Brine soaked

What is it about the last minute that allows things to get done? Waiting. Waiting. For some kind of divine intervention. As if God will save us. Or someone else will prod us. Make us do it. Anyone but us. What stops us? Fear. Fear of not being good enough. Not making something that people will like. Not looking good. What if it's bad? What if it sucks? If I fail? And what will people think? Of me? There goes the guy that sucks. That fails. "I could do better than that," people will say. And so we don't put anything out. We don't produce. As nothing put out there means we don't fail. And we still look good. We preserve our reputation. Our place in the world of people's minds. As what though? Preserved. Like pickled eggs. How nice. We keep ourselves locked into stasis. Stuck in a jar. And people are able to look at us, how beautiful we are, glistening in the brine. Until we die. How convenient that we are already preserved. 

Olives & Ogres

Rowan: You and Khona have eyes the colour of olives.

Me: Ok. Green olives, I guess.

Rowan: And ogres like to eat olives.

Me: Ok.

Rowan: That's all.

Tattoo

You know those things you've always wanted to do, but never quite get to them. Those dreams that we talk about, ruminate over, explore like a kid in an apple orchard, jumping up, up, but not quite reaching the fruit. I had this idea of making a movie about tattoo stories. The stories behind the tattoo. Why it's there. Why did that person put that thing on themselves? Where did the idea come from. What's the meaning. The source. Tattoo like a window into someone's life, their stories, where they came from, who they were in that moment, who they are, who they've become. 

So I found myself in one of these conversations about tattoos after a yoga class. What's your story? And she told me, and it was so beautiful, and moving, and incredible. "I've always wanted to make a movie about tattoo stories." "Well, I'm in," she says. "Oh.... Ok. Well, let's do it. Let's book the interview, and I'll figure out what I'm doing in the meantime." So we booked a time in the yoga studio two Fridays from that day. And I really had no idea how I was going to pull off an interview. What camera I was going to use. Sound? 

The Wednesday before the interview, a volunteer arrived at our doorstep from Helpex named Ignacio. He was from Spain, wanted to help out and learn English, and he was a film-maker! "That's good," I said, "because we have an interview in two days!" He had an HD camera, and a microphone. Serendipity indeed. So over the last month, we navigated our way through the two languages and cultures, and spoke with five amazing people, who shared their stories, their hopes, fears, and dreams. And here it is ... Tattoo.

Growing Gift

To donate. What is it to donate? To give something. Up. To give away. Let go. A gift. For someone to receive. Really receive. Take in. An exchange. What if the gift has been asked for? How does that change the giving. The receiving. Several months ago, I donated a part of myself, and she is pregnant. Third time lucky. Past the first trimester now. She is pregnant. Not us. Not we. I am a donor. Giving up. Giving away. Something of me. And now it grows. Not part of me. Not part of us. There is no us. Us is here. Wife. Family. Home. To give something that grows. Changes. Lives. Breathes. Thinks. Feels. We aren't used to giving away something living, someone that evolves. SomeOne. A person. Giving away a person. Half a person. And what could be more beautiful. And complicated. Simple. And confusing. Joyous. And conflicting. And what am I then? In that unknown future? A donor. A gift-giver. Connected and Not. Not attached. There at times. Aware. A presence. Supportive. And not. And who am I then? Who am I to that person? In their mind? Complicated. And not. And who is Mary then? Wife of a donor. What role then? What sense of place for her? Truly giving, she is in fact the one donating. Giving up control. Letting go. Not her child. Not his child. And yet from him. Who are we to own each other? Mine. My precious. Not mine. And what is it to send yourself out into the world? Out of my control. My domain. My reach. My influence. And yet, he is a part of me. He is under my influence. My genetic reach. My biology. Or she is. And so I celebrate. And contemplate. Laugh and cry. I sit in contradiction. And not. I have given Life. Something so powerful. So beautiful. It seems impossible not to. Someone who will give so much joy and love. And stories. All that we are made of really. The fabric that holds us all together. Generosity of spirit. What more is there to give.

When does zero begin?

Rowan: "Dad, when does zero begin?

Me: "What do you mean?"

Rowan: "Like... when does zero begin?"

Me: "You need to use other words."

Rowan: "Um, when does zero begin when a baby is born?"

Me: "Aha. OK, great question. When do you think?"

Rowan: "When they come out of Momma."

Me: "OK, what are they before they come out?"

Rowan: "Well, maybe zero is when they're inside and they're this big." (Holds hands out measuring the size of a large bass.)

Me: "OK, what are they before that?"

Rowan: "Well, maybe it's when they're thisss tiny." (Presses tips of fingers together as if holding a speck of dust."

Me: "OK, what are they before that?"

Rowan: "Dad, have you ever been in jail?"

Mary, Joseph & Jennifer

Rowan: "I'm going to be in a play at school?"

Me: "Oh, what's it about?"

Rowan: "It's about donkeys, sheep, what was the girl beside me? She was a goat, I think. And there are three angels. And there's a guy named Joseph. I think he is the baby. No, I think Jennifer is the baby.

Me: "Is that the one in the manger?

Rowan: "Oh, yeah. Jesus is the baby. And there's a girl named Jaylin. She was Mary, I think. Simone was an angel. Ruun was an angel. And Graydin is the last Angel. Max was one of the people petting the goats."

Me: "Was he a shepherd?" 

Rowan: "Oh yeah. Max was a shepherd. Angels don't pet goats."

Me: "Who do you play?"

Rowan: "I was a donkey yesterday. But it changes every day. I think I'm Jennifer today. But I want to be Mary."

