Saving Lois Lane

One of my favourite things to do these days is read children's books to my kids. I love every part of it. Stopping the day. Like Superman flying around the world to spin back time to save Lois Lane. Pausing the clock. Like taking a breath. Each kid runs over to the couch, each pushing their chosen book into my gut. "Mine first." "No, mine first." Two kids nestled under each arm. And where does the third one fit? Sliding in beside, under, or over. One shifts onto my lap. Each finds their place. Their niche. And the book opens. "You hold it Daddy." And the story begins. And we're all there for the ritual. There is a rhythm to my voice. A cadence that lands. A father's chance to breast feed. To stop and nurture. "Another book please Poppa. One more. Please."

And it is the most beautiful moment. That I often miss. Because I have not landed yet. I am still in my head. Still running through the things from my day. Reviewing the list. What I did. What I didn't do. What I did wrong. What I missed. What I still need to do. I have the most amazing ability to read an entire children's story, and have no idea what it's about. Like I've mouthed the words, turned the pages, even emphasized some words. Because I'm not really there. I've stopped. But haven't landed the plane. Like it's still gliding down from the day. About to land, and reading children's books is part of that descent. Lifting the wings. Dropping the wheels.

I remember reading a particularly long story a few months ago. And half-way through the story, I realized, these kids can't read! Maybe I'll just skip a few lines here. Maybe just read this side of the page, skip that side. And the kids looked almost asleep. So it's just the sound of my voice anyway. And I'm a few pages along, when Rowan raises an arm and speaks as if she's sleep-talking, "What about the girl with the red balloon Dad? You missed that part." And I realize, that I can't cheat them. I can't cut corners. Because they know. They know the stories intimately. Inside and out.

And I wonder what it would be like to land first. To be there for those magical moments. To treasure each word, each page of the story. To read the dialogue like I'm rehearsing for an acting role. To be inside the story like they are, like the kids are, because they are. They are present. They are immersed. Totally in the world. And what if I were to actually join them?

10,000 hours

The practice over time of something over and over again. Discipline. Consistency. 10,000 hours to master something. Ten thousand? To become an expert. Brain surgeon or Entrepreneur? To specialize or generalize?

Do we get to know something really, really well? Do we dig a really deep well, and become an expert in that area, so knowledgeable that people all over the world seek us out to learn from us? We are brilliant in our field. Rocket scientists. Ansel Adams, Wayne Gretzky, Dalai Lama. And we know our thing inside and out, upside down and sideways. We know and do it so well, that we are looked up to, revered, asked how to do our thing, and how to do other things, how to live.

Or do we dig a thousand shallow wells, knowing many things just a little bit. Becoming pretty good at almost everything. Not great, but good enough. A man of many talents. Give it to Mikey, he'll do anything. In my leap from the cliff of permanent teaching with a salary and pension, with security, I have jumped into these decisions. Do I pick something specific, or choose a bunch of things I like? And which ones are fun? Which projects are fulfilling? Enjoyable. Which ones make money? And how to juggle? How to navigate smoothly? How to integrate? What's important?

How do we choose? How do we make decisions? The key thing seems to be to just decide. Make a choice. Use a shotgun approach. Throw spaghetti at the wall. See what sticks. What falls away. Choose something you care about, and commit to doing it. Get a sense of where you're going. And then choose. Over and over. And if it isn't working. Change it. Create a discipline in something important to you. By a certain time. By a certain day. Every day. Every week. For 10,000 hours. And let's see what happens. 

My discipline right now is laundry. I want all my clothes cleaned and ironed at the beginning of the week, so I'm ready to get out there. My costumes are pressed and hung. And each day, I can step into them and start stuff. 

dis·ci·pline 

activity, exercise, or a regimen that develops or improves a skill; training: A daily stint at the typewriter is excellent discipline for a writer.

Golf Balls & Baby Gates

When I was seven, I remember rolling a golf ball through the gaps in the baby gate at the top of our stairs. There was a criss-cross pattern of wood on the gate, an accordion style, moved in and out. And the golf ball just fit through the gaps. So I would throw it through, and scramble down to retrieve it, and pull myself back up to throw again. The carpet was so soft, deep, not too shaggy, enough to get a good roll. I even got some lift off the top step. And then I threw a really good one, and it went right through the stained glass window. An old house in Toronto, we had those small beveled glass window panes, nine in a frame, and the golf ball went right through one of them - made a good smashing sound.

And I stopped. And felt rather horrified. Now I had a choice. I could tell my mother. Or not. I could retrieve the golf ball, and hide it somewhere, and go do something else. And pretend I had no idea. Lie. Or fess up. I so remember this as a turning point. This moment at the top of a hill. Which side to go down. To tell it how it is, and face the consequences. Or run and hide, and avoid everything.

My Mom came up the stairs, and there it was. My time to decide. "Um, uh. Mom, I broke the window." I remember her response so distinctly. And it changed everything. In that one moment. She said, "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" And then she said, "Don't worry about it honey, it's just a window. The most important thing is that you told me."

And I trusted her implicitly from then on. I knew she had my back. I could tell her anything, and she would take it in, and hold it. And not use it against me. What mattered was my honesty. My open-ness. She started from "I believe you. I trust your decisions." And that made all the difference in the world.


(Writer's note: I missed my 3rd post last week, so am back on track to my commitment of writing three times a week. Yay.)

Calling All Men

Men need other men. We need to get together, share, talk, confide, connect. We need rituals to pass milestones in our lives. We need a tribe of men around us. To be men. Not to apologize for who we are. But to celebrate. To honour ourselves as men. To vent our problems. To share our pain. To acknowledge our achievements. To hold each other accountable.

