A Year of Triumph and Tragedy

In a few hours we will say farewell to the year 2012 and ring in 2013. Tradition dictates that we take stock of what occurred over the last twelve months and make plans to get our act in gear in the new year so as to avoid some of the pitfalls of the previous one. And so I shall...

My year was filled with the best and the worst events I've ever experienced in my life. That may sound melodramatic but it's essentially true. In February my father died and in August the love of my life moved in with me. The yin and yang of my year.

As if it isn't enough to have these two events in the same year, the anniversary of my first date with Richard is two days before the anniversary of my father's death, which occurred on Valentine's Day. That's a lot of emotion to deal with all at once but somehow I managed to get to the last day of the year in one piece.

My hope for 2013 is to enjoy what I have and worry less. To work hard and play harder. To love more and take people as they are with all their flaws and goodness. Okay, that's a pretty long laundry list. How about just to love? Love is a good starting point.

So goodbye 2012 with all its ups and downs. Hello 2013, let's ride this year together!

Mancala (a story)

Tasie scanned the dry earth before him and began to worry. The rains would soon come and he had no seed to bury under God's perfect soil. His father would not understand how he could have lost the only money they had to buy new seed. Seed was hard to come by but money was even more rare. It had felt foreign in his pocket, weighing him down on one side like an unbalanced yoke. He'd have preferred to carry unequal buckets of water over the precious currency that his father had entrusted to his care. But Tasie was 14 years old now, a man according to all tribal traditions, and purchasing seed was a rite of passage he had failed at miserably.

Last year his cousin Yuki reached manhood and was given the same task to perform, among the many other rites of his age. The celebrations went on for days after Yuki brought home enough seed for half the village let alone his immediate kin. They had been able to grow squash that year, a food not consumed by their family for nearly a generation. Yuki was a hero.

Tasie's father said only one thing to him when he handed over the seed money. "My son can do better."

He walked proudly to the market that day, waving to his friends and uncles as he went, seeing the hope in their eyes as he strutted. He believed his father's words for he had achieved greater things than his cousin on many occasions before despite Yuki's seniority. Tasie was better at hoops than his older cousin. He could pick more beans in the same amount of time. His dung beetles raced faster and he could pronounce English words better than almost anyone. To say he and his cousin were rivals was a gross understatement of fact. They were more than that; they were enemies too.

Tasie could see the village in the distance, some miles away yet across the Mara. Sparse tree clusters provided the only shade between him and home. It was near peak day so he sought out the densest of the trees to wait out the heat and gather his thoughts. He needed to prepare for his father's reaction, which would undoubtedly be severe. At best his punishment would be restrictions, he would never be allowed to marry and have children. After all, his inability to provide was profoundly obvious. At worst banishment; stripped of all tribal recognition, nearly naked, he would be turned out of his village to fend for himself among the lions. He would be labeled 'hyena', a scavenger not even good enough to be eaten.

Tasie sunk to the dirt, leaning his back against the soft bark of a Marula tree and began to cry. His eyes darkened and a trickle of water cut a path down his dusty face. "I am not a man," he lamented as he cried. "I am not a man." He repeated this over and over until heat and exhaustion took hold and he fell into a deep and troubled sleep. He dreamt he stood in front of a mountain of seeds; his joy overwhelmed him as he ran toward it. As he neared he heard laughing and saw his friends pointing at him. Their brilliant smiles dug into his soul as he realized they were mocking him, strutting exaggeratedly beside him. But each time Tasie pointed to his seed mountain, trying to show them his success, their laughter grew louder. He stopped running and tried to talk to them but they would not listen. Suddenly the images of his friends dissolved and he was surrounded by hyenas. They circled his carcass, waiting to consume him once his heart ceased its beating. The sound of the hyenas was very loud in his ears and he tried to scream but no sound came.

Tasie's eyes snapped open from the nightmare. He was lying on the ground looking up into the eyes of his cousin, Yuki.

 ___________________________________

"Cousin," Yuki said, "What are you doing? Where are the seeds?"

Tasie was too disoriented to reply. The sun had moved his shade away and his face was no longer protected. It hurt to squint his eyes. It hurt to think about his predicament. Why did it have to be Yuki who came to find him?

Tasie sprang to his feet, ignoring the helping hand proffered by his cousin. He dug his feet into the dust and held up two clenched fists. "Stay back!" he shouted, and for a moment he wondered where the circle of hyenas had gone. Yuki's eyebrows touched the sky and a big grin spread across his face. Yuki was not only a year older, he was much bigger than Tasie. His shoulders were so broad that hugging him would only be possible if you had orangutan arms. He towered over Tasie. Even Yuki's teeth were bigger and when he spoke it was like distant thunder.

"Where is your seed, cousin?"

Tasie shook his head as if to shake away the unpleasant memory.

"The money, then."

Tasie continued to move his head left and right but tipped it forward in shame. Yuki was the winner now. Tasie was nothing. Yuki looked at the sun, gauging its position then looked around the entire horizon. Tasie was certain that Yuki intended to do him harm and was checking for a witness. Yuki's heavy gaze came to rest on his small cousin.

"Come." Yuki began to walk east, away from the village. Tasie did not follow. "COME!"

Tasie shuffled along in Yuki's wake. Before long they neared the market. Yuki brought them to the seed vendor, who eyed the young men suspiciously.

"Wait here." Tasie's feet became bricks and he stopped. Yuki went to the vendor, who crossed his arms tightly as if to repel any reasonable conversation. Yuki spoke, gesturing to his small cousin as he did, but the vendor simply shook his head. Yuki did not back down. He began to yell and gesture wildly about, drawing the attention of other businessmen at the market. The vendor suddenly dropped his arms and Tasie feared for his cousin's life, for although Yuki was big for his age, the vendor was a strong man of 30 years and had arms the size of Tasie's torso. But instead of a fight, the vendor began to laugh.

Yuki motioned for Tasie to come near so he picked up his heavy feet and slowly made his way toward the two men.

"He will play another game of Mancala for a bag of seed."

What? Tasie couldn't believe his ears. How did Yuki know he had lost his money to this vendor over a game of Mancala? That he had risked his own ego for a double or nothing bet? Why was his rival doing this thing for him?

"Well?" The gigantic vendor bellowed. Tasie nodded. It was his only chance for redemption.

In the back of the vendor's hut the wooden Mancala board sat on the ground. The board was the most beautiful one Tasie had ever seen, with carvings all around and a head indicating its strategic importance in decision-making. Tasie had played Mancala with stones from a very young age. His village elders had a board they used for deciding who would lead their people. It was a game of strategy, the winner of which showing superior leadership skills.

