ca·pac·i·ty

When we make a resolution, how do we choose how much? Do more yoga. But how often? Eat more healthy. But eat what, when? Drink less coffee. How much less? Drink more coffee. Every day? Twice a day? Once a week? We choose based on a line. A line we have drawn. On one side we've put bad. The other side good. And if we do this thing more, or do this other thing less, we'll move to the good side.

But really it's about how we feel. How we interact. How we navigate our day. Is it enjoyable, rich, fun, challenging, scary, stimulating, calming? Are we happy? Are we healthy? Are we following our path? Or someone else's path. Are we getting what we need? And if we're not, what changes? Can we really add something else? Isn't the problem having too many things in the jar already. It's stuffed full of rocks. And if I add something else, it'll have to be pebbles to fit into the cracks, and then sand to fill the spaces. And then I'll be really full. And things will start to pile on top. Balancing the new things, the gym, the green drink, more sex, and the jar will crack. Split. And things will fall apart. The rocks will avalanche. And all those fancy resolutions making life better will blow away.

But what if it's not about piling stuff on top. What if it's not about the rocks at all. What if it's about the container. Instead of jamming more stuff in, what if we made the container larger? And flexible. Resilient. A larger resilient container that has more capacity. Space to interact with grace and skill. To be present with the people around us. To make a difference. To live a big life. So that we navigate our day with patience, compassion, even raw anger, joy, feeling the rush of being alive. Of moving, taking life in. And softening those anchors, holding them as polished stones in our pocket, to guide us.

ca·pac·i·ty

noun

1. 1.

   the maximum amount that something can contain.
2. 2.

   the ability or power to do, experience, or understand something.

   
   

Under the Outhouse

Commitment. Intention. Resolution. Decision. To do something. Action. To take action. For me, the only way I DO anything is to tell someone else. To commit to them. To make a promise. It's not about them. It's about something I want to do. To be active. Go outside every day. Eat better. Write. To live my life in a way that feeds me. Nourishes me. And it's not about them. It's about me. And for me. But I need them. I need accountability. Someone outside my own head. I need to put it Out. Into the world. Into time and space.

But why do we falter? In our resolutions. Why are we not resolved? Feel resolved. Complete. We do have good intentions. To change something. Be better. Live better. Feel better. See more people. Connect. See less people. Be alone. Meditate. Breathe. And yet, inevitably, we slip. Back into old patterns. Back into the rut. Our familiar rut. Even if it's full of muck, a festering trench. Below the outhouse. Because it's comfortable. We know it. It's our Outhouse. And it's warm. We know the stench. And it reminds us who we think we are. Proves it. Despite it killing us. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes quickly.

We need other people. We think we can figure it out on our own. Mull it over. Churn the butter of our own mental shit. We grew up learning this way. Stay at your desk. Figure it out yourself. Don't talk to other classmates. Buck up. Don't be so lazy. So stupid.

And yet, what if we did? What if we did tell someone else what we wanted in life? What if we did ask? Our classmates. Our friends. Our neighbours. Our co-workers. Maybe. Just maybe something might happen that we couldn't see from our rut. What if we poked our head out through the hole? Climbed up. Opened the door. And had a conversation. Told someone else what's important to us.

And so I am now committing. To write. To write a blog post three times a week for ten weeks. By noon Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Whoa. It's out there now. And if I slip back in. I will climb back out. Smell the flowers. And tell you.

Before Breakfast

Rowan: What I believe is God is us.

Rowan: What I believe is God is everything.

Rowan: What I believe is God is the Earth.

Rowan: What I believe is God brings us the things.

Rowan: She gives us our food, our water, nature.

Rowan: God is all around us.

Rowan: We are God.

Me: Ok.

Me: Um.

Me: Anything else?

Rowan: No.

Me: Where did that come from?

Rowan: I believed it my whole life.