Grace Full

The rhythm of the day. Each day we live is a song, with cadence and pace, a beat, a feeling, a tone, a natural rhythm, breathing, we can ride this wave, we can navigate with the beat, sensing it, hearing it, feeling it, and going with it, riding it. And yet so often, we kill it. We play white noise over our song, rushing through our day, madly eating, yelling at the kids to move, move, covering over the beat, can't hear it, muffled, we stumble through unaware the song that runs in the background, the song that guides us, directs us, inspires, points us like a compass. Like we're behind sound booth glass unable to hear it, and so we ram ourselves through our days, as if a Hummer making its own path through pristine wilderness, like when two songs play at the same time, a jumbled mix of beats and vocals, can't distinguish my own.  And yet, when I stop, and listen. Really listen, it rises up, as cream separates, and I begin to hear it, faintly, then bits, and more, a rhythm, sometimes fast, super fast, and then slow, really slow, stopped, pause, space, repeating, and I breathe, repeating, and instruments fill the space, and I follow them and then a voice, a voice that pulls and lulls, opens up, awakens, connects, and it is my voice, I have found it.

Backyard Revolution

What if we were to rip up our perfect lawns and plant food. Lots of food, different kinds, food we could eat right out of our own backyards. Grown intensively in small spaces, peas up fences, beans on trellises, tomatoes -- large and small -- red and orange, eggplant, potatoes, kale, and the list goes on. What if we were to make it a priority to grow stuff, to get help to figure it out, to dig, prepare beds, make compost, plant seeds. Imagine what our kids would learn, what we would learn -- connected with our own food, where it comes from, the smells, textures, getting dirty. From backyard to plate, how beautiful is that? And possible. And what would happen if we got our neighbours on board, and their neighbours, and the whole block was growing food, different things, and sharing it, and talking to each other, connecting, and building relationships and community, and we had a whole city block of connected backyards growing and talking. Bridging the neighbour gap. And imagine then if all the front yards started growing food, and there was a revolution of perfect lawns to garden beds. And then another city block. And another. And then public parks and spaces. And the city becomes alive with growing delicious food and inspired people. How cool would that be?

Umwelt actually

ac·tu·al·ly  (kch--l) adv.

1. In fact; in reality: That tree is actually a fir, not a pine.

2. Used to express wonder, surprise, or incredulity: I actually won the lottery!

What if I really actually did what I say I'm going to do? What might happen... Actually following through on telling my Dad I love him. Actually calling up my nephew to ask how his hockey game was. Actually doing the uncomfortable thing that pokes me, challenges me, confronts. Actually living as if my life depended on it. As if I'm going to die. And really going out there. Going out on a limb. Trying stuff. Getting down on the floor to play with my kids. Taking every moment as a goldmine. Sifting through each second as gravel in a river bed, sifting, shaking time, and being with the people in my life, really seeing them, for who they are. Sifting through the stories, and gossip, the landfill filters I experience the world through.

There is a biologist named Jacob von Uexkull who used the term umwelt to describe the world around a living thing as that creature experiences it. For many years (until very recently actually), I thought the word for the chess piece "pawn" was "pond". And I lived in that reality as if it were true, and every conversation I had about chess would re-confirm my reality, as I would hear "pond", and would say "pond". No one corrected me, I imagine, because they heard me say "pawn", as it matched their reality. (Or they were just being kind.) And then there was this moment when I learned that pond was pawn, and everything shifted, like a whole new reality. The brilliance of the word "umwelt" is that it captures how we experience the world in all the ways that we do, seeing, hearing, smelling, all the senses, and all the ways we take in the world and shape it to make it real.

Another time when I was up in front of a class, and the teacher reflected back his experience of me. I had mentally left the room. "Mike, you've gone away. You aren't here right now." And I had gone away, in my mind. I was physically standing there, but had left the building. I was just a shell, smiling. I'd disappeared, quite conveniently, really, when threatened, mentally leaving seems quite a comfortable option. Then I don't really have to engage, interact, deal with what's there. The interesting part was that I thought everybody did that. I thought everyone experienced the world that way, and that there was no other way, no other reality. That was it. Until I came back. I returned in that moment, and experienced a different way of being. A different reality. And I was there. Present. Engaged. Alive. And then I had choice. To show up or not.

We now know that there is not one space and one time only, but that there are as many spaces and times as there are subjects, as each subject is contained by its own environment which possesses its own space and time. 

--Jacob von Uexkull

Theoretical Biology

The View from the Oak

Uncle John's Enchanted Toilet Bathroom Reader

"I'm sorry I spread poo all over the bed, and that I stuffed the book into the toilet, and made the pile of stuff in the corner of my room," said Rowan, out of the blue, in the car, three weeks after.

~

Mary-Kate and I had stepped out of the house for a short meeting. Left the girls to play and be looked after by three friends. We were on the front porch for about forty-five minutes, came back in the house, and a chorus of screaming welcomed us. All three kids, crying, screaming, whaling, and then one of our friends says,

"That's a parent's job."

OK. That would be me. I go upstairs to find a potty in the middle of the girls' bed, and the target has been missed. And then spread around. God knows how this happened. I'm in some kind of twisted family CSI episode, looking for clues. And then I turn to see the toilet overflowing, rush over to plunge, and see little ripped bits of pages flowing over the edge of the seat. Rowan! Any idea what's happening here? Why the toilet is overflowing?

"Oh, we stuffed a book into it."

OK. So I roll up my sleeves and reach down through the floating bits of pages and the other chunks, and I find paper jammed hard, and not breaking down. So I begin to pull them out, bit by bit, little pieces of text, all the while trying to figure out what book this is, and why. Why? How did this happen? Row? 

"Well, we just didn't like that book."

