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.