Autonomy

 

Autonomy. We take it for granted. The capacity to decide for oneself. To choose. To guide our lives in the direction we want to go. To take care of ourselves. To make food. Go to sleep. Seemingly simple decisions that can be lost. Lost in confusion, overwhelm, an overload of the regular function of a human being. Those everyday decisions we make, that we don't even think of, because they're normal, natural, habit. Until, there are moments when that capacity goes away, is missing. And we depend on others to support, to help make those decisions, to guide, clarify, simplify, decide. And yet, we have made those decisions our whole life, we have taken care of ourselves. Until it changes. What has changed -- that this goes missing in these moments? Aging, dementia, isolation. Exacerbated by a pandemic that disconnects social bonds, removes us from the network, so we stay safe. And yet we are left with a different kind of risk, a loss of autonomy, of self care, and wellbeing. The game becomes how to safely stay connected, despite the circumstances, to support and invite decisions, to really listen, to profoundly get people, so they are so heard, that clarity rises to the surface, stress dissipates, and a calm, grounding occurs, surrounded by family and community. Which reminds us how humans are designed to live. 

Not the Truman Show

 

We are either cause or effect in our life. Making things happen, or reacting to things in motion. Leading how we want our life to look, or following what is already happening. Causing has power -- empowerment -- we are the source, the engine, the creator. Being at the effect has no power -- no artistry -- a constant reply to someone else's email. And we are off the hook. We can complain that it is someone else's design, it's their fault, because they did it. It's easier not to cause, to allow others to lead, to be at the effect of life. It's never our responsibility. And yet, what is the impact? We are left at the end with a life that isn't our own, a Truman Show, governed by the man in the moon. What if we sailed to the edge of that world, and stepped out? What could it look like? What might be create, build, design, write, lead? Lots of unknowns, of mistakes, accidents, messy fumbling through, as we learn and grow. And yet it is at least our life, and something we made. And at the end, we have a life with the full palette of an artist who created something that is ours.

Rhythm

What is the rhythm of our week? From the moment we wake up on Monday morning to the time we sleep Sunday night. 

How much time do we spend doing different things in our day? Time in the washroom, getting dressed, eating meals, commuting, working? Conversations with people, with our family, with our partners, our kids; playing cards and board games, watching screens. 

And how much do we guide and create the rhythm? Or are we floating through at the effect of our schedule, out of control, bouncing through life at the whim of our circumstances. What might our days look like if we were to take charge? To explore what our rhythm could look like, feel like? 

How would we design our day so that we actually enjoy it; where we are productive and appreciative; a rhythm that fits our natural strengths, as a morning person, or a night hawk; a balance that includes breaks, time in nature, time to connect, and time to be alone. Time to get things handled, and time to have adventures, reflect, read, relax. 

Starting ... now...

Bueller Bueller?

What is the quality of the time we spend in each moment in our day? On the continuum of present to away, where do we stand?

Times when we're present, engaged in the moment, soaking it in. Other times when we're physically there, but mentally absent -- distracted, away, in our thoughts, escaping? If we were to graph our experience, what might it look like? How often are we present with the life we're living? For all those moments we are away, we are missing our lives, missing our kids' questions, missing moments of intimacy with our partners, missing our life.

Is this the kind of life we want to look back on? An absent life, drifting through, physically there, but a spiritual ghost. And what's the impact of ghosting our own lives? The impact on our kids, our relationships, our work. The question for us all to answer is, what kind of quality of life do we truly want? At the end of the day, looking back, how do we want it to be?

And then start creating it now.

Puzzle

My mission this year is to integrate the rhythm and elements of our family canoe trip into our every day city lives. The quality time in nature, cooking meals on a fire, playing card games with the kids, lying in a hammock, reading a novel! Moving and using our bodies, carrying things over portages, paddling all day, resting on a beach, laughing, playing, washing dishes in the rain, setting up a tarp -- I love setting up tarps, and huddling under as a family, protected, with a fire burning, boiling water, preparing food, feeling the cool water and wind, not being comfortable all the time. The biggest change I noticed was the beautiful impact of having no phones, no screens -- locking my cell phone in the glove box of the car. Taking the screen out. It changes everything. 

