The Tapestry of Change

I just finished reading Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter. It was originally published back in ‘86 but as I am nearly always disappointed after reading a current bestseller I tend to avoid them. My expectations far exceed whatever the book offers and I end up seriously doubting the veracity of public opinion. (Similar to how I felt when Stephen Harper got re-elected in 2010). What I usually do is wait until a dog-eared copy of some well-loved novel falls off the library shelf and into my hands—then I know I have a good one. Its a time worn practice and hasn't failed me yet.

Such was, well, almost the case with The Sportswriter. The sequel, Independence Day, for which Ford won the Pulitzer Prize, materialized first. But order is necessary in these things and Frank Bascombe, the hero of both stories, needed, at least for me, to be introduced in the way in which he was created.

The Sportswriter is Frank’s journey through the mourning of his son. Although the main theme is, at times, but a subtle context, Frank’s grief is only one of the many heartaches we come to witness through the course of three days.  And, in the reading of these many sorrows and unique responses to loss, we cannot help but bump up against some aspect of ourselves. More poignant is seeing how action (and reaction) to loss are reflected onto the world; how disillusionment and, its opposite, hope, weave itself into the tapestry of our being, forever changing us, our loved ones, and the strangers we encounter.

And that change, however we manifest it, is rich in texture and colour. It has meaning with a depth that far exceeds that which we ourselves can plunge. It invites our touch, to squeeze it in our hands and try to mold it into a shape that pleases us, only to resist our furtive attempts. Then we try to toss it away while yearning for it to come back. Change wants our commitment with such dreaded intimacy that it threatens to overwhelm, even crush us under its unrelenting pressure. IIt is real and it is tangible. It is the vessel in which the mystery of life unfolds.

I think about the trust that change demands of us. I feel it in my own shifts and in the transformation of others who have also been touched by death and sorrow. Each journey is  unique, precious and so excruciatingly private. I think about my family and how each of us still travels this journey of loss from the death of my mother some 35 years ago. I think how my inner judgment of their way of travelling may have somehow alienated them … as I, myself, have felt alienated from their perceived judgment of me.  

The mystery of life—so full, so rich; so abundant in grace—will, without a doubt, patiently endure my judgments. But that is just a setup for detachment and a denouncement of joy and our interdependence.   Life will unfold as it will but with an open and trusting heart the mystery of it will unfold with magic. 

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Words Matter

Words are potent weapons for all causes, good or bad. Manly Hall

Some twenty years ago I worked in an emergency shelter. I was a second-year psychology student and I wanted practical experience alongside my academic studies. The learning was intense and, as it turned out, had very little to do with diagnoses and treatment.

One night, early on in my career, I was handing out meal tickets. The shelter provided free meals for the residents and then divvied up the extra food into dinners for the hopeful who queued up at the door. The third person in the line was a man I hadn’t seen for over a month. I was happy to see him… life is dicey on the streets and regulars who don’t show up at expected times are missed with pessimistic gloom. With delight I exclaimed: “Tom! I haven’t seen you in a ‘coon’s age.”  I  barely finished the sentence. Behind him was a woman of colour who took immediate offence. She shouted with strident ferocity (she was also high on crack): "‘Coon? ‘Coon? Who are you calling a ‘coon? I’m a ‘coon; you are a racist!”

My mouth and stomach dropped while heat soared, colouring my face crimson. I stammered an apology but truly, I didn’t know what I was apologizing for. My mother had used that saying all the time when I was a kid, it was an ingrained memory of innocent gibberish.

The woman's accusations grew in volume and, being higher than the shelter rules allowed, was soon escorted out but the shame remained. Even when she returned later that night she pointed and whispered of my misdeeds to any available ears . I was branded with a capital R with no recourse or redemption allowed.

In talking it over with one of the senior staff I protested my innocence. He heard me but only responded that ignorance is no excuse. He was right. It was a painful lesson but a thorough one, indeed.

There were other examples from the past: a mother of a learning disabled child educating me on how hurtful was the word “dummie”, and a friend, her sister a lesbian, illuminating the disrespectful use of “gay” to mean lame. I was not trying to be mean when I used these words, just following the path of my childhood where words gathered steam and garnered an intensity that soon lost their significance except to those they hurt.

