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?