Category: Random Musings

Knowing You. Knowing Me.

Who do you credit with influencing the trajectory of your life? Who are you grateful for knowing?

It’s easy, I think, to summon thoughts of those we hold dear. Be it family members, leaders, friends or lovers; those who have been role models, cheerleaders and, when needed, a mirror — showing us truths that might otherwise have gone unseen. But, none of us is a tidy product – the sum of – our positive experiences are we? We are as much shaped by our missteps and disappointments, our losses and pain, as anything else.

It’s a tough sell though isn’t it — to offer acknowledgement and, dare I suggest, gratitude to those who have mistreated, injured, hurt or betrayed us? Those are certainly not the first thoughts that come to mind when I have pause to consider those who have caused me hardship, or contributed to my pain. But then, what is the alternative? To journey though this life burdened with anger, doubt, bitterness and resentment? To continually surrender tiny pieces of myself to people and circumstances entirely undeserving of such power? Who is that serving? Certainly not me. And more to the point, who is that hurting? Certainly not those I’ve felt wronged or disrespected by.

If I set ego and pride aside for a time, and take honest stock of my journey, there are gifts to appreciate through each weathered storm.

Your ridicule taught me that I am more than the story you have about me.

Through your disrespect, I have learned what it is to respect myself. 

Your dishonesty taught me that two people don’t always share the same truth.

Through your betrayal, I have learned to forgive.

Because I have been broken, I know what it is to be resilient — to heal.

Without you, what kind of me would I be? There’s no way to be certain really; I choose to believe though, that I’d be a lesser version of myself somehow. Thank you. 

Who are you grateful for knowing?

When I Am 95

I attended a workshop recently where the facilitator asked a question to the room:

When you are 95, what do you want to say about your life?

In that moment, the first thought that came to mind was, should I live to be 95, I want to be able to say that I’ve lived the sh** out of my life. In the days to follow, I found myself thinking more about the question, and about my response. When the time comes for me to reflect on this journey, on this life, what would “living the sh** out of it” look like?

Did I mean I want to have travelled the world, or crossed all manner exciting activities off my proverbial “bucket list”? No, that wasn’t it. Did I mean accumulating wealth somehow, and enjoying the extravagances that one can when money is plentiful? No, that definitely wasn’t it. What about family and friends? Maybe whether I had achieved my goal or not could be measured as a function of the relationships I’d shared? No, it wasn’t that either. Hmm, how will I know, looking back, that I “lived the sh** out of my life”? Perhaps the answer is more existential than it is practical. Now, a philosopher I am not, so bear with me as I attempt to explain this.

In my estimation, life is a complex mosaic of human experiences. Please don’t mistake my use of the word experiences here. I am not referring to your weekend warrior pursuits, nor that play you saw last week. I am talking about those, most basic, experiences that we all share simply because we are human. These are the experiences of happiness and sorrow, of pleasure and pain, of success and failure, and of love and betrayal. Obviously, a far from exhaustive list, but I imagine you get the picture.

Now, I anticipate what some of you are thinking…

“That list is rather extreme-centric, no? What about all the stuff in the middle? Surely, human beings can’t exist on a constant pendulum, swinging between two opposite poles of emotions and experiences”. 

Can’t we? Let’s consider this for a moment. What lives between the extremes? What lives between happiness and sorrow, pleasure and pain, success and failure, and love and betrayal?

Indifference. Complacency. Numbness. Safety (Oooh…safety is such a dirty word).

Think about it. When was the last time you met a toddler who was not quite happy and not quite sad? When was the last time asked young child about their future, and they  told you they wanted a job they could tolerate? When was the last time you read a great novel or a fairytale where the main character marries a partner he or she ‘liked well enough’ ? When was the last time you heard a child talk about their dream in terms of how realistic it was? I am willing to bet rarely; we just aren’t programmed that way.

I think in time we learn to accept less than we have dreamed, or worse, we learn to stop dreaming altogether. We learn to fear change and failure. We learn to fear vulnerability and expect betrayal. We learn that life does not always go to plan and we learn to fear all of the experiences that can get a bit messy and leave us feeling a bit out of sorts. The result; we become comfortable in tidy, beige, indifference.

When I am 95, what do I want to say about my life?