So, back in the city, in my real life, I've been bringing elements over to the rhythm of our everyday life. Locking the cell phone away. I even bought a box and found a dead bolt with a timer on it, so I can lock it up, and not be able to get it for 2 hours -- a glove box in our house. We opened a 500 piece puzzle the other day. I hadn't done a puzzle in 20 years. The kids didn't know puzzles. And yet, we were all drawn to it like the pull of a warm fire hearth. I'd see River spending hours looking for the corner pieces. Sikhona and River coming together to separate out the side pieces from the centre pieces. Rowan and Mary-Kate wandering over to work on the cabin area. This beautiful space we have been lured into, a space of wonder and creativity, where time slows, a kind of meditation, and connection, laughter, and random yells of joy, when a piece is found. The kids invited us over to put the last piece in all together, a ritual to close out the experience. 

And onto the next calling -- 1000 pieces!

Build the Wall?

I remember walking through a neighbourhood in Quito, Ecuador years ago, and noticed each yard was surrounded by cement walls, and each wall had sparkling lines of broken glass shards carefully cemented across the top. They seemed like effective home-made security systems, and were clearly designed to protect against others. 

Trump recently suggested he will protect "suburban housewives" from outsiders, low income housing -- "other" people. It's an ideology rooted in the build-a-wall approach to surviving our neighbours. Gate the community. And I wonder where the wall stops? Are corridors built to protect suburban housewives when they leave their neighbourhoods? Do we have armed guards in Costco? Who's being protected and from whom?

Is that the kind of community and neighbourhoods we want to create? Is it really sustainable? To bubble ourselves from the people around us? And yet, maybe there is a place for a wall. I am appreciating our closed border during these times. Maybe there is a place for broken glass shards after all. Trump could flip the focus to the North, blame Canada and build a wall here to protect Canadians from the chaotic, partisan, contradictory and dangerous American federal response to the global pandemic. 

Fires Worth Spreading

Fire sparks other fires without losing itself in the event. Fire is not limited. It sparks more of itself, and yet retains its own energy and light.

Some of our spiritual fires are burning so low -- are so cluttered and watered down -- that it can take a profound interruption to re-light. How do we rekindle our own fire, our spirit -- that energy within, that propels us forward in our life?

I imagine we each rekindle in different ways, sparked by what lights us up, what feeds us spiritually. So then our job becomes to discover what those experiences are, and to cultivate them. To create opportunities to feed our own fires, so that we radiate out and light the spark for others.

To clear the spiritual junk, gather our own kindling and dry wood for our life -- and to keep it burning with plenty of oxygen. Sounds like the kind of fire worth spreading.

Upside Down

I made an upside-down fire the other day -- logs on the bottom, paper and kindling on top. It went against every natural instinct to form it this way. Forty years of building a traditional log cabin or teepee style. I'd seen this upside-down method done successfully, so kept going despite it feeling so wrong. I lit the paper and kindling on top, and it went up in a flare, as if the cake icing was infused with alcohol. And then it slowly and beautifully burned down through the middle of the logs. It's a unique and stunning burn, holding the fire within the solid foundation. And it lasts for hours -- it's resilient and independent. I'm converted -- something out of my view, and against the grain of tradition, now my new normal. How often we delete ways of doing things that don't match the way we've always done it.

*And found this great blog post from Tim Ferris on Upside Down Fires: 
https://tim.blog/2009/02/02/how-to-build-an-upside-down-fire/

Ripped Apart

In 2006, I remember walking past this home in India that had a 6 inch slice right up the middle of the front of the building. It looked like a giant had reached down and ripped the house in two. The building itself looked almost new -- shiny exterior, fresh windows. The split in between was rough -- there was material hanging off the sides in the gap as if it had been haphazardly torn apart. There was a man standing in front of the gap holding a saw working his way through the structure of the home. I stopped and was so curious what was happening. He turned to me, and I asked him what was happening. He said that he owned this house with his brother, that they'd had a disagreement that could not be resolved, so they went to court, and the judge ordered them to split their house in two -- for each brother to own half. Literally.