We need best friends.

When I was in grade 6, I remember being asked to hang out by a friend from school. Calling me. "Hey, want to come over?" I would come up with various tactics to avoid going, delaying, distracting, "Um, sure, well, I have this thing. Ok, well, I'll call you back in a bit. Actually, no, I'm doing something else." And I never went. Ever.

This happened for twenty years.

Right through high school. All the way through University. And the calls started to slow down. And then stop completely. Because I never went. And I was afraid. I was afraid of other men. And I would surround myself with women. Women were safe. I would hang out with women. They were on-side. But other men were a threat. Competition. Not to be trusted. I learned that early on. Passed on through the generations.

So let's break the inheritance.

Men, get out there and ask another man to get together. Have a beer. Go for a walk. Go bowling? Play hockey. Watch hockey. Fix something. Hunt something. Take pictures of stars. Build something. Play poker. Do something. Together. With another man. Reach out. And wives. Partners. Let them go. Encourage them to go. Support the going. It will be worth it. Many times over.

Dinosaurs & Jelly Fishes

Luca: Do you know that some fish live forever?

Sikhona: Flying fish do that.

Luca: Some jelly fishes live forever.

Sikhona: The flying ones do.

Luca: My mother told me.

Me: Ok.

Luca: Does everything live on the Earth?

Me: Yes. Except for the things that don't.

Luca: Like astronauts?

Me: Yes.

Sikhona: Dinosaurs don't live on the Earth.

Me: Why?

Sikhona: Some big ice cubes hit them on the head.

Luca: No. People killed them to eat.

Sikhona: All of the things in the whole wide world that are bad ate them.

Luca: And crocodiles. And the ice age.

Sikhona: And the ice cubes.

Luca: Maybe the trees fell over on top of the dinosaurs.

Sikhona: Or the buildings fell down and they were underneath the buildings.

Luca: What if they turned into a house? That could be why they died.

Sikhona: Or lions ate them.

Luca: What if telephone wires zapped them?

Sikhona: Or people could have hit them with their snow shovels.

Luca: Or what if they got painted, and ate the paint. And died.

Sikhona: Orrrrrr, every, every, every, everything in the whole wide world ate them.

Me: Like what?

Sikhona: Like spikes.

Luca: Spikes don't eat. They poke stuff.

Sikhona: Yeah, they poke the dinosaurs.

Scrumpled Socks

River's new thing this week is scrumpled socks. If his socks slide down even a millimetre, he yells out a siren, like a fire alarm when the battery is dead. So I run over yelling "sock alert" "sock alert", and pull them up tight, so there are no wrinkles, no bumps, no scrumples (as Sikhona says). And he laughs, as if the world is alright again, things are back in order. He gives that knowing look. "Thanks Poppa, I can cope now." And I set him down to do a tenth loop around the kitchen island, running, running, attached to a stretchy dog leash pulling his sisters who are calling out "Run doggy run. Sit. Stay. Run." And he laughs like only toddlers can, this deep belly chortle that seems tied to everything good in the universe. And then the alarm sounds again. "Sock alert!" "Sock alert!" And I run over, and there is a definite wrinkle in his left sock. And Poppa makes the world right again. It is becoming the Thing of the week, like the anchor that grounds out the stresses of being two years old. If I have my socks on tight, pulled up, then I can take on my sisters, I can handle things. He even woke up this morning with an arm outstretched, holding a sock, calling out, "Sock! Sock!" Mary-Kate mumbled, "maybe we can leave the socks off when you're sleeping." "No!" And the alarm continues. Socks back on. Put the world right. He even does it with his onesie pyjamas that have built in feet. There really ain't much to neaten up on those feet, but I still pull, and straighten, and give the foot massage. For even the act of connecting, of finding mutual agreement, "Is that better?" "Yep", he nods, and goes back into his world with a connection to something real, a tether to order, a grounding rod.

Embodied

Standing in the kitchen scrubbing chocolate mousse off day-old dishes, kids laughing, looping Rainbow loom bracelets, eggs scrambling, listening to Tad Hargrave's 8Track mix, taking it all in, loving this moment. This is what it's all about, what I live for. And I realize that Tad is in the room, in the space. That there is something in the background that colours the music, a sense of generosity, an intention. When we give something away, we plant a seed. The gift embodies an energy, from us out into the world.

And every exchange is an opportunity for gifting. Every time we buy something, passing over money carries with it the energy of that moment. When we barter a t-shirt for our favourite dog-eared novel, there is an exchange of stuff, and with that stuff are the stories, memories, moments that spill out over time. So the receiving is a gathering of these moments. And each exchange is an opportunity to receive. Like the slow food movement. Slowing down, noticing the person at the cash register. At the corner store. At the market stall. Making eye contact. Noticing. A fellow human being.

And it can go either way. I remember when we renovated our house, and the plumber came to install our new toilets. It was a Monday morning. And he was grumpy. Dam right pissed of. And everything sucked. The toilet we bought used too much water. The new water softener was out-dated already. Everything was installed in complaint. Infused with bitter citrus. And every time I sit on that toilet, every time I pour salt into that softener, I'm transported back to those moments in time. A little sour oozes out. And so we have a choice in each interaction, to infuse with who we are in that moment. Embodied gifts that keep passing on.

em·bod·y 

1. To give a bodily form to; incarnate.

2. To represent in bodily or material form.

3. To make part of a system or whole; incorporate.

4. To be an example of or express (an idea, principle, etc).