitment, faith and forgiveness.. He chose not to see my behaviour as a reflection of my love for him, but rather as the act of an emotionally distraught young person, ill prepared for the intensity of a wake that goes on for days.
I know it is perhaps naive in this neo liberal world of individualism and ‘me first’ thinking but I take people at face value and I believe the best of them. As an adult, I don’t make commitments lightly, but when I do, I am fierce about keeping them. When I say ‘I love you,’ I mean it. If I say it to friend, family or lover, I mean it. And what comes with my expression of love is the commitment to continue to love, despite what comes.
I see the best in people even when they hurt me. What I cannot bear, however, is lies. Whether they are overtly stated, come under the heading of topics-avoided, or they come in the guise of second guessing and judgements, all are a fabricated story designed to avoid discomfort.
I remember that in writing school, some classmates and I were out for coffee and the topic of ‘why do you write?’ arose. Aside from the obvious – ‘because we have to’ – we all had reasons. I said that for me, it was the pursuit of Truth. They looked at me as if I was from Mars.
I guess my top values in life have always been Truth, Justice, Love and Beauty. And sometimes, those values can seem to come into conflict. We want justice when we are lied to, or when our love is betrayed by ugly behaviour. It is natural, but it is a false sense of justice. Ego wants to act out of entitlement and expectation. We are hurt. We must have restitution. But sometimes we can’t go back and make things the way things once were. And that is where Love can bring us to Truth.
Right now I have a friend who is behaving less than ‘respectfully’ or ‘open’ towards me. I have no idea why, and I cannot know unless he tells me. I could jump to conclusions – and other friends have done this for me, and they are angry with me for continuing to have faith in him. I don’t know what to make of the situation. My intuition has been pretty strong on this friendship in the past and now it is like the signal has been turned off completely.
Instead of jumping to conclusions, I am choosing to live with a question mark that cannot be answered by me. Sitting in this is painful. The question may never be answered, in this lifetime. I am desperately human and so I want jump to conclusions so as to fill in the story and complete the narrative of this chapter. And, I could easily do that and move on. But that would only be a cheap literary mechanism of Deus Ex Machina (God in the Machine). It would be a fabrication to avoid the discomfort and mess of epiphany.
And Truth is my highest value.
A few weeks ago, I saw a friend that I love. We had a sudden split over something that was said in jest and which was taken to heart. For him, it was a betrayal. He cut us all off, shortly after. For some reason, he has forgiven me for what I said. Perhaps it is because I just never stopped communicating and in that, he came to know me. I don’t know if he remembers that I am the one who said the comment, or if he has rewritten our narrative, in his own mind. Whatever the case, I am very grateful that we met after all this time. I love him, and hurting him had been painful for both of us.
For me, a meeting with him was one of the two unfinished relationships I had in London. I thought about him a lot and I was about to go to some length to get my closure of this chapter. It would have been a form of Deus Ex Machina.
But sometimes the Universe enters the machine in its own way if we just open our hearts and love fiercely enough.
I had spoken about him, with love, on that spot where I was when I met him again. I had cried about not seeing him, on that very spot. And within a week, after wishing him there – there he was. He walked up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.
I was shocked. Sometimes I actually have problems accepting the gifts that the Universe manifests for me and the signs that something deeper is going on here. But after a few seconds, my joy was clear as I leaped up and hugged him, over and over and over again.
We had a special, soulful, beautiful, and unexpected evening – very intense – and we talked about everything. I came to see the Truth of the situation. I saw him again a few days later but that was on a different level than the soul. I don’t know if I will see him again. My intuition says that I may not, in this lifetime. But a chapter in our story is now complete and it has written itself in the time and in the way it needed to be written. And if there is another go round in another lifetime, I am sure that we will find one another again and we will open a new chapter.
As for the first friend I mentioned in this post, I don’t know what is happening with him. What is in my hands, is whether I choose to see some strange behaviour as a betrayal of our friendship, or not.