In 2020, divisions seem to be increasing, getting wider, and louder. We're required to wear masks and be 6ft apart in a pandemic for our safety. Yet we also keep a distance from people to be safe from their difference -- people in our lives who see the world differently, who have opposing views, different ways of experiencing things. They can become our enemies -- dangerous, a threat. A threat to our own view, which is the correct one. If only they would come around, and see it our way, then we could get along. We then avoid them, and the story builds stronger and more elaborate. They become more wrong, and more of an enemy, more of a threat, and we need to defend and build our walls higher. Six feet isn't enough. How do we interact with this difference, disagreement, conflict? Find people who think like us, and be with them, and then we are validated -- we are ok, we are right.

What if it wasn't this way? What if our enemies are not that? What if they are the gold? There to teach us, to open up our world to seeing difference, richness, variety? What if we were to go towards the discomfort, to call up that brother we disagree with, knock on the neighbour's door who is different from us, reach out to the co-worker we avoid? To connect, listen, build relationships, to be open. To ask and really hear other perspectives, and maybe even be surprised that we align, that we share some things in common. That we don't need to agree, to be good neighbours, siblings, colleagues. That we just need to reach out, and start. Maybe we can co-exist and collaborate, cultivate a rich diversity of people and points of view, and keep our home in one piece.

Little Boy

8:15am. August 6th, 1945.

Three metres long, weighing four tonnes, the atomic bomb known as "Little Boy" carrying 50kg of Uranium 235, was dropped above the Japanese city of Hiroshima.

Fission caused 1kg of the Uranium to release the effect of 16,000 tonnes of explosive. All buildings within 2km were crushed and burned. 140,000 people were killed. Many of the lives lost were junior school children, volunteering to demolish wooden buildings so they wouldn't catch fire in the bombing raids. One child, who survived the blast, said he only lived because he fell between two desks, and somehow, the desks blocked the heat of the intense radioactive blast. Many were vaporized completely, leaving only a shadow of where their body once was. Others were left with severe burns to their bodies, and many died in the years after, of various effects of radiation.

3:30pm. December 10th, 2014.

The Kanawaga prefectural government announces radiation levels due to the tsunami affected Fukijima Nuclear plant, are not at levels that will harm human health. The ban on water consumption by children & pregnant mothers is also lifted.

Effect of radiation from Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Station

Hiroshima

"How did your mother survive the bomb," I said.

"My Mom is 50. The bomb was 70 years ago," said Maya. 

"My grandmother survived the bomb. She was living in a village outside of Hiroshima when she saw the mushroom cloud, and knew something was wrong."

"Many of that generation did not speak of it for many years. And then they realized the story had to be told. So they started speaking. Some even learned English so they could tell their story to the West, so this will never happen again."

"I met an 80 year old Japanese man on a plane to the States last year," Maya said. "When I asked him where he was going, he said "A three month home-stay. To learn English"."

So his story could be told.

Your Trailhead

To notice. Be aware. Catch out of the corner of our eye. 

Something upstaging ourselves. Body language. Energy. 

What's in the background.

Check the blind spot. 

The blind spot. 

Where we can't see unless we look. 

But how do we see something we're blind to? 

Other people can see it. It's obvious to them. Loud even. 

So we ask them. Outside ourselves. We ask for help. 

We get out of our head and into dialogue.

Our job is just to notice it. 

Not change it. Fix it. Modify it. Move it. Strategize it. 

To get things how they are. How they actually are. 

We can't go on a journey without knowing where we start. 

*** Where is your start? 

Your Trailhead on your journey? 

Where are you now in your life? ***

Default

Default: the option which choosers end up with if they do not make an active choice.

At home, my default is my Phone. Or my Flone, as Sikhona calls it. I'm with my kids. Reading stories. Pushing them on the swing. Jumping on the trampatreen. 

And then I sneak it in. They're jumping on their own. Better check my phone. Do I have a new email? Probably not. As I just checked 4 minutes ago. But I pull the screen down anyway, like a crack addict. Waiting for the spinny timer thing to download the fix. Junk. Damn. Anything real? Anything where I'm Needed. 

I'll check my texts. Any new texts? Those will be important. Urgent even. Someone out there could be in trouble. And I'm ready. Available. To respond. Give that important answer. 

No texts. Ooh, better check Facebook. Which is like dirty crack. Like the stuff people spill on the floor of the party. But I'm going in anyway. Newsfeed, scroll down. Hmm. Ice bucket challenge. And another one. And... oh. More and more. Well, I'll check my FB messages. And so it goes, on and on.