We are all Rob Ford

What is it that both fascinates and disgusts? Like watching the cars in a train wreck piling on top of each other and smashing everything around the disaster, we still watch. We revel in it really. We don't say we love watching disasters. But we do. Because we're not in them. We are not them. We are not the people in the tragic news story. We are safe. No matter what complaints we have, they pale in comparison to that catastrophe on TV. Those poor people. How awful. And thank God. We are dry, in tact, alive. We are separate.

And yet are we? Are we really any different?

Catching the next Rob Ford story. It's fascinating, exciting, embarrassing, unpredictable. Like a child. The temper tantrums are wild, inappropriate, dangerous. Like protecting someone from their own seizures. There are no adult filters. There is raw child playing the games that children play. On a bigger stage. A world stage. To survive. To get attention. To be loved. These are the ways we learned to navigate in our world. To get by. To stay alive.

When a 3 year-old lies on the floor, flails his arms, kicks his legs madly, screams and cries, we get it is appropriate to the age. It's what kids do. And yet, the games of a 3 year-old on an adult man in city hall look weird. But it's not even that they're on an adult. It's that he's a public figure. He's our public figure. He represents us. He is us. And we see us in him, and hate him for it. For so glaringly uncovering the brutal ugliness of being human. Of revealing our humanity in the drooling, stuttering, clumsiness of a lying fool. Turning our own ugliness out to the world. We don't like it because we don't look good. It's not nice. It's un-Canadian.

Zero to Six

What if we are mostly formed by the age of 6? Molten lava flows down the mountain for 6 years, and then hardens. Into who we are. And then we spend the rest of our lives doing things to compensate, to adapt, to recover from the flow. And yet it's not the stuff that happened to us. It's the meaning we make, the story we tell. As humans, this is our gift and our curse. Our brilliance and how we survive. We make meaning. Instantly. We experience something, and presto, the machine takes over. My parents fighting = I've done something wrong. It's my fault.

And if we are formed in these first 6 years, how might we raise our children in this flow of lava. How might we support their growth, water them, nurture them, hold them. Spend time with them. Or are they just babies to be diapered and spanked? And we should save our time with them until the teenage years, when they really need it. That's when they really need our attention, our love. But is this too late?

The thing about a seed that grows is that it needs care early on. It needs the right soil, the right amount of water, sunlight, love. And then it does it's thing. Reaches up towards the light. Only an acorn becomes an oak tree. In the right environment. With the right conditions.

What is it to water a baby? To hold our children. To set expectations. To draw boundaries. Define limits. Inspire joy. To spend time with them. They change so fast. Learn to walk and it's gone. Learn to speak and it's gone. And we miss it.

Non-Negotiables

I've realized recently that I have some non-negotiables. Ways of living, relating. Principles. Things I'm not willing to negotiate in my life. No matter what. Base lines. I've only recently become aware of them, fundamental ways I want to live my life, that were not within my view previously. Not in the frame. In the blind spot. #1 Non-negotiable is "being available" to my kids. Available in all ways of the word --  present, open, playing at their level, spending time together at different times in the day, not only when they're going crazy before bed. And being available to my wife. Emotionally there. Sexually there. Feeling desire. Being horny. This is not negotiable. I will not live my life in a way that I lose this, take a job that sucks this out, bleeds me dry, shuts me out. No financial security is worth losing this one thing. No consistent pay cheque. No pension. All decisions take into account the non-negotiables. Big & small. And anything that crosses the line has an easy answer. No.

Giant TV

Rowan: Poppa, I dreamed last night.

Me: Yes.

Rowan: I dreamed that a giant is watching us.

Me: OK.

Rowan: Like we're the TV, and the giant is watching.

Me: Where is the giant watching from?

Rowan: From another planet.

Me: OK.

Rowan: Like, he's sitting on the other planet, and he's watching what we do, like we're on TV.

Me: Wow. That's quite a dream.

Rowan: I dreamed it when Khona and I watched Diego on the iPad.

Me: OK?

Rowan: Like when we watched, we were like the giant.

Me: Oh.

Rowan: Like we were watching from another planet.