I think that the world is full of opportunities to be offended, if we want to take them. Most of that is manufactured in our own minds. I am grateful that my mother always tried to teach me not to take other people’s behaviour personally. I am also grateful that she never wanted me to be a doormat. Sometimes, those two principles can seem to be in contradiction with one another but by taking care of ourselves and also being loving to the other, we can walk even the finest of lines. If we really believe in Oneness then we know that ego is the source of feelings of betrayal and this only adds to our feelings of being separate. I think that right now, my service to the world is to live by example and to try to access my own intuition in whatever I do. Sometimes that may leave me isolated. Sometimes the process is painful. But, I suppose that the real meaning of commitment and of faith – whether it be in a deity, a person, or in our own internal knowing – is that we are able to stay the course of our commitment and sit in our discomfort without throwing that false God into the Machine. If we heed the soul’s call, I believe that eventually, we will come to the Truth.
For what are you grateful this week?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 671 – Day 677)
It has been nearly 2 years since I quit my job, intending to leave London, and I am finally leaving. I am in shock, and when I think of leaving, and returning to my birthplace, I start to feel like I am suffocating. I have done so much work on myself in my lifetime to become who I am. When I am there, I feel that people see me in the way I was, when I left, more than 20 years ago. Nobody knows me, there.
I have lived in London longer than anywhere else in my life. It is home to me, now. I have a life that I love. Or I did, until the country voted to throw it all in the air. There are things I must do and they are calling me away. For two years, I have been sentimental about my love of this city, my friendships and my life. I find myself grasping to hold on while trying to let go.
I’m not ready, but it is time to go take care of some things.
While the timing now means that uncertainty stretches out in all directions, I am glad I waited. I took time to invest in myself, in my healing and in my writing again. In the first year, I spent a lot of time exploring and I made a whole new group of friends. In the second year, I assimilated, and learned a lot about myself. I have gone from watching artists paint to taking baby steps of picking up a pencil and trying to draw, to picking up a paintbrush and watercolours. It has been an incredible journey of trying out and of pouring out my love into everything I draw and paint. I have also been writing for 2 years and writing like mad these past 6 months. In the last 2 months I rarely left my desk. Along the way, I have unearthed and dared to dream (again) a few writing dreams that were long ago buried. I couldn’t have imagined that it could have been like this, if I hadn’t had the love, encouragement and support of very accomplished artists along the way.
I think that this is the path of art, psychology and spiritual work: Experience, savour, explore, unearth, assimilate, pour out the heart (some would say “tear out”, but leaving is the only thing that tears out my heart), transform, and move on to a new vulnerable place, to experience anew.
I just don’t feel ready to move on, yet. But, I must.
Even before the death of my friend, a few weeks ago, and all the world events that followed (Orlando, Jo Cox’s murder, Brexit, Istanbul), so much had happened in my inner world, stirring up my dreams. In my spiritual circle, we work with dreams and so I take their symbols seriously. My dreams are very vivid, particularly when I send Reiki to one particular spiritual friend. He has been “absent” and so I have not had the chance to get closure before leaving. It is surely one reason that my dreams are so charged.
Recently, I dreamed I was sent to awaken a man. When I looked into the room, I saw that he was levitating and so I thought: I must wake him slowly. I knocked gently on the door several times and when I stopped knocking, I awoke from my dream. The man was me.
Readers will know that I have very recently and sadly come to the end of my association with my spiritual community in London. They have introduced me to a new kind of work, which involves a sort of spiritual alchemy and I have taken tentative steps into this work. It makes me feel vulnerable.
It makes sense that this dream would come to me when I am sending Reiki to my friend, because when I met him, the word “Shaman” came to mind very strongly. This is not as strange as it seems – Shamans exist in the modern world, working with spiritual alchemy. I told a friend about that experience. She looked at me directly and said: YOU are the Shaman.
Now, I still believe my friend has unusual spiritual qualities and I certainly don’t believe that I am a Shaman, but as a healer, light worker and as a storyteller, I guess I share an aspect of their work. Perhaps the dream suggests that despite my anxiety, I don’t need a spiritual community and it is time to let myself fly.