The vendor filled each smooth well along both sides of the board with 4 seeds and indicated for Tasie to begin. He knew that being first was a disadvantage but Tasie had an unorthodox way of playing that he hoped would work to his advantage. He pulled four seeds from one of the wells and systematically deposited them in the subsequent wells, picking up the seeds from the fourth well and continued in this manner until he deposited his last seed in an empty well. The vendor chuckled to himself and took his turn accordingly. The object of the game was to move all of the seeds into the collection well at the end of the board. The last one to move the final seed into the collection well was the winner. The boy and the man moved adeptly and with speed. An average game would last no more than 3 minutes.

Tasie had played the first game against the vendor believing only that he would win but he played this game with the full knowledge that he could lose everything. He played with every ounce of strength, energy and cunning that he could muster. When 12 seeds remained in scattered groupings on the board, Tasie realized that the vendor was going to lose. He could not let on that he knew for a less-skilled player could still make a mistake now that would lose him the game. Tasie was smarter than the average player. He would not make a mistake this time.

The vendor took his turn, leaving 9 seeds on the board. Tasie hesitated. The vendor grinned but Tasie was putting on a show of doubt when he really knew exactly what to do. The vendor leaned back.

"Double or nothing again, Boy?"

Tasie's face went hot. He looked over at Yuki who shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if to say 'don't do anything you can't undo'. Tasie scratched his head for the benefit of the vendor.

"I...I guess so."

The vendor let out a belly laugh and Tasie felt spittle land on his cheek. He reached out toward the wrong well and the vendor's pupils dilated. Then he moved his hand to the next well and in 12 seconds neatly claimed the remaining seeds. Yuki came running over to him to view the empty board. The collection well was full. The vendor's eyes drew together in disbelief. He patted the board as if he had missed something. He searched the ground under the board to see if a seed had fallen out of a well, nullifying the game. But all seeds were in the collection well.

 ___________________________________

Yuki fashioned a yoke by tying one bag from each end of a sturdy branch. Tasie carried his winnings easily across his shoulders, which somehow seemed bigger now. The cousins walked in silence. When they were just outside their village Yuki stopped.

"I must leave you now, cousin."

Tasie set the seeds down. He looked up into Yuki's gentle face. "How...?"

Yuki grinned and kicked up some dust.

"Last year when I was sent to market for seeds the very same thing happened to me. Your father, my uncle, took me back and I played the best Mancala game of my life. Uncle said someday I could return the favour. Now some day you can do the same. But for now you need to take your seeds home."

Tasie watched as his cousin slipped away behind a hut. Just before he disappeared he looked one last time back at his cousin, held his number 1 finger up to his lips and said, "Shhh."

Tasie loaded the seeds onto his shoulders once more. The bags easily held twice as many seeds than his cousin had brought home the previous year. He lifted his chin, began to smile and strutted toward home.

 ___________________________________

The End

Some people have a six-pack...I have a keg.

Through my adult life I have battled with the number on the bathroom scale. I wasn't a chubby child, I grew fast so I was tall and just the right size for my height even though I towered over everyone in my class, even the teacher. I never thought of myself as fat, just a bit larger than everyone else. I was not lazy. I played sports, I rode my bicycle, I hiked and walked, I enjoyed life and all of the food that came with it. I'm a better cook for having tasted such a variety of foods and spices.

Here I am, at the penultimate age of 49. I am on the cusp of that earth-shattering milestone called "Fifty". Half a century. It's not half my life though 'cause I doubt very much I'll live to 100. So I'm more than half way home, God help me.

Over the years I've tried to lose weight. Weight Watchers told me not to pay attention to the number on the scale but to listen to my body, watch the changes in the mirror and see how my clothes fit. And yet at the beginning of every meeting they weighed me in and they measured my success by a number. Despite my constantly wounded ego, I was moderately successful, I lost 67 pounds. Shopping in the section where there are no X's in the size label, that was a big day for me. It was short-lived, however. I was also very active in hockey and I worked out to the point of nearly puking at least twice a week. I venture to say I did not enjoy my workouts. There was no opiate-like adrenaline rush. Instead, my brain constantly screamed 'why' at me, as if this torture was simply a slow and painful way to die, rather than the key to a healthier life. That was nearly ten years ago and a lot has changed.

I've put the 67 pounds back on since then. In fact, I've put on another 20 on top of that. If I don't look in the mirror, I feel okay. I don't need to be reminded that I'm overweight by checking it out in the mirror, don't you think I know it? I close my eyes and breathe deeply and life is good, I feel happy. I don't see that my ass comes through a doorway fifteen seconds after me. I don't notice that my double chin is more like a triple chin. How is that, in any way, a measure of who I am?

What I do see is that my mother puts her arms around me and tells me that she loves me, just like she did when I was a kid. I see that the man I love looks at me with gentleness and it stirs up the butterflies in my stomach when he strokes my face. I can admire fields of flowers (my eyeballs didn't gain any weight). I can walk with a girlfriend at lunchtime, we can talk about nothing in particular and my soul comes away warmed by her friendship. I can sip a cup of coffee and exhale with an "aaaah" of appreciation. I can pet a kitten and make it purr, giggling as it tickles my face with its whiskers. I can read, watch tv, smile, laugh and feel loved.

None of these things have a weight requirement.

Why then, do I allow myself to worry about the number on the bathroom scale? It taunts me. I know it is higher than it has ever been. There is no number that defines me, not even my age, there is only the way I choose to be and I choose to be me. And whatever that number ends up being on the bathroom scale, so be it. As long as I am happy, my doctor is happy with my health and I am surrounded by people who love me, then nothing else matters.

Although the world if full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it. ~Helen Keller

I take a few tentative steps and sharp pains shoot up my legs. It would make sense if my shoes were too tight but these are the same shoes I wear every day. They are well worn and the leather has expanded to fit my feet perfectly. No, these pains are something else.

Each step is excruciating but I have come to recognize the agony for what it is, a constant in my life. Like Avogadro's number it is never changing, permanent. As my foot hits the pavement the pain moves up my body and I am flush with inner heat. Yet, my skin is prickled and the hair on my arms stand up as if I've been thrown into a blast chiller. My eyes cloud and I realize that I've been holding my breath. I let out what's left in my lungs and lift my shoulders, inhaling deeply but the expansion in my chest puts pressure in areas I can't name and the pain explodes like white lightning behind my eyes. I exhale and begin to receive much needed oxygen slowly and shallow. The only way my body will allow. I fight against the pain just to breathe.

I take more steps and the shooting pain sets up a rhythm. I am able to handle its predictability but then the wave hits me. A dull ache washes over me like warm bathwater on dry skin. But this is overwhelming in its urgency. The sharp pains are still there but I am awash with a full body ache, my thoughts floating, struggling to focus.

I put one step in front of the other. I concentrate on one thought. Get through this day. 