When my curtain is closing (and I assume that by the time I am 95 years old, said curtain will have begun it’s decent), I want to look back and know that I had the strength to live my truth, and the courage to welcome the unknown. I want to have dreamed big and to have failed. I want to have made mistakes and I want to have regrets. I want to have experienced loss, disappointment and betrayal. I want to look back at my life and see that it was messy and imperfect. Without a doubt, I want to look back and find happiness, success and love as well, but it is in the messiness and the missteps, where the beauty lies. It is in those experiences where we are forced to face our truest selves and in doing so are offered the gifts of strength, courage, grace, humility, forgiveness and growth. For me, the truest measure of whether I have lived life well (or not) will be found in looking back at how willing I was to get my hands dirty. It is through those experiences, in that mess, that I’ll know I didn’t stop trying; that I lived the sh** out of my life.

A Thirty-Eighth Trip Around the Sun

Today is my 37th birthday. Depending on your perspective, this date each year marks the beginning or signals the end of a year in this life. In my life. This year, more than most, I have spent my birthday in contemplation and self-reflection; taking stock of where I have been, where I am now, and most importantly where I am headed.

It is fair to say that the last two or three years have gotten away from me. I will spare you a lengthy diatribe, recounting all the contributory events and details. In part because they are highly personal, and in part, because to do so feels like an exercise in excuse making. To prattle on about the various justification I have allowed myself for not living my best life does not service the point here. Sufficed to say that I have chosen not to live my truth; I have allowed myself to repeat unhealthy cycles and resume entrenched patterns of behaviour which do not serve me mentally, physically, emotionally or spiritually.

As the sun sets tonight and I drift off to sleep, the clock resets; tomorrow is the first day of my 38th trip around the sun. I do not pretend to have it all mapped out. I do not presume to suggest that I know where I will be this time next year, let alone how I will get there. All that I have certainty about tonight are my intentions:

I intend to embrace the journey.

I intend to live my truth.

I intend to take risks.

I intend to treat my body with the respect and reverence it deserves.

I intend to listen to my heart more and my pride less.

I intend to nurture my spirit and my soul in creativity.

525600 Minutes

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?

– ‘Seasons of Love’ from the musical, Rent. Lyrics by Jonathan D. Larson.

I have loved these lyrics from the first time I heard them. There is such freedom in the sentiment. A year in a life  – in your life – consists of five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred precious minutes; minutes of beauty, of joy, of sorrow and of pain.

Stop and think about that for a moment. I mean really think about it. In the next three hundred sixty five days, you will have five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred perfectly equal minutes worth of experiences. None shorter or longer than the last. None passing more quickly or more slowly than another.  For better or worse, that is it; one year is nothing more than a series of experiences.

Still, almost instinctively, we order and judge our lives using various constructs of time:

“This is the year I will finally…”

“Next week I commit to…”

“Tomorrow will be a better day”.

“By the time I am thirty [fourty…fifty…sixty…], I will…”

“My New Year’s resolution is…”

Of course we do right? It makes perfect sense. We crave structure and order in our lives. But, what if while we are busy structuring and ordering, there exists an unintended consequence? What if, while we are plotting the human experience against timelines, we neglect to experience our lives? What if, as we look toward how much better the next interval will be, we miss the opportunity to understand the experiences, opportunities and relationships that are occurring for us right now?

I don’t know where I will be five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes from now. I don’t know what I will have experienced or learned, nor who I will have loved or lost. But, I intend to experience every single one of those minutes with curiosity and gratitude for the journey. I intend to feel, and to learn, and to grow. That is after all, the entire point.

Closing Remarks: 2015

I sat down this morning to pen a profound narrative; My 2015 in review. Instead the clock reached midday and beyond, and I found myself sitting with hands poised over the keys, staring at a blank screen.

How does one summarize a year? Is this achieved by cataloging events and adventures? By measuring successes? By recounting defeats? By proclaiming intent for future achievements? I suppose… but somehow it seems overly derivative and utilitarian to summarize a year in the life of a human being in such a categorical manner.

That’s it! “A year in the life of a human being…”, that is the missing piece. What was 2015 within the context of my life?

2015 was the year that I felt overwhelming joy and deepest sorrow. It it was the year that I cared greatly for others, yet I acted selfishly. It was the year that I craved stability and still pursued change. It was the year that I achieved wonderful successes while making horrible mistakes. It was the year that I experienced immense freedom and crippling restraint. It was the year that I began to heal my mind but continued to hurt my body. 2015 is the year that I learned that every step on my journey will not be executed with perfection; it is also the year that I gained the insight to appreciate the value of my stumbles.

With this in mind, as I sit here in the final hours of 2015, I pay respects to the path that has led me to where I am, I open myself to the journey that lies ahead, and I hold this moment in reverence with the grace to be thankful and the confidence to accept that I am exactly where I need to be.