A few nights later, I dreamed that I was on my way to see my friend, but my journey kept being interrupted as I was greeted by people who no longer lived in London. I was preoccupied with giving away my things to them, and as I parted company with someone who left London years ago, I realised that I, too, was already gone. I texted my friend, asking him to join me somewhere underground, though I wasn’t certain that he would come. Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars played like a soundtrack.
On the face of it, this is a love song, but to me, it is a song associated with death and a kind of melancholy that leaves one unable to reach out, but longing for someone to lean in. I suspect that the melancholy is my own. When I last lived in the city where I will be going, I identified with the archetype of Persephone who was kidnapped to spend half her life with Hades, in the underworld.
The dream probably speaks to my anxiety about leaving London and what lies ahead. I fear losing all the inspiration, love and transformation that has characterised my relationship with friend and my Tribe. At its essence, that text message was an existential cry from a universal fear of being, and of dying (suffocating), alone in our own private hell.
It is bittersweet, because the dream has come to fruition: I am leaving London without connecting with him. I have tried, but it hasn’t happened. If this is the end of a chapter and this sense of connection is lost, then I am grateful for the many ways that my friend and my Tribe have touched my life. I am scared, but I am grateful to be so deeply in touch with and able to express my fear. I know it causes me to feel and act rather intense right now, and this all may seem dramatic, but I am grateful for a rich inner life. I have to face some tough things, ahead, and I am grateful that I have the courage to decide to face them, head on. Courage does not mean there is no fear; it means we feel the fear and walk through hell, anyway. It has been a joy to live in London (not always, but overall) and to be part of this quirky Tribe I have come to know and love. I will miss them more than they know.
When we really have faith in Oneness, we know that the connection, whether conscious or not, is always there. The tree, the flower, the pomegranate, the ocean, the raven, the whale, the bear, the people – we are all connected, always and everywhere. Like everyone, though, I struggle with my faith in Oneness.
My service this week has been to make sure that the last of my things have new homes and are sent on to the new owners with love and blessings. I am trying not to say goodbye. I say that I will be back, and I hope that I will be, soon. But the truth is, I don’t know what will happen. Chaos stretches out before me, and I leave a Britain in chaos. I don’t know where, when or how I will emerge.
The meaning in all of this? Nothing original. Some people are with us to take us to the next crossroads and then we are meant to walk our separate ways, because we have learned all we can from one another. And some people are meant to walk on with us, wherever we go. Who will be in which group isn’t really ours to determine. Attachment causes anxiety. So, when we get to that junction, let’s embrace one another and then let go, with gratitude, and have a dance.
If this is to be the last dance we will do together, let’s not make it a sad one.
“Those 3 words are said too much.
They’re not enough.”
For what are you grateful, this week?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 669 – Day 670)
Around this time last year, I spent the evening with two acquaintances – one was a man, the other a woman. The man was much younger and I wasn’t sure how to relate to him. When he went off to the gents, the woman and I got to talking. I asked her – are you married, in a relationship, single? No, she said, she had been single for awhile, but she was looking. Just then, the young man returned, and to be inclusive, I asked him the same thing. “No,” he said, “I’m still trying to figure myself out.”
It was a typically 20-something sentiment, but one that I have shared, much of my life. I had the first love of my life at a young age. I was 22 by the time it all ended. They say that men who have their hearts broken at a young age are sometimes inclined to rarely fall in love again. I can tell you that the same applies to women. I spent the rest of my twenties trying to unravel myself from the knot I had made – twisting myself to conform to what other people thought I should be. I moved around the world and had an ambivalent feeling about relationships. I was still just trying to figure myself out.
Then I met my second love of my life. I was in no way looking for him. I settled into a career, and had a nice flat and things just sort of ticked along. I was no longer really questioning anything. I had settled into what looked like “my life” and he was a part of that picture. Whether the picture was the right one for me or not really didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. A friend of mine once said that at some point in life we stop trying to figure out what to do with it and we just get on with living it. If we aren’t careful, our comfortable life becomes one of, as Thoreau puts it, “quiet desperation.”