Me: Got it.

The Green Room

We live as if it's all going to be around forever. As if we are forever. We buy furniture we never sit on. Perfect clothes in the closet, never worn. We even bury ourselves injected with preservatives, covered in glistening wood. That will not decompose. Will not end. Not for a thousand years. So we can extend the masquerade. Keep pretending we can hold on. As if we can stop time. Freeze ourselves. To be remembered.

We're like actors in the green room waiting to go on stage. And never going. Because we forgot. We forgot there even is a stage out that door. The green room has become our stage. Just waiting comfortably. Near the costumes. But stuck in the character we were given. Thinking this is who I am. And this is my little room to keep my perfect life in order. Where mistakes are erased and failure is avoided.

Occasionally, we hear the ruckus out there, and the laughter from the crowd. But can't translate it. Because it doesn't exist. That's not for me. That's for other people. Out there.

And yet just maybe, we can find that door, and step out into our own life. Under the lights where the imperfections shine. And there is laughter. There is a lightness in the air. A sense of wonder. Of life as a child's drawing. Free and unpredictable.

The Temporary Kitchen

We have a temporary kitchen. Built with found materials. That have an expiry date. We knew it wouldn't last more than a couple of years. The counter tops made with Re-Store particle board. The walls primed white. The cupboards ripped from our old kitchen. The great thing is that things don't matter. We're not attached. We can try things with it. Experiment. It's temporary. It's the time before. Before we get our real kitchen.

Last Halloween, I saw the brilliance of the angled pumpkin top. I always wanted a compost bucket underneath our kitchen counter, so the food could just be swept in. Why not? It's a temporary kitchen. So out came the jigsaw, and there I carved a pumpkin top right out of the middle of our island counter. Slid the bucket under, and presto, my compost dream came true. Temporary. A beginning and an end. A place to try things out. Experiment.

I was standing in the kitchen the other day when I remembered.

It's all temporary.
We are temporary.
And it is real.

What if we lived that way? As if our lives were an experiment. To try things out. To get out the tools and cut through. Move things around. Change things. Change them back. Take ourselves less seriously. To bring some lightness to the significance of the permanent life. To get that we all have an expiry date. That we are all to be returned to the soil. And life is about mixing the baking soda and vinegar. Just to see what happens.

No Man's Land

Modern men rest in a No Man's Land between Killer and Doormat.

The little girl in our mind is scared of ALL other men. And of our Selves as man. So we do strange things. We hang out mainly with women (other "girls"), who we feel safe with. And we constantly look for approval. From women as mothers. And from men as forefathers. We avoid male friendships. And when we do hang out with men, it is with hesitation and skittish wondering. A deer amidst the Lions. We are constantly wondering if we will be eaten.

And this disconnection comes at a very significant cost. We don't ever actually connect with other men or our selves. Our source. The thread that ties us to our ancient roots is shredded. We thrash and fight with our wives, and our kids. We fall into Great Depression in this chasm. We need desperately to repair the thread. To weave it back together with other men.

We need to marry off our little girls. Let them go. And find ourselves again. Deeply rooted in honour and power. We need to get together with other men in rituals that connect us with who we are. That ground us. And in this weaving, the women and men in our lives will find themselves. It is in grounding with the Earth that this power can be re-stored. Without apology.

The Men's Room

Little girls learn at a very young age that men are not to be trusted. Don't talk to strangers. Especially men. Be very careful. Avoid them. Above all, do not Trust them. They are perpetrators. And then when  little girls come of age, they are expected to leave their home and marry a man. Now that you've spent your entire life learning to fear men, now go out and find one to spend the rest of your life with.

That's got to mess girls up. Don't. Don't. Don't. And then Do. I do.

And it's got to mess men up as well. We learn we are not to be trusted. We learn we are Rapists. Killers. To be feared. Avoided. And so we do one of two things. We step into that role as Dominator. And inhabit it in all its terror. Turning our homes into battle fields. Fighting ruthlessly with our wives. OR we become Not Killer. We become little girls.