OK. Pause. Breathe. Flush. And the literary waterfall re-gushes. So I reach down further, as far as I can reach, and there is still more book chunks. And still it is clogged. So I get out the special plumbing auger snake, and twist it in there, and keep pulling out more and more text, from deep down. It really travelled, this book. OK, the last bit. Finally it's free. I'm free.

~

"That's OK Row. Thank you for apologizing. What do you think is going on during those times?" I say.

"I just have a lot of energy," she says.

OK. What to say as parent. Where is the learning here? Is there any way into anything rational here? Is there any kind of "catch and re-direct" button on a five year-old? Any way to pause, and step back.

"Do you think there are any other ways to spend that energy?"

"I could jump on the trampoline. I could skip in the skipping rope. I could run around the kitchen island."

"All great ideas Row. All great ideas."

"Any chance you could notice when you have a lot of energy. Maybe let us know, so we can help you do some jumping and running?"

"Yes, Poppa. Can I have a freezie now?"

The Scattered God

I drive by casinos and snicker at the number of cars in the lot. I am aghast at the flagrant disregard for life. Gamblers. Poor, poor gamblers. Stuck in there pulling down on the arm of that machine. Pulling. Hoping. Dozens of cars. In the afternoon. On a Monday. Where do these people get the money to pour into the machine. These people. As if I am different. I am enlightened. Above. Beyond the low desperation of the Depends-clad die-hard slot-machine addict. I would never stoop to that world. Pulling. Spin. Pulling. Coins. Spin. Bing. Bing. Lights. Pulling. Spin. For the promise of winning. The hope of victory. Of fixing all my problems. Saving myself. If I only had a million dollars. I would be out of this rat race. This hamster wheel. Always trying to survive. To stay alive. To keep afloat. On top. Treading water. Making money. Spending. Making. Spending. Those people. Who are they? Those people with flashing lights, and the bing, bing of a cell phone text comes in. And my body tingles with excitement. Have I won? What juicy lemons have lined up for me. And it’s not even my phone. But I salivate for my own email. Just to check. Maybe I have one. A message. A golden message. And I crave checking. If only I could see. Just one email. Just check it. Just one text. Just give me one. It could be Important. Relevant. Spin. Pulling. Coins. Pulling. Bing. Bing. For the promise of winning. The hope of victory. Of fixing… and so I am those people. I am that car in the lot. I am a Depends-clad die-hard email addict. And I am not.

There is a program for writers called Q10 that blacks out your screen, provides green type-writer font, and a rectangular, blinking cursor from the first Commodore 64. Nothing else. No distractions. No checking email in the middle of writing. No looking at Facebook while I think of the next thing. No background screen image to wander into while I wait for inspiration. Just a bright green blinking cursor. And the tick tick tick of the keyboard. Back to writing on a typewriter, rolling the page back with white-out to fix a mistake. Just the ideas. The flow. The writing. We are trained to distract. To look for the next thing. To check the text. We are conditioned to follow the monkey mind. To worship it as a kind of scattered God. The scattered God. The mind as God. Distraction as our Church of Worship. We sit at the Sacred Alter of Multi-Tasking and feel productive. Feeding the scattered addict. Over and over and over again. We spend our days as if our head is us. We are our heads. And stopping is sacrilegious. Breathing is blasphemous.

Why do they make wars?

Rowan: "Poppa, why do the make wars?"

Poppa: (pause) "That's a great question Row."

Rowan: "I don't like wars because people get killed."

Poppa: (pause) "Yes."

Rowan: "Why do they do that?"

Poppa: "You know when you and Khona want the same hippo stuffy."

Rowan: "Yess."

Poppa: "That's why."

Rowan: "What are other reasons?"

Poppa: "Well, sometimes, people fight over bigger things, like houses."

Rowan: "Can't they just get married?"

Poppa: (pause) "Yes."

Rowan: "What else?"

Poppa: "Sometimes, it's over bigger things like rivers or lakes."

Rowan: "Can't they just get in the same boat, and get along?"

Poppa: (pause) "Yes."

Rowan: "There are other ways to do it then wars. Right Poppa?"

Poppa: "Yes, Row. Yes there are."

What is School for Poppa?

Rowan started Kindergarten last week.

"That was super fun Dad," she said after her first day. "I loved playing with all the kids."

As I was walking her to the doors this morning, she looked up at me and said, "What is School for Poppa?"

(Pause) "What a great question," I replied. And then I did what any great parent does who doesn't know the answer.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," she says. "I can't figure that out."

"Well," I said, "maybe you could find out the answer today at school. Try asking your teacher."

When I picked her up this afternoon, and we went for a little hike on the way home, I checked in if she'd remembered the question.

"Yes Dad. Why do we go to school? That's the question."

"Great. And what did you find out?"

"Nothing." she says.

"Did you ask your teacher?" I say.

"Oh yes. She doesn't know." (Pause)
Rowan looks up at me. "She REALLY doesn't know Dad. Really."

"Well, what do you think?" I said.

"I think we should stop talking about this and look for frogs."