My body is heavy as lead, my skin electrified. A dampness clings to me and I am chilled, yet inside I am on fire. I feel like an oven that is capable of producing ice. Ice from fire. I am an enigma.

My pace is slow but progressive and although my body cries out at every move, I do not stop. I am pulled by a desperate need. It's a bubbling in my chest. A desire to be useful. I cannot let this day go by without accomplishing something. Anything. The list is long and my energy is limited. Persistence is all that keeps me going.

This motherfucker will not take me down today. This pain is conquerable. Just.

I don't know what lies ahead. I don't plan that far. All I know is if I lift my foot, move it toward my destination and place it down I can move forward. I do it and my body cries out in protest. My eyes narrow and I clench my fists. What's next, my foggy mind asks rhetorically.

Lift, move, place. Lift, move, place. Breathe. Repeat.

Will there ever be relief? I don't know. All I know is this moment and my determination to get to the next moment. The pain isn't going anywhere, but I am. I am going to live my life and the pain, sharp or dull, sudden or indefatigable, can go straight to the dark, soulless hell it came from. At least, I can imagine it there, struggling in its own pergatory to survive.

My eyes begin to clear and the air around me seems drenched with oxygen. I feel a burst of energy reaching out to my limbs, assisting them effortlessly in their task. The grey, dreary day seems imminently brighter and I feel the hand of my Higher Power embrace my pain. The ache does not dissipate but I find a new strength in my core that steels me against its onslaught.

I am not alone. Thank God.

I take another step and beyond the stabbing pain in my legs, I feel the cushioning sole of my shoe hugging my arch, stroking me in a motherly way. There is hope. My jaw relaxes into what would be a smile if my face was not still contorted in agony. Around me people walk. They do not see my pain. They see that my brow is knitted and I am without humour. They avoid me, giving a wide berth, enough for a freight train.

The train in my head blows its whistle and on the next exhale, a single syllable escapes my lips. It is an agonizing groan but sounds more like a growl. A startled woman looks up at me and her berth grows as she crosses the street to avoid coming anywhere close to me. Her dog scuttles away with her. A young man, texting on his cell phone, jolts my shoulder as he passes, sending a debilitating spasm down my spine from the impact. He barely notices what he has done to me. It's just pain but they don't feel it. They don't want to understand it. Where there is pain, there is fear.

I lift my foot, move it forward and place it down on the pavement. I do the same with the other foot and then I repeat. Just get through this day and bless them, Lord, for they know not what they do.

Squirrel!!

Some people are able to work systematically. If they have ten tasks to do, they begin at number one, complete it, move on to number two and so on. I am not like that.

I am easily distracted. Squirrel!

From the Disney Pixar movie "Up!"

If I have ten tasks to do in a allotted amount of time, I will complete them in a haphazard manner until the time runs out, working a bit on one then moving to another then back to the first then starting on the fifth. And if I only complete eight or nine, the ones I leave incomplete could very well have been the first ones on the list. Let's face it, nobody can really get a specific number of tasks done in a specific amount of time. I just don't think it's possible to always allot the exact amount of time required for everything. I can't even get this blog done without checking my email after I write a paragraph or stopping halfway to make a pot of coffee. The truth is, I started this blog entry weeks ago and it has sat in my Drafts folder ever since.

I'm not saying that distractions are a bad thing. I like to think of myself as a multi-tasker, able to work on many tasks at the same time, or at least very close to each other. There is a theory that says the human mind cannot actually multi-task but some people can become very good at moving between tasks quickly and efficiently so it appears as though they are doing two things at once. I like to think of myself as one of those people.

Others may disagree, especially when I give them a blank stare instead of an answer to their question. But they don't live inside my head. When it seems as though there is no ATP production going on inside my skull, there is actually a myriad of activity. I could have any number of thoughts occupying my attention. For instance, I may be composing a paragraph for my book, creating my next journal or blog entry, trying to remember the name of an actor I like, figuring out if I have enough clean underwear to last the week so I don't have to do laundry, taking inventory of my fridge contents from memory and coming up with a balanced meal to prepare later in the day, listing off my work tasks and their deadlines and then prioritizing them accordingly, fantasizing about my amazing boyfriend, replaying a conversation that went horribly wrong, wondering what to do for the weekend, worrying about money, or tossing a mental coin over whether I will have tea or water to quench my thirst.

All of this can quite easily be derailed by a phone call, email, text, conversation, look, loud noise or need to pee. And then it starts all over again with my brain asking questions or perusing ideas to reconstruct the list it once had bouncing around. The quick brown fox...I wonder what idiotic thing Mitt Romney said today...who was that guy in that movie where he kissed the girl right before he...I could make a salad for dinner if the tomatoes are ripe...don't forget to email the Dean after the enrollments are done...I wish I was kissing Richard...and on and on and on.

Multi-tasking. It's not for everyone.

Write, right?

There is a saying among writers, 'a book writes itself". That's obviously not true and my recent lack of sleep can attest to that but in an odd way I understand this phrase. In the same way that Michaelangelo stated his sculptures already existed within the marble, he simply removed the unnecessary bits, I have come to know how my characters can drive the creative process in a way that seems to remove me as an element.

Creating a book is a bit more like a puzzle where you have infinite combinations of your source material (words, sentences, chapters), how you put those materials in order is the key. Brian Henry, book editor and creator of the Quick Brown Fox blog/newsletter/email, has added to that idea by saying 'it doesn't matter what you write about, but how you write it'. This contrasts with the commonly held belief that you should write what you know, in other words, the more you know your subject matter, the easier it is to write about it.

I have to agree with Brian here and my acquiescence has only come about in the last few days after I participated in a marathon writing contest, the 3 Day Novel Contest, where writers are challenged to write a complete novel from start to finish in 3 days. That's 72 hours of complete and utter mental torture. At times I felt I was doing okay and that I'd make it to the end but there were other times when I was in a blind panic wondering why I did this to myself.

After the first day of organizing my thoughts and writing what I was convinced was a stupendously bad beginning chapter, I realized I would need to forgo sleep if I was going to create anything close to a novel in three days. I went on the 3DNC website and re-read their survival guide. They indicated that the first day is usually a complete write off (no pun intended) and I didn't feel I had wasted the day or created complete garbage prose but I could see how it takes time to get into a flow so I accepted the less than successful first day blues.

I managed three hours of sleep before I was rudely awakened by an inspired thought. I went to the computer and began to type. And I typed. And typed. I have no idea where the inspiration came from or how the words formed themselves into sentences. They just happened. I wrote dialogue with ease, something that has been a vexation in my writing. Normally I avoid it. But here I was putting words in my character's mouths that fit with who they were, or rather who I had made them. I wrote a Texas accent. I flirted with clichés and skirted stereotypes. I danced.

