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.
Tuesday 17 July 2012
Sunday 15 July 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday 3 July 2012
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.
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