Nail polish & Santa's Village

I like putting numbers in boxes. I love doing taxes. And reading instruction manuals at bed-time. In grade 11, I spent many of my Saturdays hand painting one inch tiles on a pop art piece I was doing for class. It grounded me. Gave me a sense of control. Order. And it was these skills that landed me the job of painting Mary-Kate's toe nails before the wedding near Santa's Village. A Muskoka wedding, up north. With three kids, a wedding up north demands some creative childcare solutions. And you can only leave the kids in a McDonald's playland for so long. So, despite Rowan's vote to stay in a motel and watch movies all day, Mary-Kate found Santa's Village on the map, just around the corner from the wedding. "Santa's Village?" I said, "In the summer?" "It's only open in the summer," said Mary-Kate. And so begins the adventure. Santa's Village is the perfect film setting for a CSI episode, or the Mentalist: elves and reindeer walking around, Santa's hat the frame for all signs. Mrs. Claus has a bakery of course, and all the rides are Santa themed -- reindeer leading the roller coaster, Santa's toy-shop bouncy castle. We even saw Santa one day walking by. "You didn't stop and look both ways young lady." Santa just told Mary-Kate that she didn't cross the train tracks safely. That was the only interaction we had with Santa. It was the end of the day. He was tired. The best part of Santa's Village is Ricky. Ricky looks a lot like Santa Claus, but has been miscast as the driver of Santa's River Boat. This boat is like a jet ski for 50 people. And Ricky has been driving it 20 times a day every summer for 30 years. 30 years! Every day! Ricky loves his job, and man, does he do it well. Playing Chipmunks, and The Chicken Dance up and down the Muskoka River. "How's the fishing!!!?" he yells to some local cottagers. They smile and look away. Ricky drives a school bus in the winter. "Half way through the school year, I really miss this boat."

Now, Santa's Village also has a campground across the road where we had set up our tents. A large white pine trailer park for dedicated Santa's Village repeat elves. It was in this dusty campsite where I was very carefully painting Mary-Kate's toes with neon orange-red nail polish. Oh, girls, you've got to get a picture of this. So Rowan & Sikhona smash open the camera case, and each put a camera around their necks. Sikhona figures out how to press the silver button to take a picture. And just starts taking them. On motor-drive, she's taking pictures, close-ups really, of various things, wrists, sky, trees, ground, oh, we're in that one. I'm carefully painting. Staying within the lines, trying to layer the polish not too thick, avoiding streaks. Rowan has the other camera right up close. Nails, painted. Hands, knees, other body parts. "You might want to back up a little girls. Get a wide shot. The whole scene. And poof! A cloud of wood ash billows up around Sikhona as she falls backward into the fire pit, holding the camera, looking just fine really. Picks herself up, dusts off, and keeps pressing that silver button. I finally finish my work of art. We send the girls off to Santa's Village with Megan and all our towels, and Mary-Kate and I get our wedding digs on in the campground washrooms. Open-style I would call them. The women's washroom is closed for cleaning, so Mary-Kate just bursts in anyway, and says to the man, "I'm going to a wedding. I have to get ready. Just keep doing whatever you're doing." He leaves. She sets all her stuff up in one stall, and then discovers there's no hot water, so she jumps from stall to stall trying to shave her legs. I have no soap, so I keep leaving my shower with a t-shirt wrapped around my waist to pump soap from the sinks. The doors are wide open, and I do my best not to moon the kids across the road on Santa's reindeer. We do make it to the wedding with no evidence of our roles as extras on a CSI episode, other then Mary-Kate's beautiful Santa red toes.

The year I got my smell back

I was feeling sad the other night. Melancholy. Not depressed sad. A sadness of memory. Grounded. Connected. As if empathy was calling out. I'm here. Emotion as portal. Mary-Kate said, "Do you remember when I first met you? You said you were jealous of my emotion, my ability to feel things." I was dead. Like a stone. Moving around. A living carcass. Not able to sense. I remember the first moment I knew I had lost my sense of smell. A high school student was complaining of the smell of manure from the farmer's fields. "It's not that bad," I said. And then other kids mentioned the intensity. I smelt nothing. Our own reality seems like the truth at the time. As it is our truth. Our way of being in the world. And everyone else must be experiencing the same thing. What is not-my-reality? What is it to smell? To feel. I remember what an orgasm used to feel like. And then it died. The feeling lost. The pipes working, flowing, moving. No feeling. Dead. And I relied on my eyes. I experienced the world through my eyes, as if they could feel. I could project what it was like to feel through the picture of my world. But there was no feeling. It was a guess. A guess from what it felt like. From the fading memory of emotion. As if I was watching my life on TV. Experiencing it visually. I thought I wasn't capable of feeling anymore. Age. Work. Stress. Responsibility. It was all necessary to survive. So my body was sacrificed. A side effect of living as a successful adult. A working adult. Someone who takes care of himself. Pays the bills. I searched for ways to crack open my body. Yoga. Get in there. Hockey. Unlock that portal. I must be inside there. Meditation. I must be. Beer. Feeling something. Am I there? And then we had River. And I had space. Space to be. To open. To take things in. To absorb. To de-toxify. De-layer. And very slowly, I started to emerge, come into focus. And I could smell. River's diaper. I can smell it. I can smell it. Hallelujah. And cilantro. Oh, cilantro. And I could feel. Sadness. Yay sadness. Not dead. I am sad. Yes. Oh, yes. And orgasm. It's back. Returned. Uncovered. Nostalgic. A complexity to it. A nuance. Not just one feeling. But a mix of layers, of variation, subtle and strong. And it's a fucking roller coaster, this feeling thing, but damn, it's nice to be on the ride.

I'm Feeling Lucky

Have you ever clicked the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button on Google? You type in something to search in the Google text box, and below the search are two options: "Google Search" or "I'm Feeling Lucky". I've never tried it. I always picked "Google Search". For years, I had it in the back of my mind that some day, I would try that Lucky thing out. I'd take a risk. Whoah. But never have.

I finally got up the courage to go for it. I was feeling lucky, and I wanted to know where that damn button took me. Problem is, you can't click it anymore. Try it. Type something into Google, and try to click the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button. Aha! Search results automatically brought up. How efficient. I waited too long! Turns out the Lucky button cost Google $110 million a year in lost ad revenue because it took people directly to the top search site. No ads. But the button is still there. Why does Google keep it, if you can't actually choose it? It makes them seem human. Whimsical. Fun. Less corporate. Less multi-billion dollar. Less bland.