Late into the evening of the second day, I was at about 4.5 hours sleep, 2 pots of coffee at home, 2 trips to a coffee shop to meet a fellow 3DNC writer to commiserate and 1 trip for fast food. I needed to sleep so I did what every sane person does, I went grocery shopping. I thought I would clear my head of the jumble of ideas. All I did was people watch and add to the tippy pile of plot twists, dialogue and descriptive text already threatening to take me down.

At midnight I resumed writing. It was at that time, for no apparent reason, that I wrote things I hadn't preconceived. I wrote new characters who hadn't existed anywhere except in that moment. And as I forced myself to breathe through the giant lump in my throat and goosebumps all over my body, I was presented, from somewhere deep inside me, with infinite possibilities for the outcome of my story. My book began to write itself. I named one of my characters after my father, something I hadn't given a thought to but it made perfect sense in hindsight. I wrote a speech that one character delivered. I was writing dialogue like it was second nature. And I couldn't get rid of the goosebumps.

Mid-morning I wrote a sentence that wrapped up a chapter. It was a powerful sentence and I wept. I asked myself what came next and the answer was 'nothing'. I had my ending. I spent the rest of the day editing, expanding on prose that I had previously glossed over, where I had made editor's notes to come back if I had time. I had time.

I read through the entire manuscript, knowing I would need to re-write the first chapter and was surprised to find it wasn't as bad as I remembered. My inner editor had been very critical in the beginning but somewhere after the first midnight passed, I killed her. There was no time for self-doubt or criticism. I had a novel to write, dammit.

I met my co-conspirator shortly after midnight. We both had finished on time and were set to submit our manuscripts (hers after she typed up her hand-written notes) and we were surprised to learn we had both created roughly the same number of pages and words (64 pages and 16,661 words for me, 62 pages and 14,983 words for her). The next day was spent in a daze and sometime that evening I began to cry. The first few tears came down as simple tear duct effluent. In fact, I didn't know what was tickling my cheek until I brushed it away. Then the floodgates opened. I was emotionally spent.

I have since vowed to write on the weekends when my domestic partner is working and I have the house to myself. Oh, and I can't wait for next year's 3 day novel contest because although it was a painful, emotional and physically exhausting experience, I would do it again in heartbeat.

A Sock and A Sock and A Shoe and A Shoe

Something amazing is happening on television. Networks are bringing back shows we watched when we were younger. I Love Lucy has been off and on the networks but I am now seeing shows like Three's Company, Barney Miller, M*A*S*H and All in the Family. These are shows that pushed the envelope in terms of sexual roles, societal expectations and race relations. People really thought this way? Apparently so. And worse.

When I watched them as a wide-eyed teenager, I never noticed the ground-breaking precedents they were setting. I was simply entertained and yes, occasionally pleased to see women sticking up for themselves, sarcasm rather than violence coming from a mistreated African American or Archie Bunker getting his come uppence from Edith, his milk-toast wife.

It's funny to think that there are scenes from thirty-some years ago that can still tickle the funny bone but more odd is that we can recall moments that shaped who we became in adulthood. These shows had that power.

I am reminded of an All in the Family episode where Archie takes offence at the way in which Meathead (Michael) puts on his socks and shoes. Michael slips on one sock while Archie is talking and then he reaches for a shoe. Archie is pulled up short when Michael then reaches for the second sock. Archie grabs the sock from his hand and after a minor argument asks a simple question.

"Don't you know the whole world puts on a sock and a sock and a shoe and a shoe?"

Perhaps this questions illustrates the whole theme of that show and many of its kind. Characters blatantly flout the established world order, they actively go against the norm. This behaviour defined the sixties and seventies. It created a world where young people saw everything as possible and nothing as restricted.

Unlike their parents, who saw everything as having a single purpose. A place for everything and everything in its place. Replace the word 'everything' with 'everyone' and you've got the closed-minded, policy-following, conservative older generation. Archie was conservative, Michael was liberal. Archie was unreceptive to change, Michael changed everything in Archie's world.

We humans don't like change but we've settled down a bit and don't parade around with signs asking for integrated water fountains or the right to vote. We've identified an equality quotient and we're working hard to spread it across all cultures. Those who don't agree are in the minority. At least, we hope.

So the next time you are putting on socks and shoes, try doing it differently. A sock and a shoe and a sock and a shoe rather than a sock and a sock and a shoe and a shoe. See if you can break your own little mold.

It's good these shows are coming back. It reminds us of just how far we've come. Or perhaps, it infers how much further we have yet to go.

Be Prepared

It may come as no surprise that I was a Brownie and a Girl Guide. If I'd been willing to do all of the fundraising, I would have gone to London, England on an exchange program during the year I was 14. Each girl needed to raise (or pay) $2,000 in order to go on the exchange. I can't remember exactly how many did it but it wasn't more than a dozen ambitious girls out of more than 50 in the area.

They say you only regret the things you don't do and that's one of the things I regret. Not going to London.

I recall, as a girl of 14 that I was unsure if I could do the fundraising myself. My parents were raising four children (a monumental feat in this day and age but pretty average in the 60's and 70's) on a blue collar salary and there was certainly no extra cash for such an undertaking. If I was to do this, I needed to raise every penny myself, something I couldn't fathom. Two thousand dollars was a fortune in my mind.

A good friend of mine who was a year older, a goddess to me, had family near London so her parents didn't hesitate to send her. Plus she was only one of two children in that household so there was likely more cash on hand for such opportunities. She sold a lot of cookies but I couldn't imagine how many I would have had to sell to go with her.

When I lived in the States, I had to get used to calling them Girl Scout cookies. I received emails about them from co-workers whose neighbour's sister-in-law's step son's daughter was selling them. In the States, you get more than just Oreo wanna-be's. You get Thin Mints, Samoas, Do-Si-Dos, Tag-alongs and Shortbread.

In Canada you get chocolate or vanilla.

I fell in love with Samoas...chocolate, caramel and coconut. One year I was told you could buy Girl Scout ice cream at your local grocery store. Vanilla bean ice cream with chocolate, caramel, coconut and chunks of Samoa cookies. And the young girls still got a piece of the profits. I nearly passed out.

I'm back in Canada now and although there is less variety with cookies (you can get chocolate covered mint cookies as well as the regular chocolate and vanilla - woo hoo) they are still very good and go to a great cause.

At 14 I missed an opportunity. I won't do it again.

To this day, I will not hesitate to buy Girl Guide cookies.

Misery is Not Just a Stephen King Book

I felt the bile rise in my throat, heat emanated from my neck and cheeks. I knew it was anger, I was boiling with it. Something pulled at my chest, the urge to run or to strike out, I wasn't sure which. Fight or flight.

Fight.....or.....flight.