I was reminded of these incidents duing a meal with some acquaintances. A lively debate, if not fractious one, evolved. On the one side were those who said that people were too sensitive: that words were taken too seriously and that it is the intent that should be prioritized, not the word itself. And then there was my side that repeated the lessons of my past and said, ignorance is no excuse. Yes, apologies should be accepted if the intent was innocent but changes must then be made—the use of the word in the offending context eliminated from future dialogue. 

Unfortunately, there was no resolution. Portrayed to be a politically correct ninny I soon lost interest in arguing against an increasingly irritated (and irrational) opponent; conversation drifted off into that never-never land of sitcoms and bad fashion.
 

But I wonder about people like these naysayers. Is it because their children are all heterosexual with few challenges in life? I wonder if they were black, a recent immigrant or had health problems—different in any way from the prevailing culture in which they partook—if their thoughts would run different? I am not so sure.  Maybe it’s a general disconnect or a prioritization of action over speech. Or perhaps they decided long ago to deny the power of words, to stop them from hurting. Then again, maybe it is just plain denial: what I don't know cannot harm me or anyone else.

All I know is that words are important to me and I while I will make mistakes (and amends), I will do my best to treat them with respect.


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Breathe... Or the Computer Wins

I was listening to CBC the other day… On the Coast, I think, when the  guest casually mentioned that people tend to hold their breath when waiting for their computer to respond. It was a genuine eye opener for me—I’ve never noticed it before but, yes, I do it all the time. Whether I am waiting for an expected email, a Google search to complete or FB to load, I hold my breath. And it’s not only the cessation of respiration that marks this passage but my shoulders tense and eyes become fixed: a zombie nerd awaiting its master’s voice.

A quick Google search finds that holding your breath (and this does not include certain yoga or free diving techniques) results in decreased blood oxygen, carbon dioxide build-up, higher pH levels, and muscle tension, leading to headaches, body fatigue, muscle soreness, and anxious feelings.

After hearing this I did my best to be more conscious of my computer breathing but even now, while waiting for inspiration to fill in the next word, I find I am not breathing as I would if I was reading a book, walking, or even writing with actual pen and paper. The computer, it seems, holds a special place in my pulmonary circuitry.

This holding of breath stems from impatience and, strangely enough, an antipathy towards authority. The impatience is easy to explain: I have an old computer with a temperamental need to tease me with downloading delays. While waiting for any kind of e-activity to commence or conclude I am overcome with an almost intolerant anticipation: I become the predator awaiting an elusive prey; my hackles arise and I cease all motion. 

The authority issue is more complex. You see, I hate being told what to do and when to do it. I am more or less reconciled to this aspect of who I am. I have even found ways to appease this part of myself when given instruction or tasks to complete. This ranges from (at worst) a sarcastic response to (at best) an acquiescent smile hiding a rapid fire inner dialogue advising me to let it go, it’s just a job. With supervisors I respect, I let them know of this personality quirk and we work through it together. With those I don’t, well, let’s just say my tongue can be well chewed by day’s end and my eyes strained from lack of rolling.

With computers, however, I enter into a power struggle. It is like an arm wrestle which I can only win if I bear it out, dig in my heels and keep very still. Unfortunately, what this means is that while waiting for this electronic authority do as I wish (and not what it wants or, in real terms, is capable of) I hold my breath. I know I am at the mercy of everything from aging computer parts to cookies, spyware and server issues but something inside forbids me to surrender. I want to bend this piece of hardware, manipulate its inner software and sever its connections before I ever say, take your time.

I am practicing though. As the old adage goes: living well is the best revenge. I will learn to breathe; I will consciously relax my shoulders and urge my lips into a smile knowing full well that if all things go as expected, this overblown silicone chip will be in the recycling depot long before I.

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On a different note… a moment of celebration: the press release I wrote about on April 5 in Bullying Matters, is getting noticed. After a myriad of follow up phone calls (with a few more to go) I have five media outlets (including, fingers crossed, CBC's Early Edition), agreeing to print or talk about its contents. The Aldergrove Star even featured it on page one... in full. Yay!

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