Love should liberate. All too often, it becomes a prison as we settle into a life of apparent comfort through compromise. That relationship became a 7 year prison sentence. I met the third love of my life, awhile ago, but I haven’t pursued a relationship; I’m just trying to figure myself out – again.
We have a referendum this week, and I have a gut feeling and acquired ‘wisdom’ as an economist, and I will vote that way. But to be honest, I don’t know, really, what political ideology I can believe in, anymore. Despite never wanting her children to be branded with the brush of a sect (Doukhobour) that was hated and vilified, I believe in many of the values of environmentalism, mysticism, pacifism, and a shared economy that characterised my mother and her people. But I also studied economics and finance and the systems I was taught came from a whole different ideology to the one I absorbed from my mother.
Even while I read Adam Smith, Kant, Marx, Lenin, Galbraith, and Keynes, the discussion around their work, looking back, seems like a pre-digested interpretation. I was indoctrinated into the political ideologies of the Universities I attended. Save for my time in writing school, I was never, really, encouraged to think. We say that the personal is political. But if the personal doesn’t get a chance to develop, how can it develop anything political? Whether we admit it or not, I think we all had the same kind of education.
This week, the political became personal for me, here in the UK. An MP was murdered – ostensibly for her politics. The news was awash with it and on Facebook, a friend quietly posted support to her friend, the husband of the slain MP. I very nearly missed it. In the maelstrom of rhetoric, the horrible incident had happened not to some “politician” but to the friend of a friend. The political is always personal.
But when the rhetoric is silenced, what is it that we really believe? For what, if anything, would we die? For what do we live?
In my late 20s and early 30s I went down the path that said belief doesn’t matter because there is one Truth, and all thought and ideology is a product of ego. But we still must live in this world, and if we aren’t blissed out in divine union, we must have some direction for our energy. Even the system that sought to dissolve systems has basic rules: meditation, non-violence, and other practices to clear and free the mind. All were designed to make a ‘good’ life.
But what makes for a ‘good’ world? Is it a series of communities in direct democracy like Switzerland? Is it a system of representative democracy like America? Is it a system of centralised planning and rule of law like Singapore? Is it a series of self sufficient ashrams, or – in the case of my mother’s people – a series of pacifist communes that live a self governing life set apart from wider societal institutions?
Maybe there is something better, beyond popular thinking and current imagining.
I am grateful for the artist friends and young people I have met in London. They inspire me to question my thinking. I am grateful that I have found new ideas and perspectives and am grateful for having the freedom to re-think my values and to vote. It is a joy to discover fresh thinking in the world and I hope that I can, in future, do the service of introducing some of that thought to a different demographic.
I was speaking with a young woman the other night. We talked about many things. We wondered what thoughts went through the minds of those who dropped the atomic bomb and those who built it. And then I remembered the words of one of the greatest minds of his time, Robert Oppenheimer, on his contribution to the bomb. It was taken from an ancient yogic text:
“I am become death. I am the destroyer of worlds”
Beyond our thoughts, I do believe the yogis are right and we are all One. But, our thoughts determine who we are in this world – individually and as a society. The world seems more divided and upside down than it has been, this century.
Like love, our ability to think should set us free, but like love, we use our minds to imprison ourselves in a comfortable relationship with ideology that can lead to disastrous ends.
Maybe the world would be better off if we all tried to just figure ourselves out.
For what are you grateful, today?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 663 – Day 668)
On Sunday, I was wrapped up in my own world. I didn’t see the news until late in the evening. I had things to do for my upcoming move, and the only time I had for Facebook was to deal with a difficult decision to ban someone from a memorial group who could not stop himself from attacking another member. I know that anger masks deep pain, and so it was a difficult decision to exclude someone when I advocate working with Oneness. But no pain justifies continuously acting out on another person. Without seeking to understand, he would lash out and, like children in a schoolyard, others would join in the cyber-bullying with a barrage of words. When did we stop listening to one another, and engaging in dialogue? When did we start becoming so incensed by different opinions?
I was exhausted and I just needed a break. I decided to take a trip to South London, on a mission to give an energetic ‘au revoir’ to a London friend, who isn’t here to do it in person.