My legs twitched and I balled my hands into tight fists, fingernails aching to dig into the palms like a bull longing to drive it's horns deep into the bullfighter's ribcage. My jaw tensed, the bones of my skull pulsed with the pain of teeth not yet ground down to stubs.

A sick feeling settled into my stomach. Had there been enough food contained inside, it would surely have made its way back into the light of day by the shortest route possible. I swallowed hard. Hard, because the space of my throat seemed to have shrunk so that even the tiniest ball of thick spit could not pass. Sticky saliva pasted itself to the inside of my esophagus, deep enough to bypass the gag reflex but not far enough down to prevent the formation of a tight knot in my chest.

A bead of sweat worked a path down the side of my face but I dared not pat it away. I couldn't show my cards. Despite the rising rage, I had kept my face neutral. The blush of redness and the tight jaw muscles were not flashing neon but merely pale yield signs at the end of a cautious merge lane.

Yield.

And so I yielded. Hands unclenched, folded neatly into my lap. Jaw slackening. The deep frown easing into a smooth forehead. I let out my overfilled tires, feeling relief as air escaped my lungs in a controlled wave. No pursed lips, just slightly opening my mouth, gently engaging my diaphragm to aid in the relaxation effect. Yoga breathing came to mind. I turned my head to the right, felt the cool breeze on my face and inhaled slowly. In for four, out for eight. In two three four.....out two three four five six seven eight.

Inhale, I breathe in.

Exhale, I breathe out.

Namaste.

When the Stars are Aligned

I'll admit I'm a worry wart, but not a hand-wringer. In other words, it's not all that obvious to those around me that I am worrying over something. And I do tend to worry over the least minutiae.

I don't wring my hands and I don't eat the entire contents of my fridge. In fact, I'm not tense to the point of jumping when the phone rings. I don't pace the floor. I appear, for all intents and purposes, to still be myself.

In moments of actual worry, when I am waiting to hear the outcome of a decision, a game or a test, my mother's words come to me. "It will happen if the stars are aligned."

I am uncertain as to what this means, in the symbolic sense of course.

I am a skywatcher and so I am aware when the stars actually do align. And by stars, I mean planets, since stars don't shift with respect to each other in their universal paths. They shift away from us seasonally but not in relation to their neighbouring stars. They are, in essence, too far away to show any real shifting of position. Orion's belt always has three stars, Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka. They remain the three points of the belt around the waist of the constellation of Orion and is one of the most recognizable objects in the night sky after the dippers, big and little.

The planets, on the other hand, are much much closer to us than these constellations made of distant star clusters. The planets dance in the night sky, appearing like the swirling skirts of a lady on the hand of a capable leading man, disappearing into the crowd of couples as the strains of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik carry gently over the breeze. The planets swish in and out of our vision in the same graceful manner. Sometimes the trails of Mercury can be seen in the wee hours of the morning, just before sunrise. And Venus, the goddess of love and beauty, illuminates the face of the moon with her late evening glory. Unlike the stars, they are not always there.

Were we on another planet, we would see our beloved Earth as a spot in the sky, glowing with the same sunshine that emanates from the yellow dwarf we call our Sun. We might even wish upon it, mistaking it for a genuine twinkle in the night sky.

Star light, star bright
First star I see tonight
I wish I may, I wish I might
Have the wish I wish tonight.

This childish mantra, coupled with the vastness of the universe laid out above my head very effectively removes my worries. They just don't seem that big anymore.

3:45am

I have seldom been awoken from a deep sleep, mostly because it is usually impossible to rouse me once I am REM-ing my brains out. Last night, or more accurately early this morning, the phone rang. I eventually woke up, wondering what the noise was....Richard thought it was his sleep machine and sat bolt upright, stared down at the unit and asked, "Why is it making that sound?" We both realized at the same time that it was the phone.

He leapt from the bed but too late to catch it before the answering machine kicked in. Nobody was there. No message.

Now, under normal circumstances a call in the wee hours is not a good thing. Well, unless a family member is due to have a baby, then it's good news. But even then, unless you're the grandma, no phone call is necessary until people are awake! We have no pregnant women in our family at the moment and my friend Amanda already had her baby last week.

Good news travels at the speed of sound but bad news travels at the speed of light.

If my uncle hadn't just recently (Friday) passed away, it wouldn't have fazed me and I could have fallen back to sleep. But we both tried to figure out the area code it came from to be sure it wasn't something important that one of us needed to know at 3:45 in the morning. Richard used call display and phoned the number back. Kids picked up the line but there was no conversation, just noise. A sleepover or party with no parental supervision, was my guess.

Sleep came after about an hour of gathering my wandering thoughts. The universe can play tricks on a person's sub-conscious mind. Mine has a tendency to think nothing happens by coincidence. That phone call, regardless of the source, was meant to wake us up. Why?

Was I about to have a nightmare and that phone call saved me from it? Doubtful. Were those kids about to do something dangerous and Richard's callback scared them out of it? Maybe. Is the universe just trying to teach me patience? Likely.

I'm on my 5th cup of coffee and I don't feel human yet. That's a nightmare in and of itself. Patience....while I brew another pot.

Bazinga

It comes as no surprise to my friends and family that I am a science fiction geek. As such, I enjoy hanging out with other science fiction geeks. That includes watching The Big Bang Theory, a show populated with my species. I get the Star Trek references, I know who Stan Lee is and I am a fan of the defunct Firefly series (and like Sheldon Cooper, I cannot fathom why it's not still on the air).

What should be surprising then is that I have only the bare minimum of cable television, which does not include the Space Channel. It was a decision I made when I was cutting back on some expenses and frivolous indulgences were the first to go. One might argue that a true sci-fi fan wouldn't be able to give up that kind of access to their lifeblood but at the time I was living alone, working full-time and involved in several leisure activities so my tv time was pretty small. I simply couldn't justify spending money on something I might use. I mean, it's not like car insurance. You might never need it but if you do, good gawd, you'd better have it.

For those of you who have followed my blog (or my Facebook page...or my life) you know I no longer live alone. My boyfriend is a tv watcher, he likes late-night movies and while I am also a movie fan, I often can't keep my eyes from drooping before the closing credits in the wee hours of the morning. Ever since moving in though, he has lamented the lack of available variety in my channels and therefore has suggested that he pitch in and upgrade the cable package. Oh boy.

I am usually not capable of hiding my emotions. In other words, I can't lie and I certainly can't hide my excitement. I'm a terrible poker player. I remain calm but my pupils dilate like crazy and my skin flushes if I get a pair of aces. If you pay attention, I will never take your money.

If he'd been looking at my eyes when he said he would expand the cable, he would have seen my pupils pulsing and perhaps even heard my breath catch.

I can tune in the Space Channel again. Come to mama.