We do everything we possibly can to avoid the killer label. We walk on eggshells around anything to do with Men. We become super nice, accommodating, pleasing, apologizing. We say Sorry for everything. For inhabiting this man body. We live in constant apology. Sorry for this Penis and for all the Penises before me.

Tapping the Axe

We define who we are by the things outside us. We attach our sense of self to these things. And we form our whole personality around this perception of self. Our mind is so brilliant and clever and cunning. And it is Self-interested. It is interested in surviving itself as Mind. So much that it collapses "us" into it. So that we think we Are our thoughts. We see the world as if we Are our Mind. And it feeds off of this collapse.

"Sin" from the original Greek, actually means "missing the mark", like a Marksman missing his target.

We can only guess that the Thing Jesus got has something to do with this distinction. That we are Not our mind. That the possibility of who we Are and who we can become is so profoundly more vast and interconnected then the ridiculously small and insignificant keyhole that the Mind views the world through. We have missed the Mark.

And then our job becomes tapping the axe that cuts the kindling of this split. And it is a Practice. Chopping. Feet apart. Bent legs. How we hold the axe. One hand firm on the base. The other sliding down as the axe descends. Using our whole body. Splitting the wood. Aware of the persona that is our Mind who we think is Us. And that there is something else. A space in which we find ourselves, everyone and everything else. A space in which we create who we are. From Nothing. That is Freedom. That is waking up. Being Alive. And that thing, that gap, the awareness of that wedge, and the possibility within it, will change the world.

Broken Telephone

I just got Jesus.

Standing in the shower, the spray of the water washing over me.

And in that moment, I got all of spirit. All of spirituality. A space opened up, and I could see it. Like an atom bomb. Mushroom cloud. Exploding out and in. Connecting.

With Buddha. Muhammad. Krishna. All of it. And all of them. And us.

My whole life, I have seen Jesus, either with disdain and doubt, or with wonder and curiosity. I've gradually shifted from seeing Jesus as foreign alien, to a "cool guy" with a following, like a Universal Entourage. What is it about this man that has galvanized so many people in so many different directions for so long? Whose message was so confronting that he was killed, deleted, removed. And was so powerful that almost the entire planet defines Time by his birth. Every time we say the year, it is in reference to him. That's got some mojo. And he must have really pissed some people off. What was so confronting? What was so threatening? It must have had some weight to it. Some significance. Some Truth about us as humans.

But what was it? What was the essence of his discovery? All we have now is the interpretations, the many views of this thing he opened up. This thing. What is it? And how do we re-discover it given all we have are signposts, shadows, remnants? Filtered first through the humans around him, who shared his message. Wrote it down. Told stories. "Hey, there's this thing!" This cool guy discovered this thing. THE thing about us as humans and our connection with the Universe. Shout it out. You gotta tell people. It will liberate you. Free you. And yet Jesus' thing has suffered the fate of all messages following the path of human whispering. He has been lost in a kind of cosmic broken telephone. You know how distorted one message gets when passed through 10 kids in a kindergarten classroom. Imagine billions of people over 2000 years. It's distorted. We can guarantee that.

Wireless Wires

Rowan: Dad, how does your phone know where we're going?

Me: Great question! I don't really know.

Rowan: Like how does it know? Really know?

Me: Yes. I think it has to do with satellites.

Rowan: What's that?

Me: No, it's like energy waves from these towers.

Rowan: How about this... what if it's like these wires that come from the place that we're going, and they come all the way over (moves arms in an arcing motion), and then they go right into your phone.

Me: OK.

Rowan: And then the phone just follows the wires.

Me: Yes, I think that's it.

Rowan: And then we get there!

Me: Yes, indeed.

The Crash Position

There is a moment when a plane lands on the tarmac. The wheels touch down. And there is a collective breath out. Sometimes even a full round of applause. Like we have survived. To live another day. To continue. And in this moment, there is a letting go, a release, like we made it. The woman beside me loosens her grip on the pillow she has held tight the entire flight. And relaxes. As if holding on is a way to get control. And letting go is a way to go back to sleep. There are only two options. Hold on for dear life or put my head on the pillow and wait.