He is the artist of one of my favourite pieces of street art that was tagged immediately after it was painted. When I first went to photograph it, right across the face of the character was scrawled in black paint: “Gay.”
I have always been drawn to words on walls and they have the power to offer an alternative perspective that seldom gets expression, and to remind us that there are other ways of being. Lately, there has been a lot of tagging of streetart in London, by graffiti writers. But this tag hurt me, because it wasn’t a staking of territory or a protest against gentrification – which are a part of the street art/graff/community dialogue. No, this was HATEFUL.
The sexuality of the artist, the shop owner and the property owner are not something I know. If I don’t know, then it is likely that the graff didn’t know. Most likely, this was not an overt personal attack directed at someone believed to be gay. But it is still a hateful act. It reflects a culture that allows words about sexuality to be used in a derogatory manner, as a means of bullying.
This morning I was watching the news as I was doing chores. A very popular American sitcom came on. Three times in the first five minutes, I heard characters use the word ‘Gay’ as an insult to their friend’s manhood. I don’t watch this program, but it hit me in the heart, as I saw how they were hiding behind ‘comedy’ to perpetuate the acceptability of this form of bigotry. Bigotry and bullying is not righteous, hip, edgy or funny.
Like feminists, the LGBTQ community has made gains in the UK, Canada and now America but backlash ensues, in subtle and not so subtle ways. Yes, in many countries, the LGBTQ community faces more open hostility than in America, but hidden hostility and backlash is perhaps more difficult to fight because it is so hard to identify, define and achieve consensus.
Perhaps if any good has come of the Orlando murders, it is highlighting the backlash against the LGBTQ community, just as the Montreal Massacre did for feminists in Canada. Some will try to silence the dialogue and will point to the changes in the law that give rights to the oppressed. “Stop complaining,” they will say. We must not be silenced. In the Montreal Massacre, the attack was characterised as the act of a madman and not the targeted attack of women in a previously ‘male domain’ of engineering science. I am grateful that in the 27 years since L’École Polytechnique, leaders have learned that mass murder can be the act of a madman and be a targeted hate crime as well.
You may wonder what took me to see that particular piece of art, on this particular Sunday, before I knew about the Orlando shootings. And, I wonder as well. For months, I have had this draw to go photograph the piece again and because I am leaving, I reasoned it was now, or never. For some reason, I felt (or maybe just hoped?) that the piece had been cleaned up by one of the artist’s friends.
When I got there, I had to wait a half hour for the shop to close. As I waited, I had a moment of stillness watching the evening sky as the quality of light changed with the weather. It was beautiful.
When the shutter finally came down, I saw that although the art had been tagged with a graff’s name, the hateful tag across the face had been removed. I let out a “Yay!” and explained my delight to the manager. We admired the piece together for a few moments and commented on the craftsmanship of the details, before he was on his way. He took my hand and said he hoped we would meet again. Do not tell me that street art does not bring people together.
It gave me so much joy! And as I delighted in seeing the piece restored to its glory (save for the graff tag that happens on the street), it started to rain. And then, it turned to a downpour. When I lived in India, I celebrated the monsoons, and standing in the downpour in South London, for a moment, I felt that the world was rejoicing along with me, at the sight of one less hateful thing.
I am grateful to the artist, and to all street artists. These artists infuse our communities with love and light through the beauty of their art. They are an integral part of creating the new story of Oneness and Life.
Knowing that I’m leaving London and may not see the artist for a very long time, I am grateful that I was able to create a happy memory, re-visiting the piece. I believe that there are forces that are trying to extinguish the light and love in the world and they not only perpetuate violence, but they also rob the hope and faith-in-humanity of people of good intention. With this moment a part of my day, I later learned of the horror of Orlando, and I did not despair. I was able to send Reiki as a service to the victims and their families and, because it felt right to do so, to the artist that had painted that shutter. I was unable to sleep; I have rarely felt the “pull” of the recipients so strongly as I did that night. The world needs so much healing.