We live in a world of knowns. We can find the answer. To anything. It's all there. No need to feel lucky. You just type in the question and the answer pops up. Instantly. No need to think really. No need to recall. To question without the answer. Just to question. Have you ever been in a situation where a question comes up that nobody knows the answer to, and there's no internet? No way to Google the answer. And everybody stands there looking at each other, like, well, maybe we just talk about what could be the answer. The possibilities. The unknowns.

And when you can't Google. Or choose not to. Savour it. Relish in the not-knowing. Explore it. Embrace it. Dive in like a kid in those balls in a McDonald's PlayLand. And have fun in that space: the wilderness of not-knowing, of discovering something by actually talking to other people who also don't know. And see what happens. Maybe you'll get lucky.

10 o'clock tonight

Rowan watched our Italian neighbour kill two chickens tonight. I was walking to the back of our garden holding two red hens upside down by their legs, when Rowan asked, "where are you going with those?" "I'm taking them to Nona. They're old and ready to die. She's going to kill them. Do you want to come?" "Yes!" "Are you sure?" "Yes." Nona held each hen's body like a baker holds a soft dough before it's kneaded, gently twisting the hen's head, like folding a cloth napkin ... "Rowan, are you sure?" "Yes, Dad." Nona slowly twisted, held, twisted, held, one more turn, then a slow pull with a slight bend, and crack, neck broken. And then the wings started flapping, and kept going for what seemed like a very long time. "Are you sure she's dead Nona?" "Oh, yes. Feel here." "I trust you," I said.

I thought it was time I learned how to kill a chicken. A skill. A connection to death. A re-skilling. Rowan said, "Good thing it wasn't the chicks. Good thing." And went on her merry way. As if it was just part of life. Part of what needed to be done. We hide from death. Package it away. Clean it up. Dress it. As if we're not part of it. We don't talk about it as if that will make it go away. Prevent it from happening. Like talking about it will cause it. And we hide it from our children. As if they can't handle it. Can't cope. And yet, they don't make the same meaning as us. They get that it happens. That it's an ending. And that something else comes from it. Instead of avoiding it, what if we were to confront it? Admit it's certainty. And relish in the power that awareness gives us in this moment. Being alive.

I came across an obituary last week. Life summed up in a column. A short story. Who was this person? How did they die? Who loved them? And this person I knew. Went to school together. Same age. Born the same year. Had two young kids. He was me. Is me. At 43. How does this happen. 43. The end of our play. Like the film reel jumping its spools at the movies and melting down. Lights go on. And you're sitting there with a half-eaten bag of stale popcorn, and massive watered down coke. Waiting. Looking around squinty eyed as if the projectionist is going to thread the film back on. Get it going again. What if it doesn't. What if that's it. It just ends. Half way through. That's part of my ending story. I'm half way through. 42 years. At least another 42 to go. Half way! Imagine all the stuff that's happened in my life to this point. And I'm half way. Double it. And it just gets better. This play. Better and better. Not easier. But more layers. More depth. More moments of weaving our web. More chances to connect. To build. Home. Relationships. Builders we are. Weavers.

I imagine we all have an image, a sense of what our own death will look like. Probably haven't really realized that we do. It just runs in the background. Plane crash. Old age. Alone. Surrounded. We have a story of our own end. And it guides us. Without us knowing. Our ending story. The end of our play on this earthly stage. For this life. We turn into something else. Or do we? There is a Buddhist exercise where you pretend you are going to die at 10 o-clock tonight. And you live your day as if it is your last. Every moment. Every interaction. Every pause, eye contact, conversation, walk by the river, bite of scrambled eggs. Every moment is your last. And you savour it. Each one. As it is your only one. And then you savour the next moment. And the next. Until you go to sleep. And 10 o'clock arrives. And then you wake up the next day, and smile. And begin again.

Biting the apple

I have not put away the laundry for 6 months. I take it off the line. I take it out of the dryer. And I pile it. Higher. And higher it goes. Until it is teetering. Waiting. To be put away. At first, I thought the block was not knowing where everything went. "Just guess," says Mary. "Guess!?" But what if I put Sikhona's dress in Rowan's drawer!? "Just guess." And so I did. I tried that. Guessing. And it worked. Cut through. The wanting things to be in their rightful boxes. Getting it right. Because then I am a good person. A good sorter. Organizer. House wife. A good house wife. House wife? And then I realized, I don't put the laundry away because it tells me who I am. If I put those clothes away, I am house wife. And who am I if I am not teacher. Who am I? Who are we? I am my job. I am in charge. I am the buildings and fields, and students, joy, stress, laughter, busyness, sadness. Without those things, I am left with a space. And then I am clothes sorter, dish doer, diaper changer, baby-giggler, uppy puppy daughter carrier, breakfast maker, more dish doer, dinner maker, more dish doer, dirty clothes collector, washing machine stuffer, diaper changer, toy picker-upper, tornado chaser, wet clothes hanger-upper and taker-downer. But not sorter. It is putting away that somehow stamps me as stay-at-home. And I am resistant. Thirty five years of school. 80% of my life in school. And then Not. Then I am Dad. I am house-dad. Vinegar and baking soda are my weapons. And I love it. Absolutely love it. And yet, "I am not that." I am the breadwinner. I am the guy who goes away and "works" and comes home. I am all those things that surround me. And yet, I am not. I am none of those things outside. They are reflections. I am the space in between. The source. To create. Who I am. Who I can be. Who I will be. And now I sort. I put the clothes away. I know where they go. And I'm good at it, god damn it. A good clothes puter-awayer. This circus act. We are jugglers. Crazy circus performers on unicycles on a tightrope over Niagara Falls, with 8 bowling pins, 4 knives, a hatchet, 1 apple, and 12 wet diapers. And I revel in it. Especially choosing the right time to bite.