Risky Business

Risk is the scale upon which we balance life’s choices and evaluate our needs, wants, dreams, fantasies, and even our fears to determine which choices might lead to the greatest fulfillment in our lives. We ask ourselves what stands to be gained or lost? Can we live with each potential outcome? At the end of careful deliberation, the risk is either accepted, or not. Insert cheesy movie quote here. At it’s core, risk is a question of “Is the juice is worth the squeeze?”

Alas, life is rarely this tidy and sometimes risks are worth taking solely to experience them. Let me explain.

There is a certain amount of emotion – be it anticipation, fear, anxiety or excitement – inherent to the concept of risk. Suppose the decision to risk is not made based on careful evaluation of needs or wants against potential outcomes. Instead, could it be a need to experience an emotion or sensation that motivates us to risk? 

I need risk; it is the color in a world that often seems awash in grey. I crave the excitement and exhilaration that jumping head first into a situation brings. I feel at ease in the chaos of uncertainty and anticipation that comes with a new experience. My motivation for risk is born more out of having the experience than it is a calculated step toward a perceived goal.
“Is the juice worth the squeeze?” I suppose I seldom care; I am more of a beer girl anyway.

What Can Happen in a Second?

A few minutes before midnight, the metronomic sound rang out from high above his rain-soaked head; like Pavlov’s dog he stepped off the curb. Looking down as frigid rainwater flooded the chestnut brown Italian leather boot on his left foot, he took a wide step to the right to avoid submerging the other foot in the dark puddle.

Blink. Rain drops.
Blink. Feet. Lots of feet.
Blink. Lights; blue and red and white.

He lay face down on the cold, wet pavement. Pinned beneath the weight of something massive.

Blink. Pain.
Blink. Confusion.
Blink. Fear.

“Hey can you hear me? Open your eyes buddy! Stay with me!” Each word grew softer. Then nothing.

In the darkness, a curtain lifts and images flood the screen. Each lasting only a second.

A woman holds her infant son for the first time. Tears of joy streak her rosy cheeks.

A small blonde boy stands in front of the tree on Christmas morning, smiling.

A mother wipes tears from the face of the small blonde boy as she gently applies a Batman bandage to his scraped knee.

A young man in a black tuxedo stands proudly in front of his house. Beside him is a beautiful red haired young woman in a floor length teal gown. She is wearing a courage of white lilies.

The young man beams proudly in a cap and gown.

The young man sits alone in a sparsely furnished dorm room. He stares forlornly at a photo of the beautiful red haired girl.

A group of men pose for a photo on a sandy beach. Arms around one another and beer bottles raised overhead.

The blonde man stares across a crowded pub at a woman with long raven black hair and bright blue eyes. He is smiling.

The blonde man in on bended knee. The raven haired woman stands before him. He is holding a small velvet box up toward her.

A newly married couple wave as their car pulls away from the curb in front of the church.

The man holds his infant daughter for the first time. Tears of joy streak his rosy cheeks.

Blink.
Blink.
Blink.

Memories

I’ve had occasion recently to contemplate the concept of memory. I am not referring to memory as it applies to addresses, telephone numbers, skills or other rote applications. I am meaning more, memory in the formative sense, as it applies to us as people. 

Why do we remember the things we do?
Why are some memories so much more vivid than others? 
Why do the feelings they churn up feel so raw sometimes? 
Can we be sure that our memories are not only an edited version of the truth, fabricated within our minds to meet some subconscious need or desire?

I suppose there are people and events throughout our lives that leave larger imprints on our soul than do others, and that those memories would be recollected with much greater zeal than others of a more mundane nature. My question, I suppose, really is…

Can we trust our memories?

I can’t help but feel like our memories betray us sometimes. As they nestle into our subconscious, a linen canvas capturing a fleeting moment in time, they fade and blur until all that remains are glimpses of our past. As a bronze statue gains patina over time which accentuates it’s beauty and conceals it’s flaws, so to do time and distance alter the lens through which we recollect our pasts. In time, the harshness and hurt fade, and we are left with a sepia photo album filled with romantic snapshots of past experiences. 

I am not certain there is resolution to this query. Rather, insight and choice. If in recalling past days, my heart and my brain bring to my attention remembrances of joy, passion, love and excitement, then I will not argue. I have enough access to negativity in the present that I am quite happy to engage in idealistic memory of my past where the darkness had faded and what remains are the best details of the experiences that shaped me.