I know that many people struggle to find meaning at times like this. I don’t pretend to have any answers, but for me, I have learned that the only way to combat division and bigotry is through Oneness. Attacking members of a religion who have perverted and selectively edited the words of their Prophet (Peace be upon him) to justify bigotry and murder will itself be a backlash against a whole religion. It will not end the culture of bigotry. I don’t know what will end bigotry in our world, other than a growing movement of Oneness. But, if there is anything I know, as a crafter of words, it is this: our words have power.
As the ancient yogis told us: thought becomes word and word becomes deed. If we want less targeted murders, less workplace discrimination, less religious, gender, sexuality and politically based violence, we can begin by observing and altering the language we use, to change the way we think. We must be mindful of our rhetoric in response to this horrible event. Together – and only together – we can buff out hate.
For what are you grateful, today?
Gratitude, Joy, Oneness and Service (Day 656 – Day 662)
It’s a rainy day in London and I know that the news can get a person down. I have been thinking a lot about the wonderful people I meet in London. I have been wanting to direct a post to all who dare to dream.
I look at people in their twenties, and I am amazed at what they are accomplishing. My nephew is a hockey champion, one niece is a Canadian weightlifting champion and the other niece has two degrees and a full time placement as a social worker. When I was their age, I had held very responsible jobs, lost a parent, loved and lost my partner and was scared to really chase my dreams. I had nobody who really mattered, that believed in me enough to tell me not to give up.If someone had said this to me at a crucial moment of decision, my life would probably be different, today.
When I was in my twenties, I got accepted to do my Master’s degree in playwriting at NYU.
I turned it down.
Take a moment to let that sink in.
Very few people know this. Yes, I got the chance to chase my dream, and I turned it down. I chased it in other ways in a Canadian writing school and in the NYC film business, but the stage was my passion. I wanted to go to NYU more than I wanted to live, but the investment in tuition was too great for a career as a playwright that “wouldn’t pay off, financially.” How did I know that? I didn’t. That wasn’t my voice speaking in my head. It was the inherited wisdom of voices that had told me, all my life, to stop being a dreamer and to get my head out of the clouds. I was a highly sensitive young person and when I heard that story enough, I used it to quell my fear of stepping up to the plate and striking out. Or, more frightening still, of hitting a home run. Like most adolescents, I was insecure and I didn’t believe in myself. So, when I held the ticket to my dream in the palm of my hand, I chose to crumple it up and I throw it away.
That was a defining moment for me, in many ways. And the sad thing is that most people have never pursued their dreams. That defines them, as well.
I am so happy when I see younger people giving it a shot. I am blown away by the talent that they have. And I see that they struggle with the same fear of failure, fear of success, money issues and well – self doubt – that I did. And they are really talented. Really talented. And, what they are doing is amazing.
I know my demographic is 34-65 and not the twenty something generation, but I feel like Joe in John Patrick Shanley’s ill conceived film, Joe vs the Volcano: “I have no interest in myself. I think about myself and I get bored.” What interests me are people who don’t share my perspectives and who can open my mind.
The other day, I clicked and followed links to look at a couple of websites of bloggers that some of my younger friends follow. Street art websites are interesting but, of course, given my own work, the sites that I like best are the ones by young artists, photographers, and writers themselves, working at their craft. The writing and perspectives are interesting. The sites are hip, visual and engaging. And yet, what I hear from them is a sense of ennui, of feeling a lack of a place for them in the world, and a need to boost their artistic confidence.
Why? Who is it that is telling them it isn’t going to pan out? If it’s us, then we need to shut our fat mouths and start being supportive, because the world needs more art and entrepreneurial spirit. Now, more than ever.
One of those bloggers I read this week was someone who expresses his self doubts at creating music and is really trying to give it a go. He has so much talent as a writer. I mean really talented – better than some of the working writers in magazines that I encountered in my time in the business. He wants to write music, and yet, with all this talent, he doubts himself.
I wanted to tell him: Don’t give up.
Seriously: Never give up!