Growing Little Artists (or Black Hawk Down)

There is a space in time parents create to get things done. It's usually about 3 minutes. It's that time when the kids seem fine. They're taking care of themselves. Oh, how loving they're being with each other, I'm sure I can go upstairs and use the washroom. I'm sure I'll hear if anything changes.

I've actually learned that silence is the first sign of creative expression.

The first major "incident" in the 3-minute gap was early in my days as a stay-at-home-dad. Everything seemed under control. Baby sleeping, girls gently playing. I can send that email! The gap begins... Just enough time for both daughters to create their own stealth hair salon, in the same room! I turned around to notice a large beautiful pile of blond hair, next to a large beautiful pile of red hair on the kids' breakfast table. And two wide eyed kids looking up, each holding a pair of scissors, smiling. "Look Poppa, I layered Khona's hair just like Andrew does." As a parent, I've learned that this moment requires a certain kind of response: stopping, pausing, smiling, and then taking a picture.

I've begun to document this gap, or really the effect of the gap, that end of that moment in time between kids being totally fine, to complete Lord of the Flies. Just today, there were three of us looking after three kids. Pretty good: one to one ratio. Suddenly I can hear "Driipppy... Driipppy... Driipppy" being chanted from the deck like "Piiggy...Piiggy", and I look out to find Sanoah & Sikhona putting little sister Nella through a frosh week water hazing. Nella is performing a self-defense downward dog, and madly trying to crawl away from the island.

The other night, Mary-Kate left Rowan & Sikhona in the basement to go upstairs and hang the laundry: the gap begins. When she returned, she found them standing naked in plastic Ikea drawers completely covered in blue paint, beginning to hand paint anything they could touch stretching out from their perch ... floor, walls, shelves ... "Miiike, I neeeed hellllp !!!" I grabbed the camera. A Smurf like bath ensued with much scraping of skin and crying.

Last week, in the heat, the girls somehow got into the fine art of peeing in various places and containers. One evening, we discovered Rowan and Sikhona each squatting over their own ice cube tray, saying "I did it! I did it! I got it in." "No, I got more..." OK girls, nice work, I notice you're developing a skill. How about we work on the Olympic sport of peeing in a potty.

Recently, before bed one night, we left both girls to burn off some energy by doing some Playmobile, jumping on the bed, running around. Oh, they're so good at entertaining themselves. Mary-Kate and I slumped downstairs in the couch, each enjoying a brief wine respite. As we enjoyed the quiet moment, we looked at each other, and realized it really was awfully quiet. When we went back upstairs, we peeked around the corner to discover both girls squatting on their own bed, peeing. We both stood there, hands on our hips, jaws dropped, as they then began to jump over their pee marks, saying, "Hey, mine looks like an H". "Look at me. I jumped right over it!"We looked at each other with total exasperation, open mouthed, pointing, as if miming to each other "what the f--- do we ... ?" So we just turned and left, walked back downstairs and drank our wine. Ah, the joys of parenting when the helicopter crashes in the ocean.

I later went back upstairs to check on the carnage. Rowan had passed out on the floor of the laundry room, and Sikhona was standing, arms out, in front of a fan, with thumbs up, and a smile, as if everything's all good up here Poppa. And everything was for these beautiful little provocative artists. Everything was.

Residue

One minute.
Of simplicity.
Typing.
Kids typing.
Type writer.
What is that?
That thing that captures letters, words as we tap them, hit them, ink into paper, touching, feeling the keys, hearing the tick, click, jam, one letter is off, imperfect, human, can't be corrected, easily, there is no undo. No delete. Ideas spill out, and the words are there, physically there. Jam. Pull the wire arms back, and hit, tap, click, connection with physical, the touch, language, not digital, made up, on a screen, a shadow of itself, pretending it is there. As we are, pretending, there is us underneath. We are all typewriters, real, physical, human, imprfect. What are we typing in this world? What is our story? What are is our residual? The thing that's left behind when we are no longer here.  In memory. Our residue. Ink on a page. Stories of who we were. That is all that we have.