A Legless Luke Skywalker

I need hinges for a door so I thought I would go to the one place I know I can get them cheap. Value Village. No, not Canadian Tire or Rona or any other hardware store where yes, I can get them new but not likely for the $1.99 that Value Village charges for miscellaneous household hardware.

So I swung by the VV and went straight to the guy in the red bib. He directed me to two places in the store. I looked and looked....then I looked some more, to no avail. No second-hand hinges. I was disappointed.

On my way out I saw a stand covered with keychains and costume jewelry so I decided to take a peek. There were City of Kingston medallions on keychains and various initials that were once "gold tone" but are now showing their true nickel colouring. There was a large, plastic yin and yang symbol done in colourful daisies, and a heavy stainless steel disk with Colette engraved on it and the year 1992. Apparently Colette did something pretty wonderful in 1992, perhaps she got her first car and this keychain was given to her to hold the keys. I wondered why Colette would give away something so meaningful and then a sudden, morbid thought struck me. Perhaps Colette died in a car accident. Awful thought, I know, but it came anyway.

As I was moving away from the thought provoking turnstile of semi-shiny second-hand bobbles my eyes were drawn down to knee level and I saw the saviour of the Rebels, enemy of the Empire, Luke Skywalker. He was mature, with long hair and stood about four inches tall. Or he would have if he'd had legs. His brown robes fell from his shoulders, wrapping around an empty space where two legs should have been, perhaps with shiny, black boots on the feet. But this Luke Skywalker had no legs. There was no jagged plastic where a dog may have bitten them off. Nor was there a peg (or hole) where legs might have popped on like a Lego piece. Nope, there was simply a flat end to his lower body just below the crotch.

I was taken aback. I kind of wanted him, if for no other reason than to save him from the humiliation of children's cruel comments about his disability. I picked him up, sliding his key loop off the hanger. He had a pretty good face, painted well enough to see his eyes and lips clearly, not just blobs of paint in roughly the right locale. His hair was blonder and curlier than the real Luke. And his face was thinner. But it was unquestionably Luke Skywalker, Jedi wanna-be.

I looked around and saw no other Star Wars figurines with a short chain protruding from their backs. Luke was alone and he was original, given he was only half the man he used to be. I looked at his price. He was marked one dollar. I knew I had a dollar in my purse and enough pennies to cover the taxes. I toyed with the idea of hanging him from my rear view mirror but then, just as quickly, came the realization that I would constantly be reminded of his shortcomings and right behind it would be the question of why Colette doesn't have her keychain any longer.

But then I had an epiphany. This WAS Luke, just as he was at the point when he lost his legs in the liquid fire while he battled Master Kenobi. Is it possible that this Luke was part of a series of Lukes, pre-fight, post-fight (the one I held in my hands) and then after his transformation into Darth Vader. This explained why he had no legs and did not seem to have any way to attach legs.

As I put him back, a distant deep voice in my head said, "These aren't the 'droids you're looking for." I smiled and walked away on my two good legs. Bye Luke, perhaps someone else will recognize who you are and will want to have you hanging from their mirror. It won't be Colette and it won't be me. You have no legs.

Let It Beeeeee

I have been wanting to write the story of a bee, not a Disney-Pixar bee or a Dreamworks bee but a real bee that lives in a colony in the middle of a huge field of clover. It doesn't sound too interesting, I know. But I once read a book called, Rat: A Novel by Andrzej Zaniewski. It personified the rat and told the story of a rat growing up in, well, a sewer but it was told from the rat's perspective. I'd like to do that with a bee.

Am I crazy? Probably. How does one get inside the mind of a bee anyway? Do bees even think or are they all black and yellow instinct?


I think they may be smarter than we think. They are certainly team players, collectively accomplishing what they each could not do alone. 


Plus it's a maternal society. Who doesn't love a woman who can take charge of twenty thousand males and force them to raise her children? Then have them prepare her food and tend to her every whim....I admire that kind of control. And yet the males never mutiny, they never go on strike, they don't even put notes in the suggestion box to anonymously push ways to improve the colony experience.


What is it about the hive set-up that's so appealing? Is it just that the worker bees know they only get one chance at sex and if they're not chosen to be a drone, they end up working their antennae to the 'bone' for the rest of their short lives. Then again, if they are chosen, they usually die after they've done the deed. Kinda risky unless the Queen is really good!


I guess I have something to think about....can I write like a bee? If a bee could write, that is. 


They can certainly spell.

I'm a Frayed Knot

A rope walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender says, "We don't serve ropes in here." So the rope goes outside and twists himself into a ball, teases his top and goes back into the bar. The bartender sees him and asks, "Aren't you the rope that just tried to order a drink?" The rope replies, "I'm a frayed knot."

Some days I feel beaten down by the world, as if no matter how hard I try I'm going to get knocked back every so often just to keep me humble. For instance, if gas prices drop, my car breaks down. If I get a good idea for dinner, that'll be the time the lid falls off the salt shaker and ruins it. Or better yet, the time I'm 15 seconds late is the time the bus is 30 seconds early. My mother would say you have to take the bad with the good.

I'd rather curse Murphy and his damn laws for all of it. I mean, it can never be my fault. It couldn't be that the car needed a new fan belt because it gets driven a lot. Or that the lid on the salt shaker was loose to begin with because I didn't tighten it right when I filled it up. Or how about that I always cut it close with the bus so really I should be getting there earlier so I can stop running.

Perhaps it's a change in mindset that is required here. No more blaming the imaginary laws of irony. How about blaming myself? Mistakes, after all, are human-made. No apologies, just change my ways and try to do better the second time around, if I get a do-over. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

That rope had it right...if you don't get what you want in life, change something about yourself and try again. It's time to take responsibility for my actions and quit looking for a scapegoat in every little thing.

And if Murphy rears his head and tries to convince me that he's to blame, I'll stand proud and respond, "I'm afraid not."

Life is Like a Bowl of Mount Rainier Cherries

About 10 years ago I went to Seattle, Washington to a conference on lung disease and respiratory care. It was a great experience. I saw Mount Rainier from my hotel window and I was a 20 minute walk to the convention centre in down town Seattle so I was able to check out the sights each morning.

I checked out the original Starbucks coffee house near Pike Place Market. A very enthusiastic young woman was handing out double shots on the street corner, which are small but deadly cans filled with a double espresso. You down it like a tequila shot and then you run around buzzed for the next couple of hours, also like after a tequila shot. This girl was yes, enthusiastic, but not very observant because she handed me two more in separate locations on the street as she wandered around with her knapsack full of cans, as if it was the first time she saw me. I never drank them, I figured she was running on concentrated caffeine herself and her demeanour was a tad scary. She literally vibrated.