Of those in my writing classes at UBC, I know of less than a half dozen who are published and award winning writers. All very talented, yes. But, some of the most talented writers never went anywhere. It wasn’t lack of talent. They gave up. Whether I was talented or not, I also have to admit, I gave up on myself too. Long before I got tired of writing dark tales, I backed away from my dream. And maybe that is why my writing remained dark and stuck. Those who made it had one thing in common: they never gave up.
Any unfulfilled dream will remain and if you don’t pursue it when you’re 25, you’ll be scrambling to pursue it at 40 or 50 or 75. It never goes away. No amount of money in the world will ever make us happy if we are unfulfilled.
I may be presumptuous, this may be unheeded, but if there is even a chance in a million that I hit the right note with someone like myself, who, at 27, needed someone older to believe in them, then I will say it:
“Never give up. Keep making your art, because the world needs it.”
I’m grateful for those who have believed in me and have encouraged my creative and entrepreneurial dreams. I’m grateful for the mix of friends that I have, ranging from 22 to 83, and for the many perspectives they bring into my life. And, I am grateful that I didn’t wait till I was 50 or 75 to unearth, dust off and start pursuing my dreams again. It gets harder to achieve what we want to achieve and to create the body of work that is within us as we get older, and I wish I knew then what I know now, but I didn’t. This isn’t a dress rehearsal for Life, the Musical. We only get so many days. We might use them well.
It is a joy to learn that actually, I can still write and more: I can paint. I’m not very good at it, but why would I be? I have never tried it before, have had no instruction and am just experimenting and trying it out. And in a way that I can’t always, with words, I am able to pour my love into a painting.
When I see a young artist, writer, actor, or musician, I see myself, and whether right or wrong, in that moment of Oneness, I am compelled to do the service that I wish someone had done for me. Maybe it isn’t a service really, because I know that in speaking to them, I am also speaking to the 27 year old inside of myself who still doubts herself and still wonders if anyone cares if she ever writes another word.
So please, never give up.
For what are you grateful, today?
In Memoriam: Rev. Nicholas Temple (1946 – 2016)
**UPDATE: There has been a Facebook group setup for remembering Nick. **
I started a blog circa 2006. I had about a 2 year run of blogging for fun, and then, Facebook took off. Most of us never went back to it. A few kept on blogging. One of the first bloggers I started to follow, Sometimes Saintly Nick, went into Hospice care, last week.
I think I have known Nick for something like 10 years now. Never having met him, I know that he was a UCC clergy member, a Veteran, a social worker, a father, a grandfather and a cat lover. I know that he loved music, that he was a crusader for social justice, an old school activist, a musician, a romantic, (his birthday was Valentine’s Day) and he had a corny but unwavering sense of humour. Despite being of service all his life, he was virtually housebound and alone, for many years. He was, like so many, a lonely soul, who found community through his computer.
In the time I knew Nick, he lost his ability to work, his mobility, his lifelong home, his health, his independence and finally, his life. I remember feeling that some of this had to be made up: Surely, so much misfortune could not befall one person. But it was not made up. It was a slow and steady decline and one that is all too familiar to those who have seen loved ones reach old age without financial security. Nick was one of the fortunate ones – he was a US Veteran and he had health insurance and as much as his HMO frustrated him, and played fast and loose with his dignity, he had some coverage for his chronic and terminal conditions. And yet, it seemed a pitiful show of health “care.”
The last decade of Nick’s life was testimony to poverty in America.
I remember my surprise to find that he had been admitted to hospital and was unable to walk. I learned about it on Facebook, because we became Facebook ‘friends’ when I stopped blogging. For the next five months, Nick was in hospital and he posted updates several times a day. It was heartbreaking to see him so poweless and alone; in the hands of seemingly inattentive hospital staff and at the mercy of beaurocratic nonsense from his HMO. Nick had family and friends nearby, and they helped advocate for him, but they had their own lives and whatever time they could spare was not enough to fill his days or spare him the indignity of a terminal hospital stay. He felt he had been “warehoused” in the slow wait for death.
In the midst of this suffering, the group of online friends, who had perhaps never met him in real life, rallied around him, 24/7 from many different time zones. I remember that one virtual and long distance Facebook friend called 911, to get him attention in the hospital, because the staff were failing to respond to his calls and, as I recall, he was about to fall from his bed and injure himself.