Sex in a Jar

The call came in at 5pm. I answered the phone, "Are you ovulating?" "Yes!", she said, "we'll be there at 9. Put it in a dry, glass jar." Got it. "We're on honey." And so it begins. The letter came 5 months ago, asking so beautifully if I would have another baby, not with Mary-Kate, but as a donor to a wonderful lesbian couple. Close friends, but not too close. Connected, yet not. Similar communities, but not overlapped. I was honoured, touched, moved. A privilege. Indeed. To be asked to offer something so personal, so powerful, life-giving, and yet, so easy. Easy? Is it really? What do we hold close. Give away. Hold on to. Let go. What is us. Not us. Me. Not me. We pass on our genes. Is that us? A part of us. And why not give it away. To honour. To cherish. To love. To give joy. Passion. Sadness. Grief. Pride. All of it. Why not give it away. And so we did. I say we, as Mary-Kate and I made a decision in that moment. That we would offer this together. We would make this together. This would connect us. We would be a donation team. And what a great reason to have sex! The lesbians have called. We need to do the thing honey. Put the kids to bed. They're here at 9. They arrived at 8. Kids eating snack. And screaming. The phone ringing, a deep, slow voice on the answering machine. A friend in the kitchen talking about baby chicks. The dog barking. The door opens. "Hello!" Ah, the tranquility. "We lost your phone #, so here we are! We'll be at our friends' around the corner, waiting for the call." Got it. Launch the kids to bed routine. Teeth. Last pee. Jumping on bed. Read books. Jumping on bed. Last last pee. Stack of books on bed for each kid. And sleep. And duty calls. So the jar. This dry glass jar. Apparently, any drops of water in the jar confuse the sperm. Water them down. Slow them. And we do not want to slow these sperm. They've got a long journey ahead. "So the jar is supposed to be at body temperature when doing the passover," I say. "You can't put your stuff into a cold jar, and then warm it up. It's got to be AT body temperature," says Mary-Kate. OK, so I tuck the jar under my arm, and we go to it. But I can't really use my left arm. So I'm falling, kind of, squeezing the jar. Keeping it warm. Like those penguins in the movie with their eggs. Falling again. Then the jar squeezes out. We laugh. Jar goes back into the pit. And we get to the moment. The moment where we got to get the stuff into the damn jar. And it's a small jar. So there's all these angles, and pointing things, pushing, and whoah this, whoah that. And bingo, sperm is in the dry jar. Tuck it directly under the armpit, and make the call. "Donation is ready. Go team." So, we gather our clothing, and walk downstairs, and they're at the door. Fast. Yes. Well this part is very important. The armpit passover. We open the door. There's that awkward, funny air in the space. Pause. "Well, here it is." And we pass the jar from armpit to armpit. We say good luck with the turkey basting part! I was joking, but she calls back, "yes, it's actually called the turkey basting!" We close the door. And smile. Mission accomplished. Self passed on. Selves passed on. Life given over. We'll see if those little critters can swim.

Drought

Writer's block. What is this thing. We call it a thing, as if it's there. Something to muscle out of the way. Burst through. Smash, pound, eliminate. But what is it really. I have about 15 blog posts backlogged in my mind right now... "Slings and Savages", "Sex in a jar", "Enlightenment & my sleeping foot"... waiting, waiting, waiting for what? For someone to make me write them. For the brilliant post, that perfect one, the funny one, the one that everybody talks about.  And then the fear envelopes. What if? What if it's not good? What if it's not... insert 1000 different things here. And so they all bounce around in my head, pinballs, oh they're brilliant, I say, ooh, that's a good story, that one, oooh, that one really says something. And yet, they fade, they begin to fade, without sunlight, without water, stuck inside, rattling around, the part that's bursting to get out, is now limp, a plant in drought. Water. Water? And I look at it, and know how beautiful it once was. Water it. Water it? Or just write. Just start. Write what I am experiencing right now. Right now. Write now. Experience. We experience something, and then it changes. It is forever changed. We talk about it. We tell the story. And then it changes it again. And we tell the story again. And it changes. And we call it true. This is what happened. This is what Actually happened. Or is it? What if our experience of something is the closest we can come to the Truth of it. What if we were to stop and be with our partner. Our kids. Our friends. Really stop. Even for 2 minutes. Just stop. And be with them. I can guess that's what we will remember. In the end, when we look back, it is those brief moments of connection, of being part of something bigger, of being open. Letting in.

Lotto six-forty-swine

We have arrived in Flin Flon, Manitoba, by mini-van, an ode to Chevy Chase and his station wagon roadtrips. Flin Flon is at the end of a road that must have been the inspiration for that rocks and trees song, trees and rocks, so many rocks and trees. Luckily we had a GPS unit. The GPS lady helpfully guided us all the way here: "Turn right and follow highway 6 for 723 kilometres." OK, we can put her away and drive, despite our 2 and 4 yr-old throwing various stuffed animals, water bottles, power bars, and bananas randomly at the front windscreen. Last week, our 4-yr old Rowan says, "Dad, where are we going to put the pig?". "Uh, I don't remember the pig part of our trip," I reply. "Mom said we were getting a pig. Are we going to put it in the mini-van?" she says. "I really can't remember anything about a pig Row. You'll have to ask your mother." Rowan waited the rest of the day, pacing and patiently ready to pounce on her prey. "Mommmmmm!!!! Where are we putting the pig?" "What pig?", Mom says. "You said that on our trip to Flin Flon, we win a pig." Pause. "Can you say that again?" "You said that on our way to Flin Flon, we were going to win a pig! I wanna know where it goes." Pause. "Aha, yes, I get it honey. We are going to Winapig, but we aren't going to put it anywhere. It's too big for the mini-van. But it's a pretty great little city. You're gonna love it."

The Suits

Mary-Kate and I walked into a new cafe in downtown Guelph the other week. I noticed two men sitting down for lunch, each in nicely pressed business suits, removing their trench coats, chatting away, as if they had the world in their hands, had it all together. Successful. Our suits say, "we've made it." "We're here." "This is it." And I wondered, as I start my own business, whether I needed to buy one of those fancy pressed suits so I can walk around being successful. Looking like I've made it. There. And talk to other pressed suits to share our success. Is that me? Who am I if not teacher. Who am I as entrepreneur. Creative. Father. An idea factory. Generating me. I am my own factory manufacturing myself. Each day. Every day. I create who I am. Who I can be. Photographer. Writer. Storyteller. Each day is a new slate. A blank canvass. Spiderman who connects. Superman who flies the impossible. I am superhero.

When I mentioned my suit envy to Mary-Kate, she said, "Yeah, I saw those suits, and thought, thank god I don't have to wear those every day."