Living in the crash position.

Just in case something happens. Really? Do we really think the crash position is going to save us? If the plane starts to shake, to fly through turbulence, holding tighter is going to help get us through it? Like the tighter we hold, the more we can reach through the bowels of the plane to that steering wheel, and get it under control, calm the turbulence, change the wind patterns. And if the plane does go down, holding on, and putting our heads between our legs is going to help us survive? Really?

We're just going to miss the ride.

What if we were to release the grip? Uncurl our fingers from the iron-clad lock on the things around us. The things we cannot control. Ever. What if we were to embrace the journey? Breathe. And look out the window. And take it all in. The shadowed clouds stacked like mountains. The patchwork of farmer's fields stitched together by a collective of quilting elders. What if we were to remove the pillow and wake up? What might happen?

We can only let go to find out.

Living with Gretzky

You are co-teaching, co-working, sharing, paddling, gardening, living, married, interacting in some way with someone else who is brilliant. Brilliant at this one thing in particular. They are the Gretzky of permaculture. The Ken Robinson of teaching. The Alex Baisley of life coaching. There is a moment when we realize this. When we get that we are working with brilliance. That this person is shining. Truly radiating out the gift they have to give to the world. And there is a moment when we decide. We decide what to do with that shine. We can go two ways. Support the light. Or kill it. Support them to open up more light. Or get out the black curtains. And shut it out. For if they are brilliant, what does that say about me? I am not. I cannot do what they can do. So I am not enough. I am not brilliant. I am stupid. They were right in school. I am pretending. And people will notice. They will see through my ruse. This person is a threat, in fact. Unless I take their brilliance down a notch. Take their shine off a little. Or a lot. As if there is a limited resource of light in the world. A limit to brilliance. Not quite enough to go around. And if that person has it, then there's got to be less for me. So we slow our partners down. We keep our kids in check. So they don't run past us. We put an arm out. We trip them. They stumble, and we're there to support them get back up. And we look good. We look great. Until they catch up again. And each time, we have a choice. To blow oxygen on that flame. Or snuff it out. And if we add sticks to their fire, we may indeed discover that love is not a limited resource. That brilliance breeds more light. If we let it.

Forest Mentors

Rowan: Dad, animals don't go to school in real life. Do they?

Me: Real life?

Rowan: Like, in the forest. They don't go to school, do they?

Me: No.

Rowan: (pause)

Me: How do you think they learn?

Rowan: From their Moms and Dads?

Me: How else?

Rowan: I don't know.

Me: How else would they learn how to do things?

Rowan: From their sisters and brothers.

Me: And who else would they learn from?

Rowan: Their friends. Maybe they learn from the older animals.

Me: What would they learn, do you think?

Rowan: I don't know.

Me: Want to go to the forest and see if we can find out?

Rowan: Yeah! (pause) Now? (pause) What about school?