As Nick’s cancer kept him in hospital – in fact, shuttled between hospital to hospital, care home to care home – we saw a lot of nonsensical posts come up and that worried the lot of us. Was Nick slipping into dementia? Was he too heavily sedated? His returns to lucidity were a relief to us all. This week, however, was very confusing. A few days before Hospice, Nick was elated that he was going to be released from hospital. The next message was that there was more confusion about where he would be going, again. Then the next status update was that he was shaking and cold. And then, he became unresponsive.
The next message I saw scroll through my Facebook feed was written by a family member, telling us that Nick had been transferred to Hospice care. I was in a coffee shop, in Shoreditch, working on an article. I stopped and I sent him love and prayers across the miles, and I cried in the middle of the coffee shop.
In the days of our grandparents, people had pen pals and wrote letters to one another pouring out their hearts and souls, or perhaps just the day’s events, if one was terribly British. Virtual communication is nothing new. But Nick made the most it. I remember his ventures into video blogging and seeing him play guitar and sing for the internet. I remember the antics of his fur babies, Alex and Midnight. And I remember the warmth and the compassion of our Nick.
It is not new to come to love someone simply through correspondence. All of us – Laurie, Ruela, Spo, Bob C, Little Lamb, Paulus, Beader – all of us who knew him, also came to love him, through the internet, the medium of the blog and then through Facebook. What was new in our times, was that friends of friends could also come to love him, online, too. Nick did not just make friends. He created a community of strangers bound together by a common love for our Sometimes Saintly, Nick.
Poverty is nothing new, either. What is new is how indifferent the world has become to the dignity, indeed the divinity, in another human being. As a society, we have become comfortable with homelessness, and death with indignity. We no longer see it. Dickens would never believe that we had managed to invent the computer and the internet, but had not alleviated the misery all around us. We fail to see what is right before us, even in our most intimate circles.
Every day, Nick was a part of my life. And the loss of him is as real as the loss of a dear and intimate friend with whom I have spent time, in person. Nicholas Temple mattered to me.
In his final days, Nick was without his computer. I can’t imagine how that was, for him. His computer, his iPod and his blackberry had become his lifeline. He was aware of just how alone he was, in the hospital. I looked last night at his last few status messages on Facebook. Two of the last status updates, when he was lucid, were: “No visits, no calls, no computer – Doesn’t anyone care?” to which many of us replied that we cared, or we clicked ‘like’ to let him know that he was not alone. And one that I missed – I don’t know how I missed it – a cry in the darkness: he was alone, he was afraid, and he was putting himself into the hands of his God.
Never were there more true words written about the end of one’s life.
In the end, we are all alone. And, we are all afraid. We don’t know where we are going or if this is it. All we can hope is that we are loved and that something will be there, lighting our way onward. Death is inglorious. It is humbling and it is cruel. And it comes to us all, far too soon. But it need not be reached with such indignity. I cannot help but feel that Nick’s life was cut short by poverty and neglect.
All I could do for Nick, when I learned of his transfer to Hospice was to send him love, prayers and light from thousands of miles away. In these final days, I posted a letter to him and told him how loved he was. It did not reach him in time, but, in his last few days, even people who didn’t know him, (friends of mine on Facebook), were also sending their prayers, love and light to help him find his way onward.
He was loved, and all I can hope is that he felt it, and that it comforted him.
Don’t tell me that the internet, Facebook and the mobile phone are alienating and isolating. It is not the technology, but the way that it is used that determines the quality of one’s life and relationships. It is not computers that make us indifferent to one another. Computers brought Nick into our lives. But if Nick’s death is to have any meaning, let it be to shine a light on our indifference to the misery of others all around us.
Nobody who knew Nick – in real life, or virtually – is the same person they were, before they knew him. He mattered to us, and he deserved far better than he got. He was a courageous soul, and the world is a little less wonderful without him.
Farewell, friend. Thank you for your friendship. We light your way, onward with love, Sometimes Saintly Nick.