Pike Place Market is the site of the famous fish toss. You order a salmon, it flies through the air over your head to the guy who wraps it in brown paper. Yelling, screaming and general good-natured ribbing ensues and then you pay for this entertainment along with your fish. Everything at the market was trés expensive. I bought nothing.

I also went up the Seattle Space Needle for a dinner hosted by one of the research groups. It was nice but there was no entertainment, no fish flying through the air. Just scientific talk and lots of wine. I just wanted the wine so I left early.

There are two particularly memorable things about Seattle. One, I took a water shuttle to Victoria, B.C. to visit family for a couple of days and very much enjoyed being taxied by water. It was a beautiful day both coming and going and I took pictures with a very poor quality digital camera, whose photos did not do the scenery justice. Still, it was a relaxing and enjoyable trip.

The second thing I will remember about Seattle are the Mount Rainier cherries. I'll refrain from a reference to the cherry on top of a great trip or that any negative aspect may have amounted to sending me down into the pits. Instead let's focus on these tasty little, pale yellow/red beauties. These are not your ordinary cherries. They are sweet like a delicious apple, the pit falls out of them like a freestone peach and they are addictive like a handful of popcorn. You can't eat just one. Trust me on this.

If I can warn you though, don't eat more than say, a dozen or so. Beyond that you'll bloat up like an apple-eating horse in the hot sun, like a road kill raccoon in the desert, like a....well, you get my drift. Everything in moderation.

You can buy Mount Rainier cherries in the grocery stores in Ontario. They are expensive but believe me they are worth it. After you eat the first 12, cut the rest up and put them in a fruit salad or top off a green salad. But if you end up in pain later on with a tummy swollen beyond belief, don't say I didn't warn you.

Olympics - Canada is on Fire

For as long as I can remember I've loved watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. My favourite part is always the parade of athletes. I look for the happy, excited faces of those athletes for whom this may be their first time at the games. They stand out like a sore thumb. All teeth and dancing. I have to be ready when the ceremony gets close to the parade of athletes since Canada comes so early in the alphabet.

Unfortunately, I missed the whole ceremony this year. What I mean to say is that I missed the live coverage due to the time difference between us and London, England. It was still great to watch the time-delayed coverage but I missed that feeling of 'being there'. That is until the British military personnel marched the Union Jack up the meadow (created specially for the event) and raised the flag. I teared up.

During the parade of athletes there was a woman carrying what looked like a large, copper lily for each country. As each team took their spot, the lily was set in place on a large carousel laying flat on the stage. I was curious. Once the host country came out and the final lily was placed, I realized that each flower was part of the base of the Olympic flame. A group of young athletes, dubbed 'future Olympians', ran up and lit several lilies.

Then the most amazing thing happened, the flowers rose into the air, supported by long, thin metal stalks. They met at the top and formed a large, flaming bowl. It was spectacular.

Perhaps for the first time I 'got' the significance of the flame. It is the singular desire to excel in a competition of physical endurance or superiority....for...one's.....country!

I am proud of our athletes and I am proud of their effort. But I am most proud that a small portion of that flame IS Canada. May the flame ignite your competitive spirit today in a way that doesn't belittle the efforts of others but raises us all up in a united show of pride and honour.

All Thumbs

How often over the centuries has the human mind pondered the existence of the opposable thumb?

The thumb has its place, no doubt. It is good for hitch-hiking after all. You may have a green thumb or you may be all thumbs. You could thumb your nose at something (or someone) you dislike or you could give a thumbs up to show your approval. I'm sure you've twiddled your thumbs at one time or have stuck out like a sore thumb. Perhaps you've been under someone else's thumb, not a very pleasant place to be. On the other hand, you may follow the rule of thumb and never step out of line.


We have created so many expressions to capture the thumb's purpose and yet we have failed to explain how it came to be. Was it evolution? If so, why hasn't every mammal evolved such a useful device? Was it divine intervention? That could explain why humans can't come up with an explanation on their own, only God knows for sure.

You might be interested to know that the rule of thumb came about to judge the thickness of a stick used to punish someone. It couldn't be any thicker than the person's thumb, best to be skinny in those days. A further punishment might involve a thumbscrew, where the condemned person's thumbs were crushed in a vice-like torture device. But hey, nowadays there isn't such a thing to impose on someone who has slighted you. Instead, you might choose to bite your thumb at them. Akin to the Italian gesture of slipping the fingers under one's chin and flapping them toward your foe, it begins with the thumb between the teeth and a thrust outward at them. It has Shakespearean origins and although I've never seen someone bite their thumb at another, nor have I done it myself, I can see how it would come across as a serious insult in many cultures.

I'd like to think I have a green thumb. I do have many plants, flowering and not, and I can keep them alive for extended periods of time. I garden with gloves on so my thumb has never actually turned green from its ministrations in the yard but I venture to guess that it would if left uncovered. The older I get, the more I need to use the phrase 'all thumbs'. Nothing explains the increased frequency of the dropsy's except to say that as I age, my brain is gradually losing its connection with my thumb. This could be because the thumb was likely the latest in our evolutionary history and therefore the first to disconnect.

I have pondered the anatomy of the thumb and the way in which it joins to the body. It is, to say the least, unique, making people unique. In point of fact, I have seen chimpanzees handling items in their hands with as much ease as if they had their own opposable thumb, leading me to conclude that the opposability of one's thumb is not necessarily due to anatomy alone but perhaps may encompass ingenuity and necessity. I have even seen a koala bear strip down a eucalyptus plant with as much dexterity, indeed more, than I think I would have with my own valuable appendage.

Such a long and storied history the thumb has and yet, I have only two words to say about it that puts it to the best use possible:

Suck it.

The Short Bus

My parents never mentioned swearing when I was a kid. We simply didn't swear around them. I'm sure my older siblings let one slip every so often but for me it just wasn't part of my vocabulary until I reached adulthood. There was one word my folks took particular exception to and it was referred to as 'the S-word'.

It is not the word that may have come to your mind, it's not related to something people pick up in a plastic bag when they walk their dog. It is the word, dare I say it, 'stupid'.

Nobody in my house was ever stupid and we were not allowed to speak the word in relation to anyone we knew either. The phrase 'he's a stupid dink' would have garnered gasps around the kitchen table as we relayed the good and bad of our day at school. Not because of dink but instead because of the the use of stupid.

Intelligence, it seemed, came from more than just book learning according to my parents. It was by all measures, something that couldn't be judged in any standard way. Your IQ couldn't be distilled down to a single number that stated anything of value about you. If my IQ is 150, it would be about as useful a thing to know as my shoe size, which is 10. Perhaps a more interesting thing to know about me is that my shoe size is 10.