Secrets

A wife and husband share a razor. A declaration of war for some. Kids using me as a climbing gym while I'm taking my morning dump. We each have our own personal bubble. Our Do Not Cross Line. Crime Scene being investigated. Don't touch me while I'm sleeping. A king size bed for one. Or spoon while I'm sleeping. I can't sleep without someone. Lines. Personal boundaries. A blue shield. A filter. Porous. Or solid. A brick wall. Cement. Bullet proof. Or a membrane. Goretex. That breathes. Keeps the water out, but allows us to breathe. Letting people in. Or blocking them out. Letting some in. And others we keep on the outside. To stay safe. Protected. From what? From being hurt. Again. I refuse to feel that again. That pain. I will not go there. And so we block. Keep Out. Do not Enter. We filter. We let a few in through the pores. To get to know the real us. Who we really are. Our sadness. Deep sorrow. Fear. Our fear of everything. Failure. Doing it wrong. I can share that with you. But not you. And what do we keep entirely to ourselves? That part of us we don't reveal to anyone. Not even our partners. Not even the person we will spend the rest of our lives with. For fear they will leave. Judge us as not who they married. Who is this person? We fear. And so we keep secrets. So many secrets. Only we know who we really are. Only I know the real me. The dark me. We keep them close. These secrets. Hug them. Caress them. Feed them. Because we need them. We need them to hold us in place. They prove to us who we think we are. The stuck version. This is just who I am. And what if we were to release them? To make a release-the-secrets date. Valentine's Day maybe. Here are my darkest secrets. I need to tell you. And see what happens. If they truly love you. Unconditionally. There are no conditions. They will love every bit. Every dark corner. And there will be more depth. More of you out there to see. More humanity. More flaws. More power. To love. And you may be surprised. A lightness can come. A release.

Billion Bacteria

Resilience. Elasticity. Flexibility. Ability to cope. To feel grounded. Cultivating rich, healthy soil with billions of living organisms. Billions. How do we create the soil for our own life? Building over time with dark compost that crumbles in our hands. Nurturing friendships. Feeding nutrients. Weaving connections in community. So that there is somewhere to plant seeds that allows them to grow. And waiting. Patiently waiting. Tending. Supporting. Watering. Creating space in time for new ideas, for something to emerge. Something coming out of nothing. Creating art, writing an email, making a film, building a project, planning a presentation, anything that requires generating, must first come out of nothing. And we so often try to navigate through our life planting seeds in cement. In dry soil. In drought. Wondering why nothing grows. Why we keep hitting against a surface. New possibilities grow in soil. In dark, rich, soil that is alive and thriving. And we must hold that space open, despite the anxiety and fear that wants to rush in. We hold the space, trusting, standing grounded, having faith that something will emerge. And it is in that space where we find ourselves, our own vulnerability, and our own strength.

Bounce

Scape Goat

The power of story to get out who we are. To release. Letting out. Allowing energy to flow. Out there. Into the world. Being vulnerable. Out of our control. Public. Not holding on to this character we play. Allowing the character to play on stage. Pulling back the curtains. Stepping out of the green room. And the fear that rushes in. What will people think of me? Of this character standing there. Naked. Will they judge? Evaluate. Make comments. Throw things. And what do we do with those tomatoes? Catch them. Gently. Like a juggler bringing in a new object. Mixing it into his routine. We can cushion those flying vegetables and weave them in with the kitchen knives and bowling pins. And listen. Listen to the thrower, as it is not me they are judging. Listen to their own story, their own complaints, and really get it. Really hear them. So their story is heard in the world. Out there. And they are invited up onto the stage. To be naked. Standing there. Juggling their own collection of apples and flaming sticks. Open to what happens when we put ourselves out there. And holding that space. Standing grounded. Firm. And allowing people to be drawn in. To connect. To feel their own weakness. To remember the time they were cut from a team, lost their first love, left the job that was everything to them. And then, there is an opening. A space to connect. To feel. To be in each others' shoes. To not be alone.

CFRU 93.3 Pioneer Radio Mark Conrad
Interview with Mike Craig Monday Feb. 4th, 2013

Partner

What is the job of our partner? Our wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend. Partner. What is their role? To love? Support. Explore. Nurture. And to Challenge. To keep us accountable. Not to some moral standard. Not to blame. But to keep us accountable to our own goals. Our own life path. To poke and prod that part of ourselves that sabotages, and blocks. Partner. We are part of a team. On the same team. In the same boat. And that means we support each other in all the ways we can. Part of supporting is to nudge us in a particular direction. To call us on our stuff. To re-spark. Help us re-light our own fire. Partner. Together. Moving in a shared direction. Alligned. And in that sparking, we keep our own fire lit.