And my Flone is my default. My go to. When I'm not paying attention to my family. My friends. My life. I have my IFlone. And I hate it.

I had no internet at family camp for a week this summer. And my default changed. I found a book. A novel. I actually found it at Zehrs in North Bay on the way to Temagami. Outlander. Adventure, swords, time travel, sex. Perfect. 

Little did I know that I'd bought the historic porn series Mary-Kate has been reading for years. I'd been avoiding it as I thought they were chick flick stories. That's not for me. I'm into real historic fiction. Manly fiction. Without sex. I guess. 

BUT. Since I found this particular book on my own. It was Allowed. 

And God darnit. It's good. I haven't read a book in years. Really read one. Got into the world. Inside it. So the characters become friends. Familiar, as if I know them. I inhabit them.

I want the book default. 

The time travel. The rich characters. The sex and swordplay. I need to cut myself off from the outside world. For a day a week. A time at night. I need to put my Flone away. Activate the Do Not Disturb. 

And get back to 17th Century Scotland where the characters live life to the fullest. As their life is their default. Or they're dead. 

'Wing Poppa 'Wing

There's something about the swing.

Swinging.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Childhood. In a nutshell.

Back and forth.

" 'wing Poppa. 'wing," River says.

"Push Poppa. PUSH." Khona says.

"Push Poppa. PUSH." River says.

"From behind. From behind."

"Me. PUUUSSH." "No me. PUSH."

And they go. Back and forth.

"HIGHER. Poppa. HIGHER."

And it is so simple. The whoosh of the air blows past.

Nothing to think about. Back and forth.

"POPPA! HIGHER!"

And then Khona pumps. Legs bent. And straight.

And she's swinging herself.

Without a push. Without her Dad. On her own.

Legs bent. And Straight. Pump. Higher. And higher. On her own.

And I let her go in that moment.

She can do it. She is doing it.

And they would swing forever. Keep it going.

An endless childhood. Back and forth.

Back and forth.

"STOP!"

"Let's jump on the trampatreen Poppa." River says.

"Jumpy. Jumpy."

Time Machine

I use my bank account as a gauge for self-worth. A measurement of my success. And my stress. My anxiety and fulfillment in life. 

If it's abundant, I can relax. Like a full tank of gas on a long road trip. I can set off on my day knowing I have some room to pay bills, for those automatic withdrawals, life, house, car insurance. Some resilience when the mortgage comes out. If it's close to zero, I scramble to pull from lines of credit, to gather funds, to invoice clients, to top up. 

It struck me the other day, what if I kept track of my time? Like my bank account. What if time spent reading books to my kids put Time in the account. Date nights with my wife. Having a beer with a friend. Hiking a trail. Time being active. Present time. Time being present are deposits in my life bank, my wellness account. 

Time Distracted is a withdrawal. Time on my phone obsessively checking emails. Scrolling the newsfeed on Facebook. Time not paying attention to my kids, like they're an accessory on an errand run. Time commuting in rush hour. Time Reacting. Fighting. Yelling. 

What if we measured the success of our day, of our life, by the quality of time we spend with the people who matter to us? What if we actually kept track of our deposits and withdrawals. And received an overdraft charge when our Time account slips into the red. 

And what if contentment and fulfillment are the currency of a withdrawal from the Time Bank Machine. And wealth is defined as time enriched by family and friends.

The Special Way

Me: Want to go the Special Way to school today?

Rowan: Yes.

Rowan: It's not really the Special Way anymore.

Me: Why not?

Rowan: Well, it's just a big open space. There's nothing growing there now.

Me: That's what's special to me. The big field of snow. Someday, they may build houses there.

Rowan: It's special to me because no one has stepped there.

Me: I like the farm house and that we can see all the way past the hills.

Rowan: Why does the farmer need to grow food?

Me: Why do you think?

Rowan: I don't know!!! Just tell me.

Me: What might the farmer need?

Rowan: To eat. He grows food to eat.

Me: Why else would he grow food?

Rowan: To survive.

Me: Why do you need him to grow food?

Rowan: For me to eat. (pause) And survive.

Me: Yes.

Rowan: Why do they want to build houses there?

Me: Good question. People need places to live.

Rowan: But then, what will they eat?

Me: Yes, exactly.

Rowan: I think that's mean to nature.

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.