As a result of this culture of respect for effort rather than numerical intelligence, I volunteered in high school to take kids to the pool once a month. These were kids whose abilities were not that of the government-judged standard to be allowed in a regular public school. They were mentally and physically challenged and therefore took the short bus to the small school so they could sit in teeny classrooms with people who had far more compassion for them than the average person.

I recall one day feeling not so enthusiastic about going to the pool. I had so much to do, homework, studying, practicing my French horn. I had no time for compassion. But I went anyway. Once there, I was standing by the pool and a little boy, probably 9 or 10 years old with a mentality far less his age, slipped his hand into mine and looked out over the water. His eyes gleamed. He knew he wasn't allowed to enter the pool without an adult and he obeyed, unquestioningly. He was so excited, he hopped from one foot to the other, tugging on my hand as he danced and bumping me with the oversized waterwings on his arms.

I looked down at him and asked, "Ready?". He didn't look up, he simply pulled me to the ladder. I hopped in ahead of him and guided him down into the water. He squealed and laughed, spitting water at me. He was so happy. I forgot about my homework, my assignments, reading and everything else. For 45 minutes I was his safety net and he was my source of joy.

Was that little boy stupid? Hardly. He knew how to enjoy life, to be in the moment, to be truly happy.

I take offence at people who use the S-word. I know I have let it slip out of my mouth over the years and I get mad at myself for being so careless. To me it is equivalent to the F-word or the N-word or the C-word, none of which have a place in my vocabulary, although I have been liberal with my use of the F-word when I am frustrated. It's all about choice, isn't it?

Given the choice, I'd rather take the short bus.

Hat's Off

So what's the big deal about having a bad hair day? We all do. Some days I wear a hat. Okay, I never wear a hat, unless it's a ball cap and I'm playing ball. Or a Tilley while I'm golfing. At work, I don't wear a hat and that's when I need it the most.


Perhaps we need to start a new trend. Hats on at all times, unless you're having a good hair day which, let's face it, happens less frequently than we'd like to admit. Most days are simply acceptable hair days, right?


I do see the younger generation, that is twenty-somethings, wearing knit caps in the summer. It makes no sense to me, except perhaps they've already embraced the hat's on philosophy and have accepted that their hair is seldom 'good' enough to doff the topper. Or they don't shower as often as they should and this is equivalent to the waterless shampoo trend of the '70's. Just comb it through and your hair will look freshly washed, yeah right.


I'm a girl and let's face it, girls are less likely to wear a hat and yet are more likely to criticize theirs and others hairstyles, leading to the 'bad hair day' declaration. Only the rudest of the rude would actually speak the words 'gee, you're having a bad hair day, aren't you'. Yet these are the feared words running through my head when I comb my hair in the mirror and see that it is not falling where I would like it to. No amount of hair spray, teasing or coaxing will force it into the coif graciously given to me at the hair salon.

This fact was off-handedly pointed out to me this morning by my significant other. Not in a rude way but in an 'I'm the one who'll point out when your slip is showing or you have lipstick on your teeth to save you the embarrassment' sort of way.

He's right. I am having a bad hair day. Truth is, I don't really care. My hair is clean. Enough. For work.

Next time he styles his wayward hair and it doesn't cooperate, I think I'll just stand back and wait for him to ask me for a hat.

And the sun shone anyway.

Winds picked up after dinner and blanketed my shoulders as I sat on my comfy couch by the living room window. I had a craving for pizza and what was left of the second garlic chicken pizza that we attempted to consume lay on the kitchen counter. My significant other snored quietly on the long couch as I contemplated cleaning the kitchen up.

Just then a series of events occurred that sent a chill down my spine.

First, the wind suddenly died down. Second, Richard shifted in his sleep and squashed the TV remote between his hip and the couch cushion, turning off the television. No light was on in the house so I was suddenly plunged into darkness and silence. My heart thudded in my chest as the room lit up in pale blue light for a split second.

As if mesmerized by an alien landing, I pushed the cat off my lap and slowly made my way outside. The sky was particularly dark, only a portion of it open to the stars directly overhead. To the south, across the unlit park uncontaminated by city street lights, the sky flashed with heat lightning. Glancing to the west I could see the last rays of a dying sun, the orange glow dimmed periodically by the brightness in the southern sky.

Oddly, all I could hear was my own breathing as I waited for Mother Nature's ill-timed fireworks.

I recalled sitting in a dining room chair in the middle of the night when I was 8 years old, my siblings gathered around me. My father had moved the chairs to the big living room window so we could watch the sky. Heat lightning illuminated the details of flower gardens in the neighbourhood then plunged them into darkness again and again. My mother's soothing voice told us all there was nothing to worry about. The sky was just hot and this was its way to cool off.

I was brought out of the memory by a furry bump on my leg, the dog leaning against me in fear. I reached down and stroked his ear.

"It's okay buddy, the sky is just hot."

Amid the Chaos

I'm 48 years old, soon to be 49 (and not long after, the big five-oh). And so it is difficult for me to use a term such as 'boyfriend' to describe my significant other. Difficult only because I haven't been in high school in a very long time and this word boy-friend, is one I associate with juvenile crushes and desperate loneliness.

All that aside, my significant other, my partner, my boyfriend....moved into my house this past weekend. It was, needless to say, chaotic, as anyone who has uprooted and relocated their life can attest to. Picture this: bare walls, all cupboard contents stacked on counter tops, boxes piled against walls, furniture lined up near the door awaiting its turn to be taken to the moving van. Clothing folded neatly on the stripped bed in a room that is also stripped bare. The bathroom has never been so clutter-free, although a metal bed frame is folded in the centre of the floor.


As I walk down the freshly vacuumed stairs, the sun glints off my sweaty skin from the window in the stairwell. Something flashes, fluttering by the window. I stop and stare. There it is again. I come closer. A perfect, beautiful, white moth rests on the inside of the screen. She is frantic to get outside. Her wings puff lightly as if she is hyperventilating.

I place a hand behind her and guide her into the palm of my other hand where I gently trap her. The house is silent to me as I focus on this rescue. I cannot hear the TV on downstairs, the vacuum sucking up dirt in the living room or the water crashing around inside the dishwasher. I barely hear my partner ask what I've got there. My hearing is tuned to the tiny being in my hands calling out for help.


I come down the stairs without the aid of the hand railing as both hands are occupied. I step over the dog and push the front door open with an elbow. I open my hands and the small white wave crawls up over the base of my left thumb. I can almost see her blinking at the bright outdoors, gasping in the fresh air and wondering where she is in relation to the world.


For a moment she opens her wings flat against my hand and I can see faint light brown lines in a random design along their length. Up against birch bark, she would be invisible. I feel the lightness of an eyelash flutter over my skin as she takes to the air. Her chaotic flight path unfolds toward the stand of birch trees near the side of the house.


I take in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the humid air and turn back toward my own chaotic home.