Mast & Flag

What is it about a job that gives us that feeling of security? Money. Survival. Self-worth. Sense of self tied to approval. I am dependent on looking good. On being ok. Stamp of approval. Because I have been hired. By someone else. This is the distinction. I can create my own work. My own projects that make income. But when it's all dependent on looking good, what other people think, getting approval, then it waivers, like a flag in the wind. Why do we do the work? Why do we write? For comments? For likes. For someone to say, "You're awesome." I approve of you. You have made it. You are competent. But what if it isn't liked. What if someone disapproves. Dislikes. Is it not the same thing? And if all our work is dependent on what other people think, we are forever at the whims of circumstance, of people's opinions. Waiting for yes or no. What if we created our work, art, writing, presentations, interactions, projects, as an expression of us, as a vehicle for our own brilliance to flow out? And then acknowledged both the compliments and criticisms as the effect of that art. As expressions in their own right, of other artists, everyone standing in who they are, grounded, rooted, being the mast, not the flag.

Failure to Thrive

Failure to Thrive. Stamped on River's medical form. Failure to Grow really. Stuck. On Pause. Active. Happy. Thriving really. In every other way. Except up and out. The same height and size as one year ago. Stopped in time. We take biology for granted. Our hair grows. Our food is digested. Our liver filters. And when something doesn't do it's function, it's role, what do we do? How do we respond? Out of our control. Beyond what we know. We get up in the morning, and our heart is still beating. Our lungs still exchanging air. Really, we should thank our organs every morning for keeping it going, doing their thing. Thank you heart for pumping my blood around, feeding my cells, allowing this body to carry this mind around, allowing me to be. To exist. And yet, what if biology fails, if the pituitary doesn't produce growth hormone. Not pulling its weight. Pituitary slacker. One little part, not doing it's thing, and the rest doesn't grow. All the other parts can't change, can't become what they are. The block to everything else changing, growing, thriving, the block to being. And I think of that part of ourselves that blocks. Our own Failure to Thrive. At this age. At this stage of life. The part that slacks, keeps us stuck. On pause. Not growing into who we can become. Following our dreams. Our passions. What we truly love. And what is the answer? The solution? The prescription that will fix it, cure it, solve it. Tidy it up. Neatly. And what if there isn't one? What if Not Knowing is an opportunity. An opening to meet new people, be vulnerable, ask for help, a gift really. A chance to learn, to overcome, to create a miracle.

Reach Throw

Reach.
Throw.
Row.
Go.
Tow.

The order of rescue from childhood swimming lessons. Reach. Are we the ones in the water? Or on shore? Are we the victim or rescuer? Or are we both? And can we choose? Can we step out of victim, and be grounded in who we are? Throw. Be the one who supports, who offers help, who tosses ropes to connect, to nurture relationships, to build community. Row. Without diving in. Without putting ourselves in danger of the thrashing drowning victim. Go. And when the victim is us, keeping out of our own thrashing, so we aren't pulled down. Used as a ladder for part of ourselves to stay above water, that part that keeps us under, not breathing, stuck, stopped, tangled in flailing arms, and panic. Tow. Can we stay anchored in our own boat, in our own power to make change, to create, to generate how we want to live. How we want to be alive. 

Life Line

There is that moment before a deadline when time seems to open up, the river starts flowing, creativity explodes under the gun. It has to be done, so it just happens. We create, we make it happen. But why not before that moment? What is it about that moment that lights our fire? Where we suddenly become efficient. And productive. That nothing can stop us. We are a force. A powerful creative force.

It is the deadline that forces this. And if there isn't a newspaper that needs to be printed, we can make up this moment. This arbitrary time in which all things will fall apart if the project is not completed. But the deadline only works if we place it in the world outside our own heads. If we commit to someone else. Making a promise to do something by a certain time on a particular day, and telling someone.

Otherwise, our little wiley monkey mind as a way of widdling its way out of it. Coming up with excuses. Reasons. Ways around it. Justifying why it can't be done. But if we have that other person, that group of people outside our own head, we have a tether to accountability. A rope to the world outside ourselves. A kind of life buoy.