The resistance

What is that part of us that sabotages? That sees a perfectly crisp sunny day as sadness. That lives in the world of doom, the next catastrophe that looms around the corner, just waiting for it, expecting it, even pulling for it. Causing it. Causing it? Yes, I live into doom in order to be RIGHT. To be right that things will fall apart. That we will not have enough money. That we will not be successful. And when it happens, I will be right. And I can celebrate in my own dungeon with candles and a cake, a rightness celebration, cheering on the proof that. Here it is. See. I am in the darkness of things not working out, see, I am right, it did go that way. And god that feels good to be right. To make someone else wrong. And I will live into doom to avoid being responsible. Dwell in the sadness, the dysfunctional nothing matters place, I can't do it, what's the point anyway, if I do anything, I will be rejected, laughed at, ridiculed for being stupid, not enough, NOT enough, never enough. What is enough? What is it to be enough. To be content, happy, to find joy. I can see that world behind this cloud. This world of fear, of anxiety. Let it be so I can be. Let it be. Sit with the fear. Let the anxiety burn itself out. Do not push it away, or it will hide and bleed up. Let it be. Sit in discomfort. Move towards discomfort. AAAAAHHHHH. Is RIGHT and avoidance worth this? Really? I do not want to let him go, this character, this constipated absent professor. Add moping. Add doomsday. Poor me. It seems so thin when I write it down. So pathetic, as if that's me. Really? Why hold on. A sadness in death, in letting go, a loss of familiarity. Someone I have been, have held close my whole life, what if I were to let him be, let him go. What would turn up? Who would turn up?

Clark Kent

I just got something. Superior me. I am better than you. That part of me that holds on to control by sitting higher. A pedestal above. I know and you don't. AND I will fix you. I know the answers and can solve you. And when I do, I will be known as the fixer, the guy who solved you, the one to see to become un-broken. As a teacher, I used this to manage, to control, to keep the peace, to keep things in place, to maintain order. And yet, what if I give up this holy role, this looking down? Who am i if I am not better, not in control? Out of control. Out of reach, tailspinning, free fall. Or not. Grounded in who I am, who I can be outside of that control. Empowered to ask questions from a different place, a place of knowing and not knowing, a place of wonder and possibility, a space for creativity, for creating and exploring without judgement and assessment. As of course, you are not broken. There is no fixing. You are not a leaking tap to be maintained. I am not a handyman for your soul. I get it. And I am sad. Sad as if a friend is leaving. That part of me wilting, disappearing, losing its hold, its power. Sad in change, in my relationship to change, to loss, of who I thought I was, who was me. Who am I now?

Banjo Dave

Carrying baby River in a sling, I walked past a guy downtown today playing his banjo. Noticed him. Sunglasses. Unshaven. Ignored him. Avoided him. Was slightly scared of him. And then I remembered fifty conversations. Here is a conversation. An opening. Walked over to him. He started talking and I listened. He talked for 30 minutes. "I died last month," he said. OK. I definitely had a conversation here. He died for four minutes. His second heart attack. He had been working for a delivery company 60 hour weeks, and filling in the rest of his time doing his own reno business. "I never saw my kids. Didn't have the time." And now, he's recovering at home and sees his kids all the time. Sees them growing up. He's with them. And they don't know him. They avoid him. Don't want to spend time. They play video games and watch TV. Dad is annoying. "Why are you around so much now, Dad?" He missed them growing up, is missing them now. And yet he is alive. He is really alive, appreciative of living, of time. He plays his banjo downtown, makes a little busking change. Is happy. Part of his heart is dead. Waiting for an operation, to be fixed, made whole, a broken heart to be mended. His dream is to buy a farm, bring his kids out there, and grow up with them with the straw bales of his own childhood. Doing stuff outside. Sitting by the fire. Talking with each other. Being together.

Why 50?

Why fifty conversations? When I mentioned I was going through a major life transition, it was suggested by a teacher of mine to commit to having a # of conversations in a limited amount of time. It gets you out of your head and into dialogue. So I picked 50 in two weeks. It was crazy, fantastic, exhausting, exhilarating, painful, uncomfortable, inspiring. Because I had to cram in the conversations, I found myself chatting with the guy I bought my second-hand washer, the farmer we buy our raw food for our dog. Suddenly I was open to the possibility of what someone could offer, anyone, everyone. And it gathered it's own momentum, so that conversations just kept flowing, happening, in all kinds of places, some super short, some lengthy. All about what I'm going to do with my life. I've been teaching high school for 14 years now, and the decision was, do I go back? Or do I create a life here in Guelph, allow something to emerge out of this life, avoid the commute, start our own business? Write children's books? Something to do with backyard chickens? Selling stuff? Teaching? Providing experiences, what experiences. Who am I as not-teacher. Entrepreneur. Attached to what. To whom. Separate self from work. Integrate work and family. How to balance? Aha, the next 50 conversations is this question. I commit to having 50 conversations by the end of March on how to balance life and income. Cool.

Alive

I'm on the edge of a cliff. I've jumped already, in the air, flying, floating, into what? What is down there? Over there. That unknown place we jump to when we leave something. I've left my job to start a business. To create. I feel alive, excited, scared out of my mind, alive, wired, energized. There's an edge without the security, the pension, the consistent salary. The potential for failure, for success. I have 3 kids under 5, reasons to keep a secure job, but really they're the reasons to leave, the other side of the coin. I want to start something, grow something out of here, out of our home, out of our community that is integrated with my life, connected with my kids, my wife, my friends. There is a draining of energy that flows from a commute, pours out. The soul cannot catch up to the commute. Left behind, it runs at first, then walks, then sits, waiting, then slowly dies. Is dead. Dull. Dampened. Muted. Poured out. I am alive. Filled with fear and possibility. Two worlds overlapping, separating, colliding, disappearing, re-appearing.  A deer in the woods, alert to stay alive. To survive. Thrive.